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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/33907-8.txt b/33907-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ebceba5 --- /dev/null +++ b/33907-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17892 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of One-Act 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: One-Act Plays + By Modern Authors + +Author: Various + +Editor: Helen Louise Cohen + +Release Date: October 24, 2010 [EBook #33907] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Joseph R. Hauser, Christine P. Travers and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +[Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected, +all other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's +spelling has been maintained.] + + + + + ONE-ACT PLAYS + + BY MODERN AUTHORS + + + EDITED BY + HELEN LOUISE COHEN, Ph.D. + Chairman of the Department of English in the + Washington Irving High School in the + City of New York + + Author of "The Ballade" + + + NEW YORK + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. + + _All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced + in any form, by mimeograph or any other + means, without permission in writing from the publisher._ + + PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY + QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, INC. + RAHWAY, N. J. + + + + + To + M. S. S. + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + + +Had not both authors and publishers acted with the greatest +generosity, this collection could not have been made. Though the +editor cannot adequately express her sense of obligation, she wishes +at least to record explicitly her indebtedness to Mr. Harold +Brighouse, Lord Dunsany, Mr. John Galsworthy, Lady Gregory, Mr. Percy +MacKaye, Miss Jeannette Marks, Miss Josephine Preston Peabody, +Professor Robert Emmons Rogers, Mr. Booth Tarkington, and Professor +Stark Young. The editor also desires to thank Chatto & Windus, +Duffield & Company, Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Harper & Brothers, Little, +Brown & Company, John W. Luce & Company, G. P. Putnam's Sons, Charles +Scribner's Sons, and The Sunwise Turn, for permissions granted +ungrudgingly. + +Through the courtesy of Mr. T. M. Cleland, director of the Beechwood +Players, the pictures of the Beechwood Theatre appear. Miss Mary W. +Carter, chairman of the Department of English in the High School in +Montclair, New Jersey, contributed the photographs of the Garden +Theatre. Other illustrations appear through the kindness of _Theatre +Arts Magazine_, and of The Neighborhood Playhouse. + +The editor is grateful to Mrs. John W. Alexander, Mr. B. Iden Payne, +and Mrs. T. Bernstein for the privilege of personal conferences on the +subject of the book. To Mr. Robert Edmond Jones, who has allowed three +of his designs to be reproduced and who has read and corrected that +part of the Introduction that deals with The New Art of the Theatre, +the editor takes this opportunity of expressing her warm appreciation. +Finally, the editor wishes to thank her friend, Helen Hopkins Crandell +for her indefatigable work on the proofs of this book. + + + + +PREFACE + + +Perhaps the student who is going to read the plays in this collection +may have felt at some time or other a gap between the "classics" that +he was working over in school and the contemporary literature that he +heard commonly discussed, but he does not know that until recently few +books were studied in the high school that were less than half a +century old. Consciousness of the gap often drove him to trashy +reading. He recognized Addison as respectable but remote, and yet he +had no guide to the good literature which the writers of his own day +were producing and which would be especially interesting to him, +because its ideas and language would be more nearly contemporary with +his own. + +Even though the greatest literature has the quality of universality, +it has been almost invariably my experience that, only as one grows +older, is one quite ready to appreciate this quality. When one is +young, it is easier to enjoy literature written from a point of view +nearer to one's own life and times. Reading good contemporary +literature is likely also to pave the way for a deeper appreciation of +the great masterpieces of all time. + +This is a collection of one-act plays, some of them less than five +years old, chosen both because their appeal seems not to be limited to +the adult audiences for which they were originally written, and +because they may well serve the purpose of introducing the student to +contemporary dramatists of standing. Some of them, it is true, make +use of old stories and traditions, but the treatment is in all cases +modern, if we except the literary fashion that we find in Josephine +Preston Peabody's _Fortune and Men's Eyes_. This, though it is a +one-act play, a modern development, is written more or less in the +Shakespearian convention; but whether we are bookish or not, we can +hardly help having a knowledge of Shakespeare's plays, because, +popular with all kinds of people, they are continually being revived +on the stage, and quoted in conversation. + +The plays in this book, though intended for class-room study, may be +acted as well as read. The general introduction will be found helpful +to groups who produce plays, to those who live in cities and go to the +theatre often, and to those who like to experiment with dramatic +composition. For this book was planned to encourage an understanding +attitude towards the theatre, to deepen the love that is latent in the +majority of us for what is beautiful and uplifting in the drama, and +to make playgoing a less expensive, more regular, and more intelligent +diversion for the generation that is growing up. + + H. L. C. + + Washington Irving High School, + New York, 1 February, 1921. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + INTRODUCTION Page + + The Workmanship of the One-Act Play xiii + + Theatres of To-day + The Commercial Theatre and the Repertory Idea xx + The Little Theatre xxiii + The Irish National Theatre xxvi + + The New Art of the Theatre xxix + + Playmaking xxxiv + + The Theatre in the School l + + ROBERT EMMONS ROGERS + THE BOY WILL xxxviii + + BOOTH TARKINGTON + Introduction 3 + BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN 5 + + ERNEST DOWSON + Introduction 53 + THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE 55 + + OLIPHANT DOWN + Introduction 77 + THE MAKER OF DREAMS 79 + + PERCY MACKAYE + Introduction 97 + GETTYSBURG 99 + + A. A. MILNE + Introduction 113 + WURZEL-FLUMMERY 115 + + HAROLD BRIGHOUSE + Introduction 139 + MAID OF FRANCE 141 + + LADY GREGORY + Introduction 157 + SPREADING THE NEWS 159 + + JEANNETTE MARKS + Introduction 179 + WELSH HONEYMOON 181 + + JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE + Introduction 195 + RIDERS TO THE SEA 198 + + LORD DUNSANY + Introduction 211 + A NIGHT AT AN INN 213 + + STARK YOUNG + Introduction 226 + THE TWILIGHT SAINT 227 + + LADY ALIX EGERTON + Introduction 241 + THE MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS 244 + + MAURICE MAETERLINCK + Introduction 265 + THE INTRUDER 268 + + JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY + Introduction 287 + FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 289 + + JOHN GALSWORTHY + Introduction 323 + THE LITTLE MAN 325 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + Page + + _Twelfth Night_ on the stage of the Théâtre du Vieux + Colombier in New York xxiv + + Design for _The Merchant of Venice_ by Robert Edmond Jones xxx + + Design for _Good Gracious Annabelle_ by Robert Edmond Jones xxxii + + Design for _The Seven Princesses_ by Robert Edmond Jones xxxiv + + The Beechwood Theatre. Exterior and Interior lviii + + The Garden Theatre. The original site, and the theatre as it + looks to-day lx + + Setting for _The Maker of Dreams_ at The Neighborhood Playhouse + designed by Aline Bernstein 79 + + Costumes for _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ designed at the + Washington Irving High School. + Plate 1 240 + Plate 2 253 + + Setting for _The Intruder_ designed by Sam Hume 268 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +THE WORKMANSHIP OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY + + +The one-act play is a new form of the drama and more emphatically a +new form of literature. Its possibilities began to attract the +attention of European and American writers in the last decade of the +nineteenth century, those years when so many dramatic traditions +lapsed and so many precedents were established. It is significant that +the oldest play in the present collection is Maeterlinck's _The +Intruder_, published in 1890. + +The history of this new form is of necessity brief. Before its vogue +became general, one-act plays were being presented in vaudeville +houses in this country and were being used as curtain raisers in +London theatres for the purpose of marking time until the late-dining +audiences should arrive. With the exception of the famous Grand +Guignol Theatre in Paris, where the entertainment for an evening might +consist of several one-act plays, all of the hair-raising, +blood-curdling variety, programs composed entirely of one-act plays +were rare. Sir James Matthew Barrie is usually credited with being the +first in England to write one-act plays intended to be grouped in a +single production. A program of this character has been uncommon in +the commercial theatre in America, but three of Barrie's one-act +plays, constituting a single program, have met with enthusiastic +response from American audiences. + +There are two new developments in the history of the theatre that have +encouraged and promoted the writing of one-act plays: the one is the +Repertory Theatre abroad and the other is the Little Theatre movement +on both sides of the Atlantic. The repertory of the Irish Players, for +example, is composed largely of one-act plays, and American Little +Theatres are given over almost exclusively to the one-act play. + +The one-act play is in reality so new a phenomenon, in spite of the +use that has been made of the form by playwrights like Pinero, +Hauptmann, Chekov, Shaw, and others of the first rank, that it is +still generally ignored in books on dramatic workmanship.[1] None the +less, the status of the one-act play is established and a study of the +plays of this length, which are rapidly increasing in number, +discloses certain tendencies and laws which are exemplified in the +form itself. Clayton Hamilton sums up the matter well when he says: +"The one-act play is admirable in itself, as a medium of art. It shows +the same relation to the full-length play as the short-story shows to +the novel. It makes a virtue of economy of means. It aims to produce a +single dramatic effect with the greatest economy of means that is +consistent with the utmost emphasis. The method of the one-act play at +its best is similar to the method employed by Browning in his dramatic +monologues. The author must suggest the entire history of a soul by +seizing it at some crisis of its career and forcing the spectator to +look upon it from an unexpected and suggestive point of view. A +one-act play in exhibiting the present should imply the past and +intimate the future. The author has no leisure for laborious +exposition; but his mere projection of a single situation should sum +up in itself the accumulated results of many antecedent causes.... The +form is complete, concise and self-sustaining; it requires an +extraordinary force of imagination."[2] + + [Footnote 1: See, however, Clayton Hamilton, _Studies in + Stagecraft_, New York, 1914, and B. Roland Lewis, _The + Technique of the One-Act Play_, Boston, 1918.] + + [Footnote 2: Clayton Hamilton, _Studies in Stagecraft_, New + York, 1914, pp. 254-255.] + +To follow for a moment a train of thought suggested by Mr. Hamilton's +timely and appreciative comment on the technique of the one-act play: +All writers on the short-story agree that, to use Poe's phrase, "the +vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of effect" is +indispensable to the successful short-story. This singleness of effect +is an equally important consideration in the structure of the one-act +play. A short-story is not a condensed novel any more than a one-act +play is a condensed full-length play. There is no fixed length for the +one-act play any more than there is for the short-story. The one-act +play must have its "dominant incident" and "dominant character" like +the short-story. The effect of the one-act play, as of the +short-story, is measured by the way it makes its readers and +spectators feel. Neither the short-story nor the one-act play need +necessarily "be founded on one of the passionate _cruces_ of life, +where duty and inclination come nobly to the grapple." One has but to +consider the short-stories of Henry James or the one-act plays of +Galsworthy or of Maeterlinck to be convinced that a _violent_ struggle +is not necessary to the art of either form. + +This point is further illustrated in what Galsworthy himself says in +general about drama in his famous essay, _Some Platitudes Concerning +the Drama_, which should be read in connection with his satirical +comedy, _The Little Man_. In that essay Galsworthy writes: "The plot! +A good plot is that sure edifice which slowly rises out of the +interplay of circumstance on temperament, and temperament on +circumstance, within the enclosing atmosphere of an idea. A human +being is the best plot there is.... Now true dramatic action is what +characters do, at once contrary, as it were, to expectation, and yet +because they have already done other things.... Good dialogue again is +character, marshaled so as continually to stimulate interest or +excitement." This commentary of Galsworthy's on dramatic technique +offers to the student of _The Little Man_ an unusual opportunity to +verify a great critic's theory by a great playwright's practice. It is +indeed the _character_ of the Little Man that is the plot in this +case; the plot may be said to begin when, according to stage +direction, the hapless Baby wails, and to be well launched with the +Little Man's deprecatory, "Herr Ober! Might I have a glass of beer?" +These words distinguish him immediately from his bullying companions +in the buffet. The highest point of interest, like the beginning of +the plot, is to be found in the play of the Little Man's personality, +at the point where he is left alone with the Baby, now a typhus +suspect, and after an instant's wavering, bends all his puny energies +to pacifying its uneasy cry. Again, the end of the plot comes with the +tribute of the bewildered but adoring mother to the ineffably gentle +Little Man. + +But a one-act play that has any pretensions to literature must be +looked upon as a law unto itself and should not be expected to conform +to any set of arbitrary requirements. As a matter of fact, there are +only a very few generalizations that can be made with regard to the +structure or to the classification of the one-act play. Even this book +contains plays that are not susceptible of any hard and fast +classification. _The Intruder_ and _Riders to the Sea_ are indubitably +tragedies, but _Fortune and Men's Eyes_, dealing, as it does, with the +tragic theme of love's disillusionment, belongs not at all with the +plays of Maeterlinck and Synge, shadowed, as they are, by death. And +though the deaths are many and bloody in _A Night at an Inn_, the +unreality of the romance is so strong that there is no such wrenching +of the human sympathies as we associate with tragedy. _The Pierrot of +the Minute_ is superficially a Harlequinade, but Dowson's insistence +on the theme of satiety brings it narrowly within the range of satire. +_Beauty and the Jacobin_ is rich in comedy; so is Lady Gregory's +_Spreading the News_, and in both, the situations change imperceptibly +from comedy to farce and from farce back to comedy. + +The laws of the structure of the one-act play are in the nature of +dramatic art no less flexible. It can be said that in order to secure +that singleness of impression that is as essential to the one-act play +as to the short-story, a single well sustained theme is necessary, a +theme announced in some fashion early in the play. Indeed since the +one-act play is a short dramatic form, it may be said in regard to the +announcing of the theme that, "'Twere well it were done quickly." In +_Spreading the News_, the curtain is barely up before Mrs. Tarpey is +telling the magistrate: "Business, is it? What business would the +people here have but to be minding one another's business?" And at +approximately the same moment in the action of _The Intruder_, the +uncle, foreshadowing the theme of the mysterious coming of death, +says: "When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a +stranger had forced himself into the family circle." + +The single dominant theme for its dramatic expression calls also for a +single situation developing to a single climax. In the case of +_Fortune and Men's Eyes_, it is the ballad-monger, who in crying his +wares, + + "Plays, Play not Fair, + Or how a _gentlewoman's_ heart was took + By a player, that was King in a stage-play," + +gives us in the first few minutes of the play his ironical clue to the +theme. And this theme is worked out in Mary Fytton's shallow intrigue +with William Herbert, which culminates in the shattering of the +Player's dream on that autumn day in South London at "The Bear and the +Angel." + +The single situation exemplifying the theme of _The Intruder_ is found +in the repeatedly expressed premonitions of the blind Grandfather, +stationary in his armchair, whose heightened senses detect the +presence of the Mysterious Stranger. The unity of effect secured in +this play is only rivaled, not surpassed, by the wonderful totality of +impression experienced by the reader of _The Fall of the House of +Usher_. The unity of effect in _The Intruder_ is secured also by +Maeterlinck's description of the setting, which reminds the playgoer +or the reader inevitably of Stevenson's familiar words: "Certain dark +gardens cry aloud for murder; certain old houses demand to be +haunted." + +In general, as has been said, the plot of the one-act play, because of +the time limitations, admits of no distracting incidents. For the same +reason the characterization must be swift and direct. By Bartley +Fallon's first speech in _Spreading the News_, Lady Gregory +characterizes him completely. He needs but say: "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," and the +fundamental part of his character is fixed in the minds of the +audience. From that moment it is just a question of filling in the +picture with pantomime and further dialogue. + +The characterization of the Player in _Fortune and Men's Eyes_ begins +at the moment that he enters the tavern, when Wat, the bear-ward, +calls out: + + "I say, I've played.... There's not one man + Of all the gang--save one.... Ay, there be one + I grant you, now!... He used me in right sort; + A man worth better trades." + +Wat's verdict on the fair-mindedness of Master William Shakespeare of +the Lord Chamberlain's company is borne out by the Player's own, + + "High fortune, man! + Commend me to thy bear." + [_Drinks and passes him the cup._] + +The entrance of the ballad-monger gives Master Will an opening for a +punning jest and, the action continuing, shows him sympathetic to the +strayed lady-in-waiting, tender to the tavern boy, magnanimous to the +false friend and falser love. + +One method of characterization which the author allows herself to use +in this play, no doubt to heighten the Elizabethan illusion, is rare +in the contemporary drama: when this "dark lady of the sonnets" flees +"The Bear and the Angel," the Player breaks forth into the +self-revealing soliloquy, found so frequently in his own plays, and +continuing as a dramatic convention until the last quarter of the +nineteenth century.[3] + + [Footnote 3: The Elizabethan platform stage survived until + then in the shape of the long "apron," projecting in front of + the proscenium. The characters were constantly stepping out + of the frame of the picture; and while this visual convention + maintained itself, there was nothing inconsistent or jarring + in the auditory convention of the soliloquy. See William + Archer, _Play-Making_, Boston, 1912, pp. 397-405.] + +Characterization rests in part on pantomime. In _The Little Man_, the +Dutch Youth is dumb throughout the play, but he is sufficiently +characterized by his foolish demeanor and his recurrent laugh. The +part of the Little Man himself is one long gesture of humility and +dedication. In those one-act plays in which the old characters of the +Harlequinade reappear, like _The Maker of Dreams_ and _The Pierrot of +the Minute_, pantomime transcends dialogue as a method of +characterization. In the plays of the Irish dramatists, Synge, Yeats, +and Lady Gregory, pantomime and dialogue contribute equally to the +characterization, which is of a very high order, since all these +dramatists were close observers of the Irish peasant characters of +their plays. + +Synge, especially, illustrates the following critical theory of +Galsworthy: "The art of writing true dramatic dialogue is an austere +art, denying itself all license, grudging every sentence devoted to +the mere machinery of the play, suppressing all jokes and epigrams +severed from character, relying for fun and pathos on the fun and +tears of life. From start to finish good dialogue is hand-made, like +good lace; clear, of fine texture, furthering with each thread the +harmony and strength of a design to which all must be subordinated." A +study of the dialogue of _Riders to the Sea_ reveals just this harmony +between the dialogue and the inevitability of the plot, the dialogue +and the simplicity of the characters. + +The dialogue in _The Little Man_ is the very idiom one would expect to +issue from the mouth of the German colonel, the Englishman with the +Oxford voice, or the intensely national American, as the case may be. +The characters, though they have type names, are, as Mr. Galsworthy +would probably be the first to explain, highly individualized. The +author does not intend us to think that all Americans are like this +loud-voiced traveler, or all Englishmen like the pharisaical gentleman +who gives his wife the advertisements to read while he secures the +news sheet for himself. + +The function of dialogue is the same both in the long and in the short +play. For, of course, both forms have many things in common. For +instance, as in the full-length play it is necessary for the dramatist +to carry forward the interest from act to act, to provide a "curtain" +that will leave the audience in a state of suspense, so in the one-act +play, the interest must be similarly relayed though the plot is +confined to a single act. In _The Intruder_, every premonition +expressed by the Grandfather grips the audience in such a way that +they await from minute to minute the coming of the mysterious +stranger. The tension is high in _A Night at an Inn_ from the moment +the curtain rises. In _Riders to the Sea_, the beginning of the +suspense coincides with the opening of the play and lasts. "They're +all gone now, and there isn't anything more the sea can do to me," +says Maurya, and the audience experiences a rush of relief and a sense +of release that the last words, "No man at all can be living for ever, +and we must be satisfied," seem only to deepen. + +A one-act play, then, has many structural features in common with the +short-story; its plot must from beginning to end be dominated by a +single theme; its crises may be crises of character as well as +conflicts of will or physical conflicts; it must by a method of +foreshadowing sustain the interest of the audience unflaggingly, but +ultimately relieve their tension; it must achieve swift +characterization by means of pantomime and dialogue; and its dialogue +must achieve its effects by the same methods as the dialogue of longer +plays, but by even greater economy of means. But when all is said and +done, the success of a one-act play is judged not by its conformity to +any set of hard and fast rules, but by its power to interest, +enlighten, and hold an audience. + + +THEATRES OF TO-DAY + +THE COMMERCIAL THEATRE AND THE REPERTORY IDEA + +The term "Commercial Theatre" is rarely used without disparagement. +The critic or the playwright who speaks of the Commercial Theatre +usually does so either for the purpose of reflecting on the cheapness +of the entertainment afforded, or in order to call attention to +spectacular receipts. + +In this country the Commercial Theatre stands for that form of big +business in the theatrical world that produces dividends on the money +invested comparable to those earned by the most prosperous of the +large industries. This system has been, on the whole, a bad thing for +the drama, because managers with their eye on attractions that should +yield a return, let us say, of over ten per cent on the investment, +have been unable to produce the superior play with an appeal to a +definite, though perhaps limited audience, and have had to offer to +the public the kind of play that would draw large audiences over a +long period of time. The "longest run for the safest possible play" is +thus conspicuously associated with the Commercial Theatre. As Clayton +Hamilton says: "The trouble with the prevailing theatre system in +America to-day is not that this system is commercial; for in any +democratic country, it is not unreasonable to expect the public to +defray the cost of the sort of drama that it wishes, and that, +therefore, it deserves. The trouble is, rather, that our theatre +system is devoted almost entirely to big business; and that in +ignoring the small profits of small business it tends to exclude not +only the uncommercial drama, but the non-commercial drama as well."[4] +Here he makes a distinction between an "uncommercial" play, that is, a +play that is a failure with all kinds of audiences, and the +"noncommercial" play, which is capable of holding its own financially +and yielding modest returns. + + [Footnote 4: Clayton Hamilton, _The Non-Commercial Drama_. + _The Bookman_, May, 1915.] + +In the days before the pooling of theatrical interests in this +country there were indeed long runs, but in many of the large +American cities "stock companies," composed of groups of actors and +actresses all of about the same reputation and ability, were +maintained that kept a number of plays, a "repertory," before the +public in the course of a season and gave scope for experiment with +various kinds of plays. But the "star system," which has now become +common, has tended to drive out the "stock company" idea, with the +result that the average company rests on the reputation of the "star" +and dispenses with distinction in the "support." With the decay of the +stock company, the repertory system, in the form in which it did once +exist here in the Commercial Theatre, has also declined. + +Both in Great Britain and in America the repertory system, long +established on the Continent, has been reintroduced in order to combat +the practices of the Commercial Theatre. For the most part the new +repertory theatres have been endowed either by the State or by private +individuals. "Absolute endowment for absolute freedom,"[5] has seemed +to at least one American the only means of delivering the drama from +commercial bondage. This phrase of Percy MacKaye's expresses his +cherished belief that endowed civic theatres, which should encourage +the participation of whole communities in a community form of drama, +are what is needed in a democracy. John Masefield, in the following +lines from the prologue written for the opening of the Liverpool +Repertory Theatre, has found a poetic theme in this idea of an endowed +theatre: + + "Men will not spend, it seems, on that one art + Which is life's inmost soul and passionate heart; + They count the theatre a place for fun, + Where man can laugh at nights when work is done. + + If it were only that, 'twould be worth while + To subsidize a thing which makes men smile; + But it is more; it is that splendid thing, + A place where man's soul shakes triumphant wing; + + A place of art made living, where men may see + What human life is and has seemed to be + To the world's greatest brains.... + + O you who hark + Fan to a flame through England this first spark, + Till in this land there's none so poor of purse + But he may see high deeds and hear high verse, + And feel his folly lashed, and think him great + In this world's tragedy of Life and Fate."[6] + + [Footnote 5: Percy MacKaye, _The Playhouse and the Play_, New + York, 1909, p. 86.] + + [Footnote 6: Quoted by Percy MacKaye in _The Civic Theatre_, + New York, 1912, p. 114.] + +In Great Britain repertory is associated with the interest and +generosity of Miss A. E. F. Horniman, who will be mentioned in +connection with the Irish National Theatre, and through whom, after +some preliminary experiment, the Gaiety Theatre at Manchester was +opened as the first repertory house in England, in the spring of 1908. +Fifty-five different plays were produced in a little over two +years--"twenty-eight new, seventeen revivals of modern English plays, +five modern translations, and five classics."[7] In Miss Horniman's +own words, her interest was in a Civilized Theatre. "A Civilized +Theatre," she has written, "means that a city has something of +cultivation in it, something to make literature grow; a real theatre, +not a mere amusing toy. What we want is the opportunity for our men +and women, our boys and girls to get a chance to see the works of the +greatest dramatists of modern times, as well as the classics, for +their pleasure as well as their cultivation.... Young dramatists +should have a theatre where they can see the ripe works of the masters +and see them well acted at a moderate price. There should be in every +city a theatre where we can see the best drama worthily treated."[8] +Owing to war conditions, the Manchester project has had to be +abandoned, and so, for the most part, have other similar enterprises. +They rarely became self-supporting, but depended on subsidy of one +kind or another, which under new economic conditions is no longer +forthcoming. The Birmingham Repertory Theatre continues, however, +under the direction of John Drinkwater, and has become famous through +its production of his _Abraham Lincoln_. "John Drinkwater, I see, has +recently defined a Repertory Theatre," writes William Archer, in his +latest article on the subject, "as one which 'puts plays into stock +which are good enough to stay there.'" Enlarging this definition, I +should call it a theatre which excluded the long unbroken run; which +presents at least three different programs in each week (though a +popular success may be performed three or even four times a week +throughout a whole season); which can produce plays too good to be +enormously popular; which makes a principle of keeping alive the great +drama of the past, whether recent or remote; which has a company so +large that it can, without overworking its actors, keep three or four +plays ready for instant presentation; which possesses an ample stage +equipped with the latest artistic and labor-saving appliances; and +which offers such comfort in front of the house as to encourage an +intelligent public to make it an habitual place of resort. + + [Footnote 7: P. P. Howe, _The Repertory Theatre_, New York, + 1911, p. 59.] + + [Footnote 8: A. E. F. Horniman, _The Manchester Players_, + _Poet Lore_, Vol. XXV, No. 3, p. 212; p. 213.] + +"That there exists in every great American city an intelligent public +large enough to support one or more such playhouses is to my mind +indisputable. But the theatre might have to be run at a loss for two +or three opening seasons, until it had attracted and educated its +habitual supporters. For even a public of high general intelligence +needs a certain amount of special education in things of the theatre." +This testimony is in a highly optimistic vein. + +A talk with B. Iden Payne, once director of the Manchester Players, +reveals the fact that in England at the present time the repertory +idea is being taken over with more promise of success by the small +groups that represent the Little Theatre movement in that country. The +repertory theatre there did succeed in arousing in the locality in +which, for the time being, it existed an interest in intelligent +plays, but it was not equally successful in confirming a distaste for +unintelligent plays. The study of these experiments will repay +Americans who are interested in seeing the repertory idea fostered +over here by endowment or otherwise. + + +THE LITTLE THEATRE + +The year 1911 saw the beginning in the United States of the Little +Theatre movement, which has grown with phenomenal rapidity and has +spread in all directions. The first Little Theatres in this country +were located in large cities; but in the course of time the idea has +penetrated to small towns and rural communities all over the United +States. Barns, wharves, saloons, and school assembly halls have been +transformed into intimate little playhouses. There were European +precedents for this idea. The Théâtre Libre, opened in Paris in 1887 +by André Antoine as a protest against the kind of play then in favor, +is generally called the first of this type. In the years from 1887 to +1911 Little Theatres were opened in Russia, in Belgium, in Germany, in +Sweden, in Hungary, in England, in Ireland, and in France. In Europe +these theatres came into being, generally speaking, in order to give +freer play to the new arts of the theatre or for the purpose of +encouraging a more intellectual type of drama than was being produced +in the larger houses. + +There are two conceptions of the Little Theatre current in the United +States. According to one, it is a theatrical organization housed in a +simple building, that makes its productions in the most economical +way, does not pay its actors, does not charge admission, and uses +scenery and properties that are cheaply manufactured at home. + +[Illustration: _Twelfth Night_ on the stage of the Théâtre du Vieux +Colombier, New York.] + +The Little Theatre is, however, more commonly conceived of as a +repertory theatre supported by the subscription system, producing its +plays on a small stage in a small hall, selecting for production the +kind of play not likely to be used by the Commercial Theatre, most +frequently the one-act play, and committed to experiments in stage +decoration, lighting, and the other stage arts. The Little Theatre and +the one-act play have developed each other reciprocally, for the +Little Theatre has encouraged the writing of one-act plays in Europe +and in this country. The one-act play is the natural unit of +production in the Little Theatre, both because it requires a less +sustained performance from the actors, who have frequently been +amateurs, and because it has offered in the same evening several +opportunities to the various groups of artists collaborating in the +productions of the Little Theatre. Though the movement has had the +effect of stimulating community spirit and has been the means of +solving grave community problems, the Little Theatre is not, in the +technical sense, a community theatre; in the sense, that is, in which +Percy MacKaye uses the word. It is not, in fact, so portentous an +enterprise, because it does not enlist the participation of every +member of a community. The community theatre is an example of civic +co-operation on a large scale; the Little Theatre, of the same kind +of co-operation on a small scale. + +Notably artistic results have been achieved by such Little Theatres as +The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York, built in 1914 by the Misses +Irene and Alice Lewisohn, in connection with the social settlement +idea, to provide expression for the talents of a community that had +been previously trained in dramatic classes for some years; by the +Chicago Little Theatre, founded in 1911, now no longer in existence, +but for a few years under the direction of Maurice Browne, a disciple +of Gordon Craig's; by the Detroit Theatre of Arts and Crafts, once +under the direction of Mr. Sam Hume, also a follower of Gordon +Craig's; by the Washington Square Players, who during several seasons +in New York gave a remarkable impetus to the writing of one-act plays +in America; by the Provincetown Players, whose first productions were +made on Cape Cod, who later opened a small playhouse in New York, and +who gave the public an opportunity to know the plays of Eugene +O'Neill; by the Portmanteau Theatre of Stuart Walker, that uses but +one setting in its productions, but varies the effect with different +colored lights, and as its name implies, is portable, one of the few +of its kind in the world; by the 47 Workshop Theatre that has arisen +as the result of the course in playwriting given at Harvard University +by Professor George Pierce Baker, and the productions of which have +served to introduce many new writers; and by the Théâtre du Vieux +Colombier, that came to New York from Paris in 1917, and remained for +two seasons to illustrate the best French practice. These theatres +also enjoy the distinction of having experimented with repertory. + +The Théâtre du Vieux Colombier was organized and is directed by +Jacques Copeau. It is no casual amateur experiment. Its actors are +professionals and its director is a scholar and an artist. In +preparation for the original opening the company went into the country +and established a little colony. "During five hours of each day they +studied repertoire but they did far more. They performed exercises in +physical culture and the dance: they read aloud and acted improvised +dramatic scenes. They worked thus upon their bodies, their voices and +their actions: made them subtle instruments in their command." They +learned that in an artistic production every gesture, every word, +every line, and every color counted. Naturally no group of amateurs or +semi-professionals can approach the results of a company trained as M. +Copeau's is. When he was over here, he was much interested in our +Little Theatres. He said in one of his addresses: "All the _little +theatres_ which now swarm in America, ought to come to an +understanding among themselves and unite, instead of trying to keep +themselves apart and distinctive. The ideas which they possess in +common have not even begun to be put into execution. They must be +incorporated into life."[9] + + [Footnote 9: The kind of co-operation to which he looked + forward is beginning. For instance, the New York Drama League + announces a Little Theatre membership. "Its purpose is to + serve the needs of the large and constantly growing public + that is interested in the activities of the semi-professional + and amateur community groups who read or produce plays. Under + this new Membership there will be issued monthly, for ten + issues a Play List of five pages, giving a concise but + complete synopsis of new plays, both one-act and longer + plays. It will show the number of characters required; the + kind of audience to which the play would be likely to appeal; + the royalty asked for production rights; the production + necessities and other information of value to production + groups or individuals. One page will be devoted to three or + four standard older plays treated with the same detail of + information. The Little Theatre Supplement ... will continue + to be issued each month, but will hereafter be a feature of + the Little Theatre Membership only. It will contain the + programs of the Little Theatres throughout the country; short + accounts of what is going on among the various groups, and + articles on Little Theatre problems, with hints on new, + effective and economical methods of production."] + +The native Little Theatres, much simpler affairs than the Vieux +Colombier, persist. They have made a place for themselves in American +life, among the farms, in the suburbs, in the small towns, and in the +cities. Sometimes, no doubt, they are like the one in Sinclair Lewis's +Gopher Prairie; or they hardly outlast a season. But new ones spring +up to replace those that have gone out of existence, and meanwhile the +ends of wholesome community recreation are being served. + + +THE IRISH NATIONAL THEATRE + +About 1890 began the movement which has since been known as the Celtic +Renaissance, a movement that had for its object the lifting into +literature of the songs, myths, romances, and legends treasured for +countless generations in the hearts of the Irish peasantry. In the +same decade in Great Britain and on the Continent, tendencies were at +work looking to the reform of the drama and its rescue from commercial +formulas. The genesis of the Irish National Theatre, a pioneer in the +field of repertory in Great Britain, and one of the first of the +Little Theatres, is due to both of these influences. + +Its first form was the Irish Literary Theatre, founded in 1899 by +Edward Martyn, the author of _The Heather Field_ and _Maeve_, George +Moore, and William Butler Yeats. The first play produced by this +organization was Yeats's _Countess Cathleen_. This enterprise employed +only English actors, and did not assume to be purely national in +scope. It came to an end in October, 1901. It was in October, 1902, +that in _Samhain_, the organ of the Irish National Theatre, William +Butler Yeats made the following announcement: "The Irish Literary +Theatre has given place to a company of Irish actors." The nucleus of +this new Irish National Theatre was certain companies of amateurs that +W. G. Fay had assembled. These companies were composed of people who +were unable to give full time to their interest in the drama, but who +came from the office or the shop to rehearse at odd moments during the +day and in the evening. The Irish National Theatre really developed +from these amateur companies. It was strictly national in scope. The +advisers, who were to include Synge, Lady Gregory, Padraic Colum, +William Butler Yeats, and others, looked to the Irish National Theatre +to bring the drama back to the people, to whom plays dealing with +society life meant nothing. They intended also that their plays +"should give them [the people] a quite natural pleasure, should either +tell them of their own life, or of that life of poetry where every man +can see his own magic, because there alone does human nature escape +from arbitrary conditions." This program has been carried out with +remarkable success. + +October, 1902, is the date for the beginning of the Irish National +Theatre. At first W. G. Fay, and his brother, Frank Fay, were in +charge of the productions, the former as stage manager. Frank Fay had +charge of training a company, in which the star system was unknown. He +had studied French methods of stage diction and gesture, and the Irish +Players are generally said to show the results of his familiarity with +great French models. In 1913 a school of acting was organized in +order to perpetuate the tradition created by the Fays. + +Among the most famous playwrights who have written for the Irish +National Theatre are Padraic Colum, John Millington Synge, William +Butler Yeats, Lady Gregory, St. John G. Ervine, Æ (George W. Russell), +and Lord Dunsany. At one time the theatre sent out, in a circular +addressed to aspiring authors who showed promise, the following +counsel: "A play to be suitable for performance at the Abbey should +contain some criticism of life, founded on the experience or personal +observation of the writer, or some vision of life, of Irish life by +preference, important from its beauty or from some excellence of +style, and this intellectual quality is not more necessary to tragedy +than to the gayest comedy."[10] + + [Footnote 10: Lady Gregory, _Our Irish Theatre_, New York, + 1913, p. 101.] + +In 1904 the Irish National Theatre was housed for the first time in +its own playhouse, the Abbey Theatre. This change was made possible by +the generosity of Miss A. E. F. Horniman, who saw the Irish Players +when they first went to London in 1903. It was she who obtained the +lease of the Mechanics' Institute in Dublin, increased its capacity, +and rebuilt it, giving it rent free to the Players from 1904 to 1909, +in addition to an annual subsidy which she allowed them. In 1910 the +Abbey Theatre was bought from her by public subscription. The next +year, the Irish Players paid their famous visit to the United States. + +The Irish National Dramatic Company was organized as a protest against +current theatrical practices. Its founders purposed to reform the +various arts of the theatre. By encouraging native playwrights they +hoped to do for the drama of Ireland what Ibsen and other writers had +done for the drama in Scandinavian countries, where people go to the +theatre to think as well as to feel. It was not intended in any sense +that these new Irish players were to serve the purpose of propaganda; +truth was not to be compromised in the service of a cause. Acting, +too, was to be improved: redundant gesture was to be suppressed; +repose was to be given its full value; speech was to be made more +important than gesture. Yeats in particular had theories as to the way +in which verse should be spoken on the stage; he advocated a cadenced +chant, monotonous but not sing-song, for the delivery of poetry. The +simplification of costume and setting was also included in their +scheme, for both were to be strictly accessory to the speech and +movement of the characters. + +They have been faithful to their ideals. The performances at the Abbey +Theatre continue, although from time to time certain of the most +eminent actors of the company have withdrawn, some to migrate to +America. Among the plays produced in 1919 and 1920 by the National +Theatre Society at the Abbey Theatre are W. B. Yeats's _The Land of +Heart's Desire_, G. B. Shaw's _Androcles and the Lion_, Lady Gregory's +_The Dragon_, and Lord Dunsany's _The Glittering Gate_. + + +THE NEW ART OF THE THEATRE + +There are certain facts about the artistic transformation that the +theatre is undergoing in the twentieth century with which students of +the drama need to be familiar in order to picture for themselves how +plays can be interpreted by means of design, color, and light. The +transformation is definitely connected with a few famous names. In +Europe two men, Edward Gordon Craig and Max Reinhardt, stand out as +reformers in matters connected with the construction, the lighting, +and the design of stage settings. In this country the artists of the +theatre are, generally speaking, disciples of one or both of these +great Europeans and their colleagues. The new stage artist studies the +characterization and the situations in the play, the production of +which he is directing, and tries to make his setting suggestive of the +physical and emotional atmosphere in which the action of the drama +moves. + +Gordon Craig has written several books and many articles embodying his +ideas on play production. In all his writings he emphasizes the +importance of having one individual with complete authority and +complete knowledge in charge of coordinating and subordinating the +various arts that go to make the production of a play a symmetrical +whole, his theory being that there is no one art that can be called to +the exclusion of all others _the_ Art of the Theatre: not the acting, +not the play, not the setting, not the dance; but that all these +properly harmonized through the personality of the director become the +Art of the Theatre. + +The kind of setting that has become identified in the popular mind +with Gordon Craig is the simple monochrome background composed either +of draperies or of screens. It is unfortunate that this popular idea +should be so limited because, of course, the name of Gordon Craig +should carry with it the suggestion of an infinite variety of ways of +interpreting the play through design. His screens, built to stand +alone, vary in number from one to four and sometimes have as many as +ten leaves. They are either made of solid wood or are wooden frames +covered with canvas. The screens with narrow leaves may be used to +produce curved forms, and screens with broad leaves to enclose large +rectangular spaces. The screens are one form of the setting composed +of adjustable units, which can be adapted in an infinite variety of +ways to the needs of the play. + +The new ideas in European stagecraft began to be popularized in +America in the year 1914-15, when under the auspices of the Stage +Society, Sam Hume, now teaching the arts of the theatre at the +University of California, and Kenneth Macgowan, the dramatic critic, +arranged an exhibition that was shown in New York, Chicago, and other +great centres, of new stage sets designed by Robert Edmond Jones, Sam +Hume, and others who have since become famous. The models displayed on +this occasion brought before the public for the first time the new +method of lighting which, as much as anything else, differentiates the +new theatre art from the old. It introduced the device of a concave +back wall made of plaster, sometimes called by its German name +"horizont," and a lighting equipment that would dye this plaster +horizon with colors that melted into one another like the colors in +the sky; a stage with "dimmers" for every circuit of lights, and +sockets for high-power lamps at any spot from the stage. + +In the same year that the Stage Society showed Robert Edmond Jones's +models, he was given an opportunity to design the settings and +costumes for Granville Barker's production of Anatole France's _The +Man Who Married a Dumb Wife_, which may be said to have advertised the +new practices in America more than any other single production. + +[Illustration: _The Merchant of Venice._ A room in Belmont. Design by +Robert Edmond Jones. A great round window framed in the heavy molding +of Mantegna and the pale clear sky of Northern Italy.] + +Writing of his own work shortly after, Mr. Jones says: "While the +scenery of a play is truly important, it should be so important that +the audience should forget that it is present. There should be +fusion between the play and the scenery. Scenery isn't there to be +looked at, it's really there to be forgotten. The drama is a fire, the +scenery is the air that lifts the fire and makes it bright.... The +audience that is always conscious of the back drop is paying a +doubtful compliment to the painter.... Even costumes should be the +handiwork of the scenic artist. Yes, and if possible, he should build +the very furniture."[11] Robert Edmond Jones has not only designed +settings and costumes for poetic and fantastic forms of drama, but he +has also been called upon to plan the productions of realistic modern +plays. + + [Footnote 11: Robert Edmond Jones, _The Future Decorative Art + of the Theatre_, _Theatre Magazine_, Vol. XXV, May, 1917, p. + 266.] + +Three of his designs introducing three different aspects of his work +have been here reproduced. The model for Maeterlinck's _The Seven +Princesses_ is an example of an attempt to present the essential +significant structure of a setting in the simplest way conceivable and +by so doing to stimulate the imagination of the spectator to create +for itself the imaginative environment of the play. His design for a +room in Belmont for _The Merchant of Venice_ shows a great round +window framed in the heavy molding of Mantegna and the pale, clear sky +of Northern Italy. The scene for _Good Gracious Annabelle_ is a +corridor in an hotel. This scene is a typical example of a more or +less abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily +with the idea of giving as many different exits and entrances as +possible, in order that the action of the drama might be swift and +varied.[12] + + [Footnote 12: Robert Edmond Jones himself has suggested the + phrasing of these descriptions.] + +When Sam Hume was connected with the Detroit Theatre of Arts and +Crafts, he used a symbolic and suggestive method for the setting of +poetic plays the scene of which was laid in no definite locality. In +this theatre he installed a permanent setting, including the following +units: "Four pylons [square pillars], constructed of canvas on wooden +frames, each of the three covered faces measuring two and one-half by +eighteen feet; two canvas flats each three by eighteen feet; two +sections of stairs three feet long, and one section eight feet long, +of uniform eighteen-inch height; three platforms of the same height, +respectively six, eight, and twelve feet long; dark green hangings as +long as the pylons; two folding screens for masking, covered with the +same cloth as that used in the hangings, and as high as the pylons; +and two irregular tree forms in silhouette. + +"The pylons, flats, and stairs, and such added pieces as the arch and +window, were painted in broken color ...[13] so that the surfaces +would take on any desired color under the proper lighting."[14] The +economy of this method is illustrated by the fact that in one season +nineteen plays were given in the Arts and Crafts Theatre at Detroit, +and the settings for eleven of these were merely rearrangements of the +permanent setting. This kind of setting is sometimes called +"plastic"--a term which refers to the fact that the separate units are +in the round, and not flat. The effect secured in settings +representing outdoor scenes was made possible only by the use of a +plaster horizon of the general type described in connection with the +exhibition of the Stage Society. + + [Footnote 13: See p. xxxiii.] + + [Footnote 14: Sheldon Cheney, _The Art Theatre_, New York, + 1917, pp. 167-168.] + +[Illustration: _Good Gracious Annabelle._ A corridor in a hotel. +Design by Robert Edmond Jones. A typical example of a more or less +abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily with +the idea of giving as many different exits and entrances as possible +in order that the action of the drama might be swift and varied.] + +Robert Edmond Jones and Sam Hume are two of an increasingly large +number of artists in America, among whom should be mentioned +Norman-bel Geddes, Maurice Browne, and Lee Simonson, who are +experimenting with design, color, and light. Underlying the work of +all of these is the belief that the whole production, the play, the +acting, the lighting, and the setting, should be unified by some one +dominating mood. In the work of these new artists, there is no place +for the old-fashioned painted back drop, the use of which emphasizes +the disparity between the painted and the actual perspective, though +their backgrounds are by no means necessarily either screens or +draperies. Another new style of background is the skeleton setting, a +permanent structural foundation erected on the stage, which through +the addition of draperies and movable properties, or the variation of +lights, or the manipulation of screens, may serve for all the scenes +of a play. A permanent structure of this sort, representing the Tower +of London, was used by Robert Edmond Jones in a recent production of +_Richard III_ in New York, at the Plymouth Theatre. When Jacques +Copeau conducted the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier in New York he had a +permanent structure built on the stage of the Garrick Theatre, that +he used for all the plays he produced; at times the upper half of the +stage was masked, at times the recess back of the two central columns +was used. The aspect of the stage was often completely changed by the +addition of tapestries, stairs, panels, screens, and furniture. + +In the description of the equipment of the Detroit Theatre of Arts and +Crafts, reference has been made to a method of painting the plastic +units in broken color. This is so important a principle that it should +be more generally understood by those who are interested in the +theatre. The principle was put into operation by the Viennese +designer, Joseph Urban. In practice it means that a canvas painted +with red and with green spots upon which a red light is played, throws +up only the red spots blended so as to produce a red surface, and that +the same canvas under a green light shows a green surface; and, if +both kinds of lights are used, then both the green and red spots are +brought out, according to the proportion of the mixture of green and +red in the light. + +Color is being used now not only for decorative purposes, but also +symbolically. The decorative use of color on the stage is, obviously, +like the decorative use of color in the design of textiles, or stained +glass, or posters. The symbolic use of color is less easy to +interpret, but it is plain that in most people's minds red is +connected with excitement and frenzy, and blues and grays, with an +atmosphere of mystery. This is a very bald suggestion of some of the +very subtle things that have been done with color on the modern stage. + +The new methods of stage lighting make possible all kinds of color +combinations and effects. The use of the plaster horizon (or of the +cyclorama, a cheaper substitute, usually a straight semi-circular +curtain enclosing the stage, made of either white or light blue +cloth), combined with high-powered lights set at various angles on the +stage, makes outdoor effects possible, the beauty of which is new to +the theatre.[15] Nowadays footlights are not invariably discarded, but +where they are used they are wired so that groups of them can be +lighted when other sections are dimmed or darkened. When the setting +shows an interior scene with a window, though the scene may be lighted +from all sides, the window seems to be the source of all light. A +good deal of the lighting on the stage is what is known in the +interior decoration of houses as indirect lighting; colored lights are +produced most simply by the interposition between the source of light +and the stage of transparent colored slides, gelatine or glass. + + [Footnote 15: For a description of modern lighting equipment + for a Little Theatre compare the section on the Theatre in + the School in this introduction.] + +In any production that is made under the influence of the new +stagecraft, the costumes, like the setting of the play, are considered +in connection with the resources of lighting. The costumes, whether +historically correct or historically suggestive, whether of a period +or conventionalized, are conceived in their three-fold relation to the +characters of the play, the background, and the scheme of lights, by +the designer or the director under whose general supervision the play +is staged. + +In general, American audiences are hardly conscious of the existence +of these reforms. Here and there, it is true, the manager of a +commercial theatre or an opera house has called in an artist to +supervise his productions and has thus given publicity to the new way +of making the arts of the theatre work together. Certain Little +Theatres, also, have educated their followers in the significance of +the new use of light and design to represent the mood of a play. The +demands that the new method makes on craftsmanship have also commended +it to students in schools and colleges interested in play production. +Both the Little Theatres and the school theatres are doing a real +service when they educate their communities in these new arts, for not +only will this education increase the capacity of these particular +audiences to enjoy the good things of the theatre, but the influence +of these groups is bound in the long run to popularize the new +stagecraft. + + +PLAYMAKING + +Shortly before the death of William Dean Howells, he related the +experience that he had had of being circularized by a correspondence +school that offered to teach him the art of writing fiction in a +phenomenally short time at a ridiculously low rate. In this instance, +there was something wrong with the mailing list, but the fact remains +that in universities successful courses in writing short-stories and +plays are given and the best of these courses actually have turned out +writers who achieve various degrees of success financially and +artistically It is plain that a brief treatise like the present one +makes no such pretensions; it means merely to suggest some of the most +obvious points of departure for students in the drama who wish to +exercise themselves in the composition of the one-act play, much as a +student of poetry will try his hand at a _ballade_ or a sonnet without +taking himself or his metrical exercises too seriously. + +[Illustration: _Courtesy of Theatre Arts Magazine_ + +_The Seven Princesses._ Design by Robert Edmond Jones. An example of +the attempt to present the essential significant structure of a +setting in the simplest way conceivable and by so doing to stimulate +the imagination of the spectator to create for itself the imaginative +environment of the play.] + +In the famous Perse School in Cambridge, England, the boys begin at +the age of twelve to practise playmaking as an aid to the fuller +understanding of Shakespeare's dramatic workmanship, and this work is +developed throughout the rest of the course. The boys, having learned +that Shakespeare himself used stories that he found ready to hand, +discover in their own reading a story that will lend itself to +dramatization. The story is told and retold from every angle. The +class is then divided up into committees to every one of which is +entrusted some part of the dramatization. One little committee busies +itself with the setting, another with the structure, another with the +comic characters, another with the songs that are interspersed and so +on. These committees prepare rough notes to be presented in class. +These notes may propose an outline of successive scenes, present the +part of some principal character, or the "business" (illustrative +action) of some minor part. Lessons of this sort are followed by +composition rehearsals, where the dramatic and literary value of the +proposed plot, characterization, pantomime, and dialogue are tested, +and subjected to the criticism of teacher and boys. In the next +lessons, the teacher brings to bear on the special problems on which +the boys are working all the criticism that his wider range of reading +and experience can suggest. In the light of his suggestions the +various points are debated and the boys then proceed to careful +fashioning, shaping, and writing. A rehearsal of the nearly finished +product is held, followed by a final revision of the text. The work +then goes forward to a public performance given with all due ceremony. +In the higher classes playmaking is taught more especially in +connection with writing and the boys are trained to imitate the style +of various dramatists. Synge was used as a model at one time for, as +one of the masters of the school explained: "The style of Synge is +easy to copy because it is so largely composed of a certain +phraseology. The same words, phrases, and turns of sentence occur +again and again. Here are a few taken at random; the reader will find +them in a context on almost any page of the plays: _It's myself_ -- +_Is it me fight him?_ -- _I'm thinking_ -- _It's a poor_ (_fine, +great, hard_, etc.) _thing_ -- _A little path I have_ -- _Let you +come_ -- _God help us all_ -- _Till Tuesday was a week_ -- _The end of +time_ -- _The dawn of day_ -- _Let on_ -- _Kindly_ -- _Now_, as in +_Walk out now_ -- _Surely_ -- _Maybe_ -- _Itself_ -- _At all_ -- +_Afeard_ -- _Destroyed_ -- _It curse_. Synge is also mighty fond of +the words _ditch_ and _ewe_. And there are certain forms of rhythm +about Synge's prose which are used with equal frequency, and are quick +and easy to catch. So far from this imitation of style being an +artificial method, the fact is that once a boy of sixteen or over has +read a play or two of Synge's, if he has any power of style in him, it +will be all but impossible to stop him writing like Synge for a few +weeks." Learning playwriting from models recalls the method of +Benjamin Franklin and Robert Louis Stevenson who in their youth wrote +slavish imitations of the great masters in order to form their own +prose style. Of course, it is not claimed that this work at the Perse +School makes playwrights, only that it gives the boys a deeper +appreciation of dramatic workmanship and furnishes a new kind of +intellectual game to add to the joy of school life. + +The one-act plays contained in this collection are, as has been +suggested in what has been said about their construction, illustrative +of various kinds of workmanship. Certain of them are excellent models +for those who are experimenting with playwriting. The one-act play, +not nearly so difficult a form as the full-length play, offers +undergraduates in school and college and inexperienced writers +generally unlimited scope for experiment. + +The testimony of Lord Dunsany is to the effect that his play is made +when he has discovered a motive. Asked whether he always began with a +motive, "'Not always,' he said; 'I begin with anything or next to +nothing. Then suddenly, I get started, and go through in a hurry. The +main point is not to interrupt a mood. Writing is an easy thing when +one is going strong and going fast; it becomes a hard thing only when +the onward rush is impeded. Most of my short plays have been written +in a sitting or two.'"[16] This passage is quoted because insight +into the practice of professional writers is always helpful to +amateurs. Dunsany uses "motive," it seems, as a convenient term for +denoting the idea, the character, the incident or the mood that impels +the dramatist to start writing a play. Such material is to be found +everywhere. Many professional writers accumulate vast stores of such +themes against the day when they may have the necessary leisure, +energy, and insight to develop them. + + [Footnote 16: Clayton Hamilton, _Seen on the Stage_, New + York, 1920, p. 239.] + +It has been pointed out that there are only thirty-six possible +dramatic situations in any case, and that no matter how the plot +shapes itself, it is bound to classify itself somehow or other as one +of the inescapable thirty-six. There is comfort also in the suggestion +that Shakespeare drew practically all the dramatic material that he +used so transcendently direct from the familiar and accessible +narrative stores of his day. The young or inexperienced playwright +need have no hesitation, then, in turning to such sources as the Greek +myths for inspiration. Quite recently a highly successful one-act play +of Phillip Moeller's proved that Helen of Troy is as eternally +interesting as she is perennially beautiful. Maurice Baring draws on +the old Greek stories, too, for several of his _Diminutive Dramas_. +The Bible has proved dramatically suggestive to Lord Dunsany and to +Stephen Phillips. The old ballads of _Fair Annie_ and _The Wife of +Usher's Well_ have been found dramatically available. The myths of the +old Norse Gods, used by Richard Wagner for his music dramas, contain +much unmined dramatic gold. John Masefield and Sigurjónsson have +converted Saga material to the uses of the drama. In old English +literature, in _Widsith_, in the _Battle of Brunanburh_, the seeking +dramatist may find. The romances of the Middle Ages, the fairy lore of +all peoples, and the old Hindu animal fables are fertile in suggestion +to the intending dramatist. What a wonderful one-act play, steeped in +the mellow atmosphere of the Renaissance in Italy, might be made out +of Browning's _My Last Duchess!_ At least one new literary precedent +has recently been created by the author who wrote a sequel to _Dombey +and Son_. Certainly many famous novels and plays may be conceived as +calling out for similar treatment at the hands of the experimental +playwright. Famous literary and historic characters offer themselves +as promising dramatic material. When Robert Emmons Rogers, author of +the well-known play, _Behind a Watteau Picture_, was a sophomore at +Harvard, he wrote the following charming little play on Shakespeare +which is reprinted here, with the author's permission, as a pleasing +example of a promising piece of apprentice work:[17] + + [Footnote 17: Robert Emmons Rogers, President of the Boston + Drama League and Assistant Professor, specializing in modern + literature and drama in the Massachusetts Institute of + Technology, was born in Haddonfield, New Jersey, in 1888. He + writes that his Anne Hathaway "was a particularly wild + idealization based on Miss Adams as Peter Pan," and that even + at eighteen he knew that his portrait of the girl, who was to + be Shakespeare's wife, was not historically correct. + Permission to perform the play must be secured from the + author.] + + +THE BOY WILL + +_Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, 1582. The +room is of heavy-beamed dark oak, stained by age and smoke, with a +great, hooded fireplace on the left. At the back is a door with the +upper half thrown back, and two wide windows through whose open +lattices, overgrown with columbine, one can see the fresh country side +in the setting sun. Under them are broad window seats. At the right, a +door and a tall dresser filled with pewter plates and tankards. A +couple of chairs, a stool and a low table stand about. ANNE, a slim +girl of sixteen, is mending the fire. MASTER GEORGE PEELE, a bold and +comely young man, in worn riding dress and spattered boots, sprawls +against the disordered table. GILES, a plump and peevish old rogue in +tapster's cap and apron, stands by the door looking out._ + + +PEELE [_rousing himself_]. Giles! Gi-les! + +GILES [_hurries to him_]. What more, zur? Wilt ha' the pastry or--? + +PEELE. Another quart of sack. + +GILES. Yus, zur! Anne, bist asleep? [_The girl rises slowly._] + +ANNE [_takes the tankard_]. He hath had three a'ready. + +PEELE [_cheerfully_]. And shall have three more so I will. This +player's life of mine is a weary one. + +ANNE [_pertly_]. And a thirsty one, too, methinks. + +GILES [_scandalized_]. Come, wench! Ha' done gawking about, and haste! +[_ANNE goes at right._] 'Er be a forrard gel, zur, though hendy. I be +glad 'er's none o' mine, but my brother's in Shottery. He canna say I +love 'is way o' making wenches so saucy. + +PEELE. A pox on you! The best-spirited maid I ha' seen in +Warwickshire, I say. Forward? Man alive, wouldst have her like your +blowsy wenches here, that lie i' the sun all day? I have seen no one +so comely since I left London. + +GILES [_feebly_]. But 'ere, zur, in Stratford-- + +PEELE [_hotly_]. Stratford? I doubt if God made Stratford! Another day +here and I should die in torment. Your grass lanes, your rubbly +houses, fat burgesses, old women, your young clouter-heads who have no +care for a bravely acted stage-play. [_Bitingly._] "Can any good come +out of Stratford?" + +GILES. Noa, Maister Peele! Others ha' spoke more fairly-- + +PEELE [_impatiently_]. My sack, man! Is the girl a-brewing it? + +GILES. Anne! Anne! (I'll learn she to mess about.) Anne! + +ANNE [_hurries in and serves PEELE_]. I heard you. + +GILES. Then whoi cunst thee not bustle? Be I to lose my loongs over +'ee? + +ANNE [_simply_]. Mistress Shakespeare called me to the butt'ry door. +Will hath not been home all day, and she is fair anxious. She bade me +send him home once I saw him. + +PEELE [_drinking noisily_]. Who is it? [_ANNE is clearing the table._] + +GILES [_shortly_]. Poor John Shakespeare's son Will. + +PEELE. A Stratford lad? A straw-headed beater of clods! + +GILES. Nay, zur. A wild young un, as 'ull do noa honest work, but +dreams the day long, or poaches the graät woods wi' young loons o' +like stomach. + +ANNE [_indignantly, dropping a dish_]. It's not true! He is no +poacher. + +PEELE [_grinning_]. What a touchy lass! No poacher, eh? + +ANNE. Nay, sir, but the brightest lad in Stratford. He hath learning +beyond the rest of us--and if he likes to wander i' the woods, 'tis +for no ill--he loves the open air--and you should hear the little +songs he makes! + +PEELE. Do all the lads find in you such a defender, or only--? [_She +turns away._] Nay, no offense! I should like to see this Will. + +GILES [_grumpily_]. 'E 'ave noa will to help 'is father in these sorry +times, but ever gawks at stage-plays. 'E 'ull come to noa good end. +[_The player starts up._] + +PEELE. Stage-plays--no good end? Have a care, man! + +GILES. Nay, zur--noa harm, zur! I--I--canna bide longer. [_Backs +out._] + +ANNE [_at the window, wonderingly_]. He should be here. He hath never +lingered till sunset before. [_PEELE comes up behind her._] + +PEELE. Troubled, lass? + +ANNE. Nay, sir, but--but--[_Suddenly_] Listen! + +PEELE [_blankly_]. To what? [_A faint singing without._] + +ANNE [_eagerly_]. Canst hear nothing--a lilt afar off? + +PEELE [_nodding_]. Like a May-day catch? I hear it. + +ANNE. 'Tis Will! Cousin, Will is coming. [_GILES comes back._] + +GILES [_peevishly_]. I canna help it. Byunt 'e later'n common? + +A VOICE. [_The clear, boyish singing is coming very near._] + + When springtime frights the winter cold, 5 + (Hark to the children singing!) + The cowslip turns the fields to gold, + The bird from 's nest is winging-- + +PEELE. Look you! There the boy comes. + +ANNE [_leaning out the window_]. Isn't he coming here? Will! Will! +[_He passes by the window singing the last words_ + + Young hearts are gay, while yet 'tis May, + Hark to the children singing! + +_and leaps in over the lower part of the door, a sturdy, ruddy boy, +with merry face and a mop of brown hair. ANNE greets him with +outstretched hands._] + +ANNE [_reproachfully_]. Will! Thy mother was so anxious! + +WILL. I did na' think. I ha' been in the woods all day and forgot +everything till the sun set. + +ANNE. All the day long? Thou must be weary. + +WILL [_frankly_]. Nay, not very weary--but hungry. + +ANNE. Poor boy. He shall have his supper now. + +GILES [_protesting_]. 'E be allus eating 'ere, and I canna a-bear it. +Let him sup at his own whoam. + +WILL [_shaking his head_]. I dare na go home, for na doubt my +father'll beat me rarely. I'll bide here till he be asleep. [_He +places himself easily in the armchair by the fire._] + +GILES [_going sulkily_]. Thriftless young loon! + +ANNE [_laying the table_]. Hast had a splendid day? + +WILL [_absently_]. Aye. In the great park at Charlecote. There you can +lie on your back in the grass under the high arches of the trees, +where the sun rarely peeps in, and you can listen to the wind in the +trees, and see it shake the blossoms about you, and watch the red deer +and the rabbits and the birds--where everything is lovely and still. +[_His voice trails off into silence. ANNE smiles knowingly._] + +ANNE. Thou'lt be making poetry before long, eh, Will?--Will? [_To +PEELE_] The boy hath not heard a word I spoke. + +PEELE [_coming forward_]. Would he hear me, I wonder! Boy! + +WILL [_starting_]. Sir? [_PEELE looks down on him sternly._] + +PEELE. Dost know thou'rt in my chair? + +WILL [_coolly_]. Thine? Indeed, 'tis very easy. + +PEELE. Hark 'ee! Dost know my name? + +WILL. I canna say I do. + +PEELE [_distinctly_]. Master George Peele. + +WILL. I thank thee, sir. + +PEELE. Player in my Lord Admiral's Company. + +WILL. [_His whole manner changes and he jumps up eagerly._] A player? +Oh--I did not know. Pray, take the seat. + +PEELE [_amused_]. Dost think players are as lords? Most men have other +views. [_Sits. WILL watches him, fascinated._] + +WILL. Nay, but--oh, I love to see stage-plays! Didst not play in +Coventry three days agone, "The History of the Wicked King Richard"? + +PEELE. Aye, aye. Behold in me the tyrant. + +WILL. Thou? Rarely done! I mind me yet how the hump-backed king +frowned and stamped about--thus [_imitating_]. Ha! Ha! 'Twas a brave +play! + +ANNE. Thy supper is ready, Will. + +PEELE [_amused_]. The true player-instinct, on my soul! + +WILL [_flattered_]. Dost truly think so? [_ANNE plucks his sleeve._] + +ANNE. Will, where are thy wits? Supper waits. + +WILL [_apologetically_]. Oh--I--I--did na hear thee. [_He tries to +eat, but his attention is ever distracted by the player's words._] + +PEELE. Is my reckoning ready, girl? + +ANNE. Reckoning now, sir? Wilt thou--? + +PEELE. Yes, yes, I go to-night. To-morrow Warwick, then the long road +to Oxford, playing by the way--and London at last! + +ANNE. And then? [_WILL listens intently._] + +PEELE. Then back to the old Blackfriars, where all the city will flock +to our tragedies and chronicles--a long, merry life of it. + +ANNE [_interested_]. And does the Queen ever come? + +PEELE. Nay, child, we go to her. Last Christmas I played before her at +court, in the great room at Whitehall, before the nobles and +ambassadors and ladies--oh, a gay time--and the Queen said-- + +WILL [_starting up_]. What was the play? + +ANNE. Eat thy supper, Will. + +WILL [_impatiently_]. I want no more. + +PEELE. So my young cockerel is awake again. Will, a boy of thy stamp +is lost here in Stratford. Thou shouldst be in London with us. By cock +and pie, I have a mind to steal thee for the company! [_Rises to pace +the floor._] + +WILL [_breathlessly_]. To play in London? + +ANNE. Nay, Will, he but jests. Thou'rt happier here than traipsing +about wi' the players. [_GILES appears at back._] + +GILES. Nags be ready, zur, at sunset as thee'st bid. Shall I put the +gear on? + +PEELE [_sharply_]. Well fed and groomed? Nay, I will see them myself. +[_GILES vanishes. PEELE turns at the door._] Hark'ee, lass. Thy lad +could do far worse than become a player. Good meat and drink, gold in +'s pouch, favor at court, and true friends. I like the lad's spirit. +[_He goes. ANNE drops into his chair by the fire. Twilight is coming +on rapidly. WILL stands silent at the window looking after the +player._] + +ANNE [_troubled_]. Will, what is it? Thou'rt very strange to-night. + +WILL [_wistfully_]. I--I--Oh, Anne, I want to go to London. I am +a-weary of rusting in Stratford, where I can learn nothing new, save +to grow old, following my father's trade. + +ANNE. But in London? + +WILL [_kindling_]. In London one can learn more marvels in a day than +in a lifetime here; for there the streets are in a bustle all day +long, and the whole world meets in them, soldiers and courtiers and +men of war, from France and Spain and the new lands beyond the sea, +all full of learning and pleasant tales of foreign wars and the +wondrous things in the colonies. My schoolmaster told me of it. You +can stand in St. Paul's and the whole world passes by, mad for +knowledge and adventure. And then the stage-plays--! + +ANNE. Oh, Will, why long for them? + +WILL. Think how splendid they must be when the Queen herself loves to +see 'em. If I were like this player-fellow, and acted with the +Admiral's company! He laughed that he would take me with him--to be a +player and perchance _write_ plays, interludes, and noble tragedies! +Think of it, Anne--to live in London and be one of all the rare +company there, to write brave plays wi' sounding lines for all to +wonder at, and have folk turn on the streets when I passed and +whisper, "That be Will Shakespeare, the play-maker"--to act them even +at court and gain the Queen's own thanks! Anne, London is so great and +splendid! It beckons me wi' all its turmoil of affairs and its noble +hearts ready to love a new comrade. [_Disconsolately_] And I must bide +in Stratford? + +ANNE [_gently_]. Come now, Will. No need to be so feverish. Sit down +by me. What canst thou know of play-making? What canst thou do in +London? + +WILL [_he sits down by the hearth at her feet, looking into the +firelight_]. I'll tell thee, Anne. Thy father and half the village +call me a lazy oaf, that I stray i' the woods some days instead of +helping my father. I canna help it. The fit comes on me, and I must be +alone, out i' the great woods. + +ANNE [_gladly_]. Then thou dost not poach? + +WILL [_hastily_]. No, no--that is--sometimes I am with Hodge and +Diccon and John a' Field, and 'tis hard not to chase the deer. Nay, +look not so grave--I try to do no harm. + +ANNE [_quietly_]. And when thou'rt alone? + +WILL. Then I lie under the trees or wander through the fields, and +make plays to myself, as though I writ them in my mind, and cry the +lines forth to the birds--they sound nobly, too--or make little songs +and sing them i' the sunshine. They are but dreams, I know, but +splendid ones--and the player looked wi' favor on me, and said I might +make a good player, and he would take me with him. + +ANNE. But he only jested. + +WILL. No jest to me! I'll take him at his word and go with him to +London. [_He starts up eagerly._] + +ANNE [_troubled_]. Will, Will! [_PEELE enters at the back._] + +PEELE. Hark 'ee, Giles, I go in half an hour! + +WILL. Master Peele! [_Catches at his arm._] + +PEELE. Well, youngster? + +WILL [_slowly_]. Thou--thou saidst I had a good spirit and would do +well in London--in a stage company. Thou wert in jest, but--I will go +with thee, if I may. + +PEELE [_taken all aback_]. Go with me? + +WILL [_earnestly_]. With the player's company--to London. + +PEELE [_laughing_]. 'S wounds! Thou hast assurance! Dost think to +become a great player at once? + +WILL [_impatiently_]. Oh, I care not for the playing. Let me but be in +London, to see the people there and be near the theatre. I'll be the +players' servant, I'll hold the nobles' horses in the street--I'll do +anything! + +PEELE [_seriously_]. And go with us all over England on hard journeys +to play to ignorant rustics? + +WILL. Anywhere--I'll follow on to the world's end--only take me with +you to London! [_As he speaks GILES and MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE, a kindly +faced woman of middle age, dressed in housewife's cap and gown, appear +at the door._] + +GILES. There 'e be, Mistress Shixpur. + +MISTRESS S. [_as she enters_]. Oh, Will. [_He turns sharply._] + +WILL [_confusedly_]. Mother! I--I--did not know thou wert here. + +MISTRESS S. Why didst not come home--and what dost thou want with this +stranger? + +ANNE. He would go to London with him. + +MISTRESS S. [_aghast_]. To London. My Will? + +WILL [_quietly_]. Thou knowest, mother, what I ha' told thee, things I +told to no other, and now the good time has come that I can see more +of England. + +MISTRESS S. But I canna let thee go. Oh, Anne, I knew the boy was +restless, but I did not think for it so soon. He is only a boy. + +WILL [_coloring_]. In two years I shall be a man--I am a man now in +spirit. I canna stay in Stratford. [_MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE sinks down +in a chair._] + +MISTRESS S. What o' me? And, Will, 'twill break thy father's heart! +[_WILL looks ashamed._] + +WILL. I know, he would not understand. 'Tis hard. He must not know +till I be gone. + +MISTRESS S. [_To PEELE_]. Oh, sir, how could you wish to lead the lad +away? Hath not London enough a'ready? + +PEELE [_who has been listening uncomfortably, faces her gravely_]. I +but played with the lad at first, till I saw how earnest he was; then +I would take him, for I loved his boldness. But, boy, I'll tell thee +fairly, thou'lt do better here. Thou'st seen the brave side of it, the +gay dresses, the good horses, the cheering crowds and the court-favor. +But 'tis dark sometimes, too. The pouches often hang empty when the +people turn away--the lords are as the clouded sun, now smiling, now +cold--and there come the bitter days, when a man has no friends but +the pot-mates of the moment, when every man's hand is against him for +a vagabond and a rascal, when the prison-gates lay ever wide before +him, and the fickle folk, crying after a _new_ favorite, leave the old +to starve. + +ANNE. Will, canst not see? Thou'rt better here-- + +WILL [_bravely_]. I know--all this may wait me--but I must go. + +MISTRESS S. [_alarmed_]. Must go, Will? [_He kneels by her side._] + +WILL. [_tenderly_]. Hush, mother, I'll tell thee. 'Tis not entirely my +longing, for this morning the keeper of old Lucy-- + +GILES. Ha, poaching again, young scamp! + +WILL. Brought me before him--I was na poaching, I'll swear it, not so +much as chasing the deer--but Sir Thomas had no patience, and bade me +clear out, else he would seize me. I--I--dare na stay. + +MISTRESS S. I feared it; thy father forbade thee in the great park. +And now--Oh, Will, Will--I know well how thou'st longed to go from +here--and now thou must--what shall I do, lacking thee? + +PEELE [_frankly_]. Will, if thou must go, thou must. London is greater +than Stratford, and there is much evil there, but thou'rt +true-hearted, and--by my player's honor--I will stand by thee, till +the hangman get me. But we must go soon. 'Tis a dark road to +Warwick--I'll see to the horses. Is it a compact? [_WILL gives him his +hands._] + +WILL [_huskily_]. A compact, sir--to the end. [_PEELE hurries out._] + +GILES. Look at 'e now, breaking 'is mother's heart, and mad wi' joy to +revel in London. 'Tis little 'e recks of she. + +WILL [_hotly_]. Thou liest. [_Bending over her_] Mother, 'tis not +true. I do love thee and father, I love Stratford. I'll never forget +it. But 'tis so little here, and I must get away to gain learning and +do things i' the world, that I may bring home all I get; fame, if God +grant it, money, if I gain it, all to those at home. + +ANNE. Thou'rt over-confident. + +WILL. Aye, because I'm young. God knows there is enough pain in +London, and I'll get my share--but I'm _young_! Mother, thou'rt not +angry? + +MISTRESS S. I knew 'twas coming, and 'tis not so hard. We will always +wait for thee at home, when thou'rt weary. + +GILES [_at the door_]. The horses are waiting. 'Tis dark, Will. + +WILL [_breaking down_]. Mother, mother! + +MISTRESS S. The good God keep thee safe. Kiss me, Will. [_He bends +over her, then stumbles to the door, ANNE following._] + +WILL [_turning_]. Anne--Anne--thou dost not despise me for deserting +Stratford. I _must_ go. + +ANNE. Oh, I know. Thou'lt go to London and forget us all. + +WILL. No, no, thou--I couldn't forget. I'll remember thee, Anne--I'll +put thee in my plays; all my young maids and lovers shall be thee, as +thou'rt now--and I'll bring thee rare gifts when I come home. + +ANNE. I do na want them. Will--I--I--did na mean to be unkind. We were +good friends, and I trust in thee, for the future, that thou'lt be +great. Good-by--and do na forget the little playmate. + +WILL. I will na forget [_kissing her_], and, Anne, be good to my +mother. [_She goes back to MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE, and he stands +watching them in the dusk._] + +PEELE [_at the window_]. Come, come, Will! We must go. + +WILL [_turning slowly_]. I--I'm coming, sir. + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + +All the dramatic motives that have been enumerated so far have been +more or less literary in origin, but "A play may start from almost +anything: a detached thought that flashes through the mind; a theory +of conduct or an act which one firmly believes or wishes only to +examine; a bit of dialogue overheard or imagined; a setting, real or +imagined, which creates emotion in the observer; a perfectly detached +scene, the antecedents and consequences of which are as yet unknown; a +figure glimpsed in a crowd which for some reason arrests the attention +of the dramatist ... a mere incident--heard in idle talk or observed; +a story told only in barest outline or with the utmost detail."[18] + + [Footnote 18: George Pierce Baker, _Dramatic Technique_, + Boston and New York, 1919, p. 47.] + +The great dramatic critic, William Archer, has said that "the only +valid definition of the dramatic is: Any representation of imaginary +personages which is capable of interesting an average audience +assembled in a theater." For the purposes of the definition the Boy +Will of Robert Emmons Rogers's little piece and Drinkwater's Abraham +Lincoln are equally imaginary personages. In the case of the one-act +play the theatre in question is more often than not a Little Theatre +or a school theatre, the representation is more frequently at the +moment by amateur than by professional actors and the audience, being +small and close to the stage, is likely to assume a co-operative +attitude towards the playwright, the actor, and the other immediate +factors in the production. Since the success of a play depends on its +adaptability to the requirements of actor, theatre, and audience, it +is well for inexperienced playwrights to study the conditions under +which one-act plays are likely to be produced. + +One very practical consideration to hold in mind is that the one-act +play has a shorter time in which to focus attention than the +full-length play and so the indispensable preliminary exposition must +be quickly disposed of and an urgent appeal to the emotional interest +of the audience must be made at the beginning. As has been said, every +artistic consideration that calls for singleness of impression in the +short-story is of equal importance in determining the unified +structure of the one-act play. For the reason that a one-act play is +almost never given by itself, if for no other, its effect will be +dissipated if plot, characterization, or atmosphere fails in unity. + +The writer exercising himself in the art of play-making had best begin +with the procedure common to many professional playwrights. This first +step is the drawing up of a scenario, which is an outline showing the +course of the story, identifying the characters, indicating the +setting and atmosphere and explaining the nature of the play; that is, +whether, for example, it is to be a fantasy like _The Pierrot of the +Minute_, or a comedy of manners like _Wurzel-Flummery_. + +Here for instance is such a scenario as might have been drawn up for +_The Boy Will_: + + + THE BOY WILL (Historical fantasy) + Scenario for a one-act play, by + Robert Emmons Rogers + + CHARACTERS + (in order of their appearance) + + MASTER GEORGE PEELE, player of the Admiral's Company. + GILES, a plump and peevish old rogue, a tapster. + ANNE HATHAWAY, at sixteen a slim girl, niece to Giles. + WILL SHAKESPEARE, a sturdy, ruddy boy, Anne's playmate. + MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE, a kindly faced woman of middle age, Will's mother. + + +Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, 1582. (Here +a description of the interior would follow.) + + +Peele is eating and drinking at the inn, waited on by Anne Hathaway. + +Anne, scolded by Giles for her slowness, is commended as comely and +spirited by Peele. + +Peele abuses Stratford as a sleepy hole. + +Anne explains her delay in fetching ale by the fact that Mistress +Shakespeare has been at the back door inquiring for Will who has been +gone all day. + +Giles explains Will to Peele as a young poacher. + +Anne indignantly denies the charge and praises Will as the brightest +boy in Stratford. + +Giles accuses him of gawking at plays and predicts a bad end for the +boy. + +Peele resents the implication. + +Singing a May-day catch, Will enters. Afraid to go home because he has +been wasting his day in Charlecote Park and fears father's scolding. + +Goes off into a golden dream of his day in the woods. + +Peele attracts his attention by announcing his profession. + +Will shows his interest. + +Is too distracted by Peele to eat. + +Peele announces itinerary of his players and kindles Will's +imagination with a mention of the Queen. + +Threatens to carry Will off to London. + +Anne discourages the plan. + +Peele draws glowing pictures of actor's profession. + +Will is all on fire for London in spite of Anne. + +Tells Anne he's tired of being nagged. + +Makes Peele promise to take him to London. + +His mother comes for him and is aghast at the news, but finally +consents to let Will go without his father's knowledge. + +Peele then draws a picture of the actor as vagabond to discourage +Will. + +Anne holds out against his going. + +Will tells how, though he has not been poaching, he has been warned by +Sir Thomas Lucy to clear out. + +His mother sees that he must go. + +Will makes a compact with Peele. + +Promises Anne rare gifts and kissing his mother goes. + + +The scenario drawn up, the next step is to develop the plot. The plot +of a one-act play, to be effective, must be extraordinarily compact. +The accepted laws of plot construction for all artistic narratives are +the same. The climax must be carefully prepared for, as in Synge's +_Riders to the Sea_, and the various devices used for heightening the +suspense should be discovered and applied. + +Characterization is more difficult for the tyro to manage than plot. +Consistency of characterization is attained through discovering in the +beginning a motive that will sufficiently account for the part taken +by the character by means of speech and action, and through constantly +testing the characterization by this motive. Such consistency of +characterization is illustrated to perfection in Tarkington's _Beauty +and the Jacobin_. The writer of the one-act play does not use many +characters. "Examination of several hundred one-act plays has revealed +that the average number of characters to a play is between three and +four."[19] + + [Footnote 19: B. Roland Lewis, _The Technique of the One-Act + Play_, Boston, 1918, p. 211.] + +Facility in writing dialogue is gained like facility in plot +construction and in characterization only by the patient study of the +work of experienced and successful playwrights. Dialogue that is +witty, charming, ironical, or graceful is of dramatic value only as it +is in character. + +A little experience on the stage is a great help. Such experience +teaches the value of skillfully planned exits and entrances for +characters; helps the beginner to distinguish between action that +should be related and action that should be seen; shows him how a +scene must be devised to occupy the time it takes for a character to +appear after he has telephoned that he is coming; and a variety of +other practical considerations. + +Stage directions are likely to be over-elaborated by the +inexperienced. The best stage directions are those that deal only with +matters of setting, lighting and essential pantomime or action. They +should not, in general, be used for characterization. + +But after all there can be no infallible recipes for dramatic writing. +With the successful professional playwright, apprenticeship is often +an unconscious stage. Plays succeed that break all the rules laid down +by critics and professors of dramatic literature, but after all those +rules were, to begin with, based on practices productive of success +under other conditions. In any case some insight into the mechanics of +dramatic art does make the reading of plays more interesting and does +give an added zest to theatre going. + + +THE THEATRE IN THE SCHOOL + +The giving of plays in schools is no new thing. One of the earliest +English comedies, _Ralph Roister Doister_, was written in the middle +of the sixteenth century by Nicholas Udall, a schoolmaster, probably +to be performed at Westminister School at Christmas time. Many +generations of boys in the English public schools have presented the +plays of the Greek and Latin dramatists; and schools and colleges in +this country have also at times given performances of the classic +drama. But until recently Shakespeare and the comedies of Sheridan and +Goldsmith have been the chief dramatic fare both in the classroom and +on the stage in American schools. + +Modern plays are coming, however, to be more generally introduced into +the course of study. The following significant list, prepared by Miss +Anna H. Spaulding, is in use in the senior classes in English in the +Brookline High School, at Brookline, Massachusetts: + + Noah's Flood + Sacrifice of Isaac + Everyman + Everywoman + The Servant in the House + Ralph Roister Doister + Tales of the Mermaid Tavern + Merchant of Venice + Jew of Malta + Tragedy of Shakespeare + Comedy of Shakespeare + The Rivals + The Good Natured Man + She Stoops to Conquer + Caste + The Lady of Lyons + One Closet Drama + The Second Mrs. Tanqueray + One Comedy of Pinero + The Silver King + One Serious Play by Jones + Arms and the Man + Caesar and Cleopatra + John Bull's Other Island + The Doctor's Dilemma + Strife + Justice + The Tragedy of Nan + The Marrying of Ann Leete + Seven Short Plays + The Land of Heart's Desire, or + The Countess Cathleen, or + Cathleen Ni Houlihan + The Shadow of the Glen + Riders to the Sea + The Birthright + The Truth + The Witching Hour, or + As a Man Thinks + The Scarecrow + The Piper + Milestones + The Importance of Being Earnest + +Thirty-five of these plays are distinctly modern. Another list, in use +as part of a course in contemporary literature given in the last half +of the third year at the Washington Irving High School and including +only modern plays, is reprinted below: + + The Blue Bird + The Melting Pot + Milestones + Justice, or + The Silver Box + Pygmalion + The Piper + Prunella + Sherwood + The Land of Heart's Desire + Spreading the News + +These plays are read and studied; that is to say, such topics as +dramatic workmanship, theme, setting, characterization, dialogue, and +diction are taken up in connection with each one and each one is made +the starting point for a new interest in the drama of to-day.[20] + + [Footnote 20: Further interesting information on the reading + and the study of modern plays in the schools may be found in + the valuable article by F. G. Thompkins of the Central High + School, Detroit, called _The Play Course in High School_, in + _The English Journal_ for November, 1920, and in the same + issue, in the list of plays produced by St. Louis High + Schools, prepared by Clarence Stratton, Chairman, National + Council Committee on Plays.] + +In another high school in New York, the Evander Childs, there is a +four years' course of two periods a week in classroom study of the +drama, old and new. All composition work is connected with this +special interest. + +Another kind of work based on contemporary drama was carried on by a +group of first-year students in a certain high school who were much +interested in a program of one-act plays to be presented in the school +theatre. The teacher of English who had charge of this young class +discussed the subject of the theatre audience with them both before +and after the performance. The outcome of this analysis of the +interests of the audience was an outline. These fourteen-year old +girls said that the next time that they went to the theatre they would +keep in mind the following considerations: + + I. In regard to the play: + A. Its title + B. Classification + C. Plot + D. Characterization + E. Dialogue + F. Theme + + II. In regard to the actors: + A. Their intelligence + B. Clearness of speech + C. Ease of manner + D. Facial expression (appropriateness of make-up) + E. Pantomime or action + 1. Posture + 2. Gesture + 3. Repose + F. Costumes + 1. Appropriateness as an index to character + 2. Color and design + 3. Harmony with the setting + + III. In regard to the setting: + A. The lighting + B. Color and design + C. Appropriateness as regards mood of play + D. Suggestiveness + E. Workmanship + +One cannot help feeling that these young people were being effectively +trained to enjoy the best drama in the best way. + +Not only is modern drama being read and studied in the English +classes, but the schools are becoming centres of Little Theatre +movements and leading their communities in pageants and dramatic +festivals. An editorial in _The New York Evening Post_ in 1918 put it +in this way: "As Froude states that in Tudor England there was acting +everywhere from palace to inn-yard and village green, so, the +prediction is made, future historians will record that in our America +there was acting everywhere--in neighborhood theatres, portable +theatres, church clubs, high schools and universities, settlements, +open amphitheatres, and hotel ballrooms." + +One reason that amateur dramatics have taken on a new lease of life in +the schools is because other teachers besides teachers of English have +become interested in the project of giving a play. Students in physics +classes have planned and executed lighting systems for the school +theatre, students in carpentering and manual arts have built the +scenery from designs made in drawing classes, curtains have been +stenciled, costumes made and cloths dyed in domestic art classes, +programs printed by the school printing squad, music furnished by the +school orchestra and dances taught by the physical training +department. In most cases the line coaching and the general direction +of the play have been part of the work in English. + +A concrete example will illustrate this kind of co-operation. Several +years ago the department of English at the Washington Irving High +School gave two plays, _Three Pills in a Bottle_, a product of the 47 +Workshop, by Rachel Lyman Field, and _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_, +by Alice Rostetter. _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_ had grown out of +class-room work. The girls in an industrial course were studying the +origin of the silk industry. A pamphlet stated that the wife of +Hoangti, Si-Ling-Chi, was the first to prepare and weave silk. This +legend offered suggestive dramatic material peculiarly appropriate for +a girls' high school. + +The work of obtaining the setting and the properties was divided +between two committees, each working under the direction of a +chairman. Since fifty dollars had been fixed as the limit of +expenditure for the two plays, the problem was rather a difficult one. +Fortunately, _Three Pills in a Bottle_ calls for a small cast. The +cast of The _Goddess of the Woven Wind_, however, included thirty-four +girls, most of whom had to be orientally clad and equipped. The +teacher who contemplates putting on a rather elaborate costume play in +his or her high school will be interested to learn that the amount was +so exactly fixed and the department so resourceful that fifty-one +dollars and nine cents was the total sum spent on the two plays. Then, +lest anyone think that there had been a miscalculation, let it be +added that this sum included the money spent for hot chocolate to +serve to the casts of the plays, between the afternoon and evening +performances. + +The problem of staging _Three Pills in a Bottle_ was greatly +simplified by the fact that the frontispiece of the play gives a +simple, effective setting not difficult to copy. With the aid of some +amateur carpentering, the regular interior set was easily transformed +to suit the purpose. The problem of color was solved when the chairman +of the committee found a patchwork quilt in the attic, during a visit +to her mother's home; a conference with the janitress of her city +apartment developed the fact that she possessed a freshly scrubbed +wash-tub, which she was willing not only to donate to the cause, but +to have painted green. + +The task of staging _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_ was difficult and +interesting, because it was decidedly a costume play, and because it +was a first production. Some of the difficulties that confronted the +chairman of the committee for that play were amusing. + +For instance, after some perplexed thought on the subject, she tacked +the following list of costumes and properties on the Bulletin Board of +the English office: + +WANTED: + + Mulberry tree + Gardener's spade + Teakwood stool + Chinese necklaces + Large, colorful abacus + Mandarin coats and hats + Sky-blue Chinese bowl + Chinese gong + Bamboo rod + Silk cocoons + +She also advertised the need of these things and many others in all +her classes. Within two weeks nearly everything had either appeared or +been promised, except a Chinese gong with a proper "whang" to it, an +unbreakable sky-blue bowl and the mulberry tree! A teacher in a +neighboring school lent the company a splendid gong, sometimes used in +their orchestra; a student transformed a wooden chopping bowl by means +of clay and tempera into an exquisite piece of pottery, copied from a +priceless bowl on exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. + +The mulberry tree was still an unsolved problem, when Dugald Stuart +Walker, the artist who has produced a number of plays at the +Christadora House in New York, was consulted. He suggested that the +tree be a conventionalized one of flat "drapes" of green and brown +poplin, with cocoons sewn on in a simple border design. + +The staging of the play then became a project for members of a +third-year art class. During their English period they read the play, +recited on the subject of the China of remote dynasties, constructed a +miniature stage, and then, forming committees among themselves, worked +out the practical details. One group purchased the necessary paint, +another painted the vermilion sun. Her neighbor affixed it to a bamboo +rod. To emphasize the Chinese setting, two girls made a frame with a +dragon as head-piece and huge, colorful Chinese medallions to be sewn +on the side drapery. The design for the medallions was obtained from a +Chinese brass plate. Almost every girl in the class took part in the +project. Interest was easily aroused, as a number of girls in this +class took part in the play. + +As for the costumes, for the thirty-four members of the cast, only +eight dollars' worth was hired. The rest were either borrowed or made +by the girls. The most successful one, perhaps, that worn by the +empress, was copied from an Edmund Dulac illustration of the Princess +Badoura. The astrologers' costumes were obtained from photographs of +_The Yellow Jacket_, lent by Mrs. Coburn. To complete the project, the +girls wrote a composition explaining how to organize the staging of a +costume play. + +Meanwhile, the selection and coaching of the two casts was going on. +Competition for the parts was open to the girls of the entire school. +A great many girls were tried out before the two committees made a +choice. In fact, every girl who was recommended by her English teacher +was given an opportunity to read a part. In a number of cases two +girls were assigned for one part and it was not known until almost the +last moment who was to have the rôle or who was to understudy. +Rehearsals were held at least three times a week, for three weeks, and +a full-dress rehearsal was held two days before the final performance. +It was thought advisable to allow a day to elapse between the last +rehearsal and the real performance, in order to give the girls an +opportunity to rest. + +In coaching the plays, an effort was made to have a girl read the line +properly without having it read to her. The members of the coaching +committee would explain the mood or frame of mind to the speaker; the +girl would then interpret the mood in her reading. + +In addition to the coaching committee, several teachers sat at the +back of the auditorium during rehearsals, to warn the speakers when +they could not be heard. + +The advertising campaign began soon after a choice of plays had been +made. In compliance with the request of the Publicity Committee, one +of the teachers of an art class and a teacher in the English +Department assigned to their pupils the problem of making posters to +advertise the plays. To the painter of the best one a prize was +awarded. + +Announcements of the play were posted by pupils in various parts of +the building. Tiny brochures decorated with Chinese motives were +prepared by students during an English period, and later were +circulated among the faculty, and placed upon office bulletin boards, +and in diaries. In writing these brochures the girls applied the +knowledge they had gained in studying the writing of advertisements. +Two illustrated advertisements made in one class were displayed in +other high schools; a number were sent in an envelope with tickets to +patrons and distinguished friends of the schools. One class wrote +letters to firms of wholesale silk merchants and importers, +advertising _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_, the story of silk. + +In order to increase the sale of tickets and to prepare an +appreciative audience, various subjects were suggested to English +teachers for projects in class work connected with the plays. In many +classes every girl wrote and illustrated a paper on some topic +pertaining to Chinese life, such as customs, costumes, religion, +occupations, silk, China, umbrellas, fireworks, fans, position of +women, objects of art. Oral compositions were devoted to phases of +some of these subjects. In the oral work and in the written +composition, accurate knowledge of authorities consulted was insisted +upon. Chinese proverbs were studied. "A man knows, but a woman knows +better," used by the author in her play, was one of the most popular +ones. Translations, found in the _Literary Digest_, of Chinese poems +of the sixteenth and of the eighteenth century were produced and read +by the girls, many of whom brought to class all the Chinese articles +they could find at home. Incense burners, fans, pitchers, +embroideries, chop sticks, beads, shoes, vases, and even a Chinese +newspaper, found their way to the class-room and were exhibited with +pride. Interest in things Chinese was so great that clippings and +prints continued coming in for almost two weeks after the play had +been presented. Class visits were made to the Chinese exhibit at the +Metropolitan Museum of Art and to importing houses in the +neighborhood. + +The kind of co-operation described has led in some schools to the +establishment of workshops similar to those conducted in connection +with certain university courses in playwriting and dramatics and with +many of the Little Theatres. A paragraph that appeared recently in a +calendar of the New York Drama League explains in a convincing way the +necessity for a workshop in connection with all amateur producing. +"One of the most vital problems that the amateur group has to solve," +says the writer, "is that of securing a proper place for the preparing +of a production. Not all organizations can hold rehearsals, paint +scenery, experiment with lighting on costumes and scenery on the +stage on which they are finally to play. Even where this is possible, +it is costly. Much of the activity is now carried on in the homes of +members so far as rehearsals go; in barns or garages as regards the +painting of scenery and not at all so far as the lighting question is +concerned. More often than not, a few hasty final rehearsals are +relied upon to pull into shape some of the most important elements of +a satisfactory performance. + +"The remedy lies in the acquisition of a workshop. A large room with a +very high ceiling will serve admirably. But you must be able to work +recklessly in it, sawing wood, hammering nails, mussing things up +generally with paint and riddling the walls and ceiling with hooks and +screws to hang lighting apparatus and other properties. An +old-fashioned barn can be converted into an ideal workshop, if +provision is made for proper heating. All the activity should be +concentrated in the workshop and there is no reason why all the +experimentalists cannot be at work at once--the carpenters, the scene +painters, the electricians, the property men, and even the actors with +their director." + +The use of miniature model stages is becoming more and more common in +the schools, the preliminary model serving the workshop, until the +background, lighting, properties, and costumes are completed. It is an +excellent thing for schools to start a collection of models of famous +theatres and notably successful stage-sets. The material for these +exists in illustrated books and magazines and in the mass of +descriptive material in regard to the stage that is now being +published.[21] + + [Footnote 21: There is a comprehensive list of books + published by the Public Library of New York that is an + indispensable guide to amateurs interested in Little Theatres + and play production and in matters connected with lighting, + scenery, costumes, and theatre building; it is W. B. Gamble, + _The Development of Scenic Art and Stage Machinery_, New + York, 1920. Cf. also the articles of Irving Pichel that have + appeared from time to time in _The Theatre Arts Magazine_. + The three following books are especially valuable for school + theatres: Barrett H. Clark, _How to Produce Amateur Plays_, + Boston, 1917; Constance D'Arcy Mackay, _Costumes and Scenery + for Amateurs_. _A Practical Working Handbook_, New York, 1915 + (the illustrations are especially valuable); and Evelyn + Hilliard, Theodora McCormick, Kate Oglebay, _Amateur and + Educational Dramatics_, New York, 1917.] + +[Illustration: Interior of the Beechwood Theatre.] + +[Illustration: Exterior of the Beechwood Theatre.] + +Two school theatres designed especially for the purpose of +fostering in the schools to which they are attached an interest in +the drama are the Garden Theatre of the high school at Montclair, New +Jersey, and the Beechwood Theatre in the private school at +Scarborough-on-Hudson, New York, built by Frank A. Vanderlip. At +Montclair the present high school building was completed in 1914. To +the northeast of the building at that time was a ravine which afforded +a natural amphitheatre. The site was perfect, and a gift from a +public-spirited citizen, Mrs. Henry Lang, made it possible to create +on this spot a very artistic and beautiful place for outdoor +performances, either plays or pageants. + +On the slope nearest the building are semi-circular rows of concrete +seats accommodating about fifteen hundred people. A brook spanned by +two arched bridges separates the audience from the stage. Back of the +turf stage is a graveled stage slightly raised and reached by two +flights of steps. The pergola and trees make a beautiful background. +The house in the rear is a part of the plant and is used for dressing +and make-up. + +The Beechwood Theatre within the school has a proscenium opening of +twenty-seven feet and a stage depth, back to the plaster horizon, of +the same dimensions. There are two complete sets of drapery, one of +coarse écru linen and one of blue velvet; there is also a stock +drawing-room set of thirty pieces. Back of the stage are ten +dressing-rooms. The lighting arrangements are extraordinarily +complete: the theatre has a standard electrical equipment of +footlights and borders and a switchboard of the best type to which has +recently been added the latest lighting devices, consisting of an +X-ray border, the end section of which is on a separate dimmer, a +thousand-watt centre floodlight, six five-hundred watt-spotlights, +each on separate dimmers, in the false proscenium or tormentor,[22] +and a line of one-thousand-watt floodlights for lighting the plaster +sky. All of this recently added equipment is controlled from a +separate portable switchboard. + + [Footnote 22: For the explanation of this and kindred + technical terms, see Arthur Edwin Krows, _Play Production in + America_, New York, 1916. + + Cf. Maurice Browne, _The Temple of a Living Art_. _The + Drama_, Chicago, 1913, No. 12, p. 168: "Nor is this just a + question of stage jargon; that man or woman who would + establish an Art Theatre that is an Art Theatre and not a pet + rabbit fed by hand, must be able to design it, to ventilate + it, to decorate it, to equip its stage, to light it (and to + handle its lighting himself, or his electricians will not + listen to him), to plan his costumes and scenery, aye, and at + a shift, to make them with his own hand."] + +Though this plant was built primarily for the school, it is used also +by the Beechwood Players, a Little Theatre organization, and by other +community clubs which comprise an orchestra, a chorus, a group +interested in the fine arts, and a poetry circle. Mr. Vanderlip looks +forward to the development of a school of the arts of the theatre from +the nucleus of the Beechwood community clubs. With this idea in mind +he has just built a workshop for the Beechwood Players in a separate +building. It contains power woodworking machines, and rooms for +painting scenery and for the costume department, the latter containing +power sewing machines. + +There is no doubt but that these two schools have unique facilities +for developing an interest in the acted drama. But artistic results +have often been secured in the school theatre with equipment falling +far short of the ideal standards achieved at Montclair and at +Scarborough. Other less fortunate schools are, moreover, at no +particular disadvantage when it comes to the class-room study of the +drama for which this book is primarily planned, this work being the +first step in the direction of a more intelligent attitude toward +modern plays and modern theatres. A class-room reading of modern plays +without any accessories, as Shakespeare is often read from the seats +and the aisles, is one of the most practical methods of speech and +voice improvement. Louis Calvert, the eminent actor, speaking of this +kind of training says: "After all it is one of the simplest things in +the world to learn to speak correctly, to take thought and begin and +end each word properly.... A little attention to one's everyday +conversation will often work wonders. If one schools himself for a +while to speak a little more slowly, and to give each syllable its +due, it is surprising how naturally and rapidly his speech will +clarify. If we take care of the consonants, the vowels will take care +of themselves." + +[Illustration: Ravine where the Garden Theatre was built.] + +[Illustration: The Garden Theatre.] + +At the present time, then, the theatre in the schools means a variety +of things. It means first and foremost, as suggested by the latest +college entrance requirements, the study of modern plays, side by side +with the classics. It means also the improvement of English speech, +through the interpretation and the reading aloud of the text. It means +a study of the new art of the theatre such as the present book +suggests. It means often the presentation of plays before outside +audiences and the consequent strengthening of the ties that should +exist between the school and the community. It may mean the +co-operation of several departments of the school in the production; +and, in this case, it usually results in the establishment of some +kind of a workshop. And finally, in certain favored schools, it means +the erection of model Little Theatres. It seems fair to suppose that +this newly aroused interest in modern drama and in modern methods of +production in the schools will have far-reaching results. + + + + +BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN[23] + +By BOOTH TARKINGTON + + [Footnote 23: Copyright, 1912, by Harper and Brothers. + Copyright in Great Britain. All acting rights both amateur + and professional reserved by the author.] + + +Since the days of Edward Eggleston, Indiana has been accumulating +literary traditions until at the present time it rivals New England in +the variety of its literary associations. Newton Booth Tarkington, +born in Indianapolis in 1869, and continuing to make his home there +still in the old family house on North Pennsylvania Street, is one of +the most distinguished of the Hoosier writers. As a lad of eleven he +began his friendship with James Whitcomb Riley, then a neighbor. "He +acknowledges (shaking his head in reflection at the depth of it) that +the spirit of Riley has exercised over him a strong, if often +unconsciously felt, influence all his life." The delicious stories of +Penrod and of the William Sylvanus Baxter of _Seventeen_ that Booth +Tarkington has told for the unalloyed delight of old and young are +said to reproduce quite accurately the author's recollection of his +own boyhood pranks and associations in the Middle-Western city of his +birth. Tarkington went first to Phillips Exeter Academy and later to +Purdue University at Lafayette, Indiana, before he became a member of +the class of '93 at Princeton. His popularity and his good fellowship +are still cherished memories on the campus. + +It seems that he was infallibly associated in the undergraduate mind +with the singing of _Danny Deever_; so much so, that whenever he +appeared on the steps at Nassau Hall there would be an immediate +demand for his speciality, a demand that often caused him to retire as +inconspicuously as possible from the crowd. These old days are +commemorated in the following verses, a copy of which, framed, hangs +on the walls of the Princeton Club in New York. + +RONDEL + + "The same old Tark--just watch him shy + Like hunted thing, and hide, if let, + Away behind his cigarette, + When 'Danny Deever' is the cry. + + Keep up the call and by and by + We'll make him sing, and find he's yet + The same old Tark. + + No 'Author Leonid' we spy + In him, no cultured ladies' pet: + He just drops in, and so we get + The good old song, and gently guy + The same old Tark--just watch him shy!" + +No biography of Booth Tarkington, no matter how brief, should omit to +mention that he was elected to the Indiana State Legislature and sat +for a time in that body, where he accumulated, no doubt, some data on +the subject of Indiana politics that he may afterwards have put to +literary use. + +He has found the subject for most of his novels and plays[24] in +contemporary American life, which he treats unsentimentally, +spiritedly, and vigorously. _Beauty and the Jacobin_, like his famous +and fascinating tale, _Monsieur Beaucaire_, is exceptional among his +works in deserting the modern American scene for an Eighteenth Century +situation. The story and the play are likely, for this reason, to be +compared. The tone of _Monsieur Beaucaire_ is more urbane, more +whimsical, more romantic than the mood of _Beauty and the Jacobin_ +which "breaks with the pretty, pretty kind of thing. There is a new +quality in the texture of the writing.... The plot here springs +directly from character, and the action of the piece is inevitable. +_Beauty and the Jacobin_ gives evidence of being the first conscious +and determined, as it is the first consistent, effort of the author to +leave the surface and work from the inside of his characters out.... +The whole of the little drama is scintillant with wit, delicate and at +times brilliant and somewhat Shavian, which flashes out poignantly +against the sombreness of its background."[25] + + [Footnote 24: For a bibliography of his works through the + year 1913, see Asa Don Dickinson, _Booth Tarkington, a + Gentleman from Indiana_, Garden City, no date.] + + [Footnote 25: Robert Cortes Holliday, _Booth Tarkington_, + Garden City and New York, 1918, pp. 155-156; p. 157.] + +_Beauty and the Jacobin_ was published in 1912 and has had at least +one performance on the professional stage. On November 12, 1912, it +was played by members of the company then acting in _Fanny's First +Play_, at a matinée at the Comedy Theatre, in New York. It has always +been a favorite with amateurs and quite recently was performed in St. +Louis by one of the dramatic clubs of that city. + + + + +BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN + + +_Our scene is in a rusty lodging-house of the Lower Town, +Boulogne-sur-Mer, and the time, the early twilight of dark November in +northern France. This particular November is dark indeed, for it is +November of the year 1793, Frimaire of the Terror. The garret room +disclosed to us, like the evening lowering outside its one window, and +like the times, is mysterious, obscure, smoked with perplexing +shadows; these flying and staggering to echo the shiftings of a young +man writing at a desk by the light of a candle._ + +_We are just under the eaves here; the dim ceiling slants; and there +are two doors: that in the rear wall is closed; the other, upon our +right, and evidently leading to an inner chamber, we find ajar. The +furniture of this mean apartment is chipped, faded, insecure, yet +still possessed of a haggard elegance; shamed odds and ends, cheaply +acquired by the proprietor of the lodging-house, no doubt at an +auction of the confiscated leavings of some emigrant noble. The single +window, square and mustily curtained, is so small that it cannot be +imagined to admit much light on the brightest of days; however, it +might afford a lodger a limited view of the houses opposite and the +street below. In fact, as our eyes grow accustomed to the obscurity we +discover it serving this very purpose at the present moment, for a +tall woman stands close by in the shadow, peering between the curtains +with the distrustfulness of a picket thrown far out into an enemy's +country. Her coarse blouse and skirt, new and as ill-fitting as sacks, +her shop-woman's bonnet and cheap veil, and her rough shoes are +naïvely denied by her sensitive, pale hands and the high-bred and +in-bred face, long profoundly marked by loss and fear, and now very +white, very watchful. She is not more than forty, but her hair, +glimpsed beneath the clumsy bonnet, shows much grayer than need be at +that age. This is ANNE DE LASEYNE_. + +_The intent young man at the desk, easily recognizable as her brother, +fair and of a singular physical delicacy, is a finely completed +product of his race; one would pronounce him gentle in each sense of +the word. His costume rivals his sister's in the innocence of its +attempt at disguise: he wears a carefully soiled carter's frock, rough +new gaiters, and a pair of dangerously aristocratic shoes, which are +not too dusty to conceal the fact that they are of excellent make and +lately sported buckles. A tousled cap of rabbit-skin, exhibiting a +tricolor cockade, crowns these anomalies, though not at present his +thin, blond curls, for it has been tossed upon a dressing-table which +stands against the wall to the left. He is younger than MADAME DE +LASEYNE, probably by more than ten years; and, though his features so +strikingly resemble hers, they are free from the permanent impress of +pain which she bears like a mourning-badge upon her own._ + +_He is expending a feverish attention upon his task, but with patently +unsatisfactory results; for he whispers and mutters to himself, bites +the feather of his pen, shakes his head forebodingly, and again and +again crumples a written sheet and throws it upon the floor. Whenever +this happens ANNE DE LASEYNE casts a white glance at him over her +shoulder--his desk is in the center of the room--her anxiety is +visibly increased, and the temptation to speak less and less easily +controlled, until at last she gives way to it. Her voice is low and +hurried._ + + +ANNE. Louis, it is growing dark very fast. + +LOUIS. I had not observed it, my sister. [_He lights a second candle +from the first; then, pen in mouth, scratches at his writing with a +little knife._] + +ANNE. People are still crowding in front of the wine-shop across the +street. + +LOUIS [_smiling with one side of his mouth_]. Naturally. Reading the +list of the proscribed that came at noon. Also waiting, amiable +vultures, for the next bulletin from Paris. It will give the names of +those guillotined day before yesterday. For a good bet: our own names +[_he nods toward the other room_]--yes, hers, too--are all three in +the former. As for the latter--well, they can't get us in that now. + +ANNE [_eagerly_]. Then you are certain that we are safe? + +LOUIS. I am certain only that they cannot murder us day before +yesterday. [_As he bends his head to his writing a woman comes in +languidly through the open door, bearing an armful of garments, among +which one catches the gleam of fine silk, glimpses of lace and rich +furs--a disordered burden which she dumps pell-mell into a large +portmanteau lying open upon a chair near the desk. This new-comer is +of a startling gold-and-ivory beauty; a beauty quite literally +striking, for at the very first glance the whole force of it hits the +beholder like a snowball in the eye; a beauty so obvious, so +completed, so rounded, that it is painful; a beauty to rivet the +unenvious stare of women, but from the full blast of which either king +or man-peasant would stagger away to the confessional. The egregious +luster of it is not breathed upon even by its overspreading of sullen +revolt, as its possessor carelessly arranges the garments in the +portmanteau. She wears a dress all gray, of a coarse texture, but +exquisitely fitted to her; nothing could possibly be plainer, or of a +more revealing simplicity. She might be twenty-two; at least it is +certain that she is not thirty. At her coming, LOUIS looks up with a +sigh of poignant wistfulness, evidently a habit; for as he leans back +to watch her he sighs again. She does not so much as glance at him, +but speaks absently to MADAME DE LASEYNE. Her voice is superb, as it +should be; deep and musical, with a faint, silvery huskiness._] + +ELOISE [_the new-comer_]. Is he still there? + +ANNE. I lost sight of him in the crowd. I think he has gone. If only +he does not come back! + +LOUIS [_with grim conviction_]. He will. + +ANNE. I am trying to hope not. + +ELOISE. I have told you from the first that you overestimate his +importance. Haven't I said it often enough? + +ANNE [_under her breath_]. You have! + +ELOISE [_coldly_]. He will not harm you. + +ANNE [_looking out of the window_]. More people down there; they are +running to the wine-shop. + +LOUIS. Gentle idlers! [_The sound of triumphant shouting comes up from +the street below._] That means that the list of the guillotined has +arrived from Paris. + +ANNE [_shivering_]. They are posting it in the wine-shop window. +[_The shouting increases suddenly to a roar of hilarity, in which the +shrilling of women mingles._] + +LOUIS. Ah! One remarks that the list is a long one. The good people +are well satisfied with it. [_To ELOISE_] My cousin, in this amiable +populace which you champion, do you never scent something of--well, +something of the graveyard scavenger? [_She offers the response of an +unmoved glance in his direction, and slowly goes out by the door at +which she entered. Louis sighs again and returns to his scribbling._] + +ANNE [_nervously_]. Haven't you finished, Louis? + +LOUIS [_indicating the floor strewn with crumpled slips of paper_]. A +dozen. + +ANNE. Not good enough? + +LOUIS [_with a rueful smile_]. I have lived to discover that among all +the disadvantages of being a Peer of France the most dangerous is that +one is so poor a forger. Truly, however, our parents are not to be +blamed for neglecting to have me instructed in this art; evidently +they perceived I had no talent for it. [_Lifting a sheet from the +desk._] Oh, vile! I am not even an amateur. [_He leans back, tapping +the paper thoughtfully with his pen._] Do you suppose the Fates took +all the trouble to make the Revolution simply to teach me that I have +no skill in forgery? Listen. [_He reads what he has written._] +"Committee of Public Safety. In the name of the Republic. To all +Officers, Civil and Military: Permit the Citizen Balsage"--that's +myself, remember--"and the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, his +sister"--that's you, Anne--"and the Citizeness Marie Balsage, his +second sister"--that is Eloise, you understand--"to embark in the +vessel _Jeune Pierrette_ from the port of Boulogne for Barcelona. +Signed: Billaud Varennes. Carnot. Robespierre." Execrable! [_He tears +up the paper, scattering the fragments on the floor._] I am not even +sure it is the proper form. Ah, that Dossonville! + +ANNE. But Dossonville helped us-- + +LOUIS. At a price. Dossonville! An individual of marked attainment, +not only in penmanship, but in the art of plausibility. Before I paid +him he swore that the passports he forged for us would take us not +only out of Paris, but out of the country. + +ANNE. Are you sure we must have a separate permit to embark? + +LOUIS. The captain of the _Jeune Pierrette_ sent one of his sailors to +tell me. There is a new Commissioner from the National Committee, he +said, and a special order was issued this morning. They have an +officer and a file of the National Guard on the quay to see that the +order is obeyed. + +ANNE. But we bought passports in Paris. Why can't we here? + +LOUIS. Send out a street-crier for an accomplished forger? My poor +Anne! We can only hope that the lieutenant on the quay may be drunk +when he examines my dreadful "permit." Pray a great thirst upon him, +my sister! [_He looks at a watch which he draws from beneath his +frock._] Four o'clock. At five the tide in the river is poised at its +highest; then it must run out, and the _Jeune Pierrette_ with it. We +have an hour. I return to my crime. [_He takes a fresh sheet of paper +and begins to write._] + +ANNE [_urgently_]. Hurry, Louis! + +LOUIS. Watch for Master Spy. + +ANNE. I cannot see him. [_There is silence for a time, broken only by +the nervous scratching of Louis's pen._] + +LOUIS [_at work_]. Still you don't see him? + +ANNE. No. The people are dispersing. They seem in a good humor. + +LOUIS. Ah, if they knew--[_He breaks off, examines his latest effort +attentively, and finds it unsatisfactory, as is evinced by the +noiseless whistle of disgust to which his lips form themselves. He +discards the sheet and begins another, speaking rather absently as he +does so._] I suppose I have the distinction to be one of the most +hated men in our country, now that all the decent people have left +it--so many by a road something of the shortest! Yes, these merry +gentlemen below there would be still merrier if they knew they had +within their reach a forfeited "Emigrant." I wonder how long it would +take them to climb the breakneck flights to our door. Lord, there'd be +a race for it! Prize-money, too, I fancy, for the first with his +bludgeon. + +ANNE [_lamentably_]. Louis, Louis! Why didn't you lie safe in England? + +LOUIS [_smiling_]. Anne, Anne! I had to come back for a good sister of +mine. + +ANNE. But I could have escaped alone. + +LOUIS. That is it--"alone"! [_He lowers his voice as he glances toward +the open door._] For she would not have moved at all if I hadn't come +to bully her into it. A fanatic, a fanatic! + +ANNE [_brusquely_]. She is a fool. Therefore be patient with her. + +LOUIS [_warningly_]. Hush. + +ELOISE [_in a loud, careless tone from the other room_]. Oh, I heard +you! What does it matter? [_She returns, carrying a handsome skirt and +bodice of brocade and a woman's long mantle of light-green cloth, +hooded and lined with fur. She drops them into the portmanteau and +closes it._] There! I've finished your packing for you. + +LOUIS [_rising_]. My cousin, I regret that we could not provide +servants for this flight. [_Bowing formally._] I regret that we have +been compelled to ask you to do a share of what is necessary. + +ELOISE [_turning to go out again_]. That all? + +LOUIS [_lifting the portmanteau_]. I fear-- + +ELOISE [_with assumed fatigue_]. Yes, you usually do. What now? + +LOUIS [_flushing painfully_]. The portmanteau is too heavy. [_He +returns to the desk, sits, and busies himself with his writing, +keeping his grieved face from her view._] + +ELOISE. You mean you're too weak to carry it? + +LOUIS. Suppose at the last moment it becomes necessary to hasten +exceedingly-- + +ELOISE. You mean, suppose you had to run, you'd throw away the +portmanteau. [_Contemptuously._] Oh, I don't doubt you'd do it! + +LOUIS [_forcing himself to look up at her cheerfully_]. I dislike to +leave my baggage upon the field, but in case of a rout it might be a +temptation--if it were an impediment. + +ANNE [_peremptorily_]. Don't waste time. Lighten the portmanteau. + +LOUIS. You may take out everything of mine. + +ELOISE. There's nothing of yours in it except your cloak. You don't +suppose-- + +ANNE. Take out that heavy brocade of mine. + +ELOISE. Thank you for not wishing to take out my fur-lined cloak and +freezing me at sea! + +LOUIS [_gently_]. Take out both the cloak and the dress. + +ELOISE [_astounded_]. What! + +LOUIS. You shall have mine. It is as warm, but not so heavy. + +ELOISE [_angrily_]. Oh, I am sick of your eternal packing and +unpacking! I am sick of it! + +ANNE. Watch at the window, then. [_She goes swiftly to the +portmanteau, opens it, tosses out the green mantle and the brocaded +skirt and bodice, and tests the weight of the portmanteau._] I think +it will be light enough now, Louis. + +LOUIS. Do not leave those things in sight. If our landlord should come +in-- + +ANNE. I'll hide them in the bed in the next room. Eloise! [_She points +imperiously to the window. ELOISE goes to it slowly and for a moment +makes a scornful pretense of being on watch there; but as soon as +MADAME DE LASEYNE has left the room she turns, leaning against the +wall and regarding Louis with languid amusement. He continues to +struggle with his ill-omened "permit," but, by and by, becoming aware +of her gaze, glances consciously over his shoulder and meets her +half-veiled eyes. Coloring, he looks away, stares dreamily at nothing, +sighs, and finally writes again, absently, like a man under a spell, +which, indeed, he is. The pen drops from his hand with a faint click +upon the floor. He makes the movement of a person suddenly awakened, +and, holding his last writing near one of the candles, examines it +critically. Then he breaks into low, bitter laughter._] + +ELOISE [_unwillingly curious_]. You find something amusing? + +LOUIS. Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all. + +ELOISE [_indifferently_]. Your mirth must be indefatigable if you can +still laugh at those. + +LOUIS. I agree. I am a history of error. + +ELOISE. You should have made it a vocation; it is your one genius. And +yet--truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne says--I let you hector +me into a sillier mistake than any of yours. + +LOUIS. When? + +ELOISE [_flinging out her arms_]. Oh, when I consented to this absurd +journey, this _tiresome_ journey--with _you_! An "escape"? From +nothing. In "disguise." Which doesn't disguise. + +LOUIS [_his voice taut with the effort for self-command_]. My sister +asked me to be patient with you, Eloise-- + +ELOISE. Because I am a fool, yes. Thanks. [_Shrewishly._] And then, my +worthy young man? [_He rises abruptly, smarting almost beyond +endurance._] + +LOUIS [_breathing deeply_]. Have I not been patient with you? + +ELOISE [_with a flash of energy_]. If _I_ have asked you to be +anything whatever--with me!--pray recall the petition to my memory. + +LOUIS [_beginning to let himself go_]. Patient! Have I ever been +anything but patient with you? Was I not patient with you five years +ago when you first harangued us on your "Rights of Man" and your +monstrous republicanism? Where you got hold of it all I don't know-- + +ELOISE [_kindling_]. Ideas, my friend. Naturally, incomprehensible to +you. Books! Brains! Men! + +LOUIS. "Books! Brains! Men!" Treason, poison, and mobs! Oh, I could +laugh at you then: they were only beginning to kill us, and I was +patient. Was I not patient with you when these Republicans of yours +drove us from our homes, from our country, stole all we had, +assassinated us in dozens, in hundreds, murdered our King? [_He walks +the floor, gesticulating nervously._] When I saw relative after +relative of my own--aye, and of yours, too--dragged to the +abattoir--even poor, harmless, kind André de Laseyne, whom they took +simply because he was my brother-in-law--was I not patient? And when I +came back to Paris for you and Anne, and had to lie hid in a stable, +every hour in greater danger because you would not be persuaded to +join us, was I not patient? And when you finally did consent, but +protested every step of the way, pouting and-- + +ELOISE [_stung_]. "Pouting!" + +LOUIS. And when that stranger came posting after us so obvious a spy-- + +ELOISE [_scornfully_]. Pooh! He is nothing. + +LOUIS. Is there a league between here and Paris over which he has not +dogged us? By diligence, on horseback, on foot, turning up at every +posting-house, every roadside inn, the while you laughed at me because +I read death in his face! These two days we have been here, is there +an hour when you could look from that window except to see him +grinning up from the wine-shop door down there? + +ELOISE [_impatiently, but with a somewhat conscious expression_]. I +tell you not to fear him. There is nothing in it. + +LOUIS [_looking at her keenly_]. Be sure I understand why you do not +think him a spy! You believe he has followed us because you-- + +ELOISE. I expected that! Oh, I knew it would come! [_Furiously._] I +never saw the man before in my life! + +LOUIS [_pacing the floor_]. He is unmistakable; his trade is stamped +on him; a hired trailer of your precious "Nation's." + +ELOISE [_haughtily_]. The Nation is the People. You malign because you +fear. The People is sacred! + +LOUIS [_with increasing bitterness_]. Aren't you tired yet of the +Palais Royal platitudes? I have been patient with your Mericourtisms +for so long. Yes, always I was patient. Always there was time; there +was danger, but there was a little time. [_He faces her, his voice +becoming louder, his gestures more vehement._] But now the _Jeune +Pierrette_ sails this hour, and if we are not out of here and on her +deck when she leaves the quay, my head rolls in Samson's basket within +the week, with Anne's and your own to follow! _Now_, I tell you, there +is no more time, and _now_-- + +ELOISE [_suavely_]. Yes? Well? "Now?" [_He checks himself; his lifted +hand falls to his side._] + +LOUIS [_in a gentle voice_]. I am still patient. [_He looks into her +eyes, makes her a low and formal obeisance, and drops dejectedly into +the chair at the desk._] + +ELOISE [_dangerously_]. Is the oration concluded? + +LOUIS. Quite. + +ELOISE [_suddenly volcanic_]. Then "_now_" you'll perhaps be "patient" +enough to explain why I shouldn't leave you instantly. Understand +fully that I have come thus far with you and Anne solely to protect +you in case you were suspected. "_Now_," my little man, you are safe: +you have only to go on board your vessel. Why should I go with you? +Why do you insist on dragging me out of the country? + +LOUIS [_wearily_]. Only to save your life; that is all. + +ELOISE. My life! Tut! My life is safe with the People--my People! +[_She draws herself up magnificently._] The Nation would protect me! +I gave the people my whole fortune when they were starving. After +that, who in France dare lay a finger upon the Citizeness Eloise +d'Anville! + +LOUIS. I have the idea sometimes, my cousin, that perhaps if you had +not given them your property they would have taken it, anyway. +[_Dryly._] They did mine. + +ELOISE [_agitated_]. I do not expect you to comprehend what I +felt--what I feel! [_She lifts her arms longingly._] Oh, for a Man!--a +Man who could understand me! + +LOUIS [_sadly_]. That excludes me! + +ELOISE. Shall I spell it? + +LOUIS. You are right. So far from understanding you, I understand +nothing. The age is too modern for me. I do not understand why this +rabble is permitted to rule France; I do not even understand why it is +permitted to live. + +ELOISE [_with superiority_]. Because you belong to the class that +thought itself made of porcelain and the rest of the world clay. It is +simple: the mud-ball breaks the vase. + +LOUIS. You belong to the same class, even to the same family. + +ELOISE. You are wrong. One circumstance proves me no aristocrat. + +LOUIS. What circumstance? + +ELOISE. That I happened to be born with brains. I can account for it +only by supposing some hushed-up ancestral scandal. [_Brusquely._] Do +you understand that? + +LOUIS. I overlook it. [_He writes again._] + +ELOISE. Quibbling was always a habit of yours. [_Snapping at him +irritably._] Oh, stop that writing! You can't do it, and you don't +need it. You blame the people because they turn on you now, after +you've whipped and beaten and ground them underfoot for centuries and +centuries and-- + +LOUIS. Quite a career for a man of twenty-nine! + +ELOISE. I have said that quibbling was-- + +LOUIS [_despondently_]. Perhaps it is. To return to my other +deficiencies, I do not understand why this spy who followed us from +Paris has not arrested me long before now. I do not understand why you +hate me. I do not understand the world in general. And in particular I +do not understand the art of forgery. [_He throws down his pen._] + +ELOISE. You talk of "patience"! How often have I explained that you +would not need passports of any kind if you would let me throw off my +incognito. If anyone questions you, it will be sufficient if I give my +name. All France knows the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville. Do you suppose +the officer on the quay would dare oppose-- + +LOUIS [_with a gesture of resignation_]. I know you think it. + +ELOISE [_angrily_]. You tempt me not to prove it. But for Anne's +sake-- + +LOUIS. Not for mine. That, at least, I understand. [_He rises._] My +dear cousin, I am going to be very serious-- + +ELOISE. O heaven! [_She flings away from him._] + +LOUIS [_plaintively_]. I shall not make another oration-- + +ELOISE. Make anything you choose. [_Drumming the floor with her +foot._] What does it matter? + +LOUIS. I have a presentiment--I ask you to listen-- + +ELOISE [_in her irritation almost screaming_]. How can I help but +listen? And Anne, too! [_With a short laugh._] You know as well as I +do that when that door is open everything you say in this room is +heard in there. [_She points to the open doorway, where MADAME DE +LASEYNE instantly makes her appearance, and after exchanging one fiery +glance with ELOISE as swiftly withdraws, closing the door behind her +with outraged emphasis._] + +ELOISE [_breaking into a laugh_]. Forward, soldiers! + +LOUIS [_reprovingly_]. Eloise! + +ELOISE. Well, _open_ the door, then, if you want her to hear you make +love to me! [_Coolly._] That's what you're going to do, isn't it? + +LOUIS [_with imperfect self-control_]. I wish to ask you for the last +time-- + +ELOISE [_flouting_]. There are so many last times! + +LOUIS. To ask you if you are sure that you know your own heart. You +cared for me once, and-- + +ELOISE [_as if this were news indeed_]. I did? Who under heaven ever +told you that? + +LOUIS [_flushing_]. You allowed yourself to be betrothed to me, I +believe. + +ELOISE. "Allowed" is the word, precisely. I seem to recall changing +all that the very day I became an orphan--and my own master! +[_Satirically polite._] Pray correct me if my memory errs. How long +ago was it? Six years? Seven? + +LOUIS [_with emotion_]. Eloise, Eloise, you did love me then! We were +happy, both of us, so very happy-- + +ELOISE [_sourly_]. "Both!" My faith! But I must have been a brave +little actress. + +LOUIS. I do not believe it. You loved me. I--[_He hesitates._] + +ELOISE. Do get on with what you have to say. + +LOUIS [_in a low voice_]. I have many forebodings, Eloise, but the +strongest--and for me the saddest--is that this is the last chance you +will ever have to tell--to tell me--[_He falters again._] + +ELOISE [_irritated beyond measure, shouting_]. To tell you what? + +LOUIS [_swallowing_]. That your love for me still lingers. + +ELOISE [_promptly_]. Well, it doesn't. So _that's_ over! + +LOUIS. Not quite yet. I-- + +ELOISE [_dropping into a chair_]. O Death! + +LOUIS [_still gently_]. Listen. I have hope that you and Anne may be +permitted to escape; but as for me, since the first moment I felt the +eyes of that spy from Paris upon me I have had the premonition that I +would be taken back--to the guillotine, Eloise. I am sure that he will +arrest me when I attempt to leave this place to-night. [_With +sorrowful earnestness._] And it is with the certainty in my soul that +this is our last hour together that I ask you if you cannot tell me +that the old love has come back. Is there nothing in your heart for +me? + +ELOISE. Was there anything in _your_ heart for the beggar who stood at +your door in the old days? + +LOUIS. Is there nothing for him who stands at yours now, begging for a +word? + +ELOISE [_frowning_]. I remember you had the name of a disciplinarian +in your regiment. [_She rises to face him._] Did you ever find +anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered tied up and +flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the peasants who starved +in your fields? + +LOUIS [_quietly_]. No; it was too full of you. + +ELOISE. Words! Pretty little words! + +LOUIS. Thoughts. Pretty, because they are of you. All, always of +you--always, my dear. I never really think of anything but you. The +picture of you is always before the eyes of my soul; the very name of +you is forever in my heart. [_With a rueful smile._] And it is on the +tips of my fingers, sometimes when it shouldn't be. See. [_He steps to +the desk and shows her a scribbled sheet._] This is what I laughed at +a while ago. I tried to write, with you near me, and unconsciously I +let your name creep into my very forgery! I wrote it as I wrote it in +the sand when we were children; as I have traced it a thousand times +on coated mirrors--on frosted windows. [_He reads the writing aloud._] +"Permit the Citizen Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie +Balsage, and his second sister, the Citizeness Marie Balsage, and +Eloise d'Anville"--so I wrote!--"to embark upon the vessel _Jeune +Pierrette_--" You see? [_He lets the paper fall upon the desk._] Even +in this danger, that I feel closer and closer with every passing +second, your name came in of itself. I am like that English Mary: if +they will open my heart when I am dead, they shall find, not "Calais," +but "Eloise"! + +ELOISE [_going to the dressing-table_]. Louis, that doesn't interest +me. [_She adds a delicate touch or two to her hair, studying it +thoughtfully in the dressing-table mirror._] + +LOUIS [_somberly_]. I told you long ago-- + +ELOISE [_smiling at her reflection_]. So you did--often! + +LOUIS [_breathing quickly_]. I have nothing new to offer. I +understand. I bore you. + +ELOISE. Louis, to be frank: I don't care what they find in your heart +when they open it. + +LOUIS [_with a hint of sternness_]. Have you never reflected that +there might be something for me to forgive you? + +ELOISE [_glancing at him over her shoulder in frowning surprise_]. +What! + +LOUIS. I wonder sometimes if you have ever found a flaw in your own +character. + +ELOISE [_astounded_]. So! [_Turning sharply upon him._] You are +assuming the right to criticize me, are you? Oho! + +LOUIS [_agitated_]. I state merely--I have said--I think I forgive you +a great deal-- + +ELOISE [_beginning to char_]. You do! You bestow your gracious pardon +upon me, do you? [_Bursting into flame._] Keep your forgiveness to +yourself! When I want it I'll kneel at your feet and beg it of you! +You can _kiss_ me then, for then you will know that "the old love has +come back"! + +LOUIS [_miserably_]. When you kneel-- + +ELOISE. Can you picture it--_Marquis?_ [_She hurls his title at him, +and draws herself up in icy splendor._] I am a woman of the Republic! + +LOUIS. And the Republic has no need of love. + +ELOISE. Its daughter has no need of yours! + +LOUIS. Until you kneel to me. You have spoken. It is ended. [_Turning +from her with a pathetic gesture of farewell and resignation, his +attention is suddenly arrested by something invisible. He stands for a +moment transfixed. When he speaks, it is in an altered tone, light and +at the same time ominous._] My cousin, suffer the final petition of a +bore. Forgive my seriousness; forgive my stupidity, for I believe that +what one hears now means that a number of things are indeed ended. +Myself among them. + +ELOISE [_not comprehending_]. "What one hears?" + +LOUIS [_slowly_]. In the distance. [_Both stand motionless to listen, +and the room is silent. Gradually a muffled, multitudinous sound, at +first very faint, becomes audible._] + +ELOISE. What is it? + +LOUIS [_with pale composure_]. Only a song! [_The distant sound +becomes distinguishable as a singing from many unmusical throats and +pitched in every key, a drum-beat booming underneath; a tumultuous +rumble which grows slowly louder. The door of the inner room opens, +and MADAME DE LASEYNE enters._] + +ANNE [_briskly, as she comes in_]. I have hidden the cloak and the +dress beneath the mattress. Have you-- + +LOUIS [_lifting his hand_]. Listen! [_She halts, startled. The +singing, the drums, and the tumult swell suddenly much louder, as if +the noise-makers had turned a corner._] + +ANNE [_crying out_]. The "Marseillaise"! + +LOUIS. The "Vultures' Chorus"! + +ELOISE [_in a ringing voice_]. The Hymn of Liberty! + +ANNE [_trembling violently_]. It grows louder. + +LOUIS. Nearer! + +ELOISE [_running to the window_]. They are coming this way! + +ANNE [_rushing ahead of her_]. They have turned the corner of the +street. Keep back, Louis! + +ELOISE [_leaning out of the window, enthusiastically_]. _Vive +la_--[_She finishes with an indignant gurgle as ANNE DE LASEYNE, +without comment, claps a prompt hand over her mouth and pushes her +vigorously from the window._] + +ANNE. A mob--carrying torches and dancing. [_Her voice shaking +wildly._] They are following a troop of soldiers. + +LOUIS. The National Guard. + +ANNE. Keep back from the window! A man in a tricolor scarf marching in +front. + +LOUIS. A political, then--an official of their government. + +ANNE. O Virgin, have mercy! [_She turns a stricken face upon her +brother._] It is that-- + +LOUIS [_biting his nails_]. Of course. Our spy. [_He takes a +hesitating step toward the desk; but swings about, goes to the door at +the rear, shoots the bolt back and forth, apparently unable to decide +upon a course of action; finally leaves the door bolted and examines +the hinges. ANNE, meanwhile, has hurried to the desk, and, seizing a +candle there, begins to light others in a candelabrum on the +dressing-table. The noise outside grows to an uproar; the +"Marseillaise" changes to "Ça ira"; and a shaft of the glare from the +torches below shoots through the window and becomes a staggering red +patch on the ceiling._] + +ANNE [_feverishly_]. Lights! Light those candles in the sconce, +Eloise! Light all the candles we have. [_ELOISE, resentful, does not +move._] + +LOUIS. No, no! Put them out! + +ANNE. Oh, fatal! [_She stops him as he rushes to obey his own +command._] If our window is lighted he will believe we have no thought +of leaving, and pass by. [_She hastily lights the candles in a sconce +upon the wall as she speaks; the shabby place is now brightly +illuminated._] + +LOUIS. He will not pass by. [_The external tumult culminates in +riotous yelling, as, with a final roll, the drums cease to beat. +MADAME DE LASEYNE runs again to the window._] + +ELOISE [_sullenly_]. You are disturbing yourselves without reason. +They will not stop here. + +ANNE [_in a sickly whisper_]. They have stopped. + +LOUIS. At the door of this house? [_MADAME DE LASEYNE, leaning against +the wall, is unable to reply, save by a gesture. The noise from the +street dwindles to a confused, expectant murmur. LOUIS takes a pistol +from beneath his blouse, strides to the door, and listens._] + +ANNE [_faintly_]. He is in the house. The soldiers followed him. + +LOUIS. They are on the lower stairs. [_He turns to the two women +humbly._] My sister and my cousin, my poor plans have only made +everything worse for you. I cannot ask you to forgive me. We are +caught. + +ANNE [_vitalized with the energy of desperation_]. Not till the very +last shred of hope is gone. [_She springs to the desk and begins to +tear the discarded sheets into minute fragments._] Is that door +fastened? + +LOUIS. They'll break it down, of course. + +ANNE. Where is our passport from Paris? + +LOUIS. Here. [_He gives it to her._] + +ANNE. Quick! Which of these "permits" is the best? + +LOUIS. They're all hopeless--[_He fumbles among the sheets on the +desk._] + +ANNE. Any of them. We can't stop to select. [_She thrusts the passport +and a haphazard sheet from the desk into the bosom of her dress. An +orderly tramping of heavy shoes and a clinking of metal become audible +as the soldiers ascend the upper flight of stairs._] + +ELOISE. All this is childish. [_Haughtily._] I shall merely announce-- + +ANNE [_uttering a half-choked scream of rage_]. You'll announce +nothing! Out of here, both of you! + +LOUIS. No, no! + +ANNE [_with breathless rapidity, as the noise on the stairs grows +louder_]. Let them break the door in if they will; only let them find +me alone. [_She seizes her brother's arm imploringly as he pauses, +uncertain._] Give me the chance to make them think I am here alone. + +LOUIS. I can't-- + +ANNE [_urging him to the inner door_]. Is there any other possible +hope for us? Is there any other possible way to gain even a little +time? Louis, I want your word of honor not to leave that room unless I +summon you. I must have it! [_Overborne by her intensity, LOUIS nods +despairingly, allowing her to force him toward the other room. The +tramping of the soldiers, much louder and very close, comes to a +sudden stop. There is a sharp word of command, and a dozen muskets +ring on the floor just beyond the outer door._] + +ELOISE [_folding her arms_]. You needn't think I shall consent to hide +myself. I shall tell them-- + +ANNE [_in a surcharged whisper_]. You will not ruin us! [_With furious +determination, as a loud knock falls upon the door._] In there, I tell +you! [_Almost physically she sweeps both ELOISE and LOUIS out of the +room, closes the door upon them, and leans against it, panting. The +knocking is repeated. She braces herself to speak._] + +ANNE [_with a catch in her throat_]. Who is--there? + +A SONOROUS VOICE. French Republic! + +ANNE [_faltering_], It is--it is difficult to hear. What do you-- + +THE VOICE. Open the door. + +ANNE [_more firmly_]. That is impossible. + +THE VOICE. Open the door. + +ANNE. What is your name? + +THE VOICE. Valsin, National Agent. + +ANNE. I do not know you. + +THE VOICE. Open! + +ANNE. I am here alone. I am dressing. I can admit no one. + +THE VOICE. For the last time: open! + +ANNE. No! + +THE VOICE. Break it down. [_A thunder of blows from the butts of +muskets falls upon the door._] + +ANNE [_rushing toward it in a passion of protest_]. No, no, no! You +shall not come in! I tell you I have not finished dressing. If you are +men of honor--Ah! [_She recoils, gasping, as a panel breaks in, the +stock of a musket following it; and then, weakened at rusty bolt and +crazy hinge, the whole door gives way and falls crashing into the +room. The narrow passage thus revealed is crowded with shabbily +uniformed soldiers of the National Guard, under an officer armed with +a saber. As the door falls a man wearing a tricolor scarf strides by +them, and, standing beneath the dismantled lintel, his hands behind +him, sweeps the room with a smiling eye._ + +_This personage is handsomely, almost dandiacally dressed in black; +his ruffle is of lace, his stockings are of silk; the lapels of his +waistcoat, overlapping those of his long coat, exhibit a rich +embroidery of white and crimson. These and other details of elegance, +such as his wearing powder upon his dark hair, indicate either insane +daring or an importance quite overwhelming. A certain easy power in +his unusually brilliant eyes favors the probability that, like +Robespierre, he can wear what he pleases. Undeniably he has +distinction. Equally undeniable is something in his air that is dapper +and impish and lurking. His first glance over the room apparently +affording him acute satisfaction, he steps lightly across the +prostrate door, MADAME DE LASEYNE retreating before him but keeping +herself between him and the inner door. He comes to an unexpected halt +in a dancing-master's posture, removing his huge hat--which displays a +tricolor plume of ostrich feathers--with a wide flourish, an +intentional burlesque of the old-court manner._] + +VALSIN. Permit me. [_He bows elaborately._] Be gracious to a recent +fellow-traveler. I introduce myself. At your service: Valsin, Agent of +the National Committee of Public Safety. [_He faces about sharply._] +Soldiers! [_They stand at attention._] To the street door. I will +conduct the examination alone. My assistant will wait on this floor, +at the top of the stair. Send the people away down below there, +officer. Look to the courtyard. Clear the streets. [_The officer +salutes, gives a word of command, and the soldiers shoulder their +muskets, march off, and are heard clanking down the stairs. VALSIN +tosses his hat upon the desk, and turns smilingly to the trembling but +determined MADAME DE LASEYNE._] + +ANNE [_summoning her indignation_]. How dare you break down my door! +How dare you force your-- + +VALSIN [_suavely_]. My compliments on the celerity with which the +citizeness has completed her toilet. Marvelous. An example to her sex. + +ANNE. You intend robbery, I suppose. + +VALSIN [_with a curt laugh_]. Not precisely. + +ANNE. What, then? + +VALSIN. I have come principally for the returned Emigrant, Louis +Valny-Cherault, formerly called Marquis de Valny-Cherault, formerly of +the former regiment of Valny; also formerly-- + +ANNE [_cutting him off sharply_]. I do not know what you mean by all +these names--and "formerlies"! + +VALSIN. No? [_Persuasively._] Citizeness, pray assert that I did not +encounter you last week on your journey from Paris-- + +ANNE [_hastily_]. It is true I have been to Paris on business; you +may have seen me--I do not know. Is it a crime to return from Paris? + +VALSIN [_in a tone of mock encouragement_]. It will amuse me to hear +you declare that I did not see you traveling in company with Louis +Valny-Cherault. Come! Say it. + +ANNE [_stepping back defensively, closer to the inner door_]. I am +alone, I tell you! I do not know what you mean. If you saw me speaking +with people in the diligence, or at some posting-house, they were only +traveling acquaintances. I did not know them. I am a widow-- + +VALSIN. My condolences. Poor, of course? + +ANNE. Yes. + +VALSIN. And lonely, of course? [_Apologetically._] Loneliness is in +the formula: I suggest it for fear you might forget. + +ANNE [_doggedly_]. I am alone. + +VALSIN. Quite right. + +ANNE [_confusedly_]. I am a widow, I tell you--a widow, living here +quietly with-- + +VALSIN [_taking her up quickly_]. Ah--"with"! Living here alone, and +also "with"--whom? Not your late husband? + +ANNE [_desperately_]. With my niece. + +VALSIN [_affecting great surprise_]. Ah! A niece! And the niece, I +take it, is in your other room yonder? + +ANNE [_huskily_]. Yes. + +VALSIN [_taking a step forward_]. Is she pretty? [_ANNE places her +back against the closed door, facing him grimly. He assumes a tone of +indulgence._] Ah, one must not look: the niece, likewise, has not +completed her toilet. + +ANNE. She is--asleep. + +VALSIN [_glancing toward the dismantled doorway_]. A sound napper! Why +did you not say instead that she was--shaving? [_He advances, +smiling._] + +ANNE [_between her teeth_]. You shall not go in! You cannot see her! +She is-- + +VALSIN [_laughing_]. Allow me to prompt you. She is not only asleep; +she is ill. She is starving. Also, I cannot go in because she is an +orphan. Surely, she is an orphan? A lonely widow and her lonely orphan +niece. Ah, touching--and sweet! + +ANNE [_hotly_]. What authority have you to force your way into my +apartment and insult-- + +VALSIN [_touching his scarf_]. I had the honor to mention the French +Republic. + +ANNE. So! Does the French Republic persecute widows and orphans? + +VALSIN [_gravely_]. No. It is the making of them! + +ANNE [_crying out_]. Ah, horrible! + +VALSIN. I regret that its just severity was the cause of your own +bereavement, Citizeness. When your unfortunate husband, André, +formerly known as the Prince de Laseyne-- + +ANNE [_defiantly, though tears have sprung to her eyes_]. I tell you I +do not know what you mean by these titles. My name is Balsage. + +VALSIN. Bravo! The Widow Balsage, living here in calm obscurity with +her niece. Widow Balsage, answer quickly, without stopping to think. +[_Sharply._] How long have you lived here? + +ANNE. Two months. [_Faltering._]--A year! + +VALSIN [_laughing_]. Good. Two months and a year! No visitors? No +strangers? + +ANNE. No. + +VALSIN [_wheeling quickly and picking up LOUIS's cap from the +dressing-table_]. This cap, then, belongs to your niece. + +ANNE [_flustered, advancing toward him as if to take it_]. It was--it +was left here this afternoon by our landlord. + +VALSIN [_musingly_]. That is very, very puzzling. [_He leans against +the dressing-table in a careless attitude, his back to her._] + +ANNE [_cavalierly_]. Why "puzzling"? + +VALSIN. Because I sent him on an errand to Paris this morning. [_She +flinches, but he does not turn to look at her, continuing in a tone of +idle curiosity._] I suppose your own excursion to Paris was quite an +event for you, Widow Balsage. You do not take many journeys? + +ANNE. I am too poor. + +VALSIN. And you have not been contemplating another departure from +Boulogne? + +ANNE. No. + +VALSIN [_still in the same careless attitude, his back toward her and +the closed door_]. Good. It is as I thought: the portmanteau is for +ornament. + +ANNE [_choking_]. It belongs to my niece. She came only an hour ago. +She has not unpacked. + +VALSIN. Naturally. Too ill. + +ANNE. She had traveled all night; she was exhausted. She went to sleep +at once. + +VALSIN. Is she a somnambulist? + +ANNE [_taken aback_]. Why? + +VALSIN [_indifferently_]. She has just opened the door of her room in +order to overhear our conversation. [_Waving his hand to the +dressing-table mirror, in which he had been gazing._] Observe it, +Citizeness Laseyne. + +ANNE [_demoralized_]. I do not--I--[_Stamping her foot._] How often +shall I tell you my name is Balsage! + +VALSIN [_turning to her apologetically_]. My wretched memory. Perhaps +I might remember better if I saw it written: I beg a glance at your +papers. Doubtless you have your certificate of citizenship-- + +ANNE [_trembling_]. I have papers, certainly. + +VALSIN. The sight of them-- + +ANNE. I have my passport; you shall see. [_With wildly shaking hands +she takes from her blouse the passport and the "permit," crumpled +together._] It is in proper form--[_She is nervously replacing the two +papers in her bosom when with a sudden movement he takes them from +her. She cries out incoherently, and attempts to recapture them._] + +VALSIN [_extending his left arm to fend her off_]. Yes, here you have +your passport. And there you have others. [_He points to the littered +floor under the desk._] Many of them! + +ANNE. Old letters! [_She clutches at the papers in his grasp._] + +VALSIN [_easily fending her off_]. Doubtless! [_He shakes the "permit" +open._] Oho! A permission to embark--and signed by three names of the +highest celebrity. Alas, these unfortunate statesmen, Billaud +Varennes, Carnot, and Robespierre! Each has lately suffered an injury +to his right hand. What a misfortune for France! And what a +coincidence! One has not heard the like since we closed the theatres. + +ANNE [_furiously struggling to reach his hand_]. Give me my papers! +Give me-- + +VALSIN [_holding them away from her_]. You see, these unlucky great +men had their names signed for them by somebody else. And I should +judge that this somebody else must have been writing quite +recently--less than half an hour ago, from the freshness of the +ink--and in considerable haste; perhaps suffering considerable anguish +of mind, Widow Balsage! [_MADAME DE LASEYNE, overwhelmed, sinks into a +chair. He comes close to her, his manner changing startlingly._] + +VALSIN [_bending over with sudden menace, his voice loud and harsh_]. +Widow Balsage, if you intend no journey, why have you this forged +permission to embark on the Jeune Pierrette? Widow Balsage, who is the +Citizen Balsage? + +ANNE [_faintly_]. My brother. + +VALSIN [_straightening up_]. Your first truth. [_Resuming his +gaiety._] Of course he is not in that room yonder with your niece. + +ANNE [_brokenly_]. No, no, no; he is not! He is not here. + +VALSIN [_commiseratingly_]. Poor woman! You have not even the pleasure +to perceive how droll you are. + +ANNE. I perceive that I am a fool! [_She dashes the tears from her +eyes and springs to her feet._] I also perceive that you have +denounced us before the authorities here-- + +VALSIN. Pardon. In Boulogne it happens that _I_ am the authority. I +introduce myself for the third time: Valsin, Commissioner of the +National Committee of Public Safety. Tallien was sent to Bordeaux; +Collot to Lyons; I to Boulogne. Citizeness, were all of the august +names on your permit genuine, you could no more leave this port +without my counter-signature than you could take wing and fly over the +Channel! + +ANNE [_with a shrill laugh of triumph_]. You have overreached +yourself! You're an ordinary spy: you followed us from Paris-- + +VALSIN [_gaily_]. Oh, I intended you to notice that! + +ANNE [_unheeding_]. You have claimed to be Commissioner of the highest +power in France. We can prove that you are a common spy. You may go to +the guillotine for that. Take care, Citizen! So! You have denounced +us; we denounce you. I'll have you arrested by your own soldiers. I'll +call them--[_She makes a feint of running to the window. He watches +her coolly, in silence; and she halts, chagrined._] + +VALSIN [_pleasantly_]. I was sure you would not force me to be +premature. Remark it, Citizeness Laseyne: I am enjoying all this. I +have waited a long time for it. + +ANNE [_becoming hysterical_]. I am the Widow Balsage, I tell you! You +do not know us--you followed us from Paris. [_Half sobbing._] You're a +spy--a hanger-on of the police. We will prove-- + +VALSIN [_stepping to the dismantled doorway_]. I left my assistant +within hearing--a species of animal of mine. I may claim that he +belongs to me. A worthy patriot, but skillful, who has had the honor +of a slight acquaintance with you, I believe. [_Calling._] +Dossonville! [_DOSSONVILLE, a large man, flabby of flesh, +loose-mouthed, grizzled, carelessly dressed, makes his appearance in +the doorway. He has a harsh and reckless eye; and, obviously a +flamboyant bully by temperament, his abject, doggish deference to +VALSIN is instantly impressive, more than confirming the latter's +remark that DOSSONVILLE "belongs" to him. DOSSONVILLE, apparently, is +a chattel indeed, body and soul. At sight of him MADAME DE LASEYNE +catches at the desk for support and stands speechless._] + +VALSIN [_easily_]. Dossonville, you may inform the Citizeness Laseyne +what office I have the fortune to hold. + +DOSSONVILLE [_coming in_]. Bright heaven! All the world knows that you +are the representative of the Committee of Public Safety. Commissioner +to Boulogne. + +VALSIN. With what authority? + +DOSSONVILLE. Absolute--unlimited! Naturally. What else would be +useful? + +VALSIN. You recall this woman, Dossonville? + +DOSSONVILLE. She was present when I delivered the passport to the +Emigrant Valny-Cherault, in Paris. + +VALSIN. Did you forge that passport? + +DOSSONVILLE. No. I told the Emigrant I had. Under orders. +[_Grinning._] It was genuine. + +VALSIN. Where did you get it? + +DOSSONVILLE. From you. + +VALSIN [_suavely_]. Sit down, Dossonville. [_The latter, who is +standing by a chair, obeys with a promptness more than military. +VALSIN turns smilingly to MADAME DE LASEYNE._] Dossonville's +instructions, however, did not include a "permit" to sail on the +_Jeune Pierrette_. All of which, I confess, Citizeness, has very much +the appearance of a trap! [_He tosses the two papers upon the desk. +Utterly dismayed, she makes no effort to secure them. He regards her +with quizzical enjoyment._] + +ANNE. Ah--you--[_She fails to speak coherently._] + +VALSIN. Dossonville has done very well. He procured your passport, +brought your "disguises," planned your journey, even gave you +directions how to find these lodgings in Boulogne. Indeed, I +instructed him to omit nothing for your comfort. [_He pauses for a +moment._] If I am a spy, Citizeness Laseyne, at least I trust your +gracious intelligence may not cling to the epithet "ordinary." My +soul! but I appear to myself a most uncommon type of spy--a very +intricate, complete, and unusual spy, in fact. + +ANNE [_to herself, weeping_]. Ah, poor Louis! + +VALSIN [_cheerfully_]. You are beginning to comprehend? That is well. +Your niece's door is still ajar by the discreet width of a finger, so +I assume that the Emigrant also begins to comprehend. Therefore I take +my ease! [_He seats himself in the most comfortable chair in the room, +crossing his legs in a leisurely attitude, and lightly drumming the +tips of his fingers together, the while his peaceful gaze is fixed +upon the ceiling. His tone, as he continues, is casual._] You +understand, my Dossonville, having long ago occupied this very +apartment myself, I am serenely aware that the Emigrant can leave the +other room only by the window; and as this is the fourth floor, and a +proper number of bayonets in the courtyard below are arranged to +receive any person active enough to descend by a rope of bed-clothes, +one is confident that the said Emigrant will remain where he is. Let +us make ourselves comfortable, for it is a delightful hour--an hour I +have long promised myself. I am in a good humor. Let us all be happy. +Citizeness Laseyne, enjoy yourself. Call me some bad names! + +ANNE [_between her teeth_]. If I could find one evil enough! + +VALSIN [_slapping his knee delightedly_]. There it is: the complete +incompetence of your class. You poor aristocrats, you do not even know +how to swear. Your ancestors knew how! They were fighters; they knew +how to swear because they knew how to attack; you poor moderns have no +profanity left in you, because, poisoned by idleness, you have +forgotten even how to resist. And yet you thought yourselves on top, +and so you were--but as foam is on top of the wave. You forgot that +power, like genius, always comes from underneath, because it is +produced only by turmoil. We have had to wring the neck of your +feather-head court, because while the court was the nation the nation +had its pockets picked. You were at the mercy of anybody with a pinch +of brains: adventurers like Mazarin, like Fouquet, like Law, or that +little commoner, the woman Fish, who called herself Pompadour and took +France--France, merely!--from your King, and used it to her own +pleasure. Then, at last, after the swindlers had well plucked you--at +last, unfortunate creatures, the People got you! Citizeness, the +People had starved: be assured they will eat you to the bone--and then +eat the bone! You are helpless because you have learned nothing and +forgotten everything. You have forgotten everything in this world +except how to be fat! + +DOSSONVILLE [_applauding with unction_]. Beautiful! It is beautiful, +all that! A beautiful speech! + +VALSIN. Ass! + +DOSSONVILLE [_meekly_]. Perfectly, perfectly. + +VALSIN [_crossly_]. That wasn't a speech; it was the truth. Citizeness +Laseyne, so far as you are concerned, I am the People. [_He extends +his hand negligently, with open palm._] And I have got you. [_He +clenches his fingers, like a cook's on the neck of a fowl._] Like +that! And I'm going to take you back to Paris, you and the Emigrant. +[_She stands in an attitude eloquent of despair. His glance roves from +her to the door of the other room, which is still slightly ajar; and, +smiling at some fugitive thought, he continues, deliberately._] I take +you: you and your brother--and that rather pretty little person who +traveled with you. [_There is a breathless exclamation from the other +side of the door, which is flung open violently, as ELOISE--flushed, +radiant with anger, and altogether magnificent--sweeps into the room +to confront VALSIN._] + +ELOISE [_slamming the door behind her_]. Leave this Jack-in-Office to +me, Anne! + +DOSSONVILLE [_dazed by the vision_]. Lord! What glory! [_He rises, +bowing profoundly, muttering hoarsely._] Oh, eyes! Oh, hair! Look at +her shape! Her chin! The divine-- + +VALSIN [_getting up and patting him reassuringly on the back_]. The +lady perceives her effect, my Dossonville. It is no novelty. Sit down, +my Dossonville. [_The still murmurous DOSSONVILLE obeys VALSIN turns +to ELOISE, a brilliant light in his eyes._] Let me greet one of the +nieces of Widow Balsage--evidently not the sleepy one, and certainly +not ill. Health so transcendent-- + +ELOISE [_placing her hand upon MADAME DE LASEYNE's shoulder_]. This is +a clown, Anne. You need have no fear of him whatever. His petty +authority does not extend to us. + +VALSIN [_deferentially_]. Will the niece of Widow Balsage explain why +it does not? + +ELOISE [_turning upon him fiercely_]. Because the patriot Citizeness +Eloise d'Anville is here! + +VALSIN [_assuming an air of thoughtfulness_]. Yes, she is here. That +"permit" yonder even mentions her by name. It is curious. I shall have +to go into that. Continue, niece. + +ELOISE [_with supreme haughtiness_]. This lady is under her +protection. + +VALSIN [_growing red_]. Pardon. Under whose protection? + +ELOISE [_sulphurously_]. Under the protection of Eloise d'Anville! +[_This has a frightful effect upon VALSIN; his face becomes contorted; +he clutches at his throat, apparently half strangled, staggers, and +falls choking into the easy-chair he has formerly occupied._] + +VALSIN [_gasping, coughing, incoherent_]. Under the pro--the +protection--[_He explodes into peal after peal of uproarious +laughter._] The protection of--Aha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho! [_He rocks +himself back and forth unappeasably._] + +ELOISE [_with a slight lift of the eyebrows_]. This man is an idiot. + +VALSIN [_during an abatement of his attack_]. Oh, pardon! It +is--too--much--too much for me! You say--these people are-- + +ELOISE [_stamping her foot_]. Under the protection of Eloise +d'Anville, imbecile! You cannot touch them. She wills it! [_At this, +VALSIN shouts as if pleading for mercy, and beats the air with his +hands. He struggles to his feet and, pounding himself upon the chest, +walks to and fro in the effort to control his convulsion._] + +ELOISE [_to ANNE, under cover of the noise he makes_]. I was wrong: he +is not an idiot. + +ANNE [_despairingly_]. He laughs at you. + +ELOISE [_in a quick whisper_]. Out of bluster; because he is afraid. +He is badly frightened. I know just what to do. Go into the other room +with Louis. + +ANNE [_protesting weakly_]. I can't hope-- + +ELOISE [_flashing from a cloud_]. You failed, didn't you? [_MADAME DE +LASEYNE, after a tearful perusal of the stern resourcefulness now +written in the younger woman's eyes, succumbs with a piteous gesture +of assent and goes out forlornly. ELOISE closes the door and stands +with her back to it._] + +VALSIN [_paying no attention to them_]. Eloise d'Anville! [_Still +pacing the room in the struggle to subdue his hilarity._] This young +citizeness speaks of the protection of Eloise d'Anville! [_Leaning +feebly upon DOSSONVILLE's shoulder._] Do you hear, my Dossonville? It +is an ecstasy. Ecstasize, then. Scream, Dossonville! + +DOSSONVILLE [_puzzled, but evidently accustomed to being so, cackles +instantly_]. Perfectly. Ha, ha! The citizeness is not only stirringly +beautiful, she is also-- + +VALSIN. She is also a wit. Susceptible henchman, concentrate your +thoughts upon domesticity. In this presence remember your wife! + +ELOISE [_peremptorily_]. Dismiss that person. I have something to say +to you. + +VALSIN [_wiping his eyes_]. Dossonville, you are not required. We are +going to be sentimental, and heaven knows you are not the moon. In +fact, you are a fat old man. Exit, obesity! Go somewhere and think +about your children. Flit, whale! + +DOSSONVILLE [_rising_]. Perfectly, my chieftain. [_He goes to the +broken door._] + +ELOISE [_tapping the floor with her shoe_]. Out of hearing! + +VALSIN. The floor below. + +DOSSONVILLE. Well understood. Perfectly, perfectly! [_He goes out +through the hallway; disappears, chuckling grossly. There are some +moments of silence within the room, while he is heard clumping down a +flight of stairs; then VALSIN turns to ELOISE with burlesque ardor._] + +VALSIN. "Alone at last!" + +ELOISE [_maintaining her composure_]. Rabbit! + +VALSIN [_dropping into the chair at the desk, with mock dejection_]. +Repulsed at the outset! Ah, Citizeness, there were moments on the +journey from Paris when I thought I detected a certain kindness in +your glances at the lonely stranger. + +ELOISE [_folding her arms_]. You are to withdraw your soldiers, +countersign the "permit," and allow my friends to embark at once. + +VALSIN [_with solemnity_]. Do you give it as an order, Citizeness? + +ELOISE. I do. You will receive suitable political advancement. + +VALSIN [_in a choked voice_]. You mean as a--a reward? + +ELOISE [_haughtily_]. _I_ guarantee that you shall receive it! [_He +looks at her strangely; then, with a low moan, presses his hand to his +side, seeming upon the point of a dangerous seizure._] + +VALSIN [_managing to speak_]. I can only beg you to spare me. You have +me at your mercy. + +ELOISE [_swelling_]. It is well for you that you understand that! + +VALSIN [_shaking his hand ruefully_]. Yes; you see I have a bad liver: +it may become permanently enlarged. Laughter is my great danger. + +ELOISE [_crying out with rage_]. _Oh!_ + +VALSIN [_dolorously_]. I have continually to remind myself that I am +no longer in the first flush of youth. + +ELOISE. Idiot! Do you not know who I am! + +VALSIN. You? Oh yes--[_He checks himself abruptly; looks at her with +brief intensity; turns his eyes away, half closing them in quick +meditation; smiles, as upon some secret pleasantry, and proceeds +briskly._] Oh yes, yes, I know who you are. + +ELOISE [_beginning haughtily_]. Then you-- + +VALSIN [_at once cutting her off_]. As to your name, I do not say. +Names at best are details; and your own is a detail that could hardly +be thought to matter. _What_ you are is obvious: you joined Louis and +his sister in Paris at the barriers, and traveled with them as "Marie +Balsage," a sister. You might save us a little trouble by giving us +your real name; you will probably refuse, and the police will have to +look it up when I take you back to Paris. Frankly, you are of no +importance to us, though of course we'll send you to the Tribunal. No +doubt you are a poor relative of the Valny-Cheraults, or, perhaps, you +may have been a governess in the Laseyne family, or-- + +ELOISE [_under her breath_]. Idiot! Idiot! + +VALSIN [_with subterranean enjoyment, watching her sidelong_]. Or the +good-looking wife of some faithful retainer of the Emigrant's, +perhaps. + +ELOISE [_with a shrill laugh_]. Does the Committee of Public Safety +betray the same intelligence in the appointment of all its agents? +[_Violently._] Imbecile, I-- + +VALSIN [_quickly raising his voice to check her_]. You are of no +importance, I tell you! [_Changing his tone._] Of course I mean +politically. [_With broad gallantry._] Otherwise, I am the first to +admit extreme susceptibility. I saw that you observed it on the +way--at the taverns, in the diligence, at the posting-houses, at-- + +ELOISE [_with serenity_]. Yes. I am accustomed to oglers. + +VALSIN. Alas, I believe you! My unfortunate sex is but too responsive. + +ELOISE [_gasping_]. "Responsive"--Oh! + +VALSIN [_indulgently_]. Let us return to the safer subject. Presently +I shall arrest those people in the other room and, regretfully, you +too. But first I pamper myself; I chat; I have an attractive woman to +listen. In the matter of the arrest, I delay my fire; I do not flash +in the pan, but I lengthen my fuse. Why? For the same reason that when +I was a little boy and had something good to eat, I always first paid +it the compliments of an epicure. I looked at it a long while. I +played with it. Then--I devoured it! I am still like that. And Louis +yonder is good to eat, because I happen not to love him. However, I +should mention that I doubt if he could recall either myself or the +circumstance which annoyed me; some episodes are sometimes so little +to certain people and so significant to certain other people. [_He +smiles, stretching himself luxuriously in his chair._] Behold me, +Citizeness! I am explained. I am indulging my humor: I play with my +cake. Let us see into what curious little figures I can twist it. + +ELOISE. Idiot! + +VALSIN [_pleasantly_]. I have lost count, but I think that is the +sixth idiot you have called me. Aha, it is only history, which one +admires for repeating itself. Good! Let us march. I shall play--[_He +picks up the "permit" from the desk, studies it absently, and looks +whimsically at her over his shoulder, continuing:_] I shall play +with--with all four of you. + +ELOISE [_impulsively_]. Four? + +VALSIN. I am not easy to deceive; there are four of you here. + +ELOISE [_staring_]. So? + +VALSIN. Louis brought you and his sister from Paris: a party of three. +This "permit" which he forged is for four; the original three and the +woman you mentioned a while ago, Eloise d'Anville. Hence she must have +joined you here. The deduction is plain: there are three people in +that room: the Emigrant, his sister, and this Eloise d'Anville. To the +trained mind such reasoning is simple. + +ELOISE [_elated_]. Perfectly! + +VALSIN [_with an air of cunning_]. Nothing escapes me. You see that. + +ELOISE. At first glance! I make you my most profound compliments. Sir, +you are an eagle! + +VALSIN [_smugly_]. Thanks. Now, then, pretty governess, you thought +this d'Anville might be able to help you. What put that in your head? + +ELOISE [_with severity_]. Do you pretend not to know what she is? + +VALSIN. A heroine I have had the misfortune never to encounter. But I +am informed of her character and history. + +ELOISE [_sternly_]. Then you understand that even the Agent of the +National Committee risks his head if he dares touch people she chooses +to protect. + +VALSIN [_extending his hand in plaintive appeal_]. Be generous to my +opacity. How could _she_ protect anybody? + +ELOISE [_with condescension_]. She has earned the gratitude-- + +VALSIN. Of whom? + +ELOISE [_superbly_]. Of the Nation! + +VALSIN [_breaking out again_]. Ha, ha, ha! [_Clutching at his side._] +Pardon, oh, pardon, liver of mine. I must not die; my life is still +useful. + +ELOISE [_persisting stormily_]. Of the People, stupidity! Of the whole +People, dolt! Of France, blockhead! + +VALSIN [_with a violent effort, conquering his hilarity_]. There! I am +saved. Let us be solemn, my child; it is better for my malady. You are +still so young that one can instruct you that individuals are rarely +grateful; "the People," never. What you call "the People" means folk +who are not always sure of their next meal; therefore their great +political and patriotic question is the cost of food. Their heroes +are the champions who are going to make it cheaper; and when these +champions fail them or cease to be useful to them, then they either +forget these poor champions--or eat them. Let us hear what your Eloise +d'Anville has done to earn the reward of being forgotten instead of +eaten. + +ELOISE [_her lips quivering_]. She surrendered her property +voluntarily. She gave up all she owned to the Nation. + +VALSIN [_genially_]. And immediately went to live with her relatives +in great luxury. + +ELOISE [_choking_]. The Republic will protect her. She gave her whole +estate-- + +VALSIN. And the order for its confiscation was already written when +she did it. + +ELOISE [_passionately_]. Ah--_liar!_ + +VALSIN [_smiling_]. I have seen the order. [_She leans against the +wall, breathing heavily. He goes on, smoothly._] Yes, this martyr +"gave" us her property; but one hears that she went to the opera just +the same and wore more jewels than ever, and lived richly upon the +Laseynes and Valny-Cheraults, until _they_ were confiscated. Why, all +the world knows about this woman; and let me tell you, to your credit, +my governess, I think you have a charitable heart: you are the only +person I ever heard speak kindly of her. + +ELOISE [_setting her teeth_]. Venom! + +VALSIN [_observing her slyly_]. It is with difficulty I am restraining +my curiosity to see her--also to hear her!--when she learns of her +proscription by a grateful Republic. + +ELOISE [_with shrill mockery_]. Proscribed? Eloise d'Anville +proscribed? Your inventions should be more plausible, Goodman Spy! I +_knew_ you were lying-- + +VALSIN [_smiling_]. You do not believe-- + +ELOISE [_proudly_]. Eloise d'Anville is a known Girondist. The Gironde +is the real power in France. + +VALSIN [_mildly_]. That party has fallen. + +ELOISE [_with fire_]. Not far! It will revive. + +VALSIN. Pardon, Citizeness, but you are behind the times, and they are +very fast nowadays--the times. The Gironde is dead. + +ELOISE [_ominously_]. It may survive _you_, my friend. Take care! + +VALSIN [_unimpressed_]. The Gironde had a grand façade, and that was +all. It was a party composed of amateurs and orators; and of course +there were some noisy camp-followers and a few comic-opera +vivandières, such as this d'Anville. In short, the Gironde looked +enormous because it was hollow. It was like a pie that is all crust. +We have tapped the crust--with a knife, Citizeness. There is nothing +left. + +ELOISE [_contemptuously_]. You say so. Nevertheless, the Rolands-- + +VALSIN [_gravely_]. Roland was found in a field yesterday; he had +killed himself. His wife was guillotined the day after you left Paris. +Every one of their political friends is proscribed. + +ELOISE [_shaking as with bitter cold_]. It is a lie! Not Eloise +d'Anville! + +VALSIN [_rising_]. Would you like to see the warrant for her arrest? +[_He takes a packet of documents from his breast pocket, selects one, +and spreads it open before her._] Let me read you her description: +"Eloise d'Anville, aristocrat. Figure, comely. Complexion, blond. +Eyes, dark blue. Nose, straight. Mouth, wide--" + +ELOISE [_in a burst of passion, striking the warrant a violent blow +with her clenched fist_]. Let them dare! [_Beside herself, she strikes +again, tearing the paper from his grasp. She stamps upon it._] Let +them dare, I say! + +VALSIN [_picking up the warrant_]. Dare to say her mouth is wide? + +ELOISE [_cyclonic_]. Dare to arrest her! + +VALSIN. It does seem a pity. [_He folds the warrant slowly and +replaces it in his pocket._] Yes, a great pity. She was the one +amusing thing in all this somberness. She will be missed. The +Revolution will lack its joke. + +ELOISE [_recoiling, her passion exhausted_]. Ah, infamy! [_She turns +from him, covering her face with her hands._] + +VALSIN [_with a soothing gesture_]. Being only her friend, you speak +mildly. The d'Anville herself would call it blasphemy. + +ELOISE [_with difficulty_]. She is--so vain--then? + +VALSIN [_lightly_]. Oh, a type--an actress. + +ELOISE [_her back to him_]. How do you know? You said-- + +VALSIN. That I had not encountered her. [_Glibly._] One knows best the +people one has never seen. Intimacy confuses judgment. I confess to +that amount of hatred for the former Marquis de Valny-Cherault that I +take as great an interest in all that concerns him as if I loved him. +And the little d'Anville concerns him--yes, almost one would say, +consumes him. The unfortunate man is said to be so blindly faithful +that he can speak her name without laughing. + +ELOISE [_stunned_]. Oh! + +VALSIN [_going on, cheerily_]. No one else can do that, Citizeness. +Jacobins, Cordeliers, Hébertists, even the shattered relics of the +Gironde itself, all alike join in the colossal laughter at this +Tricoteuse in Sèvres--this Jeanne d'Arc in rice-powder! + +ELOISE [_tragically_]. They laugh--and proclaim her an outlaw! + +VALSIN [_waving his hand carelessly_]. Oh, it is only that we are +sweeping up the last remnants of aristocracy, and she goes with the +rest--into the dust-heap. She should have remained a royalist; the +final spectacle might have had dignity. As it is, she is not of her +own class, not of ours: neither fish nor flesh nor--but yes, perhaps, +after all, she is a fowl. + +ELOISE [_brokenly_]. Alas! Homing--with wounded wing! [_She sinks into +a chair with pathetic grace, her face in her hands._] + +VALSIN [_surreptitiously grinning_]. Not at all what I meant. +[_Brutally._] Peacocks don't fly. + +ELOISE [_regaining her feet at a bound_]. You imitation dandy! You-- + +VALSIN [_with benevolence_]. My dear, your indignation for your friend +is chivalrous. It is admirable; but she is not worth it. You do not +understand her: you have probably seen her so much that you have never +seen her as she is. + +ELOISE [_witheringly_]. But you, august Zeus, having _never_ seen her, +will reveal her to me! + +VALSIN [_smoothly urbane_]. If you have ears. You see, she is not +altogether unique, but of a variety known to men who are wise enough +to make a study of women. + +ELOISE [_snapping out a short, loud laugh in his face_]. Pouff! + +VALSIN [_unruffled_]. I profess myself an apprentice. The science +itself is but in its infancy. Women themselves understand very well +that they are to be classified, and they fear that we shall perceive +it: they do not really wish to be known. Yet it is coming; some day +our cyclopedists will have you sorted, classed, and defined with +precision; but the d'Alembert of the future will not be a woman, +because no woman so disloyal will ever be found. Men have to acquire +loyalty to their sex: yours is an instinct. Citizen governess, I will +give you a reading of the little d'Anville from this unwritten work. +To begin-- + +ELOISE [_feverishly interested, but affecting languor_]. _Must_ you? + +VALSIN. To Eloise d'Anville the most interesting thing about a +rose-bush has always been that Eloise d'Anville could smell it. +Moonlight becomes important when it falls upon her face; sunset is +worthy when she grows rosy in it. To her mind, the universe was set in +motion to be the background for a decoration, and she is the +decoration. She believes that the cathedral was built for the fresco. +And when a dog interests her, it is because he would look well beside +her in a painting. Such dogs have no minds. I refer you to all the +dogs in the portraits of Beauties. + +ELOISE [_not at all displeased; pretending carelessness_]. Ah, you +have heard that she is beautiful? + +VALSIN. Far worse: that she is a Beauty. Let nothing ever tempt _you_, +my dear, into setting up in that line. For you are very +well-appearing, I assure you; and if you had been surrounded with all +the disadvantages of the d'Anville, who knows but that you might have +become as famous a Beauty as she? What makes a Beauty is not the +sumptuous sculpture alone, but a very peculiar arrogance--not in the +least arrogance of mind, my little governess. In this, your d'Anville +emerged from childhood full-panoplied indeed; and the feather-head +court fell headlong at her feet. It was the fated creature's ruin. + +ELOISE [_placidly_]. And it is because of her beauty that you drag her +to the guillotine? + +VALSIN. Bless you, I merely convey her! + +ELOISE. Tell me, logician, was it not her beauty that inspired her to +give her property to the Nation? + +VALSIN. It was. + +ELOISE. What perception! I am faint with admiration. And no doubt it +was her beauty that made her a Republican? + +VALSIN. What else? + +ELOISE. Hail, oracle! [_She releases an arpeggio of satiric +laughter._] + +VALSIN. That laugh is diaphanous. I see you through it, already +convinced. [_She stops laughing immediately._] Ha! we may proceed. +Remark this, governess: a Beauty is the living evidence of man's +immortality; the one plain proof that he has a soul. + +ELOISE. It is not so bad then, after all? + +VALSIN. It is utterly bad. But of all people a Beauty is most +conscious of her duality. Her whole life is based upon her absolute +knowledge that her Self and her body are two. She sacrifices all +things to her beauty because her beauty feeds her Self with a dreadful +food which it has made her unable to live without. + +ELOISE. My little gentleman, you talk like a sentimental waiter. Your +metaphors are all hot from the kitchen. + +VALSIN [_nettled_]. It is natural; unlike your Eloise, I am _really_ +of "the People"--and starved much in my youth. + +ELOISE. But, like her, you are still hungry. + +VALSIN. A Beauty is a species of cannibal priestess, my dear. She will +make burnt-offerings of her father and her mother, her sisters--her +lovers--to her beauty, that it may in turn bring her the food she must +have or perish. + +ELOISE. _Boum!_ [_She snaps her fingers._] And of course she bathes in +the blood of little children? + +VALSIN [_grimly_]. Often. + +ELOISE [_averting her gaze from his_]. This mysterious food-- + +VALSIN. Not at all mysterious. Sensation. There you have it. And that +is why Eloise d'Anville is a renegade. You understand perfectly. + +ELOISE. You are too polite. No. + +VALSIN [_gaily_]. Behold, then! Many women who are not Beauties are +beautiful, but in such women you do not always discover beauty at your +first glance: it is disclosed with a subtle tardiness. It does not +dazzle; it is reluctant; but it grows as you look again and again. You +get a little here, a little there, like glimpses of children hiding in +a garden. It is shy, and sometimes closed in from you altogether, and +then, unexpectedly, this belated loveliness springs into bloom before +your very eyes. It retains the capacity of surprise, the vital element +of charm. But the Beauty lays all waste before her at a stroke: it is +soon over. Thus your Eloise, brought to court, startled Versailles; +the sensation was overwhelming. Then Versailles got used to her, just +as it had to its other prodigies: the fountains were there, the King +was there, the d'Anville was there; and naturally, one had seen them; +saw them every day--one talked of matters less accepted. That was +horrible to Eloise. She had tasted; the appetite, once stirred, was +insatiable. At any cost she must henceforth have always the sensation +of being a sensation. She must be the pivot of a reeling world. So she +went into politics. Ah, Citizeness, there was one man who understood +Beauties--not Homer, who wrote of Helen! Romance is gallant by +profession, and Homer lied like a poet. For the truth about the Trojan +War is that the wise Ulysses made it, not because Paris stole Helen, +but because the Trojans were threatening to bring her back. + +ELOISE [_unwarily_]. Who was the man that understood Beauties? + +VALSIN. Bluebeard. [_He crosses the room to the dressing-table, leans +his back against it in an easy attitude, his elbows resting upon the +top._] + +ELOISE [_slowly, a little tremulously_]. And so Eloise d'Anville +should have her head cut off? + +VALSIN. Well, she thought she was in politics, didn't she? +[_Suavely._] You may be sure she thoroughly enjoyed her hallucination +that she was a great figure in the Revolution--which was cutting off +the heads of so many of her relatives and old friends! Don't waste +your pity, my dear. + +ELOISE [_looking at him fixedly_]. Citizen, you must have thought a +great deal about my unhappy friend. She might be flattered by so +searching an interest. + +VALSIN [_negligently_]. Not interest in her, governess, but in the +Emigrant who cools his heels on the other side of that door, greatly +to my enjoyment, waiting my pleasure to arrest him. The poor wretch is +the one remaining lover of this girl; faithful because he let his +passion for her become a habit; and he will never get over it until he +has had possession. She has made him suffer frightfully, but I shall +never forgive her for not having dealt him the final stroke. It would +have saved me all the bother I have been put to in avenging the injury +he did me. + +ELOISE [_frowning_]. What "final stroke" could she have "dealt" him? + +VALSIN [_with sudden vehement intensity_]. She could have loved him! +[_He strikes the table with his fist._] I see it! I see it! Beauty's +husband! [_Pounding the table with each exclamation, his voice rising +in excitement._] What a vision! This damned, proud, loving Louis, a +pomade bearer! A buttoner! An errand-boy to the perfumer's, to the +chemist's, to the milliner's! A groom of the powder-closet-- + +ELOISE [_snatching at the opportunity_]. How noisy you are! + +VALSIN [_discomfited, apologetically_]. You see, it is only so lately +that we of "the People" have dared even to whisper. Of course, now +that we are free to shout, we overdo it. We let our voices out, we let +our joys out, we let our hates out. We let everything out--except our +prisoners! [_He smiles winningly._] + +ELOISE [_slowly_]. Do you guess what all this bluster--this tirade +upon the wickedness of beauty--makes me think? + +VALSIN. Certainly. Being a woman, you cannot imagine a bitterness +which is not "personal." + +ELOISE [_laughing_]. "Being a woman," I think that the person who has +caused you the greatest suffering in your life must be very +good-looking! + +VALSIN [_calmly_]. Quite right. It was precisely this d'Anville. I +will tell you. [_He sits on the arm of a chair near her, and continues +briskly._] I was not always a politician. Six years ago I was a +soldier in the Valny regiment of cavalry. That was the old army, that +droll army, that royal army; so ridiculous that it was truly majestic. +In the Valny regiment we had some rouge-pots for officers--and for a +colonel, who but our Emigrant yonder! Aha! we suffered in the ranks, +let me tell you, when Eloise had been coy; and one morning it was my +turn. You may have heard that she was betrothed first to Louis and +later to several others? My martyrdom occurred the day after she had +announced to the court her betrothal to the young Duc de Creil, whose +father afterward interfered. Louis put us on drill in a hard rain: he +had the habit of relieving his chagrin like that. My horse fell, and +happened to shower our commander with mud. Louis let out all his rage +upon me: it was an excuse, and, naturally, he disliked mud. But I was +rolling in it, with my horse: I also disliked it--and I was indiscreet +enough to attempt some small reply. That finished my soldiering, +Citizeness. He had me tied to a post before the barracks for the rest +of the day. I remember with remarkable distinctness that the valets +of heaven had neglected to warm the rain for that bath; that it was +February; and that Louis's orders had left me nothing to wear upon my +back except an unfulsome descriptive placard and my modesty. +Altogether it was a disadvantageous position, particularly for the +exchange of repartee with such of my comrades as my youthful +amiability had not endeared; I have seldom seen more cheerful +indifference to bad weather. Inclement skies failed to injure the +spectacle: it was truly the great performance of my career; some +people would not even go home to eat, and peddlers did a good trade in +cakes and wine. In the evening they whipped me conscientiously--my +tailor has never since made me an entirely comfortable coat. Then they +gave me the place of honor at the head of a procession by torchlight +and drummed me out of camp with my placard upon my back. So I adopted +another profession: I had a friend who was a doctor in the stables of +d'Artois; and I knew horses. He made me his assistant. + +ELOISE [_shuddering_]. You are a veterinarian! + +VALSIN [_smiling_]. No; a horse-doctor. It was thus I "retired" from +the army and became a politician. My friend was only a horse-doctor +himself, but his name happened to be Marat. + +ELOISE. Ah, frightful! [_For the first time she begins to feel genuine +alarm._] + +VALSIN. The sequence is simple. If Eloise d'Anville hadn't coquetted +with young Creil I shouldn't be Commissioner here to-day, settling my +account with Louis. I am in his debt for more than the beating: I +should tell you there was a woman in my case, a slender lace-maker +with dark eyes--very pretty eyes. She had furnished me with a rival, a +corporal; and he brought her for a stroll in the rain past our +barracks that day when I was attracting so much unsought attention. +They waited for the afterpiece, enjoyed a pasty and a bottle of +Beaune, and went away laughing cozily together. I did not see my +pretty lace-maker again, not for years--not until a month ago. Her +corporal was still with her, and it was their turn to be undesirably +conspicuous. They were part of a procession passing along the Rue St. +Honoré on its way to the Place of the Revolution. They were standing +up in the cart; the lace-maker had grown fat, and she was scolding her +poor corporal bitterly. What a habit that must have been!--they were +not five minutes from the guillotine. I own that a thrill of +gratitude to Louis temporarily softened me toward him, though at the +very moment I was following him through the crowd. At least he saved +me from the lace-maker! + +ELOISE [_shrinking from him_]. You are horrible! + +VALSIN. To my regret you must find me more and more so. + +ELOISE [_panting_]. You _are_ going to take us back to Paris, then? To +the Tribunal--and to the--[_She covers her eyes with her hands._] + +VALSIN [_gravely_]. I can give you no comfort, governess. You are +involved with the Emigrant, and, to be frank, I am going to do as +horrible things to Louis as I can invent--and I am an ingenious man. +[_His manner becomes sinister._] I am near the top. The cinders of +Marat are in the Pantheon, but Robespierre still flames; and he claims +me as his friend. I can do what I will. And I have much in store for +Louis before he shall be so fortunate as to die! + +ELOISE [_faintly_]. And--and Eloise--d'Anville? [_Her hands fall from +her face: he sees large, beautiful tears upon her cheeks._] + +VALSIN [_coldly_]. Yes. [_She is crushed for the moment; then, +recovering herself with a violent effort, lifts her head defiantly and +stands erect, facing him._] + +ELOISE. You take her head because your officer punished you, six years +ago, for a breach of military discipline! + +VALSIN [_in a lighter tone_]. Oh no. I take it, just as she injured +me--incidentally. In truth, Citizeness, it isn't I who take it: I only +arrest her because the government has proscribed her. + +ELOISE. And you've just finished telling me you were preparing +tortures for her! I thought you an intelligent man. Pah! You're only a +gymnast. [_She turns away from him haughtily and moves toward the +door._] + +VALSIN [_touching his scarf of office_]. True. I climb. [_She halts +suddenly, as if startled by this; she stands as she is, her back to +him, for several moments, and does not change her attitude when she +speaks._] + +ELOISE [_slowly_]. You climb alone. + +VALSIN [_with a suspicious glance at her_]. Yes--alone. + +ELOISE [_in a low voice_]. Why didn't you take the lace-maker with +you? You might have been happier. [_Very slowly she turns and comes +toward him, her eyes full upon his: she moves deliberately and with +incomparable grace. He seems to be making an effort to look away, and +failing: he cannot release his eyes from the glorious and starry +glamour that holds them. She comes very close to him, so close that +she almost touches him._] + +ELOISE [_in a half-whisper_]. You might have been happier with--a +friend--to climb with you. + +VALSIN [_demoralized_]. Citizeness--I am--I-- + +ELOISE [_in a voice of velvet_]. Yes, Say it. You are-- + +VALSIN [_desperately_]. I have told you that I am the most susceptible +of men. + +ELOISE [_impulsively putting her hand on his shoulder_]. Is it a +crime? Come, my friend, you are a man who _does_ climb: you will go +over all. You believe in the Revolution because you have used it to +lift you. But other things can help you, too. Don't you need them? + +VALSIN [_understanding perfectly, gasping_]. Need what? [_She draws +her hand from his shoulder, moves back from him slightly, and crosses +her arms upon her bosom with a royal meekness._] + +ELOISE [_grandly_]. Do I seem so useless? + +VALSIN [_in a distracted voice_]. Heaven help me! What do you want? + +ELOISE. Let these people go. [_Hurriedly, leaning near him._] I have +promised to save them: give them their permit to embark, and I--[_She +pauses, flushing beautifully, but does not take her eyes from him._] +I--I do not wish to leave France. My place is in Paris. You will go +into the National Committee. You can be its ruler. You _will_ rule it! +I believe in you! [_Glowing like a rose of fire._] I will go with you. +I will help you! I will marry you! + +VALSIN [_in a fascinated whisper_]. Good Lord! [_He stumbles back from +her, a strange light in his eyes._] + +ELOISE. You are afraid-- + +VALSIN [_with sudden loudness_]. I am! Upon my soul, I am afraid! + +ELOISE [_smiling gloriously upon him_]. Of what, my friend? Tell me of +what? + +VALSIN [_explosively_]. Of myself! I am afraid of myself because I am +a prophet. This is precisely what I foretold to myself you would do! +I knew it, yet I am aghast when it happens--aghast at my own +cleverness! + +ELOISE [_bewildered to blankness_]. What? + +VALSIN [_half hysterical with outrageous vanity_]. I swear I knew it, +and it fits so exactly that I am afraid of myself! _Aha_, Valsin, you +rogue! I should hate to have you on _my_ track! Citizen governess, you +are a wonderful person, but not so wonderful as this devil of a +Valsin! + +ELOISE [_vaguely, in a dead voice_]. I cannot understand what you are +talking about. Do you mean-- + +VALSIN. And what a spell was upon me! I was near calling Dossonville +to preserve me. + +ELOISE [_speaking with a strange naturalness, like a child's_]. You +mean--you don't want me? + +VALSIN. Ah, Heaven help me, I am going to laugh again! Oh, ho, ho! I +am spent! [_He drops into a chair and gives way to another attack of +uproarious hilarity._] Ah, ha, ha, ha! Oh, my liver, ha, ha! No, +Citizeness, I do not want you! Oh, ha, ha, ha! + +ELOISE. _Oh!_ [_She utters a choked scream and rushes at him._] Swine! + +VALSIN [_warding her off with outstretched hands_]. Spare me! Ha, ha, +ha! I am helpless! Ho, ho, ho! Citizeness, it would not be worth your +while to strangle a man who is already dying! + +ELOISE [_beside herself_]. Do you dream that I _meant_ it? + +VALSIN [_feebly_]. Meant to strangle me? + +ELOISE [_frantic_]. To give myself to you! + +VALSIN. In short, to--to marry me! [_He splutters._] + +ELOISE [_furiously_]. It was a ruse-- + +VALSIN [_soothingly_]. Yes, yes, a trick. I saw that all along. + +ELOISE [_even more infuriated_]. For their sake, beast! [_She points +to the other room._] To save _them_! + +VALSIN [_wiping his eyes_]. Of course, of course. [_He rises, stepping +quickly to the side of the chair away from her and watching her +warily._] _I_ knew it was to save them. We'll put it like that. + +ELOISE [_in an anger of exasperation_]. It _was_ that! + +VALSIN. Yes, yes. [_Keeping his distance._] I saw it from the first. +[_Suppressing symptoms of returning mirth._] It was perfectly plain. +You mustn't excite yourself--nothing could have been clearer! [_A +giggle escapes him, and he steps hastily backward as she advances upon +him._] + +ELOISE. Poodle! Valet! Scum of the alleys! Sheep of the prisons! +Jailer! Hangman! Assassin! Brigand! _Horse-doctor!_ [_She hurls the +final epithet at him in a climax of ferocity which wholly exhausts +her; and she sinks into the chair by the desk, with her arms upon the +desk and her burning face hidden in her arms. VALSIN, morbidly +chuckling, in spite of himself, at each of her insults, has retreated +farther and farther, until he stands with his back against the door of +the inner room, his right hand behind him, resting on the latch. As +her furious eyes leave him he silently opens the door, letting it +remain a few inches ajar and keeping his back to it. Then, satisfied +that what he intends to say will be overheard by those within, he +erases all expression from his face, and strides to the dismantled +doorway in the passage._] + +VALSIN [_calling loudly_]. Dossonville! [_He returns, coming down +briskly to ELOISE. His tone is crisp and soldier-like._] Citizeness, I +have had my great hour. I proceed with the arrests. I have given you +four plenty of time to prepare yourselves. Time? Why, the Emigrant +could have changed clothes with one of the women in there a dozen +times if he had hoped to escape in that fashion--as historical +prisoners _have_ won clear, it is related. Fortunately, that is +impossible just now; and he will not dare to attempt it. + +DOSSONVILLE [_appearing in the hallway_]. Present, my chieftain! + +VALSIN [_sharply_]. Attend, Dossonville. The returned Emigrant, +Valny-Cherault, is forfeited; but because I cherish a special +grievance against him, I have decided upon a special punishment for +him. It does not please me that he should have the comfort and +ministrations of loving women on his journey to the Tribunal. No, no; +the presence of his old sweetheart would make even the scaffold sweet +to him. Therefore I shall take him alone. I shall let these women go. + +DOSSONVILLE. What refinement! Admirable! [_ELOISE slowly rises, +staring incredulously at VALSIN._] + +VALSIN [_picking up the "permit" from the desk_]. "Permit the Citizen +Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, and his +second sister, Marie Balsage, and Eloise d'Anville--" Ha! You see, +Dossonville, since one of these three women is here, there are two in +the other room with the Emigrant. They are to come out, leaving him +there. First, however, we shall disarm him. You and I have had +sufficient experience in arresting aristocrats to know that they are +not always so sensible as to give themselves up peaceably, and I +happened to see the outline of a pistol under the Emigrant's frock the +other day in the diligence. We may as well save one of us from a +detestable hole through the body. [_He steps toward the door, speaking +sharply._] Emigrant, you have heard. For your greater chagrin, these +three devoted women are to desert you. Being an aristocrat, you will +pretend to prefer this arrangement. They are to leave at once. Throw +your pistol into this room, and I will agree not to make the arrest +until they are in safety. They can reach your vessel in five minutes. +When they have gone, I give you my word not to open this door for ten. +[_A pistol is immediately thrown out of the door, and falls at +VALSIN's feet. He picks it up, his eyes alight with increasing +excitement._] + +VALSIN [_tossing the pistol to DOSSONVILLE_]. Call the lieutenant. +[_DOSSONVILLE goes to the window, leans out, and beckons. VALSIN +writes hastily at the desk, not sitting down._] "Permit the three +women Balsage to embark without delay upon the _Jeune Pierrette_. +Signed: Valsin." There, Citizeness, is a "permit" which permits. [_He +thrusts the paper into the hand of ELOISE, swings toward the door of +the inner room, and raps loudly upon it._] Come, my feminines! Your +sailors await you--brave, but no judges of millinery. There's a fair +wind for you; and a grand toilet is wasted at sea. Come, charmers; +come! [_The door is half opened, and MADAME DE LASEYNE, white and +trembling violently, enters quickly, shielding as much as she can the +inexpressibly awkward figure of her brother, behind whom she extends +her hand, closing the door sharply. He wears the brocaded skirt which +MADAME DE LASEYNE has taken from the portmanteau, and ELOISE's long +mantle, the lifted hood and MADAME DE LASEYNE's veil shrouding his +head and face._] + +VALSIN [_in a stifled voice_]. At last! At last one beholds the regal +d'Anville! No Amazon-- + +DOSSONVILLE [_aghast_]. It looks like-- + +VALSIN [_shouting_]. It doesn't! [_He bows gallantly to LOUIS._] A +cruel veil, but, oh, what queenly grace! [_LOUIS stumbles in the +skirt. VALSIN falls back, clutching at his side. But ELOISE rushes to +LOUIS and throws herself upon her knees at his feet. She pulls his +head down to hers and kisses him through the veil._] + +VALSIN [_madly_]. Oh, touching devotion! Oh, sisters! Oh, love! Oh, +honey! Oh, petticoats-- + +DOSSONVILLE [_interrupting humbly_]. The lieutenant, Citizen +Commissioner. [_He points to the hallway, where the officer appears, +standing at attention._] + +VALSIN [_wheeling_]. Officer, conduct these three persons to the quay. +Place them on board the _Jeune Pierrette_. The captain will weigh +anchor instantly. [_The officer salutes._] + +ANNE [_hoarsely to LOUIS, who is lifting the weeping ELOISE to her +feet_]. Quick! In the name of-- + +VALSIN. Off with you! [_MADAME DE LASEYNE seizes the portmanteau and +rushes to the broken doorway, half dragging the others with her. They +go out in a tumultuous hurry, followed by the officer. ELOISE sends +one last glance over her shoulder at VALSIN as she disappears, and one +word of concentrated venom:_ "Buffoon!" _In wild spirits he blows a +kiss to her. The fugitives are heard clattering madly down the +stairs._] + +DOSSONVILLE [_excitedly_]. We can take the Emigrant now. [_Going to +the inner door._] Why wait-- + +VALSIN. That room is empty. + +DOSSONVILLE. What! + +VALSIN [_shouting with laughter_]. He's gone! Not bare-backed, but in +petticoats: that's worse! He's gone, I tell you! The other was the +d'Anville. + +DOSSONVILLE. Then you recog-- + +VALSIN. Imbecile, she's as well known as the Louvre! They're off on +their honeymoon! She'll take him now! She will! She will, on the soul +of a prophet! [_He rushes to the window and leans far out, shouting at +the top of his voice:_] _Quits with you, Louis! Quits! Quits!_ [_He +falls back from the window and relapses into a chair, cackling +ecstatically._] + +DOSSONVILLE [_hoarse with astonishment_]. You've let him go! You've +let 'em _all_ go! + +VALSIN [_weak with laughter_]. Well, _you're_ not going to inform. +[_With a sudden reversion to extreme seriousness, he levels a sinister +forefinger at his companion._] And, also, take care of your health, +friend; remember constantly that you have a weak throat, _and don't +you ever mention this to my wife_! These are bad times, my +Dossonville, and neither you nor I will see the end of them. Good +Lord! Can't we have a little fun as we go along? [_A fresh convulsion +seizes him, and he rocks himself pitiably in his chair._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE + +_A DRAMATIC FANTASY IN ONE ACT_ + +By ERNEST DOWSON + +_Performance Free_ + + +Ernest Christopher Dowson, now generally known simply as Ernest +Dowson, was born at the Grove, Belmont Hill, Lee, Kent, August 2, +1867, and died in London thirty-three years later. His schooling, +because of his delicate health, was irregular, and he spent too short +a time at Queen's College, Oxford, to take a degree. He lived abroad +much, but during his sojourns in London in the 'nineties belonged to +the Rhymer's Club[26] that met in an upper room of Johnson's own +"Cheshire Cheese." His death from consumption brought to a close a +life marred by waste and sordid associations. + + [Footnote 26: Yeats has commemorated this club in the + following lines in his poem, _The Grey Rock_: + + "Poets with whom I learned my trade, + Companions of the Cheshire Cheese."] + +_The Pierrot of the Minute_, Ernest Dowson's only dramatic attempt, is +touched like the preceding play with the glamour of the old régime. +Its charming artificiality suggests the pastoral games to which the +ladies and gentlemen of Louis XV's circle may have turned for relief +after the formalities and extravagances of their life at court. + +Dowson's play, written in 1892, is mentioned in one of his letters, +dated October twenty-fourth of that year: "I have been frightfully +busy," he wrote, "having rashly undertaken to make a little Pierrot +play in verse ... which is to be played at Aldershot and afterwards at +the Chelsea Town Hall: the article to be delivered in a fortnight. So +until this period of mental agony is past, I can go nowhere." Anyone +who has ever had to write something that had to be ready on a certain +date will understand the quality of Dowson's emotion in this letter. + +A recent critic who has studied the literary fashions of the group to +which Dowson belonged and found that the members were addicted to the +frequent use of the adjective, white, says: "Ernest Dowson was +dominated by a sense of whiteness.... _The Pierrot of the Minute_ is a +veritable symphony in white. He calls for 'white music' and the Moon +Maiden rides through the skies 'drawn by a team of milk-white +butterflies,' and farther on in the same poem we have a palace of many +rooms: + + "'Within the fairest, clad in purity, + Our mother dwelt immemorially: + Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon-stones on her gown, + The floor she treads with little pearls is sown....'" + +When the play was given in this country at the McCallum Theatre at +Northampton, Massachusetts, it was "staged in black and white, the +garden set having black walls on which fantastic white forms were +stenciled. The bench, the statue, and Pierrot and his lady love were +in white. To have tried to depict a real garden would have crowded the +small stage, so a garden was suggested, and by suggestion caught the +spirit of the piece."[27] + + [Footnote 27: Constance D'Arcy Mackay, _The Little Theatre in + the United States_, New York, 1917, p. 97.] + +Granville Bantock, the English musician, composed _The Pierrot of the +Minute_. _A Comedy Overture to a Dramatic Phantasy by Ernest Dowson_, +which he conducted at the Worcester Festival in 1908. This music in +whole or part may be used in connection with a production of Dowson's +play. + + + + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE + + +CHARACTERS + + A MOON MAIDEN. + PIERROT. + + +_SCENE._--_A glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon. In the center a Doric +temple with steps coming down the stage. On the left a little Cupid on +a pedestal. Twilight._ + +_Enter PIERROT with his hands full of lilies. He is burdened with a +little basket. He stands gazing at the Temple and the Statue._ + + +PIERROT. + + My journey's end! This surely is the glade + Which I was promised: I have well obeyed! + A clue of lilies was I bid to find, + Where the green alleys most obscurely wind; + Where tall oaks darkliest canopy o'erhead, + And moss and violet make the softest bed; + Where the path ends, and leagues behind me lie + The gleaming courts and gardens of Versailles; + The lilies streamed before me, green and white; + I gathered, following: they led me right, + To the bright temple and the sacred grove: + This is, in truth, the very shrine of Love! + +[_He gathers together his flowers and lays them at the foot of Cupid's +statue; then he goes timidly up the first steps of the temple and +stops._] + + It is so solitary, I grow afraid. + Is there no priest here, no devoted maid? + Is there no oracle, no voice to speak, + Interpreting to me the word I seek? + +[_A very gentle music of lutes floats out from the temple. PIERROT +starts back; he shows extreme surprise; then he returns to the +foreground, and crouches down in rapt attention until the music +ceases. His face grows puzzled and petulant._] + + Too soon! too soon! in that enchanting strain, + Days yet unlived, I almost lived again: + It almost taught me that I most would know-- + Why am I here, and why am I Pierrot? + +[_Absently he picks up a lily which has fallen to the ground, and +repeats._] + + Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot? + That music and this silence both affright; + Pierrot can never be a friend of night. + I never felt my solitude before-- + Once safe at home, I will return no more. + Yet the commandment of the scroll was plain; + While the light lingers let me read again. + +[_He takes a scroll from his bosom and reads._] + + "_He loves to-night who never loved before; + Who ever loved, to-night shall love once more._" + _I_ never loved! I know not what love is. + I am so ignorant--but what is this? + +[_Reads._] + + "_Who would adventure to encounter Love + Must rest one night within this hallowed grove. + Cast down thy lilies, which have led thee on, + Before the tender feet of Cupidon._" + Thus much is done, the night remains to me. + Well, Cupidon, be my security! + Here is more writing, but too faint to read. + +[_He puzzles for a moment, then casts the scroll down._] + + Hence, vain old parchment. I have learnt thy rede! + +[_He looks round uneasily, starts at his shadow; then discovers his +basket with glee. He takes out a flask of wine, pours it into a glass, +and drinks._] + + _Courage, mon Ami!_ I shall never miss + Society with such a friend as this. + How merrily the rosy bubbles pass, + Across the amber crystal of the glass. + I had forgotten you. Methinks this quest + Can wake no sweeter echo in my breast. + +[_Looks round at the statue, and starts._] + + Nay, little god! forgive. I did but jest. + +[_He fills another glass, and pours it upon the statue._] + + This libation, Cupid, take, + With the lilies at thy feet; + Cherish Pierrot for their sake, + Send him visions strange and sweet, + While he slumbers at thy feet. + Only love kiss him awake! + _Only love kiss him awake!_ + +[_Slowly falls the darkness, soft music plays, while PIERROT gathers +together fern and foliage into a rough couch at the foot of the steps +which lead to the Temple d'Amour. Then he lies down upon it, having +made his prayer. It is night. He speaks softly._] + + Music, more music, far away and faint: + It is an echo of mine heart's complaint. + Why should I be so musical and sad? + I wonder why I used to be so glad? + In single glee I chased blue butterflies, + Half butterfly myself, but not so wise, + For they were twain, and I was only one. + Ah me! how pitiful to be alone. + My brown birds told me much, but in mine ear + They never whispered this--I learned it here: + The soft wood sounds, the rustlings in the breeze, + Are but the stealthy kisses of the trees. + Each flower and fern in this enchanted wood + Leans to her fellow, and is understood; + The eglantine, in loftier station set, + Stoops down to woo the maidly violet. + In gracile pairs the very lilies grow: + None is companionless except Pierrot. + Music, more music! how its echoes steal + Upon my senses with unlooked for weal. + Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade + Seems mine old joy in rout and masquerade. + Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove, + By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love. + +[_Sleeps._] + +[_There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which a bright +radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple upon the face of +PIERROT. Presently a MOON MAIDEN steps out of the temple; she descends +and stands over the sleeper._] + +THE LADY. + + Who is this mortal + Who ventures to-night + To woo an immortal? + Cold, cold the moon's light, + For sleep at this portal, + Bold lover of night. + Fair is the mortal + In soft, silken white, + Who seeks an immortal. + Ah, lover of night, + Be warned at the portal, + And save thee in flight! + +[_She stoops over him: PIERROT stirs in his sleep._] + +PIERROT [_murmuring_]. + + Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore: + "_He loves to-night who never loved before._" + +THE LADY. + + Unwitting boy! when, be it soon or late, + What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? + What if I warned him! He might yet evade, + Through the long windings of this verdant glade; + Seek his companions in the blither way, + Which, else, must be as lost as yesterday. + So might he still pass some unheeding hours + In the sweet company of birds and flowers. + How fair he is, with red lips formed for joy, + As softly curved as those of Venus' boy. + Methinks his eyes, beneath their silver sheaves, + Rest tranquilly like lilies under leaves. + Arrayed in innocence, what touch of grace + Reveals the scion of a courtly race? + Well, I will warn him, though, I fear, too late-- + What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? + But, see, he stirs, new knowledge fires his brain, + And Cupid's vision bids him wake again. + Dione's Daughter! but how fair he is, + Would it be wrong to rouse him with a kiss? + +[_She stoops down and kisses him, then withdraws into the shadow._] + +PIERROT [_rubbing his eyes_]. + + Celestial messenger! remain, remain; + Or, if a vision, visit me again! + What is this light, and whither am I come + To sleep beneath the stars so far from home? + +[_Rises slowly to his feet._] + + Stay, I remember this is Venus' Grove, + And I am hither come to encounter ---- + +THE LADY [_coming forward, but veiled_]. + Love! + +PIERROT [_in ecstasy, throwing himself at her feet_]. + + Then have I ventured and encountered Love? + +THE LADY. + + Not yet, rash boy! and, if thou wouldst be wise, + Return unknowing; he is safe who flies. + +PIERROT. + + Never, sweet lady, will I leave this place + Until I see the wonder of thy face. + Goddess or Naiad! lady of this Grove, + Made mortal for a night to teach me love, + Unveil thyself, although thy beauty be + Too luminous for my mortality. + +THE LADY [_unveiling_]. + + Then, foolish boy, receive at length thy will: + Now knowest thou the greatness of thine ill. + +PIERROT. + + Now have I lost my heart, and gained my goal. + +THE LADY. + + Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll? + +[_Picks up the parchment._] + +PIERROT. + + I read it all, as on this quest I fared, + Save where it was illegible and hard. + +THE LADY. + + Alack! poor scholar, wast thou never taught + A little knowledge serveth less than naught? + Hadst thou perused ---- but, stay, I will explain + What was the writing which thou didst disdain. + +[_Reads._] + + "_Au Petit Trianon_, at night's full noon, + Mortal, beware the kisses of the moon! + Whoso seeks her she gathers like a flower-- + He gives a life, and only gains an hour." + +PIERROT [_laughing recklessly_]. + + Bear me away to thine enchanted bower, + All of my life I venture for an hour. + +THE LADY. + + Take up thy destiny of short delight; + I am thy lady for a summer's night. + Lift up your viols, maidens of my train, + And work such havoc on this mortal's brain + That for a moment he may touch and know + Immortal things, and be full Pierrot. + White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eglantine! + To stir his tired veins like magic wine. + What visitants across his spirit glance, + Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance? + Watch, and forget all weary things of earth, + All memories and cares, all joy and mirth, + While my dance woos him, light and rhythmical, + And weaves his heart into my coronal. + Music, more music for his soul's delight: + Love is his lady for a summer's night. + +[_PIERROT reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance +finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her +side._] + +PIERROT. + + Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody? + +THE LADY. + + Pan made it long ago in Arcady. + +PIERROT. + + I heard it long ago, I know not where, + As I knew thee, or ever I came here. + But I forget all things--my name and race + All that I ever knew except thy face. + Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me, + That I may tell it like a rosary. + Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees, + How art thou designate--art thou Heart's-Ease? + +THE LADY. + + Waste not the night in idle questioning, + Since Love departs at dawn's awakening. + +PIERROT. + + Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state, + Since thou art lovely and compassionate. + Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre. + +THE LADY. + + I am to each the face of his desire. + +PIERROT. + + I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove, + Who craves a refuge on the breast of love. + +THE LADY. + + What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon? + Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon. + +PIERROT. + + Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car, + Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star-- + Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,-- + Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies, + Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, + Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades; + Mount me beside thee, bear me far away + From the low regions of the solar day; + Over the rainbow, up into the moon, + Where is thy palace and thine opal throne; + There on thy bosom ---- + +THE LADY. + + Too ambitious boy! + I did but promise thee one hour of joy. + This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, + Could hardly be completed in a night. + Hast thou no craving less remote than this? + +PIERROT. + + Would it be impudent to beg a kiss? + +THE LADY. + + I say not that: yet prithee have a care! + Often audacity has proved a snare. + How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow-- + Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot? + +PIERROT. + + As one who faints upon the Libyan plain + Fears the oasis which brings life again! + +THE LADY. + + Where far away green palm trees seem to stand + May be a mirage of the wreathing sand. + +PIERROT. + + Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught, + Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught. + +THE LADY. + + Dost thou persist? + + PIERROT. + I do entreat this boon! + +[_She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant +shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter._] + +THE LADY. + + Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon? + +PIERROT. + + Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell; + Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle! + Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream + Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream: + But with its frost such sweetness did conspire + That all my veins are filled with running fire; + Never I knew that life contained such bliss + As the divine completeness of a kiss. + +THE LADY. + + Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught, + Warning, as usual, has gone for naught. + +PIERROT. + + Had all my schooling been of this soft kind, + To play the truant I were less inclined. + Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce-- + I never knew a task by conning once. + +THE LADY. + + Then come with me! below this pleasant shrine + Of Venus we will presently recline, + Until birds' twitter beckon me away + To my own home, beyond the milky-way. + I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet + Of Love thou knowest but the alphabet. + +PIERROT. + + In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise, + If all its rules be written in thine eyes. + +[_THE LADY sits upon a step of the temple, and PIERROT leans upon his +elbow at her feet, regarding her._] + + Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn + To be thy scholar always, always learn. + Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth, + Fragrant with all the spices of the South; + Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away, + For with it goes the light of all my day. + Let me peruse it, till I know by rote + Each line of it, like music, note by note; + Raise thy long lashes, Lady! smile again: + These studies profit me. + +[_Takes her hand._] + +THE LADY. + Refrain, refrain! + +PIERROT [_with passion_]. + + I am but studious, so do not stir; + Thou art my star, I thine astronomer! + Geometry was founded on thy lip. + +[_Kisses her hand._] + +THE LADY. + + This attitude becomes not scholarship! + Thy zeal I praise; but, prithee, not so fast, + Nor leave the rudiments until the last, + Science applied is good, but 'twere a schism + To study such before the catechism. + Bear thee more modestly, while I submit + Some easy problems to confirm thy wit. + +PIERROT. + + In all humility my mind I pit + Against her problems which would test my wit. + +THE LADY [_questioning him from a little book bound deliciously in +vellum_]. + + What is Love? + Is it a folly, + Is it mirth, or melancholy? + Joys above, + Are there many, or not any? + What is love? + +PIERROT [_answering in a very humble attitude of scholarship_]. + + If you please, + A most sweet folly! + Full of mirth and melancholy: + Both of these! + In its sadness worth all gladness, + If you please! + +THE LADY. + + Prithee where, + Goes Love a-hiding? + Is he long in his abiding + Anywhere? + Can you bind him when you find him; + Prithee, where? + +PIERROT. + + With spring days + Love comes and dallies: + Upon the mountains, through the valleys + Lie Love's ways. + Then he leaves you and deceives you + In spring days. + +THE LADY. + + Thine answers please me: 'tis thy turn to ask. + To meet thy questioning be now my task. + +PIERROT. + + Since I know thee, dear Immortal, + Is my heart become a blossom, + To be worn upon thy bosom. + When thou turn me from this portal, + Whither shall I, hapless mortal, + Seek love out and win again + Heart of me that thou retain? + +THE LADY. + + In and out the woods and valleys, + Circling, soaring like a swallow, + Love shall flee and thou shalt follow: + Though he stops awhile and dallies, + Never shalt thou stay his malice! + Moon-kissed mortals seek in vain + To possess their hearts again! + +PIERROT. + + Tell me, Lady, shall I never + Rid me of this grievous burden? + Follow Love and find his guerdon + In no maiden whatsoever? + Wilt thou hold my heart for ever? + Rather would I thine forget, + In some earthly Pierrette! + +THE LADY. + + Thus thy fate, what'er thy will is! + Moon-struck child, go seek my traces + Vainly in all mortal faces! + In and out among the lilies, + Court each rural Amaryllis: + Seek the signet of Love's hand + In each courtly Corisande! + +PIERROT. + + Now, verily, sweet maid, of school I tire: + These answers are not such as I desire. + +THE LADY. + + Why art thou sad? + +PIERROT. + I dare not tell. + +THE LADY [_caressingly_]. + Come, say! + +PIERROT. + + Is love all schooling, with no time to play? + +THE LADY. + + Though all love's lessons be a holiday, + Yet I will humor thee: what wouldst thou play? + +PIERROT. + + What are the games that small moon-maids enjoy, + Or is their time all spent in staid employ? + +THE LADY. + + Sedate they are, yet games they much enjoy: + They skip with stars, the rainbow is their toy. + +PIERROT. + + That is too hard! + +THE LADY. + For mortal's play. + +PIERROT. + What then? + +THE LADY. + + Teach me some pastime from the world of men. + +PIERROT. + + I have it, maiden. + +THE LADY. + Can it soon be taught? + +PIERROT. + + A single game, I learnt it at the Court. + I sit by thee. + + THE LADY. + But, prithee, not so near. + +PIERROT. + + That is essential, as will soon appear. + Lay here thine hand, which cold night dews anoint, + Washing its white ---- + +THE LADY. + Now is this to the point? + +PIERROT. + + Prithee, forebear! Such is the game's design. + +THE LADY. + + Here is my hand. + +PIERROT. + I cover it with mine. + +THE LADY. + + What must I next? + +[_They play._] + +PIERROT. + Withdraw. + +THE LADY. + It goes too fast. + +[_They continue playing, until PIERROT catches her hand._] + +PIERROT [_laughing_]. + + 'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last. + +[_He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round the stage; +she eludes him._] + +THE LADY. + + Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch + A moon-beam, must use twice as much despatch. + +PIERROT [_sitting down sulkily_]. + + I grow aweary, and my heart is sore. + Thou dost not love me; I will play no more. + +[_He buries his face in his hands. THE LADY stands over him._] + +THE LADY. + + What is this petulance? + +PIERROT. + 'Tis quick to tell-- + Thou hast but mocked me. + +THE LADY. + Nay! I love thee well! + +PIERROT. + + Repeat those words, for still within my breast + A whisper warns me they are said in jest. + +THE LADY. + + I jested not: at daybreak I must go, + Yet loving thee far better than thou know. + +PIERROT. + + Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine, + Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine! + The gods have wedded mortals long ere this. + +THE LADY. + + There was enough betrothal in my kiss. + What need of further oaths? + +PIERROT. + That bound not thee! + +THE LADY. + + Peace! since I tell thee that it may not be. + But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale + With some moon fancy or celestial tale. + +PIERROT. + + Tell me of thee, and that dim, happy place + Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race! + +THE LADY [_seating herself_]. + + Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air + For mortals' breath is too refined and rare; + Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears + Its dome of agate through a myriad years. + A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone, + Each one carved strangely from a precious stone. + Within the fairest, clad in purity, + Our mother dwelleth immemorially: + Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown, + The floor she treads with little pearls is sown; + She sits upon a throne of amethysts, + And orders mortal fortunes as she lists; + I, and my sisters, all around her stand, + And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand. + +PIERROT. + + Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain + With shriveled fingers spun this web of bane! + +THE LADY. + + Theirs and my mother's realm is far apart; + Hers is the lustrous kingdom of the heart, + And dreamers all, and all who sing and love, + Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve. + +PIERROT. + + Me, even me, she hath led into this grove. + +THE LADY. + + Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night, + Often I watched my sisters take their flight + Down heaven's stairway of the clustered stars + To gaze on mortals through their lattice bars; + And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss + Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss. + But all to whom they come, my sisters say, + Forthwith forget all joyance of the day, + Forget their laughter and forget their tears, + And dream away with singing all their years-- + Moon-lovers always! + +[_She sighs._] + +PIERROT. + Why art sad, sweet Moon? + +[_Laughs._] + +THE LADY. + + For this, my story, grant me now a boon. + +PIERROT. + + I am thy servitor. + +THE LADY. + Would, then, I knew + More of the earth, what men and women do. + +PIERROT. + + I will explain. + +THE LADY. + Let brevity attend + Thy wit, for night approaches to its end. + +PIERROT. + + Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me: + That's the first lesson of society. + +THE LADY. + + Society? + +PIERROT. + I mean the very best. + Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest. + I know it not, but am a _petit maître_ + At rout and festival and _bal champêtre_. + But since example be instruction's ease, + Let's play the thing.--Now, Madame, if you please! + +[_He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her +hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air._] + +THE LADY. + + What am I, then? + +PIERROT. + A most divine Marquise! + Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease. + +[_Passes her._] + + Ah, that is better! To complete the plan, + Nothing is necessary save a fan. + +THE LADY. + + Cool is the night, what needs it? + +PIERROT. + Madame, pray + Reflect, it is essential to our play. + +THE LADY [_taking a lily_]. + + Here is my fan! + +PIERROT. + So, use it with intent: + The deadliest arm in beauty's armament! + +THE LADY. + + What do we next? + +PIERROT. + We talk! + +THE LADY. + But what about? + +PIERROT. + + We quiz the company and praise the rout; + Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, + Or what you will, so reputations die. + Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace, + With the red eminence. + +THE LADY. + A pretty face! + +PIERROT. + + For something tarter set thy wits to search-- + "She loves the churchman better than the church." + +THE LADY. + + Her blush is charming; would it were her own! + +PIERROT. + + Madame is merciless! + +THE LADY. + Is that the tone? + +PIERROT. + + The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught. + Madame was evidently bred at Court. + +THE LADY. + + Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age. + +PIERROT. + + I listened much, as best becomes a page. + +THE LADY. + + I like thy Court but little ---- + +PIERROT. + Hush! the Queen! + Bow, but not low--thou knowest what I mean. + +THE LADY. + + Nay, that I know not! + +PIERROT. + Though she wear a crown, + 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown. + +THE LADY. + + Thou art a child: thy malice is a game. + +PIERROT. + + A most sweet pastime--scandal is its name. + +THE LADY. + + Enough, it wearies me. + +PIERROT. + Then, rare Marquise, + Desert the crowd to wander through the trees. + +[_He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When they +pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his knee._] + +THE LADY. + + What wouldst thou now? + +PIERROT. + Ah, prithee, what, save thee! + +THE LADY. + + Was this included in thy comedy? + +PIERROT. + + Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest + I strive to quench the passion in my breast; + In vain thy blandishments would make me play: + Still I desire far more than I can say. + My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous, + Instruct me still, while time remains to us, + Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon-maid, _Marquise_, + So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease, + Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies! + +THE LADY. + + Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies. + +PIERROT. + + Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake. + +[_He entreats her with imploring gestures, she hesitates: then puts +her finger on her lip, hushing him._] + +THE LADY. + + It is too late, for hark! the birds awake. + +PIERROT. + + The birds awake! It is the voice of day! + +THE LADY. + + Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away. + +[_The light changes, it grows daylight: and music imitates the +twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then PIERROT +sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face in his hands._] + +THE LADY [_bending over him_]. + + Music, my maids! His weary senses steep + In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep, + With Mandragore anoint his tired eyes, + That they may open on mere memories, + Then shall a vision seem his lost delight, + With love, his lady for a summer's night. + Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake, + Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake. + I leave thee, sleeper! Yea, I leave thee now, + Yet take my legacy upon thy brow: + Remember me, who was compassionate, + And opened for thee once, the ivory gate. + I come no more, thou shalt not see my face + When I am gone to mine exalted place: + Yet all thy days are mine, dreamer of dreams, + All silvered over with the moon's pale beams: + Go forth and seek in each fair face in vain, + To find the image of thy love again. + All maids are kind to thee, yet never one + Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done. + Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late, + Yet never finds the maid to be his mate. + Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate. + +[_The MOON MAIDEN withdraws: a song is sung from behind: it is full +day._] + + THE MOON MAIDEN'S SONG + + Sleep! Cast thy canopy + Over this sleeper's brain, + Dim grow his memory, + When he awake again. + + Love stays a summer night, + Till lights of morning come; + Then takes her wingèd flight + Back to her starry home. + + Sleep! Yet thy days are mine; + Love's seal is over thee: + Far though my ways from thine, + Dim though thy memory. + + Love stays a summer night, + Till lights of morning come; + Then takes her wingèd flight + Back to her starry home. + +[_When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon PIERROT +sleeping._] + + +_EPILOGUE_ + +[_Spoken in the character of PIERROT_] + + _The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs, + A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs, + (Although on no account let any say + That PIERROT finished Mr. Dowson's play_). + + _One night not long ago, at Baden Baden,-- + The birthday of the Duke,--his pleasure garden + Was lighted gaily with_ feu d'artifice, + _With candles, rockets, and a center-piece + Above the conversation house, on high, + Outlined in living fire against the sky, + A glittering_ Pierrot, _radiant, white, + Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight, + Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red, + Whose_ pompons _too were fire, while on his head + He wore a little cap, and I am told + That rockets covered him with showers of gold. + "Take our applause, you well deserve to win it," + They cried: "Bravo! the_ Pierrot _of the minute!" + What with applause and gold, one must confess + That_ Pierrot _had "arrived," achieved success, + When, as it happened, presently, alas! + A terrible disaster came to pass. + His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout, + His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out. + There rose a sullen sound of discontent, + The golden shower of rockets was all spent; + He left off dancing with a sudden jerk, + For he was nothing but a firework. + The garden darkened and the people in it + Cried, "He is dead,--the_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_ + + _With every artist it is even so; + The artist, after all, is a_ Pierrot-- + _A_ Pierrot _of the minute, naif, clever, + But Art is back of him, She lives for ever!_ + + _Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, because + We craved the golden shower of your applause! + Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it, + And cry, "Bravo! The_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_ + + + + +THE MAKER OF DREAMS[28] + +_A FANTASY IN ONE ACT_ + +By OLIPHANT DOWN + + [Footnote 28: Copyright, Feb. 1, 1913, in the United States + by Oliphant Down. Reprinted by special arrangement with + Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Glasgow. + + Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play + is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United + States, and no one is allowed to produce this play without + first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 28 West 38 + Street, New York.] + + +_The Maker of Dreams_ by the late Oliphant Down was first given at the +Royalty Theatre in Glasgow, November 20, 1911. The design for the +setting here reproduced was used when the play was acted in March, +1915, at The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York. The picture does not +show how touches of red here and there in the scene, and the brilliant +blue sky, visible through the quaint windows, enhanced the character +of the black and white of the walls and of the flower pots. The back +wall of the set was mounted on casters and, while Pierrette slept, +moved silently off stage, to disclose to the audience a formal garden +at the back, where a miniature Pierrot and a tiny Pierrette did a +joyous little dance, thus suggesting to the spectators Pierrette's +happy dream. + +Pierrot, the hero of this and of the preceding play, has had an +interesting stage history. To understand him fully we have to go back +to the comedy of masks that had fully developed in Italy by the time +of the Renascence. This comedy was a special kind of play, the +scenario of which only was written, the dialogue being improvised by +the individual players. Each player wore a costume and a mask that +never changed, and these fixed his identity. Most of the parts had a +strong local flavor, the pedant, for example, hailing from Bologna, +the overly shrewd merchant, from Venice. Many of the characters have +become fixed types and reappear under their old names in various forms +of modern drama. Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, Punch and Judy, and +Pierrot are among those who live on in modern drama. There is an +enchanting play by Granville Barker and Dion Clayton Calthrop called +_The Harlequinade_, that describes in a popular way the devious and +uncertain paths traveled by these stock characters down the ages. + +Pierrot's ancestry is not so clearly Italian as the others. Pedrolino, +a mischievous, intriguing buffoon, Pagliaccio, a madcap who wore a +painted hat of white wool and a garment of white linen, whose face was +covered with flour, and who wore a white mask, have both been cited as +types that may have contributed to the figure of Pierrot, whose name +makes its first appearance in Molière's play, _Don Juan ou le Festin +de Pierre_. Not that this dull servant of Molière's is in any sense +the counterpart of the Pierrot of our day who is by turns languishing +or vivacious, impish or poetic, but never doltish. From the +seventeenth century, Pierrot, his costume borrowed from the Neapolitan +mask, Pulcinella, became more and more prominent on both the Italian +and the French stage. It was a certain French pantomime actor by the +name of Deburau who died a few years before the middle of the +nineteenth century, who gave Pierrot the prominence that he enjoys +to-day and who dressed the character in the guise that he most often +assumes on the modern stage. "The short woolen tunic, with its great +buttons and its narrow sleeves, that overhung the hands, soon became +an ample calico blouse with wide long sleeves like those of the +Italian Pagliaccio. He suppressed the collar, which cast an upward +shadow from the footlights on to his face, and interfered with the +play of his countenance, and instead of the white skull-cap of his +predecessor, he emphasized the pallor of his face by framing it in a +cap of black velvet."[29] The Pierrot of our fancy[30] comes to us +also through the pictures of Watteau and Pater and the designs of +Aubrey Beardsley. + + [Footnote 29: Maurice Sand, _The History of the + Harlequinade_, London, 1915, Vol. I, p. 219.] + + [Footnote 30: _Mon Ami Pierrot._ _Songs and Fantasies_, + compiled by Kendall Banning, Chicago, 1917. This book + presents the Pierrot of modern poetry and drama.] + +A one-act farce, _The Quod Wrangle_, is the only other published play +of Oliphant Down's. Its plot, as outlined in _The London Times_ of +March 4, 1914, reminds one strongly of O. Henry's _The Cop and the +Anthem_. + +[Illustration: _The Maker of Dreams_ at The Neighborhood Playhouse, +designed by Aline Bernstein.] + + + + +THE MAKER OF DREAMS + + +CHARACTERS + + PIERROT. + PIERRETTE. + THE MANUFACTURER. + + +_Evening. A room in an old cottage, with walls of dark oak, lit only +by the moonlight that peers through the long, low casement-window at +the back, and the glow from the fire that is burning merrily on the +spectator's left. A cobbled street can be seen outside, and a door to +the right of the window opens directly on to it. Opposite the fire is +a kitchen dresser with cups and plates twinkling in the firelight. A +high-backed oak settle, as though afraid of the cold moonlight, has +turned its back on the window and warms its old timbers at the fire. +In the middle of the room stands a table with a red cover; there are +chairs on either side of it. On the hob, a kettle is keeping itself +warm; whilst overhead, on the hood of the chimney-piece, a small lamp +is turned very low._ + +_A figure flits past the window and, with a click of the latch, +PIERRETTE enters. She hangs up her cloak by the door, gives a little +shiver and runs to warm herself for a moment. Then, having turned up +the lamp, she places the kettle on the fire. Crossing the room, she +takes a tablecloth from the dresser and proceeds to lay tea, setting +out crockery for two. Once she goes to the window and, drawing aside +the common red casement-curtains, looks out, but returns to her work, +disappointed. She puts a spoonful of tea into the teapot, and another, +and a third. Something outside attracts her attention; she listens, +her face brightening. A voice is heard singing:_ + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She is caught in a tangle of boughs; + And mellow and musical June + Is saying 'Good-night' to the cows." + +[_The voice draws nearer and a conical white hat goes past the +window. PIERROT enters._] + + +PIERROT [_throwing his hat to PIERRETTE_]. Ugh! How cold it is. My +feet are like ice. + +PIERRETTE. Here are your slippers. I put them down to warm. [_She +kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and commences to slip +off his shoes._] + +PIERROT [_singing:_] + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She will put out her tongue and grimace; + And mellow and musical June + Is pinning the stars in their place." + +Isn't tea ready yet? + +PIERRETTE. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil. + +PIERROT. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I don't believe I +sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold. + +PIERRETTE. Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when he's cold +either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please. + +PIERROT. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own voice. + +PIERRETTE. I believe it is. Now it's singing like a bird. We'll make +the tea with the nightingale's tongue. [_She pours the boiling water +into the teapot._] Come along. + +PIERROT [_looking into the fire_]. I wonder. She had beauty, she had +form, but had she soul? + +PIERRETTE [_cutting bread and butter at the table_]. Come and be +cheerful, instead of grumbling there to the fire. + +PIERROT. I was thinking. + +PIERRETTE. Come and have tea. When you sit by the fire, thoughts only +fly up the chimney. + +PIERROT. The whole world's a chimney-piece. Give people a thing as +worthless as paper, and it catches fire in them and makes a stir; but +real thought, they let it go up with the smoke. + +PIERRETTE. Cheer up, Pierrot. See how thick I've spread the butter. + +PIERROT. You're always cheerful. + +PIERRETTE. I try to be happy. + +PIERROT. Ugh! [_He has moved to the table. There is a short silence, +during which PIERROT sips his tea moodily._] + +PIERRETTE. Tea all right? + +PIERROT. Middling. + +PIERRETTE. Only middling! I'll pour you out some fresh. + +PIERROT. Oh, it's all right! How you do worry a fellow! + +PIERRETTE. Heigh-ho! Shall I chain up that big black dog? + +PIERROT. I say, did you see that girl to-day? + +PIERRETTE. Whereabouts? + +PIERROT. Standing by the horse-trough. With a fine air, and a string +of great beads. + +PIERRETTE. I didn't see her. + +PIERROT. I did, though. And she saw me. Watched me all the time I was +singing, and clapped her hands like anything each time. I wonder if it +is possible for a woman to have a soul as well as such beautiful +coloring. + +PIERRETTE. She was made up! + +PIERROT. I'm sure she was not. And how do you know? You didn't see +her. + +PIERRETTE. Perhaps I _did_ see her. + +PIERROT. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being jealous. +When you and I took on this show business, we arranged to be just +partners and nothing more. If I see anyone I want to marry, I shall +marry 'em. And if you see anyone who wants to marry you, _you_ can +marry 'em. + +PIERRETTE. I'm not jealous! It's absurd! + +PIERROT [_singing abstractedly_]. + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She has scratched her white chin on the gorse; + And mellow and musical June + Is bringing the cuckoo remorse." + +PIERRETTE. Did you see that girl after the show? + +PIERROT. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, I've had enough +tea. I shall go out and try to find her. + +PIERRETTE. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could help me to +darn the socks. + +PIERROT. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed! I hope life has got +something better in it than darning. + +PIERRETTE. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the world over. +First we wear holes in our socks, and then we mend them. The wise ones +are those who make the best of it, and darn as well as they can. + +PIERROT. I say, that gives me an idea for a song. + +PIERRETTE. Out with it, then. + +PIERROT. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is what flashed +through my mind as you spoke: [_He runs up on to the table, using it +as a stage._] + + "Life's a ball of worsted, + Unwind it if you can, + You who oft have boasted + +[_He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over the +false accenting._] + + That you are a man." + +Of course that's only a rough idea. + +PIERRETTE. Are you going to sing it at the show? + +PIERROT [_jumping down from the table_]. You're always so lukewarm. A +man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as a baby. + +PIERRETTE. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside. + +PIERROT. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose. + +PIERRETTE. Just now you said I was always cheerful. + +PIERROT. There you are; girding at me again. + +PIERRETTE. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is dreadfully wet, +and your shoes are awfully thin. + +PIERROT. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to find that +girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman of my dreams? + +PIERRETTE. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal woman? + +PIERROT. Don't _you ever_ picture an ideal man? + +PIERRETTE. No, I try to be practical. + +PIERROT. Women are so unimaginative! They are such pathetic, motherly +things, and when they feel extra motherly they say, "I'm in love." All +that is so sordid and petty. I want a woman I can set on a pedestal, +and just look up at her and love her. + +PIERRETTE [_speaking very fervently_]. + + "Pierrot, don't wait for the moon, + There's a heart chilling cold in her rays; + And mellow and musical June + Will only last thirty short days." + +PIERROT. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, I'm off. [_As +he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in a mocking tone, +"Baby, don't wait for the moon." PIERRETTE listens for a moment to his +voice dying away in the distance. Then she moves to the fire-place, +and begins to stir the fire. As she kneels there, the words of an old +recitation form on her lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again +to an audience of laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals._] + + "There lives a maid in the big, wide world, + By the crowded town and mart, + And people sigh as they pass her by; + They call her Hungry Heart. + + For there trembles that on her red rose lip + That never her tongue can say, + And her eyes are sad, and she is not glad + In the beautiful calm of day. + + Deep down in the waters of pure, clear thought, + The mate of her fancy lies; + Sleeping, the night is made fair by his light + Sweet kiss on her dreaming eyes. + + Though a man was made in the wells of time + Who could set her soul on fire, + Her life unwinds, and she never finds + This love of her heart's desire. + + If you meet this maid of a hopeless love, + Play not a meddler's part. + Silence were best; let her keep in her breast + The dream of her hungry heart." + +[_Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, treble +knock comes on the door; PIERRETTE looks up wonderingly. Again the +knock sounds._] + +PIERRETTE. Come in. [_The door swings slowly open, as though of its +own accord, and without, on the threshold, is seen THE MANUFACTURER, +standing full in the moonlight. He is a curious, though +kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all his years, he does not +appear to be the least infirm. He is the sort of person that children +take to instinctively. He wears a quaintly cut, bottle-green coat, +with silver buttons and large side-pockets, which almost hide his +knee-breeches. His shoes have large buckles and red heels. He is +exceedingly unlike a prosperous manufacturer, and, but for the absence +of a violin, would be mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word +he advances into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door +closes noiselessly behind him._] + +PIERRETTE [_jumping up and moving towards him_]. Oh, I'm so sorry. I +ought to have opened the door when you knocked. + +MANUFACTURER. That's all right. I'm used to opening doors. And yours +opens much more easily than some I come across. Would you believe it, +some people positively nail their doors up, and it's no good knocking. +But there, you're wondering who I am. + +PIERRETTE. I was wondering if you were hungry. + +MANUFACTURER. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, no. I am a small +eater; I might say a very small eater. A smile or a squeeze of the +hand keeps me going admirably. + +PIERRETTE. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at home. + +MANUFACTURER [_moving to the settle_]. Well, I have a habit of making +myself at home everywhere. In fact, most people think you can't make a +_home_ without _me_. May I put my feet on the fender? It's an old +habit of mine. I always do it. + +PIERRETTE. They say round here: + + "Without feet on the fender + Love is but slender." + +MANUFACTURER. Quite right. It is the whole secret of the domestic +fireside. Pierrette, you have been crying. + +PIERRETTE. I believe I have. + +MANUFACTURER. Bless you, I know all about it. It's Pierrot. And so +you're in love with him, and he doesn't care a little bit about you, +eh? What a strange old world it is! And you cry your eyes out over +him. + +PIERRETTE. Oh, no, I don't often cry. But to-night he seemed more +grumpy than usual, and I tried so hard to cheer him up. + +MANUFACTURER. Grumpy, is he? + +PIERRETTE. He doesn't mean it, though. It's the cold weather, and the +show hasn't been paying so well lately. Pierrot wants to write an +article about us for the local paper by way of an advertisement. He +thinks the editor may print it if he gives him free passes for his +family. + +MANUFACTURER. Do you think Pierrot is worth your tears? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, yes! + +MANUFACTURER. You know, tears are not to be wasted. We only have a +certain amount of them given to us just for keeping the heart moist. +And when we've used them all up and haven't any more, the heart dries +up, too. + +PIERRETTE. Pierrot is a splendid fellow. You don't know him as well as +I do. It's true he's always discontented, but it's only because he's +not in love with anyone. You know, love does make a tremendous +difference in a man. + +MANUFACTURER. That's true enough. And has it made a difference in you? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, yes! I put Pierrot's slippers down to warm, and I make +tea for him, and all the time I'm happy because I'm doing something +for him. If I weren't in love, I should find it a drudgery. + +MANUFACTURER. Are you sure it's real love? + +PIERRETTE. Why, yes! + +MANUFACTURER. Every time you think of Pierrot, do you hear the patter +of little bare feet? And every time he speaks, do you feel little +chubby hands on your breast and face? + +PIERRETTE [_fervently_]. Yes! Oh, yes! That's just it! + +MANUFACTURER. You've got it right enough. But why is it that Pierrot +can wake up all this poetry in you? + +PIERRETTE. Because--oh, because he's just Pierrot. + +MANUFACTURER. "Because he's just Pierrot." The same old reason. + +PIERRETTE. Of course, he is a bit dreamy. But that's his soul. I am +sure he could do great things if he tried. And have you noticed his +smile? Isn't it lovely! Sometimes, when he's not looking, I want ever +so much to try it on, just to see how I should look in it. +[_Pensively._] But I wish he'd smile at me a little more often, +instead of at others. + +MANUFACTURER. Ho! So he smiles at others, does he? + +PIERRETTE. Hardly a day goes by but there's some fine lady at the +show. There was one there to-day, a tall girl with red cheeks. He is +gone to look for her now. And it is not their faults. The poor things +can't help being in love with him. [_Proudly._] I believe everyone is +in love with Pierrot. + +MANUFACTURER. But supposing one of these fine ladies were to marry +him? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, they'd never do that. A fine lady would never marry a +poor singer. If Pierrot were to get married, I think I should just ... +fade away.... Oh, but I don't know why I talk to you like this. I feel +as if I had known you for a long, long time. [_THE MANUFACTURER rises +from the settle and moves across to PIERRETTE, who is now folding up +the white table-cloth._] + +MANUFACTURER [_very slowly_]. Perhaps you _have_ known me for a long, +long time. [_His tone is so kindly and impressive that PIERRETTE +forgets the table-cloth and looks up at him. For a moment or two he +smiles back at her as she gazes, spellbound; then he turns away to the +fire again, with the little chuckle that is never far from his lips._] + +PIERRETTE [_taking a small bow from his side-pocket_]. Oh, look at +this. + +MANUFACTURER [_in mock alarm_]. Oh, oh, I didn't mean you to see that. +I'd forgotten it was sticking out of my pocket. I used to do a lot of +archery at one time. I don't get much chance now. [_He takes it and +puts it back in his pocket._] + +PIERROT [_singing in the distance_]. + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She is drawing the sea in her net; + And mellow and musical June + Is teaching the rose to forget." + +MANUFACTURER [_in a whisper as the voice draws nearer_]. Who is that? + +PIERRETTE. Pierrot. [_Again the conical white hat flashes past the +window and PIERROT enters._] + +PIERROT. I can't find her anywhere. [_Seeing THE MANUFACTURER._] +Hullo! Who are you? + +MANUFACTURER. I am a stranger to you, but Pierrette knew me in a +moment. + +PIERROT. An old flame perhaps? + +MANUFACTURER. True, I am an old flame. I've lighted up the world for a +considerable time. Yet when you say "old," there are many people who +think I'm wonderfully well preserved for my age. How long do you think +I've been trotting about? + +PIERROT [_testily, measuring a length with his hands_]. Oh, about that +long. + +MANUFACTURER. I suppose being funny all day _does_ get on your nerves. + +PIERRETTE. Pierrot, you needn't be rude. + +MANUFACTURER [_anxious to be alone with PIERROT_]. Pierrette, have you +got supper in? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, I must fly! The shops will all be shut. Will you be +here when I come back? + +MANUFACTURER [_bustling her out_]. I can't promise, but I'll try, I'll +try. [_PIERRETTE goes out. There is a silence, during which THE +MANUFACTURER regards PIERROT with amusement._] + +MANUFACTURER. Well, friend Pierrot, so business is not very brisk. + +PIERROT. Brisk! If laughter meant business, it would be brisk enough, +but there's no money. However, I've done one good piece of work +to-day. I've arranged with the editor to put an article in the paper. +That will fetch 'em. [_Singing_]: + + "Please come one day and see our house that's down among the trees, + But do not come at four o'clock for then we count the bees, + And bath the tadpoles and the frogs, who splash the clouds with gold, + And watch the new-cut cucum_bers_ perspiring with the cold." + +That's a song I'm writing. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, if you had all the money in the world you +wouldn't be happy. + +PIERROT. Wouldn't I? Give me all the money in the world and I'll risk +it. To start with, I'd build schools to educate the people up to +high-class things. + +MANUFACTURER. You dream of fame and wealth and empty ideals, and you +miss all the best things there are. You are discontented. Why? Because +you don't know how to be happy. + +PIERROT [_reciting_]: + + "Life's a running brooklet, + Catch the fishes there, + You who wrote a booklet + On a woman's hair." + +[_Explaining._] That's another song I'm writing. It's the second +verse. Things come to me all of a sudden like that. I must run out a +third verse, just to wind it up. + +MANUFACTURER. Why don't you write a song without any end, one that +goes on for ever? + +PIERROT. I say, that's rather silly, isn't it? + +MANUFACTURER. It all depends. For a song of that sort the singer must +be always happy. + +PIERROT. That wants a bit of doing in my line. + +MANUFACTURER. Shall you and I transact a little business? + +PIERROT. By all means. What seats would you like? There are the front +rows covered in velvet, one shilling; wooden benches behind, sixpence; +and, right at the back, the twopenny part. But, of course, you'll have +shilling ones. How many shall we say? + +MANUFACTURER. You don't know who I am. + +PIERROT. That makes no difference. All are welcome, and we thank you +for your courteous attention. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, I am a maker of dreams. + +PIERROT. A what? + +MANUFACTURER. I make all the dreams that float about this musty world. + +PIERROT. I say, you'd better have a rest for a bit. I expect you're a +trifle done up. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't tumble to my +calling. A child or one of the "people" would in a moment. I am a +maker of dreams, little things that glide about into people's hearts +and make them glad. Haven't you often wondered where the swallows go +to in the autumn? They come to my workshop, and tell me who wants a +dream, and what happened to the dreams they took with them in the +spring. + +PIERROT. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that. + +MANUFACTURER. When flowers fade, have you never wondered where their +colors go to, or what becomes of all the butterflies in the winter? +There isn't much winter about my workshop. + +PIERROT. I had never thought of it before. + +MANUFACTURER. It's a kind of lost property office, where every +beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its way. And there +I make my celebrated dream, the dream that is called "love." + +PIERROT. Ho! ho! Now we're talking. + +MANUFACTURER. You don't believe in it? + +PIERROT. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't last. If there +is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is soul, there isn't form. +Oh, I've tried hard enough to believe it, but, after the first wash, +the colors run. + +MANUFACTURER. You only got hold of a substitute. Wait until you see +the genuine article. + +PIERROT. But how is one to tell it? + +MANUFACTURER. There are heaps of signs. As soon as you get the real +thing, your shoulder-blades begin to tingle. That's love's wings +sprouting. And, next, you want to soar up among the stars and sit on +the roof of heaven and sing to the moon. Of course, that's because I +put such a lot of the moon into my dreams. I break bits off until it's +nearly all gone, and then I let it grow big again. It grows very +quickly, as I dare say you've noticed. After a fortnight it is ready +for use once more. + +PIERROT. This is most awfully fascinating. And do the swallows bring +all the dreams? + +MANUFACTURER. Not always; I have other messengers. Every night when +the big clock strikes twelve, a day slips down from the calendar, and +runs away to my workshop in the Land of Long Ago. I give him a touch +of scarlet and a gleam of gold, and say, "Go back, little Yesterday, +and be a memory in the world." But my best dreams I keep for to-day. I +buy babies, and fit them up with a dream, and then send them complete +and carriage paid ... in the usual manner. + +PIERROT. I've been dreaming all my life, but they've always been +dreams I made myself. I suppose I don't mix 'em properly. + +MANUFACTURER. You leave out the very essence of them. You must put in +a little sorrow, just to take away the over-sweetness. I found that +out very soon, so I took a little of the fresh dew that made pearls in +the early morning, and I sprinkled my dreams with the gift of tears. + +PIERROT [_ecstatically_]. The gift of tears! How beautiful! You know, +I should rather like to try a real one. Not one of my own making. + +MANUFACTURER. Well, there are plenty about, if you only look for them. + +PIERROT. That is all very well, but who's going to look about for +stray dreams? + +MANUFACTURER. I once made a dream that would just suit you. I slipped +it inside a baby. That was twenty years ago, and the baby is now a +full-grown woman, with great blue eyes and fair hair. + +PIERROT. It's a lot of use merely telling me about her. + +MANUFACTURER. I'll do more. When I shipped her to the world, I kept +the bill of lading. Here it is. You shall have it. + +PIERROT. Thanks, but what's the good of it? + +MANUFACTURER. Why, the holder of that is able to claim the goods; you +will notice it contains a complete description, too. I promise you, +you're in luck. + +PIERROT. Has she red cheeks and a string of great beads? + +MANUFACTURER. No. + +PIERROT. Ah, then it is not she. Where shall I find her? + +MANUFACTURER. That's for you to discover. All you have to do is to +search. + +PIERROT. I'll start at once. [_He moves as if to go._] + +MANUFACTURER. I shouldn't start out to-night. + +PIERROT. But I want to find her soon. Somebody else may find her +before me. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, there was once a man who wanted to gather +mushrooms. + +PIERROT [_annoyed at the commonplace_]. Mushrooms! + +MANUFACTURER. Fearing people would be up before him, he started out +overnight. Morning came, and he found none, so he returned +disconsolate to his house. As he came through the garden, he found a +great mushroom had grown up in the night by his very door-step. Take +the advice of one who knows, and wait a bit. + +PIERROT. If that's your advice.... But tell me this, do you think I +shall find her? + +MANUFACTURER. I can't say for certain. Would you consider yourself a +fool? + +PIERROT. Ah ... of course ... when you ask me a direct thing like +that, you make it ... er ... rather awkward for me. But, if I may say +so, as man to ma ... I mean as man to ... [_he hesitates_]. + +MANUFACTURER [_waiving the point_]. Yes, yes. + +PIERROT. Well, I flatter myself that ... + +MANUFACTURER. Exactly. And that's your principal danger. Whilst you +are striding along gazing at the stars, you may be treading on a +little glow-worm. Shall I give you a third verse for your song? + + "Life's a woman calling, + Do not stop your ears, + Lest, when night is falling, + Darkness brings you tears." + +[_THE MANUFACTURER'S kindly and impressive tone holds PIERROT as it +had held PIERRETTE some moments before. Whilst the two are looking at +each other, a little red cloak dances past the window, and PIERRETTE +enters with her marketing._] + +PIERRETTE. Oh, I'm so glad you're still here. + +MANUFACTURER. But I must be going now. I am a great traveler. + +PIERRETTE [_standing against the door, so that he cannot pass_]. Oh, +you mustn't go yet. + +MANUFACTURER. Don't make me fly out of the window. I only do that +under very unpleasant circumstances. + +PIERROT [_gaily, with mock eloquence_]. Pierrette, regard our visitor. +You little knew whom you were entertaining. You see before you the +maker of the dreams that slip about the world like little fish among +the rushes of a stream. He has given me the bill of lading of his +great masterpiece, and it only remains for me to find her. [_Dropping +to the commonplace._] I wish I knew where to look. + +MANUFACTURER. Before I go, I will give you this little rhyme: + + "Let every woman keep a school, + For every man is born a fool." + +[_He bows, and goes out quickly and silently._] + +PIERRETTE [_running to the door, and looking out_]. Why, how quickly +he has gone! He's out of sight. + +PIERROT. At last I am about to attain my great ideal. There will be a +grand wedding, and I shall wear my white coat with the silver braid, +and carry a tall gold-topped stick. [_Singing:_] + + "If we play any longer, I fear you will get + Such a cold in the head, for the grass is so wet. + But during the night, Margareta divine, + I will hang the wet grass up to dry on the line." + +Pierrette, I feel that I am about to enter into a man's inheritance, a +woman's love. + +PIERRETTE. I wish you every happiness. + +PIERROT [_singing teasingly:_] + + "We shall meet in our dreams, that's a thing understood; + You dream of the river, I'll dream of the wood. + I am visiting you, if the river it be; + If we meet in the wood, you are visiting me." + +PIERRETTE. We must make lots of money, so that you can give her all +she wants. I'll dance and dance until I fall, and the people will +exclaim, "Why, she has danced herself to death." + +PIERROT. You're right. We must pull the show together. I'll do that +article for the paper at once. [_He takes paper, ink, etc., from the +dresser, and, seating himself at the table, commences to write._] +"There has lately come to this town a company of strolling players, +who give a show that is at once musical and droll. The audience is +enthralled by Pierrot's magnificent singing and dancing, and ... er +... very much entertained by Pierrette's homely dancing. Pierrette is +a charming comedienne of twenty, with ..." what color hair? + +PIERRETTE. Fair, quite fair. + +PIERROT. Funny how one can see a person every day and not know the +color of their hair. "Fair hair and ..." eyes? + +PIERRETTE. Blue, Pierrot. + +PIERROT. "Fair hair and blue eyes." Fair! Blue! Oh, of course it's +nonsense, though. + +PIERRETTE. What's nonsense? + +PIERROT. Something I was thinking. Most girls have fair hair and blue +eyes. + +PIERRETTE. Yes, Pierrot, we can't all be ideals. + +PIERROT. How musical your voice sounds! I can't make it out. Oh, but, +of course, it is all nonsense! [_He takes the bill of lading from his +pocket and reads it._] + +PIERRETTE. What's nonsense?... Pierrot, won't you tell me? + +PIERROT. Pierrette, stand in the light. + +PIERRETTE. Is anything the matter? + +PIERROT. I almost believe that nothing matters. [_Reading and glancing +at her._] "Eyes that say 'I love you'; arms that say 'I want you'; +lips that say 'Why don't you?'" Pierrette, is it possible! I've never +noticed before how beautiful you are. You don't seem a bit the same. I +believe you have lost your real face, and have carved another out of a +rose. + +PIERRETTE. Oh, Pierrot, what is it? + +PIERROT. Love! I've found it at last. Don't you understand it all? + + "I am a fool + Who has learned wisdom in your school." + +To think that I've seen you every day, and never dreamed ... dreamed! +Yes, ah yes, it's one of his beautiful dreams. That is why my heart +seems full of the early morning. + +PIERRETTE. Ah, Pierrot! + +PIERROT. Oh, how my shoulders tingle! I want to soar up, up. Don't you +want to fly up to the roof of heaven and sing among the stars? + +PIERRETTE. I have been sitting on the moon ever so long, waiting for +my lover. Pierrot, let me try on your smile. Give it to me in a kiss. +[_With their hands outstretched behind them, they lean towards each +other, till their lips meet in a long kiss._] + +PIERRETTE [_throwing back her head with a deep sigh of happiness._] +Oh, I am so happy. This might be the end of all things. + +PIERROT. Pierrette, let us sit by the fire and put our feet on the +fender, and live happily ever after. [_They have moved slowly to the +settle. As they sit there, PIERROT sings softly:_] + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + The stairs of the sky are so steep; + And mellow and musical June + Is waiting to kiss you to sleep." + +[_The lamp on the hood of the chimney-piece has burned down, leaving +only the red glow from the fire upon their faces, as the curtain +whispers down to hide them._] + + + + +GETTYSBURG[31] + +_A WOOD-SHED COMMENTARY_ + +By PERCY MACKAYE + + [Footnote 31: Copyright, 1912, 1921, by Percy MacKaye. All + rights reserved. + + SPECIAL NOTICE + + This play in its printed form is designed for the reading + public only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by + copyright, in the United States, Great Britain, and all + countries subscribing to the Berne Convention. NO PUBLIC OR + PRIVATE PERFORMANCE--PROFESSIONAL OR AMATEUR--MAY BE GIVEN + WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR AND THE PAYMENT + OF ROYALTY. As the courts have also ruled that the PUBLIC + READING of a play, for pay or where tickets are sold, + constitutes a "PERFORMANCE," no such reading may be given + except under conditions above stated. + + Anyone disregarding the author's rights renders himself + liable to prosecution. PERSONS WHO DESIRE PERMISSION TO GIVE + PERFORMANCES OR PUBLIC READINGS OF THIS PLAY SHOULD + COMMUNICATE DIRECT WITH THE AUTHOR, AT HIS ADDRESS, HARVARD + CLUB, 27 WEST 44 STREET, NEW YORK CITY.] + + +Percy MacKaye was born in New York, March 16, 1875, the son of Steele +MacKaye, a well-known dramatist and theatrical inventor of his day. +"My own early dramatic training," writes the son, "was in the theatre +in relation with my father's work there as dramatist, actor, and +director." In another place he says: "I have not sought to conceal, or +to put aside, the grateful enthusiasm I feel, as a son and comrade of +Steele MacKaye, for those examples of untiring devotion to the theatre +and of constructive achievement in its art, by which his life has been +an inspiration to my own, to follow--however haltingly and through +different means--the trail of his large leadership." Percy MacKaye was +graduated from Harvard in 1897 and later spent a year studying at the +University of Leipzig. After travel abroad, he returned to New York in +1900 and taught there in a private school till 1904. He spent some +time in the next five years lecturing on the Drama of Democracy and +the Civic Theatre at various American universities. In 1904 he joined +the colony of artists and men of letters at Cornish, New Hampshire, +the home of Saint-Gaudens, Maxfield Parrish, Winston Churchill, and +others. Since that date Percy MacKaye has devoted himself wholly to +poetry and the drama, writing community masques, plays of various +kinds, and operas.[32] It is interesting to note that one of the +latest products of his pen, _Washington, the Man Who Made Us, A Ballad +Play_, was translated into French and presented by M. Copeau's +players, at the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier, during their second season +in New York, and later acted in English by Walter Hampden, the scene +designs being made by Robert Edmond Jones. In October, 1920, he was +invited to Miami University, Oxford, Ohio, not to teach but to +continue his own creative work, quite untrammeled, filling there the +first fellowship in creative literature ever established in this +country. + + [Footnote 32: A list of his works is given in the latest + _Who's Who in America_.] + +_Yankee Fantasies_, a collection of five one-act plays of which +_Gettysburg_ is one, is the expression of Percy MacKaye's belief that +the American dramatist may find "north of Boston," or, in fact, in +almost any rural neighborhood, material for "quaint and lovely +interpretation of our native environment now ignored." These plays, +published in 1912, testified also to his conviction that the time had +come for the development of the one-act play in this country, not only +because this form is distinctive and capable of expressing what the +full-length play cannot, but also because a receptive audience was +already organized. He found even then that amateurs in schools, +colleges, and elsewhere were clamoring to perform one-act plays, to +see them performed, and to read them. At that date Little Theatres +were just beginning to be, but in the preface to _Yankee Fantasies_, +the author advocated the establishment of Studio Theatres, in essence +experimental, many of which have since come into existence under +different names, wherein playwrights might practice the new craft of +the one-act play as in a workshop. The one-act play may be said to +have arrived in the nine years that have elapsed since _Gettysburg_ +was published. + +The one-act play has shown no tendency, however, to rival the +short-story in the matter of local color. Kentucky, California, Iowa, +Louisiana, to name but a few of the favored states which have served +as rich backgrounds for many finely flavored narratives of American +life, have been neglected as sources of dramatic material. But though +Percy MacKaye may perhaps be matched with Mary Wilkins, there is no +writer who has made notable use in the one-act play of localities, +associated, for example, with the art of George W. Cable, Bret Harte, +James Lane Allen, or Hamlin Garland. One of the paths of glory for the +American dramatist lies undoubtedly in this direction. + + + + +GETTYSBURG + + +CHARACTERS + + LINK TADBOURNE, _ox-yoke maker_. + POLLY, _his grandniece_. + + +_The Place is country New Hampshire, at the present time._ + +_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 stove-wood and +kindlings mixed with small chips on the floor, which is piled deep +with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust._ + +_Not far from this mounded pile, at right center of the scene, stands +a wooden arm-chair, 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 +mustache 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.[33]_ + + [Footnote 33: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of + these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field + annexed to the volume by Capt. R. K. Beecham, entitled + _Gettysburg_, A. C. McClurg, 1911.] + +_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._ + + + 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 further 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 'tis, so 'tis. + Roger, your young man--ha! [_Chuckling._] He come and axed me + was I agoin' 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_]. + School-master, 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 pictur's out, and prayed to them + 'most more 'n the Allmighty. + +[_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 [_points 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._] + + Goda'mighty! + that Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter + than any pancake what you ever cooked, + Polly; and 't wan'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, 'tain'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 jacko'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 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 + ablowin' _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 smoldering 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.--Goda'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-mold'rin' in the grave, + John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave, + John Brown's body lies a-mold'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!" + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +WURZEL-FLUMMERY[34] + +_A COMEDY IN ONE ACT_ + +By A. A. MILNE + + [Footnote 34: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned + that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws + of the United States, and no one is allowed to produce this + play without first having obtained permission of Samuel + French, 28 West 28 Street, New York.] + + +Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882. He was a student at +Westminster School, the library of which is familiar ground to every +reader of Irving's _Sketch Book_. From there he proceeded to Trinity +College, Cambridge. On his graduation, he went into journalism in +London. He was assistant editor of _Punch_ from 1906 to 1914. During +the War he was a lieutenant in the Fourth Royal Warwickshire Regiment. +In the introduction to his volume of _First Plays_, in which +_Wurzel-Flummery_ appears, he gives the following whimsical account of +his career as a dramatist: "These five plays [_The Lucky One_, _The +Boy Comes Home_, _Belinda_, _The Red Feather_, _Wurzel-Flummery_] were +written in the order in which they appear now, during the years 1916 +and 1917. They would hardly have been written had it not been for the +War, although only one of them is concerned with that subject. To his +other responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume. + +"For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but the +recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing is a +luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more expensive +in time and money. When an article is written, the financial reward +(and we may as well live as not) is a matter of certainty. A novelist, +too, even if he is not in 'the front rank'--but I never heard of one +who wasn't--can at least be sure of publication. But when a play is +written, there is no certainty of anything save disillusionment. + +"To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a +depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the morning. +I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I could not +afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the case was +altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was soldiering, and my +spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf; +that was one way of amusing oneself. Another way was--why not?--to +write plays. + +"So we began with _Wurzel-Flummery_. I say 'we,' because another is +mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She +wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out for +a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one could +smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it was to +discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in the next. We +did not estimate the money or publicity which might come from this new +venture; there has never been any serious thought of making money by +my bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when I am trying to play +golf. But secretly, of course, we hoped. It was that which made it so +much more exciting than any other game. + +"Our hopes were realized to the following extent: + +"Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New +Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in +which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of +1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I cut +it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut +thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on +the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination. It appeared, +therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic embarrassed us by saying +that a lesser artist would have written it in three acts, and most of +the other critics annoyed us by saying that a greater artist would +have written it in one act. However, I amused myself some months later +by slaying another character--the office-boy, no less--thereby getting +it down to one act, and was surprised to find that the one-act version +was, after all, the best.... At least, I think it is.... At any rate, +that is the version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am +rather tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to +wonder if anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all. +Possibly the whole thing is an invention." + +_Wurzel-Flummery_ was first produced in this country at the Arts and +Crafts Theatre in Detroit; recently it was acted again by The Players +of St. Louis. + + + + +WURZEL-FLUMMERY + + +CHARACTERS + + ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P. + MARGARET CRAWSHAW (_his wife_). + VIOLA CRAWSHAW (_his daughter_). + RICHARD MERITON, M.P. + DENIS CLIFTON. + + +_SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW's town house. Morning._ + +_It is a June day before the War in the morning-room of ROBERT +CRAWSHAW's town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, +our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender +round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out +at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is +sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to +catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out the +comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the +middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid +knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference, +and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The +rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we +must leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the +sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five, +has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed +suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands +over her eyes._ + + +RICHARD. Three guesses who it is. + +VIOLA [_putting her hands over his_]. The Archbishop of Canterbury. + +RICHARD. No. + +VIOLA. The Archbishop of York. + +RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your +last guess. + +VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P. + +RICHARD. Wonderful! [_He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes +round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the +fireplace._] How did you know? [_He begins to fill a pipe._] + +VIOLA [_smiling_]. Well, it couldn't have been father. + +RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway. +Anything in the paper? + +VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that ---- + +RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out. + +VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print. + +RICHARD. It would be. + +VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick. + +RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear. + +VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as +father. + +RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that +before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference? + +VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other +day. + +RICHARD. No, I don't, really. + +VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equaled by +your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it +doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law. + +RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke +to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it. + +VIOLA. Of course not. + +RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really. + +VIOLA. Then why does he say it? + +RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole +structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say +things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very +good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't +take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it was awfully good of +him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up. +[_Seriously._] I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last +week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"--the girl +I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; and now--oh, why won't +you let me tell your father? I hate it like this. + +VIOLA. Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would, +as they say in novels, show you the door. [_Smiling._] And I want you +this side of the door for a little bit longer. + +RICHARD [_firmly_]. I shall tell him before I go. + +VIOLA [_pleadingly_]. But not till then; that gives us two more days. +You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. +You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates poor +people. + +RICHARD [_viciously_]. Damn money! + +VIOLA [_thoughtfully_]. I think that's what father means by spiritual +instability. + +RICHARD. Viola! [_He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes +to him and_--] Oh, Lord, look out! + +VIOLA [_reaching across to the mantelpiece_]. Matches? + +RICHARD. Thanks very much. [_He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW +comes in. CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed mustache and +whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly +style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him +look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which +he undoubtedly is._] + +CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last? + +RICHARD. Good-morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at +breakfasts? + +CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother? + +VIOLA [_making for the door_]. I don't know, father; do you want her? + +CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her. + +VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [_She goes out. RICHARD picks up "The +Times" and sits down again._] + +CRAWSHAW [_sitting down in a business-like way at his desk_]. Richard, +why don't you get something to do? + +RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast. + +CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--work +in the House. + +RICHARD [_a trifle cool_]. I have something to do. + +CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a +directorship or something in the City. + +RICHARD. I hate the City. + +CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance +to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke. + +RICHARD [_dryly_]. Yes, so Viola was telling me. + +CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing +personal. [_Clearing his throat._] It is justly one of the proudest +boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed +to interfere with his private friendships. + +RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day. + +_Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for +twenty-five years, the last twenty-four years from habit. She is +small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a +dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear._ + +MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all +right. + +RICHARD. Excellent, thank you. + +MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert? + +CRAWSHAW [_obviously uncomfortable_]. +Yes--er--h'r'm--Richard--er--what are your--er--plans? + +RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw? + +MARGARET. Of course not. [_To ROBERT._] Are you, dear? + +CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can +leave Richard here with the paper. + +RICHARD. No, no; I'm going. + +CRAWSHAW [_going to the door with him_]. I have some particular +business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult +you in the matter afterwards. + +RICHARD. Right. [_He goes out._ ] + +CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for you. + +MARGARET [_sitting down_]. Yes, Robert? + +CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. [_He reads it._] "199, +Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that +under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to +the extent of £50,000." + +MARGARET. Robert! + +CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you +should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." + +MARGARET. Robert! + +CRAWSHAW. "I have the honor to be, your obedient servant, Denis +Clifton." [_He folds the letter up and puts it away._] + +MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the +money? + +CRAWSHAW [_calmly_]. I have not the slightest idea, Margaret. +Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis +Clifton to come and see me. + +MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy! + +CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery! + +MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what +about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more +central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so +much more--more Cabinety. + +CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street--I don't +know what _that_ sounds like. + +MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear. They +can't really expect us to change our name to--Wurzley-Fothergill. + +CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery. + +MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk the +solicitor round--this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't matter +to _him_ what we call ourselves. Write him one of your letters, dear. + +CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret. + +MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.--Mr.-- + +CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton. + +MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with the +name of Wurzley-Fothergill-- + +CRAWSHAW. Wurzel--oh, well, never mind. + +MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the +fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too absurd, +when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect you to call +yourself Wurzley-Fothergill. + +CRAWSHAW [_impatiently_]. Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr. Clifton +has left me the money on _condition_ that I change my name. If I don't +take the name, I don't take the money. + +MARGARET. But is that legal? + +CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on +succeeding to some property. + +MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you +changed it to Talbot. + +CRAWSHAW [_to himself_]. Wurzel-Flummery! + +MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it was +very nice of him, but if you didn't know him--Why do you think he did, +dear? + +CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he +had--ah--followed my career, and was--ah--interested in it, and being +a man with no relations, felt that he could--ah--safely leave this +money to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or +the name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the +name--ah--perpetuated, perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the +history of our country, and--ah--made this will accordingly. In a way +it is a kind of--ah--sacred trust. + +MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear? + +CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think +about, my duty to my country. + +MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't +it? + +CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view of +riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is +entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money +thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly as anybody. + +MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we _could_ have that second car +and the house in Curzon Street? + +CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly +invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the +income-tax--and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just +now-- + +MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery +it would count as _earned_ income. + +CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even if +it is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in +recognition of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But +Parliament takes a different view. I do not for a moment say that +fifty thousand pounds would not be welcome. Fifty thousand pounds is +certainly not to be sneezed at-- + +MARGARET. I should think not, indeed! + +CRAWSHAW [_unconsciously rising from his chair_]. And without this +preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this +trust, and I would endeavor, Mr. Speaker--[_He sits down again +suddenly._] I would endeavor, Margaret, to carry it out to the best of +my poor ability. But--Wurzel-Flummery! + +MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used to +the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five years. +It is surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only signed my +name Margaret Debenham once after I was married. + +CRAWSHAW [_kindly_]. The cases are rather different, Margaret. +Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day when +she will change her name, cannot have this feeling for the--ah--honor +of his name, which every man--ah--feels. Such a feeling is naturally +more present in my own case since I have been privileged to make the +name of Crawshaw in some degree--ah--well-known, I might almost say +famous. + +MARGARET [_wistfully_]. I used to be called "the beautiful Miss +Debenham of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of +course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw. + +CRAWSHAW [_getting up and walking over to the fireplace_]. In a way it +would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in politics +to get your name before the public. "Whoever is this man +Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say. + +MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty thousand +pounds is fifty thousand pounds. + +CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it. +But--well, all I say is that a _gentleman_ would have left it without +any conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed his _wish_ +that I should take the name, without going so far as to enforce it. +Then I could have looked at the matter all round in an impartial +spirit. + +MARGARET [_pursuing her thoughts_]. The linen is marked R. M. C. now. +Of course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F. +would do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.? + +CRAWSHAW. What? Oh--yes, there will be a good deal of that to attend +to. [_Going up to her._] I think, Margaret, I had better talk to +Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the money, +but--well, I should like to have his opinion. + +MARGARET [_getting up_]. Do you think he would be very sympathetic, +dear? He makes jokes about serious things--like bishops and +hunting--just as if they weren't at all serious. + +CRAWSHAW. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new--ah--point of +view. I do not hold myself in the least bound to act on anything he +says. I regard him as a constituent, Margaret. + +MARGARET. Then I will send him to you. + +CRAWSHAW [_putting his hands on her shoulders_]. Margaret, what do you +really feel about it? + +MARGARET. Just whatever _you_ feel, Robert. + +CRAWSHAW [_kissing her_]. Thank you, Margaret; you are a good wife to +me. [_She goes out. CRAWSHAW goes to his desk and selects a "Who's +Who" from a little pile of reference-books on it. He walks round to +his chair, sits down in it and begins to turn the pages, murmuring +names beginning with "C" to himself as he gets near the place. When he +finds it, he murmurs "Clifton--that's funny" and closes the book. +Evidently the publishers have failed him._] + +_Enter RICHARD._ + +RICHARD. Well, what's the news? [_He goes to his old seat on the +fender._] Been left a fortune? + +CRAWSHAW [_simply_]. Yes.... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. I never met him +and I know nothing about him. + +RICHARD [_surprised_]. Not really? Well, I congratulate you. [_He +sighs._] To them that hath--But what on earth do you want my advice +about? + +CRAWSHAW. There is a slight condition attached. + +RICHARD. Oho! + +CRAWSHAW. The condition is that with this money--fifty thousand +pounds--I take the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery. + +RICHARD [_jumping up_]. What! + +CRAWSHAW [_sulkily_]. I said it quite distinctly--Wurzel-Flummery. +[_RICHARD in an awed silence walks over to the desk and stands looking +down at the unhappy CRAWSHAW. He throws out his left hand as if +introducing him._] + +RICHARD [_reverently_]. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., one of the +most prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. Oh, you ... oh!... oh, +how too heavenly! [_He goes back to his seat, looks up and catches +CRAWSHAW's eye, and breaks down altogether._] + +CRAWSHAW [_rising with dignity_]. Shall we discuss it seriously, or +shall we leave it? + +RICHARD. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery seriously? +"Mr. Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen words seconded the motion." +... "'Sir,' went on Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"--Oh, poor Robert! + +CRAWSHAW [_sitting down sulkily_]. You seem quite certain that I shall +take the money. + +RICHARD. I am quite certain. + +CRAWSHAW. Would _you_ take it? + +RICHARD [_hesitating_]. Well--I wonder. + +CRAWSHAW. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's in a name?" + +RICHARD. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare--_William_ +Shakespeare--said. [_Dramatically rising._] Who steals my purse with +fifty thousand in it--steals trash. [_In his natural voice._] Trash, +Robert. [_Dramatically again._] But he who filches from me my good +name of Crawshaw [_lightly_] and substitutes the rotten one of +Wurzel-- + +CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery is a very +good old name. I seem to remember some--ah--Hampshire Wurzel-Flummeries. +It is a very laudable spirit on the part of a dying man to wish +to--ah--perpetuate these old English names. It all seems to me quite +natural and straightforward. If I take this money I shall have nothing +to be ashamed of. + +RICHARD. I see.... Look here, may I ask you a few questions? I should +like to know just how you feel about the whole business? + +CRAWSHAW [_complacently folding his hands_]. Go ahead. + +RICHARD. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you and said, "My +poor man, here's five pounds for you," what would you do? Tell him to +go to the devil, I suppose, wouldn't you? + +CRAWSHAW [_humorously_]. In more parliamentary language, perhaps, +Richard. I should tell him I never took money from strangers. + +RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you would +take it? + +CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't. + +RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, _then_ you would? + +CRAWSHAW [_blandly_]. Ah, I thought you were leading up to that. That, +of course, is entirely different. + +RICHARD. Why? + +CRAWSHAW. Well--ah--wouldn't _you_ take ten thousand pounds if it were +left to you by a stranger? + +RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would +seem different. + +CRAWSHAW [_professionally_]. Ha--hum! Well--in the first place, when a +man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be certain +that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot spare. And +in the next place, it is the man's dying wish that you should have the +money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To accept becomes almost +a sacred duty. + +RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it from +him when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently refuse +him a little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter a damn to +him what happens to his money after he's dead, and therefore you can +take it without feeling any gratitude at all. + +CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that. + +RICHARD [_smiling_]. I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert. + +CRAWSHAW. No doubt you can twist it about so that-- + +RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point. +Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your hair +down the middle, shave off your mustache, and wear only one +whisker--if he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike your +appearance, took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and alter +yourself--of course you'd pocket the money and go straight to your +barber's? + +CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive. + +RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left you +five pounds in his will?--well, then twenty pounds?--a hundred +pounds?--a thousand pounds?--fifty thousand pounds?--[_Jumping up +excitedly._] It's only a question of price--fifty thousand pounds, +Robert--a pink tie with purple spots, hair parted across the back, +trousers with a patch in the seat, call myself Wurzel-Flummery--any +old thing you like, you can't insult me--anything you like, gentlemen, +for fifty thousand pounds. [_Lowering his voice._] Only you must leave +it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty--a +sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. [_He sinks back into the sofa and +relights his pipe._] + +CRAWSHAW [_rising with dignity_]. It is evidently useless to prolong +this conversation. + +RICHARD [_waving him down again_]. No, no, Robert; I've finished. I +just took the other side--and I got carried away. I ought to have been +at the Bar. + +CRAWSHAW. You take such extraordinary views of things. You must look +facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern world, and we are modern +people living in it. Take the matter-of-fact view. You may like or +dislike the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery, but you can't get away from +the fact that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at. + +RICHARD [_wistfully_]. I don't know why people shouldn't sneeze at +money sometimes. I should like to start a society for sneezing at +fifty thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in a small way, of course; +we'd begin by sneezing at five pounds--and work up.... The trouble is +that we're all inoculated in our cradles against that kind of cold. + +CRAWSHAW [_pleasantly_]. You will have your little joke. But you know +as well as I do that it is only a joke. There can be no serious reason +why I should not take this money. And I--ah--gather that you don't +think it will affect my career? + +RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get you into +all the comic papers. + +MARGARET _comes in at this moment, to the relief of CRAWSHAW, who is +not quite certain if he is being flattered or insulted again._ + +MARGARET. Well, have you told him? + +RICHARD [_making way for her on the sofa_]. I have heard the news, +Mrs. Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion that he should have +no difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery as famous as he +has already made that of Crawshaw. At any rate I hope he will. + +MARGARET. How nice of you! + +CRAWSHAW. Well, it's settled then. [_Looking at his watch._] This +solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after all, we can +manage something about--Ah, Viola, did you want your mother? + +_Enter VIOLA._ + +VIOLA. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's Richard, so it +can't be very serious. + +RICHARD. What a reputation! + +CRAWSHAW. Well, it's over now. + +MARGARET. Viola had better know, hadn't she? + +CRAWSHAW. She'll have to know some time, of course. + +VIOLA [_sitting down firmly on the sofa_]. Of course she will. So +you'd better tell her now. I knew there was something exciting going +on this morning. + +CRAWSHAW [_embarrassed_]. Hum--ha--[_To MARGARET._] Perhaps you'd +better tell her, dear. + +MARGARET [_simply and naturally_]. Father has come into some property, +Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. But your father +doesn't think it will matter. + +VIOLA. How thrilling! What is the name, mother? + +MARGARET. Your father says it is--dear me, I shall never remember it. + +CRAWSHAW [_mumbling_]. Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA [_after a pause_]. Dick, _you_ tell me, if nobody else will. + +RICHARD. Robert said it just now. + +VIOLA. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just a--do say it +again, father. + +CRAWSHAW [_sulkily but plainly_]. Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA [_surprised_]. Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel +and like flummery? + +RICHARD. Exactly, I believe. + +VIOLA [_to herself_]. Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery--I mean they'd have +to look at you, wouldn't they? [_Bubbling over._] Oh, Dick, what a +heavenly name! Who had it first? + +RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family--that is so, isn't it, +Robert? + +CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. I said I thought that I remembered--Margaret, +can you find Burke there? [_She finds it, and he buries himself in the +families of the great._] + +MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss +Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand in +front of my glass and tell myself who I am. + +RICHARD. It's all right for _you_. You know you'll change your name +one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before. + +VIOLA [_secretly_]. H'sh! [_She smiles lovingly at him, and then says +aloud._] Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage +has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery ..." and +everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl." + +MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. Have you found it, dear? + +CRAWSHAW [_resentfully_]. This is the 1912 edition. + +MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in by +then. + +VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick, what +fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman throwing +open the door and saying-- + +MAID [_announcing_]. Mr. Denis Clifton. [_There is a little natural +confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in his summer suiting with a +bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW goes towards him and shakes +hands._] + +CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. +[_Looking doubtfully at his clothes._] Er--it is Mr. Denis Clifton, +the solicitor? + +CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. It is. I must apologize for not looking the +part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very +careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me +from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions. + +CRAWSHAW [_bewildered_]. Ah yes, quite so. But you have--ah--full +legal authority to act in this matter? + +CLIFTON. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that. + +CRAWSHAW [_introducing_]. My wife--and daughter. [_CLIFTON bows +gracefully._] My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton. + +CLIFTON [_happily_]. Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a +situation, as we say in the profession. + +RICHARD [_amused by him_]. In the legal profession? + +CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession. [_Turning to MARGARET._] I am a +writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional +secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have +thanked me for submitting my work to them. + +CRAWSHAW [_firmly_]. I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the +solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony +Clifton. + +CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a +solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say +probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the +Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced +the profession of a solicitor--[_Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW._] But you +know what these official embraces are. + +MARGARET. I'm afraid--[_She turns to her husband for assistance._] + +CLIFTON [_to RICHARD_]. Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the +Muses. + +VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely? + +CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it +that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to +produce a play, the case would be different. + +CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor for +as long as you wish. [_He puts his hat down on a chair with the papers +in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily._] Mr. Denis +Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent make-up, +his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into his +hat--[_He does so._] + +MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. I think, perhaps, Viola and I-- + +RICHARD [_making a move too_]. We'll leave you to your business, +Robert. + +CLIFTON [_holding up his hand_]. Just one moment if I may. I have a +letter for you, Mr. Meriton. + +RICHARD [_surprised_]. For me? + +CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity--oh, but I said +that before--he took it round to your rooms this morning, but found +only painters and decorators there. [_He is feeling in his pockets and +now brings the letter out._] I brought it along, hoping that Mr. +Crawshaw--but of course I never expected anything so delightful as +this. [_He hands over the letter with a bow._] + +RICHARD. Thanks. [_He puts it in his pocket._] + +CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? [_To MRS. CRAWSHAW._] One +so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own letters +are read. I think the habit they have on the stage of reading letters +aloud to each other is such a very delightful one. [_RICHARD, with a +smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while CLIFTON is talking._] + +RICHARD. Good Lord! + +VIOLA. Dick, what is it? + +RICHARD [_reading_]. "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the +pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony +Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of £50,000." + +VIOLA. Dick! + +RICHARD. "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should +take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." [_CLIFTON, with his hand on his +heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them._] + +CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. Impossible! Why should he leave any money to +you? + +VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful! + +MARGARET [_mildly_]. I don't remember ever having had a morning quite +like this. + +RICHARD [_angrily_]. Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton? + +CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the +utmost-- + +RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't +even argue about it. [_Tearing the letter into bits._] That's what I +think of your money. [_He stalks indignantly from the room._] + +VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him--[_She +hurries after him._] + +MARGARET [_with dignity_]. Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you. +[_She goes out too._] + +CLIFTON [_looking round the room_]. And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are +alone. + +CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to +explain-- + +CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking +forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning +dressing for it. [_He takes papers from his hat and moves to the +sofa._] Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning. + +CRAWSHAW [_interested, indicating the papers_]. The documents in the +case? + +CLIFTON. Oh dear, no--just something to carry in the hand. It makes +one look more like a solicitor. [_Reading the title._] "Watherston v. +Towser--_in re_ Great Missenden Canal Company." My clerk invents the +titles; it keeps him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is always +coming in. [_Frankly._] You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first real +case, and I only got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My efforts +to introduce a little picturesqueness into the dull formalities of the +law do not meet with that response that one would have expected. + +CRAWSHAW [_looking at his watch_]. Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if +you could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this +money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these +extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged to you. + +CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being entirely +frank with you. It will be a pleasure. + +CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may say +that I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as I am to +accept this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr. Antony Clifton +has seen fit--[_modestly_] one cannot say why--to bequeath to me, yet +the use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be excessively awkward. + +CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. Excessively. + +CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was absolutely +essential that the name should go with the money. + +CLIFTON. Well [_thoughtfully_], you may have the name _without_ the +money if you like. But you must have the name. + +CRAWSHAW [_disappointed_]. Ah! [_Bravely._] Of course, I have nothing +against the name, a good old Hampshire name-- + +CLIFTON [_shocked_]. My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think--you +didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery +before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the +founders of the clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran-- + +CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not a +real name at all? + +CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because--er--_I_ made +it up. + +CRAWSHAW [_outraged_]. And you have the impudence to propose, sir, +that I should take a made-up name? + +CLIFTON [_soothingly_]. Well, all names are made up some time or +other. Somebody had to think of--Adam. + +CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this trifling +with serious subjects. + +CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really.... You see, my Uncle Antony was a +rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to put it in +its proper place. The place he put it in was--er--a little below golf +and a little above classical concerts. If a man said to him, "Would +you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?" he would say--well, +it would depend what he was doing. If he were going to have a round at +Walton Heath-- + +CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way. + +CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find many +to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was nothing, +however contemptible, that a man would not do for money. One day I +suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently foolish name +attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it. He laughed at +the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I said; "leave the +same silly name to two people, two well-known people, rival +politicians, say, men whose own names are already public property. +Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched him. "Denis, my boy, +you've got it," he said. "Upon what vile bodies shall we experiment?" +We decided on you and Mr. Meriton. The next thing was to choose the +name. I started on the wrong lines. I began by suggesting names like +Porker, Tosh, Bugge, Spiffkins--the obvious sort. My uncle-- + +CRAWSHAW [_boiling with indignation_]. How _dare_ you discuss me with +your uncle, sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way whether +I am to be called--ah--Tosh--or-ah--Porker! + +CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't hear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a +humorous name--a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue--a name +expressing a sort of humorous contempt--Wurzel-Flummery! I can see now +the happy ruminating smile which came so often on my Uncle Antony's +face in those latter months. He was thinking of his two +Wurzel-Flummeries. I remember him saying once--it was at the Zoo--what +a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole Cabinet. A +whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummeries; it would have been rather jolly. + +CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if _that_ was the way you and +your uncle used to talk together at the Zoo, his death can only be +described as a merciful intervention of Providence. + +CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere, you +know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was his one +regret that from the necessities of the case he could not live to +enjoy his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it would reach him +wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I fancy, that toward +the end he became interested in spiritualism. + +CRAWSHAW [_rising solemnly_]. Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the +present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of +overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if, as +you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like him to +hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified solicitor at +all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole story of the will +and the ridiculous condition attached to it is just the tomfool joke +of a man who, by his own admission, wastes most of his time writing +unsuccessful farces. And I propose-- + +CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces, +comedies--of a whimsical nature. + +CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole +matter to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir. + +CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr. +Crawshaw? + +CRAWSHAW [_startled_]. What's that? + +CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand pounds? + +CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not refuse +it. + +CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there--and the name. Both +waiting for you. + +CRAWSHAW [_thumping the table_]. Then, sir, I accept them. I feel it +my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the +late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that you +have suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show what I +think of your story by accepting the trust which he has bequeathed to +me. You will arrange further matters with my solicitor. Good-morning, +sir. + +CLIFTON [_to himself as he rises_]. Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass of +water. [_To CRAWSHAW._] Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I express +the parting wish that your future career will add fresh luster to--my +name. [_To himself as he goes out._] Exit Mr. Denis Clifton with +dignity. [_But he has left his papers behind him. CRAWSHAW, walking +indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers and picks them up._] + +CRAWSHAW [_contemptuously_]. "Watherston v. Towser--_in re_ Great +Missenden Canal Company." Bah! [_He tears them up and throws them into +the fire. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated there as +VIOLA, followed by MERITON, comes in._] + +VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told +him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he? + +RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola. + +CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be +awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummeries in the House of +Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In any +case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola. + +VIOLA [_surprised_]. But how can we get married if he doesn't take the +money? + +CRAWSHAW [_hardly understanding_]. Married? What does this mean, +Richard? + +RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told +you before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or two. +Viola and I want to get married. + +CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on? + +RICHARD [_with a smile_]. Not very much, I'm afraid. + +VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty +thousand pounds. + +RICHARD [_sadly_]. Oh, Viola, Viola! + +CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on +matters. + +VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father? + +CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to entrust +my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself that he +throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful objection +to the name which goes with it. + +RICHARD [_in despair_]. You don't understand, Robert. + +CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good enough +for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind asking Viola +to take _your_ name, but you consider it an insult if you are asked to +take _my_ name. + +RICHARD [_miserably to VIOLA_]. Do you want to be Mrs. +Wurzel-Flummery? + +VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling. + +RICHARD [_beaten_]. Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But you'll +never understand. + +CRAWSHAW [_stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out_]. +Come, come, Richard. [_Patting him on the shoulder._] I understand +perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while +ago--it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in +practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice +our ideals for--ah--others. I shall be very proud to have you for a +son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in Parliament +together upholding the honor of the--ah--name. And perhaps now that we +are to be so closely related, you may come to feel some day that your +views could be--ah--more adequately put forward from _my_ side of the +House. + +RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it. + +CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And you +must send that solicitor a line--or perhaps a telephone message would +be better. [_He goes to the door and turns round just as he is going +out._] Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer. +[_Exit._] + +RICHARD [_holding out his hands to VIOLA_]. Come here, Mrs. +Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please, darling. +[_She comes to him._] + +RICHARD [_shaking his head sadly at her_]. I don't know what I've +done, Viola. [_Suddenly._] But you're worth it. [_He kisses her, and +then says in a low voice._] And God help me if I ever stop thinking +so! + +_Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very tactfully +with his back towards them, humming to himself._ + +RICHARD. Hullo! + +CLIFTON [_to himself_]. Now where did I put those papers? [_He hums to +himself again._] Now where--oh, I beg your pardon! I left some papers +behind. + +VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. [_As she goes out, she says to +CLIFTON._] Good-by, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice +letters. + +CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Crawshaw. + +VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds. + +CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA [_smiling happily_]. No, not Miss, Mrs. [_She goes out._] + +CLIFTON [_looking in surprise from her to him_]. You don't mean-- + +RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton. + +CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! [_Thoughtfully to himself._] I +wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers. + +RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton! + +CLIFTON. Why poor? + +RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said to +Crawshaw about money before you came. + +CLIFTON [_thoughtfully_]. Oh! was it very--[_Brightening up._] But I +expect Uncle Antony heard. [_After a pause._] Well, I must be getting +on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in +connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company--a most intricate +case, in which my clerk and I--[_He has murmured himself across to the +fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch his +eye. He picks up one of the fragments._] Ah, yes. Well, I shall tell +my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had got quite +fond of that canal. [_He turns to go, but first says to MERITON._] So +you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton? + +RICHARD. Yes. + +CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too? + +RICHARD. Yes. + +CLIFTON [_to himself as he goes out_]. They are both taking it. [_He +stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile._] Good old Uncle +Antony--_he_ knew--_he_ knew! [_MERITON stands watching him as he +goes._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +MAID OF FRANCE[35] + +By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE + + [Footnote 35: Copyright, 1918, by Gowans and Gray. All rights + reserved. Reprinted by permission of and by special + arrangement with Harold Brighouse. Also printed in the United + States by Leroy Phillips, Boston. _Maid of France_ is fully + protected by copyright. It must not be performed by either + amateurs or professionals, without written permission. For + such permission apply to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38 Street, + New York City.] + + +Miss Horniman could hardly have foreseen the development of a +Manchester school of dramatists as the outcome of her experiment with +repertory at the Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, because her purpose was +to produce good plays irrespective of geographical limitations. But +the fact is that the project was a source of real inspiration to a +group of young Lancashire writers among whom may be mentioned Allan +Broome, Stanley Houghton, and Harold Brighouse. There is no plainer +illustration of the relations between the audience and the play, or +between the theatre and the play, or between the actor and the play +than the dramatic activity that followed the establishment of the +Abbey Theatre in Dublin and the setting up of Miss Horniman's +experiment in Manchester. + +Although in this collection, Brighouse is represented by _Maid of +France_, a play with no local Lancashire coloring, first given on July +16, 1917, in London, not Manchester (it was later produced at the +Greenwich Village Theatre in New York, beginning April 18, 1918), he +has up to the present time written seven plays about Lancashire. He +has been particularly successful in one-act drama; _Lonesome Like_, +_The Price of Coal_, and _Spring in Bloomsbury_ have been popular here +and in England. B. Iden Payne, who directed productions at the Gaiety +Theatre for some time, says: "In all Harold Brighouse's plays there is +in the acting more laughter than one would expect from the reading." A +number of Brighouse's plays have been published; in the introduction +to the latest volume,[36] he writes: "In another age than ours +play-books were a favorite, if not the only form of light reading.... +The reader mentally producing a play from the book in his hand looks +through a magic casement at what he gloriously will instead of through +a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a mere human producer." This +playwright's attitude toward the reading of plays, with its appeal to +the imagination, is one justification for a collection like the +present one. + + [Footnote 36: Harold Brighouse, _Three Lancashire Plays_, + London and New York, 1920. There is a bibliographical note at + the end.] + +Brighouse is himself a Manchester man, having been born in Eccles, a +suburb, on July 26, 1882. He was educated at the Manchester Grammar +School. Until 1913 he was engaged in business, carrying on his +literary work at the same time, but in that year he gave himself up +exclusively to writing. Besides plays, he has written fiction and +criticism. During the Great War, he was attached to the Intelligence +Staff of the Air Ministry. + + + + +MAID OF FRANCE + + +CHARACTERS + + JEANNE D'ARC. + BLANCHE, _a flower-girl._ + PAUL, _a French Poilu._ + FRED, _an English Tommy._ + GERALD SOAMES, _an English lieutenant._ + + +_THE SCENE represents one side of a square in a French town on +Christmas Eve, 1916. The buildings shown have suffered from German +shells, except the church in the center which stands immune, +protected, as it were, by the statue of Jeanne d'Arc which stands on a +pedestal, surrounded by steps in front of it. The church is lighted up +within for the midnight mass, but it is its side which presents itself +to one's view, so that the ingoing worshipers are not seen. The statue +is of the Maid in her armor. It is nearly midnight on Christmas Eve +and the lighting, which should not be too realistically obscure, +suggests faint moonlight._ + +_PAUL, a French private in war-worn uniform, stands by the steps, +gazing adoringly at the statue. He is a charmingly simple, credulous +man, in peace a peasant. To him there enters from the right, BLANCHE, +a flower-girl, in a cloak, with a basket of flowers. In face and +figure, BLANCHE must resemble the statue. She is a pert, impudent, +extremely self-possessed saleswoman, burning, however, with the fierce +light of French patriotism which, almost in spite of herself, is apt +to get the better of her. Ready as she is to trade upon PAUL's mystic +reverence for the Maid, familiarity with the statue has not bred +contempt in her. She stops by PAUL, offering her flowers with a +cajoling smile._ + + +BLANCHE. Will you buy a flower, monsieur? + +PAUL. Flower, mademoiselle? You can sell flowers at this hour when it +is nearly midnight? + +BLANCHE. There is moonlight, and I have a smile, monsieur. It is my +smile which sells the flowers. Does not monsieur agree that it is +irresistible? + +PAUL [_uneasily_]. Mademoiselle has charm. + +BLANCHE. And I have charms for you. My flowers. Will you not buy a +flower, monsieur, and I will pin it to your uniform where it will draw +all the ladies' eyes to you when you promenade on the boulevard? + +PAUL. I do not promenade. I stay here. + +BLANCHE. Here in the Square where it is dull and lonely? But on the +boulevards are lights, monsieur, and gaiety, and people promenade +because to-night is Christmas Eve. + +PAUL. Mademoiselle, you're kind. Will you be kind to me and tell me +something? + +BLANCHE. What can I tell? + +PAUL. I am only a peasant and I do not know many things. But you live +in the town and you must know. They say, mademoiselle, they have told +me, that there are miracles on Christmas Eve. + +BLANCHE. Did you believe them? + +PAUL. I did not know. I only hoped. + +BLANCHE. What did you hope? + +PAUL [_very earnestly_]. I have been told that stone can speak on +Christmas Eve. And I want, oh, mademoiselle, I want to hear the +blessed voice of our glorious Maid. + +BLANCHE. Monsieur has sentiment. + +PAUL [_pleadingly_]. You think that she will speak to me? + +BLANCHE [_dropping all banter_]. Monsieur, she speaks in stone to all +of us. She stands erect, serene, like the unconquerable spirit of +France and cries defiance at the Boche. They sent their shells like +hail and ground our homes to powder and made a desolation of our +streets, but they could not touch the statue of the Maid nor the +church she guards. + +PAUL. And she speaks! She speaks! + +BLANCHE. She is the soul of France, monsieur, defying tyranny, +invincible and unafraid. She is a message to each one of us. As the +shells fell all around and could not harm her, so must we stand +unshaken for the France we love. She speaks of freedom and +deliverance. + +PAUL. And she will speak to me? + +BLANCHE [_pityingly as she sees how literally he has taken her_]. +Perhaps. + +PAUL. What must I do, mademoiselle, to hear her voice? + +BLANCHE [_seeing in this too good an opportunity for selling a +flower_]. Will you not buy a flower for the Maid? They come from far +away, from the South where there is always sun, and so they are not +cheap. But, for a franc, you may have one lily of Lorraine to put upon +the statue of the Maid. + +PAUL. A lily of Lorraine! + +BLANCHE [_showing a flower, then taking it back tantalizingly_]. See, +monsieur! How could she refuse to speak to you if you gave her that? + +PAUL. It is the way to make her speak! [_Puts out hand for the flower +and then draws back._ ] But a franc! And I have nothing but one sou. + +BLANCHE. One sou! When flowers are so dear, and have to come so far! +Mon dieu, monsieur, but you have had a thirsty day if a sou is all +that you have left from the wineshops. + +PAUL. I did not spend it there, mademoiselle. I gave it to the church, +this church where is the statue of our Maid. + +BLANCHE [_only half scoffing_]. Monsieur is devout. + +PAUL. Not always, mademoiselle. But I was born at Domremy where she +was born and I have always adored our sainted Maid who died for +France. Perhaps because of that, perhaps without the flower, Jeanne +will speak to me at midnight when they say the statues come to life. + +BLANCHE [_touched_]. Monsieur, I do not know. Perhaps she will. But +see, here is a lily of Lorraine which I give you for the Maid. Put it +upon her statue and perhaps it will awaken her to speech. + +PAUL. Mademoiselle! [_Taking the flower._] How can I thank you? + +BLANCHE. I also am a maid of France, monsieur. You are a soldier and +you fight for France. But I must sell my flowers now. Perhaps, when I +have sold them, I will come again to see if Jeanne has spoken. + +PAUL. You think she will? + +BLANCHE. Monsieur, have faith. All things are possible on Christmas +Eve. [_She moves L. PAUL goes to the statue and puts the lily on its +breast._] + +BLANCHE. Holy Virgin, the lies I've told! What simplicity! But Jeanne +might. She might. [_Exit BLANCHE L. PAUL stands, watching. An English +lieutenant, GERALD SOAMES, enters R., carrying a small wreath of +evergreens. He is awkward and self-conscious and stops short when he +sees PAUL, annoyed in the English way at being found out in an act of +sentiment. By consequence, the little ceremony he had proposed falls +short of the impressiveness he designed for it._] + +GERALD. O Lord, there's a fellow there. Er--[_PAUL salutes._] +Oh--er--c'est ici la statue de Jeanne d'Arc, n'est-ce pas? + +PAUL. Mais oui, monsieur. + +GERALD. And that's about as far as my French will go. I say, you're +not on duty, are you? Vous n'êtes pas de garde? + +PAUL. Non, monsieur. + +GERALD. No, of course you're not. Damned silly question to ask. All +the same, I wish he'd take a hint. I say. Lord, I've forgotten the +French for "have a drink." Besides, he couldn't. It's too late. I'll +just do what I came for and go. [_Puts back into pocket the coin he +had taken out._] After all, the fellow's as good a right to be here as +I have. I'll have one more shot. N'avez-vous pas des affaires? + +PAUL. Mais non, monsieur. Pas ce soir. Je suis en congé. + +GERALD. Heaven knows what that means, except that he's a fixture. Oh +well, I don't care if he does see me. He'll not know what to make of +it, anyhow. [_Up to statue._] Jeanne d'Arc, I'm putting this wreath on +your statue. It's an English wreath and it came from England. It's +English holly and English ivy and it's supposed to mean that England's +sorry for the awful things she did to you and I hope you've forgiven +us all. [_He has cap off. Now puts cap on._] I think that's all. +[_Places wreath at statue's feet. Stands erect, salutes, turns._] Hang +that French fellow. I suppose he'll think I'm mad. [_GERALD goes down +steps and off R. PAUL salutes, then goes up steps to look at the +wreath. FRED COLLEDGE, an English private, enters L. Without noticing +PAUL, he sits on the steps and lights a cigarette. In the light of his +match he sees PAUL, gives a little amused laugh and lies back making +himself comfortable, turning up coat-collar, etc. PAUL sees him, and +is shocked. Comes down steps._] + +PAUL. Monsieur! + +FRED. Hullo, cockey. How are you getting on? + +PAUL. Monsieur! This place. These steps. One does not rest upon these +steps. + +FRED. Ho yes, one does. I'm doing it, so I ought to know. + +PAUL. But here, monsieur. Outside the church. + +FRED. That's all right. The better the place the better the seat. It +ain't a feather-bed in the old house at home, but I've sort of lost +the feather-bed 'abit lately. + +PAUL. One should not sit on these steps, monsieur. + +FRED. You must like that tune, old son, the way you stick to it. And, +if you ask me, one should not do a pile of things that one's been +doing over here. Take me, now. By rights, I ought to be eating roast +beef and plum-pudding to-morrow in Every Street. Third turn on the +left below the Mile End Pavilion, but I suppose I'm the same way as +you. Going back on the train at 2 A.M. to eat my Christmas dinner in +the blooming trenches. That's you, ain't it? And it's me, too. So +let's sit down together and do an entente for an hour. Don't talk and +I'll race you to where the dreams come from. [_He pulls PAUL down +genially beside him._] + +PAUL [_sitting_]. I ought not to sit here. + +FRED. Ain't these steps soft enough for you? + +PAUL. Monsieur, you do not understand. I come from Domremy. + +FRED. Do you? I'm Mile End myself. What about it? + +PAUL. But Domremy. + +FRED. Can't say I'm much the wiser. + +PAUL. But here, monsieur. This statue. It is our glorious maid. C'est +Jeanne d'Arc. + +FRED. Ark, eh? Is that old Noah? [_Gets up to look at statue._] + +PAUL [_rising_]. Jeanne d'Arc, monsieur. She-- + +FRED. Oh, it's a lady, is it? Dressed like that for riding, I reckon. +So that's old Noah's wife, is it? Well, the old cock had a bit of +taste. + +PAUL. It is Jeanne d'Arc. You call her--what do you call her?--Joan +of-- + +FRED. Not guilty. I ain't so forward with the ladies. I don't call +them in their Christian names till I've been introduced. + +PAUL. You English call her Joan of Arc. The great Jeanne d'Arc. She-- + +FRED. Wait a bit. Now don't excite me for a moment. I'm thinking. I've +heard that name before. + +PAUL. But yes, monsieur. In history. + +FRED. That's done it. I take you, cockey. I knew it was a way back. +Well, she's nothing in my life. [_Returns to steps and sits._] + +PAUL. She is of my life. I come from Domremy. + +FRED. So you said. + +PAUL. It was her birthplace. + +FRED [_clapping him on the shoulder_]. Cockey, I'm with you now. I +know the feeling. Why, we'd a man born in our street that played +center-forward for the Arsenal. Makes you proud of the place where you +were born. Na pooed now, poor devil. Got his head blown off last +month. He was a sergeant in our lot. 'Ave a woodbine? + +PAUL. Not here, monsieur. + +FRED. Please yourself. Smoke your own. Them black things are no use to +me. It's a rum country yours, old son. Light beer and black tobacco. +But you fight on it all right. Oh yes, you fight all right. 'Ere, 'ave +a piece of chocolate to keep the cold out. My missus sent me that. + +PAUL [_accepting_]. Merci. I hope madame is well. + +FRED. Eh? Who's madame? Oh, you mean old Sally. She's all right. In +bed. That's where she is. And I'm here. But I could do with a bit of a +snooze myself. Come on, let's do a doss together. + +PAUL. A doss? + +FRED. Yus. Wait a bit. I speak French when I'm 'appy. Je vais dormir. +Vous likewise dormir. + +PAUL. I did not come to sleep, monsieur. I came to watch. + +FRED. Watch? What do you want to watch for here? No Germans here. + +PAUL. C'est la nuit de Noël, monsieur. They say the statues come to +life on Christmas Eve, and I am watching here to see if Jeanne will +breathe and move and speak to a piou-piou from Domremy. + +FRED. You know, old son, you could have scared me once with a tale +like that. But not to-day. I've been seeing life lately. If old Nelson +got down off his perch, and I met him walking in Trafalgar Square, +I'd just salute and think no more about it. You can't raise my hair +now. + +PAUL. Then you believe that she will speak? + +FRED. You go to sleep, cockey, and there's no knowing what you'll +hear. Come on, old sport. Je dormir and vous dormir, and we'll be a +blooming dormitory. [_PAUL hesitates, looks at statue, then lies by +FRED._] That's right. Lie close. Two can keep warmer than one. Oh +well, good-night all. Merry Christmas, and to hell with the Kaiser. +[_They sleep. The statue is darkened, and the lay figure of the statue +is replaced by the living JEANNE. Bells chime midnight. As they begin, +JEANNE awakes. With the first chime, light shines dimly on the statue. +By the last chime, the statue is in brilliant light and JEANNE stirs +on the pedestal and bends to the wreath. She lifts it, wondering._] + +JEANNE. The wreath is here. I did not dream it, then. I saw him come +and lay the wreath at my feet. I saw his uniform, and the uniform was +not of France. I saw his face, and it was not a Frenchman's face. I +heard his voice, and the voice was an English voice. I do not +understand. Why should the English bring a wreath to me? I do not want +their wreath. I want no favors from an Englishman. I am Jeanne d'Arc. +I am your enemy, you English, whom I made to bite the dust at Orléans +and vanquished at Patay. It was I who bore the standard into the +cathedral at Rheims when we crowned my Dauphin the anointed King of +France, and English Bedford trembled at my name. Burgundians took me +at Compiègne. Your English money bought me from them, and your English +hatred gave me up to mocking priests to try for sorcery. You called me +"Heretic," "Relapsed," "Apostate," and "Idolater," and burnt me for a +witch in Rouen market-place. And now do you lay a wreath at Jeanne's +feet? And do you think she thanks you? I scorn your wreath. This +wreath an English soldier set at Jeanne's feet. I tear it, and I +trample on it. [_FRED and PAUL have awakened during this speech. Both +are bewildered at first, like men who dream. But as JEANNE is about to +tear the wreath FRED interposes._] + +FRED. I dunno if I'm awake or asleep, but that there wreath, lady--I +say, don't tear it. I don't know nothing about it bar what you've just +said, but if any of our blokes put it there, you can take it from me +it was kindly meant. + +JEANNE. You? Who are you? You're--You're English. + +FRED [_apologetically_]. Yus. I'm English. I don't see that I can help +it, though. I just happen to be English same as a dawg. I'm sorry if +it upsets you, but I'm English all right. And--No. Blimey, I won't +apologize for it. I'm English. I'm English, and proud of it. So there! + +JEANNE. Why are the English here in France? Why do I see so many of +them? + +PAUL. Maid--Jeanne-- + +JEANNE. You! You are not English. You are a soldier of France. + +PAUL. I am of France. + +JEANNE. Then shame to you, soldier of France! Shame on a Frenchman who +can forget his pride of race and make a comrade of an Englishman! + +PAUL. Maid, you do not understand. + +JEANNE. No. I do not understand. I do not understand treachery. I do +not understand baseness, dishonor, and the perfidy of one who has +forgotten he is French. The English are the foes of France, and you +consort with them. You-- + +FRED. 'Ere, 'ere, 'alf a mo'. Steady on, lady. You've got to learn +something. All that stuff you've just been talking about the Battle of +Waterloo. It's a wash-out now. We've cut it out. This 'ere bloke +you're grousing at 'e's a friend of mine, and I'll pipe up for a +friend when 'e's being reprimanded undeserving. + +JEANNE. It is for that I blame a son of France, that he makes friends +with you. + +FRED. Well, it's your mistake. That's the worst of coming out of +history. You're out of date. If I took my great-grandmother on a +motor-bus to a picture-show, she'd have the same sort of fit that +you've got, only it's worse with you. You're further back. And I'll +tell you something. That old French froggy business is dead and gorn. +We've given it up. Time's passed when an Englishman thought he could +lick two Frenchmen with one hand tied behind his back. It's a back +number, lady. Carpentier put the lid on that. You ask Billy Wells. Us +blokes and the French, we're feeding out of one another's hands +to-day. + +JEANNE. I have seen the English and the French together in the +streets. They do not fight. + +FRED. Lord bless you, no. Provost-marshal wouldn't let 'em, if they +wanted a friendly scrap. + +JEANNE. They fraternize. I have seen them walking arm-in-arm. + +FRED. That's natural enough. + +JEANNE. Natural, for French and English! + +FRED. Yes, lady, natural. If you'd seen the Frenchies fighting, same +as I have, you'd want to walk arm-in-arm with them yourself, and be +proud to do it, too. + +PAUL. The English, are our brothers, Maid. + +FRED. Gorlummy, we're more than that. I've known brothers do the dirty +on each other. Us and the French, we're--why, we're _pals_. So that's +all right, lady. Just let me put that wreath back where you got it +from. I'm sure you'll 'urt someone's feelings if you trample on it. +[_He tries to take wreath, she prevents him._] + +JEANNE. When you have shown me why I should accept an English wreath, +perhaps I will. So far I've yet to learn why a soldier of France is +friendly with an Englishman. + +FRED. I can't show you more than this, can I? [_Links arms with +PAUL._] + +JEANNE. That is not reason. + +PAUL [_unlinking his arm_]. Perhaps I can show you reason. I who was +born at Domremy. + +JEANNE. You come from there! My home? + +PAUL. Yes. + +JEANNE. You know St. Remy's church and the Meuse and the beech-tree +where they said the fairies used to dance. The tree. Is it still +there? + +PAUL. I do not know. + +JEANNE. And the fields! The fields where I kept my father's sheep, and +the wolves would not come near when I had charge of them, and the +birds came to me and ate bread from my lap. You know those fields of +Domremy? + +PAUL. I knew them once. + +JEANNE. You knew my church. It still is there? + +PAUL. Who can say? + +JEANNE. Cannot you, who were baptized in it? + +PAUL. Jeanne, the Germans came to Domremy. I do not know if anything +is left. + +JEANNE. The Germans? But the Germans did not count when I lived there. + +FRED. No, and they'll count a sight less before so long. + +PAUL. They came like a thunderstorm, Jeanne. They swept our men away. +They tore up treaties, and they came through Belgium and ravished it, +and took us unawares. They blotted out our frontiers and came on like +the tide till even Paris heard the sound of German guns. And then the +English came, slowly at first, and just a little late, but not too +late, then more and more and all the time more English came. They +swept the Germans from the seas and drove their ships to hide. +Shoulder to shoulder they have fought for France. They hurled the +Germans back from Paris, and when their soldiers fell more came and +more. Their plowmen and their clerks, their great lords and their +scullions, all came to France to fight with us for la patrie. Their +women make munitions and-- + +FRED. Yus. I daresay. Very fine. Only that'll do. We ain't done +nothing to make a song about. + +PAUL. Our children and our children's children will make songs of what +the English did. + +FRED. You let 'em. Leave it to 'em. Way I look at it is this, lady. +There's a big swelled-headed bully, and he gets a little fellow down +and starts kicking 'im. Well, it ain't manners, and we blokes comes +along to teach 'im wot's wot. That's all there is to it. + +PAUL. There's more than I could tell in a hundred years, Jeanne. + +FRED. Then what's the good of trying? + +JEANNE. He tried because he had to make me understand your friendship +and all the noble thought and noble deed that lie behind this little +wreath. [_She raises the wreath._] + +FRED [_interposing_]. Oh, I say now, lady, go easy with that wreath, +won't you? I--I wouldn't trample it if I were you. Battle of +Waterloo's a long time ago. + +JEANNE. Don't be afraid. + +FRED. Gave me a turn to see you pick it up like that. + +JEANNE [_putting it on her head_]. The English wreath is in its right +place now. Here, on the head of Jeanne d'Arc. I'll wear that wreath +forever. Give me your hand, you English soldier. + +FRED. I've not washed since morning, lady. + +JEANNE. Your hand, that fights for France. [_She takes it._] And +yours, soldier of France. + +PAUL. Jeanne! But you--[_Holding back timidly._] + +JEANNE. I am where I would always be--[_she has a hand of +both_]--amongst my fighting men. They have set me on a pedestal and +made a saint of me, but I am better here, between you two, both +soldiers of France. They will not let me fight for France to-day. Save +for this mystic hour on Christmas Eve I am a thing of stone. But +Jeanne lives on. Her spirit fights for France to-day as Jeanne fought +five hundred years ago. And, in this hour when I am granted speech, I +say, "Fight on, fight on for France till France and Belgium are free +and the invader pays the price of treachery. And you, you English who +have come to France, and you in England who are making arms for +France, I, who have hated you, I, whom you burnt, I, Jeanne d'Arc of +Rheims and Orléans, I give you thanks. My people are your people, and +my cause your cause. Vivent! Vivent les Anglais!" [_During this speech +she drops the soldiers' hands. They resume gradually their sleeping +attitudes. JEANNE mounts her pedestal, and gives the last words from +it, then becomes stone again. The light fades to darkness, then +becomes the moonlight of the opening. BLANCHE enters L. She goes to +the steps, looks at the sleeping soldiers, and stands above them. Her +basket is empty but for one flower._] + +PAUL [_stirring and seeing her_]. Jeanne! + +BLANCHE. My name is Blanche, monsieur. + +PAUL. But I--you--[_he rises_]. Mademoiselle, you are very like-- + +BLANCHE. I am the flower-girl whom you saw before you went to sleep, +and I am very like myself, monsieur. + +PAUL. Was I asleep? [_Looks at statue._] Yes. There is Jeanne. + +BLANCHE. Where else should Jeanne be but on her pedestal? + +FRED [_stirring_]. Revelley again before you've hardly closed your +blooming eyes. [_Sits up sharply on seeing BLANCHE._] Hullo! +You're--you're--[_Turns to PAUL._] Why, cockey, it wasn't a yarn. The +statues do walk about in France. There's one of them doing it. + +PAUL. You saw her too? + +FRED. Saw her? Of course I seen her. She's there. Ain't you and me +been talking familiar with her for the last ten minutes? + +PAUL. Yes, with Jeanne. + +FRED. Took my 'and she did, and chanced the dirt. + +BLANCHE. You have been dreaming, monsieur. C'était une rêverie. + +FRED. Who's raving? Well, it may be raving, but we all raved together. +You and me and 'im, and I'll eat my bayonet raw if you didn't stand +there and take us by the hands and tell us you were that there Joan of +Arc what used to tell old Bonaparte what to do when he was in an 'ole. + +BLANCHE. It was not I. There is the statue, monsieur. [_Points to +it._] + +FRED. Where? [_Looks._] Well, that's queer. You're the dead spit and +image of 'er, too. And 'ere, 'ere, cockey! [_Takes PAUL's arm +excitedly._] + +PAUL. Monsieur? + +FRED. Look at the statue. Look at its head. Who put that wreath on it? +Did you climb up there? + +PAUL. No. + +FRED. No. You know you didn't. We saw her put it on herself. + +PAUL. But, monsieur, then you have dreamed the same dream as I. + +FRED. I saw you all right, and you saw me? + +PAUL. I saw you. + +FRED. And we both saw 'er. It's a rum go, cockey, but I told you I'd +given up being surprised. Our lot and yours we're going whacks in +licking the Germans, ain't we? Yus, and now we're going whacks in the +same dream, so that's that and chance it. Ententing again, only extra +cordial. [_Scratches head._] I don't quite see where she comes in, +though, if she ain't the statue. + +BLANCHE. I am a flower-girl, monsieur. + +FRED. Not so many flowers about you, then. + +BLANCHE. I have sold out, all but one flower, monsieur, and I came +back to see if you [_to PAUL_] had got your wish. + +PAUL. Yes, mademoiselle, I had my wish. The saints sent Jeanne to me +in a dream. + +BLANCHE. You happy man, to get your wish! + +PAUL. I am happy, mademoiselle. I have spoken with Jeanne d'Arc. + +FRED. And you and me will be speaking with our sergeants if we don't +buck up and catch that blinking train. Come on, old son, back to the +Big Stink for us. + +BLANCHE. Messieurs return to fight? + +FRED. Lord love you, no. It's only a rumor about the war. We're a +Cook's excursion on a joy-ride seeing the sights of France. [_FRED and +PAUL move R. together._] + +BLANCHE. Monsieur! + +FRED [_stopping_]. Well? + +BLANCHE. I kept one flower back. It is for you--for the brave English +soldier who goes out to fight for France. + +FRED. Don't make me homesick. Reminds me of the flower-pots on my +kitchen window-sill. [_Takes flower and produces chocolate._] 'Ere, +miss, 'ave a bit of chocolate. Made in England, that was. + +BLANCHE. Monsieur will need it for himself. + +FRED. Go on. Take it. I'm all right. It's Christmas Day and extra +rations. [_Kisses her._] + +BLANCHE. Merci, monsieur. Et bonne chance, mes braves, bonne chance. + +FRED. Oh, we'll chance it all right. Merry Christmas, old dear. [_FRED +and PAUL go off together R. BLANCHE watches them go. Lights in the +church go out. Girls enter L. as if coming from Mass, singing a +carol._] + + GIRLS + + Noël! Noël! thy babe that lies + Within the manger, Mother-Maid, + Is King of earth and Paradise, + O guard him well, Noël, Noël + Ye shepherds sing, be not afraid. + + O little hills of France, awake, + For angel hosts are chanting high, + His heart is piercèd for our sake, + Noël, Noël, we guard him well, + He liveth though all else shall die. + +[_BLANCHE joins them, singing as they cross._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +SPREADING THE NEWS[37] + +By AUGUSTA GREGORY + + [Footnote 37: Copyright, in United States, 1909, by Augusta + Gregory. Reprinted by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, New + York and London. + + This play has been copyrighted and published simultaneously + in the United States and Great Britain. + + All rights reserved, including that of translation into + foreign languages. + + All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are + reserved in the United States, Great Britain, and all + countries of the Copyright Union, by the author. Performances + forbidden and right of presentation reserved. + + Application for the right of performing this play or + reading it in public should be made to Samuel French, 28 West + 38 St., New York City.] + + +Isabella Augusta Persse, later Lady Gregory, was born at Roxborough, +County Galway, Ireland, in 1859. One who saw her in the early years of +her married life describes her thus: "She was then a young woman, very +earnest, who divided her hair in the middle and wore it smooth on +either side of a broad and handsome brow. Her eyes were always full of +questions. ... In her drawing-room were to be met men of assured +reputation in literature and politics and there was always the best +reading of the times upon her tables." + +Two closely related interests have always divided Lady Gregory's +attention. Her occupation with the Irish Players has been constant, +and she has from the beginning been a director of the Abbey Theatre, +where _Spreading the News_ was first performed on December 27, 1904. +This play was also included in the American repertory of the Players, +whom Lady Gregory accompanied on their visit to the United States in +1911. The spirit that she puts into her work with them is well +illustrated by those lines of Blake which she quoted in a speech made +at a dinner given her by _The Outlook_ when she was in New York. Her +hard work having been commented on, she replied: + + "I will not cease from mental strife + Or let the sword fall from my hand + Till we have built Jerusalem + In--Ireland's--fair and lovely land." + +In her book on _Our Irish Theatre, A Chapter of Autobiography_, she +relates the story of how one day when she assembled the company for +rehearsal in Washington, D. C., she invited them to leave their work +and come with her to Mount Vernon for a holiday and picnic. "I told +them," she writes, "the holiday was not a precedent, for we might go +to a great many countries before finding so great a man to honor." +Washington, it seems, had been a friend of her grandfather's who had +been in America with his regiment. + +Her other great interest has been the folklore of Ireland. She has +been called the Irish Malory, because through her retelling of the +Irish sagas, she has popularized and made accessible the great cycles +of heroic legends. She has employed for the vernacular of these +romances and folk tales what she calls Kiltartan English, Kiltartan +being the village near her home, the dialect of which she has +assimilated and utilized. Lady Gregory has also used her historical +and legendary knowledge for the background of some of her plays. + +It is said that the original impulse that influenced Lady Gregory to +interest herself in these old Irish stories came from Yeats, her +friend and associate in the project of the Irish National Theatre. It +was his suggestion in the first place that led to her writing +_Cuchulain of Muirthemne_. "He could not have been long at Coole," +writes George Moore of Yeats, "before he began to draw her attention +to the beauty of the literature that rises among the hills and bubbles +irresponsibly, and set her going from cabin to cabin taking down +stories, and encouraging her to learn the original language of the +country, so that they might add to the Irish idiom which the peasant +had already translated into English, making in this way a language for +themselves." The influence continues, for her latest book, _Visions +and Beliefs in the West of Ireland_, contains two essays and notes +from the pen of Yeats. + +The literary association of Yeats and Lady Gregory has been a fruitful +one for Ireland. Not only has Yeats encouraged Lady Gregory's +researches into the past, but she has been of the greatest assistance +to him in his work. When he is at Coole, she writes from his +dictation, arranges his manuscript, reads to him and serves him as +literary counselor. + +Lady Gregory's life touches the life of Ireland at many points. In +addition to her literary occupations, she lectures and co-operates +actively with a number of societies that have as their aim social or +political betterment. + + + + +SPREADING THE NEWS + + +CHARACTERS + + BARTLEY FALLON. + MRS. FALLON. + JACK SMITH. + SHAWN EARLY. + TIM CASEY. + JAMES RYAN. + MRS. TARPEY. + MRS. TULLY. + JO 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 Fallon 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 Fallon 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._] Oh, 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. Oh, my poor Jack Smith! + +TIM CASEY. Did Bartley overtake him? + +MRS. TARPEY. Oh, 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 whisky. [_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 Fallon! +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 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 +night time?--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 had 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! +Oh, Bartley, what did you do at all at all? + +BARTLEY. Oh, 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. + +BARTLEY. 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 TOGETHER [_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._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + MUSIC FOR THE SONG IN THE PLAY + + THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE + + Spreading the News. + I thought, my first love, there'd be but one house + be-tween you and me, And I thought + I would find your-self coax-ing + my child on your knee. O-ver 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. + + +AUTHOR'S NOTE + +The idea of this play first came to me as a tragedy. I kept seeing as +in a picture people sitting by the roadside, and a girl passing to the +market, gay and fearless. And then I saw her passing by the same place +at evening, her head hanging, the heads of others turned from her, +because of some sudden story that had risen out of a chance word, and +had snatched away her good name. + +But comedy and not tragedy was wanted at our theatre to put beside the +high poetic work, _The King's Threshold_, _The Shadowy Waters_, _On +Baile's Strand_, _The Well of the Saints_; and I let laughter have its +way with the little play. I was delayed in beginning it for a while, +because I could only think of Bartley Fallon as dull-witted or silly +or ignorant, and the handcuffs seemed too harsh a punishment. But one +day by the seat at Duras a melancholy man who was telling me of the +crosses he had gone through at home said--"But I'm thinking if I went +to America, it's long ago to-day I'd be dead. And it's a great expense +for a poor man to be buried in America." Bartley was born at that +moment, and, far from harshness, I felt I was providing him with a +happy old age in giving him the lasting glory of that great and +crowning day of misfortune. + +It has been acted very often by other companies as well as our own, +and the Boers have done me the honor of translating and pirating it. + + + + +WELSH HONEYMOON[38] + +By JEANNETTE MARKS + + [Footnote 38: Copyright, 1912, 1916, 1917, by Jeannette + Marks. The professional and amateur stage rights of this play + are strictly reserved by the author. Application for + permission to produce the play should be made to the author, + who may be addressed in care of the publishers, Little, Brown + and Company, Boston. All rights reserved.] + + +Jeannette Marks, playwright, poet, essayist, and writer of short +stories, was born in 1875 at Chattanooga, Tennessee. She grew up in +Philadelphia, however, where her father was a member of the faculty of +the University of Pennsylvania. Her education in this country was +supplemented by a sojourn at a school in Dresden. She took her first +degree at Wellesley College in 1900, and her master's degree there in +1903. Her graduate studies were pursued at the Bodleian Library and at +the British Museum. Since 1901 she has taught English literature at +Mount Holyoke. + +The play here reprinted, _Welsh Honeymoon_, was one of the two--the +other was her _The Merry, Merry Cuckoo_--that won the Welsh National +Theatre First Prize for the best Welsh plays in November, 1911, the +year after Josephine Preston Peabody had carried off the palm at +Stratford-on-Avon. + +She writes in her preface to _Three Welsh Plays_, the collection from +which _Welsh Honeymoon_ is drawn: + +"'Poetry' and 'song' are words which convey, better than any other two +words could, the priceless gifts of the Welsh people to the world. +With their love for music, for beauty, for the significance of their +land and its folklore, their inherent romance in the difficult art of +living, they have transformed ugliness into beauty, turned loneliness +into speech, and ever recalled life to its only permanent possessions +in wonder and romance. + +"Curiously enough, the Welsh, rich in poetry and music, have been +almost altogether devoid of plays. But no one who has read those first +Welsh tales in the 'Mabinogion' (c. 1260) could for an instant think +the Cymru devoid of the dramatic instinct. The Welsh way of +interpreting experience is essentially dramatic. _The Dream of Maxen +Wledig_, _The Dream of Rhonabwy_, both from the 'Mabinogion,' are +sharply dramatic, although then and later Welsh literature remained +practically devoid of the play form. Experience dramatized is, too, +that Pilgrim's Progress of Gwalia: 'Y Bardd Cwsg' (1703). + +"Every gift of the Welsh would seem to promise the realization some +day of a great national drama, for they have not only the gift of +poetry and the power to seize the symbol--short cut through +experience--which can, even as the crutch of Ibsen's Little Eyolf, +lift a play into greatness; they have, also, natures profoundly +emotional and yet intellectually critical. They are, humanly speaking, +perfect tools for the achievement of great drama. But it is a drab +journey from those 'Mabinogion' days of wonder, coarse and crude as +they were in many ways, yet intensely vital, through the 'Bardd Cwsg' +to Twm o'r Nant (1739-1810) the so-called 'Welsh Shakespeare,' whose +Interludes might, with sufficient worrying, afford delectation to the +rock-ribbed Puritanism which has stood, as much as any other +oppression, in the way of Gwalia's full development of her genius for +beauty. + +"It was, then, a significant moment when 'The Welsh National Theatre' +came into existence with so powerful a patron as Lord Howard de +Walden, lessee of the Haymarket, and Owen Rhoscomyl (Captain Owen +Vaughan) and other gifted Welsh literati for its sponsors. And it did +not seem an insignificant moment to one person, the playwright of _The +Merry Merry Cuckoo_ and _Welsh Honeymoon_, when she learned through +her friendly agent, Curtis Brown of London, that she had received one +of the Welsh National Theatre's first prizes (1911)." + +Jeannette Marks's interest in Wales is the result of a number of +holidays spent in wandering through its highways and byways. Books of +hers like _Through Welsh Doorways_ and _Gallant Little Wales_ bespeak +an affectionate intimacy with homes and inhabitants. In the last +named, especially, the chapters called "Cambrian Cottages" and "Welsh +Wales" contain material that is highly illuminating in connection with +the interpretation of her plays. Edward Knobloch, the playwright, is +said to have pointed out to the author the dramatic situations +inherent in her short stories and sketches, a suggestion which bore +fruit in _Three Welsh Plays_. + +The first performance of _Welsh Honeymoon_ was given by the American +Drama Society in Boston in February, 1916. It has also been produced +by the Boston Women's City Club, the Vagabond Players in Baltimore, +the Hull House Players in Chicago, and the Prince Street Players in +Rochester. + + + + +WELSH HONEYMOON[39] + + +CHARACTERS + + VAVASOUR JONES. + CATHERINE JONES, _his wife_. + EILIR MORRIS, _nephew of Vavasour Jones_. + MRS. MORGAN, _the baker_. + HOWELL HOWELL, _the milliner_. + + [Footnote 39: PRONUNCIATION OF WELSH NAMES + + 1 _ch_ has, roughly, the same sound as in German or in + the Scotch _loch_. + 2 _dd_ = English _th_, roughly, in brea_th_e. + 3 _e_ has, roughly, the sound of _ai_ in d_ai_ry. + 4 _f_ = English _v_. + 5 _ff_ = English sharp _f_. + 6 _ll_ represents a sound intermediate between _the_ and _fl_. + 7 _w_ as a consonant is pronounced as in English; as a + vowel = _oo_. + 8 _y_ is sometimes like _u_ in b_u_t, but sometimes like _ee_ + in gr_ee_n. + + NOTE: _The author will gladly answer questions about + pronunciation, costuming, etc., etc._] + + +_PLACE._--_Beddgelert, a little village in North Wales._ + +_A Welsh kitchen. At back, in center, a deep ingle, with two hobs and +fire bars fixed between, on either side settles. On the left-hand side +near the fire a church; on the right, in a pile, some peat ready for +use. Above the fireplace is a mantel on which are set some brass +candlesticks, a deep copper cheese bowl, and two pewter plates. Near +the left settle is a three-legged table set with teapot, cups and +saucers for two, a plate of bread and butter, a plate of jam, and a +creamer. At the right and to the right of the door, is a tall, highly +polished, oaken grandfather's clock, with a shining brass face; to the +left of the door is a tridarn. The tridarn dresser is lined with +bright blue paper and filled with luster china. The floor is of beaten +clay, whitewashed around the edges; from the rafters of the peaked +ceiling hang flitches of bacon, hams, and bunches of onions and herbs. +On the hearth is a copper kettle singing gaily; and on either side of +the fireplace are latticed windows opening into the kitchen. Through +the door to the right, when open, may be seen the flagstones and +cottages of a Welsh village street; through latticed windows the +twinkling of many village lights._ + +_It is about half after eleven on Allhallows' Eve in the village of +Beddgelert._ + +_At rise of curtain, the windows of kitchen are closed; the fire is +burning brightly, and two candles are lighted on the mantelpiece. +VAVASOUR JONES, about thirty-five years old, dressed in a striped +vest, a short, heavy blue coat, cut away in front, and with +swallowtails behind, and trimmed with brass buttons, and somewhat +tight trousers down to his boot tops, is standing by the open door at +the right, looking out anxiously on to the glittering, rain-wet +flagstone street and calling after someone._ + + +VAVASOUR[40] [_calling_]. Kats, Kats, mind ye come home soon from +Pally Hughes's! + + [Footnote 40: The _a_'s are broad throughout, i. e., Kats is + pronounced Kaats; Vavasour is Vavasoor: _ou_ is oo.] + +CATHERINE [_from a distance_]. Aye, I'm no wantin' to go, but I must. +Good-by! + +VAVASOUR. Good-by! Kats, ye mind about comin' home? [_There is no +reply, and VAVASOUR looks still further into the rain-wet street. He +calls loudly and desperately._] Kats, Kats darlin', I cannot let you +go without tellin' ye that--Kats, do ye hear? [_There is still no +reply and after one more searching of the street, VAVASOUR closes the +door and sits down on the end of the nearest settle._] + +VAVASOUR. Dear, dear, she's gone, an' I may never see her again, an' +I'm to blame, an' she didn't know whatever that in the night--[_Loud +knocking on the closed door; VAVASOUR jumps and stands irresolute._] +The devil, it can't be comin' for her already? [_The knocking grows +louder._] + +VOICE [_calling_]. Catherine, Vavasour, are ye in? + +VAVASOUR [_opening the door_]. Aye, come in, whoever ye are. [_MRS. +MORGAN, the Baker, dressed in a scarlet whittle and freshly starched +white cap beneath her tall Welsh beaver hat, enters, shaking the rain +from her cloak._] + +MRS. MORGAN. Where's Catherine? + +VAVASOUR. She's gone, Mrs. Morgan. + +MRS. MORGAN. Gone? Are ye no goin'? Not goin' to Pally Hughes's on +Allhallows' Eve? + +VAVASOUR [_shaking his head and looking very white_]. Nay, I'm no +feelin' well. + +MRS. MORGAN. Aye, I see ye're ill? + +VAVASOUR. Well, I'm not ill, but I'm not well. Not well at all, Mrs. +Morgan. + +MRS. MORGAN. We'll miss ye, but I must hurryin' on whatever; I'm late +now. Good-night! + +VAVASOUR [_speaking drearily_]. Good-night! [_He closes the door and +returns to the settle, where he sits down by the pile of peat and +drops his head in his hand. Then he starts up nervously for no +apparent cause and opens one of the lattice windows. With an +exclamation of fear, he slams it to and throws his weight against the +door. Calling and holding hard to the door._] Ye've no cause to come +here! Ye old death's head, get away! [_Outside there is loud pounding +on the door and a voice shouting for admittance. VAVASOUR is obliged +to fall back as the door is gradually forced open, and a head is +thrust in, a white handkerchief tied over it._] + +HOWELL HOWELL [_seeing the terror-stricken face of VAVASOUR_]. Well, +man, what ails ye; did ye think I was a ghost? [_HOWELL HOWELL, the +Milliner, in highlows and a plum-colored coat, a handkerchief on his +hat, enters, stamping off the rain and closing the door. He carefully +wipes off his plum-colored sleeves and speaks indignantly._] Well, +man, are ye crazy, keepin' me out in the rain that way? Where's +Catherine? + +VAVASOUR [_stammering_]. She's at P-p-p-ally Hughes's. + +HOWELL HOWELL. Are ye no goin'? + +VAVASOUR. Nay, Howell Howell, I'm no goin'. + +HOWELL HOWELL. An' dressed in your best? What's the matter? Have ye +been drinkin' whatever? + +VAVASOUR [_wrathfully_]. Drinkin'! I'd better be drinkin' when +neighbors go walkin' round the village on Allhallows' Eve with their +heads done up in white. + +HOWELL HOWELL. Aye, well, I can't be spoilin' the new hat I have, +that I cannot. A finer beaver there has never been in my shop. [_He +takes off the handkerchief, hangs it where the heat of the fire will +dry it a bit, and then, removing the beaver, shows it to VAVASOUR, +turning it this way and that._] + +VAVASOUR [_absent-mindedly_]. Aye, grand, grand, man! + +HOWELL HOWELL. What are ye gazin' at the clock for? + +VAVASOUR [_guiltily_]. I'm no lookin' at anything. + +HOWELL HOWELL. Well, indeed, I must be goin', or I shall be late at +Pally Hughes's. Good-night. + +VAVASOUR. Good-night. [_He closes the door and stands before the +clock, studying it. While he is studying its face the door opens +slowly, and the tumbled, curly head of a lad about eighteen years of +age peers in. The door continues slowly to open. VAVASOUR unconscious +all the while._] 'Tis ten now. Ten, eleven, twelve; that's three hours +left, 'tis; nay, nay, 'tis only two hours left, after all, an' then-- + +EILIR MORRIS [_bounding in and shutting the door behind him with a +bang_]. Boo! Whoo--o--o! + +VAVASOUR [_his face blanched, dropping limply on to the settle_]. The +devil! + +EILIR MORRIS [_troubled_]. Uch, the pity, Uncle! I didn't think, an' +ye're ill! + +VAVASOUR. Tut, tut, 'tis no matter, an' I'm not ill--not ill at all, +but Eilir, lad, ye're kin, an'--could ye promise never to tell? + +EILIR MORRIS [_who thinks his uncle has been drinking, speaks to him +as if he would humor his whim_]. Aye, Uncle, I'm kin, an' I promise. +Tell on. What is it? Are ye sick? + +VAVASOUR [_drearily_]. Uch, lad, I'm not sick! + +EILIR MORRIS. Well, what ails ye? + +VAVASOUR. 'Tis Allhallows' Eve an'-- + +EILIR MORRIS. Aren't ye goin' to Pally Hughes's? + +VAVASOUR [_moaning and rising_]. Ow, the devil, goin' to Pally +Hughes's while 'tis drawin' nearer an' nearer an'--Ow! 'Tis the night +when Catherine must go. + +EILIR MORRIS. When Aunt Kats must go! What do you mean? + +VAVASOUR. She'll be dead to-night at twelve. + +EILIR MORRIS [_bewildered_]. Dead at twelve? But she's at Pally +Hughes's. Does she know it? + +VAVASOUR. No, but I do, an' to think I've been unkind to her! I've +tried this year to make up for it, but 'tis no use, lad; one year'll +never make up for ten of harsh words, whatever. Ow! [_Groaning, +VAVASOUR collapses on to the settle and rocks to and fro, moaning +aloud._] + +EILIR MORRIS [_mystified_]. Well, ye've not been good to her, Uncle, +that's certain; but ye've been different the past year. + +VAVASOUR [_sobbing_]. Aye, but a year'll not do any good, an' she'll +be dyin' at twelve to-night. Ow! I've turned to the scriptures to see +what it says about a man an' his wife, but it'll no do, no do, no do! + +EILIR MORRIS. Have ye been drinkin', Uncle? + +VAVASOUR [_hotly_]. Drinkin'! + +EILIR MORRIS. Well, indeed, no harm, but, Uncle, I cannot understand +why Aunt Kats's goin' an' where. + +VAVASOUR [_rising suddenly from the settle and seizing EILIR by the +coat lapel_]. She's goin' to leave me, lad; 'tis Allhallows' Eve +whatever! An' she'll be dyin' at twelve. Aye, a year ago things were +so bad between us, on Allhallows' Eve I went down to the church porch +shortly before midnight to see whether the spirit of your Aunt Kats +would be called an'-- + +EILIR MORRIS. Uncle, 'twas fair killin' her! + +VAVASOUR. I wanted to see whether she would live the twelve months +out. An' as I was leanin' against the church wall, hopin', aye, lad, +prayin' to see her spirit there, an' know she'd die, I saw somethin' +comin' 'round the corner with white over its head. + +EILIR MORRIS [_wailing_]. Ow--w! + +VAVASOUR. It drew nearer an' nearer, an' when it came in full view of +the church porch, it paused, it whirled around like that, an' sped +away with the shroud flappin' about its feet, an' the rain beatin' +down on its white hood. + +EILIR MORRIS [_wailing again_]. Ow--w! + +VAVASOUR. But there was time to see that it was the spirit of +Catherine, an' I was glad because my wicked prayer had been answered, +an' because with Catherine dyin' the next Allhallows', we'd have to +live together only the year out. + +EILIR MORRIS [_raising his hand_]. Hush, what's that? + +VAVASOUR. 'Tis voices whatever. [_Both listen, EILIR goes to the +window, VAVASOUR to the door. The voices become louder._] + +EILIR MORRIS. They're singin' a song at Pally Hughes's. [_Voices are +audibly singing:_] + + Ni awn adre bawb dan ganu, + Ar hyd y nos; + Saif ein hiaith safo Cymru, + Ar hyd y nos; + Bydded undeb a brawdgarwch + Ini'n gwlwm diogelwch, + Felly canwn er hyfrydwch, + Ar hyd y nos. + + Sweetly sang beside a fountain, + All through the night, + Mona's maiden on that mountain, + All through the night. + When wilt thou, from war returning, + In whose breast true love is burning, + Come and change to joy my mourning, + By day and night? + +VAVASOUR. Aye, they're happy, an' Kats does not know. I went home that +night, lad, thinkin' 'twas the last year we'd have to live together, +an', considerin' as 'twas the last year, I might just as well try to +be decent an' kind. An' when I reached home, Catherine was up waitin' +for me an' spoke so pleasantly, an' we sat down an' had a long +talk--just like the days when we were courtin'. + +EILIR MORRIS. Did she know, Uncle? + +VAVASOUR [_puzzled_]. Nay, how could she know. But she seems +queer,--as if she felt the evil comin'. Well, indeed, each day was +sweeter than the one before, an' we were man an' wife in love an' +kindness at last, but all the while I was thinkin' of that figure by +the churchyard. Lad, lad, ye'll be marryin' before long,--be good to +her, lad, be good to her! [_VAVASOUR lets go the lapels of EILIR's +coat and sinks back on to the settle, half sobbing. Outside the roar +of wind and rain growing louder can be heard._] + +VAVASOUR [_looking at the clock_]. An' here 'tis Allhallows' Eve +again, an' the best year of my life is past, an' she must die in an +hour an' a half. Ow, ow! It has all come from my own evil heart an' +evil wish. Think, lad, prayin' for her callin'; aye, goin' there, +hopin' ye'd see her spirit, an' countin' on her death! + +EILIR MORRIS [_mournfully_]. Aye, Uncle, 'tis bad, an' I've no word to +say to ye for comfort. I recollect well the story Granny used to tell +about Christmas Pryce; 'twas somethin' the same whatever. An' there +was Betty Williams was called a year ago, an' is dead now; an' there +was Silvan Griffith, an' Geffery, his friend, an' Silvan had just time +to dig Geffery's grave an' then his own, too, by its side, an' they +was buried the same day an' hour. + +VAVASOUR [_wailing_]. Ow--w--w! [_At that moment the door is blown +violently open by the wind; both men jump and stare out into the dark +where only the dimmed lights of the rain-swept street are to be seen, +and the very bright windows of Pally Hughes's cottage._] + +EILIR MORRIS. Uch, she'll be taken there! + +VAVASOUR. Aye, an', Eilir, she was loath to go to Pally's, but I could +not tell her the truth. + +EILIR MORRIS. Are ye not goin', Uncle? + +VAVASOUR. Nay, lad, I cannot go. I'm fair crazy. I'll just be stayin' +home, waitin' for them to bring her back. Ow--w--w! + +EILIR MORRIS. Tut, tut, Uncle, I'm sorry. I'll just see for ye what +they're doin'. [_EILIR steps out and is gone for an instant. He comes +back excitedly._] + +VAVASOUR [_shouting after him_]. Can ye see her, lad? + +EILIR MORRIS [_returning_]. Dear, they've a grand display, raisins an' +buns, an' spices an' biscuits-- + +VAVASOUR. But your Aunt Kats? + +EILIR MORRIS. Aye, an' a grand fire, an' a tub with apples in it an'-- + +VAVASOUR. But Catherine? + +EILIR MORRIS. Aye, she was there near the fire, an' just as I turned, +they blew the lights out. + +VAVASOUR. Blew the lights out! Uch, she'll be taken there whatever! + +EILIR MORRIS. They're tellin' stories in the dark. + +VAVASOUR. Go back again an' tell what ye can see of your Aunt Kats, +lad. + +EILIR MORRIS. Aye. + +VAVASOUR [_shouting after him_]. Find where she's sittin', lad--make +certain of that. + +EILIR MORRIS [_running in breathless_]. They're throwin' nuts on the +fire-- + +VAVASOUR. Is she there? + +EILIR MORRIS. I'm thinkin' she is, but old Pally Hughes was just +throwin' a nut on the fire an'-- + +VAVASOUR [_impatiently_]. 'Tis no matter about Pally Hughes whatever, +but your Aunt Kats, did-- + +EILIR MORRIS. There was only the light of the fire; I did not see her, +but I'll go again. + +VAVASOUR. Watch for her nut an' see does it burn brightly. + +EILIR MORRIS [_going out_]. Aye. + +VAVASOUR [_calling after_]. Mind, I'm wantin' to know what she's +doin'. [_He has scarcely spoken the last word when a great commotion +is heard: a door across the street being slammed to violently, and the +sound of running feet. VAVASOUR straightens up, his eyes in terror on +the door, which CATHERINE JONES throws open and bursts through._] + +VAVASOUR [_holding out his arms_]. Catherine, is it really ye! +[_CATHERINE, after a searching glance at him, draws herself up. +VAVASOUR draws himself up, too, and then stoops to pick up some peat +which he puts on the fire, and crosses over to left and sits down on +the settle near the chimney, without having embraced her. CATHERINE's +face is flushed, her eyes wild under the pretty white cap she wears, a +black Welsh beaver above it. She is dressed in a scarlet cloak, under +this a tight bodice and short, full skirt, bright stockings, and clogs +with brass tips. Her apron is of heavy linen, striped; over her breast +a kerchief is crossed, and from the elbows down to the wrist are full +white sleeves stiffly starched._] + +CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, 'twas dull at Pally's--very dull. My nut didn't +burn very brightly, an'--an'--well, indeed, my feet was wet, an' I +feared takin' a cold. + +VAVASOUR. Yiss, yiss, 'tis better for ye here, dearie. [_Then there is +silence between them. CATHERINE still breathes heavily from the +running, and VAVASOUR shuffles his feet. While they are both sitting +there, unable to say a word, the door opens without a sound, and +EILIR's curly head is thrust in. A guttural exclamation from him makes +them start and look towards the door, but he closes it before they can +see him. CATHERINE then takes off her beaver and looks at VAVASOUR. +VAVASOUR opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again._] + +VAVASOUR [_desperately_]. Did ye have a fine time at Pally's? + +CATHERINE. Aye, 'twas gay an' fine an'--an'--yiss, yiss, so 'twas an' +so 'twasn't. + +VAVASOUR [_his eyes seeking the clock_]. A quarter past eleven, uch! +Katy, do ye recall Pastor Evan's sermon, the one he preached last New +Year? + +CATHERINE [_also glancing at the clock_]. Sixteen minutes after +eleven--yiss--yiss-- + +VAVASOUR [_catching CATHERINE's glance at the clock_]. Well, +Catherine, do-- + +CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, I said I did whatever. 'Twas about inheritin' +the grace of life together. + +VAVASOUR. Kats, dear, wasn't he sayin' that love is eternal, an' +that--a man--an'--an'--his wife was lovin' for--for-- + +CATHERINE [_glancing at the clock and meeting VAVASOUR's eyes just +glancing away from the clock_]. Aye, lad, for ever-lastin' life! Uch, +what have I done? + +VAVASOUR [_unheeding and doubling up as if from pain_]. Half after +eleven! Yiss, yiss, dear, didn't he say that the Lord was mindful of +us--of our difficulties, an' our temptations an' our mistakes? + +CATHERINE [_tragically_]. Aye, an' our mistakes. Ow, ow, ow, but a +half hour's left! + +VAVASOUR. Do ye think, dearie, that if a man were to--to--uch!--be +unkind to his wife--an' was sorry an' his wife--his wife dies, that +he'd be--be-- + +CATHERINE [_tenderly_]. Aye, I'm thinkin' so. An', lad dear, do ye +think if anythin' was to happen to ye to-night,--yiss, _this_ +night,--that ye'd take any grudge against me away with ye? + +VAVASOUR [_stiffening_]. Happen to _me_, Catherine? [_VAVASOUR +collapses, groaning. CATHERINE goes to his side on the settle._] + +CATHERINE [_in an agonized voice_]. Uch, dearie, what is it, what is +it, what ails ye? + +VAVASOUR [_slanting an eye at the clock_]. Nothin', nothin' at all. +Ow, the devil, 'tis twenty minutes before twelve whatever! + +CATHERINE. Lad, lad, what is it? + +VAVASOUR. 'Tis nothin', nothin' at all--'tis--ow!--'tis just a little +pain across me. + +CATHERINE [_her face whitening as she steals a look at the clock and +puts her arm around VAVASOUR_]. Vavasour, lad dear, is that the wind +in the chimney? Put your arm about me an' hold fast. + +VAVASOUR [_both hands across his stomach, his eyes on the clock_]. +Ow--ten minutes! + +CATHERINE [_shaking all over_]. Is that a step at the door? + +VAVASOUR [_unheeding_].'Tis goin' to strike now in a minute. + +CATHERINE [_her eyes in horror on the clock_]. Five minutes before +twelve! + +VAVASOUR [_almost crying, his eyes fixed on the clock's face_]. Uch, +the toad, the serpent! + +CATHERINE [_her face in her hands_]. Dear God, he's goin' now! + +VAVASOUR [_covering his eyes_]. Uch, the devil! Uch, the gates of +hell! [_CATHERINE cries out. VAVASOUR groans loudly. The clock is +striking: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, +Eleven, Twelve! The last loud clang vibrates and subsides. Through a +chink in her fingers CATHERINE is peering at VAVASOUR. Through a +similar chink his agonized eyes are peering at her._] + +CATHERINE [_gulping_]. Uch! + +VAVASOUR. The devil! + +CATHERINE [_putting out her hand to touch him_]. Lad, dear! [_They +embrace, they kiss, they dance madly about. Then they do it all over +again. While they are doing this, EILIR opens the door again and +thrusts in his head. He stares open-eyed, open-mouthed at them, and +leans around the side of the door to see what time it is, saying +audibly "five minutes past twelve," grunts his satisfaction, and +closes the door._] + +VAVASOUR [_mad with joy_]. Kats, are ye here, really here? + +CATHERINE [_surprised_]. Am _I_ here? Tut, lad, are _ye_ here? + +VAVASOUR [_shrewdly_]. Yiss, that is are we _both_ here? + +CATHERINE [_perplexed_]. Did ye think I wasn't goin' to be? + +VAVASOUR [_suppressed intelligent joy in his eyes_]. No--o, not that, +only I thought, I thought ye was goin' to--to--faint, Kats. I thought +ye looked like it, Kats. + +CATHERINE [_the happiness on her face vanishing, sinks on to the +nearest settle_]. Uch, I'm a bad, bad woman, aye, Vavasour Jones, a +_bad_ woman! + +VAVASOUR [_puzzled, yet lightly_]. Nay, Kats, nay! + +CATHERINE [_desperately and almost in tears_]. Ye cannot believe what +I must tell ye. Lad, a year ago this night I went to the church porch, +hopin', aye, prayin', ye'd be called, that I'd see your spirit +walkin'. + +VAVASOUR [_starting and recovering himself_]. Catherine, ye did that! + +CATHERINE [_plunging on with her confession_]. Aye, lad, I did, I'd +been so unhappy with the quarrelin' an' hard words. I could think of +nothin' but gettin' rid of them. + +VAVASOUR [_in a tone of condemnation and standing over her_]. That was +bad, very bad indeed! + +CATHERINE. An' then, lad, when I reached the church corner an' saw +your spirit was really there, _really_ called, an' I knew ye'd not +live the year out, I was frightened, but uch! lad, I was glad, I was +indeed. + +VAVASOUR [_looking grave_]. Catherine, 'twas a terrible thing to do! + +CATHERINE [_meekly_]. Yiss, I know it now, but I didn't then. I was +hard-hearted, an' I was weak with longin' to escape from it all. An' +when I ran home I was frightened, but uch! lad, I was glad, too, an' +now it hurts me so to think of it. Can you no comfort me? + +VAVASOUR [_grudgingly, but not touching CATHERINE's outstretched +hand_]. Aye, well, I could, but, Kats, 'twas such a terrible thing to +do! + +CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, ye'll never be able to forgive me, I'm +thinkin'. An' then when ye came in from the lodge, ye spoke so +pleasantly to me that I was troubled. An' now the year through it has +grown better an' better, an' I could think of nothin' but lovin' ye, +an' wishing' ye to live, an' knowin' I was the cause of your bein' +called. Uch, lad, _can_ ye forgive me? + +VAVASOUR [_slowly_]. Aye, I can, none of us is without sin; but, +Catherine, it was wrong, aye, aye, 'twas a wicked thing for a woman to +do. + +CATHERINE [_still more meekly_]. An' then to-night, lad, I was +expectin' ye to go, knowin' ye couldn't live after twelve, an' ye +sittin' there so innocent an' mournful. An' when the time came, I +wanted to die myself. Uch! + +VAVASOUR [_sitting down beside her and putting an arm about her as he +speaks in a superior tone of voice_]. No matter, dearie, now. It _was_ +wrong in ye, but we're still here, an' it's been a sweet year, yiss, +better nor a honeymoon, an' all the years after we'll make better nor +this. There, there, Kats, let's have a bit of a wassail to celebrate +our Allhallows' honeymoon, shall we? + +CATHERINE [_starting to fetch a bowl_]. Yiss, lad, 'twould be fine, +but, Vavasour, can ye forgive me, think, lad, for hopin', aye, an' +prayin' to see your spirit called, just wishin' that ye'd not live the +year out? + +VAVASOUR [_with condescension_]. Kats, I can, an' I'm not layin' it up +against ye, though 'twas a wicked thing for ye to do--for anyone to +do. Now, darlin', fetch the bowl. + +CATHERINE [_starting for the bowl again but turning on him_]. +Vavasour, how does it happen that the callin' is set aside, an' that +ye're really here? Such a thing has not been in Beddgelert in the +memory of man. + +VAVASOUR [_with dignity_]. I'm not sayin' how it's happened, Kats, but +I'm thinkin' 'tis modern times whatever, an' things have changed--aye, +indeed, 'tis modern times. + +CATHERINE [_sighing contentedly_]. Good! 'Tis lucky 'tis modern times +whatever! + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +RIDERS TO THE SEA[41] + +By JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE + + [Footnote 41: Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. Reprinted by + special arrangement with John W. Luce & Company, Boston. + Acting rights in the hands of Samuel French, 28 West 38 + Street, New York.] + + +"He was of a dark type of Irishman, though not black-haired. Something +in his air gave one the fancy that his face was dark from gravity. +Gravity filled the face and haunted it, as though the man behind were +forever listening to life's case before passing judgment.... When +someone spoke to him he answered with grave Irish courtesy. When the +talk became general he was silent.... His manner was that of a man too +much interested in the life about him to wish to be more than a +spectator. His interest was in life, not in ideas." In these words, +John Masefield gives his first impressions of John Millington Synge, +whom he met at a friend's house, in London, in January, 1903. + +Synge, born April 16, 1871, at Newton Little, near Dublin, and dying +in Dublin, March 24, 1909, belongs to that group of "inheritors of +unfulfilled renown" who died before the prime of life was reached. He +left six plays, notable the _Riders to the Sea_ and _Deirdre of the +Sorrows_, that are among the greatest in our language. He was delicate +from the beginning, and after some education in private schools in +Dublin and Bray, left school when about fourteen and studied with a +tutor. In 1892 he took his B.A. degree from Trinity College, Dublin, +whose rolls contain a number of names famous in English literature. +While at college, he studied music at the Royal Irish Academy of +Music, where he won a scholarship. His first impulse was to make music +his career, and he spent portions of the next four years in Germany, +France, and Italy studying music and traveling. In May, 1898, he first +went to the Aran Islands, later to be the scene of _Riders to the +Sea_. Thereafter in Paris in 1899 he met Yeats, who advised him to go +back to the Aran Islands to renew his contact with the simple folk +there. For the next three years he divided his time between Paris and +Ireland. It was in 1904 that his play, _Riders to the Sea_,[42] was +first produced. He was at Dublin that same year for the opening of the +Abbey Theatre, of which he was one of the advisers. Whenever the Irish +Players visited England, he traveled with them. In 1909 came the +operation that ended his life. + + [Footnote 42: For a list of Synge's other plays, see E. A. + Boyd, _The Contemporary Drama of Ireland_, Boston, 1917.] + +Synge's book, _The Aran Islands_, which is a record of his various +visits to these three islands lying about thirty miles off the coast +of County Galway, is full of material that throws light on the setting +and characterization of _Riders to the Sea_. The central incident in +this play was suggested to Synge while he was sojourning on Inishmaan, +the middle island of the Aran group, by a tale that he heard of a man +whose body had been washed up on a distant coast, and who had been +identified as belonging to the Islands, because of his characteristic +garments. When on Inishmaan, Synge himself lived in just such a +cottage as that which is the background for the tragedy of Maurya's +sons. He wrote of this cottage, "The kitchen itself, where I will +spend most of my time, is full of beauty and distinction. The red +dresses of the women who cluster round the fire on their stools give a +glow of almost Eastern richness, and the walls have been toned by the +surf-smoke to a soft brown that blends with the gray earth-color of +the floor. Many sorts of fishing-tackle, and the nets and oilskins of +the men, are hung up on the walls or among the open rafters." And the +following passage from his _Aran Islands_ is an eloquent description +of the atmosphere there: "A week of smoking fog has passed over and +given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the +island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of +wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves. + +"The slaty limestone has grown black with the water that is dripping +on it, and wherever I turn there is the same gray obsession twining +and wreathing itself among the narrow fields, and the same wail from +the wind that shrieks and whistles in the loose rubble of the walls." + +Mr. Masefield, in his recollections of Synge, reports also the +following conversation between himself and the Irish playwright: Synge +saying, "They [the islanders] asked me to fiddle to them so that they +might dance," and Mr. Masefield asking, "Do you play, then?" and Synge +answering, "I fiddle a little. I try to learn something different for +them every time. The last time I learned to do conjuring tricks. +They'd get tired of me if I didn't bring something new. I'm thinking +of learning the penny whistle before I go again." + +A later visitor[43] to the Aran Islands, Miss B. N. Hedderman, a +district nurse, gives further evidences of the simplicity of those +people from whom the characters of _Riders to the Sea_ were drawn. She +tells of a man who owned a house with two comfortable rooms in it, one +of which he leveled ruthlessly because he had dreamed that it hindered +the passage of the "good people." The illustrations in her little book +showing cottage interiors and peasant costumes will be found useful by +groups who are planning to produce _Riders to the Sea_. But the best +guide to the costumes and social life of the West of Ireland is J. B. +Yeats.[44] + + [Footnote 43: B. N. Hedderman, _Glimpses of My Life in Aran_, + Bristol, 1917.] + + [Footnote 44: J. B. Yeats, _Life in the West of Ireland_, + Dublin and London, 1912. The color prints and line drawings + in this book are very beautiful. Cf. also J. M. Synge, _The + Aran Islands_. With drawings by Jack B. Yeats, Dublin and + London, 1907.] + +The _Drama Calendar_ of December 13, 1920, offers the following +suggestion for a musical setting for the play: "The attention of +Little Theatre directors is called to a musical prelude to Synge's +_Riders to the Sea_, arranged by Henry F. Gilbert from the Symphonic +Prologue, which was played at the Worcester Musical Festival this +fall. This original arrangement of the material is intended to build +the mood which the play sustains, and is simply orchestrated for seven +instruments. Every Little Theatre should be able to gather such an +orchestra. Here is an opportunity to give continuity to a program of +one-acts; music answers a question which is one of the hardest the +director has to solve: how a mood which is to be created and sustained +in the brief space of twenty minutes shall not be too fleeting." + + + + +RIDERS TO THE SEA + +_A PLAY IN ONE ACT_ + +_First performed at the Molesworth Hall, Dublin, February 25, 1904._ + + +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, oil-skins, 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 may be 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? + +NORA. 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 forever. [_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 [_after 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? + +MAURYA [_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 north-east? + +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'ld 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 forever, and we must be satisfied. +[_She kneels down again and the curtain falls slowly._] + + + + +A NIGHT AT AN INN[45] + +_A PLAY IN ONE ACT_ + +By LORD DUNSANY + + [Footnote 45: Copyright, 1916, by The Sunwise Turn, Inc. All + rights reserved. The professional and amateur stage rights on + this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications + for permission to produce the Play should be made to The + Neighborhood Playhouse, 466 Grand Street, New York. + + Any infringement of the author's rights will be punished by + the penalties imposed under the United States Revised + Statutes, Title 60, Chapter 3.] + + +Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, eighteenth baron Dunsany, was born +in 1878, a lord of the British Empire, heir to an ancient barony, +created by Henry VI in the middle of the fifteenth century. He went +from Eton to Sandhurst, the English military college, held a +lieutenancy in a famous regiment, the Coldstream Guards, saw active +service in the South African War and served in the Great War as an +officer in the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. He turned aside from his +career as a soldier in 1906 to stand for West Wiltshire as the +Conservative candidate, but he was defeated. He writes enthusiastically +always of his interest in sport; he has gone to the ends of the earth +to shoot big game. His first book, _The Gods of Pegana_, was published +in 1905. He has since written sketches, fantastic tales, and +plays,[46] and latterly introductions to the poems of Francis +Ledwidge, the Irish peasant poet, who fell in battle in 1917. +Dunsany's early plays were put on at the Abbey Theatre where Yeats +produced _The Glittering Gate_ in 1909. + + [Footnote 46: For bibliography see E. A. Boyd, _The + Contemporary Drama of Ireland_, Boston, 1917.] + +The initial American productions were also made in Little Theatres, +under the auspices of the Stage Society of Philadelphia and at The +Neighborhood Playhouse in New York, where the first performance on any +stage of _A Night at an Inn_ was given on April 22, 1916. It was an +immediate success and aroused great general interest in Dunsany's +other plays. It was remarked at the time that its scene on an English +moor was far from "his own Oriental Never Never Land," and that it +recalled in its substance _The Moonstone_ by Wilkie Collins and _The +Mystery of Cloomber_ by A. Conan Doyle. Dunsany, unlike the other +playwrights associated with the Irish National Theatre, has borrowed +the glamour of the Orient rather than that of Celtic lore, to heighten +his dramatic effects. There is, in fact, much that is Biblical in his +mood and in his diction. + +When, at a later date, Lord Dunsany saw the production of _A Night at +an Inn_ at The Neighborhood Playhouse, the effect of the play +"exceeded his own expectations, and he was surprised to note the +thrill which it communicated to his audience. 'It's a very simple +thing,' he said,--'merely a story of some sailors who have stolen +something and know that they are followed. Possibly it is effective +because nearly everybody, at some time or other, has done something he +was sorry for, has been afraid of retribution, and has felt the hot +breath of a pursuing vengeance on the back of his neck.... _A Night at +an Inn_ was written between tea and dinner in a single sitting. That +was very easy.'"[47] + + [Footnote 47: Clayton Hamilton, _Seen on the Stage_, New + York, 1920, p. 238; p. 239.] + +_A Night at an Inn_ is one of Dunsany's contributions to the revival +of romance in our generation. In an article published ten years ago, +called _Romance and the Modern Stage_, he wrote: "Romance is so +inseparable from life that all we need, to obtain romantic drama, is +for the dramatist to find any age or any country where life is not too +thickly veiled and cloaked with puzzles and conventions, in fact to +find a people that is not in the agonies of self-consciousness. For +myself, I think it is simpler to imagine such a people, as it saves +the trouble of reading to find a romantic age, or the trouble of +making a journey to lands where there is no press.... The kind of +drama that we most need to-day seems to me to be the kind that will +build new worlds for the fancy; for the spirit, as much as the body, +needs sometimes a change of scene." + + + + +A NIGHT AT AN INN + + +CHARACTERS + + A. E. SCOTT-FORTESQUE (The Toff), _a dilapidated gentleman._ + WILLIAM JONES (Bill) } + ALBERT THOMAS } _merchant sailors._ + JACOB SMITH (Sniggers) } + First Priest of Klesh. + Second Priest of Klesh. + Third Priest of Klesh. + Klesh. + + +_The curtain rises on a room in an inn. SNIGGERS and BILL are talking, +THE TOFF is reading a paper. ALBERT sits a little apart._ + + +SNIGGERS. What's his idea, I wonder? + +BILL. I don't know. + +SNIGGERS. And how much longer will he keep us here? + +BILL. We've been here three days. + +SNIGGERS. And 'aven't seen a soul. + +BILL. And a pretty penny it cost us when he rented the pub. + +SNIGGERS. 'Ow long did 'e rent the pub for? + +BILL. You never know with him. + +SNIGGERS. It's lonely enough. + +BILL. 'Ow long did you rent the pub for, Toffy? [_THE TOFF continues +to read a sporting paper; he takes no notice of what is said._] + +SNIGGERS. 'E's _such_ a toff. + +BILL. Yet 'e's clever, no mistake. + +SNIGGERS. Those clever ones are the beggars to make a muddle. Their +plans are clever enough, but they don't work, and then they make a +mess of things much worse than you or me. + +BILL. Ah! + +SNIGGERS. I don't like this place. + +BILL. Why not? + +SNIGGERS. I don't like the looks of it. + +BILL. He's keeping us here because here those niggers can't find us. +The three heathen priests what was looking for us so. But we want to +go and sell our ruby soon. + +ALBERT. There's no sense in it. + +BILL. Why not, Albert? + +ALBERT. Because I gave those black devils the slip in Hull. + +BILL. You give 'em the slip, Albert? + +ALBERT. The slip, all three of them. The fellows with the gold spots +on their foreheads. I had the ruby then and I give them the slip in +Hull. + +BILL. How did you do it, Albert? + +ALBERT. I had the ruby and they were following me.... + +BILL. Who told them you had the ruby? You didn't show it. + +ALBERT. No.... But they kind of know. + +SNIGGERS. They kind of know, Albert? + +ALBERT. Yes, they know if you've got it. Well, they sort of mouched +after me, and I tells a policeman and he says, O, they were only three +poor niggers and they wouldn't hurt me. Ugh! When I thought of what +they did in Malta to poor old Jim. + +BILL. Yes, and to George in Bombay before we started. + +SNIGGERS. Ugh! + +BILL. Why didn't you give 'em in charge? + +ALBERT. What about the ruby, Bill? + +BILL. Ah! + +ALBERT. Well, I did better than that. I walks up and down through +Hull. I walks slow enough. And then I turns a corner and I runs. I +never sees a corner but I turns it. But sometimes I let a corner pass +just to fool them. I twists about like a hare. Then I sits down and +waits. No priests. + +SNIGGERS. What? + +ALBERT. No heathen black devils with gold spots on their face. I give +'em the slip. + +BILL. Well done, Albert! + +SNIGGERS [_after a sigh of content_]. Why didn't you tell us? + +ALBERT. 'Cause 'e won't let you speak. 'E's got 'is plans and 'e +thinks we're silly folk. Things must be done 'is way. And all the time +I've give 'em the slip. Might 'ave 'ad one o' them crooked knives in +him before now but for me who give 'em the slip in Hull. + +BILL. Well done, Albert! Do you hear that, Toffy? Albert has give 'em +the slip. + +THE TOFF. Yes, I hear. + +SNIGGERS. Well, what do you say to that? + +THE TOFF. O.... Well done, Albert! + +ALBERT. And what a' you going to do? + +THE TOFF. Going to wait. + +ALBERT. Don't seem to know what 'e's waiting for. + +SNIGGERS. It's a nasty place. + +ALBERT. It's getting silly, Bill. Our money's gone and we want to sell +the ruby. Let's get on to a town. + +BILL. But 'e won't come. + +ALBERT. Then we'll leave him. + +SNIGGERS. We'll be all right if we keep away from Hull. + +ALBERT. We'll go to London. + +BILL. But 'e must 'ave 'is share. + +SNIGGERS. All right. Only let's go. [_To THE TOFF._] We're going, do +you hear? Give us the ruby. + +THE TOFF. Certainly. [_He gives them a ruby from his waistcoat pocket; +it is the size of a small hen's egg. He goes on reading his paper._] + +ALBERT. Come on, Sniggers. [_Exeunt ALBERT and SNIGGERS._] + +BILL. Good-by, old man. We'll give you your fair share, but there's +nothing to do here--no girls, no halls, and we must sell the ruby. + +THE TOFF. I'm not a fool, Bill. + +BILL. No, no, of course not. Of course you ain't, and you've helped us +a lot. Good-by. You'll say good-by? + +THE TOFF. Oh, yes. Good-by. [_Still reads his paper. Exit BILL. THE +TOFF puts a revolver on the table beside him and goes on with his +papers. After a moment the three men come rushing in again, +frightened._] + +SNIGGERS [_out of breath_]. We've come back, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. So you have. + +ALBERT. Toffy.... How did they get here? + +THE TOFF. They walked, of course. + +ALBERT. But it's eighty miles. + +SNIGGERS. Did you know they were here, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Expected them about now. + +ALBERT. Eighty miles! + +BILL. Toffy, old man ... what are we to do? + +THE TOFF. Ask Albert. + +BILL. If they can do things like this, there's no one can save us but +you, Toffy.... I always knew you were a clever one. We won't be fools +any more. We'll obey you, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. You're brave enough and strong enough. There isn't many that +would steal a ruby eye out of an idol's head, and such an idol as that +was to look at, and on such a night. You're brave enough, Bill. But +you're all three of you fools. Jim would have none of my plans, and +where's Jim? And George. What did they do to him? + +SNIGGERS. Don't, Toffy! + +THE TOFF. Well, then, your strength is no use to you. You want +cleverness; or they'll have you the way they had George and Jim. + +ALL. Ugh! + +THE TOFF. Those black priests would follow you round the world in +circles. Year after year, till they got the idol's eye. And if we died +with it, they'd follow our grandchildren. That fool thinks he can +escape from men like that by running round three streets in the town +of Hull. + +ALBERT. God's truth, _you_ 'aven't escaped them, because they're +_'ere_. + +THE TOFF. So I supposed. + +ALBERT. You _supposed_! + +THE TOFF. Yes, I believe there's no announcement in the Society +papers. But I took this country seat especially to receive them. +There's plenty of room if you dig, it is pleasantly situated, and, +what is more important, it is in a very quiet neighborhood. So I am at +home to them this afternoon. + +BILL. Well, _you're_ a deep one. + +THE TOFF. And remember, you've only my wits between you and death, and +don't put your futile plans against those of an educated gentleman. + +ALBERT. If you're a gentleman, why don't you go about among gentlemen +instead of the likes of us? + +THE TOFF. Because I was too clever for them as I am too clever for +you. + +ALBERT. Too clever for them? + +THE TOFF. I never lost a game of cards in my life. + +BILL. You never lost a game? + +THE TOFF. Not when there was money in it. + +BILL. Well, well! + +THE TOFF. Have a game of poker? + +ALL. No, thanks. + +THE TOFF. Then do as you're told. + +BILL. All right, Toffy. + +SNIGGERS. I saw something just then. Hadn't we better draw the +curtains? + +THE TOFF. No. + +SNIGGERS. What? + +THE TOFF. Don't draw the curtains. + +SNIGGERS. O, all right. + +BILL. But, Toffy, they can see us. One doesn't let the enemy do that. +I don't see why.... + +THE TOFF. No, of course you don't. + +BILL. O, all right, Toffy. [_All begin to pull out revolvers._] + +THE TOFF [_putting his own away_]. No revolvers, please. + +ALBERT. Why not? + +THE TOFF. Because I don't want any noise at my party. We might get +guests that hadn't been invited. _Knives_ are a different matter. +[_All draw knives. THE TOFF signs to them not to draw them yet. TOFFY +has already taken back his ruby._] + +BILL. I think they're coming, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. Not yet. + +ALBERT. When will they come? + +THE TOFF. When I am quite ready to receive them. Not before. + +SNIGGERS. I should like to get this over. + +THE TOFF. Should you? Then we'll have them now. + +SNIGGERS. Now? + +THE TOFF. Yes. Listen to me. You shall do as you see me do. You will +all pretend to go out. I'll show you how. I've got the ruby. When they +see me alone they will come for their idol's eye. + +BILL. How can they tell like this which of us has it? + +THE TOFF. I confess I don't know, but they seem to. + +SNIGGERS. What will you do when they come in? + +THE TOFF. I shall do nothing. + +SNIGGERS. What? + +THE TOFF. They will creep up behind me. Then, my friends, Sniggers and +Bill and Albert, who gave them the slip, will do what they can. + +BILL. All right, Toffy. Trust us. + +THE TOFF. If you're a little slow, you will see enacted the cheerful +spectacle that accompanied the demise of Jim. + +SNIGGERS. Don't, Toffy. We'll be there, all right. + +THE TOFF. Very well. Now watch me. [_He goes past the windows to the +inner door R. He opens it inwards, then under cover of the open door, +he slips down on his knee and closes it, remaining on the inside, +appearing to have gone out. He signs to the others, who understand. +Then he appears to re-enter in the same manner._] + +THE TOFF. Now, I shall sit with my back to the door. You go out one by +one, so far as our friends can make out. Crouch very low to be on the +safe side. They mustn't see you through the window. [_BILL makes his +sham exit._] + +THE TOFF. Remember, no revolvers. The police are, I believe, +proverbially inquisitive. [_The other two follow BILL. All three are +now crouching inside the door R. THE TOFF puts the ruby beside him on +the table. He lights a cigarette. The door at the back opens so slowly +that you can hardly say at what moment it began. THE TOFF picks up his +paper. A native of India wriggles along the floor ever so slowly, +seeking cover from chairs. He moves L. where THE TOFF is. The three +sailors are R. SNIGGERS and ALBERT lean forward. BILL's arm keeps them +back. An arm-chair had better conceal them from the Indian. The black +Priest nears THE TOFF. BILL watches to see if any more are coming. +Then he leaps forward alone--he has taken his boots off--and knifes +the Priest. The Priest tries to shout but BILL's left hand is over his +mouth. THE TOFF continues to read his sporting paper. He never looks +around._] + +BILL [_sotto voce_]. There's only one, Toffy. What shall we do? + +THE TOFF [_without turning his head_]. Only one? + +BILL. Yes. + +THE TOFF. Wait a moment. Let me think. [_Still apparently absorbed in +his paper._] Ah, yes. You go back, Bill. We must attract another +guest.... Now, are you ready? + +BILL. Yes. + +THE TOFF. All right. You shall now see my demise at my Yorkshire +residence. You must receive guests for me. [_He leaps up in full view +of the window, flings up both arms and falls to the floor near the +dead Priest._] Now, be ready. [_His eyes close. There is a long pause. +Again the door opens, very, very slowly. Another priest creeps in. He +has three golden spots upon his forehead. He looks round, then he +creeps up to his companion and turns him over and looks inside of his +clenched hands. Then he looks at the recumbent TOFF. Then he creeps +toward him. BILL slips after him and knifes him like the other with +his left hand over his mouth._] + +BILL [_sotto voce_]. We've only got two, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. Still another. + +BILL. What'll we do? + +THE TOFF [_sitting up_]. Hum. + +BILL. This is the best way, much. + +THE TOFF. Out of the question. Never play the same game twice. + +BILL. Why not, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Doesn't work if you do. + +BILL. Well? + +THE TOFF. I have it, Albert. You will now walk into the room. I showed +you how to do it. + +ALBERT. Yes. + +THE TOFF. Just run over here and have a fight at this window with +these two men. + +ALBERT. But they're ... + +THE TOFF. Yes, they're dead, my perspicuous Albert. But Bill and I are +going to resuscitate them.... Come on. [_BILL picks up a body under +the arms._] + +THE TOFF. That's right, Bill. [_Does the same._] Come and help us, +Sniggers.... [_SNIGGERS comes._] Keep low, keep low. Wave their arms +about, Sniggers. Don't show yourself. Now, Albert, over you go. Our +Albert is slain. Back you get, Bill. Back, Sniggers. Still, Albert. +Mustn't move when he comes. Not a muscle. [_A face appears at the +window and stays for some time. Then the door opens and, looking +craftily round, the third Priest enters. He looks at his companions' +bodies and turns round. He suspects something. He takes up one of the +knives and with a knife in each hand he puts his back to the wall. He +looks to the left and right._] + +THE TOFF. Come on, Bill. [_The Priest rushes to the door. THE TOFF +knifes the last Priest from behind._] + +THE TOFF. A good day's work, my friends. + +BILL. Well done, Toffy. Oh, you are a deep one! + +ALBERT. A deep one if ever there was one. + +SNIGGERS. There ain't any more, Bill, are there? + +THE TOFF. No more in the world, my friend. + +BILL. Aye, that's all there are. There were only three in the temple. +Three priests and their beastly idol. + +ALBERT. What is it worth, Toffy? Is it worth a thousand pounds? + +THE TOFF. It's worth all they've got in the shop. Worth just whatever +we like to ask for it. + +ALBERT. Then we're millionaires now. + +THE TOFF. Yes, and, what is more important, we no longer have any +heirs. + +BILL. We'll have to sell it now. + +ALBERT. That won't be easy. It's a pity it isn't small and we had half +a dozen. Hadn't the idol any other on him? + +BILL. No, he was green jade all over and only had this one eye. He had +it in the middle of his forehead and was a long sight uglier than +anything else in the world. + +SNIGGERS. I'm sure we ought all to be very grateful to Toffy. + +BILL. And, indeed, we ought. + +ALBERT. If it hadn't been for him.... + +BILL. Yes, if it hadn't been for old Toffy.... + +SNIGGERS. He's a deep one. + +THE TOFF. Well, you see I just have a knack of foreseeing things. + +SNIGGERS. I should think you did. + +BILL. Why, I don't suppose anything happens that our Toff doesn't +foresee. Does it, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Well, I don't think it does, Bill. I don't think it often +does. + +BILL. Life is no more than just a game of cards to our old Toff. + +THE TOFF. Well, we've taken these fellows' trick. + +SNIGGERS [_going to window_]. It wouldn't do for anyone to see them. + +THE TOFF. Oh, nobody will come this way. We're all alone on a moor. + +BILL. Where will we put them? + +THE TOFF. Bury them in the cellar, but there's no hurry. + +BILL. And what then, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Why, then we'll go to London and upset the ruby business. We +have really come through this job very nicely. + +BILL. I think the first thing that we ought to do is to give a little +supper to old Toffy. We'll bury these fellows to-night. + +ALBERT. Yes, let's. + +SNIGGERS. The very thing! + +BILL. And we'll all drink his health. + +ALBERT. Good old Toffy! + +SNIGGERS. He ought to have been a general or a premier. [_They get +bottles from cupboard, etc._] + +THE TOFF. Well, we've earned our bit of a supper. [_They sit down._] + +BILL [_glass in hand_]. Here's to old Toffy, who guessed everything! + +ALBERT and SNIGGERS. Good old Toffy! + +BILL. Toffy, who saved our lives and made our fortunes. + +ALBERT and SNIGGERS. Hear! Hear! + +THE TOFF. And here's to Bill, who saved me twice to-night. + +BILL. Couldn't have done it but for your cleverness, Toffy. + +SNIGGERS. Hear, hear! Hear! Hear! + +ALBERT. He foresees everything. + +BILL. A speech, Toffy. A speech from our general. + +ALL. Yes, a speech. + +SNIGGERS. A speech. + +THE TOFF. Well, get me some water. This whisky's too much for my head, +and I must keep it clear till our friends are safe in the cellar. + +BILL. Water? Yes, of course. Get him some water, Sniggers. + +SNIGGERS. We don't use water here. Where shall I get it? + +BILL. Outside in the garden. [_Exit SNIGGERS._] + +ALBERT. Here's to future! + +BILL. Here's to Albert Thomas, Esquire. + +ALBERT. And William Jones, Esquire. [_Re-enter SNIGGERS, terrified._] + +THE TOFF. Hullo, here's Jacob Smith, Esquire, J. P., alias Sniggers, +back again. + +SNIGGERS. Toffy, I've been thinking about my share in that ruby. I +don't want it, Toffy; I don't want it. + +THE TOFF. Nonsense, Sniggers. Nonsense. + +SNIGGERS. You shall have it, Toffy, you shall have it yourself, only +say Sniggers has no share in this 'ere ruby. Say it, Toffy, say it! + +BILL. Want to turn informer, Sniggers? + +SNIGGERS. No, no. Only I don't want the ruby, Toffy.... + +THE TOFF. No more nonsense, Sniggers. We're all in together in this. +If one hangs, we all hang; but they won't outwit me. Besides, it's not +a hanging affair, they had their knives. + +SNIGGERS. Toffy, Toffy, I always treated you fair, Toffy. I was always +one to say, Give Toffy a chance. Take back my share, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. What's the matter? What are you driving at? + +SNIGGERS. Take it back, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. Answer me, what are you up to? + +SNIGGERS. I don't want my share any more. + +BILL. Have you seen the police? [_ALBERT pulls out his knife._] + +THE TOFF. No, no knives, Albert. + +ALBERT. What then? + +THE TOFF. The honest truth in open court, barring the ruby. We were +attacked. + +SNIGGERS. There's no police. + +THE TOFF. Well, then, what's the matter? + +BILL. Out with it. + +SNIGGERS. I swear to God.... + +ALBERT. Well? + +THE TOFF. Don't interrupt. + +SNIGGERS. I swear I saw something _what I didn't like_. + +THE TOFF. What you didn't like? + +SNIGGERS [_in tears_]. O Toffy, Toffy, take it back. Take my share. +Say you take it. + +THE TOFF. What has he seen? [_Dead silence, only broken by SNIGGERS'S +sobs. Then steps are heard. Enter a hideous idol. It is blind and +gropes its way. It gropes its way to the ruby and picks it up and +screws it into a socket in the forehead. SNIGGERS still weeps softly, +the rest stare in horror. The idol steps out, not groping. Its steps +move off, then stop._] + +THE TOFF. O, great heavens! + +ALBERT [_in a childish, plaintive voice_]. What is it, Toffy? + +BILL. Albert, it is that obscene idol [_in a whisper_] come from +India. + +ALBERT. It is gone. + +BILL. It has taken its eye. + +SNIGGERS. We are saved. + +A VOICE OFF [_with outlandish accent_]. Meestaire William Jones, Able +Seaman. [_THE TOFF has never spoken, never moved. He only gazes +stupidly in horror._] + +BILL. Albert, Albert, what is this? [_He rises and walks out. One moan +is heard. SNIGGERS goes to the window. He falls back sickly._] + +ALBERT [_in a whisper_]. What has happened? + +SNIGGERS. I have seen it. I have seen it. O, I have seen it! [_He +returns to table._] + +THE TOFF [_laying his hand very gently on SNIGGERS's arm, speaking +softly and winningly._] What was it, Sniggers? + +SNIGGERS. I have seen it. + +ALBERT. What? + +SNIGGERS. O! + +VOICE. Meestaire Albert Thomas, Able Seaman. + +ALBERT. Must I go, Toffy? Toffy, must I go? + +SNIGGERS [_clutching him_]. Don't move. + +ALBERT [_going_]. Toffy, Toffy. [_Exit._] + +VOICE. Meestaire Jacob Smith, Able Seaman. + +SNIGGERS. I can't go, Toffy. I can't go. I can't do it. [_He goes._] + +VOICE. Meestaire Arnold Everett Scott-Fortescue, late Esquire, Able +Seaman. + +THE TOFF. I did not foresee it. [_Exit._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE TWILIGHT SAINT[48] + +By STARK YOUNG + + [Footnote 48: Copyright, 1921, by Stark Young. Acting rights, + amateur and professional, must be secured from the author, + care of the New York Drama League, 7 East 42 Street, New + York.] + + +Stark Young, dramatist and critic, the author of _The Twilight Saint_, +was born in Como, Mississippi, on October 11, 1881. He was graduated +from the university of his native state and a year later took his +master's degree at Columbia University. From 1907 to 1915 he taught at +the University of Texas, and from 1915 to 1921 he was professor of +English at Amherst College. His travels have taken him to Greece, and +to Spain, and to Italy where he has lingered, making a special study +of the native drama. + +The text of _The Twilight Saint_ has undergone revision by the author +since its first appearance. It was acted in 1918 with _Madretta_, +another of the author's plays, at the dramatic school of the Carnegie +Institute of Technology in Pittsburgh, under the direction of Thomas +Wood Stevens. The author writes: "The only instruction I should like +to propose is that the actor of St. Francis keep him very simple, not +get him moralizing and long-faced. In Egan's book on St. Francis[49] +there is a picture of the preaching to the birds in which Boutet de +Monvel shows a Tuscan type that is my idea of the man simplified." The +play itself suggests charming by-ways of literature that lead in one +direction perhaps to Hewlett's _Earthwork Out of Tuscany_ and +Josephine Preston Peabody's _The Wolf of Gubbio_, and in another +possibly to the Saint's own _Little Flowers_, and _Canticle to the +Sun_. + + [Footnote 49: Maurice F. Egan, _Everybody's St. Francis_, + with pictures by M. Boutet de Monvel, New York, 1912.] + + + + +THE TWILIGHT SAINT + + +CHARACTERS + + GUIDO, _the husband, a young poet._ + LISETTA, _his wife._ + PIA, _a neighbor woman._ + ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. + + +_In the year 1215 A.D._ + +_A room in GUIDO's house, on a hillside near Bevagna. It is a poor +apartment, clumsily kept. On your left near the front is a bed; on the +floor by the bed lie scattered pages of manuscript. A table littered +with manuscripts and crockery stands against the back wall of the room +to the right. On the right hand wall is a big fireplace with copper +vessels and brass. A bench sits by the fireplace and several stools +about the room. On the stone flags two sheepskins are spread._ + +_Through the open door in the middle of the back wall rises the slope +of a hill, green with spring and starred with flowers. A stream is +visible through the grass and the drowsy sound of the water fills the +air. The late yellow sunlight falls through a window over the bed like +gilding and floods the hill without._ + +_LISETTA lies on the bed, still, her eyes closed. PIA sits on the +ingle bench, halfway in the great fireplace, shelling peas. She is a +little peasant woman with a kerchief on her head and a wrinkled face +as brown as a nut._ + +_GUIDO sits at the table, his face to the wall, his chin on his palm._ + + +PIA. + + Guido, Guido, thou hast not spoke this hour, + Nor read one word nor written aught. Dear Lord, + The lion on the palace at Assisi + Sits not more still in stone! Guido, look thou! + +GUIDO [_turning round without looking at her_]. + + Yes, old Pia, good neighbor. + +PIA. + + Yes, old Pia! Guido, grieve not so much, + Lisetta will be well before the spring + Comes round again. + +GUIDO. + + Yes, Lisetta will be well perhaps. God grant! + +PIA. + + Well, what then? + +GUIDO. + + 'Tis not only of her I think, Pia, here am I + Shut in this house from month to month a nurse; + Here lies she sick, this child, and may not stir; + And I, lacking due means to hire, must serve + The house; while my best self, my soul, my art, + Rust. My soul is scorched with holy thirst, + My temples throb, my veins run fire; but yet, + For all my dim distress and vague desire, + No word, no single song, no verse, has come-- + O Blessed God!--stifled with creature needs, + And with necessity about my throat! + +PIA. + + Thy corner is too hot, the glaring sun + Is yet on the wall. + +GUIDO. + + 'Tis not that sun that maddens me, O Pia! + Can you not see me shrunk? Have you not heard + That other Guido of Perugia + How he is grown? How lately at the feast + That Ugolino, the great cardinal, + Spread at Assisi Easter night, Guido + Read certain of his verses and declaimed + Pages of cursed sonnets to the guests. + +PIA. + + Young Guido of Perugia, thy friend? + +GUIDO. + + Yea. And when he ended, came the Duke + Down from the dais to kiss that Guido's hand + Humbly, and said that poesy was king. + +PIA. + + Madonna, kissed by the Duke! + +GUIDO. + + And I, O God, I might have honor too + Could I but break this prison where I drudge! + +PIA. + + Speak low, her sleep is light. Her road is hard + As well as thine. For all this year, since thou + Didst bring her to Rieto here to us, + Hath she lain on her bed, broken with pain, + This child that is thy wife and loveth thee. + +GUIDO. + + Aye, yes, 'tis true, she loveth me, she loveth me, + And I love her. 'Tis worse--add grief to care, + And Poesy fares worse. + +PIA. + + And she is grown most pale and still of late. + +GUIDO. + + Look, Pia, how she lieth there like death, + That far-off patience on her face. Now, now, + Surely I needs must make a song! And yet + I may not; ashes and floor-sweeping clog + My soul within me! + +PIA. + + Nay, let thy dreams pass. Look thou, how pale! + Dear Lord, how blue her little veins do shine! + +GUIDO. + + Thou art most kind, good neighbor, to come here + Helping our house. And it is very strange + That when we are so kind we cannot know + The heart also. For in my soul I hear + A bell summoning me always-- + +PIA. + + If I should stew in milk the peas, maybe-- + Do you think the child would eat it? + +GUIDO. + + For thy world is not my world, kind old friend. + +PIA. + + Why do you not walk, Guido, for a while, + I have an hour yet. + +GUIDO. + + Then I will go, Pia. But not for long, + I will come back soon enough to my chores, be sure; + Mine is a short tether. + +[_He goes out. LISETTA on the bed opens her eyes._] + +LISETTA. + + Pia. + +PIA. + + Yes, dear child. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, turn my pillow, I am stifled. + +PIA. + + There! Thou hast slept well? + +LISETTA. + + I have not slept. + +PIA. + + Holy Virgin, thou hast not slept! + +LISETTA. + + Pia, think you I did not know? This month + I scarce have slept for thinking on his lot. + I read his fighting soul. Where are his songs, + The great renown that waited him? Down, down, + Struck by the self-same hand that shattered me. + I listen night on night and hear him moan + In his sleep-- + +PIA. + + It is his love for thee, Lisetta. + +LISETTA. + + The padre from the village hemmed and said + That God had sent me and my sickness here + For Guido's cross to bear, his scourge. They thought + I slept-- + +PIA. + + Thou hast dreamed this, he loveth thee, Lisetta. + +LISETTA. + + Yea, loveth me somewhat but glory more. + And I would have it so. O Mother of God, + When wilt thou send me death? O Blessed Mother, + I have lain so still! + +PIA. + + Beware, Lisetta, tempt not God! + +LISETTA. + + Death is the sister of all them that weep, Pia. + +PIA. + + Child, child, try thou to sleep. + +LISETTA. + + For thy sake will I try. + +PIA. + + Aye, sleep now. I will smooth thy bed. + [_PIA begins to draw up the covers smooth. She stops suddenly + to listen._] + Hist! + +LISETTA. + + What, good Pia? + +PIA. + + Footsteps. Look, it is a monk. + +[_FRANCIS OF ASSISI comes to the door._] + +FRANCIS. + + I have not eaten food this day. Hast thou + Somewhat that I may eat? + +PIA. + + Alas, poor brother, sit thee here; there's bread + And cheese and lentils, eat thy store. Poor 'tis, + But given in His name. + +FRANCIS. + + I will eat then and bless thee. + +PIA. + + He taketh but a crust! + +FRANCIS. + + It is enough. He that hath eaten long + The bread of the heart hath little hunger in him. + +PIA. + + Sit thou and rest, poor soul. + +FRANCIS. + + Nay, I must go on. My daughter, child, + Thou sleepest not for all thy lowered lids. + Tears quiver on thy lashes, hast thou pain? + +LISETTA. + + The tears of women even in dreams may fall, + Good brother. Wilt thou not bide? + +FRANCIS. + + I must fare on. + +LISETTA. + + Aye, aye, the world lies open to thy hand, + But unto me this twelvemonth is a death. + The flesh is dead, and dying lies my soul, + Shrunk like a flower in my fevered hand. + +FRANCIS [_he goes over and stands beside the bed_]. + + My dear. + +LISETTA. + + I may not see the stars rise on the hills, + Nor tend the flocks at even, nor rise to do + Aught of the small sweet round of duties owed + To him I love; but lie a burden to him, + Calling on death who heareth not. + +FRANCIS. + + My life hath given me words for thee to hear. + +LISETTA. + + Surely thy life is peace. + +FRANCIS. + + There is a life larger than life, that dwells + Invisible from all; whose lack alone + Is death. There in thy soul the stars may rise, + And at the even the gentle thoughts return + To flock the quiet pastures of the mind; + And in the large heart love is all thou owest + For service unto God and thy Beloved. + +LISETTA. + + Little Brother! + +FRANCIS. + + May you have God's peace, dear friends. Farewell. + +[_He goes out. PIA stands a moment wiping her eyes, then returns to +shelling the peas. There is a silence for a while._] + +PIA. + + Why dost thou look so long upon the door? + +LISETTA. + + Pia, the spring smiles on the tender grass, + Surely the sun is brighter where he stood. + +PIA. + + 'Tis a glaring sun for twilight. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, 'twill be the gentlest of all eves. + Surely God sent the brother for my need, + To give His peace. + +PIA. + + Aye, and my old heart ripens at his words + Like apples in the sun. 'Tis a sweet monk. + +LISETTA. + + Who is he, think you? + +PIA. + + One of the Little Poor Men, by his brown. + They are too thin, these brothers, and do lack + Stomach for life. [_She returns to the peas._] Mark, oh, 'tis merry now + To see the little beggars from their pods + Popping like schoolboys from their shoes in spring! + The season hath been so fine and dry this year + My peas are smaller and must have more work. + Well, well, labor is good, and things made scarce + Are better loved. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, thou art a good woman. + +PIA. + + Child, do not make me cry. 'Tis thy pure heart + Deceives thee. Stubborn I am and full of sloth, + And a wicked old thing. + +LISETTA. + + I would not grieve thee. Pia, 'twas my love + That sees thy goodness better than thyself. + +PIA [_hanging the kettle of peas over the coals_]. + + Lisetta, I see the sky at the chimney top. + +[_PIA begins to sing in her sweet, old, cracked voice, as she stirs +the pot_:] + + _Firefly, firefly, come from the shadows, + Twilight is falling over the meadows, + Burn, little garden lamps, flicker and shimmer, + Shine, little meadow stars, twinkle and glimmer. + Firefly, firefly, shine, shine!_ + +LISETTA. + + Pia. + +PIA. + + Yes. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, come near me here. [_PIA kneels by the bed._] Can you not see + How much I love? If I could only speak + To him or he to me, Guido, my love! + +PIA. + + Surely he is beside thee often. + +LISETTA. + + His hand is near, but not his heart. + +PIA. + + Nay, child, 'tis Guido's way. He speaks but little. + When I speak to him look what he says, + "Yes, good Pia," 'tis not much. + +LISETTA. + + Aye, tell me not. On winter nights I lay + Hearing the tree limbs rattle there like hail, + And from the corner eaves the dropping rain + Like big dogs lapping all about--and he + Spoke not to me. He sat beside his taper + But never a line wrote down. Once I had words, + Bright dreams, that shone through him, the same fire shone + Through both, his songs were mine! + +PIA. + + Yes, thine--rest thee, rest thee! + +LISETTA. + + But more his, Pia, more his! + +PIA. + + Aye, his. Wilt thou not eat the broth? + +LISETTA. + + Not now, good Pia, 'tis not for food I die. + 'Tis not for food. + +PIA. + + Yet thou must eat. + +LISETTA. + + Wilt thou not read one song of these to me? + +PIA. + + Close then thine eyes and rest. + +[_LISETTA closes her eyes. A shepherd's pipe far-off and faint begins +to play; from this on to the end of the play you can hear the +shepherd's pipe. PIA takes up at random a sheet of the manuscripts. +She sighs a great sigh, and begins to mimic LISETTA's voice._] + + THE BALLAD OF THE RUNNING WATER + + O music locked amid the stones, + Beside the--amid the-- + +LISETTA. + + Read on--and thou hast told me day by day + Thou couldst not read. + +PIA. + + I read from hearing thee from day to day + Repeat the verses. + +LISETTA. + + Fie! Give them to me here. + +[_She takes the paper and holds it in her hands on her breast, and +reads without looking at it._] + + _O music locked amid the stones, + My love hath spoken like to thee,_ + + Pia, think you--Pia, do you not hear + The mowers and the reapers in the fields + Singing the evening song, and the twilight pipes? + The twilight is the hour when hearts break! + How many lonely twilights will there be + Ere God will spare me? + +PIA [_kneeling_]. + + Hush, child, hush, darling! + +[_LISETTA turns her face to the window by the bed. PIA strokes her +hand and sings softly:_] + + _Firefly, firefly, come from the shadows--_ + + There!--he is coming now, I hear his steps + Upon the gravel road. Good-night, sweet child, + I'll get me home. + +LISETTA. + Pia, good-night once more. + +[_PIA slips away. GUIDO enters softly. The twilight is gone and the +moon falls through the window over the bed. The hill outside is bright +with moonlight._] + +GUIDO [_softly_]. + + Asleep, Lisetta? + +LISETTA. + + Guido! Ah, I have need of naught, Guido. + Thou needst not leave yet the pleasant air. + +GUIDO. + + Lisetta, my love, I have been long from thee. + +LISETTA. + + Let not that trouble thee, my needs are few, + And Pia is most kind. + +GUIDO. + + So little I may do. + +LISETTA. + + Thou hast already served to weariness. + +[_He kneels beside her bed._] + +GUIDO. + + My love, I have been long from thee, but now + I will not leave thee any more. Oh, God, + Let these kisses tell my heart to her. + +LISETTA. + + Guido, my love, perhaps I dream of thee! + Perhaps God sends a dream to solace me. + +GUIDO. + + Along the stream I went and where it crossed + Bevagna road--where the chestnut grows, thou knowest-- + Lisetta, I saw him. + +LISETTA. + + Yes, yes, I know, whom sawest thou? + +GUIDO. + + The brother, Francis of Assisi. + +LISETTA. + + Guido, sawest thou him? + +GUIDO. + + Aye, him. There had he stopped to rest, being spent; + And round him came the birds, beating their wings + Upon his cloak and lighting on his arm. + I saw him smile on them and heard him speak! + "My brother birds, little brothers, ye should love God + Who gave you your wings and your bright songs and spread + The soft air for you." He stroked their necks + And blessed them. And then I saw his eyes. + "Father," I cried, "speak thou to me, I faint + Beside my way!" + +LISETTA. + + Aye, and he said? Guido, what said he? + +GUIDO. + + "Thou art as one that lieth at the gate + Of Paradise and entereth not. For God + Hath given thee thy soul for its own life, + And not for glory among men." + +LISETTA. + + Guido! + +GUIDO. + + Lisetta, from his kind eyes I drank, and knew + How God had magnified my soul through him, + And sent me peace. And I returned to thee; + For here in thee have I my glory. + +LISETTA. + + Guido, the old spring comes back again. And now + I may speak. Guido, look through my window vines there + Where the stars rise. O Love, I have not slept + For lacking thee. And often have I seen + The moonlight lie like sleep upon the hill, + And in the garden of the sky the moon + Drift like a blown rose, Guido, and yet + I might not speak. + +GUIDO. + + Thou art my saint and shrine! + +LISETTA. + + Now shall my dream become thy song again, + And the long twilight be more sweet, Guido! + +GUIDO. + + I pray thee rest thee now and sleep. Good-night. + My full heart breaks in song; and I will sit + Hearing the blessed saints within my soul, + And will not stir from thee lest thou shouldst wake + When I might not be near to serve thy need. + +[_The shepherd pipe far-off and faint is heard playing._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS[50] + +By LADY ALIX EGERTON + + [Footnote 50: Reprinted by special arrangement with Gowans & + Gray. Ltd., Glasgow. The acting rights are reserved.] + +[Illustration: Costumes for _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ designed +at the Washington Irving High School.] + + +Between the Lady Alice Egerton, who acted in the masque of _Comus_, +which Milton composed for presentation before John, earl of +Bridgewater, then President of Wales, and the Lady Alix Egerton, +author of _The Masque of the Two Strangers_, lie three hundred years; +but throughout these centuries the descendants of the first earl of +Bridgewater have cherished consistently the great traditions of +English literature. The family has owned for many generations the +Ellesmere Chaucer and the Bridgewater manuscript of _Comus_, both of +which have recently been edited by the twentieth century Lady Alix +Egerton. + +Her _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ here reprinted was given at the +Washington Irving High School in March, 1921. The designs for the +costumes used in this production are here illustrated. The following +notes will help the reader to reconstruct the costumes from the +pictures: + + I. _The Princess_ + White soft material. + Spangled trimming. + Mantle of blue. + Veil of blue net. + Hennin (head dress) in silver. + + II. _Hope_ + Glass ball. + Lavender under slip. + Veil of rose pink. + + III. _Joy_ + Draping of orange yellow. + Flowers of various colors. + Vermilion scarf. + + IV. _Love_ + Long, full cape of deep purple; cowl falling back. + Cerise costume. + Silver surcoat and helmet. + + V. _Laughter_ + Yellow and black. + Trimming of bells. + + VI. _Poetry_ + Light green with silver; paper design on border. + + VII. _Song_ + Robe dyed in rainbow hues. + Silver wings. + + VIII. _Dance_ + Vermilion. + + IX. _Power_ + Bright blue. + Gems. + Gilt headpiece jeweled. + Mantle and sash of purple. + + X. _Fame_ + Robe of deep green. + Gold border. + Laurel leaves on gold crown. + + XI. _Riches_ + Knight's close-fitting short coat of henna. + (Flannel dyed to represent felt or leather.) + Gold lacings; gold paper design on coat; gold and henna helmet. + + XII. _Service_ + Soft yellow shaded to brown at bottom of skirt and sleeves. + Front panel of dark green forming part of head drapery. + + XIII. _Sorrow_ + Gray. + + XIV. _Herald_ + Dark red and gold. + + + + +_PROLOGUE_ + +[_Enter a JESTER._] + + Good people, of your gentle courtesy, + I pray your patience, now, and list to me. + Before you I will here present to-day + A story told in the medieval way. + Now sad--now merry--here and there a song, + While through it all a meaning runs along. + On this side is the Court of Youth where dwells + A Princess who is held by magic spells. + On that is the vast Otherworld from whence + The great Immortals come for her defense. + Betwixt the greater and the lesser Power, + That duel that goes on from hour to hour + Throughout the ages, I would have you see + Depicted in this passing phantasy. + +[_Music of Masque begins._] + + The players come and I had best away; + I'll come back afterwards and end my say. + + + + +THE MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS[51] + + [Footnote 51: I am indebted to Miss Italia Conti for the + original scenario of the Masque, and to former Editors of + _Vanity Fair_ and _The Crown_ for permission to reprint the + two songs which were published in their journals.--ALIX + EGERTON.] + + +CHARACTERS + + JOY. + LAUGHTER. + SONG. + DANCE. + SERVICE. + POETRY. + HOPE. + JOY. + PRINCESS DOUCE-COEUR. + SORROW. + FAME. + RICHES. + POWER. + LOVE. + + +_JOY and LAUGHTER run in laughing, chase each other round the stage +and pelt each other with flowers._ + + LAUGHTER [_flinging herself on the ground, breathless_]. + Ah, it is good to run and laugh again. + I am so weary of these somber days. + + JOY. + And I of sitting silent in the house. + We used before to have such merry games, + Now Douce-coeur will not even smile. + + LAUGHTER [_mysteriously_]. + She says that she will never laugh again. + + JOY. + And when I called to her to come and play + At hide-and-seek down in the rose-garden, + She said her playing days were over now. + + LAUGHTER. + It seems so strange. Only a while ago + We played at ball across the laurel hedge, + And when the ball fell in the fountain-court + And rolled into the water, floating out + To where the lilies lay half closed in sleep, + 'Twas she who went in barefoot, with her dress + Kilted above her knees, and laughed to feel + The flicking of the golden fishes' tails. + She said her pink toes looked like coral shells, + And splashed the water just to see it shine + Like diamonds in the sun upon my hair. + A while ago she was a child with us. + + JOY [_sighs_]. + Laughter, I like not living at the Court. [_Starting._] + Someone is coming. + +[_They run and hide behind a seat. SONG enters, humming to herself and +twisting flowers into a garland. JOY and LAUGHTER spring out upon her +and catch hold of her hands one on each side._] + + LAUGHTER. Why, 'tis only Song. + For three days now we have not heard thy voice. + + SONG. + No, Douce-coeur says life is too sad for songs. + Yet music is a gift of the high gods + And like the birds I sing or I must die. + + JOY [_coaxingly_]. + Sing us a ballad while we are alone. + Old Service is asleep beside the well + And will not hear thee. + + SONG [_sitting on the seat_]. + Well, what shall I sing? + How would you like "All on an April Day?" + + JOY [_clapping her hands_]. + About the knight who rode to Amiens Town? + + LAUGHTER. + Then will we sing the refrain, Joy and I. + + SONG [_begins very softly, and, forgetting, sings louder to the end_]. + + _A lover rode to Amiens town + (All on an April day); + He looked not up, he looked not down + But fixed his gaze on Amiens town + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _The cuckoo sang above his head + (All on an April day); + The blossoming trees were white and red, + Yet still he never turned his head + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _The dappled grass with daisies strewn + (All on an April day) + Was trodden by his horse's shoon; + He heeded not those daisies strewn + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He wore a ragged surcoat green + (All on an April day) + But no device thereon was seen. + Nor blazon on that surcoat green + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He rode in by the Eastern Gate + (All on an April day); + Though poor and mean was his estate + Kings have gone through that Eastern Gate + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He stood by the Cathedral door + (All on an April day) + And watched of ladies fair a score + Pass in through the Cathedral door + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _A knot of ribbon at his feet + (All on an April day) + And one swift smile, such radiance sweet + Fell with the ribbon at his feet + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He hid the token in his breast + (All on an April day) + Yet to his lips full oft he prest + The ribbon hidden in his breast + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _A lover rode to Amiens town + (All on an April day), + A beggar wore a starry crown + And a King rode out of Amiens town + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + +[_After the 4th verse enter DANCE, who dances through the remaining +verses._] + +[_Enter SERVICE hurriedly._] + +SERVICE. How now, what noise is this? Thou knowest, Song, thy voice +may not be heard at all, and ye children too, ye will get sent away. +Sure, that ye will. Here am I sent packing off to seek for the Wise +Woman Poetry. The heralds too are up and down the land with +proclamations. Go in, go in; Douce-coeur is wandering with the Gray +Stranger in the garden, and when she comes, may want your company. + +[_Enter POETRY._] + + POETRY. + I am the mouthpiece of the Eternal Gods, + And in my voice, that down the ages rings, + Men hear the ceaseless heart-beats of the world. + Without me all that has been would have died + And lain forgotten in a silent grave. + The present echoes what I once have sung, + The future holds the secrets I have read. + +SERVICE. Hail, and well met! I was but starting forth to seek thee. +Thou who hast the wisdom of all time mayst help us in our hour of +need; an evil spell has been cast about the Princess, and how it is to +be broken, none of us know. + + POETRY. + Good Service, tell me all; for I presume, + Despite the tender care which through her life + Has shielded Douce-coeur like a ring of steel, + That to her side some foe has won his way + And dimmed the peaceful mirror of her soul. + +SERVICE. Yea, truly, one evening as the sun was setting a woman clad +in long gray robes entered the Palace gates and meeting the Princess +on the terrace walk led her down among the cypresses. They sat long +together in the twilight and ever since Douce-coeur is changed. No +smile curves her lips, the sunlight is gone from her face, and she +goes always with veiled head, and sad unseeing eyes. I heard but now +her companions are to be sent away. Joy, Laughter, Song and Dance, all +to be banished. This is the Gray Woman's doing, but why, no man can +say. + + POETRY. + The stranger in gray robes of whom ye speak + Is Sorrow's self, whose other name is Pain. + She comes, and when she comes none may resist. + Against her none have power to bar their gates. + Ye who have always cherishèd Douce-coeur + And guarded her from knowledge of the World, + Have left her ignorance a prey to pain. + Thus night has fallen on a tender heart + That never saw the shadows for the sun. + Queen Sorrow, who can hide the stars of heaven, + Has torn the golden veil from top to hem, + And in the outer darkness Douce-coeur stands, + Seeing no rift to tell of light eclipsed, + Knowing no key to all the mystery. + +SERVICE. The King, her father, has sent proclamations forth that whoso +can bring back the smiles to Douce-coeur's lips, the sunshine to her +face, whoso can win her from the Gray Woman's side, on him shall half +the kingdom be bestowed and Douce-coeur's hand in marriage. The +Heralds have gone crying this abroad, and we have word three suitors +are traveling here post-haste. + + POETRY. + I know not who these suitors chance to be + But not by them may Sorrow be cast out. + One only holds a mightier spell than hers, + And I will send my constant messenger + To seek him to the ends of all the Earth. + Come to me, Child, who holdst Eternal Youth. + +[_Enter HOPE._] + + HOPE. Didst call me, Poetry? + + POETRY. Yea, child of my Heart, + Go out into the wilderness for me. + Find me the Stranger in a Pilgrim's garb + Around whose head the song birds pipe their lays, + Beneath whose feet the withered flowers revive. + Say, "In the Court of Youth Queen Sorrow reigns + And shadows lie like night on Douce-coeur's heart." + + HOPE. + In the great Court of Youth, Queen Sorrow reigns + And shadows lie like night on Douce-coeur's heart. + + POETRY. + Bid him come hither. Haste thee on thy way. + +[_Exit HOPE. Trumpet music. Herald heard off. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"_] + +SERVICE. Here comes the Herald! + +[_Enter HERALD repeating "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"_] + +HERALD [_facing audience_]. Know all whom it may concern throughout +this realm, that as One has come and brought darkness on the Land, to +all good people is this Proclamation made. Whoso can drive the Gray +Woman forth, whoso can free the Princess Douce-coeur from her spell, +whoso can bring back the sunshine to the Land, unto him will be given +the half of the kingdom, and the Hand of the Princess Douce-coeur in +marriage. Given on this day of June. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" + +[_Exit HERALD. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" dies away in the distance._] + +[_Music. Enter JOY, LAUGHTER, SONG and DANCE, followed by PRINCESS +DOUCE-COEUR and SORROW._] + + SORROW. + Ye children of the Court, your hour has struck. + Your doom of banishment has been pronounced, + For where I am there can ye never be. + + SONG. + Douce-coeur, I pray thee hear me. Let me sing + One of the old songs that we loved--may be + The memory of those happy days will rise + And lift the weight of sadness from thy face. + + POETRY. + Douce-coeur, I charge thee, listen. All the past + Of Childhood calls thee in the voice of Song. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Sing if thou wilt. Those days were long ago. + + SONG. + _I stood beside the lilac bush + While all its blossoms rained on me, + I watched the white wraith of a moon + Turn to pale gold above the sea._ + + _I held a wand of almond bough + And waved it three times circlewise, + I whispered words of faery lore + With beating heart and close shut eyes._ + + _I oped them on a forest scene + Of summer-land; the open glade + Lay shining like a tourmaline + Set in a ring of duller jade._ + + _I saw three queens with shining crowns + Go riding by on palfreys gray; + I saw three knights that followed close, + And dreams were in their eyes that day._ + + _I saw a minstrel with his harp, + His cloak was green and patched and torn; + I saw a hunter with his bow, + I heard the winding of his horn._ + + _I saw a bush of lavender + With clouds of fluttering butterflies, + Then I looked backward to the earth + And broke my faery spell with sighs._ + + DOUCE-COEUR. + I cannot bear thy music. In my heart + No answering chords respond. The past is dead. + I hear the tears of thousands in thy voice. + When Sorrow speaks--I hear no tones but hers. + + SORROW. + No, thou art mine, Princess. I hold thee fast. + + POETRY. + Douce-coeur, I bid thee raise thy heavy eyes. + Dance is the eldest daughter of my heart. + Born when the rhythm of the stars was voiced, + The past and future meet alike in her. + Let her bring back the sunshine to thy face. + + DANCE. + With flying feet we chased the hours away. + I used to make thee clap thy hands in glee + And thought to go with thee along the years. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + My feet are lead, but dance on if thou wilt, + What can the future hold for me and thee? + +[_As the Dance ends, she cries:_] + + Ah, Sorrow, bid them cease and drive them hence. + Send Joy and Laughter, Song and Dance away. + Call Silence here who is thy foster-child. + I am afraid of all this mocking world + And fain would live alone, alone with thee. + + SORROW. + Go forth, go forth into the wilderness. Here is no room for ye. + Go forth into the void that lies beyond. Here I in majesty + Henceforth shall reign, veiling the sun and stars to all eternity. + Go forth. Let wide-eyed Silence take the place ye occupied before + Where flowers ye scattered he henceforth shall strew ashes upon the floor. + Twilight shall fall upon this Court of Youth now and for evermore. + +[_Exeunt SONG, DANCE, JOY, and LAUGHTER._] + + POETRY. + Douce-coeur, thine eyes are bound. Thou dost but see + With vision warped by her who holds thy hand. + I, who have watched the web of Life unfold + And hold the secrets of a million lives, + Can tell thee from the heights whereon I dwell, + It is not thus that thou wilt help the world. + Thou canst not right the wrong with further wrong. + But now thine ears are dulled; thou wilt not hear + What I might teach thee. + +[_During this speech enter HERALD who speaks to SERVICE. Exit +HERALD._] + +SERVICE. Three suitors, Fame, Riches, and Power are at the gate, +Princess, and claim an audience. They have banished the Gray Woman +from the side of others and seek to do this for thee. With them they +bring charms that have before broken the spells of Sorrow; these are +beyond price but each asks in exchange thy hand in marriage as +promised in the proclamation cried by the heralds. + + DOUCE-COEUR [_turning to SORROW_]. + What must I do? + + SORROW. Bid them approach, my child; + It may be their rich gifts will pleasure thee. + +[_Enter HERALD followed by FAME._] + +HERALD. Fame, Lord of the Marches of the East, salutes thee. + +[_Exit HERALD._] + + FAME. + Fame am I called, Princess. I bring thee this + Crown of Unfading Leaves for which men pray + And toil throughout their lives--unsatisfied. + It shall be thine unsought. Grant me thy hand, + And thou shalt live in glamour of high destiny. + Thy name shall sound in honor through the world; + Thy words shall set the hearts of men aflame. + Let me but place the wreath about thy head, + Thus shalt thou strike this lyre with deathless notes + Which shall, vibrating through the fields of space, + Ring on, and on, nor ever find a goal. + + SORROW. + Deaf are the ears on which thy phrases fall. + With one so young what are thy spells to mine? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + I see thy wreath of leaves, entwined with asps + Whose forked tongues whisper "jealousy and hate." + Thy harp is out of tune with Sorrow's voice. + + POETRY. + She is too tender for thine upward way. + The solitude of those who follow thee + Is not for her. Pass on, my lord, pass on. + +[_Enter HERALD, followed by RICHES._] + +[Illustration: Costumes for _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ designed +at the Washington Irving High School.] + + HERALD. + Riches, Lord of the Marches of the West, salutes thee. + +[_Exit HERALD._] + + RICHES. + My name is Riches, and I offer thee + A store of wealth exhaustless as the sand. + This is the symbol of my opulence, + A casket in whose depths gold never fails. + Grant me thy hand, and thou, Princess, shalt gain + All that the world contains of happiness. + Thy palace shall be built of precious stones, + And thou shalt walk on rose-leaves every day. + Sorrow shall be forgotten in my arms, + Nothing shall be denied thee wealth can buy. + All things--all men yield to the touch of gold. + + SORROW. + Blind are the eyes on which thy visions rise. + My spells have turned thy glories into dust. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + The gold thou offerest me is stained with blood; + Thy precious stones were won with tears and toil; + The sum of all thy wealth could not reflower + The arid wastes that Sorrow has laid bare. + + POETRY. + She is too simple for thy promises; + To one who knows not Sister Poverty + Thy lures, my lord, appear as idle words. + +[_Enter HERALD, followed by POWER._] + + HERALD. + Power, Lord of the Marches North and South, salutes thee. + +[_Exit HERALD._] + + POWER. + My name, Princess, is Power and this my gift. + My brothers brought thee fair renown and gold + With freedom from the spells that Sorrow weaves. + All these I offer thee. If thou accept, + Together we will sway men's destinies, + Together we may rule their hearts--their souls-- + Together turn the very universe. + Our throne shall rise a monument of might, + Its steps shall mount from the green land of earth, + Its canopy shall scrape the stars of Heaven. + + SORROW. + I have set that about her like a net + Thou canst not deal with. Never yet, O Power, + Hast thou been known to cut through cords of fear. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + I would not wield thy scepter for an hour. + The burden of its weight would bear me down. + + POETRY. + She is too young, too gentle for the heights + Where thou wouldst raise her. Be content, my lords; + What ye have done is well, but One alone + Can break the spell, and he is at the gates. + Already Hope returns. He comes, he comes. + +[_Enter HOPE running._] + + HOPE. + The stranger comes; he whom I went to seek. + + FAME. + The Stranger comes whose music fills the world. + + RICHES. + The Stranger comes, whose treasure gilds the world. + + POWER. + The Stranger comes, whose scepter rules the world. + + POETRY [_to SORROW_]. + Now shall thy spell be broken. Dost thou hear + The measured footsteps of approaching Fate? + The one who comes clad in a Pilgrim's garb + Has ever proved thy silent conqueror. + + SORROW. + I yield to him who is the greatest here, + But those who have not met me by the way + Can never know him as he may be known. + They only who have trod the dark abyss + May dare to stand upon the topmost height. + For they whose eyes were blindfold for awhile + Alone can bear that blaze of brilliant light. + Thus have I brought thee more than all thy Court. + Learn from his lips to see the world anew. + I drew that gray veil all about thy head + Thinking perchance to keep thee for my own, + But thou wert made for sunlight, not for gloom. + Thus do I leave thee. Fare thee well, Princess! + +[_Enter LOVE._] + + DOUCE-COEUR [_starts up and tries to hold SORROW back_]. + Ah, stay with me, thou art my only friend! + +[_LOVE and SORROW look at each other, she draws her veil across her +face and exit._] + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Who art thou, Stranger, in a pilgrim's guise + Who comest unattended, unannounced? + + LOVE. + I may not tell thee that. Thou first must learn + Out of thine own heart to recall my name. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Fame, Power, and Riches brought me costly gifts + Which I refused. + + LOVE. I come with empty hands. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Thy coming caused Queen Sorrow to depart; + What right hast thou to drive my friends from me? + + LOVE. + I came to bring thee swift deliverance, + She laid a spell upon thee which in time + Had turned thy heart to unresponsive stone. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + She brought me peace and sure oblivion + Of all this dark and weary world around. + + LOVE. + Art thou so sure, Princess, the world is dark? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + So sure? Have I not heard the children weep? + Is not my heart torn with their piteous cries? + We live, and round us lies their sea of tears, + A mighty sea that could engulf a realm. + + LOVE. + I met a Child outside thy Palace once. + His dress was ragged, but he smiled at me, + And in his hand he held a purple flower. + I knew it for the magic flower of Dream. + I asked him "Art thou happy?" and he said + "I'm mostly hungry; sometimes I am cold; + And there are stones and thorns that hurt my feet, + But while my Flower lives I am quite content. + And I have friends too, in the Palace there; + Laughter and Dance they come and play with me." + I met that Child to-day, Princess. His face + Was white and pinched, and down his baby cheeks + The tears were running, "See, my Flower has died, + And Dance and Laughter have been sent away. + Joy too is gone. Queen Sorrow reigns at Court." + Even the children now can play no more. + He never knew before the world was dark. + Art thou so sure, Princess, the Child was wrong? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Have I not heard bereavèd mothers weep? + + LOVE. + There thou dost touch a chord in ignorance. + Thou canst not guess the strength of Motherhood, + The hopes, the joys, the passionate regrets. + She who has borne her child close to her heart + Has lit a star in Heaven that lights her way. + I kneel by them in their Gethsemane + And teach them how to weave immortal wreaths + Out of the sweetest flowers of Memory; + For them the sun still shines behind the clouds, + Art thou so sure the world is wholly dark? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + There echo in my ears the groans of Toil, + Of those who labor on from year to year + Until they sink beneath their weary lot. + + LOVE. + Toil is the destiny of man, Princess, + And none may question the Supreme Decree. + Perchance through toil alone man may redeem + A past that is forgotten. Who can tell? + And there is still some aftermath of joy + In labor well achieved, some dignity + In toil accomplished. If the way is hard + And seeming endless, those who seek for me + Will often find me singing at their side. + Mine is the Brotherhood of Sympathy. + But thou hast banished Song, in silence now + The toilers have to go upon their way. + Art thou so sure, it was all dark before? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + What light is there for those who strive and fail? + + LOVE. + One only fails. He whom some term Success, + He who gives heart and soul and youth and strength + To an unworthy cause. Failure is he + Who sacrifices me before the world, + Who prostitutes the God in him for what + Will turn to dust and ashes in his hand. + 'Tis he alone is outcast though he thinks + Himself the sun of all the universe. + To those, Princess, who striving seem to fail, + It is not failure, for none see the end, + And they who sigh are only those who seek + An earlier consummation than is just; + If they cling fast to me they still behold + The white star-flowers Hope plants about the world. + Who knows to what fair land rough seas may lead? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Lo! over all I see the cruel hand + Of Death outstretched, certain and pitiless. + + LOVE. + The hand of Death is full of tenderness. + He leads men through that dark mysterious gate-- + That all must pass into another life-- + To other lives that through the cycles bring + The souls of men upward from step to step, + Uniting those for ever who are one. + Death hushes them like children on his breast. + Setting his own smile on their silent lips-- + That tender smile of strange triumphant peace. + Death is my Brother, and I say to thee, + Learn to know me, thou wilt not fear his hand. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Another hand is knocking at my heart + Whose touch I know not, and I feel afraid-- + Afraid to listen. Yet I long to hear. + Stranger, who art thou? Let me see thy face. + + LOVE. + Learn to know me and thou shalt nothing fear. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Who art thou? Let me look into thine eyes. + + LOVE. + Learn to know me and thou wilt find the Light. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Pilgrim, who art thou? Let me know thy name. + + LOVE. + Dost thou not know me, Douce-coeur? + + DOUCE-COEUR [_slowly_]. + Thou art Love! + + LOVE. + And dost thou know the meaning of my name? + Tell me thou art not fearful any more. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + The darkness that was bound about mine eyes + Is falling from me. In the growing light + The answer to Life's riddle is made clear. + I seem to stand upon a height, caught up + In ecstasy of rapture near the sun. + The day is dawning; far before my eyes + I see the earth spread out there like a map. + Shadow and sunshine traveling on the road + O'ertake each other, mingle--and are one. + + FAME. + O Love, all hail! What is my crown to thine? + Thy music is the song of all the stars + Which rings through every heart attune to thine. + + RICHES. + O Love, all hail! What is my wealth to thine? + Thy treasures are the moons of happiness, + Thy boundless gold the sunshine of the world. + + POWER. + O Love, all hail! Thine is the greater rule, + The force predominating. Thou alone + Art the unvanquished King who conquers all. + + POETRY. + O Love, whose face is sought by all the world, + Bid her go forth out of her Palace gates + Into her kingdom that lies all around, + Teach her what means to use to right the wrong + And ease the burden man has laid on man. + My voice that once could rouse men's sleeping souls + Grows weary, and men often heed me not, + Turning deaf ears that will not hear my words; + 'Tis thou alone canst wind that mystic horn + Which wakes alike the sleeping and the dead. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + O Love, I pray thee call the children back, + I am ashamed to think I drove them forth, + I erred in ignorance. Forgive me, lord. + +[_Enter JOY, LAUGHTER, SONG and DANCE._] + + LOVE. + All ye who came to battle Sorrow's spell, + Be with her now. And ye who hold in fee + Her happy days, go with her through the years. + I all unseen will guide her destiny. + And when, Princess, I come again to thee, + A worshiper will follow in my train. + From other lips than mine thou then shalt learn + The sweetest and the tenderest tale of all. + + MUSIC. + Now let us join with Song. In merry mirth + Draw to a fitting close our Interlude. + + SONG. + Sorrow reigned her little day + Love has driven her far away + Brought the sunshine back to Court + Thus we end in merry sport. + +[_Exeunt ALL._] + + +_EPILOGUE_ + +[_Enter JESTER._] + + The Tale is over and their parts are done, + And Love again has proved the strongest one. + I wonder has it pleased you now to see + The oldest tale told thus in phantasy. + And let your answer be whate'er it may, + Whether your thumbs be up or down to-day + Will hurt not me. I did not write the play. + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE INTRUDER + +By MAURICE MAETERLINCK + + +Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck, to give him his full +baptismal name, was born in Ghent on August 29, 1862. He was sent to +the Jesuit College de Sainte-Barbe, the institution which another +great Belgian, Emile Verhaeren, also attended. In 1885, Maeterlinck +entered the University of Ghent to study law, but his practice of this +profession was confined to a scant year or two. Maeterlinck's chief +interest in his college years seems to have been the modern movement +in Belgian literature. But the frequency of his visits to Paris +increased in the years between 1886 and 1896, and finally in the +latter year he settled there. + +The following word picture supplements the photographs of Maeterlinck +that are so frequently reproduced in our magazines and newspapers: +"Maeterlinck is easily described: a man of about five feet nine in +height, inclined to be stout; silver hair lends distinction to the +large round head and boyish fresh complexion; blue-gray eyes, now +thoughtful, now merry, and an unaffected off-hand manner. The features +are not cut, left rather 'in the rough,' as sculptors say, even the +heavy jaw and chin are drowned in fat; the forehead bulges and the +eyes lose color in the light and seem hard; still, an interesting and +attractive personality." + +Maeterlinck's fame rests on his poetry and his essays no less than on +his plays. _L'Intruse_, _The Intruder_, reprinted here, belongs to the +early years of his activity as a playwright. It was printed in 1890 in +a Belgian periodical, _La Wallonie_, and was acted for the first time +a year later at Paul Fort's Théâtre d'Art in Paris, at a performance +given for the benefit of the poet, Paul Verlaine, and the painter, +Paul Gauguin. Maeterlinck, though publishing volumes of essays from +time to time, continues to write for the theatre.[52] In 1908 _The +Blue Bird_, dramatizing the quest for Truth, one of the most popular +of modern plays, was given for the first time in Moscow, to be +followed ten years later by the première in New York of a sequel, +_The Betrothal_, similarly dramatizing the search for Beauty. In 1910 +came his translation of _Macbeth_ into French. A year later he was +awarded the Nobel prize for literature. + + [Footnote 52: For bibliography, see Jethro Bithell, _Life and + Writings of Maurice Maeterlinck_, London and New York, 1913.] + +_The Intruder_, the theme of which is the mysterious coming of death, +is an illustration of one of Maeterlinck's pet theories in regard to +the subject matter of the drama. He expresses it in this way in his +famous essay on _The Tragic in Daily Life_: "An old man, seated in his +armchair, waiting patiently with his lamp beside him--submitting with +bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny--motionless as +he is, does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, more universal +life than ... the captain who conquers in battle." To plays based on +this theory has been given the name "static drama." _The Intruder_ +illustrates also Maeterlinck's use of symbols. The Grandfather in the +play is blind, for instance; blind characters in Maeterlinck's plays +are symbols of the spiritual blindness of the human race; the gardener +sharpening his scythe stands for death; the mysterious quenching of +the lamp--it may have gone out because there was no oil in +it--signifies the going out of life. + +The problem in the staging of this play is the "creation of a mood or +atmosphere, rather than the unfolding of an action." One of the +settings used in this country is here reproduced. It was designed for +the Arts & Crafts Theatre of Detroit. Sheldon Cheney, whose +description of Sam Hume's plastic units for the stage of this Little +Theatre is given in the Introduction on page xxxi, has described the +rearrangement of this equipment and the additions that can be made to +it for the production of this play as follows: "For Maeterlinck's _The +Intruder_, which demanded a room in an old château, one important +addition was made, a flat with a door. At the left was the arch, then +a pylon and curtain, and then the Gothic window with practicable +casements added. The rest of the back wall was made up of the new +door-piece flanked by curtains, while the third wall consisted of two +pylons and curtains. Stairs and platforms were utilized before the +window and under the arch. A small two-stair unit was added, leading +to the new door. This arrangement afforded exactly that suggestion of +spaciousness and mystery for which the play calls." When the play was +given at the Independent Theatre in London in 1895, it was played +behind a blue gauze curtain. + +On one of Maeterlinck's visits to London, he was taken by Alfred +Sutro, the dramatist, to call on Barrie in his flat at the Adelphi. +Maeterlinck was asked to write his name on the whitewashed wall of +Barrie's studio. He did so and added above the signature: "_Au père de +Peter Pan, et au grandpère de L'Oiseau Bleu._" + + + + +THE INTRUDER + + +CHARACTERS + + THE THREE DAUGHTERS. + THE GRANDFATHER. + THE FATHER. + THE UNCLE. + THE SERVANT. + + +_A dimly lighted room in an old country-house. A door on the right, a +door on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, +stained-glass windows, in which the color green predominates, and a +glass door opening on to a terrace. A Dutch clock in one corner. A +lamp lighted._ + + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There does not seem to me to be much light here. + +THE FATHER. Shall we go on to the terrace, or stay in this room? + +THE UNCLE. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the +whole week, and the nights are damp and cold. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Still the stars are shining. + +THE UNCLE. Ah! stars--that's nothing. + +THE GRANDFATHER. We had better stay here. One never knows what may +happen. + +THE FATHER. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is +past, and she is saved.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy she is not going on well.... + +THE FATHER. Why do you say that? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I have heard her speak. + +THE FATHER. But the doctors assure us we may be easy.... + +THE UNCLE. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm +us needlessly. + +[Illustration: _Courtesy of Theatre Arts Magazine_ + +Setting for _The Intruder_ composed of plastic units designed by Sam +Hume.] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I don't look at these things as you others do. + +THE UNCLE. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very +well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going +to spoil, without any reason, the first comfortable evening that luck +has thrown in our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to be +easy, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without apprehension. + +THE FATHER. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home +with my family since this terrible confinement. + +THE UNCLE. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a +stranger had forced himself into the family circle. + +THE FATHER. And then you understood, too, that you should count on no +one outside the family. + +THE UNCLE. You are quite right. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why could I not see my poor daughter to-day? + +THE UNCLE. You know quite well--the doctor forbade it. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what to think.... + +THE UNCLE. It is absurd to worry. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the left_]. She cannot hear +us? + +THE FATHER. We shall not talk too loud; besides, the door is very +thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us +if we are making too much noise. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the right_]. He cannot hear +us? + +THE FATHER. No, no. + +THE GRANDFATHER. He is asleep? + +THE FATHER. I suppose so. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Someone had better go and see. + +THE UNCLE. The little one would cause _me_ more anxiety than your +wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely +stirred. He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I think he will be deaf--dumb too, perhaps--the usual +result of a marriage between cousins.... [_A reproving silence._] + +THE FATHER. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has +caused his mother. + +THE UNCLE. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. +He is quite alone in the room? + +THE FATHER. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's +room any longer. + +THE UNCLE. But the nurse is with him? + +THE FATHER. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved +it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father. [_THE THREE SISTERS get up, and go +into the room on the right, hand in hand._] + +THE FATHER. When will your sister come? + +THE UNCLE. I think she will come about nine. + +THE FATHER. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my +wife is so anxious to see her. + +THE UNCLE. She is certain to come. This will be the first time she has +been here? + +THE FATHER. She has never been into the house. + +THE UNCLE. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent. + +THE FATHER. Will she be alone? + +THE UNCLE. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not +allowed to go out alone. + +THE FATHER. But she is the Superior. + +THE UNCLE. The rule is the same for all. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Do you not feel anxious? + +THE UNCLE. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on +that? There is nothing more to fear. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is older than you? + +THE UNCLE. She is the eldest of us all. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish +your sister were here. + +THE UNCLE. She will come; she promised to. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish this evening were over! + +[_THE THREE DAUGHTERS come in again._] + +THE FATHER. He is asleep? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father; very sound. + +THE UNCLE. What shall we do while we are waiting? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Waiting for what? + +THE UNCLE. Waiting for our sister. + +THE FATHER. You see nothing coming, Ursula? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER [_at the window_]. Nothing, father. + +THE FATHER. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue +as far as the cypress wood. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And you do not see anyone? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE UNCLE. What sort of a night is it? + +THE DAUGHTER. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales? + +THE UNCLE. Yes, yes. + +THE DAUGHTER. A little wind is rising in the avenue. + +THE GRANDFATHER. A little wind in the avenue? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes; the trees are trembling a little. + +THE UNCLE. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear the nightingales any longer. + +THE DAUGHTER. I think someone has come into the garden, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it? + +THE DAUGHTER. I do not know; I can see no one. + +THE UNCLE. Because there is no one there. + +THE DAUGHTER. There must be someone in the garden; the nightingales +have suddenly ceased singing. + +THE GRANDFATHER. But I do not hear anyone coming. + +THE DAUGHTER. Someone must be passing by the pond, because the swans +are scared. + +ANOTHER DAUGHTER. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly. + +THE FATHER. You cannot see anyone? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, father. + +THE FATHER. But the pond lies in the moonlight.... + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes; I can see that the swans are scared. + +THE UNCLE. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must +have come in by the little gate. + +THE FATHER. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark. + +THE DAUGHTER. I can see the watch-dog right at the back of his kennel. +The swans are crossing to the other bank!... + +THE UNCLE. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [_He +calls._] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There is no one there. + +THE DAUGHTER. I am sure that someone has come into the garden. You +will see. + +THE UNCLE. But she would answer me! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, +Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. I cannot hear one anywhere. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And yet there is no noise. + +THE FATHER. There is a silence of the grave. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It must be some stranger that scares them, for if it +were one of the family they would not be silent. + +THE UNCLE. How much longer are you going to discuss these +nightingales. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are all the windows open, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. The glass door is open, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the +room. + +THE DAUGHTER. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and +the rose-leaves are falling. + +THE FATHER. Well, shut the door. It is late. + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door. + +THE TWO OTHER DAUGHTERS. We cannot shut the door. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children? + +THE UNCLE. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I +will go and help them. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We cannot manage to shut it quite. + +THE UNCLE. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There +must be something in the way. + +THE FATHER. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the +cellar. + +THE GRANDFATHER. He will make a noise in the house. + +THE DAUGHTER. I will tell him to work quietly. [_Suddenly the sound of +a scythe being sharpened is heard outside._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_with a shudder_]. Oh! + +THE UNCLE. What is that? + +THE DAUGHTER. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot +quite see; he is in the shadow of the house. + +THE FATHER. It is the gardener going to mow. + +THE UNCLE. He mows by night? + +THE FATHER. Is not to-morrow Sunday?--Yes.--I noticed that the grass +was very long round the house. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise +... + +THE DAUGHTER. He is mowing near the house. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Can you see him, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. He stands in the dark. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid he will wake my daughter. + +THE UNCLE. We can scarcely hear him. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It sounds to me as if he were mowing inside the +house. + +THE UNCLE. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger. + +THE FATHER. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this +evening. + +THE UNCLE. It wants filling. + +THE FATHER. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly since the +window was shut. + +THE UNCLE. I fancy the chimney is dirty. + +THE FATHER. It will burn better presently. + +THE DAUGHTER. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three +nights. + +THE FATHER. He has been so much worried. + +THE UNCLE. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to +reason. + +THE FATHER. It is quite excusable at his age. + +THE UNCLE. God knows what we shall be like at his age! + +THE FATHER. He is nearly eighty. + +THE UNCLE. Then he has a right to be strange. + +THE FATHER. He is like all blind people. + +THE UNCLE. They think too much. + +THE FATHER. They have too much time to spare. + +THE UNCLE. They have nothing else to do. + +THE FATHER. And, besides, they have no distractions. + +THE UNCLE. That must be terrible. + +THE FATHER. Apparently one gets used to it. + +THE UNCLE. I cannot imagine it. + +THE FATHER. They are certainly to be pitied. + +THE UNCLE. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come +from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish +midday from midnight, or summer from winter--and always darkness, +darkness! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incurable? + +THE FATHER. Apparently so. + +THE UNCLE. But he is not absolutely blind? + +THE FATHER. He can perceive a strong light. + +THE UNCLE. Let us take care of our poor eyes. + +THE FATHER. He often has strange ideas. + +THE UNCLE. At times he is not at all amusing. + +THE FATHER. He says absolutely everything he thinks. + +THE UNCLE. But he was not always like this? + +THE FATHER. No; once he was as rational as we are; he never said +anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages him a little too +much; she answers all his questions.... + +THE UNCLE. It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken +kindness to him. [_Ten o'clock strikes._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_waking up_]. Am I facing the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Am I facing the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There is nobody at the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; I do not see anyone. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I thought someone was waiting. No one has come? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_to the UNCLE and FATHER_]. And your sister has not +come? + +THE UNCLE. It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of +her. + +THE FATHER. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [_A noise, as of +someone coming into the house._] + +THE UNCLE. She is here! Did you hear? + +THE FATHER. Yes; someone has come in at the basement. + +THE UNCLE. It must be our sister. I recognized her step. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I heard slow footsteps. + +THE FATHER. She came in very quietly. + +THE UNCLE. She knows there is an invalid. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I hear nothing now. + +THE UNCLE. She will come up directly; they will tell her we are here. + +THE FATHER. I am glad she has come. + +THE UNCLE. I was sure she would come this evening. + +THE GRANDFATHER. She is a very long time coming up. + +THE UNCLE. However, it must be she. + +THE FATHER. We are not expecting any other visitors. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear any noise in the basement. + +THE FATHER. I will call the servant. We shall know how things stand. +[_He pulls a bell-rope._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear a noise on the stairs already. + +THE FATHER. It is the servant coming up. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It sounds to me as if she were not alone. + +THE FATHER. She is coming up slowly.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I hear your sister's step! + +THE FATHER. I can only hear the servant. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is your sister! It is your sister! [_There is a +knock at the little door._] + +THE UNCLE. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs. + +THE FATHER. I will go and open myself. [_He partly opens the little +door; THE SERVANT remains outside in the opening._] Where are you? + +THE SERVANT. Here, sir. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is at the door? + +THE UNCLE. I can only see the servant. + +THE FATHER. It is only the servant. [_To THE SERVANT._] Who was that, +that came into the house? + +THE SERVANT. Came into the house? + +THE FATHER. Yes; someone came in just now? + +THE SERVANT. No one came in, sir. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it sighing like that? + +THE UNCLE. It is the servant; she is out of breath. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is she crying? + +THE UNCLE. No; why should she be crying? + +THE FATHER [_to THE SERVANT_]. No one came in just now? + +THE SERVANT. No, sir. + +THE FATHER. But we heard someone open the door! + +THE SERVANT. It was I shutting the door. + +THE FATHER. It was open? + +THE SERVANT. Yes, sir. + +THE FATHER. Why was it open at this time of night? + +THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself. + +THE FATHER. Then who was it that opened it? + +THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. Someone must have gone out after me, +sir.... + +THE FATHER. You must be careful.--Don't push the door; you know what a +noise it makes! + +THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am not touching the door. + +THE FATHER. But you are. You are pushing as if you were trying to get +into the room. + +THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am three yards away from the door. + +THE FATHER. Don't talk so loud.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are they putting out the light? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me it has grown pitch dark all at once. + +THE FATHER [_to THE SERVANT_]. You can go down again now; but do not +make so much noise on the stairs. + +THE SERVANT. I did not make any noise on the stairs. + +THE FATHER. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go down quietly; you +will wake your mistress. And if anyone comes now, say that we are not +at home. + +THE UNCLE. Yes; say that we are not at home. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering_]. You must not say that! + +THE FATHER.... Except to my sister and the doctor. + +THE UNCLE. When will the doctor come? + +THE FATHER. He will not be able to come before midnight. [_He shuts +the door. A clock is heard striking eleven._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. She has come in? + +THE FATHER. Who? + +THE GRANDFATHER. The servant. + +THE FATHER. No, she has gone downstairs. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I thought that she was sitting at the table. + +THE UNCLE. The servant? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Yes. + +THE UNCLE. That would complete one's happiness! + +THE GRANDFATHER. No one has come into the room? + +THE FATHER. No; no one has come in. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And your sister is not here? + +THE UNCLE. Our sister has not come. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You want to deceive me. + +THE UNCLE. Deceive you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God! + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with +you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Something has happened! I am sure my daughter is +worse!... + +THE UNCLE. Are you dreaming? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You do not want to tell me!... I can see quite well +there is something.... + +THE UNCLE. In that case you can see better than we can. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth! + +THE DAUGHTER. But we have told you the truth, grandfather! + +THE GRANDFATHER. You do not speak in your ordinary voice. + +THE FATHER. That is because you frighten her. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your voice is changed too. + +THE FATHER. You are going mad! [_He and THE UNCLE make signs to each +other to signify THE GRANDFATHER has lost his reason._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear quite well that you are afraid. + +THE FATHER. But what should we be afraid of? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why do you want to deceive me? + +THE UNCLE. Who is thinking of deceiving you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why have you put out the light? + +THE UNCLE. But the light has not been put out; there is as much light +as there was before. + +THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that the lamp has gone down. + +THE FATHER. I see as well now as ever. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I have millstones on my eyes! Tell me, girls, what is +going on here! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see! I am +here, all alone, in darkness without end! I do not know who seats +himself beside me! I do not know what is happening a yard from me!... +Why were you talking under your breath just now? + +THE FATHER. No one was talking under his breath. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You did talk in a low voice at the door. + +THE FATHER. You heard all I said. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You brought someone into the room!... + +THE FATHER. But I tell you no one has come in! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it your sister or a priest?--You should not try to +deceive me.--Ursula, who was it that came in? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You must not try to deceive me; I know what I +know.--How many of us are there here? + +THE DAUGHTER. There are six of us round the table, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are all round the table? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Paul? + +THE FATHER. Yes. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Oliver? + +THE UNCLE. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. That's not +alarming, is it? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Geneviève? + +ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Gertrude? + +ANOTHER DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are here, Ursula? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; next to you. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And who is that sitting there? + +THE DAUGHTER. Where do you mean, grandfather?--There is no one. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There, there--in the midst of us! + +THE DAUGHTER. But there is no one, grandfather! + +THE FATHER. We tell you there is no one! + +THE GRANDFATHER. But you cannot see--any of you! + +THE UNCLE. Pshaw! You are joking? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel inclined for joking, I can assure you. + +THE UNCLE. Then believe those who can see. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_undecidedly_]. I thought there was someone.... I +believe I shall not live long.... + +THE UNCLE. Why should we deceive you? What use would there be in that? + +THE FATHER. It would be our duty to tell you the truth.... + +THE UNCLE. What would be the good of deceiving each other? + +THE FATHER. You could not live in error long. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_trying to rise_]. I should like to pierce this +darkness!... + +THE FATHER. Where do you want to go? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Over there.... + +THE FATHER. Don't be so anxious.... + +THE UNCLE. You are strange this evening. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is all of you who seem to me to be strange! + +THE FATHER. Do you want anything?... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! grandfather! What do you want, +grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Give me your little hands, my children. + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why are you all three trembling, girls? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We are scarcely trembling at all, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy you are all three pale. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is late, grandfather, and we are tired. + +THE FATHER. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself would do well +to take a little rest. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I could not sleep to-night! + +THE UNCLE. We will wait for the doctor. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Prepare me for the truth. + +THE UNCLE. But there is no truth! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Then I do not know what there is! + +THE UNCLE. I tell you there is nothing at all! + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could see my poor daughter! + +THE FATHER. But you know quite well it is impossible; she must not be +awaked unnecessarily. + +THE UNCLE. You will see her to-morrow. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There is no sound in her room. + +THE UNCLE. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is a very long time since I saw my daughter!... I +took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her!... I do not +know what has become of her!... I do not know how she is.... I do not +know what her face is like now.... She must have changed these +weeks!... I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my hands.... +There is nothing but the darkness between her and me, and the rest of +you!... I cannot go on living like this ... this is not living.... You +sit there, all of you, looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not +one of you has pity on me!... I do not know what ails me.... No one +tells me what ought to be told me.... And everything is terrifying +when one's dreams dwell upon it.... But why are you not speaking? + +THE UNCLE. What should we say, since you will not believe us? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are afraid of betraying yourselves! + +THE FATHER. Come now, be rational! + +THE GRANDFATHER. You have been hiding something from me for a long +time!... Something has happened in the house.... But I am beginning to +understand now.... You have been deceiving me too long!--You fancy +that I shall never know anything?--There are moments when I am less +blind than you, you know!... Do you think I have not heard you +whispering--for days and days--as if you were in the house of someone +who had been hanged--I dare not say what I know this evening.... But I +shall know the truth!... I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; +but I have known it for a long time, in spite of you!--And now, I feel +that you are all paler than the dead! + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Grandfather! grandfather! What is the matter, +grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is not you that I am speaking of, girls. No, it is +not you that I am speaking of.... I know quite well you would tell me +the truth--if they were not by! ... And besides, I feel sure that +they are deceiving you as well.... You will see, children--you will +see!... Do not I hear you all sobbing? + +THE FATHER. Is my wife really so ill? + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is no good trying to deceive me any longer; it is +too late now, and I know the truth better than you!... + +THE UNCLE. But _we_ are not blind; we are not. + +THE FATHER. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This +misunderstanding must be put an end to.--Would you? + +THE GRANDFATHER [_becoming suddenly undecided_]. No, no, not now--not +yet. + +THE UNCLE. You see, you are not reasonable. + +THE GRANDFATHER. One never knows how much a man has been unable to +express in his life!... Who made that noise? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me to be very unsteady--very! + +THE DAUGHTER. It is the cold wind troubling it.... + +THE UNCLE. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut. + +THE DAUGHTER. I think it is going out. + +THE FATHER. There is no more oil. + +THE DAUGHTER. It has gone right out. + +THE FATHER. We cannot stay like this in the dark. + +THE UNCLE. Why not?--I am quite accustomed to it. + +THE FATHER. There is a light in my wife's room. + +THE UNCLE. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has +been. + +THE FATHER. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from +outside. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it light outside? + +THE FATHER. Lighter than here. + +THE UNCLE. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark. + +THE FATHER. So would I. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of +noise.... + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. That is because we are not talking any more, +grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. But why are you all silent? + +THE UNCLE. What do you want us to talk about?--You are really very +peculiar to-night. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it very dark in this room? + +THE UNCLE. There is not much light. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little. + +THE FATHER. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the +want of air myself. [_The girl opens the window._] + +THE UNCLE. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is the window open? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open. + +THE GRANDFATHER. One would not have thought it was open; there is not +a sound outside. + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound. + +THE FATHER. The silence is extraordinary! + +THE DAUGHTER. One could hear an angel tread! + +THE UNCLE. That is why I do not like the country. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, +Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. It will soon be midnight, grandfather. [_Here THE UNCLE +begins to pace up and down the room._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is that walking round us like that? + +THE UNCLE. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I want to walk about +a little. [_Silence._]--But I am going to sit down again;--I cannot +see where I am going. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I were out of this place! + +THE DAUGHTER. Where would you like to go, grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know where--into another room, no matter +where! no matter where! + +THE FATHER. Where could we go? + +THE UNCLE. It is too late to go anywhere else. [_Silence. They are +sitting, motionless, round the table._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling.--Yes, it +is the leaves falling on the terrace. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Go and shut the window, Ursula. + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. [_She shuts the window, comes back, +and sits down._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am cold. [_Silence. THE THREE SISTERS kiss each +other._] What is that I hear now? + +THE FATHER. It is the three sisters kissing each other. + +THE UNCLE. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. +[_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear now, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands. +[_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. And that?... + +THE DAUGHTER. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps my sisters are +trembling a little?... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid, too, my children. [_Here a ray of +moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws +strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; +at the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of someone rising +in haste._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering with peculiar horror_]. Who is that who +got up? + +THE UNCLE. No one got up! + +THE FATHER. I did not get up! + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Nor I!--Nor I!--Nor I! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Someone got up from the table! + +THE UNCLE. Light the lamp!... [_Cries of terror are suddenly heard +from the child's room, on the right; these cries continue, with +gradations of horror, until the end of the scene._] + +THE FATHER. Listen to the child! + +THE UNCLE. He has never cried before! + +THE FATHER. Let us go and see him! + +THE UNCLE. The light! The light! [_At this moment, quick and heavy +steps are heard in the room on the left.--Then a deathly +silence.--They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens +slowly, the light from it is cast into the room where they are +sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her +black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to +announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment +of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while +THE UNCLE politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls +pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way +round the table in the darkness._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. Where are you going?--Where are you going?--The girls +have left me all alone! + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES[53] + +_A DRAMA IN ONE ACT_ + +By JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY + + [Footnote 53: Copyright, 1917, by Josephine Preston Peabody. + This play is fully protected under the Copyright law of the + United States and is subject to royalty when produced by + amateurs or professionals. Applications for the right to + produce _Fortune and Men's Eyes_ should be made to Samuel + French, 28 West 38 Street, New York. All rights reserved.] + + +Josephine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Lionel S. Marks) was born in New York +on May 30, 1874. She attended the Girls' Latin School in Boston and +later went to Radcliffe College. From 1901 to 1903 she taught English +literature at Wellesley College. Her verse, dramatic and lyric, has +made her an outstanding figure in American letters. + +_Fortune and Men's Eyes_ (1900), the first of her published plays, is +written in blank verse. _Marlowe_, likewise a study of a great +Elizabethan, _The Wings_, the setting of which is early English, _The +Piper_, a new version of the medieval legend made famous by Browning, +and _The Wolf of Gubbio_, dominated by the lovely figure of St. +Francis of Assisi, are also poetic dramas. Her best known play, _The +Piper_, was awarded the first prize in 1910 in the Stratford-on-Avon +competition in which there were three hundred and fifteen contestants. +It was then produced at the Memorial Theatre at Stratford. + +In recent years two playwrights have consulted Shakespeare's sonnets +for dramatic themes; first, Josephine Preston Peabody found in them a +motive for her poetic play, _Fortune and Men's Eyes_, and later George +Bernard Shaw turned them to dramatic account, in his own fashion, in +_The Dark Lady of the Sonnets_. The dramatic situation chosen for +_Fortune and Men's Eyes_ has been read by some Shakespearian scholars +into the familiar dedication of the 1609 edition of the Sonnets, which +runs: "To the only begetter of these ensuing sonnets Mr. W. H. all +happiness and that eternity promised by our ever-living poet wisheth +the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth T. T." The last initials +stand for the name of the publisher, Thomas Thorpe. "Begetter" has +been variously interpreted as inspirer of the Sonnets or as partner in +the commercial enterprise of their publication. "Mr. W. H." has been +more usually identified with William Herbert, earl of Pembroke, though +some have thought that the initials were inverted and referred to +Henry Wriothesly, earl of Southampton, to whom Shakespeare's other +poems were dedicated. If W. H. does refer to the earl of Pembroke, it +is usually held that the "dark lady" is in reality the blond Mistress +Mary Fytton, whose name was coupled with Pembroke's. Whether the +sonnets are in any sense at all autobiographical has also been +endlessly debated. It was admittedly an age when every poet tried his +hand at sonnet sequences and in all these sequences, not excepting +Shakespeare's, there are to be found the same conventional conceits. +But it is generally believed now that the sonnets of Spenser and +Sidney refer to the personal experiences of their authors. It is quite +possible, then, that Shakespeare, too, may have used a literary +convention as a means of personal expression, though it seems +impertinent in any case to question the feeling back of "When in +disgrace with fortune and men's eyes." This brief reference to +conflicting interpretations of the Sonnets shows how material of +dramatic value may lurk even in the purlieus of textual criticism. + +Josephine Preston Peabody herself says: "The play was written after +long worship of the W. S. Sonnets, as a method of introspection, to +satisfy my own curiosity concerning the truth of the sonnet theories. +In spite of recurrent threats, by one actor after another, it has +never yet been produced on the professional stage. But it has been +read and recommended for reading, in various colleges, as a picture of +Elizabethan times, and as an interpretation of the Pembroke-Fytton +aspect of the sonnet story." + + + + +FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES + + _"When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes" ..._ + + Sonnet xxix. + + +CHARACTERS + + WILLIAM HERBERT, _son of the Earl of Pembroke._ + SIMEON DYER, _a Puritan._ + TOBIAS, _host of "The Bear and The Angel."_ + WAT BURROW, _a bear-ward._ + DICKON, _a little boy, son to TOBIAS._ + CHIFFIN, _a ballad-monger._ + A PRENTICE. + + A PLAYER, _master W. S. of the Lord Chamberlain's Company._ + + MISTRESS MARY FYTTON, _a maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth._ + MISTRESS ANNE HUGHES, _also of the Court._ + TAVERNERS AND PRENTICES. + + +_Time represented: An afternoon in the autumn of the year 1599._ + + +_SCENE._--_Interior of "The Bear and the Angel," South London. At +back, the center entrance gives on a short alley-walk which joins the +street beyond at a right angle. To right and left of this doorway, +casements. Down, on the right, a door opening upon the inn-garden; a +second door on the right, up, leading to a tap-room. Opposite this, +left, a door leading into a buttery. Opposite the garden-door, a large +chimney-piece with a smoldering wood-fire. A few seats; a lantern +(unlighted) in a corner. In the foreground, to the right, a long and +narrow table with several mugs of ale upon it, also a lute._ + +_At one end of the table WAT BURROW is finishing his ale and holding +forth to the PRENTICE (who thrums the lute) and a group of taverners, +some smoking. At the further end of the table SIMEON DYER observes +all with grave curiosity. TOBIAS and DICKON draw near. General noise._ + + + PRENTICE [_singing_]. + _What do I give for the Pope and his riches! + I's my ale and my Sunday breeches; + I's an old master, I's a young lass, + And we'll eat green goose, come Martinmas! + Sing Rowdy Dowdy, + Look ye don't crowd me + I's a good club, + --So let me pass!_ + + DICKON. + Again! again! + + PRENTICE. _Sing Rowdy--_ + + WAT [_finishing his beer_]. Swallow it down. + Sling all such froth and follow me to the Bear! + They stay for me, lined up to see us pass + From end to end o' the alley. Ho! You doubt? + From Lambeth to the Bridge! + + TAVERNERS. } {'Tis so; ay. + PRENTICES. } {Come, follow! Come. + + WAT. Greg's stuck his ears + With nosegays, and his chain is wound about + Like any May-pole. What? I tell ye, boys, + Ye have seen no such bear, a Bear o' Bears, + Fit to bite off the prophet, in the show, + With seventy such boys! + [_Pulling DICKON's ear_]. Bears, say you, bears? + Why, Rursus Major, as your scholars tell, + A royal bear, the greatest in his day, + The sport of Alexander, unto Nick-- + Was a ewe-lamb, dyed black; no worse, no worse. + To-morrow come and see him with the dogs; + He'll not give way,--not he! + + DICKON. To-morrow's Thursday! + To-morrow's Thursday! + + PRENTICE. Will ye lead by here? + + TOBIAS. + Ay, that would be a sight. Wat, man, this way! + + WAT. + Ho, would you squinch us? Why, there be a press + O' gentry by this tide to measure Nick + And lay their wagers, at a blink of him, + Against to-morrow! Why, the stairs be full. + To-morrow you shall see the Bridge a-creak, + The river--dry with barges,--London gape, + Gape! While the Borough buzzes like a hive + With all their worships! Sirs, the fame o' Nick + Has so pluckt out the gentry by the sleeve, + 'Tis said the Queen would see him. + + TOBIAS. } {Ay, 'tis grand. + DICKON. } {O-oh, the Queen? + + PRENTICE. + How now? Thou art no man to lead a bear, + Forgetting both his quality and hers! + Drink all; come, drink to her. + + TOBIAS. Ay, now. + + WAT. To her!-- + And harkee, boy, this saying will serve you learn: + "The Queen, her high and glorious majesty!" + + SIMEON [_gravely_]. + Long live the Queen! + + WAT. Maker of golden laws + For baitings! She that cherishes the Borough + And shines upon our pastimes. By the mass! + Thank her for the crowd to-morrow. But for her, + We were a homesick handful of brave souls + That love the royal sport. These mouthing players, + These hookers, would 'a' spoiled us of our beer-- + + PRENTICE. + Lying by to catch the gentry at the stairs,-- + All pressing to Bear Alley-- + + WAT. Run 'em in + At stage-plays and show-fooleries on the way. + Stage-plays, with their tart nonsense and their flags, + Their "Tamerlanes" and "Humors" and what not! + My life on't, there was not a man of us + But fared his Lent, by reason of their fatness, + And on a holiday ate not at all! + + TOBIAS [_solemnly_]. + 'Tis so; 'tis so. + + WAT. But when she heard it told + How lean the sport was grown, she damns stage-plays + O' Thursday. So: Nick gets his turn to growl! + + PRENTICE. + As well as any player. + [_With a dumb show of ranting among the TAVERNERS._] + + WAT. Players?--Hang them! + I know 'em, I. I've been with 'em.... I was + As sweet a gentlewoman in my voice + As any of your finches that sings small. + + TOBIAS. 'Twas high. + +[_Enter THE PLAYER, followed by CHIFFIN, the ballad-monger. He is +abstracted and weary._] + + WAT [_lingering at the table_]. + I say, I've played.... There's not one man + Of all the gang--save one.... Ay, there be one + I grant you, now!... He used me in right sort; + A man worth better trades. + +[_Seeing THE PLAYER._] + + --Lord love you, sir! + Why, this is you indeed. 'Tis a long day, sir, + Since I clapped eyes on you. But even now + Your name was on my tongue as pat as ale! + You see me off. We bait to-morrow, sir; + Will you come see? Nick's fresh, and every soul + As hot to see the fight as 'twere to be-- + Man Daniel, baited with the lions! + + TOBIAS. Sir, + 'Tis high ... 'tis high. + + WAT. We show him in the street + With dogs and all, ay, now, if you will see. + + THE PLAYER. + Why, so I will. A show and I not there? + Bear it out bravely, Wat. High fortune, man! + Commend me to thy bear. + +[_Drinks and passes him the cup._] + + WAT. Lord love you, sir! + 'Twas ever so you gave a man godspeed.... + And yet your spirits flag; you look but palely. + I'll take your kindness, thank ye. + +[_Turning away._] + + In good time! + Come after me and Nick, now. Follow all; + Come boys, come, pack! + +[_Exit WAT, still descanting. Exeunt most of the TAVERNERS, with the +PRENTICE. SIMEON DYER draws near THE PLAYER, regarding him gravely. +CHIFFIN sells ballads to those who go out. DICKON is about to follow +them, when TOBIAS stops him._] + + TOBIAS. + What? Not so fast, you there; + Who gave you holiday? Bide by the inn; + Tend on our gentry. + +[_Exit after the crowd._] + + CHIFFIN. Ballads, gentlemen? + Ballads, new ballads? + + SIMEON [_to THE PLAYER._] + With your pardon, sir, + I am gratified to note your abstinence + From this deplorable fond merriment + Of baiting of a bear. + + THE PLAYER. Your friendship then + Takes pleasure in the heaviness of my legs. + But I am weary I would see the bear. + Nay, rest you happy; malt shall comfort us. + + SIMEON. + You do mistake me. I am-- + + CHIFFIN. Ballad, sir? + "How a Young Spark would Woo a Tanner's Wife, + And She Sings Sweet in Turn." + + SIMEON [_indignantly_]. + Abandoned poet! + + CHIFFIN [_indignantly_]. + I'm no such thing! An honest ballad, sir, + No poetry at all. + + THE PLAYER. + Good, sell thy wares. + + CHIFFIN. + "A Ballad of a Virtuous Country-Maid + Forswears the Follies of the Flaunting Town"-- + And tends her geese all day, and weds a vicar. + + SIMEON. + A godlier tale, in sooth. But speak, my man; + If she be virtuous, and the tale a true one, + Can she not do't in prose? + + THE PLAYER. Beseech her, man. + 'Tis scandal she should use a measure so. + For no more sin than dealing out false measure + Was Dame Sapphira slain. + + SIMEON. You are with me, sir; + Although methinks you do mistake the sense + O' that you have read.... This jigging, jog-trot rime, + This ring-me-round, debaseth mind and matter, + To make the reason giddy-- + + CHIFFIN [_to THE PLAYER_]. + Ballad, sir? + "Hear All!" A fine brave ballad of a Fish + Just caught off Dover; nay, a one-eyed fish, + With teeth in double rows. + + THE PLAYER. Nay, nay, go to. + + CHIFFIN. + "My Fortune's Folly," then; or "The True Tale + Of an Angry Gull;" or "Cherries Like Me Best." + "Black Sheep, or How a Cut-Purse Robbed His Mother;" + "The Prentice and the Dell!"... "Plays Play not Fair," + Or how a _gentlewoman's_ heart was took + By a player that was king in a stage-play.... + "The Merry Salutation," "How a Spark + Would Woo a Tanner's Wife!" "The Direful Fish"-- + Cock's passion, sir! not buy a cleanly ballad + Of the great fish, late ta'en off Dover coast, + Having two heads and teeth in double rows.... + Salt fish catched in fresh water?... + 'Od's my life! + What if or salt or fresh? A prodigy! + A ballad like "Hear All!" And me and mine, + Five children and a wife would bait the devil, + May lap the water out o' Lambeth Marsh + Before he'll buy a ballad. My poor wife, + That lies a-weeping for a tansy-cake! + Body o' me, shall I scent ale again? + + THE PLAYER. + Why, here's persuasion; logic, arguments. + Nay, not the ballad. Read for thine own joy. + I doubt not but it stretches, honest length, + From Maid Lane to the Bridge and so across. + But for thy length of thirst-- + +[_Giving him a coin._] + + That touches near. + + CHIFFIN [_apart_]. + A vagrom player, would not buy a tale + O' the Great Fish with the twy rows o' teeth! + Learn you to read! [_Exit._] + + SIMEON. + Thou seemest, sir, from that I have overheard, + A man, as one should grant, beyond thy calling.... + I would I might assure thee of the way, + To urge thee quit this painted infamy. + There may be time, seeing thou art still young, + To pluck thee from the burning. How are ye 'stroyed, + Ye foolish grasshoppers! Cut off, forgotten, + When moth and rust corrupt your flaunting shows, + The Earth shall have no memory of your name! + + DICKON. + Pray you, what's yours? + + SIMEON. I am called Simeon Dyer. + +[_There is the sudden uproar of a crowd in the distance. It continues +at intervals for some time._] + + } Hey, lads? + PRENTICES. } Some noise beyond: Come, cudgels, come! + } Come on, come on, I'm for it. + +[_Exeunt all but THE PLAYER, SIMEON, and DICKON._] + + SIMEON. + Something untoward, without: or is it rather + The tumult of some uproar incident + To this ... vicinity? + + THE PLAYER. It is an uproar + Most incident to bears. + + DICKON. I would I knew! + + THE PLAYER [_holding him off at arm's length_]. + Hey, boy? We would have tidings of the bear: + Go thou, I'll be thy surety. Mark him well. + Omit no fact; I would have all of it: + What manner o' bear he is,--how bears himself; + Number and pattern of ears, and eyes what hue; + His voice and fashion o' coat. Nay, come not back, + Till thou hast all. Skip, sirrah! + +[_Exit DICKON._] + + SIMEON. Think, fair sir. + Take this new word of mine to be a seed + Of thought in that neglected garden plot, + Thy mind, thy worthier part. But think! + + THE PLAYER. Why, so; + Thou hast some right, friend; now and then it serves. + Sometimes I have thought, and even now sometimes, + ... I think. + + SIMEON [_benevolently_]. Heaven ripen thought unto an harvest! + [_Exit._] + +[THE PLAYER _rises, stretches his arms, and paces the floor, +wearily._] + + THE PLAYER [_alone_]. + Some quiet now.... Why should I thirst for it + As if my thoughts were noble company? + Alone with the one man of all living men + I have least cause to honor.... + I'm no lover, + That seek to be alone!... She is too false-- + At last, to keep a spaniel's loyalty. + I do believe it. And by my own soul, + She shall not have me, what remains of me + That may be beaten back into the ranks. + I will not look upon her.... Bitter Sweet. + This fever that torments me day by day-- + Call it not love--this servitude, this spell + That haunts me like a sick man's fantasy, + With pleading of her eyes, her voice, her eyes-- + It shall not have me. I am too much stained: + But, God or no God, yet I do not live + And have to bear my own soul company, + To have it stoop so low. She looks on Herbert. + Oh, I have seen. But he,--he must withstand. + He knows that I have suffered,--suffer still-- + Although I love her not. Her ways, her ways-- + It is her ways that eat into the heart + With beauty more than Beauty; and her voice + That silvers o'er the meaning of her speech + Like moonshine on black waters. Ah, uncoil!... + He's the sure morning after this dark dream; + Clear daylight and west wind of a lad's love; + With all his golden pride, for my dull hours, + Still climbing sunward! Sink all loves in him! + And cleanse me of this cursèd, fell distrust + That marks the pestilence.... + _'Fair, kind, and true.'_ + Lad, lad. How could I turn from friendliness + To worship such false gods?-- + There cannot thrive a greater love than this, + 'Fair, kind, and true.' And yet, if She were true + To me, though false to all things else;--one truth, + So one truth lived--. One truth! O beggared soul + --Foul Lazarus, so starved it can make shift + To feed on crumbs of honor!--Am I this? + +[_Enter ANNE HUGHES. She has been running in evident terror, and +stands against the door looking about her._] + + ANNE. + Are you the inn-keeper? + +[_THE PLAYER turns and bows courteously._] + + Nay, sir, your pardon. + I saw you not... And yet your face, methinks, + But--yes, I'm sure.... + But where's the inn-keeper? + I know not where I am, nor where to go. + + THE PLAYER. + Madam, it is my fortune that I may + Procure you service. [_Going towards the door. The uproar + sounds nearer._] + + ANNE. Nay! what if the bear-- + + THE PLAYER. + The bear? + + ANNE. + The door! The bear is broken loose. + Did you not hear? I scarce could make my way + Through that rank crowd, in search of some safe place. + You smile, sir! But you had not seen the bear,-- + Nor I, this morning. Pray you, hear me out,-- + For surely you are gentler than the place. + I came ... I came by water ... to the Garden, + Alone, ... from bravery, to see the show + And tell of it hereafter at the Court! + There's one of us makes count of all such 'scapes + ('Tis Mistress Fytton). She will ever tell + The sport it is to see the people's games + Among themselves,--to go _incognita_ + And take all as it is not for the Queen, + Gallants and rabble! But by Banbury Cross, + I am of tamer mettle!--All alone, + Among ten thousand noisy watermen; + And then the foul ways leading from the Stair; + And then ... no friends I knew, nay, not a face. + And my dear nose beset, and my pomander + Lost in the rout,--or else a cut-purse had it: + And then the bear breaks loose! Oh, 'tis a day + Full of vexations, nay, and dangers too. + I would I had been slower to outdo + The pranks of Mary Fytton.... You know her, sir? + + THE PLAYER. + If one of my plain calling may be said + To know a maid-of-honor. [_More lightly._] And yet more: + My heart has cause to know the lady's face. + + ANNE [_blankly_]. + Why, so it is.... Is't not a marvel, sir, + The way she hath? Truly, her voice is good.... + And yet,--but oh, she charms; I hear it said. + A winsome gentlewoman, of a wit, too. + We are great fellows; she tells me all she does; + And, sooth, I listen till my ears be like + To grow for wonder. Whence my 'scape, to-day! + Oh, she hath daring for the pastimes here; + I would--change looks with her, to have her spirit! + Indeed, they say she charms Someone, by this. + + THE PLAYER. + Someone.... + + ANNE. Hast heard? + Why sure my Lord of Herbert. + Ay, Pembroke's son. But there I doubt,--I doubt. + He is an eagle will not stoop for less + Than kingly prey. No bird-lime takes him. + + THE PLAYER. Herbert.... + He hath shown many favors to us players. + + ANNE. + Ah, now I have you! + + THE PLAYER. Surely, gracious madam; + My duty; ... what besides? + + ANNE. This face of yours. + 'Twas in some play, belike. [_Apart._] ... I took him for + A man it should advantage me to know! + And he's a proper man enough.... Ay me! + +[_When she speaks to him again it is with encouraging condescension._] + + Surely you've been at Whitehall, Master Player? + + THE PLAYER [_bowing_]. + So. + + ANNE. And how oft? And when? + + THE PLAYER. Last Christmas tide; + And Twelfth Day eve, perchance. Your memory + Freshens a dusty past.... The hubbub's over. + Shall I look forth and find some trusty boy + To attend you to the river? + + ANNE. I thank you, sir. + +[_He goes to the door and steps out into the alley, looking up and +down. The noise in the distance springs up again._] + + [_Apart._] 'Tis not past sufferance. Marry, I could stay + Some moments longer, till the streets be safe. + Sir, sir! + + THE PLAYER [_returning_]. + Command me, madam. + + ANNE. I will wait + A little longer, lest I meet once more + That ruffian mob or any of the dogs. + These sports are better seen from balconies. + + THE PLAYER. + Will you step hither? There's an arbored walk + Sheltered and safe. Should they come by again, + You may see all, an't like you, and be hid. + + ANNE. + A garden there? Come, you shall show it me. + +[_They go out into the garden on the right, leaving the door shut. +Immediately enter, in great haste, MARY FYTTON and WILLIAM HERBERT, +followed by DICKON, who looks about and, seeing no one, goes to +setting things in order._] + + MARY. + Quick, quick!... She must have seen me. Those big eyes, + How could they miss me, peering as she was + For some familiar face? She would have known, + Even before my mask was jostled off + In that wild rabble ... bears and bearish men. + + HERBERT. + Why would you have me bring you? + + MARY. Why? Ah, why! + Sooth, once I had a reason: now 'tis lost,-- + Lost! Lost! Call out the bell-man. + + DICKON [_seriously_]. Shall I so? + + HERBERT. + Nay, nay; that were a merriment indeed, + To cry us through the streets! [_To MARY._] You riddling charm. + + MARY. + A riddle, yet? You almost love me, then. + + HERBERT. + Almost? + + MARY. + Because you cannot understand. + Alas, when all's unriddled, the charm goes. + + HERBERT. + Come, you're not melancholy? + + MARY. Nay, are you? + But should Nan Hughes have seen us, and spoiled all-- + + HERBERT. + How could she so? + + MARY. I know not ... yet I know + If she had met us, she could steal To-day, + Golden To-day. + + HERBERT. A kiss; and so forget her. + + MARY. + Hush, hush,--the tavern-boy there. + [_To DICKON._] Tell me, boy,-- + [_To HERBERT._] Some errand, now; a roc's egg! + Strike thy wit. + + HERBERT. + What is't you miss? Why, so. The lady's lost + A very curious reason, wrought about + With diverse broidery. + + MARY. Nay, 'twas a mask. + + HERBERT. + A mask, arch-wit? Why will you mock yourself + And all your fine deceits? Your mask, your reason, + Your reason with a mask! + + MARY. You are too merry. + [_To DICKON._] A mask it is, and muffler finely wrought + With little amber points all hung like bells. + I lost it as I came, somewhere.... + + HERBERT. Somewhere + Between the Paris Gardens and the Bridge. + + MARY. + Or below Bridge--or haply in the Thames! + + HERBERT. + No matter where, so you do bring it back. + Fly, Mercury! Here's feathers for thy heels. [_Giving coin._] + + MARY [_aside_]. + Weights, weights! [_Exit DICKON._] + +[_HERBERT looks about him, opens the door of the taproom, grows +troubled. She watches him with dissatisfaction, seeming to warm her +feet by the fire meanwhile._] + + HERBERT [_apart_]. + I know this place. We used to come + Together, he and I ... + + MARY [_apart_]. Forgot again. + O the capricious tides, the hateful calms, + And the too eager ship that would be gone + Adventuring against uncertain winds, + For some new, utmost sight of Happy Isles! + Becalmed,--becalmed ... But I will break this calm. + +[_She sees the lute on the table, crosses and takes it up, running her +fingers over the strings very softly. She sits._] + + HERBERT. + Ah, mermaid, is it you? + + MARY. Did you sail far? + + HERBERT. + Not I; no, sooth. [_Crossing to her._] + Mermaid, I would not think. + But you-- + + MARY. + I think not. I remember nothing. + There's nothing in the world but you and me; + All else is dust. Thou shalt not question me; + Or if,--but as a sphinx in woman-shape: + And when thou fail'st at answer, I shall turn, + And rend thy heart and cast thee from the cliff. + +[_She leans her head back against him, and he kisses her._] + + So perish all who guess not what I am!... + Oh, but I know you: you are April-Days. + Nothing is sure, but all is beautiful! + +[_She runs her fingers up the strings, one by one, and listens, +speaking to the lute._] + + Is it not so? Come, answer. Is it true? + Speak, sweeting, since I love thee best of late, + And have forsook my virginals for thee. + _All's beautiful indeed and all unsure?_ + _"Ay"_ ... (Did you hear?) _He's fair and faithless? "Ay."_ + [_Speaking with the lute._] + + HERBERT. + Poor oracle, with only one reply!-- + Wherein 'tis unlike thee. + + MARY. _Can he love aught + So well as his own image in the brook, + Having once seen it?_ + + HERBERT. Ay! + + MARY. The lute saith "_No."_ ... + O dullard! Here were tidings, would you mark. + What said I? _Oracle, can he love aught + So dear as his own image in the brook, + Having once looked_?... No, truly. + [_With sudden abandon._] Nor can I! + + HERBERT. + O leave this game of words, you thousand-tongued. + Sing, sing to me. So shall I be all yours + Forever;--or at least till you be mute!... + I used to wonder he should be thy slave: + I wonder now no more. Your ways are wonders; + You have a charm to make a man forget + His past and yours, and everything but you. + + MARY [_speaking_]. + _"When daisies pied and violets blue + And lady-smocks all silver-white"_-- + How now? + + HERBERT. + "How now?" That song ... thou wilt sing that? + + MARY. + Marry, what mars the song? + + HERBERT. Have you forgot + Who made it? + + MARY. Soft, what idleness! So fine? + So rude? And bid me sing! You get but silence; + Or, if I sing,--beshrew me, it shall be + A dole of song, a little starveling breath + As near to silence as a song can be. + +[_She sings under-breath, fantastically._] + + _Say how many kisses be + Lent and lost twixt you and me? + 'Can I tell when they begun?' + Nay, but this were prodigal: + Let us learn to count withal. + Since no ending is to spending, + Sum our riches, one by one. + 'You shall keep the reckoning, + Count each kiss while I do sing.'_ + + HERBERT. + Oh, not these little wounds. You vex my heart; + Heal it again with singing,--come, sweet, come. + Into the garden! None shall trouble us. + This place has memories and conscience too: + Drown all, my mermaid. Wind them in your hair + And drown them, drown them all. + +[_He swings open the garden-door for her. At the same moment ANNE's +voice is heard approaching._] + + ANNE [_without_]. Some music there? + + HERBERT. + Perdition! Quick--behind me, love. + +[_Swinging the door shut again, and looking through the crack._] + + MARY. + 'Tis she-- + Nan Hughes, 'tis she! How came she here? By heaven, + She crosses us to-day. Nan Hughes lights here + In a Bank tavern! Nay, I'll not be seen. + Sooner or later it must mean the wreck + Of both ... should the Queen know. + + HERBERT. The spite of chance! + She talks with someone in the arbor there + Whose face I see not. Come, here's doors at least. + +[_They cross hastily. MARY opens the door on the left and looks +within._] + + MARY. + Too thick.... I shall be penned. But guard you this + And tell me when they're gone. Stay, stay;--mend all. + If she have seen me,--swear it was not I. + Heaven speed her home, with her new body-guard! + +[_Exit, closing door. HERBERT looks out into the garden._] + + HERBERT. + By all accursèd chances,--none but he! + +[_Retires up to stand beside the door, looking out of casement. +Re-enter from the garden, ANNE, followed by THE PLAYER._] + + ANNE. + No, 'twas some magic in my ears, I think. + There's no one here. [_Seeing HERBERT._] + But yes, there's someone here:-- + The inn-keeper. Are you-- + Saint Catherine's bones! + My Lord of Herbert. Sir, you could not look + More opportune. But for this gentleman-- + + HERBERT [_bowing_]. + My friend, this long time since,-- + + ANNE. + Marry, your friend? + + THE PLAYER [_regarding HERBERT searchingly_]. + This long time since. + + ANNE. Nay, is it so, indeed? + [_To HERBERT._] My day's fulfilled of blunders! O sweet sir, + How can I tell you? But I'll tell you all + If you'll but bear me escort from this place + Where none of us belongs. Yours is the first + Familiar face I've seen this afternoon! + + HERBERT [_apart_]. + A sweet assurance. + [_Aloud._] But you seek ... you need + Some rest--some cheer, some--Will you step within? + +[_Indicating tap-room._] + + The tavern is deserted, but-- + + ANNE. Not here! + I've been here quite an hour. Come, citywards, + To Whitehall! I have had enough of bears + To quench my longing till next Whitsuntide. + Down to the river, pray you. + + HERBERT. Sooth, at once? + + ANNE. + At once, at once. + [_To THE PLAYER._] I crave your pardon, sir, + For sundering your friendships. I've heard say + A woman always comes between two men + To their confusion. You shall drink amends + Some other day. I must be safely home. + + THE PLAYER [_reassured by HERBERT's reluctance to go._] + It joys me that your trials have found an end; + And for the rest, I wish you prosperous voyage; + Which needs not, with such halcyon weather toward. + + HERBERT [_apart_]. + It cuts: and yet he knows not. Can it pass? + [_To him._] Let us meet soon. I have--I know not what + To say--nay, no import; but chance has parted + Our several ways too long. To leave you thus, + Without a word-- + + ANNE. You are in haste, my lord! + By the true faith, here are two friends indeed! + Two lovers crossed: and I,--'tis I that bar them. + Pray tarry, sir. I doubt not I may light + Upon some link-boy to attend me home + Or else a drunken prentice with a club, + Or that patched keeper strolling from the Garden + With all his dogs along; or failing them, + A pony with a monkey on his back, + Or, failing that, a bear! Some escort, sure, + Such as the Borough offers! I shall look + Part of a pageant from the Lady Fair, + And boast for three full moons, "Such sights I saw!" + Truly, 'tis new to me: but I doubt not + I shall trick out a mind for strange adventure, + As high as--Mistress Fytton! + + HERBERT. Say no more, + Dear lady! I entreat you pardon me + The lameness of my wit. I'm stark adream; + You lighted here so suddenly, unlooked for + Vision in Bankside.... Let me hasten you, + Now that I see I dream not. It grows late. + + ANNE. + And can you grant me such a length of time? + + HERBERT. + Length? Say Illusion! Time? Alas, 'twill be + Only a poor half-hour [_loudly_], a poor half-hour! + [_Apart._] Did she hear that, I wonder? + + THE PLAYER [_bowing over ANNE's hand_]. Not so, madam; + A little gold of largess, fallen to me + By chance. + + HERBERT [_to him_]. + A word with you-- + [_Apart._] O, I am gagged! + + ANNE [_to THE PLAYER_]. + You go with us, sir? + +[_He moves towards door with them._] + + THE PLAYER. No, I do but play + Your inn-keeper. + + HERBERT [_apart, despairingly_]. + The eagle is gone blind. + +[_Exeunt, leaving doors open. They are seen to go down the walk +together. At the street they pause, THE PLAYER, bowing slowly, then +turning back towards the inn; ANNE holding HERBERT's arm. Within, the +door on the left opens slightly, then MARY appears._] + + MARY. + 'Tis true. My ears caught silence, if no more. + They're gone.... + +[_She comes out of her hiding-place and opens the left-hand casement +to see ANNE disappearing with HERBERT._] + + She takes him with her! He'll return? + Gone, gone, without a word; and I was caged,-- + And deaf as well. O, spite of everything! + She's so unlike.... How long shall I be here + To wait and wonder? He with her--with her! + +[_THE PLAYER, having come slowly back to the door, hears her voice. +MARY darts towards the entrance to look after HERBERT and ANNE. She +sees him and recoils. She falls back step by step, while he stands +holding the door-posts with his hands, impassive._] + + You!... + + THE PLAYER. + Yes.... [_After a pause._] And you. + + MARY. Do you not ask me why + I'm here? + + THE PLAYER. + I am not wont to shun the truth: + But yet I think the reason you could give + Were too uncomely. + + MARY. Nay;-- + + THE PLAYER. If it were truth; + If it were truth! Although that likelihood + Scarce threatens. + + MARY. So. Condemned without a trial. + + THE PLAYER. + O, speak the lie now. Let there be no chance + For my unsightly love, bound head and foot, + Stark, full of wounds and horrible,--to find + Escape from out its charnel-house; to rise + Unwelcome before eyes that had forgot, + And say it died not truly. It should die. + Play no imposture: leave it,--it is dead. + I have been weak in that I tried to pour + The wine through plague-struck veins. It came to life + Over and over, drew sharp breath again + In torture such as't may be to be born, + If a poor babe could tell. Over and over, + I tell you, it has suffered resurrection, + Cheating its pain with hope, only to die + Over and over;--die more deaths than men + The meanest, most forlorn, are made to die + By tyranny or nature.... Now I see all + Clear. And I say, it shall not rise again. + I am as safe from you as I were dead. + I know you. + + MARY. Herbert-- + + THE PLAYER. Do not touch his name. + Leave that; I saw. + + MARY. You saw? Nay, what? + + THE PLAYER. The whole + Clear story. Not at first. While you were hid, + I took some comfort, drop by drop, and minute + By minute. (Dullard!) Yet there was a maze + Of circumstance that showed even then to me + Perplext and strange. You here unravel it. + All's clear: you are the clue. [_Turning away._] + + MARY [_going to the casement_]. + [_Apart._] Caged, caged! + Does he know all? Why were those walls so dense? + [_To him._] Nan Hughes hath seized the time to tune your mind + To some light gossip. Say, how came she here? + + THE PLAYER. + All emulation, thinking to match you + In high adventure:--liked it not, poor lady! + And is gone home, attended. + +[_Re-enter DICKON._] + + DICKON [_to MARY_] They be lost!-- + Thy mask and muffler;--'tis no help to search. + Some hooker would 'a' swallowed 'em, be sure, + As the whale swallows Jonas, in the show. + + MARY. + 'Tis nought: I care not. + + DICKON [_looking at the fire_]. + Hey, it wants a log. + +[_While he mends the fire, humming, THE PLAYER stands taking thought. +MARY speaks apart, going to casement again to look out._] + + MARY [_apart_]. + I will have what he knows. To cast me off:-- + Not thus, not thus. Peace, I can blind him yet, + Or he'll despise me. Nay, I will not be + Thrust out at door like this. I will not go + But by mine own free will. There is no power + Can say what he might do to ruin us, + To win Will Herbert from me,--almost mine, + And I all his, all his--O April-Days!-- + Well, friendship against love? I know who wins. + He is grown dread.... But yet he is a man. + +[_Exit DICKON into tap-room._] + +[_To THE PLAYER, suavely._] Well, headsman? + +[_He does not turn._] + + Mind your office: I am judged. + Guilty, was it not so?... What is to do, + Do quickly.... Do you wait for some reprieve? + Guilty, you said. Nay, do you turn your face + To give me some small leeway of escape? + And yet, I will not go ... + +[_Coming down slowly._] + + Well, headsman?... + You ask not why I came here, Clouded Brow, + Will you not ask me why I stay? No word? + O blind, come lead the blind! For I, I too + Lack sight and every sense to linger here + And make me an intruder where I once + Was welcome, oh most welcome, as I dreamed. + Look on me, then. I do confess, I have + Too often preened my feathers in the sun + And thought to rule a little, by my wit. + I have been spendthrift with men's offerings + To use them like a nosegay,--tear apart, + Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, until + I found the heart all bare, the curious heart + I longed to see for once, and cast away. + And so, at first, with you.... Ah, now I think + You're wise. There's nought so fair, so ... curious. + So precious-rare to find as honesty. + 'Twas all a child's play then, a counting-off + Of petals. Now I know.... But ask me why + I come unheralded, and in a mist + Of circumstance and strangeness. Listen, love; + Well then, dead love, if you will have it so. + I have been cunning, cruel,--what you will: + And yet the days of late have seemed too long + Even for summer! Something called me here. + And so I flung my pride away and came, + A very woman for my foolishness, + To say once more,--to say ... + + THE PLAYER. Nay, I'll not ask. + What lacks? I need no more, you have done well. + 'Tis rare. There is no man I ever saw + But you could school him. Women should be players. + You are sovran in the art: feigning and truth + Are so commingled in you. Sure, to you + Nature's a simpleton hath never seen + Her own face in the well. Is there aught else? + To ask of my poor calling? + + MARY. I deserved it + In other days. Hear how I can be meek. + I am come back, a foot-worn runaway, + Like any braggart boy. Let me sit down + And take Love's horn-book in my hands again + And learn from the beginning;--by the rod, + If you will scourge me, love. Come, come, forgive. + I am not wont to sue: and yet to-day + I am your suppliant, I am your servant, + Your link-boy, ay, your minstrel: ay,--wilt hear? + +[_Takes up the lute, and gives a last look out of the casement._] + + The tumult in the streets is all apart + With the discordant past. The hour that is + Shall be the only thing in all the world. + [_Apart._] I will be safe. He'll not win Herbert from me! + +[_Crossing to him._] + + Will you have music, good my lord? + + THE PLAYER [_catching the lute from her._] Not that. + Not that! By heaven, you shall not.... Nevermore. + + MARY. + So ... But you speak at last. You are, forsooth, + A man: and you shall use me as my due;-- + A woman, not the wind about your ears; + A woman whom you loved. + + THE PLAYER [_half-apart, still holding the lute_]. + Why were you not + That beauty that you seemed?... But had you been, + 'Tis true, you would have had no word for me,-- + No looks of love! + + MARY. The man reproaches me? + + THE PLAYER. + Not I--not I.... Will Herbert, what am I + To lay this broken trust to you,--to you, + Young, free, and tempted: April on his way, + Whom all hands reach for, and this woman here + Had set her heart upon! + + MARY. What fantasy! + Surely he must have been from town of late, + To see the gude-folks! And how fare they, sir? + Reverend yeoman, say, how thrive the sheep? + What did the harvest yield you?--Did you count + The cabbage heads? and find how like ... nay, nay! + But our gude-wife, did she bid in the neighbors + To prove them that her husband was no myth? + Some Puritan preacher, nay, some journeyman, + To make you sup the sweeter with long prayers? + This were a rare conversion, by my soul! + From sonnets unto sermons:--eminent! + + THE PLAYER. + Oh, yes, your scorn bites truly: sermons next. + There is so much to say. But it must be learned, + And I require hard schooling, dream too much + On what I would men were,--but women most. + I need the cudgel of the task-master + To make me con the truth. Yes, blind, you called me, + And 'tis my shame I bandaged mine own eyes + And held them dark. Now, by the grace of God, + Or haply because the devil tries too far, + I tear the blindfold off, and I see all. + I see you as you are; and in your heart + The secret love sprung up for one I loved, + A reckless boy who has trodden on my soul-- + But that's a thing apart, concerns not you. + I know that you will stake your heaven and earth + To fool me,--fool us both. + + MARY [_with idle interest_]. + Why were you not + So stern a long time since? You're not so wise + As I have heard them say. + + THE PLAYER [_standing by the chimney_]. + Wise? Oh, not I. + Who was so witless as to call me wise? + Sure he had never bade me a good-day + And seen me take the cheer.... + I was your fool + Too long.... I am no longer anything. + Speak: what are you? + + MARY [_after a pause_]. + The foolishest of women: + A heart that should have been adventurer + On the high seas; a seeker in new lands, + To dare all and to lose. But I was made + A woman. + Oh, you see!--could you see all. + What if I say ... the truth is not so far, + +[_Watching him._] + + Yet farther than you dream. If I confess ... + He charmed my fancy ... for the moment,--ay + The shine of his fortunes too, the very name + Of Pembroke?... Dear my judge,--ay, clouded brow + And darkened fortune, be not black to me! + I'd try for my escape; the window's wide, + No one forbids, and yet I stay--I stay. + + Oh, I was niggard, once, unkind--I know, + Untrusty: loved, unloved you, day by day: + A little and a little,--why, I knew not, + And more, and wondered why;--then not at all: + Drank up the dew from out your very heart, + Like the extortionate sun, to leave you parched + Till, with as little grace, I flung all back + In gusts of angry rain! I have been cruel. + But the spell works; yea, love, the spell, the spell + Fed by your fasting, by your subtlety + Past all men's knowledge.... There is something rare + About you that I long to flee and cannot:-- + Some mastery ... that's more my will than I. + +[_She laughs softly. He listens, looking straight ahead, not at her, +immobile, but suffering evidently. She watches his face and speaks +with greater intensity. Here she crosses nearer and falls on her +knees._] + + Ah, look: you shall believe, you shall believe. + Will you put by your Music? Was I that? + Your Music,--very Music?... Listen, then, + Turn not so blank a face. Thou hast my love. + I'll tell thee so till thought itself shall tire + And fall a-dreaming like a weary child, ... + Only to dream of you, and in its sleep + To murmur You.... Ah, look at me, love, lord ... + Whom queens would honor. Read these eyes you praised, + That pitied, once,--that sue for pity now. + But look! You shall not turn from me-- + + THE PLAYER. Eyes, eyes!-- + The darkness hides so much. + + MARY. He'll not believe.... + What can I do? What more,--what more, you ... man? + I bruise my heart here, at an iron gate.... + +[_She regards him half gloomily without rising._] + + Yet there is one thing more.... You'll take me, now?-- + My meaning.... You were right. For once I say it. + There is a glory of discovery [_ironically_] + To the black heart ... because it may be known + But once,--but once.... + I wonder men will hide + Their motives all so close. If they could guess,-- + It is so new to feel the open day + Look in on all one's hidings, at the end. + So.... You were right. The first was all a lie: + A lie, and for a purpose.... + Now,--[_she rises and stands off, regarding him abruptly_], + And why, I know not,--but 'tis true, at last, + I do believe ... I love you. + Look at me! + +[_He stands by the fireside against the chimney-piece. She crosses to +him with passionate appeal, holding out her arms. He turns his eyes +and looks at her with a rigid scrutiny. She endures it for a second, +then wavers; makes an effort, unable to look away, to lift her arms +towards his neck; they falter and fall at her side. The two stand +spellbound by mutual recognition. Then she speaks in a low voice._] + + MARY. + Oh, let me go! + +[_She turns her head with an effort,--gathers her cloak about her, +then hastens out as if from some terror._] + +[_THE PLAYER is alone beside the chimney-piece. The street outside is +darkening with twilight through the casements and upper door. There is +a sound of rough-throated singing that comes by and is softened with +distance. It breaks the spell._] + + THE PLAYER. + So; it is over ... now. [_He looks into the fire._] + + "_Fair, kind, and true." And true!_... My golden Friend. + Those two ... together.... He was ill at ease. + But that he should betray me with a kiss! + + By this preposterous world ... I am in need. + Shall there be no faith left? Nothing but names? + Then he's a fool who steers his life by such. + Why not the body-comfort of this herd + Of creatures huddled here to keep them warm?-- + Trying to drown out with enforcèd laughter + The query of the winds ... unanswered winds + That vex the soul with a perpetual doubt. + What holds me?... Bah, that were a Cause, indeed! + To prove your soul one truth, by being it,-- + Against the foul dishonor of the world! + How else prove aught?... + I talk into the air. + And at my feet, my honor full of wounds. + Honor? Whose honor? For I knew my sin, + And she ... had none. There's nothing to avenge. + +[_He speaks with more and more passion, too distraught to notice +interruptions. Enter DICKON, with a tallow-dip. He regards THE PLAYER +with half-open mouth from the corner; then stands by the casement, +leaning up against it and yawning now and then._] + + I had no right: that I could call her mine + So none should steal her from me, and die for't. + There's nothing to avenge ... Brave beggary! + How fit to lodge me in this home of Shows, + With all the ruffian life, the empty mirth, + The gross imposture of humanity, + Strutting in virtues it knows not to wear, + Knave in a stolen garment--all the same-- + Until it grows enamored of a life + It was not born to,--falls a-dream, poor cheat, + In the midst of its native shams,--the thieves and bears + And ballad-mongers all!... Of such am I. + +[_Re-enter TOBIAS and one or two TAVERNERS. TOBIAS regards THE PLAYER, +who does not notice anyone,--then leads off DICKON by the ear. Exeunt +into taproom. THE PLAYER goes to the casement, pushes it wide open, +and gazes out at the sky._] + + Is there naught else?... I could make shift to bind + My heart up and put on my mail again, + To cheat myself and death with one fight more, + If I could think there were some worldly use + For bitter wisdom. + But I'm no general, + That my own hand-to-hand with evil days + Should cheer my doubting thousands.... + I'm no more + Than one man lost among a multitude; + And in the end dust swallows them--and me, + And the good sweat that won our victories. + Who sees? Or seeing, cares? Who follows on? + Then why should my dishonor trouble me, + Or broken faith in him? _What is it suffers? + And why?_ Now that the moon is turned to blood. + +[_He turns towards the door with involuntary longing, and seems to +listen._] + + No ... no, he will not come. Well, I have naught + To do but pluck from me my bitter heart, + And live without it. + +[_Re-enter DICKON with a tankard and a cup. He sets them down on a +small table; this he pushes towards THE PLAYER, who turns at the +noise._] + + So...? Is it for me? + + DICKON. + Ay, on the score! I had good sight o' the bear. + Look, here's a sprig was stuck on him with pitch;-- + +[_Rubbing the sprig on his sleeve._] + + I caught it up,--from Lambeth marsh, belike. + Such grow there, and I've seen thee cherish such. + + THE PLAYER. + Give us thy posy. + +[_He comes back to the fire and sits in the chair near by. DICKON gets +out the iron lantern from the corner._] + + DICKON. Hey! It wants a light. + +[_THE PLAYER seems to listen once more, his face turned towards the +door. He lifts his hand as if to hush DICKON, lets it fall, and looks +back at the fire. DICKON regards him with shy curiosity and draws +nearer._] + + DICKON. + Thou wilt be always minding of the fire ... + Wilt thou not? + + THE PLAYER. Ay. + + DICKON. It likes me, too. + + THE PLAYER. So? + + DICKON. Ay.... + I would I knew what thou art thinking on + When thou dost mind the fire.... + + THE PLAYER. Wouldst thou? + + DICKON. Ay. + +[_Sound of footsteps outside. A group approaches the door._] + + Oh, here he is, come back! + + THE PLAYER [_rising with passionate eagerness_]. + Brave lad--brave lad! + + DICKON [_singing_]. + _Hang out your lanthorns, trim your lights + To save your days from knavish nights!_ + +[_He plunges, with his lantern, through the doorway, stumbling against +WAT BURROW, who enters, a sorry figure, the worse for wear._] + + WAT [_sourly_]. + Be the times soft, that you must try to cleave + Way through my ribs as tho' I was the moon?-- + And you the man-wi-'the-lanthorn, or his dog?-- + You bean!... + +[_Exit DICKON. WAT shambles in and sees THE PLAYER._] + + What, you sir, here? + + THE PLAYER. + Ay, here, good Wat. + +[_While WAT crosses to the table and gets himself a chair, THE PLAYER +looks at him as if with a new consciousness of the surroundings. After +a time he sits as before. Re-enter DICKON and curls up on the floor, +at his feet._] + + WAT. + O give me comfort, sir. This cursèd day,-- + A wry, damned ... noisome.... Ay, poor Nick, poor Nick! + He's all to mend--Poor Nick! He's sorely maimed, + More than we'd baited him with forty dogs. + 'Od's body! Said I not, sir, he would fight? + Never before had he, in leading-chain, + Walked out to take the air and show his parts.... + 'Went to his noddle like some greenest gull's + That's new come up to town.... The prentices + Squeaking along like Bedlam, he breaks loose + And prances me a hey,--I dancing counter! + Then such a cawing 'mongst the women! Next, + The chain did clatter and enrage him more;-- + You would 'a' sworn a bear grew on each link, + And after each a prentice with a cudgel,-- + Leaving him scarce an eye! So, howling all, + We run a pretty pace ... and Nick, poor Nick, + He catches on a useless, stumbling fry + That needed not be born,--and bites into him. + And then ... the Constable ... And now, no show! + + THE PLAYER. + Poor Wat!... Thou wentest scattering misadventure + Like comfits from thy horn of plenty, Wat. + + WAT. + Ay, thank your worship. You be best to comfort. + +[_He pours a mug of ale._] + + No show to-morrow! Minnow Constable.... + I'm a jack-rabbit strung up by my heels + For every knave to pinch as he goes by! + Alas, poor Nick, bear Nick ... oh, think on Nick. + + THE PLAYER. + With all his fortunes darkened for a day,-- + And the eye o' his reason, sweet intelligencer, + Under a beggarly patch.... I pledge thee, Nick. + + WAT. + Oh, you have seen hard times, sir, with us all. + Your eyes lack luster, too, this day. What say you? + No jesting.... What? I've heard of marvels there + In the New Country. There would be a knop-hole + For thee and me. There be few Constables + And such unhallowed fry.... An thou wouldst lay + Thy wit to mine--what is't we could not do? + Wilt turn't about? + +[_Leans towards him in cordial confidence._] + + Nay, you there, sirrah boy, + Leave us together; as 'tis said in the play, + 'Come, leave us, Boy!' + +[_DICKON does not move. He gives a sigh and leans his head against THE +PLAYER's knee, his arms around his legs. He sleeps. THE PLAYER gazes +sternly into the fire, while WAT rambles on, growing drowsy._] + + WAT. + The cub there snores good counsel. When all's done, + What a bubble is ambition!... When all's done.... + What's yet to do?... Why, sleep.... Yet even now + I was on fire to see myself and you + Off for the Colony with Raleigh's men. + I've been beholden to 'ee.... Why, for thee + I could make shift to suffer plays o' Thursday. + Thou'rt the best man among them, o' my word. + There's other trades and crafts and qualities + Could serve ... an thou wouldst lay thy wit to mine. + Us two!... us two!... + + THE PLAYER [_apart, to the fire_]. + "Fair, kind, and true."... + + WAT. ... Poor Nick! + +[_He nods over his ale. There is muffled noise in the taproom. Someone +opens the door a second, letting in a stave of a song, then slams the +door shut. THE PLAYER, who has turned, gloomily, starts to rise. +DICKON moves in his sleep, sighs heavily, and settles his cheek +against THE PLAYER's shoes. THE PLAYER looks down for a moment. Then +he sits again, looking now at the fire, now at the boy, whose hair he +touches._] + + THE PLAYER. + So, heavy-head. You bid me think my thought + Twice over; keep me by, a heavy heart, + As ballast for thy dream. Well, I will watch ... + Like slandered Providence. Nay, I'll not be + The prop to fail thy trust untenderly, + After a troubled day.... + Nay, rest you here. + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE LITTLE MAN[54] + +By JOHN GALSWORTHY + + [Footnote 54: From _The Little Man and Other Satires_; + copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of + the publishers. Acting rights, professional and amateur, + reserved to the author in care of the publisher.] + + +"Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are violets that seem +redder, and sweeter, than any ever seen--as though they have sprung up +out of the footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the April +sun, in a Devonshire lane, the little blue scentless violets capture +every bit as much of the spring." Affection for the West country that +was the home of John Galsworthy's ancestors heightens the glamour of +this enchanting bit of writing from one of his essays. As he himself +has said, the Galsworthys have been in Devonshire as far back as +records go--"since the flood of Saxons at all events." He was born, +though, at Coombe in Surrey in 1867. From 1881 to 1886, he was at +Harrow where he did well at work and games. He was graduated with an +honor degree in law from New College, Oxford, in 1889. Following his +father's example, he took up the law and was called to the bar +(Lincoln's Inn) in 1890. "I read," he says, "in various chambers, +practised almost not at all, and disliked my profession thoroughly." + +For nearly two years thereafter, Galsworthy traveled, visiting among +other places, Russia, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Fiji +Islands, and South Africa. On a sailing-ship plying between Adelaide +and the Cape he met and made a friend of the novelist, Joseph Conrad, +then still a sailor. Galsworthy was soon to become a writer himself, +publishing his first novel in 1899. Since that date he has written +novels, plays, essays, and verse that have made him famous.[55] +Through his writings he has become a great social force. In this +respect his influence resembles that of Charles Dickens. He has made +people who read his books or see his plays acted think about the +justice or injustice of institutions commonly accepted without a +question. The presentation of his play _Justice_ (1909), moved the +Home Secretary of the day, Winston Churchill, to put into effect +several important reforms affecting the English prison system. + + [Footnote 55: For a short bibliography, see Sheila + Kaye-Smith, _John Galsworthy_, London, 1916.] + +_The Little Man_, no less a socializing agency in its way, was +produced in New York at Maxine Elliott's Theatre in February, 1917, as +a curtain raiser to G. K. Chesterton's play, Magic. The part of the +Little Man himself was taken by O. P. Heggie, one of the most +intelligent and distinguished actors on the English-speaking stage. J. +Ranken Towse, reviewing the performance for the Saturday Magazine of +the _New York Evening Post_, on February 17, 1917, wrote: "Another +entertainment of notable excellence is that provided by the double +bill at Maxine Elliott's Theatre, consisting of Galsworthy's _The +Little Man_ and Chesterton's _Magic_. Here are two plays of diverse +character and superior quality, in which some highly intelligent and +artistic acting is done by Mr. O. P. Heggie. Some sensitive reviewers +have found cause of offense in Mr. Galsworthy's somewhat fanciful +American, but the dramatist has been equally disrespectful in his +handling of Germans, Dutch, and English. The value and significance of +the piece, of course, are to be looked for, not in its broad +humors--which are largely conventional--but in the ethical and moral +lesson and profound social philosophy which they suggest and +illustrate." It is hard to sympathize with the "sensitive reviewers," +though to the native ear, to be sure, the utterances of the American +lack verisimilitude. The author of _The Little Man_ has even been +humorously reproached with using the speech of Deadwood Dick for his +model. + +The play was also given quite recently, during the season of 1920-21, +as part of the repertory at the Everyman Theatre in London. On the +programs invariably appears the note which is prefixed also to this as +to every printed version. It explains carefully that this play was +written before the days of the Great War. This note bespeaks the +playwright's perfect detachment which is, as has been said, "an +artistic device, not a matter of divine indifference." Yet the satire +does seem to be directed, incidentally at least, against certain +familiar national characteristics, for it is the humanity of the +Little Man, whose mixed ancestry is described by the American as being +"a bit streaky," that puts to shame the various types of human +arrogance and indifference with which he is surrounded. + + + + +THE LITTLE MAN[56] + + [Footnote 56: AUTHOR'S NOTE + + Since it is just possible that someone may think _The Little + Man_ has a deep, dark reference to the war, it may be as well + to state that this whimsey was written in October, 1913.] + + +_SCENE I.--Afternoon, on the departure platform of an Austrian railway +station. At several little tables outside the buffet persons are +taking refreshment, served by a pale young waiter. On a seat against +the wall of the buffet a woman of lowly station is sitting beside two +large bundles, on one of which she has placed her baby, swathed in a +black shawl._ + + +WAITER [_approaching a table whereat sit an English traveler and his +wife_]. Zwei Kaffee? + +ENGLISHMAN [_paying_]. Thanks. [_To his wife, in an Oxford voice._] +Sugar? + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_in a Cambridge voice_]. One. + +AMERICAN TRAVELER [_with field-glasses and a pocket camera--from +another table_]. Waiter, I'd like to have you get my eggs. I've been +sitting here quite a while. + +WAITER. Yes, sare. + +GERMAN TRAVELER. Kellner, bezahlen! [_His voice is, like his mustache, +stiff and brushed up at the ends. His figure also is stiff and his +hair a little gray; clearly once, if not now, a colonel._] + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! [_The baby on the bundle wails. The mother takes +it up to soothe it. A young, red-cheeked Dutchman at the fourth table +stops eating and laughs._] + +AMERICAN. My eggs! Get a wiggle on you! + +WAITER. Yes, sare. [_He rapidly recedes. A LITTLE MAN in a soft hat is +seen to the right of the tables. He stands a moment looking after the +hurrying waiter, then seats himself at the fifth table._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_looking at his watch_]. Ten minutes more. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Bother! + +AMERICAN [_addressing them_]. 'Pears as if they'd a prejudice against +eggs here, anyway. [_The English look at him, but do not speak._] + +GERMAN [_in creditable English_]. In these places man can get nothing. +[_The WAITER comes flying back with a compote for the DUTCH YOUTH, who +pays._] + +GERMAN. Kellner, bezahlen! + +WAITER. Eine Krone sechzig. [_The GERMAN pays._] + +AMERICAN [_rising, and taking out his watch--blandly_]. See here! If I +don't get my eggs before this watch ticks twenty, there'll be another +waiter in heaven. + +WAITER [_flying_]. Komm' gleich! + +AMERICAN [_seeking sympathy_]. I'm gettin' kind of mad! + +[_The ENGLISHMAN halves his newspaper and hands the advertisement half +to his wife. The BABY wails. The MOTHER rocks it. The DUTCH YOUTH +stops eating and laughs. The GERMAN lights a cigarette. The LITTLE MAN +sits motionless, nursing his hat. The WAITER comes flying back with +the eggs and places them before the AMERICAN._] + +AMERICAN [_putting away his watch_]. Good! I don't like trouble. How +much? [_He pays and eats. The WAITER stands a moment at the edge of +the platform and passes his hand across his brow. The LITTLE MAN eyes +him and speaks gently._] + +LITTLE MAN. Herr Ober! [_The WAITER turns._] Might I have a glass of +beer? + +WAITER. Yes, sare. + +LITTLE MAN. Thank you very much. [_The WAITER goes._] + +AMERICAN [_pausing in the deglutition of his eggs--affably_]. Pardon +me, sir; I'd like to have you tell me why you called that little bit +of a feller "Herr Ober." Reckon you would know what that means? Mr. +Head Waiter. + +LITTLE MAN. Yes, yes. + +AMERICAN. I smile. + +LITTLE MAN. Oughtn't I to call him that? + +GERMAN [_abruptly_]. Nein--Kellner. + +AMERICAN. Why, yes! Just "waiter." [_The ENGLISHWOMAN looks round her +paper for a second. The DUTCH YOUTH stops eating and laughs. The +LITTLE MAN gazes from face to face and nurses his hat._] + +LITTLE MAN. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. + +GERMAN. Gott! + +AMERICAN. In my country we're vurry democratic--but that's quite a +proposition. + +ENGLISHMAN [_handling coffee-pot, to his wife_]. More? + +ENGLISHWOMAN. No, thanks. + +GERMAN [_abruptly_]. These fellows--if you treat them in this manner, +at once they take liberties. You see, you will not get your beer. [_As +he speaks the WAITER returns, bringing the LITTLE MAN's beer, then +retires._] + +AMERICAN. That 'pears to be one up to democracy. [_To the LITTLE +MAN._] I judge you go in for brotherhood? + +LITTLE MAN [_startled_]. Oh, no! I never-- + +AMERICAN. I take considerable stock in Leo Tolstoi myself. Grand +man--grand-souled apparatus. But I guess you've got to pinch those +waiters some to make 'em skip. [_To the ENGLISH, who have carelessly +looked his way for a moment._] You'll appreciate that, the way he +acted about my eggs. [_The ENGLISH make faint motions with their +chins, and avert their eyes. To the WAITER, who is standing at the +door of the buffet._] Waiter! Flash of beer--jump, now! + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! + +GERMAN. Cigarren! + +WAITER. Schön. [_He disappears._] + +AMERICAN [_affably--to the LITTLE MAN_]. Now, if I don't get that +flash of beer quicker'n you got yours, I shall admire. + +GERMAN [_abruptly_]. Tolstoi is nothing--nichts! No good! Ha? + +AMERICAN [_relishing the approach of argument_]. Well, that is a +matter of temperament. Now, I'm all for equality. See that poor woman +there--vurry humble woman--there she sits among us with her baby. +Perhaps you'd like to locate her somewhere else? + +GERMAN [_shrugging_]. Tolstoi is sentimentalisch. Nietzsche is the +true philosopher, the only one. + +AMERICAN. Well, that's quite in the prospectus--vurry stimulating +party--old Nietzsch--virgin mind. But give me Leo! [_He turns to the +red-cheeked youth._] What do you opine, sir? I guess by your labels, +you'll be Dutch. Do they read Tolstoi in your country? [_The DUTCH +YOUTH laughs._] + +AMERICAN. That is a vurry luminous answer. + +GERMAN. Tolstoi is nothing. Man should himself express. He must +push--he must be strong. + +AMERICAN. That is so. In Amurrica we believe in virility; we like a +man to expand--to cultivate his soul. But we believe in brotherhood +too; we're vurry democratic. We draw the line at niggers; but we +aspire, we're vurry high-souled. Social barriers and distinctions +we've not much use for. + +ENGLISHMAN. Do you feel a draught? + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_with a shiver of her shoulder toward the AMERICAN_]. I +do--rather. + +GERMAN. Wait! You are a young people. + +AMERICAN. That is so; there are no flies on us. [_To the LITTLE MAN, +who has been gazing eagerly from face to face._] Say! I'd like to have +you give us your sentiments in relation to the duty of man. [_The +LITTLE MAN fidgets, and is about to open his mouth._] + +AMERICAN. For example--is it your opinion that we should kill off the +weak and diseased, and all that can't jump around? + +GERMAN [_nodding_]. Ja, ja! That is coming. + +LITTLE MAN [_looking from face to face_]. They might be me. [_The +DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +AMERICAN [_reproving him with a look_]. That's true humility. 'Tisn't +grammar. Now, here's a proposition that brings it nearer the bone: +Would you step out of your way to help them when it was liable to +bring you trouble? + +GERMAN. Nein, nein! That is stupid. + +LITTLE MAN [_eager but wistful_]. I'm afraid not. Of course one wants +to-- + +GERMAN. Nein, nein! That is stupid! What is the duty? + +LITTLE MAN. There was St. Francis d'Assisi and St. Julien +l'Hospitalier, and-- + +AMERICAN. Vurry lofty dispositions. Guess they died of them. [_He +rises._] Shake hands, sir--my name is--[_He hands a card._] I am an +ice-machine maker. [_He shakes the LITTLE MAN's hand._] I like your +sentiments--I feel kind of brotherly. [_Catching sight of the WAITER +appearing in the doorway._] Waiter, where to h--ll is that flash of +beer? + +GERMAN. Cigarren! + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! [_He vanishes._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_consulting watch_]. Train's late. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Really! Nuisance! [_A station POLICEMAN, very square and +uniformed, passes and repasses._] + +AMERICAN [_resuming his seat--to the GERMAN_]. Now, we don't have so +much of that in Amurrica. Guess we feel more to trust in human nature. + +GERMAN. Ah! ha! you will bresently find there is nothing in him but +self. + +LITTLE MAN [_wistfully_]. Don't you believe in human nature? + +AMERICAN. Vurry stimulating question. That invites remark. [_He looks +round for opinions. The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_holding out his half of the paper to his wife_]. Swap! +[_His wife swaps._] + +GERMAN. In human nature I believe so far as I can see him--no more. + +AMERICAN. Now that 'pears to me kind o' blasphemy. I'm vurry +idealistic; I believe in heroism. I opine there's not one of us +settin' around here that's not a hero--give him the occasion. + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! Do you believe that? + +AMERICAN. Well! I judge a hero is just a person that'll help another +at the expense of himself. That's a vurry simple definition. Take that +poor woman there. Well, now, she's a heroine, I guess. She would die +for her baby any old time. + +GERMAN. Animals will die for their babies. That is nothing. + +AMERICAN. Vurry true. I carry it further. I postulate we would all die +for that baby if a locomotive was to trundle up right here and try to +handle it. I'm an idealist. [_To the GERMAN._] I guess _you_ don't +know how good you are. [_As the GERMAN is twisting up the ends of his +mustache--to the ENGLISHWOMAN._] I should like to have you express an +opinion, ma'am. This is a high subject. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. I beg your pardon. + +AMERICAN. The English are vurry humanitarian; they have a vurry high +sense of duty. So have the Germans, so have the Amurricans. [_To the +DUTCH YOUTH._] I judge even in your little country they have that. +This is a vurry civilized epoch. It is an epoch of equality and +high-toned ideals. [_To the LITTLE MAN._] What is your nationality, +sir? + +LITTLE MAN. I'm afraid I'm nothing particular. My father was +half-English and half-American, and my mother half-German and +half-Dutch. + +AMERICAN. My! That's a bit streaky, any old way. [_The POLICEMAN +passes again._] Now, I don't believe we've much use any more for those +gentlemen in buttons, not amongst the civilized peoples. We've grown +kind of mild--we don't think of self as we used to do. [_The WAITER +has appeared in the doorway._] + +GERMAN [_in a voice of thunder_]. Cigarren! Donnerwetter! + +AMERICAN [_shaking his fist at the vanishing WAITER_]. That flash of +beer! + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! + +AMERICAN. A little more, and he will join George Washington! I was +about to remark when he intruded: The kingdom of Christ nowadays is +quite a going concern. The Press is vurry enlightened. We are mighty +near to universal brotherhood. The colonel here [_he indicates the +GERMAN_], he doesn't know what a lot of stock he holds in that +proposition. He is a man of blood and iron, but give him an +opportunity to be magnanimous, and he'll be right there. Oh, sir! yes. +[_The GERMAN, with a profound mixture of pleasure and cynicism, +brushes up the ends of his mustache._] + +LITTLE MAN. I wonder. One wants to, but somehow--[_He shakes his +head._] + +AMERICAN. You seem kind of skeery about that. You've had experience +maybe. The flesh is weak. I'm an optimist--I think we're bound to make +the devil hum in the near future. I opine we shall occasion a good +deal of trouble to that old party. There's about to be a holocaust of +selfish interests. We're out for high sacrificial business. The +colonel there with old-man Nietzsch--he won't know himself. There's +going to be a vurry sacred opportunity. [_As he speaks, the voice of a +RAILWAY OFFICIAL is heard in the distance calling out in German. It +approaches, and the words become audible._] + +GERMAN [_startled_]. Der Teufel! [_He gets up, and seizes the bag +beside him. The STATION OFFICIAL has appeared, he stands for a moment +casting his commands at the seated group. The DUTCH YOUTH also rises, +and takes his coat and hat. The OFFICIAL turns on his heel and +retires, still issuing directions._] + +ENGLISHMAN. What does he say? + +GERMAN. Our drain has come in, de oder platform; only one minute we +haf. [_All have risen in a fluster._] + +AMERICAN. Now, that's vurry provoking. I won't get that flash of beer. +[_There is a general scurry to gather coats and hats and wraps, during +which the lowly woman is seen making desperate attempts to deal with +her baby and the two large bundles. Quite defeated, she suddenly puts +all down, wrings her hands, and cries out: "Herr Jesu! Hilfe!" The +flying procession turn their heads at that strange cry._] + +AMERICAN. What's that? Help? [_He continues to run. The LITTLE MAN +spins round, rushes back, picks up baby and bundle on which it was +seated._] + +LITTLE MAN. Come along, good woman, come along! [_The woman picks up +the other bundle and they run. The WAITER, appearing in the doorway +with the bottle of beer, watches with his tired smile._] + + +_SCENE II.--A second-class compartment of a corridor carriage, in +motion. In it are seated the ENGLISHMAN and his wife, opposite each +other at the corridor end, she with her face to the engine, he with +his back. Both are somewhat protected from the rest of the travelers +by newspapers. Next to her sits the GERMAN, and opposite him sits the +AMERICAN; next the AMERICAN in one window corner is seated the DUTCH +YOUTH; the other window corner is taken by the GERMAN's bag. The +silence is only broken by the slight rushing noise of the train's +progression and the crackling of the English newspapers._ + +AMERICAN [_turning to the DUTCH YOUTH_]. Guess I'd like that winder +raised; it's kind of chilly after that old run they gave us. [_The +DUTCH YOUTH laughs, and goes through the motions of raising the +window. The ENGLISH regard the operation with uneasy irritation. The +GERMAN opens his bag, which reposes on the corner seat next him, and +takes out a book._] + +AMERICAN. The Germans are great readers. Vurry stimulating practice. I +read most anything myself! [_The GERMAN holds up the book so that the +title may be read._] "Don Quixote"--fine book. We Amurricans take +considerable stock in old man Quixote. Bit of a wild-cat--but we +don't laugh at him. + +GERMAN. He is dead. Dead as a sheep. A good thing, too. + +AMERICAN. In Amurrica we have still quite an amount of chivalry. + +GERMAN. Chivalry is nothing--sentimentalisch. In modern days--no good. +A man must push, he must pull. + +AMERICAN. So you say. But I judge your form of chivalry is sacrifice +to the state. We allow more freedom to the individual soul. Where +there's something little and weak, we feel it kind of noble to give up +to it. That way we feel elevated. [_As he speaks there is seen in the +corridor doorway the LITTLE MAN, with the WOMAN'S BABY still on his +arm and the bundle held in the other hand. He peers in anxiously. The +ENGLISH, acutely conscious, try to dissociate themselves from his +presence with their papers. The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +GERMAN. Ach! So! + +AMERICAN. Dear me! + +LITTLE MAN. Is there room? I can't find a seat. + +AMERICAN. Why, yes! There's a seat for one. + +LITTLE MAN [_depositing bundle outside, and heaving BABY_]. May I? + +AMERICAN. Come right in! [_The GERMAN sulkily moves his bag. The +LITTLE MAN comes in and seats himself gingerly._] + +AMERICAN. Where's the mother? + +LITTLE MAN [_ruefully_]. Afraid she got left behind. [_The DUTCH YOUTH +laughs. The ENGLISH unconsciously emerge from their newspapers._] + +AMERICAN. My! That would appear to be quite a domestic incident. [_The +ENGLISHMAN suddenly utters a profound "Ha, Ha!" and disappears behind +his paper. And that paper and the one opposite are seen to shake, and +little squirls and squeaks emerge._] + +GERMAN. And you haf got her bundle, and her baby. Ha! [_He cackles +dryly._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. I smile. I guess Providence has played it pretty +low down on you. I judge it's acted real mean. [_The BABY wails, and +the LITTLE MAN jigs it with a sort of gentle desperation, looking +apologetically from face to face. His wistful glance renews the fire +of merriment wherever it alights. The AMERICAN alone preserves a +gravity which seems incapable of being broken._] + +AMERICAN. Maybe you'd better get off right smart and restore that +baby. There's nothing can act madder than a mother. + +LITTLE MAN. Poor thing; yes! What she must be suffering! [_A gale of +laughter shakes the carriage. The ENGLISH for a moment drop their +papers, the better to indulge. The LITTLE MAN smiles a wintry smile._] + +AMERICAN [_in a lull_]. How did it eventuate? + +LITTLE MAN. We got there just as the train was going to start; and I +jumped, thinking I could help her up. But it moved too quickly, +and--and--left her. [_The gale of laughter blows up again._] + +AMERICAN. Guess I'd have thrown the baby out. + +LITTLE MAN. I was afraid the poor little thing might break. [_The BABY +wails; the LITTLE MAN heaves it; the gale of laughter blows._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. It's highly entertaining--not for the baby. What +kind of an old baby is it, anyway? [_He sniffs._] I judge it's a +bit--niffy. + +LITTLE MAN. Afraid I've hardly looked at it yet. + +AMERICAN. Which end up is it? + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! I think the right end. Yes, yes, it is. + +AMERICAN. Well, that's something. Guess I should hold it out of winder +a bit. Vurry excitable things, babies! + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_galvanized_]. No, no! + +ENGLISHMAN [_touching her knee_]. My dear! + +AMERICAN. You are right, ma'am. I opine there's a draught out there. +This baby is precious. We've all of us got stock in this baby in a +manner of speaking. This is a little bit of universal brotherhood. Is +it a woman baby? + +LITTLE MAN. I--I can only see the top of its head. + +AMERICAN. You can't always tell from that. It looks kind of +over-wrapped-up. Maybe it had better be unbound. + +GERMAN. Nein, nein, nein! + +AMERICAN. I think you are vurry likely right, colonel. It might be a +pity to unbind that baby. I guess the lady should be consulted in this +matter. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Yes, yes, of course--I-- + +ENGLISHMAN [_touching her_]. Let it be! Little beggar seems all right. + +AMERICAN. That would seem only known to Providence at this moment. I +judge it might be due to humanity to look at its face. + +LITTLE MAN [_gladly_]. It's sucking my finger. There, there--nice +little thing--there! + +AMERICAN. I would surmise you have created babies in your leisure +moments, sir? + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! no--indeed, no. + +AMERICAN. Dear me! That is a loss. [_Addressing himself to the +carriage at large._] I think we may esteem ourselves fortunate to have +this little stranger right here with us; throws a vurry tender and +beautiful light on human nature. Demonstrates what a hold the little +and weak have upon us nowadays. The colonel here--a man of blood and +iron--there he sits quite ca'm next door to it. [_He sniffs._] Now, +this baby is ruther chastening--that is a sign of grace, in the +colonel--that is true heroism. + +LITTLE MAN [_faintly_]. I--I can see its face a little now. [_All bend +forward._] + +AMERICAN. What sort of a physiognomy has it, anyway? + +LITTLE MAN [_still faintly_]. I don't see anything but--but spots. + +GERMAN. Oh! Ha! Pfui! [_The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +AMERICAN. I am told that is not uncommon amongst babies. Perhaps we +could have you inform us, ma'am. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Yes, of course--only--what sort of-- + +LITTLE MAN. They seem all over its--[_At the slight recoil of +everyone._] I feel sure it's--it's quite a good baby underneath. + +AMERICAN. That will be ruther difficult to come at. I'm just a bit +sensitive. I've vurry little use for affections of the epidermis. + +GERMAN. Pfui! [_He has edged away as far as he can get, and is +lighting a big cigar. The DUTCH YOUTH draws his legs back._] + +AMERICAN [_also taking out a cigar_]. I guess it would be well to +fumigate this carriage. Does it suffer, do you think? + +LITTLE MAN [_peering_]. Really, I don't--I'm not sure--I know so +little about babies. I think it would have a nice expression--if--if +it showed. + +AMERICAN. Is it kind of boiled-looking? + +LITTLE MAN. Yes--yes, it is. + +AMERICAN [_looking gravely round_]. I judge this baby has the measles. +[_The GERMAN screws himself spasmodically against the arm of the +ENGLISHWOMAN's seat._] + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Poor little thing! Shall I--? [_She half-rises._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_touching her_]. No, no--Dash it! + +AMERICAN. I honor your emotion, ma'am. It does credit to us all. But I +sympathize with your husband too. The measles is a vurry important +pestilence in connection with a grown woman. + +LITTLE MAN. It likes my finger awfully. Really, it's rather a sweet +baby. + +AMERICAN [_sniffing_]. Well, that would appear to be quite a question. +About them spots, now? Are they rosy? + +LITTLE MAN. No--o; they're dark, almost black. + +GERMAN. Gott! Typhus! [_He bounds up onto the arm of the +ENGLISHWOMAN's seat._] + +AMERICAN. Typhus! That's quite an indisposition! [_The DUTCH YOUTH +rises suddenly, and bolts out into the corridor. He is followed by the +GERMAN, puffing clouds of smoke. The ENGLISH and AMERICAN sit a moment +longer without speaking. The ENGLISHWOMAN's face is turned with a +curious expression--half-pity, half-fear--toward the LITTLE MAN. Then +the ENGLISHMAN gets up._] + +ENGLISHMAN. Bit stuffy for you here, dear, isn't it? [_He puts his arm +through hers, raises her, and almost pushes her through the doorway. +She goes, still looking back._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. There's nothing I admire more'n courage. Guess +I'll go and smoke in the corridor. [_As he goes out the LITTLE MAN +looks very wistfully after him. Screwing up his mouth and nose, he +holds the BABY away from him and wavers; then rising, he puts it on +the seat opposite and goes through the motions of letting down the +window. Having done so he looks at the BABY, who has begun to wail. +Suddenly he raises his hands and clasps them, like a child praying. +Since, however, the BABY does not stop wailing, he hovers over it in +indecision; then, picking it up, sits down again to dandle it, with +his face turned toward the open window. Finding that it still wails, +he begins to sing to it in a cracked little voice. It is charmed at +once. While he is singing, the AMERICAN appears in the corridor. +Letting down the passage window, he stands there in the doorway with +the draught blowing his hair and the smoke of his cigar all about him. +The LITTLE MAN stops singing and shifts the shawl higher, to protect +the BABY's head from the draught._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. This is the most sublime spectacle I have ever +envisaged. There ought to be a record of this. [_The LITTLE MAN looks +at him, wondering._] We have here a most stimulating epitome of our +marvelous advance toward universal brotherhood. You are typical, sir, +of the sentiments of modern Christianity. You illustrate the deepest +feelings in the heart of every man. [_The LITTLE MAN rises with the +BABY and a movement of approach._] Guess I'm wanted in the dining-car. +[_He vanishes._] [_The LITTLE MAN sits down again, but back to the +engine, away from the draught, and looks out of the window, patiently +jogging the BABY on his knee._] + + +_SCENE III.--An arrival platform. The LITTLE MAN, with the BABY and +the bundle, is standing disconsolate, while travelers pass and luggage +is being carried by. A STATION OFFICIAL, accompanied by a POLICEMAN, +appears from a doorway, behind him._ + +OFFICIAL [_consulting telegram in his hand_]. Das ist der Herr. [_They +advance to the LITTLE MAN._] + +OFFICIAL. Sie haben einen Buben gestohlen? + +LITTLE MAN. I only speak English and American. + +OFFICIAL. Dies ist nicht Ihr Bube? [_He touches the BABY._] + +LITTLE MAN [_shaking his head_]. Take care--it's ill. [_The man does +not understand._] Ill--the baby-- + +OFFICIAL [_shaking his head_]. Verstehe nicht. Dis is nod your baby? +No? + +LITTLE MAN [_shaking his head violently_]. No, it is not. No. + +OFFICIAL [_tapping the telegram_]. Gut! You are 'rested. [_He signs to +the POLICEMAN, who takes the LITTLE MAN's arm._] + +LITTLE MAN. Why? I don't want the poor baby. + +OFFICIAL [_lifting the bundle_]. Dies ist nicht Ihr Gepäck--pag? + +LITTLE MAN. No. + +OFFICIAL. Gut. You are 'rested. + +LITTLE MAN. I only took it for the poor woman. I'm not a +thief--I'm--I'm-- + +OFFICIAL [_shaking head_]. Verstehe nicht. [_The LITTLE MAN tries to +tear his hair. The disturbed BABY wails._] + +LITTLE MAN [_dandling it as best he can_]. There, there--poor, poor! + +OFFICIAL. Halt still! You are 'rested. It is all right. + +LITTLE MAN. Where is the mother? + +OFFICIAL. She comm by next drain. Das telegram say: Halt einen Herrn +mit schwarzem Buben and schwarzem Gepäck. 'Rest gentleman mit black +baby und black--pag. [_The LITTLE MAN turns up his eyes to heaven._] + +OFFICIAL. Komm mit us. [_They take the LITTLE MAN toward the door from +which they have come. A voice stops them._] + +AMERICAN [_speaking from as far away as may be_]. Just a moment! [_The +OFFICIAL stops; the LITTLE MAN also stops and sits down on a bench +against the wall. The POLICEMAN stands stolidly beside him. The +AMERICAN approaches a step or two, beckoning; the OFFICIAL goes up to +him._] + +AMERICAN. Guess you've got an angel from heaven there! What's the +gentleman in buttons for? + +OFFICIAL. Was ist das? + +AMERICAN. Is there anybody here that can understand Amurrican? + +OFFICIAL. Verstehe nicht. + +AMERICAN. Well, just watch my gestures. I was saying [_he points to +the LITTLE MAN, then makes gestures of flying_], you have an angel +from heaven there. You have there a man in whom Gawd [_he points +upward_] takes quite an amount of stock. This is a vurry precious man. +You have no call to arrest him [_he makes the gesture of arrest_]. No, +sir. Providence has acted pretty mean, loading off that baby on him +[_he makes the motion of dandling_]. The little man has a heart of +gold. [_He points to his heart, and takes out a gold coin._] + +OFFICIAL [_thinking he is about to be bribed_]. Aber, das ist _zu_ +viel! + +AMERICAN. Now, don't rattle me! [_Pointing to the LITTLE MAN._] Man +[_pointing to his heart_] Herz [_pointing to the coin_] von Gold. This +is a flower of the field--he don't want no gentleman in buttons to +pluck him up. [_A little crowd is gathering, including the two +ENGLISH, the GERMAN, and the DUTCH YOUTH._] + +OFFICIAL. Verstehe absolut nichts. [_He taps the telegram._] Ich muss +mein duty do. + +AMERICAN. But I'm telling you. This is a good man. This is probably +the best man on Gawd's airth. + +OFFICIAL. Das macht nichts--gut or no gut, I muss mein duty do. [_He +turns to go toward the LITTLE MAN._] + +AMERICAN. Oh! Vurry well, arrest him; do your duty. This baby has +typhus. [_At the word "typhus" the OFFICIAL stops._] + +AMERICAN [_making gestures_]. First-class typhus, black typhus, +schwarzen typhus. Now you have it. I'm kind o' sorry for you and the +gentleman in buttons. Do your duty! + +OFFICIAL. Typhus? Der Bub'--die baby hat typhus? + +AMERICAN. I'm telling you. + +OFFICIAL. Gott im Himmel! + +AMERICAN [_spotting the GERMAN in the little throng_]. Here's a +gentleman will corroborate me. + +OFFICIAL [_much disturbed, and signing to the POLICEMAN to stand +clear_]. Typhus! Aber das ist grässlich! + +AMERICAN. I kind o' thought you'd feel like that. + +OFFICIAL. Die Sanitätsmachine! Gleich! [_A PORTER goes to get it. From +either side the broken half-moon of persons stand gazing at the LITTLE +MAN, who sits unhappily dandling the BABY in the center._] + +OFFICIAL [_raising his hands_]. Was zu thun? + +AMERICAN. Guess you'd better isolate the baby. [_A silence, during +which the LITTLE MAN is heard faintly whistling and clucking to the +BABY._] + +OFFICIAL [_referring once more to his telegram_]. 'Rest gentleman mit +black baby. [_Shaking his head._] Wir must de gentleman hold. [_To the +GERMAN._] Bitte, mein Herr, sagen Sie ihm, den Buben zu niedersetzen. +[_He makes the gesture of deposit._] + +GERMAN [_to the LITTLE MAN_]. He say: Put down the baby. [_The LITTLE +MAN shakes his head, and continues to dandle the BABY._] + +OFFICIAL. Sie müssen--you must. [_The LITTLE MAN glowers, in +silence._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_in background--muttering_]. Good man! + +GERMAN. His spirit ever denies; er will nicht. + +OFFICIAL [_again making his gesture_]. Aber er muss! [_The LITTLE MAN +makes a face at him._] Sag' ihm: Instantly put down baby, and komm' +mit us. [_The BABY wails._] + +LITTLE MAN. Leave the poor ill baby here alone? Be-be-be-d--d first! + +AMERICAN [_jumping onto a trunk--with enthusiasm_]. Bully! [_The +ENGLISH clap their hands; the DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The OFFICIAL is +muttering, greatly incensed._] + +AMERICAN. What does that body-snatcher say? + +GERMAN. He say this man use the baby to save himself from arrest. Very +smart--he say. + +AMERICAN. I judge you do him an injustice. [_Showing off the LITTLE +MAN with a sweep of his arm._] This is a vurry white man. He's got a +black baby, and he won't leave it in the lurch. Guess we would all act +noble, that way, give us the chance. [_The LITTLE MAN rises, holding +out the BABY, and advances a step or two. The half-moon at once gives, +increasing its size; the AMERICAN climbs onto a higher trunk. The +LITTLE MAN retires and again sits down._] + +AMERICAN [_addressing the OFFICIAL_]. Guess you'd better go out of +business and wait for the mother. + +OFFICIAL [_stamping his foot_]. Die Mutter sall 'rested be for taking +out baby mit typhus. Ha! [_To the LITTLE MAN._] Put ze baby down! +[_The LITTLE MAN smiles._] Do you 'ear? + +AMERICAN [_addressing the OFFICIAL_]. Now, see here. 'Pears to me you +don't suspicion just how beautiful this is. Here we have a man giving +his life for that old baby that's got no claim on him. This is not a +baby of his own making. No, sir, this a vurry Christ-like proposition +in the gentleman. + +OFFICIAL. Put ze baby down, or ich will gommand someone it to do. + +AMERICAN. That will be vurry interesting to watch. + +OFFICIAL [_to POLICEMAN_]. Nehmen Sie den Buben. Dake it vrom him. +[_The POLICEMAN mutters, but does not._] + +AMERICAN [_to the GERMAN_]. Guess I lost that. + +GERMAN. He say he is not his officer. + +AMERICAN. That just tickles me to death. + +OFFICIAL [_looking round_]. Vill nobody dake ze Bub'? + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_moving a step--faintly_]. Yes--I-- + +ENGLISHMAN [_grasping her arm_]. By Jove! Will you! + +OFFICIAL [_gathering himself for a great effort to take the BABY, and +advancing two steps_]. Zen I gommand you--[_He stops and his voice +dies away._] Zit dere! + +AMERICAN. My! That's wonderful. What a man this is! What a sublime +sense of duty! [_The DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The OFFICIAL turns on him, +but as he does so the MOTHER of the BABY is seen hurrying._] + +MOTHER. Ach! Ach! Mei' Bubi! [_Her face is illumined; she is about to +rush to the LITTLE MAN._] + +OFFICIAL [_to the POLICEMAN_]. Nimm die Frau! [_The POLICEMAN catches +hold of the WOMAN._] + +OFFICIAL [_to the frightened WOMAN_]. Warum haben Sie einen Buben mit +Typhus mit ausgebracht? + +AMERICAN [_eagerly, from his perch_]. What was that? I don't want to +miss any. + +GERMAN. He say: Why did you a baby with typhus with you bring out? + +AMERICAN. Well, that's quite a question. [_He takes out the +field-glasses slung around him and adjusts them on the BABY._] + +MOTHER [_bewildered_], Mei' Bubi--Typhus--aber Typhus? [_She shakes +her head violently._] Nein, nein, nein! Typhus! + +OFFICIAL. Er hat Typhus. + +MOTHER [_shaking her head_]. Nein, nein, nein! + +AMERICAN [_looking through his glasses_]. Guess she's kind of right! I +judge the typhus is where the baby's slobbered on the shawl, and it's +come off on him. [_The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +OFFICIAL [_turning on him furiously_]. Er hat Typhus. + +AMERICAN. Now, that's where you slop over. Come right here. [_The +OFFICIAL mounts, and looks through the glasses._] + +AMERICAN [_to the LITTLE MAN_]. Skin out the baby's leg. If we don't +locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me. [_The LITTLE MAN +fumbles out the BABY's little white foot._] + +MOTHER. Mei' Bubi! [_She tries to break away._] + +AMERICAN. White as a banana. [_To the OFFICIAL--affably._] Guess +you've made kind of a fool of us with your old typhus. + +OFFICIAL. Lass die Frau! [_The POLICEMAN lets her go, and she rushes +to her BABY._] + +MOTHER. Mei' Bubi! [_The BABY, exchanging the warmth of the LITTLE MAN +for the momentary chill of its MOTHER, wails._] + +OFFICIAL [_descending and beckoning to the POLICEMAN_]. Sie wollen den +Herrn accusiren? [_The POLICEMAN takes the LITTLE MAN's arm._] + +AMERICAN. What's that? They goin' to pinch him after all? [_The +MOTHER, still hugging her BABY, who has stopped crying, gazes at the +LITTLE MAN, who sits dazedly looking up. Suddenly she drops on her +knees, and with her free hand lifts his booted foot and kisses it._] + +AMERICAN [_waving his hat_]. 'Ra! 'Ra! [_He descends swiftly, goes up +to the LITTLE MAN, whose arm the POLICEMAN has dropped, and takes his +hand._] Brother, I am proud to know you. This is one of the greatest +moments I have ever experienced. [_Displaying the LITTLE MAN to the +assembled company._] I think I sense the situation when I say that we +all esteem it an honor to breathe the rather inferior atmosphere of +this station here along with our little friend. I guess we shall all +go home and treasure the memory of his face as the whitest thing in +our museum of recollections. And perhaps this good woman will also go +home and wash the face of our little brother here. I am inspired with +a new faith in mankind. We can all be proud of this mutual experience; +we have our share in it; we can kind of feel noble. Ladies and +gentlemen, I wish to present to you a sure-enough saint--only wants a +halo, to be transfigured. [_To the LITTLE MAN._] Stand right up. [_The +LITTLE MAN stands up bewildered. They come about him. The OFFICIAL +bows to him, the POLICEMAN salutes him. The DUTCH YOUTH shakes his +head and laughs. The GERMAN draws himself up very straight, and bows +quickly twice. The ENGLISHMAN and his wife approach at least two +steps, then, thinking better of it, turn to each other and recede. The +MOTHER kisses his hand. The PORTER returning with the Sanitätsmachine, +turns it on from behind, and its pinkish shower, goldened by a ray of +sunlight, falls around the LITTLE MAN's head, transfiguring it as he +stands with eyes upraised to see whence the portent comes._] + +AMERICAN [_rushing forward and dropping on his knees_]. Hold on just a +minute! Guess I'll take a snap-shot of the miracle. [_He adjusts his +pocket camera._] This ought to look bully! + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of One-Act Plays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 33907-8.txt or 33907-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/9/0/33907/ + +Produced by Joseph R. Hauser, Christine P. 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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: One-Act Plays + By Modern Authors + +Author: Various + +Editor: Helen Louise Cohen + +Release Date: October 24, 2010 [EBook #33907] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Joseph R. Hauser, Christine P. Travers and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p class="tn">Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected, +all other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's spelling has been +maintained.</p> + +<p class="title">ONE-ACT PLAYS<br> +<span class="smaller">BY<br> +MODERN AUTHORS</span></p> + +<p class="p4 center">EDITED BY</p> +<p class="author">HELEN LOUISE COHEN, <span class="smcap">Ph.D.</span></p> +<p class="smaller center">Chairman of the Department of English in the<br> +Washington Irving High School in the<br> +City of New York</p> + +<p class="smaller center">Author of "The Ballade"</p> + +<p class="p4 center smaller">NEW YORK<br> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY</p> + +<p class="p4 center smaller">COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY<br> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.</p> + +<p class="p4 smaller thin center"><i>All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced +in any form, by mimeograph or any other +means, without permission in writing from the publisher.</i></p> + +<p class="p4 center smaller">PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY<br> +QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, INC.<br> +RAHWAY, N. J.</p> + + +<p class="p4 center bigger">To<br> +M. S. S.</p> + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagev" name="pagev"></a>(p. v)</span> ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</h1> + + +<p>Had not both authors and publishers acted with the greatest +generosity, this collection could not have been made. Though the +editor cannot adequately express her sense of obligation, she wishes +at least to record explicitly her indebtedness to Mr. Harold Brighouse, +Lord Dunsany, Mr. John Galsworthy, Lady Gregory, Mr. +Percy MacKaye, Miss Jeannette Marks, Miss Josephine Preston Peabody, +Professor Robert Emmons Rogers, Mr. Booth Tarkington, and +Professor Stark Young. The editor also desires to thank Chatto & +Windus, Duffield & Company, Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Harper & +Brothers, Little, Brown & Company, John W. Luce & Company, +G. P. Putnam's Sons, Charles Scribner's Sons, and The Sunwise +Turn, for permissions granted ungrudgingly.</p> + +<p>Through the courtesy of Mr. T. M. Cleland, director of the +Beechwood Players, the pictures of the Beechwood Theatre appear. +Miss Mary W. Carter, chairman of the Department of English in +the High School in Montclair, New Jersey, contributed the photographs +of the Garden Theatre. Other illustrations appear through +the kindness of <i>Theatre Arts Magazine</i>, and of The Neighborhood +Playhouse.</p> + +<p>The editor is grateful to Mrs. John W. Alexander, Mr. B. Iden +Payne, and Mrs. T. Bernstein for the privilege of personal conferences +on the subject of the book. To Mr. Robert Edmond Jones, +who has allowed three of his designs to be reproduced and who +has read and corrected that part of the Introduction that deals with +The New Art of the Theatre, the editor takes this opportunity of +expressing her warm appreciation. Finally, the editor wishes to thank +her friend, Helen Hopkins Crandell for her indefatigable work on +the proofs of this book.</p> + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagevii" name="pagevii"></a>(p. vii)</span> PREFACE</h1> + + +<p>Perhaps the student who is going to read the plays in this +collection may have felt at some time or other a gap between +the "classics" that he was working over in school and the +contemporary literature that he heard commonly discussed, but +he does not know that until recently few books were studied +in the high school that were less than half a century old. Consciousness +of the gap often drove him to trashy reading. He +recognized Addison as respectable but remote, and yet he had +no guide to the good literature which the writers of his own +day were producing and which would be especially interesting +to him, because its ideas and language would be more nearly +contemporary with his own.</p> + +<p>Even though the greatest literature has the quality of universality, +it has been almost invariably my experience that, only +as one grows older, is one quite ready to appreciate this quality. +When one is young, it is easier to enjoy literature written from +a point of view nearer to one's own life and times. Reading +good contemporary literature is likely also to pave the way for +a deeper appreciation of the great masterpieces of all time.</p> + +<p>This is a collection of one-act plays, some of them less than +five years old, chosen both because their appeal seems not to be +limited to the adult audiences for which they were originally +written, and because they may well serve the purpose of introducing +the student to contemporary dramatists of standing. +Some of them, it is true, make use of old stories and traditions, +but the treatment is in all cases modern, if we except the literary +fashion that we find in Josephine Preston Peabody's +<i>Fortune and Men's Eyes</i>. This, though it is a one-act play, +a modern development, is written more or less in the Shakespearian +convention; but whether we are bookish or not, we +can hardly help having a knowledge of Shakespeare's plays, +because, popular with all kinds of people, they are continually +being revived on the stage, and quoted in conversation.</p> + +<p>The plays in this book, though intended for class-room study, +may be acted as well as read. The general introduction will +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pageviii" name="pageviii"></a>(p. viii)</span> be found helpful to groups who produce plays, to those who +live in cities and go to the theatre often, and to those who like +to experiment with dramatic composition. For this book was +planned to encourage an understanding attitude towards the +theatre, to deepen the love that is latent in the majority of +us for what is beautiful and uplifting in the drama, and to +make playgoing a less expensive, more regular, and more intelligent +diversion for the generation that is growing up.</p> + +<p class="right10">H. L. C.</p> + +<p>Washington Irving High School,<br> +New York, 1 February, 1921.</p> + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="pageix" name="pageix"></a>(p. ix)</span> CONTENTS</h1> + + +<ul class="none_front"> +<li><span class="smcap">Introduction</span> +<span class="ralign smcap">Page</span></li> + +<li class="add2em">The Workmanship of the One-Act Play +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pagexiii">xiii</a></span></li> + +<li class="add2em">Theatres of To-day</li> +<li class="add4em">The Commercial Theatre and the Repertory Idea +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pagexx">xx</a></span></li> +<li class="add4em">The Little Theatre +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pagexxiii">xxiii</a></span></li> +<li class="add4em">The Irish National Theatre +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pagexxvi">xxvi</a></span></li> + +<li class="add2em">The New Art of the Theatre +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pagexxix">xxix</a></span></li> + +<li class="add2em">Playmaking +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pagexxxiv">xxxiv</a></span></li> + +<li class="add2em">The Theatre in the School +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page001">l</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Robert Emmons Rogers</span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Boy Will</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#pagexxxviii">xxxviii</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Booth Tarkington</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page003">3</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Beauty and the Jacobin</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page005">5</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Ernest Dowson</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page053">53</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Pierrot of the Minute</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page055">55</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Oliphant Down</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page077">77</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Maker of Dreams</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page079">79</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Percy MacKaye</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page097">97</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Gettysburg</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page099">99</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">A. A. Milne</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page113">113</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Wurzel-Flummery</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page115">115</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Harold Brighouse</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page139">139</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Maid of France</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page141">141</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Lady Gregory</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page157">157</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Spreading the News</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page159">159</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Jeannette Marks</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page179">179</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Welsh Honeymoon</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page181">181</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagex" name="pagex"></a>(p. x)</span> <span class="smcap">John Millington Synge</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page195">195</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Riders to the Sea</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page198">198</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Lord Dunsany</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page211">211</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">A Night at an Inn</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page213">213</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Stark Young</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page226">226</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Twilight Saint</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page227">227</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Lady Alix Egerton</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page241">241</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Masque of the Two Strangers</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page244">244</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Maurice Maeterlinck</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page265">265</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Intruder</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page268">268</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">Josephine Preston Peabody</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page287">287</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">Fortune and Men's Eyes</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page289">289</a></span></li> + +<li><span class="smcap">John Galsworthy</span></li> +<li class="add2em">Introduction +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page323">323</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Little Man</span> +<span class="ralign"><a href="#page325">325</a></span></li> +</ul> + + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexi" name="pagexi"></a>(p. xi)</span> ILLUSTRATIONS</h1> + +<ul class="none_front"> +<li> <span class="smcap ralign">Page</span></li> + +<li><i>Twelfth Night</i> on the stage of the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier +in New York +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img001">xxiv</a></span></li> + +<li>Design for <i>The Merchant of Venice</i> by Robert Edmond Jones +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img002">xxx</a></span></li> + +<li>Design for <i>Good Gracious Annabelle</i> by Robert Edmond Jones +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img003">xxxii</a></span></li> + +<li>Design for <i>The Seven Princesses</i> by Robert Edmond Jones +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img004">xxxiv</a></span></li> + +<li>The Beechwood Theatre. Exterior and Interior +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img005">lviii</a></span></li> + +<li>The Garden Theatre. The original site, and the theatre as it +looks to-day +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img007">lx</a></span></li> + +<li>Setting for <i>The Maker of Dreams</i> at The Neighborhood Playhouse +designed by Aline Bernstein +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img009">79</a></span></li> + +<li>Costumes for <i>The Masque of the Two Strangers</i> designed at the +Washington Irving High School.</li> +<li class="add2em">Plate 1 <span class="ralign"><a href="#img010">240</a></span></li> +<li class="add2em">Plate 2 <span class="ralign"><a href="#img011">253</a></span></li> + +<li>Setting for <i>The Intruder</i> designed by Sam Hume +<span class="ralign"><a href="#img012">268</a></span></li> +</ul> + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexiii" name="pagexiii"></a>(p. xiii)</span> INTRODUCTION<br> +<span class="smaller">THE WORKMANSHIP OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY</span></h1> + + +<p>The one-act play is a new form of the drama and more +emphatically a new form of literature. Its possibilities began +to attract the attention of European and American writers in +the last decade of the nineteenth century, those years when so +many dramatic traditions lapsed and so many precedents +were established. It is significant that the oldest play in the +present collection is Maeterlinck's <i>The Intruder</i>, published +in 1890.</p> + +<p>The history of this new form is of necessity brief. Before +its vogue became general, one-act plays were being presented +in vaudeville houses in this country and were being used as +curtain raisers in London theatres for the purpose of marking +time until the late-dining audiences should arrive. With the +exception of the famous Grand Guignol Theatre in Paris, +where the entertainment for an evening might consist of several +one-act plays, all of the hair-raising, blood-curdling variety, +programs composed entirely of one-act plays were rare. Sir +James Matthew Barrie is usually credited with being the first +in England to write one-act plays intended to be grouped in +a single production. A program of this character has been uncommon +in the commercial theatre in America, but three of +Barrie's one-act plays, constituting a single program, have met +with enthusiastic response from American audiences.</p> + +<p>There are two new developments in the history of the +theatre that have encouraged and promoted the writing of one-act +plays: the one is the Repertory Theatre abroad and the +other is the Little Theatre movement on both sides of the Atlantic. +The repertory of the Irish Players, for example, is +composed largely of one-act plays, and American Little Theatres +are given over almost exclusively to the one-act play.</p> + +<p>The one-act play is in reality so new a phenomenon, in spite +of the use that has been made of the form by playwrights like +Pinero, Hauptmann, Chekov, Shaw, and others of the first +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexiv" name="pagexiv"></a>(p. xiv)</span> rank, that it is still generally ignored in books on dramatic +workmanship.<a id="footnotetag1" name="footnotetag1"></a><a href="#footnote1" title="Go to footnote 1"><span class="smaller">[1]</span></a> None the less, the status of the one-act play is +established and a study of the plays of this length, which are +rapidly increasing in number, discloses certain tendencies and +laws which are exemplified in the form itself. Clayton Hamilton +sums up the matter well when he says: "The one-act +play is admirable in itself, as a medium of art. It shows the +same relation to the full-length play as the short-story shows +to the novel. It makes a virtue of economy of means. It +aims to produce a single dramatic effect with the greatest +economy of means that is consistent with the utmost emphasis. +The method of the one-act play at its best is similar to the +method employed by Browning in his dramatic monologues. +The author must suggest the entire history of a soul by seizing +it at some crisis of its career and forcing the spectator to look +upon it from an unexpected and suggestive point of view. A +one-act play in exhibiting the present should imply the past +and intimate the future. The author has no leisure for laborious +exposition; but his mere projection of a single situation +should sum up in itself the accumulated results of many antecedent +causes.... The form is complete, concise and self-sustaining; +it requires an extraordinary force of imagination."<a id="footnotetag2" name="footnotetag2"></a><a href="#footnote2" title="Go to footnote 2"><span class="smaller">[2]</span></a></p> + +<p>To follow for a moment a train of thought suggested by +Mr. Hamilton's timely and appreciative comment on the technique +of the one-act play: All writers on the short-story agree +that, to use Poe's phrase, "the vastly important artistic element, +totality, or unity of effect" is indispensable to the successful +short-story. This singleness of effect is an equally important +consideration in the structure of the one-act play. A +short-story is not a condensed novel any more than a one-act +play is a condensed full-length play. There is no fixed length +for the one-act play any more than there is for the short-story. +The one-act play must have its "dominant incident" and +"dominant character" like the short-story. The effect of the +one-act play, as of the short-story, is measured by the way it +makes its readers and spectators feel. Neither the short-story +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexv" name="pagexv"></a>(p. xv)</span> nor the one-act play need necessarily "be founded on one of +the passionate <i>cruces</i> of life, where duty and inclination come +nobly to the grapple." One has but to consider the short-stories +of Henry James or the one-act plays of Galsworthy or +of Maeterlinck to be convinced that a <i>violent</i> struggle is not +necessary to the art of either form.</p> + +<p>This point is further illustrated in what Galsworthy himself +says in general about drama in his famous essay, <i>Some +Platitudes Concerning the Drama</i>, which should be read in +connection with his satirical comedy, <i>The Little Man</i>. In +that essay Galsworthy writes: "The plot! A good plot is +that sure edifice which slowly rises out of the interplay of circumstance +on temperament, and temperament on circumstance, +within the enclosing atmosphere of an idea. A human being +is the best plot there is.... Now true dramatic action is what +characters do, at once contrary, as it were, to expectation, and +yet because they have already done other things.... Good +dialogue again is character, marshaled so as continually to +stimulate interest or excitement." This commentary of Galsworthy's +on dramatic technique offers to the student of <i>The +Little Man</i> an unusual opportunity to verify a great critic's +theory by a great playwright's practice. It is indeed the <i>character</i> +of the Little Man that is the plot in this case; the plot +may be said to begin when, according to stage direction, the +hapless Baby wails, and to be well launched with the Little +Man's deprecatory, "Herr Ober! Might I have a glass of +beer?" These words distinguish him immediately from his +bullying companions in the buffet. The highest point of interest, +like the beginning of the plot, is to be found in the play +of the Little Man's personality, at the point where he is left +alone with the Baby, now a typhus suspect, and after an instant's +wavering, bends all his puny energies to pacifying its +uneasy cry. Again, the end of the plot comes with the tribute +of the bewildered but adoring mother to the ineffably gentle +Little Man.</p> + +<p>But a one-act play that has any pretensions to literature +must be looked upon as a law unto itself and should not be +expected to conform to any set of arbitrary requirements. As +a matter of fact, there are only a very few generalizations that +can be made with regard to the structure or to the classification +of the one-act play. Even this book contains plays that are +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexvi" name="pagexvi"></a>(p. xvi)</span> not susceptible of any hard and fast classification. <i>The Intruder</i> +and <i>Riders to the Sea</i> are indubitably tragedies, but +<i>Fortune and Men's Eyes</i>, dealing, as it does, with the tragic +theme of love's disillusionment, belongs not at all with the plays +of Maeterlinck and Synge, shadowed, as they are, by death. +And though the deaths are many and bloody in <i>A Night at +an Inn</i>, the unreality of the romance is so strong that there is +no such wrenching of the human sympathies as we associate +with tragedy. <i>The Pierrot of the Minute</i> is superficially a +Harlequinade, but Dowson's insistence on the theme of satiety +brings it narrowly within the range of satire. <i>Beauty and the +Jacobin</i> is rich in comedy; so is Lady Gregory's <i>Spreading the +News</i>, and in both, the situations change imperceptibly from +comedy to farce and from farce back to comedy.</p> + +<p>The laws of the structure of the one-act play are in the +nature of dramatic art no less flexible. It can be said that in +order to secure that singleness of impression that is as essential +to the one-act play as to the short-story, a single well sustained +theme is necessary, a theme announced in some fashion early +in the play. Indeed since the one-act play is a short dramatic +form, it may be said in regard to the announcing of the +theme that, "'Twere well it were done quickly." In <i>Spreading +the News</i>, the curtain is barely up before Mrs. Tarpey is +telling the magistrate: "Business, is it? What business would +the people here have but to be minding one another's business?" +And at approximately the same moment in the action +of <i>The Intruder</i>, the uncle, foreshadowing the theme of the +mysterious coming of death, says: "When once illness has +come into a house, it is as though a stranger had forced himself +into the family circle."</p> + +<p>The single dominant theme for its dramatic expression calls +also for a single situation developing to a single climax. In +the case of <i>Fortune and Men's Eyes</i>, it is the ballad-monger, +who in crying his wares,</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +<span class="add2em">"Plays, Play not Fair,</span><br> +Or how a <i>gentlewoman's</i> heart was took<br> +By a player, that was King in a stage-play,"</p> + +<p>gives us in the first few minutes of the play his ironical clue +to the theme. And this theme is worked out in Mary Fytton's +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexvii" name="pagexvii"></a>(p. xvii)</span> shallow intrigue with William Herbert, which culminates in +the shattering of the Player's dream on that autumn day in +South London at "The Bear and the Angel."</p> + +<p>The single situation exemplifying the theme of <i>The Intruder</i> +is found in the repeatedly expressed premonitions of the blind +Grandfather, stationary in his armchair, whose heightened +senses detect the presence of the Mysterious Stranger. The +unity of effect secured in this play is only rivaled, not surpassed, +by the wonderful totality of impression experienced by +the reader of <i>The Fall of the House of Usher</i>. The unity of +effect in <i>The Intruder</i> is secured also by Maeterlinck's description +of the setting, which reminds the playgoer or the reader +inevitably of Stevenson's familiar words: "Certain dark gardens +cry aloud for murder; certain old houses demand to be +haunted."</p> + +<p>In general, as has been said, the plot of the one-act play, +because of the time limitations, admits of no distracting incidents. +For the same reason the characterization must be swift +and direct. By Bartley Fallon's first speech in <i>Spreading the +News</i>, Lady Gregory characterizes him completely. He needs +but say: "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," and the fundamental part of his +character is fixed in the minds of the audience. From that +moment it is just a question of filling in the picture with +pantomime and further dialogue.</p> + +<p>The characterization of the Player in <i>Fortune and Men's +Eyes</i> begins at the moment that he enters the tavern, when +Wat, the bear-ward, calls out:</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +"I say, I've played.... There's not one man<br> +Of all the gang—save one.... Ay, there be one<br> +I grant you, now!... He used me in right sort;<br> +A man worth better trades."</p> + +<p>Wat's verdict on the fair-mindedness of Master William +Shakespeare of the Lord Chamberlain's company is borne out +by the Player's own,</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +<span class="add2em">"High fortune, man!</span><br> +Commend me to thy bear."<br> +<span class="left30">[<i>Drinks and passes him the cup.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexviii" name="pagexviii"></a>(p. xviii)</span> The entrance of the ballad-monger gives Master Will an opening +for a punning jest and, the action continuing, shows him +sympathetic to the strayed lady-in-waiting, tender to the tavern +boy, magnanimous to the false friend and falser love.</p> + +<p>One method of characterization which the author allows herself +to use in this play, no doubt to heighten the Elizabethan +illusion, is rare in the contemporary drama: when this "dark +lady of the sonnets" flees "The Bear and the Angel," the +Player breaks forth into the self-revealing soliloquy, found +so frequently in his own plays, and continuing as a dramatic +convention until the last quarter of the nineteenth +century.<a id="footnotetag3" name="footnotetag3"></a><a href="#footnote3" title="Go to footnote 3"><span class="smaller">[3]</span></a></p> + +<p>Characterization rests in part on pantomime. In <i>The Little +Man</i>, the Dutch Youth is dumb throughout the play, but he +is sufficiently characterized by his foolish demeanor and his recurrent +laugh. The part of the Little Man himself is one +long gesture of humility and dedication. In those one-act +plays in which the old characters of the Harlequinade reappear, +like <i>The Maker of Dreams</i> and <i>The Pierrot of the Minute</i>, +pantomime transcends dialogue as a method of characterization. +In the plays of the Irish dramatists, Synge, Yeats, and +Lady Gregory, pantomime and dialogue contribute equally to +the characterization, which is of a very high order, since all +these dramatists were close observers of the Irish peasant characters +of their plays.</p> + +<p>Synge, especially, illustrates the following critical theory of +Galsworthy: "The art of writing true dramatic dialogue is +an austere art, denying itself all license, grudging every sentence +devoted to the mere machinery of the play, suppressing +all jokes and epigrams severed from character, relying for fun +and pathos on the fun and tears of life. From start to finish +good dialogue is hand-made, like good lace; clear, of fine texture, +furthering with each thread the harmony and strength +of a design to which all must be subordinated." A study of +the dialogue of <i>Riders to the Sea</i> reveals just this harmony +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexix" name="pagexix"></a>(p. xix)</span> between the dialogue and the inevitability of the plot, the dialogue +and the simplicity of the characters.</p> + +<p>The dialogue in <i>The Little Man</i> is the very idiom one +would expect to issue from the mouth of the German colonel, +the Englishman with the Oxford voice, or the intensely national +American, as the case may be. The characters, though +they have type names, are, as Mr. Galsworthy would probably +be the first to explain, highly individualized. The author does +not intend us to think that all Americans are like this loud-voiced +traveler, or all Englishmen like the pharisaical gentleman +who gives his wife the advertisements to read while he +secures the news sheet for himself.</p> + +<p>The function of dialogue is the same both in the long and +in the short play. For, of course, both forms have many things +in common. For instance, as in the full-length play it is +necessary for the dramatist to carry forward the interest from +act to act, to provide a "curtain" that will leave the audience +in a state of suspense, so in the one-act play, the interest must +be similarly relayed though the plot is confined to a single act. +In <i>The Intruder</i>, every premonition expressed by the Grandfather +grips the audience in such a way that they await from +minute to minute the coming of the mysterious stranger. The +tension is high in <i>A Night at an Inn</i> from the moment the +curtain rises. In <i>Riders to the Sea</i>, the beginning of the suspense +coincides with the opening of the play and lasts. +"They're all gone now, and there isn't anything more the sea +can do to me," says Maurya, and the audience experiences a +rush of relief and a sense of release that the last words, "No +man at all can be living for ever, and we must be satisfied," +seem only to deepen.</p> + +<p>A one-act play, then, has many structural features in common +with the short-story; its plot must from beginning to end +be dominated by a single theme; its crises may be crises of +character as well as conflicts of will or physical conflicts; it +must by a method of foreshadowing sustain the interest of the +audience unflaggingly, but ultimately relieve their tension; it +must achieve swift characterization by means of pantomime and +dialogue; and its dialogue must achieve its effects by the same +methods as the dialogue of longer plays, but by even greater +economy of means. But when all is said and done, the success +of a one-act play is judged not by its conformity to any set +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexx" name="pagexx"></a>(p. xx)</span> of hard and fast rules, but by its power to interest, enlighten, +and hold an audience.</p> + + +<h2>THEATRES OF TO-DAY<br> +<span class="smaller">THE COMMERCIAL THEATRE AND THE REPERTORY IDEA</span></h2> + +<p>The term "Commercial Theatre" is rarely used without +disparagement. The critic or the playwright who speaks of +the Commercial Theatre usually does so either for the purpose +of reflecting on the cheapness of the entertainment afforded, +or in order to call attention to spectacular receipts.</p> + +<p>In this country the Commercial Theatre stands for that form +of big business in the theatrical world that produces dividends +on the money invested comparable to those earned by the most +prosperous of the large industries. This system has been, on +the whole, a bad thing for the drama, because managers with +their eye on attractions that should yield a return, let us say, +of over ten per cent on the investment, have been unable to +produce the superior play with an appeal to a definite, though +perhaps limited audience, and have had to offer to the public +the kind of play that would draw large audiences over a long +period of time. The "longest run for the safest possible play" +is thus conspicuously associated with the Commercial Theatre. +As Clayton Hamilton says: "The trouble with the prevailing +theatre system in America to-day is not that this system is commercial; +for in any democratic country, it is not unreasonable +to expect the public to defray the cost of the sort of drama +that it wishes, and that, therefore, it deserves. The trouble is, +rather, that our theatre system is devoted almost entirely to +big business; and that in ignoring the small profits of small +business it tends to exclude not only the uncommercial drama, +but the non-commercial drama as well."<a id="footnotetag4" name="footnotetag4"></a><a href="#footnote4" title="Go to footnote 4"><span class="smaller">[4]</span></a> Here he makes +a distinction between an "uncommercial" play, that is, a play +that is a failure with all kinds of audiences, and the "noncommercial" +play, which is capable of holding its own financially +and yielding modest returns.</p> + +<p>In the days before the pooling of theatrical interests in this +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxi" name="pagexxi"></a>(p. xxi)</span> country there were indeed long runs, but in many of the large +American cities "stock companies," composed of groups of +actors and actresses all of about the same reputation and +ability, were maintained that kept a number of plays, a "repertory," +before the public in the course of a season and gave +scope for experiment with various kinds of plays. But the +"star system," which has now become common, has tended to +drive out the "stock company" idea, with the result that the +average company rests on the reputation of the "star" and +dispenses with distinction in the "support." With the decay +of the stock company, the repertory system, in the form in +which it did once exist here in the Commercial Theatre, has +also declined.</p> + +<p>Both in Great Britain and in America the repertory system, +long established on the Continent, has been reintroduced in +order to combat the practices of the Commercial Theatre. For +the most part the new repertory theatres have been endowed +either by the State or by private individuals. "Absolute endowment +for absolute freedom,"<a id="footnotetag5" name="footnotetag5"></a><a href="#footnote5" title="Go to footnote 5"><span class="smaller">[5]</span></a> has seemed to at least one +American the only means of delivering the drama from commercial +bondage. This phrase of Percy MacKaye's expresses +his cherished belief that endowed civic theatres, which should +encourage the participation of whole communities in a community +form of drama, are what is needed in a democracy. +John Masefield, in the following lines from the prologue +written for the opening of the Liverpool Repertory Theatre, +has found a poetic theme in this idea of an endowed theatre:</p> + +<div class="poem10"> +<p>"Men will not spend, it seems, on that one art<br> +Which is life's inmost soul and passionate heart;<br> +They count the theatre a place for fun,<br> +Where man can laugh at nights when work is done.</p> + +<p>If it were only that, 'twould be worth while<br> +To subsidize a thing which makes men smile;<br> +But it is more; it is that splendid thing,<br> +A place where man's soul shakes triumphant wing;</p> + +<p>A place of art made living, where men may see<br> +What human life is and has seemed to be<br> +To the world's greatest brains....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxii" name="pagexxii"></a>(p. xxii)</span> +<span class="add6em">O you who hark</span><br> +Fan to a flame through England this first spark,<br> +Till in this land there's none so poor of purse<br> +But he may see high deeds and hear high verse,<br> +And feel his folly lashed, and think him great<br> +In this world's tragedy of Life and Fate."<a id="footnotetag6" name="footnotetag6"></a><a href="#footnote6" title="Go to footnote 6"><span class="smaller">[6]</span></a></p> +</div> + +<p>In Great Britain repertory is associated with the interest +and generosity of Miss A. E. F. Horniman, who will be mentioned +in connection with the Irish National Theatre, and +through whom, after some preliminary experiment, the Gaiety +Theatre at Manchester was opened as the first repertory house +in England, in the spring of 1908. Fifty-five different plays +were produced in a little over two years—"twenty-eight new, +seventeen revivals of modern English plays, five modern translations, +and five classics."<a id="footnotetag7" name="footnotetag7"></a><a href="#footnote7" title="Go to footnote 7"><span class="smaller">[7]</span></a> In Miss Horniman's own words, +her interest was in a Civilized Theatre. "A Civilized +Theatre," she has written, "means that a city has something +of cultivation in it, something to make literature grow; a real +theatre, not a mere amusing toy. What we want is the opportunity +for our men and women, our boys and girls to get a +chance to see the works of the greatest dramatists of modern +times, as well as the classics, for their pleasure as well as their +cultivation.... Young dramatists should have a theatre +where they can see the ripe works of the masters and see them +well acted at a moderate price. There should be in every city +a theatre where we can see the best drama worthily treated."<a id="footnotetag8" name="footnotetag8"></a><a href="#footnote8" title="Go to footnote 8"><span class="smaller">[8]</span></a> +Owing to war conditions, the Manchester project has had to +be abandoned, and so, for the most part, have other similar +enterprises. They rarely became self-supporting, but depended +on subsidy of one kind or another, which under new economic +conditions is no longer forthcoming. The Birmingham Repertory +Theatre continues, however, under the direction of John +Drinkwater, and has become famous through its production of +his <i>Abraham Lincoln</i>. "John Drinkwater, I see, has recently +defined a Repertory Theatre," writes William Archer, in his +latest article on the subject, "as one which 'puts plays into +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxiii" name="pagexxiii"></a>(p. xxiii)</span> stock which are good enough to stay there.'" Enlarging this +definition, I should call it a theatre which excluded the long +unbroken run; which presents at least three different programs +in each week (though a popular success may be performed +three or even four times a week throughout a whole +season); which can produce plays too good to be enormously +popular; which makes a principle of keeping alive the great +drama of the past, whether recent or remote; which has a +company so large that it can, without overworking its actors, +keep three or four plays ready for instant presentation; which +possesses an ample stage equipped with the latest artistic and +labor-saving appliances; and which offers such comfort in front +of the house as to encourage an intelligent public to make it an +habitual place of resort.</p> + +<p>"That there exists in every great American city an intelligent +public large enough to support one or more such playhouses is +to my mind indisputable. But the theatre might have to be +run at a loss for two or three opening seasons, until it had +attracted and educated its habitual supporters. For even a +public of high general intelligence needs a certain amount of +special education in things of the theatre." This testimony is +in a highly optimistic vein.</p> + +<p>A talk with B. Iden Payne, once director of the Manchester +Players, reveals the fact that in England at the present time +the repertory idea is being taken over with more promise of +success by the small groups that represent the Little Theatre +movement in that country. The repertory theatre there did +succeed in arousing in the locality in which, for the time being, +it existed an interest in intelligent plays, but it was not equally +successful in confirming a distaste for unintelligent plays. The +study of these experiments will repay Americans who are interested +in seeing the repertory idea fostered over here by endowment +or otherwise.</p> + + +<h2>THE LITTLE THEATRE</h2> + +<p>The year 1911 saw the beginning in the United States of +the Little Theatre movement, which has grown with phenomenal +rapidity and has spread in all directions. The first +Little Theatres in this country were located in large cities; but +in the course of time the idea has penetrated to small towns +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxiv" name="pagexxiv"></a>(p. xxiv)</span> and rural communities all over the United States. Barns, +wharves, saloons, and school assembly halls have been transformed +into intimate little playhouses. There were European +precedents for this idea. The Théâtre Libre, opened in Paris +in 1887 by André Antoine as a protest against the kind of +play then in favor, is generally called the first of this type. +In the years from 1887 to 1911 Little Theatres were opened +in Russia, in Belgium, in Germany, in Sweden, in Hungary, +in England, in Ireland, and in France. In Europe these +theatres came into being, generally speaking, in order to give +freer play to the new arts of the theatre or for the purpose +of encouraging a more intellectual type of drama than was being +produced in the larger houses.</p> + +<p>There are two conceptions of the Little Theatre current in +the United States. According to one, it is a theatrical organization +housed in a simple building, that makes its productions +in the most economical way, does not pay its actors, does not +charge admission, and uses scenery and properties that are +cheaply manufactured at home.</p> + +<a id="img001" name="img001"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img001.jpg" width="600" height="395" alt="" title=""> +<p><i>Twelfth Night</i> on the stage of the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier, New York.</p> +</div> + +<p>The Little Theatre is, however, more commonly conceived +of as a repertory theatre supported by the subscription system, +producing its plays on a small stage in a small hall, selecting +for production the kind of play not likely to be used by the +Commercial Theatre, most frequently the one-act play, and committed +to experiments in stage decoration, lighting, and the +other stage arts. The Little Theatre and the one-act play +have developed each other reciprocally, for the Little Theatre +has encouraged the writing of one-act plays in Europe and in +this country. The one-act play is the natural unit of production +in the Little Theatre, both because it requires a less +sustained performance from the actors, who have frequently +been amateurs, and because it has offered in the same evening +several opportunities to the various groups of artists collaborating +in the productions of the Little Theatre. Though the +movement has had the effect of stimulating community spirit +and has been the means of solving grave community problems, +the Little Theatre is not, in the technical sense, a community +theatre; in the sense, that is, in which Percy MacKaye uses the +word. It is not, in fact, so portentous an enterprise, because it +does not enlist the participation of every member of a community. +The community theatre is an example of civic co-operation +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxv" name="pagexxv"></a>(p. xxv)</span> on a large scale; the Little Theatre, of the same kind +of co-operation on a small scale.</p> + +<p>Notably artistic results have been achieved by such Little +Theatres as The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York, built +in 1914 by the Misses Irene and Alice Lewisohn, in connection +with the social settlement idea, to provide expression for the +talents of a community that had been previously trained in +dramatic classes for some years; by the Chicago Little Theatre, +founded in 1911, now no longer in existence, but for a few +years under the direction of Maurice Browne, a disciple of +Gordon Craig's; by the Detroit Theatre of Arts and Crafts, +once under the direction of Mr. Sam Hume, also a follower +of Gordon Craig's; by the Washington Square Players, who +during several seasons in New York gave a remarkable impetus +to the writing of one-act plays in America; by the Provincetown +Players, whose first productions were made on Cape Cod, +who later opened a small playhouse in New York, and who +gave the public an opportunity to know the plays of Eugene +O'Neill; by the Portmanteau Theatre of Stuart Walker, that +uses but one setting in its productions, but varies the effect +with different colored lights, and as its name implies, is portable, +one of the few of its kind in the world; by the 47 Workshop +Theatre that has arisen as the result of the course in playwriting +given at Harvard University by Professor George Pierce +Baker, and the productions of which have served to introduce +many new writers; and by the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier, +that came to New York from Paris in 1917, and remained for +two seasons to illustrate the best French practice. These +theatres also enjoy the distinction of having experimented with +repertory.</p> + +<p>The Théâtre du Vieux Colombier was organized and is directed +by Jacques Copeau. It is no casual amateur experiment. +Its actors are professionals and its director is a scholar +and an artist. In preparation for the original opening the company +went into the country and established a little colony. +"During five hours of each day they studied repertoire but +they did far more. They performed exercises in physical culture +and the dance: they read aloud and acted improvised +dramatic scenes. They worked thus upon their bodies, their +voices and their actions: made them subtle instruments in their +command." They learned that in an artistic production every +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxvi" name="pagexxvi"></a>(p. xxvi)</span> gesture, every word, every line, and every color counted. +Naturally no group of amateurs or semi-professionals can approach +the results of a company trained as M. Copeau's is. +When he was over here, he was much interested in our Little +Theatres. He said in one of his addresses: "All the <i>little +theatres</i> which now swarm in America, ought to come to an +understanding among themselves and unite, instead of trying +to keep themselves apart and distinctive. The ideas which they +possess in common have not even begun to be put into execution. +They must be incorporated into life."<a id="footnotetag9" name="footnotetag9"></a><a href="#footnote9" title="Go to footnote 9"><span class="smaller">[9]</span></a></p> + +<p>The native Little Theatres, much simpler affairs than the +Vieux Colombier, persist. They have made a place for themselves +in American life, among the farms, in the suburbs, in the +small towns, and in the cities. Sometimes, no doubt, they are +like the one in Sinclair Lewis's Gopher Prairie; or they hardly +outlast a season. But new ones spring up to replace those that +have gone out of existence, and meanwhile the ends of wholesome +community recreation are being served.</p> + + +<h2>THE IRISH NATIONAL THEATRE</h2> + +<p>About 1890 began the movement which has since been +known as the Celtic Renaissance, a movement that had for its +object the lifting into literature of the songs, myths, romances, +and legends treasured for countless generations in the hearts +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxvii" name="pagexxvii"></a>(p. xxvii)</span> of the Irish peasantry. In the same decade in Great Britain +and on the Continent, tendencies were at work looking to the +reform of the drama and its rescue from commercial formulas. +The genesis of the Irish National Theatre, a pioneer in the +field of repertory in Great Britain, and one of the first of the +Little Theatres, is due to both of these influences.</p> + +<p>Its first form was the Irish Literary Theatre, founded in +1899 by Edward Martyn, the author of <i>The Heather Field</i> +and <i>Maeve</i>, George Moore, and William Butler Yeats. The +first play produced by this organization was Yeats's <i>Countess +Cathleen</i>. This enterprise employed only English actors, and +did not assume to be purely national in scope. It came to an +end in October, 1901. It was in October, 1902, that in +<i>Samhain</i>, the organ of the Irish National Theatre, William +Butler Yeats made the following announcement: "The Irish +Literary Theatre has given place to a company of Irish actors." +The nucleus of this new Irish National Theatre was certain +companies of amateurs that W. G. Fay had assembled. +These companies were composed of people who were unable to +give full time to their interest in the drama, but who came +from the office or the shop to rehearse at odd moments during +the day and in the evening. The Irish National Theatre really +developed from these amateur companies. It was strictly national +in scope. The advisers, who were to include Synge, +Lady Gregory, Padraic Colum, William Butler Yeats, and +others, looked to the Irish National Theatre to bring the drama +back to the people, to whom plays dealing with society life +meant nothing. They intended also that their plays "should +give them [the people] a quite natural pleasure, should either +tell them of their own life, or of that life of poetry where +every man can see his own magic, because there alone does +human nature escape from arbitrary conditions." This program +has been carried out with remarkable success.</p> + +<p>October, 1902, is the date for the beginning of the Irish +National Theatre. At first W. G. Fay, and his brother, +Frank Fay, were in charge of the productions, the former as +stage manager. Frank Fay had charge of training a company, +in which the star system was unknown. He had studied +French methods of stage diction and gesture, and the Irish +Players are generally said to show the results of his familiarity +with great French models. In 1913 a school of acting was +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxviii" name="pagexxviii"></a>(p. xxviii)</span> organized in order to perpetuate the tradition created by the +Fays.</p> + +<p>Among the most famous playwrights who have written for +the Irish National Theatre are Padraic Colum, John Millington +Synge, William Butler Yeats, Lady Gregory, St. John +G. Ervine, Æ (George W. Russell), and Lord Dunsany. +At one time the theatre sent out, in a circular addressed to +aspiring authors who showed promise, the following counsel: +"A play to be suitable for performance at the Abbey should +contain some criticism of life, founded on the experience or +personal observation of the writer, or some vision of life, of +Irish life by preference, important from its beauty or from +some excellence of style, and this intellectual quality is not +more necessary to tragedy than to the gayest comedy."<a id="footnotetag10" name="footnotetag10"></a><a href="#footnote10" title="Go to footnote 10"><span class="smaller">[10]</span></a></p> + +<p>In 1904 the Irish National Theatre was housed for the first +time in its own playhouse, the Abbey Theatre. This change +was made possible by the generosity of Miss A. E. F. Horniman, +who saw the Irish Players when they first went to London +in 1903. It was she who obtained the lease of the Mechanics' +Institute in Dublin, increased its capacity, and rebuilt it, giving +it rent free to the Players from 1904 to 1909, in addition to +an annual subsidy which she allowed them. In 1910 the +Abbey Theatre was bought from her by public subscription. +The next year, the Irish Players paid their famous visit to the +United States.</p> + +<p>The Irish National Dramatic Company was organized as a +protest against current theatrical practices. Its founders purposed +to reform the various arts of the theatre. By encouraging +native playwrights they hoped to do for the drama of +Ireland what Ibsen and other writers had done for the drama +in Scandinavian countries, where people go to the theatre to +think as well as to feel. It was not intended in any sense +that these new Irish players were to serve the purpose of +propaganda; truth was not to be compromised in the service +of a cause. Acting, too, was to be improved: redundant gesture +was to be suppressed; repose was to be given its full value; +speech was to be made more important than gesture. Yeats +in particular had theories as to the way in which verse should +be spoken on the stage; he advocated a cadenced chant, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxix" name="pagexxix"></a>(p. xxix)</span> monotonous but not sing-song, for the delivery of poetry. The +simplification of costume and setting was also included in their +scheme, for both were to be strictly accessory to the speech and +movement of the characters.</p> + +<p>They have been faithful to their ideals. The performances +at the Abbey Theatre continue, although from time to time +certain of the most eminent actors of the company have withdrawn, +some to migrate to America. Among the plays produced +in 1919 and 1920 by the National Theatre Society at +the Abbey Theatre are W. B. Yeats's <i>The Land of Heart's +Desire</i>, G. B. Shaw's <i>Androcles and the Lion</i>, Lady Gregory's +<i>The Dragon</i>, and Lord Dunsany's <i>The Glittering Gate</i>.</p> + + +<h2>THE NEW ART OF THE THEATRE</h2> + +<p>There are certain facts about the artistic transformation that +the theatre is undergoing in the twentieth century with which +students of the drama need to be familiar in order to picture +for themselves how plays can be interpreted by means of design, +color, and light. The transformation is definitely connected +with a few famous names. In Europe two men, Edward +Gordon Craig and Max Reinhardt, stand out as reformers in +matters connected with the construction, the lighting, and the +design of stage settings. In this country the artists of the +theatre are, generally speaking, disciples of one or both of these +great Europeans and their colleagues. The new stage artist +studies the characterization and the situations in the play, the +production of which he is directing, and tries to make his setting +suggestive of the physical and emotional atmosphere in +which the action of the drama moves.</p> + +<p>Gordon Craig has written several books and many articles +embodying his ideas on play production. In all his writings +he emphasizes the importance of having one individual with +complete authority and complete knowledge in charge of coordinating +and subordinating the various arts that go to make +the production of a play a symmetrical whole, his theory being +that there is no one art that can be called to the exclusion of +all others <i>the</i> Art of the Theatre: not the acting, not the play, +not the setting, not the dance; but that all these properly harmonized +through the personality of the director become the Art +of the Theatre.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxx" name="pagexxx"></a>(p. xxx)</span> The kind of setting that has become identified in the popular +mind with Gordon Craig is the simple monochrome background +composed either of draperies or of screens. It is unfortunate +that this popular idea should be so limited because, +of course, the name of Gordon Craig should carry with it the +suggestion of an infinite variety of ways of interpreting the +play through design. His screens, built to stand alone, vary +in number from one to four and sometimes have as many as +ten leaves. They are either made of solid wood or are wooden +frames covered with canvas. The screens with narrow leaves +may be used to produce curved forms, and screens with broad +leaves to enclose large rectangular spaces. The screens are one +form of the setting composed of adjustable units, which can +be adapted in an infinite variety of ways to the needs of the +play.</p> + +<p>The new ideas in European stagecraft began to be popularized +in America in the year 1914-15, when under the auspices +of the Stage Society, Sam Hume, now teaching the arts +of the theatre at the University of California, and Kenneth +Macgowan, the dramatic critic, arranged an exhibition that +was shown in New York, Chicago, and other great centres, +of new stage sets designed by Robert Edmond Jones, Sam +Hume, and others who have since become famous. The models +displayed on this occasion brought before the public for the +first time the new method of lighting which, as much as anything +else, differentiates the new theatre art from the old. It +introduced the device of a concave back wall made of plaster, +sometimes called by its German name "horizont," and a lighting +equipment that would dye this plaster horizon with colors +that melted into one another like the colors in the sky; a stage +with "dimmers" for every circuit of lights, and sockets for +high-power lamps at any spot from the stage.</p> + +<p>In the same year that the Stage Society showed Robert +Edmond Jones's models, he was given an opportunity to design +the settings and costumes for Granville Barker's production of +Anatole France's <i>The Man Who Married a Dumb Wife</i>, +which may be said to have advertised the new practices in +America more than any other single production.</p> + +<a id="img002" name="img002"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img002.jpg" width="600" height="534" alt="" title=""> +<p><i>The Merchant of Venice.</i> A room in Belmont. Design by Robert +Edmond Jones. A great round window framed in the heavy +molding of Mantegna and the pale clear sky of Northern Italy.</p> +</div> + +<p>Writing of his own work shortly after, Mr. Jones says: +"While the scenery of a play is truly important, it should be +so important that the audience should forget that it is present. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxi" name="pagexxxi"></a>(p. xxxi)</span> There should be fusion between the play and the scenery. +Scenery isn't there to be looked at, it's really there to be +forgotten. The drama is a fire, the scenery is the air that lifts +the fire and makes it bright.... The audience that is +always conscious of the back drop is paying a doubtful compliment +to the painter.... Even costumes should be the +handiwork of the scenic artist. Yes, and if possible, he should +build the very furniture."<a id="footnotetag11" name="footnotetag11"></a><a href="#footnote11" title="Go to footnote 11"><span class="smaller">[11]</span></a> Robert Edmond Jones has not +only designed settings and costumes for poetic and fantastic +forms of drama, but he has also been called upon to plan the +productions of realistic modern plays.</p> + +<p>Three of his designs introducing three different aspects of his +work have been here reproduced. The model for Maeterlinck's +<i>The Seven Princesses</i> is an example of an attempt to present +the essential significant structure of a setting in the simplest +way conceivable and by so doing to stimulate the imagination +of the spectator to create for itself the imaginative environment +of the play. His design for a room in Belmont for <i>The +Merchant of Venice</i> shows a great round window framed in +the heavy molding of Mantegna and the pale, clear sky of +Northern Italy. The scene for <i>Good Gracious Annabelle</i> is a +corridor in an hotel. This scene is a typical example of a +more or less abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed +primarily with the idea of giving as many different exits +and entrances as possible, in order that the action of the drama +might be swift and varied.<a id="footnotetag12" name="footnotetag12"></a><a href="#footnote12" title="Go to footnote 12"><span class="smaller">[12]</span></a></p> + +<p>When Sam Hume was connected with the Detroit Theatre +of Arts and Crafts, he used a symbolic and suggestive method +for the setting of poetic plays the scene of which was laid in +no definite locality. In this theatre he installed a permanent +setting, including the following units: "Four pylons [square +pillars], constructed of canvas on wooden frames, each of the +three covered faces measuring two and one-half by eighteen +feet; two canvas flats each three by eighteen feet; two sections +of stairs three feet long, and one section eight feet long, of +uniform eighteen-inch height; three platforms of the same +height, respectively six, eight, and twelve feet long; dark green +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxii" name="pagexxxii"></a>(p. xxxii)</span> hangings as long as the pylons; two folding screens for masking, +covered with the same cloth as that used in the hangings, +and as high as the pylons; and two irregular tree forms in +silhouette.</p> + +<p>"The pylons, flats, and stairs, and such added pieces as the +arch and window, were painted in broken color ...<a id="footnotetag13" name="footnotetag13"></a><a href="#footnote13" title="Go to footnote 13"><span class="smaller">[13]</span></a> so +that the surfaces would take on any desired color under the +proper lighting."<a id="footnotetag14" name="footnotetag14"></a><a href="#footnote14" title="Go to footnote 14"><span class="smaller">[14]</span></a> The economy of this method is illustrated +by the fact that in one season nineteen plays were given in the +Arts and Crafts Theatre at Detroit, and the settings for eleven +of these were merely rearrangements of the permanent setting. +This kind of setting is sometimes called "plastic"—a term +which refers to the fact that the separate units are in the +round, and not flat. The effect secured in settings representing +outdoor scenes was made possible only by the use of a +plaster horizon of the general type described in connection with +the exhibition of the Stage Society.</p> + +<a id="img003" name="img003"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img003.jpg" width="600" height="221" alt="" title=""> +<p><i>Good Gracious Annabelle.</i> A corridor in a hotel. Design by Robert Edmond Jones. A typical example of a +more or less abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily with the idea of giving as many +different exits and entrances as possible in order that the action of the drama might be swift and varied.</p> +</div> + +<p>Robert Edmond Jones and Sam Hume are two of an increasingly +large number of artists in America, among whom +should be mentioned Norman-bel Geddes, Maurice Browne, +and Lee Simonson, who are experimenting with design, color, +and light. Underlying the work of all of these is the belief +that the whole production, the play, the acting, the lighting, +and the setting, should be unified by some one dominating +mood. In the work of these new artists, there is no place +for the old-fashioned painted back drop, the use of which +emphasizes the disparity between the painted and the actual +perspective, though their backgrounds are by no means necessarily +either screens or draperies. Another new style of background +is the skeleton setting, a permanent structural foundation +erected on the stage, which through the addition of +draperies and movable properties, or the variation of lights, +or the manipulation of screens, may serve for all the scenes +of a play. A permanent structure of this sort, representing +the Tower of London, was used by Robert Edmond Jones in +a recent production of <i>Richard III</i> in New York, at the +Plymouth Theatre. When Jacques Copeau conducted the +Théâtre du Vieux Colombier in New York he had a permanent +structure built on the stage of the Garrick Theatre, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxiii" name="pagexxxiii"></a>(p. xxxiii)</span> that he used for all the plays he produced; at times the upper +half of the stage was masked, at times the recess back of the +two central columns was used. The aspect of the stage was +often completely changed by the addition of tapestries, stairs, +panels, screens, and furniture.</p> + +<p>In the description of the equipment of the Detroit Theatre +of Arts and Crafts, reference has been made to a method of +painting the plastic units in broken color. This is so important +a principle that it should be more generally understood +by those who are interested in the theatre. The principle was +put into operation by the Viennese designer, Joseph Urban. +In practice it means that a canvas painted with red and with +green spots upon which a red light is played, throws up only the +red spots blended so as to produce a red surface, and that +the same canvas under a green light shows a green surface; +and, if both kinds of lights are used, then both the green and +red spots are brought out, according to the proportion of the +mixture of green and red in the light.</p> + +<p>Color is being used now not only for decorative purposes, +but also symbolically. The decorative use of color on the +stage is, obviously, like the decorative use of color in the design +of textiles, or stained glass, or posters. The symbolic use of +color is less easy to interpret, but it is plain that in most people's +minds red is connected with excitement and frenzy, and +blues and grays, with an atmosphere of mystery. This is a +very bald suggestion of some of the very subtle things that +have been done with color on the modern stage.</p> + +<p>The new methods of stage lighting make possible all kinds +of color combinations and effects. The use of the plaster +horizon (or of the cyclorama, a cheaper substitute, usually a +straight semi-circular curtain enclosing the stage, made of either +white or light blue cloth), combined with high-powered lights +set at various angles on the stage, makes outdoor effects possible, +the beauty of which is new to the theatre.<a id="footnotetag15" name="footnotetag15"></a><a href="#footnote15" title="Go to footnote 15"><span class="smaller">[15]</span></a> Nowadays +footlights are not invariably discarded, but where they are +used they are wired so that groups of them can be lighted +when other sections are dimmed or darkened. When the setting +shows an interior scene with a window, though the scene +may be lighted from all sides, the window seems to be the +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxiv" name="pagexxxiv"></a>(p. xxxiv)</span> source of all light. A good deal of the lighting on the stage +is what is known in the interior decoration of houses as indirect +lighting; colored lights are produced most simply by the +interposition between the source of light and the stage of +transparent colored slides, gelatine or glass.</p> + +<p>In any production that is made under the influence of the +new stagecraft, the costumes, like the setting of the play, are +considered in connection with the resources of lighting. The +costumes, whether historically correct or historically suggestive, +whether of a period or conventionalized, are conceived in their +three-fold relation to the characters of the play, the background, +and the scheme of lights, by the designer or the director +under whose general supervision the play is staged.</p> + +<p>In general, American audiences are hardly conscious of the +existence of these reforms. Here and there, it is true, the +manager of a commercial theatre or an opera house has called +in an artist to supervise his productions and has thus given +publicity to the new way of making the arts of the theatre +work together. Certain Little Theatres, also, have educated +their followers in the significance of the new use of light and +design to represent the mood of a play. The demands that the +new method makes on craftsmanship have also commended it +to students in schools and colleges interested in play production. +Both the Little Theatres and the school theatres are +doing a real service when they educate their communities in +these new arts, for not only will this education increase the +capacity of these particular audiences to enjoy the good things +of the theatre, but the influence of these groups is bound in +the long run to popularize the new stagecraft.</p> + + +<h2>PLAYMAKING</h2> + +<p>Shortly before the death of William Dean Howells, he related +the experience that he had had of being circularized by +a correspondence school that offered to teach him the art of +writing fiction in a phenomenally short time at a ridiculously +low rate. In this instance, there was something wrong with +the mailing list, but the fact remains that in universities successful +courses in writing short-stories and plays are given and +the best of these courses actually have turned out writers who +achieve various degrees of success financially and artistically +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxv" name="pagexxxv"></a>(p. xxxv)</span> It is plain that a brief treatise like the present one makes no +such pretensions; it means merely to suggest some of the most +obvious points of departure for students in the drama who wish +to exercise themselves in the composition of the one-act play, +much as a student of poetry will try his hand at a <i>ballade</i> or +a sonnet without taking himself or his metrical exercises too +seriously.</p> + +<a id="img004" name="img004"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img004.jpg" width="400" height="533" alt="" title=""> +<p><i>Courtesy of Theatre Arts Magazine</i></p> + +<p><i>The Seven Princesses.</i> Design by Robert Edmond Jones. An example of the +attempt to present the essential significant structure of a setting in the simplest +way conceivable and by so doing to stimulate the imagination of the spectator +to create for itself the imaginative environment of the play.</p> +</div> + +<p>In the famous Perse School in Cambridge, England, the +boys begin at the age of twelve to practise playmaking as an +aid to the fuller understanding of Shakespeare's dramatic workmanship, +and this work is developed throughout the rest of the +course. The boys, having learned that Shakespeare himself +used stories that he found ready to hand, discover in their own +reading a story that will lend itself to dramatization. The +story is told and retold from every angle. The class is then +divided up into committees to every one of which is entrusted +some part of the dramatization. One little committee busies +itself with the setting, another with the structure, another with +the comic characters, another with the songs that are interspersed +and so on. These committees prepare rough notes to +be presented in class. These notes may propose an outline of +successive scenes, present the part of some principal character, +or the "business" (illustrative action) of some minor part. +Lessons of this sort are followed by composition rehearsals, +where the dramatic and literary value of the proposed plot, +characterization, pantomime, and dialogue are tested, and subjected +to the criticism of teacher and boys. In the next lessons, +the teacher brings to bear on the special problems on +which the boys are working all the criticism that his wider +range of reading and experience can suggest. In the light +of his suggestions the various points are debated and the boys +then proceed to careful fashioning, shaping, and writing. A +rehearsal of the nearly finished product is held, followed by a +final revision of the text. The work then goes forward to +a public performance given with all due ceremony. In the +higher classes playmaking is taught more especially in connection +with writing and the boys are trained to imitate the style +of various dramatists. Synge was used as a model at one time +for, as one of the masters of the school explained: "The style +of Synge is easy to copy because it is so largely composed of +a certain phraseology. The same words, phrases, and turns of +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxvi" name="pagexxxvi"></a>(p. xxxvi)</span> sentence occur again and again. Here are a few taken at +random; the reader will find them in a context on almost any +page of the plays: <i>It's myself</i>—<i>Is it me fight him?</i>—<i>I'm thinking</i>—<i>It's +a poor</i> (<i>fine, great, hard</i>, etc.) <i>thing</i>—<i>A little path +I have</i>—<i>Let you come</i>—<i>God help us all</i>—<i>Till Tuesday was +a week</i>—<i>The end of time</i>—<i>The dawn of day</i>—<i>Let on</i>—<i>Kindly</i>—<i>Now</i>, +as in <i>Walk out now</i>—<i>Surely</i>—<i>Maybe</i>—<i>Itself</i>—<i>At +all</i>—<i>Afeard</i>—<i>Destroyed</i>—<i>It curse</i>. Synge is also mighty +fond of the words <i>ditch</i> and <i>ewe</i>. And there are certain forms +of rhythm about Synge's prose which are used with equal frequency, +and are quick and easy to catch. So far from this imitation +of style being an artificial method, the fact is that once a boy +of sixteen or over has read a play or two of Synge's, if he has +any power of style in him, it will be all but impossible to stop +him writing like Synge for a few weeks." Learning playwriting +from models recalls the method of Benjamin Franklin and +Robert Louis Stevenson who in their youth wrote slavish imitations +of the great masters in order to form their own prose +style. Of course, it is not claimed that this work at the Perse +School makes playwrights, only that it gives the boys a deeper +appreciation of dramatic workmanship and furnishes a new +kind of intellectual game to add to the joy of school life.</p> + +<p>The one-act plays contained in this collection are, as has +been suggested in what has been said about their construction, +illustrative of various kinds of workmanship. Certain of them +are excellent models for those who are experimenting with +playwriting. The one-act play, not nearly so difficult a form +as the full-length play, offers undergraduates in school and +college and inexperienced writers generally unlimited scope for +experiment.</p> + +<p>The testimony of Lord Dunsany is to the effect that his play +is made when he has discovered a motive. Asked whether he +always began with a motive, "'Not always,' he said; 'I begin +with anything or next to nothing. Then suddenly, I get started, +and go through in a hurry. The main point is not to interrupt +a mood. Writing is an easy thing when one is going strong +and going fast; it becomes a hard thing only when the onward +rush is impeded. Most of my short plays have been written in +a sitting or two.'"<a id="footnotetag16" name="footnotetag16"></a><a href="#footnote16" title="Go to footnote 16"><span class="smaller">[16]</span></a> This passage is quoted because insight +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxvii" name="pagexxxvii"></a>(p. xxxvii)</span> into the practice of professional writers is always helpful to +amateurs. Dunsany uses "motive," it seems, as a convenient +term for denoting the idea, the character, the incident or the +mood that impels the dramatist to start writing a play. Such +material is to be found everywhere. Many professional writers +accumulate vast stores of such themes against the day when they +may have the necessary leisure, energy, and insight to develop +them.</p> + +<p>It has been pointed out that there are only thirty-six possible +dramatic situations in any case, and that no matter how the +plot shapes itself, it is bound to classify itself somehow or +other as one of the inescapable thirty-six. There is comfort +also in the suggestion that Shakespeare drew practically all the +dramatic material that he used so transcendently direct from +the familiar and accessible narrative stores of his day. The +young or inexperienced playwright need have no hesitation, +then, in turning to such sources as the Greek myths for inspiration. +Quite recently a highly successful one-act play of Phillip +Moeller's proved that Helen of Troy is as eternally interesting +as she is perennially beautiful. Maurice Baring draws on the +old Greek stories, too, for several of his <i>Diminutive Dramas</i>. +The Bible has proved dramatically suggestive to Lord Dunsany +and to Stephen Phillips. The old ballads of <i>Fair Annie</i> and +<i>The Wife of Usher's Well</i> have been found dramatically +available. The myths of the old Norse Gods, used by Richard +Wagner for his music dramas, contain much unmined dramatic +gold. John Masefield and Sigurjónsson have converted Saga +material to the uses of the drama. In old English literature, +in <i>Widsith</i>, in the <i>Battle of Brunanburh</i>, the seeking +dramatist may find. The romances of the Middle Ages, the +fairy lore of all peoples, and the old Hindu animal fables +are fertile in suggestion to the intending dramatist. What +a wonderful one-act play, steeped in the mellow atmosphere +of the Renaissance in Italy, might be made out of Browning's +<i>My Last Duchess!</i> At least one new literary precedent +has recently been created by the author who wrote a sequel +to <i>Dombey and Son</i>. Certainly many famous novels and +plays may be conceived as calling out for similar treatment +at the hands of the experimental playwright. Famous literary +and historic characters offer themselves as promising dramatic +material. When Robert Emmons Rogers, author of the well-known +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxviii" name="pagexxxviii"></a>(p. xxxviii)</span> play, <i>Behind a Watteau Picture</i>, was a sophomore at +Harvard, he wrote the following charming little play on Shakespeare +which is reprinted here, with the author's permission, as +a pleasing example of a promising piece of apprentice work:<a id="footnotetag17" name="footnotetag17"></a><a href="#footnote17" title="Go to footnote 17"><span class="smaller">[17]</span></a></p> + + +<h2>THE BOY WILL</h2> + +<p class="opening"><i><span class="min10pc">Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, +1582.</span> The room is of heavy-beamed dark oak, stained by +age and smoke, with a great, hooded fireplace on the left. +At the back is a door with the upper half thrown back, +and two wide windows through whose open lattices, overgrown +with columbine, one can see the fresh country side +in the setting sun. Under them are broad window seats. +At the right, a door and a tall dresser filled with pewter +plates and tankards. A couple of chairs, a stool and a +low table stand about.</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span>, <i>a slim girl of sixteen, is +mending the fire.</i> <span class="smcap">Master George Peele</span>, <i>a bold and +comely young man, in worn riding dress and spattered +boots, sprawls against the disordered table.</i> <span class="smcap">Giles</span>, <i>a +plump and peevish old rogue in tapster's cap and apron, +stands by the door looking out.</i></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>rousing himself</i>]. Giles! Gi-les!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>hurries to him</i>]. What more, zur? Wilt ha' the +pastry or—?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Another quart of sack.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span>. Yus, zur! Anne, bist asleep? [<i>The girl rises +slowly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>takes the tankard</i>]. He hath had three a'ready.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>cheerfully</i>]. And shall have three more so I will. +This player's life of mine is a weary one.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>pertly</i>]. And a thirsty one, too, methinks.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexxxix" name="pagexxxix"></a>(p. xxxix)</span> <span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>scandalized</i>]. Come, wench! Ha' done gawking +about, and haste! [<span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>goes at right.</i>] 'Er be a forrard +gel, zur, though hendy. I be glad 'er's none o' mine, but my +brother's in Shottery. He canna say I love 'is way o' making +wenches so saucy.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. A pox on you! The best-spirited maid I ha' seen +in Warwickshire, I say. Forward? Man alive, wouldst have +her like your blowsy wenches here, that lie i' the sun all day? +I have seen no one so comely since I left London.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>feebly</i>]. But 'ere, zur, in Stratford—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>hotly</i>]. Stratford? I doubt if God made Stratford! +Another day here and I should die in torment. Your +grass lanes, your rubbly houses, fat burgesses, old women, your +young clouter-heads who have no care for a bravely acted +stage-play. [<i>Bitingly.</i>] "Can any good come out of Stratford?"</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles.</span> Noa, Maister Peele! Others ha' spoke more +fairly—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>impatiently</i>]. My sack, man! Is the girl a-brewing it?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles.</span> Anne! Anne! (I'll learn she to mess about.) Anne!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>hurries in and serves</i> <span class="smcap">Peele</span>]. I heard you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles.</span> Then whoi cunst thee not bustle? Be I to lose my +loongs over 'ee?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>simply</i>]. Mistress Shakespeare called me to the +butt'ry door. Will hath not been home all day, and she is +fair anxious. She bade me send him home once I saw him.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>drinking noisily</i>]. Who is it? [<span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>is clearing +the table.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>shortly</i>]. Poor John Shakespeare's son Will.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele.</span> A Stratford lad? A straw-headed beater of clods!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles.</span> Nay, zur. A wild young un, as 'ull do noa honest +work, but dreams the day long, or poaches the graät woods wi' +young loons o' like stomach.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>indignantly, dropping a dish</i>]. It's not true! He +is no poacher.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>grinning</i>]. What a touchy lass! No poacher, eh?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Nay, sir, but the brightest lad in Stratford. He +hath learning beyond the rest of us—and if he likes to wander +i' the woods, 'tis for no ill—he loves the open air—and you +should hear the little songs he makes!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele.</span> Do all the lads find in you such a defender, or +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexl" name="pagexl"></a>(p. xl)</span> only—? [<i>She turns away.</i>] Nay, no offense! I should like +to see this Will.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>grumpily</i>]. 'E 'ave noa will to help 'is father in +these sorry times, but ever gawks at stage-plays. 'E 'ull come +to noa good end. [<i>The player starts up.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Stage-plays—no good end? Have a care, man!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span>. Nay, zur—noa harm, zur! I—I—canna bide +longer. [<i>Backs out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>at the window, wonderingly</i>]. He should be here. +He hath never lingered till sunset before. [<span class="smcap">Peele</span> <i>comes up +behind her.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Troubled, lass?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Nay, sir, but—but—[<i>Suddenly</i>] Listen!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>blankly</i>]. To what? [<i>A faint singing without.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>eagerly</i>]. Canst hear nothing—a lilt afar off?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>nodding</i>]. Like a May-day catch? I hear it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. 'Tis Will! Cousin, Will is coming. [<span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>comes +back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>peevishly</i>]. I canna help it. Byunt 'e later'n +common?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">A Voice</span>. [<i>The clear, boyish singing is coming very near.</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +When springtime frights the winter cold, <span class="ralign">5</span><br> +<span class="add1em">(Hark to the children singing!)</span><br> +The cowslip turns the fields to gold,<br> +<span class="add1em">The bird from 's nest is winging—</span></p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Look you! There the boy comes.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>leaning out the window</i>]. Isn't he coming here? +Will! Will! [<i>He passes by the window singing the last +words</i></p> + +<p class="poem20"> +Young hearts are gay, while yet 'tis May,<br> +Hark to the children singing!</p> + +<p><i>and leaps in over the lower part of the door, a sturdy, ruddy +boy, with merry face and a mop of brown hair.</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>greets +him with outstretched hands.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>reproachfully</i>]. Will! Thy mother was so anxious!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. I did na' think. I ha' been in the woods all day and +forgot everything till the sun set.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. All the day long? Thou must be weary.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>frankly</i>]. Nay, not very weary—but hungry.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Poor boy. He shall have his supper now.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexli" name="pagexli"></a>(p. xli)</span> <span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>protesting</i>]. 'E be allus eating 'ere, and I canna +a-bear it. Let him sup at his own whoam.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>shaking his head</i>]. I dare na go home, for na doubt +my father'll beat me rarely. I'll bide here till he be asleep. +[<i>He places himself easily in the armchair by the fire.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>going sulkily</i>]. Thriftless young loon!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>laying the table</i>]. Hast had a splendid day?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>absently</i>]. Aye. In the great park at Charlecote. +There you can lie on your back in the grass under the high +arches of the trees, where the sun rarely peeps in, and you can +listen to the wind in the trees, and see it shake the blossoms +about you, and watch the red deer and the rabbits and the +birds—where everything is lovely and still. [<i>His voice trails +off into silence.</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>smiles knowingly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Thou'lt be making poetry before long, eh, Will?—Will? +[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Peele</span>] The boy hath not heard a word I +spoke.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>coming forward</i>]. Would he hear me, I wonder! +Boy!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>starting</i>]. Sir? [<span class="smcap">Peele</span> <i>looks down on him sternly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Dost know thou'rt in my chair?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>coolly</i>]. Thine? Indeed, 'tis very easy.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Hark 'ee! Dost know my name?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. I canna say I do.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>distinctly</i>]. Master George Peele.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. I thank thee, sir.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Player in my Lord Admiral's Company.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. [<i>His whole manner changes and he jumps up +eagerly.</i>] A player? Oh—I did not know. Pray, take the +seat.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>amused</i>]. Dost think players are as lords? Most +men have other views. [<i>Sits.</i> <span class="smcap">Will</span> <i>watches him, fascinated.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Nay, but—oh, I love to see stage-plays! Didst not +play in Coventry three days agone, "The History of the +Wicked King Richard"?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Aye, aye. Behold in me the tyrant.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Thou? Rarely done! I mind me yet how the +hump-backed king frowned and stamped about—thus [<i>imitating</i>]. +Ha! Ha! 'Twas a brave play!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Thy supper is ready, Will.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>amused</i>]. The true player-instinct, on my soul!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexlii" name="pagexlii"></a>(p. xlii)</span> <span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>flattered</i>]. Dost truly think so? [<span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>plucks his +sleeve.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Will, where are thy wits? Supper waits.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>apologetically</i>]. Oh—I—I—did na hear thee. [<i>He +tries to eat, but his attention is ever distracted by the player's +words.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Is my reckoning ready, girl?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Reckoning now, sir? Wilt thou—?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Yes, yes, I go to-night. To-morrow Warwick, then +the long road to Oxford, playing by the way—and London +at last!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. And then? [<span class="smcap">Will</span> <i>listens intently.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Then back to the old Blackfriars, where all the city +will flock to our tragedies and chronicles—a long, merry life +of it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>interested</i>]. And does the Queen ever come?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Nay, child, we go to her. Last Christmas I played +before her at court, in the great room at Whitehall, before +the nobles and ambassadors and ladies—oh, a gay time—and +the Queen said—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>starting up</i>]. What was the play?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Eat thy supper, Will.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>impatiently</i>]. I want no more.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. So my young cockerel is awake again. Will, a boy +of thy stamp is lost here in Stratford. Thou shouldst be in +London with us. By cock and pie, I have a mind to steal thee +for the company! [<i>Rises to pace the floor.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>breathlessly</i>]. To play in London?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Nay, Will, he but jests. Thou'rt happier here than +traipsing about wi' the players. [<span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>appears at back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span>. Nags be ready, zur, at sunset as thee'st bid. Shall +I put the gear on?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>sharply</i>]. Well fed and groomed? Nay, I will see +them myself. [<span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>vanishes.</i> <span class="smcap">Peele</span> <i>turns at the door.</i>] +Hark'ee, lass. Thy lad could do far worse than become a +player. Good meat and drink, gold in 's pouch, favor at court, +and true friends. I like the lad's spirit. [<i>He goes.</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span> +<i>drops into his chair by the fire. Twilight is coming on rapidly.</i> +<span class="smcap">Will</span> <i>stands silent at the window looking after the player.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>troubled</i>]. Will, what is it? Thou'rt very strange +to-night.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexliii" name="pagexliii"></a>(p. xliii)</span> <span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>wistfully</i>]. I—I—Oh, Anne, I want to go to London. +I am a-weary of rusting in Stratford, where I can learn +nothing new, save to grow old, following my father's trade.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. But in London?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>kindling</i>]. In London one can learn more marvels +in a day than in a lifetime here; for there the streets are in a +bustle all day long, and the whole world meets in them, soldiers +and courtiers and men of war, from France and Spain and the +new lands beyond the sea, all full of learning and pleasant tales +of foreign wars and the wondrous things in the colonies. My +schoolmaster told me of it. You can stand in St. Paul's and +the whole world passes by, mad for knowledge and adventure. +And then the stage-plays—!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Oh, Will, why long for them?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Think how splendid they must be when the Queen +herself loves to see 'em. If I were like this player-fellow, and +acted with the Admiral's company! He laughed that he would +take me with him—to be a player and perchance <i>write</i> plays, +interludes, and noble tragedies! Think of it, Anne—to live in +London and be one of all the rare company there, to write +brave plays wi' sounding lines for all to wonder at, and have +folk turn on the streets when I passed and whisper, "That be +Will Shakespeare, the play-maker"—to act them even at court +and gain the Queen's own thanks! Anne, London is so great +and splendid! It beckons me wi' all its turmoil of affairs and +its noble hearts ready to love a new comrade. [<i>Disconsolately</i>] +And I must bide in Stratford?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>gently</i>]. Come now, Will. No need to be so +feverish. Sit down by me. What canst thou know of play-making? +What canst thou do in London?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>he sits down by the hearth at her feet, looking into +the firelight</i>]. I'll tell thee, Anne. Thy father and half the +village call me a lazy oaf, that I stray i' the woods some days +instead of helping my father. I canna help it. The fit comes +on me, and I must be alone, out i' the great woods.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>gladly</i>]. Then thou dost not poach?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>hastily</i>]. No, no—that is—sometimes I am with +Hodge and Diccon and John a' Field, and 'tis hard not to +chase the deer. Nay, look not so grave—I try to do no harm.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>quietly</i>]. And when thou'rt alone?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Then I lie under the trees or wander through the +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexliv" name="pagexliv"></a>(p. xliv)</span> fields, and make plays to myself, as though I writ them in my +mind, and cry the lines forth to the birds—they sound nobly, +too—or make little songs and sing them i' the sunshine. They +are but dreams, I know, but splendid ones—and the player +looked wi' favor on me, and said I might make a good player, +and he would take me with him.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. But he only jested.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. No jest to me! I'll take him at his word and go +with him to London. [<i>He starts up eagerly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>troubled</i>]. Will, Will! [<span class="smcap">Peele</span> <i>enters at the back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Hark 'ee, Giles, I go in half an hour!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Master Peele! [<i>Catches at his arm.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span>. Well, youngster?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>slowly</i>]. Thou—thou saidst I had a good spirit and +would do well in London—in a stage company. Thou wert +in jest, but—I will go with thee, if I may.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>taken all aback</i>]. Go with me?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>earnestly</i>]. With the player's company—to London.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>laughing</i>]. 'S wounds! Thou hast assurance! Dost +think to become a great player at once?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>impatiently</i>]. Oh, I care not for the playing. Let +me but be in London, to see the people there and be near the +theatre. I'll be the players' servant, I'll hold the nobles' horses +in the street—I'll do anything!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>seriously</i>]. And go with us all over England on +hard journeys to play to ignorant rustics?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Anywhere—I'll follow on to the world's end—only +take me with you to London! [<i>As he speaks</i> <span class="smcap">Giles</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Mistress +Shakespeare</span>, <i>a kindly faced woman of middle age, +dressed in housewife's cap and gown, appear at the door.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span>. There 'e be, Mistress Shixpur.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> [<i>as she enters</i>]. Oh, Will. [<i>He turns sharply.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>confusedly</i>]. Mother! I—I—did not know thou +wert here.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> Why didst not come home—and what dost +thou want with this stranger?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. He would go to London with him.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> [<i>aghast</i>]. To London. My Will?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>quietly</i>]. Thou knowest, mother, what I ha' told +thee, things I told to no other, and now the good time has come +that I can see more of England.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexlv" name="pagexlv"></a>(p. xlv)</span> <span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> But I canna let thee go. Oh, Anne, I knew +the boy was restless, but I did not think for it so soon. He is +only a boy.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>coloring</i>]. In two years I shall be a man—I am a +man now in spirit. I canna stay in Stratford. [<span class="smcap">Mistress +Shakespeare</span> <i>sinks down in a chair.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> What o' me? And, Will, 'twill break thy +father's heart! [<span class="smcap">Will</span> <i>looks ashamed.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. I know, he would not understand. 'Tis hard. He +must not know till I be gone.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Peele</span>]. Oh, sir, how could you wish to +lead the lad away? Hath not London enough a'ready?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>who has been listening uncomfortably, faces her +gravely</i>]. I but played with the lad at first, till I saw how +earnest he was; then I would take him, for I loved his boldness. +But, boy, I'll tell thee fairly, thou'lt do better here. +Thou'st seen the brave side of it, the gay dresses, the good +horses, the cheering crowds and the court-favor. But 'tis dark +sometimes, too. The pouches often hang empty when the people +turn away—the lords are as the clouded sun, now smiling, +now cold—and there come the bitter days, when a man has no +friends but the pot-mates of the moment, when every man's +hand is against him for a vagabond and a rascal, when the +prison-gates lay ever wide before him, and the fickle folk, crying +after a <i>new</i> favorite, leave the old to starve.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Will, canst not see? Thou'rt better here—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>bravely</i>]. I know—all this may wait me—but I +must go.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> [<i>alarmed</i>]. Must go, Will? [<i>He kneels by +her side.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. [<i>tenderly</i>]. Hush, mother, I'll tell thee. 'Tis not +entirely my longing, for this morning the keeper of old Lucy—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span>. Ha, poaching again, young scamp!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Brought me before him—I was na poaching, I'll +swear it, not so much as chasing the deer—but Sir Thomas had +no patience, and bade me clear out, else he would seize me. +I—I—dare na stay.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> I feared it; thy father forbade thee in the +great park. And now—Oh, Will, Will—I know well how +thou'st longed to go from here—and now thou must—what +shall I do, lacking thee?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexlvi" name="pagexlvi"></a>(p. xlvi)</span> <span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>frankly</i>]. Will, if thou must go, thou must. London +is greater than Stratford, and there is much evil there, +but thou'rt true-hearted, and—by my player's honor—I will +stand by thee, till the hangman get me. But we must go soon. +'Tis a dark road to Warwick—I'll see to the horses. Is it a +compact? [<span class="smcap">Will</span> <i>gives him his hands.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>huskily</i>]. A compact, sir—to the end. [<span class="smcap">Peele</span> <i>hurries +out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span>. Look at 'e now, breaking 'is mother's heart, and +mad wi' joy to revel in London. 'Tis little 'e recks of she.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>hotly</i>]. Thou liest. [<i>Bending over her</i>] Mother, +'tis not true. I do love thee and father, I love Stratford. I'll +never forget it. But 'tis so little here, and I must get away to +gain learning and do things i' the world, that I may bring +home all I get; fame, if God grant it, money, if I gain it, all +to those at home.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Thou'rt over-confident.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. Aye, because I'm young. God knows there is +enough pain in London, and I'll get my share—but I'm <i>young</i>! +Mother, thou'rt not angry?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> I knew 'twas coming, and 'tis not so hard. +We will always wait for thee at home, when thou'rt weary.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Giles</span> [<i>at the door</i>]. The horses are waiting. 'Tis dark, +Will.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>breaking down</i>]. Mother, mother!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Mistress S.</span> The good God keep thee safe. Kiss me, Will. +[<i>He bends over her, then stumbles to the door,</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>following.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>turning</i>]. Anne—Anne—thou dost not despise me +for deserting Stratford. I <i>must</i> go.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Oh, I know. Thou'lt go to London and forget +us all.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will.</span> No, no, thou—I couldn't forget. I'll remember +thee, Anne—I'll put thee in my plays; all my young maids and +lovers shall be thee, as thou'rt now—and I'll bring thee rare +gifts when I come home.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. I do na want them. Will—I—I—did na mean to +be unkind. We were good friends, and I trust in thee, for the +future, that thou'lt be great. Good-by—and do na forget the +little playmate.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span>. I will na forget [<i>kissing her</i>], and, Anne, be good to +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexlvii" name="pagexlvii"></a>(p. xlvii)</span> my mother. [<i>She goes back to</i> <span class="smcap">Mistress Shakespeare</span>, <i>and +he stands watching them in the dusk.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Peele</span> [<i>at the window</i>]. Come, come, Will! We must go.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Will</span> [<i>turning slowly</i>]. I—I'm coming, sir.</p> +</div> + +<p class="ending">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<p>All the dramatic motives that have been enumerated so far +have been more or less literary in origin, but "A play may start +from almost anything: a detached thought that flashes through +the mind; a theory of conduct or an act which one firmly believes +or wishes only to examine; a bit of dialogue overheard +or imagined; a setting, real or imagined, which creates emotion +in the observer; a perfectly detached scene, the antecedents and +consequences of which are as yet unknown; a figure glimpsed +in a crowd which for some reason arrests the attention of the +dramatist ... a mere incident—heard in idle talk or observed; +a story told only in barest outline or with the utmost +detail."<a id="footnotetag18" name="footnotetag18"></a><a href="#footnote18" title="Go to footnote 18"><span class="smaller">[18]</span></a></p> + +<p>The great dramatic critic, William Archer, has said that +"the only valid definition of the dramatic is: Any representation +of imaginary personages which is capable of interesting an +average audience assembled in a theater." For the purposes +of the definition the Boy Will of Robert Emmons Rogers's +little piece and Drinkwater's Abraham Lincoln are equally +imaginary personages. In the case of the one-act play the +theatre in question is more often than not a Little Theatre or +a school theatre, the representation is more frequently at the +moment by amateur than by professional actors and the audience, +being small and close to the stage, is likely to assume a co-operative +attitude towards the playwright, the actor, and the +other immediate factors in the production. Since the success +of a play depends on its adaptability to the requirements of +actor, theatre, and audience, it is well for inexperienced playwrights +to study the conditions under which one-act plays are +likely to be produced.</p> + +<p>One very practical consideration to hold in mind is that the +one-act play has a shorter time in which to focus attention than +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexlviii" name="pagexlviii"></a>(p. xlviii)</span> the full-length play and so the indispensable preliminary exposition +must be quickly disposed of and an urgent appeal to the +emotional interest of the audience must be made at the beginning. +As has been said, every artistic consideration that calls +for singleness of impression in the short-story is of equal importance +in determining the unified structure of the one-act +play. For the reason that a one-act play is almost never given +by itself, if for no other, its effect will be dissipated if plot, +characterization, or atmosphere fails in unity.</p> + +<p>The writer exercising himself in the art of play-making had +best begin with the procedure common to many professional +playwrights. This first step is the drawing up of a scenario, +which is an outline showing the course of the story, identifying +the characters, indicating the setting and atmosphere and explaining +the nature of the play; that is, whether, for example, +it is to be a fantasy like <i>The Pierrot of the Minute</i>, or a +comedy of manners like <i>Wurzel-Flummery</i>.</p> + +<p>Here for instance is such a scenario as might have been +drawn up for <i>The Boy Will</i>:</p> + +<p class="p2 center">THE BOY WILL (Historical fantasy)<br> +Scenario for a one-act play, by<br> +Robert Emmons Rogers</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Characters</span><br> +(in order of their appearance)</p> + +<ul class="none"> +<li><span class="smcap">Master George Peele</span>, player of the Admiral's Company.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Giles</span>, a plump and peevish old rogue, a tapster.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Anne Hathaway</span>, at sixteen a slim girl, niece to Giles.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Will Shakespeare</span>, a sturdy, ruddy boy, Anne's playmate.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Mistress Shakespeare</span>, a kindly faced woman of middle age, Will's mother.</li> +</ul> + +<p>Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, 1582. +(Here a description of the interior would follow.)</p> + +<ul class="none_scenario"> +<li>Peele is eating and drinking at the inn, waited on by Anne Hathaway.</li> + +<li>Anne, scolded by Giles for her slowness, is commended as comely and +spirited by Peele.</li> + +<li>Peele abuses Stratford as a sleepy hole.</li> + +<li>Anne explains her delay in fetching ale by the fact that Mistress +Shakespeare has been at the back door inquiring for Will who +has been gone all day.</li> + +<li>Giles explains Will to Peele as a young poacher.</li> + +<li><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagexlix" name="pagexlix"></a>(p. xlix)</span> Anne indignantly denies the charge and praises Will as the brightest +boy in Stratford.</li> + +<li>Giles accuses him of gawking at plays and predicts a bad end for +the boy.</li> + +<li>Peele resents the implication.</li> + +<li>Singing a May-day catch, Will enters. Afraid to go home because he +has been wasting his day in Charlecote Park and fears father's +scolding.</li> + +<li>Goes off into a golden dream of his day in the woods.</li> + +<li>Peele attracts his attention by announcing his profession.</li> + +<li>Will shows his interest.</li> + +<li>Is too distracted by Peele to eat.</li> + +<li>Peele announces itinerary of his players and kindles Will's imagination +with a mention of the Queen.</li> + +<li>Threatens to carry Will off to London.</li> + +<li>Anne discourages the plan.</li> + +<li>Peele draws glowing pictures of actor's profession.</li> + +<li>Will is all on fire for London in spite of Anne.</li> + +<li>Tells Anne he's tired of being nagged.</li> + +<li>Makes Peele promise to take him to London.</li> + +<li>His mother comes for him and is aghast at the news, but finally consents +to let Will go without his father's knowledge.</li> + +<li>Peele then draws a picture of the actor as vagabond to discourage +Will.</li> + +<li>Anne holds out against his going.</li> + +<li>Will tells how, though he has not been poaching, he has been warned +by Sir Thomas Lucy to clear out.</li> + +<li>His mother sees that he must go.</li> + +<li>Will makes a compact with Peele.</li> + +<li>Promises Anne rare gifts and kissing his mother goes.</li> +</ul> + +<p>The scenario drawn up, the next step is to develop the plot. +The plot of a one-act play, to be effective, must be extraordinarily +compact. The accepted laws of plot construction for +all artistic narratives are the same. The climax must be +carefully prepared for, as in Synge's <i>Riders to the Sea</i>, and the +various devices used for heightening the suspense should be +discovered and applied.</p> + +<p>Characterization is more difficult for the tyro to manage than +plot. Consistency of characterization is attained through discovering +in the beginning a motive that will sufficiently account +for the part taken by the character by means of speech and +action, and through constantly testing the characterization by +this motive. Such consistency of characterization is illustrated +to perfection in Tarkington's <i>Beauty and the Jacobin</i>. The +writer of the one-act play does not use many characters. +"Examination of several hundred one-act plays has revealed +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagel" name="pagel"></a>(p. l)</span> that the average number of characters to a play is between +three and four."<a id="footnotetag19" name="footnotetag19"></a><a href="#footnote19" title="Go to footnote 19"><span class="smaller">[19]</span></a></p> + +<p>Facility in writing dialogue is gained like facility in plot +construction and in characterization only by the patient study +of the work of experienced and successful playwrights. Dialogue +that is witty, charming, ironical, or graceful is of dramatic +value only as it is in character.</p> + +<p>A little experience on the stage is a great help. Such experience +teaches the value of skillfully planned exits and entrances +for characters; helps the beginner to distinguish between +action that should be related and action that should be +seen; shows him how a scene must be devised to occupy the +time it takes for a character to appear after he has telephoned +that he is coming; and a variety of other practical considerations.</p> + +<p>Stage directions are likely to be over-elaborated by the inexperienced. +The best stage directions are those that deal only +with matters of setting, lighting and essential pantomime or +action. They should not, in general, be used for characterization.</p> + +<p>But after all there can be no infallible recipes for dramatic +writing. With the successful professional playwright, +apprenticeship is often an unconscious stage. Plays succeed +that break all the rules laid down by critics and professors of +dramatic literature, but after all those rules were, to begin +with, based on practices productive of success under other conditions. +In any case some insight into the mechanics of dramatic +art does make the reading of plays more interesting and +does give an added zest to theatre going.</p> + + +<h2>THE THEATRE IN THE SCHOOL</h2> + +<p>The giving of plays in schools is no new thing. One of the +earliest English comedies, <i>Ralph Roister Doister</i>, was written +in the middle of the sixteenth century by Nicholas Udall, a +schoolmaster, probably to be performed at Westminister School +at Christmas time. Many generations of boys in the English +public schools have presented the plays of the Greek and Latin +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pageli" name="pageli"></a>(p. li)</span> dramatists; and schools and colleges in this country have also +at times given performances of the classic drama. But until +recently Shakespeare and the comedies of Sheridan and Goldsmith +have been the chief dramatic fare both in the classroom +and on the stage in American schools.</p> + +<p>Modern plays are coming, however, to be more generally +introduced into the course of study. The following significant +list, prepared by Miss Anna H. Spaulding, is in use in the +senior classes in English in the Brookline High School, at +Brookline, Massachusetts:</p> + +<ul class="none"> +<li>Noah's Flood</li> +<li>Sacrifice of Isaac</li> +<li>Everyman</li> +<li>Everywoman</li> +<li>The Servant in the House</li> +<li>Ralph Roister Doister</li> +<li>Tales of the Mermaid Tavern</li> +<li>Merchant of Venice</li> +<li>Jew of Malta</li> +<li>Tragedy of Shakespeare</li> +<li>Comedy of Shakespeare</li> +<li>The Rivals</li> +<li>The Good Natured Man</li> +<li>She Stoops to Conquer</li> +<li>Caste</li> +<li>The Lady of Lyons</li> +<li>One Closet Drama</li> +<li>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</li> +<li>One Comedy of Pinero</li> +<li>The Silver King</li> +<li>One Serious Play by Jones</li> +<li>Arms and the Man</li> +<li>Caesar and Cleopatra</li> +<li>John Bull's Other Island</li> +<li>The Doctor's Dilemma</li> +<li>Strife</li> +<li>Justice</li> +<li>The Tragedy of Nan</li> +<li>The Marrying of Ann Leete</li> +<li>Seven Short Plays</li> +<li>The Land of Heart's Desire, or</li> +<li>The Countess Cathleen, or</li> +<li>Cathleen Ni Houlihan</li> +<li>The Shadow of the Glen</li> +<li>Riders to the Sea</li> +<li>The Birthright</li> +<li>The Truth</li> +<li>The Witching Hour, or</li> +<li>As a Man Thinks</li> +<li>The Scarecrow</li> +<li>The Piper</li> +<li>Milestones</li> +<li>The Importance of Being Earnest</li> +</ul> + +<p>Thirty-five of these plays are distinctly modern. Another +list, in use as part of a course in contemporary literature given +in the last half of the third year at the Washington Irving +High School and including only modern plays, is reprinted +below:</p> + +<ul class="none"> +<li>The Blue Bird</li> +<li>The Melting Pot</li> +<li>Milestones</li> +<li>Justice, or</li> +<li>The Silver Box</li> +<li>Pygmalion</li> +<li>The Piper</li> +<li>Prunella</li> +<li>Sherwood</li> +<li>The Land of Heart's Desire</li> +<li>Spreading the News</li> +</ul> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelii" name="pagelii"></a>(p. lii)</span> These plays are read and studied; that is to say, such topics +as dramatic workmanship, theme, setting, characterization, dialogue, +and diction are taken up in connection with each one +and each one is made the starting point for a new interest in +the drama of to-day.<a id="footnotetag20" name="footnotetag20"></a><a href="#footnote20" title="Go to footnote 20"><span class="smaller">[20]</span></a></p> + +<p>In another high school in New York, the Evander Childs, +there is a four years' course of two periods a week in classroom +study of the drama, old and new. All composition work +is connected with this special interest.</p> + +<p>Another kind of work based on contemporary drama was +carried on by a group of first-year students in a certain high +school who were much interested in a program of one-act +plays to be presented in the school theatre. The teacher +of English who had charge of this young class discussed the +subject of the theatre audience with them both before and +after the performance. The outcome of this analysis of the +interests of the audience was an outline. These fourteen-year +old girls said that the next time that they went to the theatre +they would keep in mind the following considerations:</p> + +<ul class="none"> +<li>I. In regard to the play:</li> +<li class="add2em">A. Its title</li> +<li class="add2em">B. Classification</li> +<li class="add2em">C. Plot</li> +<li class="add2em">D. Characterization</li> +<li class="add2em">E. Dialogue</li> +<li class="add2em">F. Theme</li> + +<li>II. In regard to the actors:</li> +<li class="add2em">A. Their intelligence</li> +<li class="add2em">B. Clearness of speech</li> +<li class="add2em">C. Ease of manner</li> +<li class="add2em">D. Facial expression (appropriateness of make-up)</li> +<li class="add2em">E. Pantomime or action</li> +<li class="add4em">1. Posture</li> +<li class="add4em">2. Gesture</li> +<li class="add4em">3. Repose</li> +<li class="add2em"><span class="pagenum"><a id="pageliii" name="pageliii"></a>(p. liii)</span> F. Costumes</li> +<li class="add4em">1. Appropriateness as an index to character</li> +<li class="add4em">2. Color and design</li> +<li class="add4em">3. Harmony with the setting</li> + +<li>III. In regard to the setting:</li> +<li class="add2em">A. The lighting</li> +<li class="add2em">B. Color and design</li> +<li class="add2em">C. Appropriateness as regards mood of play</li> +<li class="add2em">D. Suggestiveness</li> +<li class="add2em">E. Workmanship</li> +</ul> + +<p>One cannot help feeling that these young people were being +effectively trained to enjoy the best drama in the best way.</p> + +<p>Not only is modern drama being read and studied in the +English classes, but the schools are becoming centres of Little +Theatre movements and leading their communities in pageants +and dramatic festivals. An editorial in <i>The New York Evening +Post</i> in 1918 put it in this way: "As Froude states that +in Tudor England there was acting everywhere from palace +to inn-yard and village green, so, the prediction is made, future +historians will record that in our America there was acting +everywhere—in neighborhood theatres, portable theatres, church +clubs, high schools and universities, settlements, open amphitheatres, +and hotel ballrooms."</p> + +<p>One reason that amateur dramatics have taken on a new +lease of life in the schools is because other teachers besides +teachers of English have become interested in the project of +giving a play. Students in physics classes have planned and +executed lighting systems for the school theatre, students in +carpentering and manual arts have built the scenery from designs +made in drawing classes, curtains have been stenciled, +costumes made and cloths dyed in domestic art classes, programs +printed by the school printing squad, music furnished by +the school orchestra and dances taught by the physical training +department. In most cases the line coaching and the general +direction of the play have been part of the work in English.</p> + +<p>A concrete example will illustrate this kind of co-operation. +Several years ago the department of English at the Washington +Irving High School gave two plays, <i>Three Pills in a Bottle</i>, +a product of the 47 Workshop, by Rachel Lyman Field, and +<i>The Goddess of the Woven Wind</i>, by Alice Rostetter. <i>The +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pageliv" name="pageliv"></a>(p. liv)</span> Goddess of the Woven Wind</i> had grown out of class-room +work. The girls in an industrial course were studying the +origin of the silk industry. A pamphlet stated that the wife +of Hoangti, Si-Ling-Chi, was the first to prepare and weave +silk. This legend offered suggestive dramatic material peculiarly +appropriate for a girls' high school.</p> + +<p>The work of obtaining the setting and the properties was +divided between two committees, each working under the direction +of a chairman. Since fifty dollars had been fixed as the +limit of expenditure for the two plays, the problem was rather +a difficult one. Fortunately, <i>Three Pills in a Bottle</i> calls for +a small cast. The cast of The <i>Goddess of the Woven Wind</i>, +however, included thirty-four girls, most of whom had to be +orientally clad and equipped. The teacher who contemplates +putting on a rather elaborate costume play in his or her +high school will be interested to learn that the amount was +so exactly fixed and the department so resourceful that fifty-one +dollars and nine cents was the total sum spent on the +two plays. Then, lest anyone think that there had been a miscalculation, +let it be added that this sum included the money +spent for hot chocolate to serve to the casts of the plays, between +the afternoon and evening performances.</p> + +<p>The problem of staging <i>Three Pills in a Bottle</i> was greatly +simplified by the fact that the frontispiece of the play gives a +simple, effective setting not difficult to copy. With the aid of +some amateur carpentering, the regular interior set was easily +transformed to suit the purpose. The problem of color was +solved when the chairman of the committee found a patchwork +quilt in the attic, during a visit to her mother's home; a conference +with the janitress of her city apartment developed the +fact that she possessed a freshly scrubbed wash-tub, which she +was willing not only to donate to the cause, but to have painted +green.</p> + +<p>The task of staging <i>The Goddess of the Woven Wind</i> was +difficult and interesting, because it was decidedly a costume +play, and because it was a first production. Some of the difficulties +that confronted the chairman of the committee for that +play were amusing.</p> + +<p>For instance, after some perplexed thought on the subject, +she tacked the following list of costumes and properties on the +Bulletin Board of the English office:</p> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li><span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelv" name="pagelv"></a>(p. lv)</span> WANTED:</li> +<li> </li> +<li>Mulberry tree</li> +<li>Gardener's spade</li> +<li>Teakwood stool</li> +<li>Chinese necklaces</li> +<li>Large, colorful abacus</li> +<li>Mandarin coats and hats</li> +<li>Sky-blue Chinese bowl</li> +<li>Chinese gong</li> +<li>Bamboo rod</li> +<li>Silk cocoons</li> +</ul> + +<p>She also advertised the need of these things and many others +in all her classes. Within two weeks nearly everything had +either appeared or been promised, except a Chinese gong with +a proper "whang" to it, an unbreakable sky-blue bowl and +the mulberry tree! A teacher in a neighboring school lent +the company a splendid gong, sometimes used in their orchestra; +a student transformed a wooden chopping bowl by +means of clay and tempera into an exquisite piece of pottery, +copied from a priceless bowl on exhibition at the Metropolitan +Museum of Art.</p> + +<p>The mulberry tree was still an unsolved problem, when +Dugald Stuart Walker, the artist who has produced a number +of plays at the Christadora House in New York, was consulted. +He suggested that the tree be a conventionalized one of flat +"drapes" of green and brown poplin, with cocoons sewn on +in a simple border design.</p> + +<p>The staging of the play then became a project for members +of a third-year art class. During their English period they +read the play, recited on the subject of the China of remote +dynasties, constructed a miniature stage, and then, forming committees +among themselves, worked out the practical details. +One group purchased the necessary paint, another painted the +vermilion sun. Her neighbor affixed it to a bamboo rod. To +emphasize the Chinese setting, two girls made a frame with a +dragon as head-piece and huge, colorful Chinese medallions +to be sewn on the side drapery. The design for the medallions +was obtained from a Chinese brass plate. Almost every girl +in the class took part in the project. Interest was easily aroused, +as a number of girls in this class took part in the play.</p> + +<p>As for the costumes, for the thirty-four members of the +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelvi" name="pagelvi"></a>(p. lvi)</span> cast, only eight dollars' worth was hired. The rest were +either borrowed or made by the girls. The most successful +one, perhaps, that worn by the empress, was copied from an +Edmund Dulac illustration of the Princess Badoura. The +astrologers' costumes were obtained from photographs of <i>The +Yellow Jacket</i>, lent by Mrs. Coburn. To complete the project, +the girls wrote a composition explaining how to organize the +staging of a costume play.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the selection and coaching of the two casts was +going on. Competition for the parts was open to the girls of +the entire school. A great many girls were tried out before +the two committees made a choice. In fact, every girl who +was recommended by her English teacher was given an opportunity +to read a part. In a number of cases two girls were +assigned for one part and it was not known until almost the +last moment who was to have the rôle or who was to understudy. +Rehearsals were held at least three times a week, for +three weeks, and a full-dress rehearsal was held two days before +the final performance. It was thought advisable to allow +a day to elapse between the last rehearsal and the real performance, +in order to give the girls an opportunity to rest.</p> + +<p>In coaching the plays, an effort was made to have a girl read +the line properly without having it read to her. The members +of the coaching committee would explain the mood or frame +of mind to the speaker; the girl would then interpret the mood +in her reading.</p> + +<p>In addition to the coaching committee, several teachers sat at +the back of the auditorium during rehearsals, to warn the +speakers when they could not be heard.</p> + +<p>The advertising campaign began soon after a choice of plays +had been made. In compliance with the request of the Publicity +Committee, one of the teachers of an art class and a +teacher in the English Department assigned to their pupils the +problem of making posters to advertise the plays. To the +painter of the best one a prize was awarded.</p> + +<p>Announcements of the play were posted by pupils in various +parts of the building. Tiny brochures decorated with Chinese +motives were prepared by students during an English period, +and later were circulated among the faculty, and placed upon +office bulletin boards, and in diaries. In writing these +brochures the girls applied the knowledge they had gained in +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelvii" name="pagelvii"></a>(p. lvii)</span> studying the writing of advertisements. Two illustrated advertisements +made in one class were displayed in other high +schools; a number were sent in an envelope with tickets to +patrons and distinguished friends of the schools. One class +wrote letters to firms of wholesale silk merchants and importers, +advertising <i>The Goddess of the Woven Wind</i>, the +story of silk.</p> + +<p>In order to increase the sale of tickets and to prepare an +appreciative audience, various subjects were suggested to English +teachers for projects in class work connected with the plays. +In many classes every girl wrote and illustrated a paper on +some topic pertaining to Chinese life, such as customs, costumes, +religion, occupations, silk, China, umbrellas, fireworks, +fans, position of women, objects of art. Oral compositions +were devoted to phases of some of these subjects. In the oral +work and in the written composition, accurate knowledge of +authorities consulted was insisted upon. Chinese proverbs were +studied. "A man knows, but a woman knows better," used +by the author in her play, was one of the most popular ones. +Translations, found in the <i>Literary Digest</i>, of Chinese poems +of the sixteenth and of the eighteenth century were produced +and read by the girls, many of whom brought to class all the +Chinese articles they could find at home. Incense burners, fans, +pitchers, embroideries, chop sticks, beads, shoes, vases, and even +a Chinese newspaper, found their way to the class-room and +were exhibited with pride. Interest in things Chinese was so +great that clippings and prints continued coming in for almost +two weeks after the play had been presented. Class visits were +made to the Chinese exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of +Art and to importing houses in the neighborhood.</p> + +<p>The kind of co-operation described has led in some schools to +the establishment of workshops similar to those conducted in connection +with certain university courses in playwriting and dramatics +and with many of the Little Theatres. A paragraph that +appeared recently in a calendar of the New York Drama League +explains in a convincing way the necessity for a workshop in +connection with all amateur producing. "One of the most +vital problems that the amateur group has to solve," says the +writer, "is that of securing a proper place for the preparing of +a production. Not all organizations can hold rehearsals, paint +scenery, experiment with lighting on costumes and scenery on +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelviii" name="pagelviii"></a>(p. lviii)</span> the stage on which they are finally to play. Even where this +is possible, it is costly. Much of the activity is now carried on +in the homes of members so far as rehearsals go; in barns or +garages as regards the painting of scenery and not at all so far +as the lighting question is concerned. More often than not, +a few hasty final rehearsals are relied upon to pull into shape +some of the most important elements of a satisfactory performance.</p> + +<p>"The remedy lies in the acquisition of a workshop. A large +room with a very high ceiling will serve admirably. But you +must be able to work recklessly in it, sawing wood, hammering +nails, mussing things up generally with paint and riddling the +walls and ceiling with hooks and screws to hang lighting apparatus +and other properties. An old-fashioned barn can be +converted into an ideal workshop, if provision is made for +proper heating. All the activity should be concentrated in the +workshop and there is no reason why all the experimentalists +cannot be at work at once—the carpenters, the scene painters, +the electricians, the property men, and even the actors with +their director."</p> + +<p>The use of miniature model stages is becoming more and +more common in the schools, the preliminary model serving the +workshop, until the background, lighting, properties, and costumes +are completed. It is an excellent thing for schools to +start a collection of models of famous theatres and notably successful +stage-sets. The material for these exists in illustrated +books and magazines and in the mass of descriptive material in +regard to the stage that is now being published.<a id="footnotetag21" name="footnotetag21"></a><a href="#footnote21" title="Go to footnote 21"><span class="smaller">[21]</span></a></p> + +<a id="img005" name="img005"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img005.jpg" width="600" height="382" alt="" title=""> +<p>Interior of the Beechwood Theatre.</p> +</div> + +<a id="img006" name="img006"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img006.jpg" width="400" height="387" alt="" title=""> +<p>Exterior of the Beechwood Theatre.</p> +</div> + +<p>Two school theatres designed especially for the purpose of +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelix" name="pagelix"></a>(p. lix)</span> fostering in the schools to which they are attached an interest +in the drama are the Garden Theatre of the high school at +Montclair, New Jersey, and the Beechwood Theatre in the private +school at Scarborough-on-Hudson, New York, built by +Frank A. Vanderlip. At Montclair the present high school +building was completed in 1914. To the northeast of the building +at that time was a ravine which afforded a natural amphitheatre. +The site was perfect, and a gift from a public-spirited citizen, +Mrs. Henry Lang, made it possible to create on this spot a +very artistic and beautiful place for outdoor performances, either +plays or pageants.</p> + +<p>On the slope nearest the building are semi-circular rows of +concrete seats accommodating about fifteen hundred people. A +brook spanned by two arched bridges separates the audience +from the stage. Back of the turf stage is a graveled stage +slightly raised and reached by two flights of steps. The pergola +and trees make a beautiful background. The house in the rear +is a part of the plant and is used for dressing and make-up.</p> + +<p>The Beechwood Theatre within the school has a proscenium +opening of twenty-seven feet and a stage depth, back to the +plaster horizon, of the same dimensions. There are two complete +sets of drapery, one of coarse écru linen and one of blue +velvet; there is also a stock drawing-room set of thirty pieces. +Back of the stage are ten dressing-rooms. The lighting arrangements +are extraordinarily complete: the theatre has a +standard electrical equipment of footlights and borders and a +switchboard of the best type to which has recently been added +the latest lighting devices, consisting of an X-ray border, the +end section of which is on a separate dimmer, a thousand-watt +centre floodlight, six five-hundred watt-spotlights, each on +separate dimmers, in the false proscenium or tormentor,<a id="footnotetag22" name="footnotetag22"></a><a href="#footnote22" title="Go to footnote 22"><span class="smaller">[22]</span></a> and +a line of one-thousand-watt floodlights for lighting the plaster +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelx" name="pagelx"></a>(p. lx)</span> sky. All of this recently added equipment is controlled from +a separate portable switchboard.</p> + +<p>Though this plant was built primarily for the school, it is used +also by the Beechwood Players, a Little Theatre organization, +and by other community clubs which comprise an orchestra, a +chorus, a group interested in the fine arts, and a poetry circle. +Mr. Vanderlip looks forward to the development of a school +of the arts of the theatre from the nucleus of the Beechwood +community clubs. With this idea in mind he has just built +a workshop for the Beechwood Players in a separate building. +It contains power woodworking machines, and rooms for painting +scenery and for the costume department, the latter containing +power sewing machines.</p> + +<p>There is no doubt but that these two schools have unique +facilities for developing an interest in the acted drama. But +artistic results have often been secured in the school theatre +with equipment falling far short of the ideal standards achieved +at Montclair and at Scarborough. Other less fortunate schools +are, moreover, at no particular disadvantage when it comes to +the class-room study of the drama for which this book is primarily +planned, this work being the first step in the direction +of a more intelligent attitude toward modern plays and modern +theatres. A class-room reading of modern plays without any +accessories, as Shakespeare is often read from the seats and the +aisles, is one of the most practical methods of speech and voice +improvement. Louis Calvert, the eminent actor, speaking of +this kind of training says: "After all it is one of the simplest +things in the world to learn to speak correctly, to take thought +and begin and end each word properly.... A little attention +to one's everyday conversation will often work wonders. +If one schools himself for a while to speak a little more slowly, +and to give each syllable its due, it is surprising how naturally +and rapidly his speech will clarify. If we take care of the +consonants, the vowels will take care of themselves."</p> + +<a id="img007" name="img007"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img007.jpg" width="600" height="402" alt="" title=""> +<p>Ravine where the Garden Theatre was built.</p> +</div> + +<a id="img008" name="img008"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img008.jpg" width="600" height="417" alt="" title=""> +<p>The Garden Theatre.</p> +</div> + +<p>At the present time, then, the theatre in the schools means +a variety of things. It means first and foremost, as suggested +by the latest college entrance requirements, the study of modern +plays, side by side with the classics. It means also the improvement +of English speech, through the interpretation and the +reading aloud of the text. It means a study of the new art +of the theatre such as the present book suggests. It means often +<span class="pagenum"><a id="pagelxi" name="pagelxi"></a>(p. lxi)</span> the presentation of plays before outside audiences and the consequent +strengthening of the ties that should exist between the +school and the community. It may mean the co-operation of +several departments of the school in the production; and, in +this case, it usually results in the establishment of some kind +of a workshop. And finally, in certain favored schools, it +means the erection of model Little Theatres. It seems fair to +suppose that this newly aroused interest in modern drama and +in modern methods of production in the schools will have far-reaching +results.</p> + + + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page001" name="page001"></a>(p. 001)</span> BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN<a id="footnotetag23" name="footnotetag23"></a><a href="#footnote23" title="Go to footnote 23"><span class="smaller">[23]</span></a><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +BOOTH TARKINGTON</span></h1> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page003" name="page003"></a>(p. 003)</span> Since the days of Edward Eggleston, Indiana has been accumulating +literary traditions until at the present time it rivals +New England in the variety of its literary associations. Newton +Booth Tarkington, born in Indianapolis in 1869, and continuing +to make his home there still in the old family house +on North Pennsylvania Street, is one of the most distinguished +of the Hoosier writers. As a lad of eleven he began his friendship +with James Whitcomb Riley, then a neighbor. "He +acknowledges (shaking his head in reflection at the depth of +it) that the spirit of Riley has exercised over him a strong, if +often unconsciously felt, influence all his life." The delicious +stories of Penrod and of the William Sylvanus Baxter of <i>Seventeen</i> +that Booth Tarkington has told for the unalloyed delight +of old and young are said to reproduce quite accurately the +author's recollection of his own boyhood pranks and associations +in the Middle-Western city of his birth. Tarkington went first +to Phillips Exeter Academy and later to Purdue University +at Lafayette, Indiana, before he became a member of the class +of '93 at Princeton. His popularity and his good fellowship +are still cherished memories on the campus.</p> + +<p>It seems that he was infallibly associated in the undergraduate +mind with the singing of <i>Danny Deever</i>; so much so, that +whenever he appeared on the steps at Nassau Hall there would +be an immediate demand for his speciality, a demand that often +caused him to retire as inconspicuously as possible from the +crowd. These old days are commemorated in the following +verses, a copy of which, framed, hangs on the walls of the +Princeton Club in New York.</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table class="poem20" border="0" cellpadding="0" summary="Rondel"> +<tr> +<td><span class="add6em">RONDEL</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>"The same old Tark—just watch him shy<br> +<span class="add1em">Like hunted thing, and hide, if let,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Away behind his cigarette,</span><br> +When 'Danny Deever' is the cry.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Keep up the call and by and by<br> +We'll make him sing, and find he's yet<br> +<span class="add4em">The same old Tark.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><span class="pagenum"><a id="page004" name="page004"></a>(p. 004)</span> No 'Author Leonid' we spy<br> +<span class="add1em">In him, no cultured ladies' pet:</span><br> +<span class="add1em">He just drops in, and so we get</span><br> +The good old song, and gently guy<br> +The same old Tark—just watch him shy!"</td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p>No biography of Booth Tarkington, no matter how brief, +should omit to mention that he was elected to the Indiana State +Legislature and sat for a time in that body, where he accumulated, +no doubt, some data on the subject of Indiana politics +that he may afterwards have put to literary use.</p> + +<p>He has found the subject for most of his novels and plays<a id="footnotetag24" name="footnotetag24"></a><a href="#footnote24" title="Go to footnote 24"><span class="smaller">[24]</span></a> +in contemporary American life, which he treats unsentimentally, +spiritedly, and vigorously. <i>Beauty and the Jacobin</i>, like his +famous and fascinating tale, <i>Monsieur Beaucaire</i>, is exceptional +among his works in deserting the modern American scene for +an Eighteenth Century situation. The story and the play are +likely, for this reason, to be compared. The tone of <i>Monsieur +Beaucaire</i> is more urbane, more whimsical, more romantic than +the mood of <i>Beauty and the Jacobin</i> which "breaks with the +pretty, pretty kind of thing. There is a new quality in the +texture of the writing.... The plot here springs directly +from character, and the action of the piece is inevitable. <i>Beauty +and the Jacobin</i> gives evidence of being the first conscious and +determined, as it is the first consistent, effort of the author to +leave the surface and work from the inside of his characters +out.... The whole of the little drama is scintillant with +wit, delicate and at times brilliant and somewhat Shavian, which +flashes out poignantly against the sombreness of its background."<a id="footnotetag25" name="footnotetag25"></a><a href="#footnote25" title="Go to footnote 25"><span class="smaller">[25]</span></a></p> + +<p><i>Beauty and the Jacobin</i> was published in 1912 and has had +at least one performance on the professional stage. On November +12, 1912, it was played by members of the company +then acting in <i>Fanny's First Play</i>, at a matinée at the Comedy +Theatre, in New York. It has always been a favorite with +amateurs and quite recently was performed in St. Louis by one +of the dramatic clubs of that city.</p> + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page005" name="page005"></a>(p. 005)</span> BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN</h2> + + +<p class="opening"><i><span class="min10pc">Our scene is in a rusty lodging-house of the Lower Town,</span> +Boulogne-sur-Mer, and the time, the early twilight of dark +November in northern France. This particular November +is dark indeed, for it is November of the year 1793, +Frimaire of the Terror. The garret room disclosed to +us, like the evening lowering outside its one window, and +like the times, is mysterious, obscure, smoked with perplexing +shadows; these flying and staggering to echo the +shiftings of a young man writing at a desk by the light +of a candle.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><i><span class="min10pc">We are just under the eaves here;</span> the dim ceiling slants; and +there are two doors: that in the rear wall is closed; the +other, upon our right, and evidently leading to an inner +chamber, we find ajar. The furniture of this mean apartment +is chipped, faded, insecure, yet still possessed of a +haggard elegance; shamed odds and ends, cheaply acquired +by the proprietor of the lodging-house, no doubt at an +auction of the confiscated leavings of some emigrant noble. +The single window, square and mustily curtained, is so +small that it cannot be imagined to admit much light on +the brightest of days; however, it might afford a lodger +a limited view of the houses opposite and the street below. +In fact, as our eyes grow accustomed to the obscurity we +discover it serving this very purpose at the present moment, +for a tall woman stands close by in the shadow, peering +between the curtains with the distrustfulness of a picket +thrown far out into an enemy's country. Her coarse +blouse and skirt, new and as ill-fitting as sacks, her shop-woman's +bonnet and cheap veil, and her rough shoes are +naïvely denied by her sensitive, pale hands and the high-bred +and in-bred face, long profoundly marked by loss +and fear, and now very white, very watchful. She is not +more than forty, but her hair, glimpsed beneath the clumsy +bonnet, shows much grayer than need be at that age. This +is</i> <span class="smcap">Anne de Laseyne</span>.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page006" name="page006"></a>(p. 006)</span> <p class="opening"><i><span class="min10pc">The intent young man at the desk, easily recognizable as her +brother,</span> fair and of a singular physical delicacy, is a finely +completed product of his race; one would pronounce him +gentle in each sense of the word. His costume rivals his +sister's in the innocence of its attempt at disguise: he wears +a carefully soiled carter's frock, rough new gaiters, and +a pair of dangerously aristocratic shoes, which are not too +dusty to conceal the fact that they are of excellent make +and lately sported buckles. A tousled cap of rabbit-skin, +exhibiting a tricolor cockade, crowns these anomalies, +though not at present his thin, blond curls, for it has been +tossed upon a dressing-table which stands against the wall +to the left. He is younger than</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>, +<i>probably by more than ten years; and, though his features +so strikingly resemble hers, they are free from the permanent +impress of pain which she bears like a mourning-badge +upon her own.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><i><span class="min10pc">He is expending a feverish attention upon his task,</span> but with +patently unsatisfactory results; for he whispers and mutters +to himself, bites the feather of his pen, shakes his head +forebodingly, and again and again crumples a written sheet +and throws it upon the floor. Whenever this happens</i> +<span class="smcap">Anne de Laseyne</span> <i>casts a white glance at him over her +shoulder—his desk is in the center of the room—her +anxiety is visibly increased, and the temptation to speak +less and less easily controlled, until at last she gives way +to it. Her voice is low and hurried.</i></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Louis, it is growing dark very fast.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. I had not observed it, my sister. [<i>He lights a +second candle from the first; then, pen in mouth, scratches at +his writing with a little knife.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. People are still crowding in front of the wine-shop +across the street.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>smiling with one side of his mouth</i>]. Naturally. +Reading the list of the proscribed that came at noon. Also +waiting, amiable vultures, for the next bulletin from Paris. +It will give the names of those guillotined day before yesterday. +For a good bet: our own names [<i>he nods toward the other +room</i>]—yes, hers, too—are all three in the former. As for +the latter—well, they can't get us in that now.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page007" name="page007"></a>(p. 007)</span> <span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>eagerly</i>]. Then you are certain that we are safe?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> I am certain only that they cannot murder us day +before yesterday. [<i>As he bends his head to his writing a +woman comes in languidly through the open door, bearing an +armful of garments, among which one catches the gleam of +fine silk, glimpses of lace and rich furs—a disordered burden +which she dumps pell-mell into a large portmanteau lying open +upon a chair near the desk. This new-comer is of a startling +gold-and-ivory beauty; a beauty quite literally striking, for at +the very first glance the whole force of it hits the beholder like +a snowball in the eye; a beauty so obvious, so completed, so +rounded, that it is painful; a beauty to rivet the unenvious stare +of women, but from the full blast of which either king or +man-peasant would stagger away to the confessional. The +egregious luster of it is not breathed upon even by its overspreading +of sullen revolt, as its possessor carelessly arranges +the garments in the portmanteau. She wears a dress all gray, +of a coarse texture, but exquisitely fitted to her; nothing could +possibly be plainer, or of a more revealing simplicity. She might +be twenty-two; at least it is certain that she is not thirty. +At her coming,</i> <span class="smcap">Louis</span> <i>looks up with a sigh of poignant wistfulness, +evidently a habit; for as he leans back to watch her he +sighs again. She does not so much as glance at him, but speaks +absently to</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>. <i>Her voice is superb, as it +should be; deep and musical, with a faint, silvery huskiness.</i>] + +<p class="p2"><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>the new-comer</i>]. Is he still there?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I lost sight of him in the crowd. I think he has +gone. If only he does not come back!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with grim conviction</i>]. He will.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I am trying to hope not.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> I have told you from the first that you overestimate +his importance. Haven't I said it often enough?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>under her breath</i>]. You have!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>coldly</i>]. He will not harm you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>looking out of the window</i>]. More people down +there; they are running to the wine-shop.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Gentle idlers! [<i>The sound of triumphant shouting +comes up from the street below.</i>] That means that the +list of the guillotined has arrived from Paris.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>shivering</i>]. They are posting it in the wine-shop window. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page008" name="page008"></a>(p. 008)</span> [<i>The shouting increases suddenly to a roar of hilarity, +in which the shrilling of women mingles.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Ah! One remarks that the list is a long one. The +good people are well satisfied with it. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span>] My cousin, +in this amiable populace which you champion, do you never +scent something of—well, something of the graveyard scavenger? +[<i>She offers the response of an unmoved glance in his +direction, and slowly goes out by the door at which she entered. +Louis sighs again and returns to his scribbling.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>nervously</i>]. Haven't you finished, Louis?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>indicating the floor strewn with crumpled slips of +paper</i>]. A dozen.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Not good enough?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with a rueful smile</i>]. I have lived to discover that +among all the disadvantages of being a Peer of France the +most dangerous is that one is so poor a forger. Truly, however, +our parents are not to be blamed for neglecting to have +me instructed in this art; evidently they perceived I had no +talent for it. [<i>Lifting a sheet from the desk.</i>] Oh, vile! I +am not even an amateur. [<i>He leans back, tapping the paper +thoughtfully with his pen.</i>] Do you suppose the Fates took all +the trouble to make the Revolution simply to teach me that I +have no skill in forgery? Listen. [<i>He reads what he has +written.</i>] "Committee of Public Safety. In the name of the +Republic. To all Officers, Civil and Military: Permit the +Citizen Balsage"—that's myself, remember—"and the Citizeness +Virginie Balsage, his sister"—that's you, Anne—"and +the Citizeness Marie Balsage, his second sister"—that is +Eloise, you understand—"to embark in the vessel <i>Jeune +Pierrette</i> from the port of Boulogne for Barcelona. Signed: +Billaud Varennes. Carnot. Robespierre." Execrable! [<i>He +tears up the paper, scattering the fragments on the floor.</i>] I +am not even sure it is the proper form. Ah, that Dossonville!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> But Dossonville helped us—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> At a price. Dossonville! An individual of marked +attainment, not only in penmanship, but in the art of plausibility. +Before I paid him he swore that the passports he forged +for us would take us not only out of Paris, but out of the +country.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Are you sure we must have a separate permit to +embark?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page009" name="page009"></a>(p. 009)</span> <span class="speaker">Louis.</span> The captain of the <i>Jeune Pierrette</i> sent one of his +sailors to tell me. There is a new Commissioner from the National +Committee, he said, and a special order was issued this +morning. They have an officer and a file of the National +Guard on the quay to see that the order is obeyed.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> But we bought passports in Paris. Why can't we +here?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Send out a street-crier for an accomplished forger? +My poor Anne! We can only hope that the lieutenant on the +quay may be drunk when he examines my dreadful "permit." +Pray a great thirst upon him, my sister! [<i>He looks at a watch +which he draws from beneath his frock.</i>] Four o'clock. At +five the tide in the river is poised at its highest; then it must +run out, and the <i>Jeune Pierrette</i> with it. We have an hour. +I return to my crime. [<i>He takes a fresh sheet of paper and +begins to write.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>urgently</i>]. Hurry, Louis!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Watch for Master Spy.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I cannot see him. [<i>There is silence for a time, +broken only by the nervous scratching of Louis's pen.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>at work</i>]. Still you don't see him?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> No. The people are dispersing. They seem in a +good humor.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Ah, if they knew—[<i>He breaks off, examines his +latest effort attentively, and finds it unsatisfactory, as is evinced +by the noiseless whistle of disgust to which his lips form themselves. +He discards the sheet and begins another, speaking +rather absently as he does so.</i>] I suppose I have the distinction +to be one of the most hated men in our country, now that all +the decent people have left it—so many by a road something +of the shortest! Yes, these merry gentlemen below there would +be still merrier if they knew they had within their reach a forfeited +"Emigrant." I wonder how long it would take them +to climb the breakneck flights to our door. Lord, there'd be +a race for it! Prize-money, too, I fancy, for the first with his +bludgeon.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>lamentably</i>]. Louis, Louis! Why didn't you lie +safe in England?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>smiling</i>]. Anne, Anne! I had to come back for a +good sister of mine.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> But I could have escaped alone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page010" name="page010"></a>(p. 010)</span> <span class="speaker">Louis</span>. That is it—"alone"! [<i>He lowers his voice as he +glances toward the open door.</i>] For she would not have moved +at all if I hadn't come to bully her into it. A fanatic, a fanatic!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>brusquely</i>]. She is a fool. Therefore be patient +with her.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>warningly</i>]. Hush.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in a loud, careless tone from the other room</i>]. Oh, +I heard you! What does it matter? [<i>She returns, carrying +a handsome skirt and bodice of brocade and a woman's long +mantle of light-green cloth, hooded and lined with fur. She +drops them into the portmanteau and closes it.</i>] There! +I've finished your packing for you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>rising</i>]. My cousin, I regret that we could not +provide servants for this flight. [<i>Bowing formally.</i>] I regret +that we have been compelled to ask you to do a share of +what is necessary.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>turning to go out again</i>]. That all?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>lifting the portmanteau</i>]. I fear—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with assumed fatigue</i>]. Yes, you usually do. +What now?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>flushing painfully</i>]. The portmanteau is too heavy. +[<i>He returns to the desk, sits, and busies himself with his writing, +keeping his grieved face from her view.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. You mean you're too weak to carry it?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. Suppose at the last moment it becomes necessary to +hasten exceedingly—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. You mean, suppose you had to run, you'd throw +away the portmanteau. [<i>Contemptuously.</i>] Oh, I don't doubt +you'd do it!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>forcing himself to look up at her cheerfully</i>]. I +dislike to leave my baggage upon the field, but in case of a +rout it might be a temptation—if it were an impediment.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>peremptorily</i>]. Don't waste time. Lighten the portmanteau.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. You may take out everything of mine.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. There's nothing of yours in it except your cloak. +You don't suppose—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. Take out that heavy brocade of mine.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. Thank you for not wishing to take out my fur-lined +cloak and freezing me at sea!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>gently</i>]. Take out both the cloak and the dress.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page011" name="page011"></a>(p. 011)</span> <span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>astounded</i>]. What!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> You shall have mine. It is as warm, but not so +heavy.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>angrily</i>]. Oh, I am sick of your eternal packing +and unpacking! I am sick of it!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Watch at the window, then. [<i>She goes swiftly to +the portmanteau, opens it, tosses out the green mantle and the +brocaded skirt and bodice, and tests the weight of the portmanteau.</i>] +I think it will be light enough now, Louis.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Do not leave those things in sight. If our landlord +should come in—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I'll hide them in the bed in the next room. Eloise! +[<i>She points imperiously to the window.</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span> <i>goes to it +slowly and for a moment makes a scornful pretense of being +on watch there; but as soon as</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span> <i>has left +the room she turns, leaning against the wall and regarding +Louis with languid amusement. He continues to struggle +with his ill-omened "permit," but, by and by, becoming aware +of her gaze, glances consciously over his shoulder and meets her +half-veiled eyes. Coloring, he looks away, stares dreamily at +nothing, sighs, and finally writes again, absently, like a man +under a spell, which, indeed, he is. The pen drops from his +hand with a faint click upon the floor. He makes the movement +of a person suddenly awakened, and, holding his last writing +near one of the candles, examines it critically. Then he +breaks into low, bitter laughter.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>unwillingly curious</i>]. You find something amusing?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>indifferently</i>]. Your mirth must be indefatigable +if you can still laugh at those.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> I agree. I am a history of error.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> You should have made it a vocation; it is your one +genius. And yet—truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne +says—I let you hector me into a sillier mistake than any of +yours.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> When?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>flinging out her arms</i>]. Oh, when I consented to +this absurd journey, this <i>tiresome</i> journey—with <i>you</i>! An +"escape"? From nothing. In "disguise." Which doesn't +disguise.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page012" name="page012"></a>(p. 012)</span> <span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>his voice taut with the effort for self-command</i>]. +My sister asked me to be patient with you, Eloise—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Because I am a fool, yes. Thanks. [<i>Shrewishly.</i>] +And then, my worthy young man? [<i>He rises abruptly, smarting +almost beyond endurance.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>breathing deeply</i>]. Have I not been patient with +you?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with a flash of energy</i>]. If <i>I</i> have asked you to be +anything whatever—with me!—pray recall the petition to my +memory.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>beginning to let himself go</i>]. Patient! Have I ever +been anything but patient with you? Was I not patient with +you five years ago when you first harangued us on your "Rights +of Man" and your monstrous republicanism? Where you got +hold of it all I don't know—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>kindling</i>]. Ideas, my friend. Naturally, incomprehensible +to you. Books! Brains! Men!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> "Books! Brains! Men!" Treason, poison, and +mobs! Oh, I could laugh at you then: they were only beginning +to kill us, and I was patient. Was I not patient with +you when these Republicans of yours drove us from our homes, +from our country, stole all we had, assassinated us in dozens, +in hundreds, murdered our King? [<i>He walks the floor, gesticulating +nervously.</i>] When I saw relative after relative of +my own—aye, and of yours, too—dragged to the abattoir—even +poor, harmless, kind André de Laseyne, whom they took +simply because he was my brother-in-law—was I not patient? +And when I came back to Paris for you and Anne, and had +to lie hid in a stable, every hour in greater danger because you +would not be persuaded to join us, was I not patient? And +when you finally did consent, but protested every step of the +way, pouting and—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>stung</i>]. "Pouting!"</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> And when that stranger came posting after us so +obvious a spy—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>scornfully</i>]. Pooh! He is nothing.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Is there a league between here and Paris over which +he has not dogged us? By diligence, on horseback, on foot, +turning up at every posting-house, every roadside inn, the while +you laughed at me because I read death in his face! These +two days we have been here, is there an hour when you could +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page013" name="page013"></a>(p. 013)</span> look from that window except to see him grinning up from +the wine-shop door down there?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>impatiently, but with a somewhat conscious expression</i>]. +I tell you not to fear him. There is nothing +in it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>looking at her keenly</i>]. Be sure I understand why +you do not think him a spy! You believe he has followed us +because you—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> I expected that! Oh, I knew it would come! +[<i>Furiously.</i>] I never saw the man before in my life!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>pacing the floor</i>]. He is unmistakable; his trade is +stamped on him; a hired trailer of your precious "Nation's."</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>haughtily</i>]. The Nation is the People. You +malign because you fear. The People is sacred!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with increasing bitterness</i>]. Aren't you tired yet of +the Palais Royal platitudes? I have been patient with your +Mericourtisms for so long. Yes, always I was patient. Always +there was time; there was danger, but there was a little +time. [<i>He faces her, his voice becoming louder, his gestures +more vehement.</i>] But now the <i>Jeune Pierrette</i> sails this hour, +and if we are not out of here and on her deck when she leaves +the quay, my head rolls in Samson's basket within the week, +with Anne's and your own to follow! <i>Now</i>, I tell you, there +is no more time, and <i>now</i>—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>suavely</i>]. Yes? Well? "Now?" [<i>He checks +himself; his lifted hand falls to his side.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>in a gentle voice</i>]. I am still patient. [<i>He looks +into her eyes, makes her a low and formal obeisance, and drops +dejectedly into the chair at the desk.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>dangerously</i>]. Is the oration concluded?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Quite.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>suddenly volcanic</i>]. Then "<i>now</i>" you'll perhaps +be "patient" enough to explain why I shouldn't leave you instantly. +Understand fully that I have come thus far with you +and Anne solely to protect you in case you were suspected. +"<i>Now</i>," my little man, you are safe: you have only to go on +board your vessel. Why should I go with you? Why do you +insist on dragging me out of the country?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>wearily</i>]. Only to save your life; that is all.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> My life! Tut! My life is safe with the People—my +People! [<i>She draws herself up magnificently.</i>] The +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page014" name="page014"></a>(p. 014)</span> Nation would protect me! I gave the people my whole fortune +when they were starving. After that, who in France dare +lay a finger upon the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. I have the idea sometimes, my cousin, that perhaps +if you had not given them your property they would have +taken it, anyway. [<i>Dryly.</i>] They did mine.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>agitated</i>]. I do not expect you to comprehend what +I felt—what I feel! [<i>She lifts her arms longingly.</i>] Oh, for +a Man!—a Man who could understand me!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>sadly</i>]. That excludes me!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. Shall I spell it?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. You are right. So far from understanding you, I +understand nothing. The age is too modern for me. I do not +understand why this rabble is permitted to rule France; I do +not even understand why it is permitted to live.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with superiority</i>]. Because you belong to the class +that thought itself made of porcelain and the rest of the world +clay. It is simple: the mud-ball breaks the vase.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. You belong to the same class, even to the same +family.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. You are wrong. One circumstance proves me no +aristocrat.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. What circumstance?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. That I happened to be born with brains. I can +account for it only by supposing some hushed-up ancestral +scandal. [<i>Brusquely.</i>] Do you understand that?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. I overlook it. [<i>He writes again.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. Quibbling was always a habit of yours. [<i>Snapping +at him irritably.</i>] Oh, stop that writing! You can't do +it, and you don't need it. You blame the people because they +turn on you now, after you've whipped and beaten and ground +them underfoot for centuries and centuries and—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span>. Quite a career for a man of twenty-nine!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. I have said that quibbling was—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>despondently</i>]. Perhaps it is. To return to my +other deficiencies, I do not understand why this spy who followed +us from Paris has not arrested me long before now. I +do not understand why you hate me. I do not understand +the world in general. And in particular I do not understand +the art of forgery. [<i>He throws down his pen.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. You talk of "patience"! How often have I explained +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page015" name="page015"></a>(p. 015)</span> that you would not need passports of any kind if you +would let me throw off my incognito. If anyone questions +you, it will be sufficient if I give my name. All France knows +the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville. Do you suppose the officer on +the quay would dare oppose—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with a gesture of resignation</i>]. I know you think it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>angrily</i>]. You tempt me not to prove it. But for +Anne's sake—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Not for mine. That, at least, I understand. [<i>He +rises.</i>] My dear cousin, I am going to be very serious—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> O heaven! [<i>She flings away from him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>plaintively</i>]. I shall not make another oration—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Make anything you choose. [<i>Drumming the floor +with her foot.</i>] What does it matter?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> I have a presentiment—I ask you to listen—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in her irritation almost screaming</i>]. How can I +help but listen? And Anne, too! [<i>With a short laugh.</i>] You +know as well as I do that when that door is open everything +you say in this room is heard in there. [<i>She points to the open +doorway, where</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span> <i>instantly makes her +appearance, and after exchanging one fiery glance with</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span> +<i>as swiftly withdraws, closing the door behind her with outraged +emphasis.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>breaking into a laugh</i>]. Forward, soldiers!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>reprovingly</i>]. Eloise!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Well, <i>open</i> the door, then, if you want her to hear +you make love to me! [<i>Coolly.</i>] That's what you're going +to do, isn't it?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with imperfect self-control</i>]. I wish to ask you for +the last time—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>flouting</i>]. There are so many last times!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> To ask you if you are sure that you know your own +heart. You cared for me once, and—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>as if this were news indeed</i>]. I did? Who under +heaven ever told you that?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>flushing</i>]. You allowed yourself to be betrothed to +me, I believe.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> "Allowed" is the word, precisely. I seem to recall +changing all that the very day I became an orphan—and my +own master! [<i>Satirically polite.</i>] Pray correct me if my +memory errs. How long ago was it? Six years? Seven?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page016" name="page016"></a>(p. 016)</span> <span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with emotion</i>]. Eloise, Eloise, you did love me then! +We were happy, both of us, so very happy—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>sourly</i>]. "Both!" My faith! But I must have +been a brave little actress.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> I do not believe it. You loved me. I—[<i>He +hesitates.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Do get on with what you have to say.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>in a low voice</i>]. I have many forebodings, Eloise, +but the strongest—and for me the saddest—is that this is the +last chance you will ever have to tell—to tell me—[<i>He falters +again.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>irritated beyond measure, shouting</i>]. To tell you +what?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>swallowing</i>]. That your love for me still lingers.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>promptly</i>]. Well, it doesn't. So <i>that's</i> over!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Not quite yet. I—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>dropping into a chair</i>]. O Death!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>still gently</i>]. Listen. I have hope that you and +Anne may be permitted to escape; but as for me, since the first +moment I felt the eyes of that spy from Paris upon me I have +had the premonition that I would be taken back—to the guillotine, +Eloise. I am sure that he will arrest me when I attempt +to leave this place to-night. [<i>With sorrowful earnestness.</i>] +And it is with the certainty in my soul that this is our last hour +together that I ask you if you cannot tell me that the old love +has come back. Is there nothing in your heart for me?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Was there anything in <i>your</i> heart for the beggar +who stood at your door in the old days?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Is there nothing for him who stands at yours now, +begging for a word?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>frowning</i>]. I remember you had the name of a +disciplinarian in your regiment. [<i>She rises to face him.</i>] Did +you ever find anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered +tied up and flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the +peasants who starved in your fields?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>quietly</i>]. No; it was too full of you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Words! Pretty little words!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Thoughts. Pretty, because they are of you. All, always +of you—always, my dear. I never really think of anything +but you. The picture of you is always before the eyes +of my soul; the very name of you is forever in my heart. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page017" name="page017"></a>(p. 017)</span> [<i>With a rueful smile.</i>] And it is on the tips of my fingers, +sometimes when it shouldn't be. See. [<i>He steps to the desk +and shows her a scribbled sheet.</i>] This is what I laughed at +a while ago. I tried to write, with you near me, and unconsciously +I let your name creep into my very forgery! I wrote +it as I wrote it in the sand when we were children; as I have +traced it a thousand times on coated mirrors—on frosted windows. +[<i>He reads the writing aloud.</i>] "Permit the Citizen +Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, and +his second sister, the Citizeness Marie Balsage, and Eloise +d'Anville"—so I wrote!—"to embark upon the vessel <i>Jeune +Pierrette</i>—" You see? [<i>He lets the paper fall upon the +desk.</i>] Even in this danger, that I feel closer and closer with +every passing second, your name came in of itself. I am like +that English Mary: if they will open my heart when I am +dead, they shall find, not "Calais," but "Eloise"!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>going to the dressing-table</i>]. Louis, that doesn't +interest me. [<i>She adds a delicate touch or two to her hair, +studying it thoughtfully in the dressing-table mirror.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>somberly</i>]. I told you long ago—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>smiling at her reflection</i>]. So you did—often!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>breathing quickly</i>]. I have nothing new to offer. +I understand. I bore you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Louis, to be frank: I don't care what they find +in your heart when they open it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with a hint of sternness</i>]. Have you never reflected +that there might be something for me to forgive you?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>glancing at him over her shoulder in frowning surprise</i>]. +What!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> I wonder sometimes if you have ever found a flaw +in your own character.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>astounded</i>]. So! [<i>Turning sharply upon him.</i>] +You are assuming the right to criticize me, are you? Oho!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>agitated</i>]. I state merely—I have said—I think I +forgive you a great deal—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>beginning to char</i>]. You do! You bestow your +gracious pardon upon me, do you? [<i>Bursting into flame.</i>] +Keep your forgiveness to yourself! When I want it I'll kneel +at your feet and beg it of you! You can <i>kiss</i> me then, for then +you will know that "the old love has come back"!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>miserably</i>]. When you kneel—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page018" name="page018"></a>(p. 018)</span> <span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Can you picture it—<i>Marquis?</i> [<i>She hurls his title +at him, and draws herself up in icy splendor.</i>] I am a woman +of the Republic!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> And the Republic has no need of love.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Its daughter has no need of yours!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Until you kneel to me. You have spoken. It is +ended. [<i>Turning from her with a pathetic gesture of farewell +and resignation, his attention is suddenly arrested by something +invisible. He stands for a moment transfixed. When +he speaks, it is in an altered tone, light and at the same time +ominous.</i>] My cousin, suffer the final petition of a bore. Forgive +my seriousness; forgive my stupidity, for I believe that +what one hears now means that a number of things are indeed +ended. Myself among them.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>not comprehending</i>]. "What one hears?"</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>slowly</i>]. In the distance. [<i>Both stand motionless +to listen, and the room is silent. Gradually a muffled, multitudinous +sound, at first very faint, becomes audible.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> What is it?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>with pale composure</i>]. Only a song! [<i>The distant +sound becomes distinguishable as a singing from many unmusical +throats and pitched in every key, a drum-beat booming +underneath; a tumultuous rumble which grows slowly louder. +The door of the inner room opens, and</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span> +<i>enters.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>briskly, as she comes in</i>]. I have hidden the cloak +and the dress beneath the mattress. Have you—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>lifting his hand</i>]. Listen! [<i>She halts, startled. The +singing, the drums, and the tumult swell suddenly much louder, +as if the noise-makers had turned a corner.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>crying out</i>]. The "Marseillaise"!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> The "Vultures' Chorus"!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in a ringing voice</i>]. The Hymn of Liberty!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>trembling violently</i>]. It grows louder.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Nearer!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>running to the window</i>]. They are coming this +way!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>rushing ahead of her</i>]. They have turned the corner +of the street. Keep back, Louis!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>leaning out of the window, enthusiastically</i>]. <i>Vive +la</i>—[<i>She finishes with an indignant gurgle as</i> <span class="smcap">Anne de +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page019" name="page019"></a>(p. 019)</span> Laseyne</span>, <i>without comment, claps a prompt hand over her +mouth and pushes her vigorously from the window.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> A mob—carrying torches and dancing. [<i>Her voice +shaking wildly.</i>] They are following a troop of soldiers.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> The National Guard.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Keep back from the window! A man in a tricolor +scarf marching in front.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> A political, then—an official of their government.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> O Virgin, have mercy! [<i>She turns a stricken face +upon her brother.</i>] It is that—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis</span> [<i>biting his nails</i>]. Of course. Our spy. [<i>He takes +a hesitating step toward the desk; but swings about, goes to the +door at the rear, shoots the bolt back and forth, apparently +unable to decide upon a course of action; finally leaves the door +bolted and examines the hinges.</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span>, <i>meanwhile, has hurried +to the desk, and, seizing a candle there, begins to light +others in a candelabrum on the dressing-table. The noise outside +grows to an uproar; the "Marseillaise" changes to +"Ça ira"; and a shaft of the glare from the torches below +shoots through the window and becomes a staggering red patch +on the ceiling.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>feverishly</i>]. Lights! Light those candles in the +sconce, Eloise! Light all the candles we have. [<span class="smcap">Eloise</span>, <i>resentful, +does not move.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> No, no! Put them out!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Oh, fatal! [<i>She stops him as he rushes to obey his +own command.</i>] If our window is lighted he will believe we +have no thought of leaving, and pass by. [<i>She hastily lights +the candles in a sconce upon the wall as she speaks; the shabby +place is now brightly illuminated.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> He will not pass by. [<i>The external tumult culminates +in riotous yelling, as, with a final roll, the drums cease +to beat.</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span> <i>runs again to the window.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>sullenly</i>]. You are disturbing yourselves without +reason. They will not stop here.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>in a sickly whisper</i>]. They have stopped.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> At the door of this house? [<span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>, +<i>leaning against the wall, is unable to reply, save by a gesture. +The noise from the street dwindles to a confused, expectant +murmur.</i> <span class="smcap">Louis</span> <i>takes a pistol from beneath his blouse, strides +to the door, and listens.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page020" name="page020"></a>(p. 020)</span> <span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>faintly</i>]. He is in the house. The soldiers followed +him.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> They are on the lower stairs. [<i>He turns to the two +women humbly.</i>] My sister and my cousin, my poor plans +have only made everything worse for you. I cannot ask you +to forgive me. We are caught.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>vitalized with the energy of desperation</i>]. Not till +the very last shred of hope is gone. [<i>She springs to the desk +and begins to tear the discarded sheets into minute fragments.</i>] +Is that door fastened?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> They'll break it down, of course.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Where is our passport from Paris?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> Here. [<i>He gives it to her.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Quick! Which of these "permits" is the best?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> They're all hopeless—[<i>He fumbles among the +sheets on the desk.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Any of them. We can't stop to select. [<i>She thrusts +the passport and a haphazard sheet from the desk into the +bosom of her dress. An orderly tramping of heavy shoes and +a clinking of metal become audible as the soldiers ascend the +upper flight of stairs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> All this is childish. [<i>Haughtily.</i>] I shall merely +announce—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>uttering a half-choked scream of rage</i>]. You'll announce +nothing! Out of here, both of you!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> No, no!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>with breathless rapidity, as the noise on the stairs +grows louder</i>]. Let them break the door in if they will; only +let them find me alone. [<i>She seizes her brother's arm imploringly +as he pauses, uncertain.</i>] Give me the chance to make +them think I am here alone.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Louis.</span> I can't—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>urging him to the inner door</i>]. Is there any other +possible hope for us? Is there any other possible way to gain +even a little time? Louis, I want your word of honor not to +leave that room unless I summon you. I must have it! [<i>Overborne +by her intensity,</i> <span class="smcap">Louis</span> <i>nods despairingly, allowing her +to force him toward the other room. The tramping of the +soldiers, much louder and very close, comes to a sudden stop. +There is a sharp word of command, and a dozen muskets ring +on the floor just beyond the outer door.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page021" name="page021"></a>(p. 021)</span> <span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>folding her arms</i>]. You needn't think I shall consent +to hide myself. I shall tell them—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>in a surcharged whisper</i>]. You will not ruin us! +[<i>With furious determination, as a loud knock falls upon the +door.</i>] In there, I tell you! [<i>Almost physically she sweeps +both</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Louis</span> <i>out of the room, closes the door upon +them, and leans against it, panting. The knocking is repeated. +She braces herself to speak.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>with a catch in her throat</i>]. Who is—there?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">A Sonorous Voice.</span> French Republic!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>faltering</i>]. It is—it is difficult to hear. What do +you—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">The Voice.</span> Open the door.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>more firmly</i>]. That is impossible.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">The Voice.</span> Open the door.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> What is your name?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">The Voice.</span> Valsin, National Agent.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I do not know you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">The Voice.</span> Open!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I am here alone. I am dressing. I can admit no one.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">The Voice.</span> For the last time: open!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> No!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">The Voice.</span> Break it down. [<i>A thunder of blows from +the butts of muskets falls upon the door.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>rushing toward it in a passion of protest</i>]. No, no, +no! You shall not come in! I tell you I have not finished +dressing. If you are men of honor—Ah! [<i>She recoils, gasping, +as a panel breaks in, the stock of a musket following it; +and then, weakened at rusty bolt and crazy hinge, the whole +door gives way and falls crashing into the room. The narrow +passage thus revealed is crowded with shabbily uniformed soldiers +of the National Guard, under an officer armed with a +saber. As the door falls a man wearing a tricolor scarf +strides by them, and, standing beneath the dismantled lintel, +his hands behind him, sweeps the room with a smiling eye.</i></p> + +<p><i>This personage is handsomely, almost dandiacally dressed in +black; his ruffle is of lace, his stockings are of silk; the lapels +of his waistcoat, overlapping those of his long coat, exhibit a +rich embroidery of white and crimson. These and other details +of elegance, such as his wearing powder upon his dark hair, +indicate either insane daring or an importance quite overwhelming. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page022" name="page022"></a>(p. 022)</span> A certain easy power in his unusually brilliant eyes +favors the probability that, like Robespierre, he can wear what +he pleases. Undeniably he has distinction. Equally undeniable +is something in his air that is dapper and impish and lurking. +His first glance over the room apparently affording him acute +satisfaction, he steps lightly across the prostrate door,</i> <span class="smcap">Madame +de Laseyne</span> <i>retreating before him but keeping herself between +him and the inner door. He comes to an unexpected halt in a +dancing-master's posture, removing his huge hat—which displays +a tricolor plume of ostrich feathers—with a wide flourish, +an intentional burlesque of the old-court manner.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Permit me. [<i>He bows elaborately.</i>] Be gracious +to a recent fellow-traveler. I introduce myself. At your +service: Valsin, Agent of the National Committee of Public +Safety. [<i>He faces about sharply.</i>] Soldiers! [<i>They stand at +attention.</i>] To the street door. I will conduct the examination +alone. My assistant will wait on this floor, at the top of +the stair. Send the people away down below there, officer. +Look to the courtyard. Clear the streets. [<i>The officer salutes, +gives a word of command, and the soldiers shoulder their muskets, +march off, and are heard clanking down the stairs.</i> +<span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>tosses his hat upon the desk, and turns smilingly to +the trembling but determined</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>summoning her indignation</i>]. How dare you break +down my door! How dare you force your—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>suavely</i>]. My compliments on the celerity with +which the citizeness has completed her toilet. Marvelous. An +example to her sex.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> You intend robbery, I suppose.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with a curt laugh</i>]. Not precisely.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> What, then?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. I have come principally for the returned Emigrant, +Louis Valny-Cherault, formerly called Marquis de Valny-Cherault, +formerly of the former regiment of Valny; also formerly—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>cutting him off sharply</i>]. I do not know what you +mean by all these names—and "formerlies"!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> No? [<i>Persuasively.</i>] Citizeness, pray assert that +I did not encounter you last week on your journey from +Paris—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>hastily</i>]. It is true I have been to Paris on business; +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page023" name="page023"></a>(p. 023)</span> you may have seen me—I do not know. Is it a crime to return +from Paris?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>in a tone of mock encouragement</i>]. It will amuse +me to hear you declare that I did not see you traveling in company +with Louis Valny-Cherault. Come! Say it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>stepping back defensively, closer to the inner door</i>]. +I am alone, I tell you! I do not know what you mean. If +you saw me speaking with people in the diligence, or at some +posting-house, they were only traveling acquaintances. I did +not know them. I am a widow—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> My condolences. Poor, of course?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> And lonely, of course? [<i>Apologetically.</i>] Loneliness +is in the formula: I suggest it for fear you might forget.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>doggedly</i>]. I am alone.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Quite right.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>confusedly</i>]. I am a widow, I tell you—a widow, +living here quietly with—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>taking her up quickly</i>]. Ah—"with"! Living +here alone, and also "with"—whom? Not your late husband?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>desperately</i>]. With my niece.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>affecting great surprise</i>]. Ah! A niece! And the +niece, I take it, is in your other room yonder?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>huskily</i>]. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>taking a step forward</i>]. Is she pretty? [<span class="smcap">Anne</span> +<i>places her back against the closed door, facing him grimly. He +assumes a tone of indulgence.</i>] Ah, one must not look: the +niece, likewise, has not completed her toilet.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> She is—asleep.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>glancing toward the dismantled doorway</i>]. A +sound napper! Why did you not say instead that she was—shaving? +[<i>He advances, smiling.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>between her teeth</i>]. You shall not go in! You cannot +see her! She is—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>laughing</i>]. Allow me to prompt you. She is not +only asleep; she is ill. She is starving. Also, I cannot go in +because she is an orphan. Surely, she is an orphan? A lonely +widow and her lonely orphan niece. Ah, touching—and +sweet!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>hotly</i>]. What authority have you to force your way +into my apartment and insult—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page024" name="page024"></a>(p. 024)</span> <span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>touching his scarf</i>]. I had the honor to mention +the French Republic.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> So! Does the French Republic persecute widows +and orphans?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>gravely</i>]. No. It is the making of them!</p> + +<span class="smcap">Anne</span> [<i>crying out</i>]. Ah, horrible! + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> I regret that its just severity was the cause of your +own bereavement, Citizeness. When your unfortunate husband, +André, formerly known as the Prince de Laseyne—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>defiantly, though tears have sprung to her eyes</i>]. I +tell you I do not know what you mean by these titles. My +name is Balsage.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Bravo! The Widow Balsage, living here in calm +obscurity with her niece. Widow Balsage, answer quickly, +without stopping to think. [<i>Sharply.</i>] How long have you +lived here?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Two months. [<i>Faltering.</i>]—A year!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>laughing</i>]. Good. Two months and a year! No +visitors? No strangers?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> No.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>wheeling quickly and picking up</i> <span class="smcap">Louis's</span> <i>cap +from the dressing-table</i>]. This cap, then, belongs to your +niece.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>flustered, advancing toward him as if to take it</i>]. It +was—it was left here this afternoon by our landlord.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>musingly</i>]. That is very, very puzzling. [<i>He +leans against the dressing-table in a careless attitude, his back +to her.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>cavalierly</i>]. Why "puzzling"?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Because I sent him on an errand to Paris this +morning. [<i>She flinches, but he does not turn to look at her, +continuing in a tone of idle curiosity.</i>] I suppose your own +excursion to Paris was quite an event for you, Widow Balsage. +You do not take many journeys?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I am too poor.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> And you have not been contemplating another departure +from Boulogne?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> No.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>still in the same careless attitude, his back toward +her and the closed door</i>]. Good. It is as I thought: the portmanteau +is for ornament.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page025" name="page025"></a>(p. 025)</span> <span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>choking</i>]. It belongs to my niece. She came only +an hour ago. She has not unpacked.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Naturally. Too ill.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> She had traveled all night; she was exhausted. She +went to sleep at once.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Is she a somnambulist?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>taken aback</i>]. Why?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>indifferently</i>]. She has just opened the door of her +room in order to overhear our conversation. [<i>Waving his hand +to the dressing-table mirror, in which he had been gazing.</i>] +Observe it, Citizeness Laseyne.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>demoralized</i>]. I do not—I—[<i>Stamping her foot.</i>] +How often shall I tell you my name is Balsage!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>turning to her apologetically</i>]. My wretched +memory. Perhaps I might remember better if I saw it written: +I beg a glance at your papers. Doubtless you have your certificate +of citizenship—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>trembling</i>]. I have papers, certainly.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. The sight of them—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> I have my passport; you shall see. [<i>With wildly +shaking hands she takes from her blouse the passport and the +"permit," crumpled together.</i>] It is in proper form—[<i>She +is nervously replacing the two papers in her bosom when with a +sudden movement he takes them from her. She cries out incoherently, +and attempts to recapture them.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>extending his left arm to fend her off</i>]. Yes, +here you have your passport. And there you have others. +[<i>He points to the littered floor under the desk.</i>] Many of +them!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Old letters! [<i>She clutches at the papers in his +grasp.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>easily fending her off</i>]. Doubtless! [<i>He shakes the +"permit" open.</i>] Oho! A permission to embark—and signed +by three names of the highest celebrity. Alas, these unfortunate +statesmen, Billaud Varennes, Carnot, and Robespierre! Each +has lately suffered an injury to his right hand. What a misfortune +for France! And what a coincidence! One has not +heard the like since we closed the theatres.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>furiously struggling to reach his hand</i>]. Give me +my papers! Give me—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>holding them away from her</i>]. You see, these unlucky +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page026" name="page026"></a>(p. 026)</span> great men had their names signed for them by somebody +else. And I should judge that this somebody else +must have been writing quite recently—less than half an +hour ago, from the freshness of the ink—and in considerable +haste; perhaps suffering considerable anguish of mind, Widow +Balsage! [<span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>, <i>overwhelmed, sinks into +a chair. He comes close to her, his manner changing startlingly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>bending over with sudden menace, his voice loud +and harsh</i>]. Widow Balsage, if you intend no journey, why +have you this forged permission to embark on the Jeune +Pierrette? Widow Balsage, who is the Citizen Balsage?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>faintly</i>]. My brother.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>straightening up</i>]. Your first truth. [<i>Resuming +his gaiety.</i>] Of course he is not in that room yonder with your +niece.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>brokenly</i>]. No, no, no; he is not! He is not here.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>commiseratingly</i>]. Poor woman! You have not +even the pleasure to perceive how droll you are.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span>. I perceive that I am a fool! [<i>She dashes the tears +from her eyes and springs to her feet.</i>] I also perceive that you +have denounced us before the authorities here—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Pardon. In Boulogne it happens that <i>I</i> am the +authority. I introduce myself for the third time: Valsin, Commissioner +of the National Committee of Public Safety. Tallien +was sent to Bordeaux; Collot to Lyons; I to Boulogne. Citizeness, +were all of the august names on your permit genuine, +you could no more leave this port without my counter-signature +than you could take wing and fly over the Channel!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>with a shrill laugh of triumph</i>]. You have overreached +yourself! You're an ordinary spy: you followed us +from Paris—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>gaily</i>]. Oh, I intended you to notice that!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>unheeding</i>]. You have claimed to be Commissioner +of the highest power in France. We can prove that you are a +common spy. You may go to the guillotine for that. Take +care, Citizen! So! You have denounced us; we denounce you. +I'll have you arrested by your own soldiers. I'll call them— +[<i>She makes a feint of running to the window. He watches her +coolly, in silence; and she halts, chagrined.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>pleasantly</i>]. I was sure you would not force me to +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page027" name="page027"></a>(p. 027)</span> be premature. Remark it, Citizeness Laseyne: I am enjoying +all this. I have waited a long time for it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>becoming hysterical</i>]. I am the Widow Balsage, I +tell you! You do not know us—you followed us from Paris. +[<i>Half sobbing.</i>] You're a spy—a hanger-on of the police. We +will prove—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>stepping to the dismantled doorway</i>]. I left my +assistant within hearing—a species of animal of mine. I may +claim that he belongs to me. A worthy patriot, but skillful, +who has had the honor of a slight acquaintance with you, I believe. +[<i>Calling.</i>] Dossonville! [<span class="smcap">Dossonville</span>, <i>a large man, +flabby of flesh, loose-mouthed, grizzled, carelessly dressed, +makes his appearance in the doorway. He has a harsh and +reckless eye; and, obviously a flamboyant bully by temperament, +his abject, doggish deference to</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>is instantly impressive, +more than confirming the latter's remark that</i> <span class="smcap">Dossonville</span> +<i>"belongs" to him.</i> <span class="smcap">Dossonville</span>, <i>apparently, is a chattel indeed, +body and soul. At sight of him</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span> +<i>catches at the desk for support and stands speechless.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>easily</i>]. Dossonville, you may inform the Citizeness +Laseyne what office I have the fortune to hold.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>coming in</i>]. Bright heaven! All the world +knows that you are the representative of the Committee of Public +Safety. Commissioner to Boulogne.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> With what authority?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> Absolute—unlimited! Naturally. What else +would be useful?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> You recall this woman, Dossonville?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> She was present when I delivered the passport +to the Emigrant Valny-Cherault, in Paris.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Did you forge that passport?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> No. I told the Emigrant I had. Under +orders. [<i>Grinning.</i>] It was genuine.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Where did you get it?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> From you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>suavely</i>]. Sit down, Dossonville. [<i>The latter, who +is standing by a chair, obeys with a promptness more than military.</i> +<span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>turns smilingly to</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>.] Dossonville's +instructions, however, did not include a "permit" to +sail on the <i>Jeune Pierrette</i>. All of which, I confess, Citizeness, +has very much the appearance of a trap! [<i>He tosses the two +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page028" name="page028"></a>(p. 028)</span> papers upon the desk. Utterly dismayed, she makes no effort +to secure them. He regards her with quizzical enjoyment.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne.</span> Ah—you—[<i>She fails to speak coherently.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Dossonville has done very well. He procured your +passport, brought your "disguises," planned your journey, even +gave you directions how to find these lodgings in Boulogne. Indeed, +I instructed him to omit nothing for your comfort. [<i>He +pauses for a moment.</i>] If I am a spy, Citizeness Laseyne, at +least I trust your gracious intelligence may not cling to the +epithet "ordinary." My soul! but I appear to myself a most +uncommon type of spy—a very intricate, complete, and unusual +spy, in fact.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>to herself, weeping</i>]. Ah, poor Louis!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>cheerfully</i>]. You are beginning to comprehend? +That is well. Your niece's door is still ajar by the discreet +width of a finger, so I assume that the Emigrant also begins to +comprehend. Therefore I take my ease! [<i>He seats himself in +the most comfortable chair in the room, crossing his legs in a +leisurely attitude, and lightly drumming the tips of his fingers +together, the while his peaceful gaze is fixed upon the ceiling. +His tone, as he continues, is casual.</i>] You understand, my Dossonville, +having long ago occupied this very apartment myself, +I am serenely aware that the Emigrant can leave the other +room only by the window; and as this is the fourth floor, and +a proper number of bayonets in the courtyard below are arranged +to receive any person active enough to descend by a rope +of bed-clothes, one is confident that the said Emigrant will +remain where he is. Let us make ourselves comfortable, for +it is a delightful hour—an hour I have long promised myself. +I am in a good humor. Let us all be happy. Citizeness +Laseyne, enjoy yourself. Call me some bad names!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>between her teeth</i>]. If I could find one evil enough!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>slapping his knee delightedly</i>]. There it is: the +complete incompetence of your class. You poor aristocrats, you +do not even know how to swear. Your ancestors knew how! +They were fighters; they knew how to swear because they knew +how to attack; you poor moderns have no profanity left in you, +because, poisoned by idleness, you have forgotten even how to +resist. And yet you thought yourselves on top, and so you were—but +as foam is on top of the wave. You forgot that power, +like genius, always comes from underneath, because it is produced +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page029" name="page029"></a>(p. 029)</span> only by turmoil. We have had to wring the neck of +your feather-head court, because while the court was the nation +the nation had its pockets picked. You were at the mercy of +anybody with a pinch of brains: adventurers like Mazarin, like +Fouquet, like Law, or that little commoner, the woman Fish, +who called herself Pompadour and took France—France, +merely!—from your King, and used it to her own pleasure. +Then, at last, after the swindlers had well plucked you—at +last, unfortunate creatures, the People got you! Citizeness, the +People had starved: be assured they will eat you to the bone—and +then eat the bone! You are helpless because you have +learned nothing and forgotten everything. You have forgotten +everything in this world except how to be fat!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>applauding with unction</i>]. Beautiful! It is +beautiful, all that! A beautiful speech!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Ass!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>meekly</i>]. Perfectly, perfectly.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>crossly</i>]. That wasn't a speech; it was the truth. +Citizeness Laseyne, so far as you are concerned, I am the People. +[<i>He extends his hand negligently, with open palm.</i>] And +I have got you. [<i>He clenches his fingers, like a cook's on the +neck of a fowl.</i>] Like that! And I'm going to take you back +to Paris, you and the Emigrant. [<i>She stands in an attitude +eloquent of despair. His glance roves from her to the door of +the other room, which is still slightly ajar; and, smiling at some +fugitive thought, he continues, deliberately.</i>] I take you: you +and your brother—and that rather pretty little person who +traveled with you. [<i>There is a breathless exclamation from +the other side of the door, which is flung open violently, as</i> +<span class="smcap">Eloise</span>—<i>flushed, radiant with anger, and altogether magnificent—sweeps +into the room to confront</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>slamming the door behind her</i>]. Leave this Jack-in-Office +to me, Anne!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>dazed by the vision</i>]. Lord! What glory! +[<i>He rises, bowing profoundly, muttering hoarsely.</i>] Oh, eyes! +Oh, hair! Look at her shape! Her chin! The divine—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>getting up and patting him reassuringly on the +back</i>]. The lady perceives her effect, my Dossonville. It is no +novelty. Sit down, my Dossonville. [<i>The still murmurous</i> +<span class="smcap">Dossonville</span> <i>obeys</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>turns to</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span>, <i>a brilliant light +in his eyes.</i>] Let me greet one of the nieces of Widow Balsage—evidently +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page030" name="page030"></a>(p. 030)</span> not the sleepy one, and certainly not ill. Health +so transcendent—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>placing her hand upon</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne's</span> +<i>shoulder</i>]. This is a clown, Anne. You need have no fear of +him whatever. His petty authority does not extend to us.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>deferentially</i>]. Will the niece of Widow Balsage +explain why it does not?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>turning upon him fiercely</i>]. Because the patriot +Citizeness Eloise d'Anville is here!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>assuming an air of thoughtfulness</i>]. Yes, she is +here. That "permit" yonder even mentions her by name. It +is curious. I shall have to go into that. Continue, niece.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with supreme haughtiness</i>]. This lady is under her +protection.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>growing red</i>]. Pardon. Under whose protection?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>sulphurously</i>]. Under the protection of Eloise +d'Anville! [<i>This has a frightful effect upon</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span>; <i>his face +becomes contorted; he clutches at his throat, apparently half +strangled, staggers, and falls choking into the easy-chair he has +formerly occupied.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>gasping, coughing, incoherent</i>]. Under the pro—the +protection—[<i>He explodes into peal after peal of uproarious +laughter.</i>] The protection of—Aha, ha, ha, ho, ho, +ho! [<i>He rocks himself back and forth unappeasably.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with a slight lift of the eyebrows</i>]. This man is +an idiot.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>during an abatement of his attack</i>]. Oh, pardon! +It is—too—much—too much for me! You say—these people +are—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>stamping her foot</i>]. Under the protection of Eloise +d'Anville, imbecile! You cannot touch them. She wills it! +[<i>At this,</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>shouts as if pleading for mercy, and beats the +air with his hands. He struggles to his feet and, pounding himself +upon the chest, walks to and fro in the effort to control +his convulsion.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span>, <i>under cover of the noise he makes</i>]. I +was wrong: he is not an idiot.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>despairingly</i>]. He laughs at you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in a quick whisper</i>]. Out of bluster; because he is +afraid. He is badly frightened. I know just what to do. Go +into the other room with Louis.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page031" name="page031"></a>(p. 031)</span> <span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>protesting weakly</i>]. I can't hope—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>flashing from a cloud</i>]. You failed, didn't you? +[<span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>, <i>after a tearful perusal of the stern resourcefulness +now written in the younger woman's eyes, succumbs +with a piteous gesture of assent and goes out forlornly.</i> +<span class="smcap">Eloise</span> <i>closes the door and stands with her back to it.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>paying no attention to them</i>]. Eloise d'Anville! +[<i>Still pacing the room in the struggle to subdue his hilarity.</i>] +This young citizeness speaks of the protection of Eloise +d'Anville! [<i>Leaning feebly upon</i> <span class="smcap">Dossonville's</span> <i>shoulder.</i>] +Do you hear, my Dossonville? It is an ecstasy. Ecstasize, +then. Scream, Dossonville!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>puzzled, but evidently accustomed to being +so, cackles instantly</i>]. Perfectly. Ha, ha! The citizeness is +not only stirringly beautiful, she is also—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> She is also a wit. Susceptible henchman, concentrate +your thoughts upon domesticity. In this presence remember +your wife!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>peremptorily</i>]. Dismiss that person. I have something +to say to you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>wiping his eyes</i>]. Dossonville, you are not required. +We are going to be sentimental, and heaven knows you are not +the moon. In fact, you are a fat old man. Exit, obesity! Go +somewhere and think about your children. Flit, whale!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>rising</i>]. Perfectly, my chieftain. [<i>He goes +to the broken door.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>tapping the floor with her shoe</i>]. Out of hearing!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> The floor below.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> Well understood. Perfectly, perfectly! [<i>He +goes out through the hallway; disappears, chuckling grossly. +There are some moments of silence within the room, while he +is heard clumping down a flight of stairs; then</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>turns +to</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span> <i>with burlesque ardor.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> "Alone at last!"</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>maintaining her composure</i>]. Rabbit!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>dropping into the chair at the desk, with mock dejection</i>]. +Repulsed at the outset! Ah, Citizeness, there were +moments on the journey from Paris when I thought I +detected a certain kindness in your glances at the lonely +stranger.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>folding her arms</i>]. You are to withdraw your soldiers, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page032" name="page032"></a>(p. 032)</span> countersign the "permit," and allow my friends to embark +at once.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with solemnity</i>]. Do you give it as an order, +Citizeness?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> I do. You will receive suitable political advancement.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>in a choked voice</i>]. You mean as a—a reward?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>haughtily</i>]. <i>I</i> guarantee that you shall receive it! +[<i>He looks at her strangely; then, with a low moan, presses his +hand to his side, seeming upon the point of a dangerous seizure.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>managing to speak</i>]. I can only beg you to spare +me. You have me at your mercy.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>swelling</i>]. It is well for you that you understand +that!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>shaking his hand ruefully</i>]. Yes; you see I have a +bad liver: it may become permanently enlarged. Laughter is +my great danger.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>crying out with rage</i>]. <i>Oh!</i></p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>dolorously</i>]. I have continually to remind myself +that I am no longer in the first flush of youth.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Idiot! Do you not know who I am!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> You? Oh yes—[<i>He checks himself abruptly; +looks at her with brief intensity; turns his eyes away, half +closing them in quick meditation; smiles, as upon some secret +pleasantry, and proceeds briskly.</i>] Oh yes, yes, I know who +you are.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>beginning haughtily</i>]. Then you—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>at once cutting her off</i>]. As to your name, I do +not say. Names at best are details; and your own is a detail +that could hardly be thought to matter. <i>What</i> you are is +obvious: you joined Louis and his sister in Paris at the barriers, +and traveled with them as "Marie Balsage," a sister. +You might save us a little trouble by giving us your real name; +you will probably refuse, and the police will have to look it up +when I take you back to Paris. Frankly, you are of no importance +to us, though of course we'll send you to the Tribunal. +No doubt you are a poor relative of the Valny-Cheraults, or, +perhaps, you may have been a governess in the Laseyne +family, or—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>under her breath</i>]. Idiot! Idiot!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with subterranean enjoyment, watching her sidelong</i>]. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page033" name="page033"></a>(p. 033)</span> Or the good-looking wife of some faithful retainer of +the Emigrant's, perhaps.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with a shrill laugh</i>]. Does the Committee of Public +Safety betray the same intelligence in the appointment of all +its agents? [<i>Violently.</i>] Imbecile, I—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>quickly raising his voice to check her</i>]. You are +of no importance, I tell you! [<i>Changing his tone.</i>] Of course +I mean politically. [<i>With broad gallantry.</i>] Otherwise, I am +the first to admit extreme susceptibility. I saw that you observed +it on the way—at the taverns, in the diligence, at the +posting-houses, at—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with serenity</i>]. Yes. I am accustomed to oglers.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Alas, I believe you! My unfortunate sex is but +too responsive.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>gasping</i>]. "Responsive"—Oh!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>indulgently</i>]. Let us return to the safer subject. +Presently I shall arrest those people in the other room and, +regretfully, you too. But first I pamper myself; I chat; I have +an attractive woman to listen. In the matter of the arrest, I +delay my fire; I do not flash in the pan, but I lengthen my fuse. +Why? For the same reason that when I was a little boy and +had something good to eat, I always first paid it the compliments +of an epicure. I looked at it a long while. I played +with it. Then—I devoured it! I am still like that. And +Louis yonder is good to eat, because I happen not to love him. +However, I should mention that I doubt if he could recall +either myself or the circumstance which annoyed me; some episodes +are sometimes so little to certain people and so significant +to certain other people. [<i>He smiles, stretching himself luxuriously +in his chair.</i>] Behold me, Citizeness! I am explained. +I am indulging my humor: I play with my cake. Let us see +into what curious little figures I can twist it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Idiot!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>pleasantly</i>]. I have lost count, but I think that is +the sixth idiot you have called me. Aha, it is only history, +which one admires for repeating itself. Good! Let us march. +I shall play—[<i>He picks up the "permit" from the desk, +studies it absently, and looks whimsically at her over his +shoulder, continuing:</i>] I shall play with—with all four of +you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>impulsively</i>]. Four?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page034" name="page034"></a>(p. 034)</span> <span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> I am not easy to deceive; there are four of you +here.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>staring</i>]. So?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Louis brought you and his sister from Paris: a +party of three. This "permit" which he forged is for four; +the original three and the woman you mentioned a while ago, +Eloise d'Anville. Hence she must have joined you here. The +deduction is plain: there are three people in that room: the +Emigrant, his sister, and this Eloise d'Anville. To the trained +mind such reasoning is simple.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>elated</i>]. Perfectly!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with an air of cunning</i>]. Nothing escapes me. +You see that.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> At first glance! I make you my most profound +compliments. Sir, you are an eagle!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>smugly</i>]. Thanks. Now, then, pretty governess, +you thought this d'Anville might be able to help you. What +put that in your head?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with severity</i>]. Do you pretend not to know what +she is?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> A heroine I have had the misfortune never to encounter. +But I am informed of her character and history.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>sternly</i>]. Then you understand that even the Agent +of the National Committee risks his head if he dares touch +people she chooses to protect.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>extending his hand in plaintive appeal</i>]. Be generous +to my opacity. How could <i>she</i> protect anybody?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with condescension</i>]. She has earned the gratitude—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Of whom?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>superbly</i>]. Of the Nation!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>breaking out again</i>]. Ha, ha, ha! [<i>Clutching at +his side.</i>] Pardon, oh, pardon, liver of mine. I must not die; +my life is still useful.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>persisting stormily</i>]. Of the People, stupidity! Of +the whole People, dolt! Of France, blockhead!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with a violent effort, conquering his hilarity</i>]. +There! I am saved. Let us be solemn, my child; it is better +for my malady. You are still so young that one can instruct +you that individuals are rarely grateful; "the People," never. +What you call "the People" means folk who are not always +sure of their next meal; therefore their great political and +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page035" name="page035"></a>(p. 035)</span> patriotic question is the cost of food. Their heroes are the +champions who are going to make it cheaper; and when these +champions fail them or cease to be useful to them, then they +either forget these poor champions—or eat them. Let us hear +what your Eloise d'Anville has done to earn the reward of +being forgotten instead of eaten.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>her lips quivering</i>]. She surrendered her property +voluntarily. She gave up all she owned to the Nation.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>genially</i>]. And immediately went to live with her +relatives in great luxury.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>choking</i>]. The Republic will protect her. She gave +her whole estate—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> And the order for its confiscation was already +written when she did it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>passionately</i>]. Ah—<i>liar!</i></p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>smiling</i>]. I have seen the order. [<i>She leans against +the wall, breathing heavily. He goes on, smoothly.</i>] Yes, this +martyr "gave" us her property; but one hears that she went +to the opera just the same and wore more jewels than ever, and +lived richly upon the Laseynes and Valny-Cheraults, until <i>they</i> +were confiscated. Why, all the world knows about this woman; +and let me tell you, to your credit, my governess, I think you +have a charitable heart: you are the only person I ever heard +speak kindly of her.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>setting her teeth</i>]. Venom!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>observing her slyly</i>]. It is with difficulty I am restraining +my curiosity to see her—also to hear her!—when she +learns of her proscription by a grateful Republic.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with shrill mockery</i>]. Proscribed? Eloise d'Anville +proscribed? Your inventions should be more plausible, Goodman +Spy! I <i>knew</i> you were lying—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>smiling</i>]. You do not believe—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>proudly</i>]. Eloise d'Anville is a known Girondist. +The Gironde is the real power in France.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>mildly</i>]. That party has fallen.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with fire</i>]. Not far! It will revive.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Pardon, Citizeness, but you are behind the times, +and they are very fast nowadays—the times. The Gironde is +dead.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>ominously</i>]. It may survive <i>you</i>, my friend. Take +care!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page036" name="page036"></a>(p. 036)</span> <span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>unimpressed</i>]. The Gironde had a grand façade, +and that was all. It was a party composed of amateurs and +orators; and of course there were some noisy camp-followers +and a few comic-opera vivandières, such as this d'Anville. In +short, the Gironde looked enormous because it was hollow. It +was like a pie that is all crust. We have tapped the crust—with +a knife, Citizeness. There is nothing left.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>contemptuously</i>]. You say so. Nevertheless, the +Rolands—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>gravely</i>]. Roland was found in a field yesterday; +he had killed himself. His wife was guillotined the day after +you left Paris. Every one of their political friends is proscribed.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>shaking as with bitter cold</i>]. It is a lie! Not +Eloise d'Anville!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>rising</i>]. Would you like to see the warrant for +her arrest? [<i>He takes a packet of documents from his breast +pocket, selects one, and spreads it open before her.</i>] Let me +read you her description: "Eloise d'Anville, aristocrat. Figure, +comely. Complexion, blond. Eyes, dark blue. Nose, straight. +Mouth, wide—"</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in a burst of passion, striking the warrant a violent +blow with her clenched fist</i>]. Let them dare! [<i>Beside herself, +she strikes again, tearing the paper from his grasp. She stamps +upon it.</i>] Let them dare, I say!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>picking up the warrant</i>]. Dare to say her mouth +is wide?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>cyclonic</i>]. Dare to arrest her!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> It does seem a pity. [<i>He folds the warrant slowly +and replaces it in his pocket.</i>] Yes, a great pity. She was the +one amusing thing in all this somberness. She will be missed. +The Revolution will lack its joke.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>recoiling, her passion exhausted</i>]. Ah, infamy! +[<i>She turns from him, covering her face with her hands.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with a soothing gesture</i>]. Being only her friend, +you speak mildly. The d'Anville herself would call it blasphemy.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>with difficulty</i>]. She is—so vain—then?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>lightly</i>]. Oh, a type—an actress.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>her back to him</i>]. How do you know? You said—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> That I had not encountered her. [<i>Glibly.</i>] One +knows best the people one has never seen. Intimacy confuses +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page037" name="page037"></a>(p. 037)</span> judgment. I confess to that amount of hatred for the former +Marquis de Valny-Cherault that I take as great an interest in +all that concerns him as if I loved him. And the little d'Anville +concerns him—yes, almost one would say, consumes him. The +unfortunate man is said to be so blindly faithful that he can +speak her name without laughing.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>stunned</i>]. Oh!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>going on, cheerily</i>]. No one else can do that, Citizeness. +Jacobins, Cordeliers, Hébertists, even the shattered +relics of the Gironde itself, all alike join in the colossal laughter +at this Tricoteuse in Sèvres—this Jeanne d'Arc in rice-powder!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>tragically</i>]. They laugh—and proclaim her an +outlaw!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>waving his hand carelessly</i>]. Oh, it is only that +we are sweeping up the last remnants of aristocracy, and she +goes with the rest—into the dust-heap. She should have remained +a royalist; the final spectacle might have had dignity. +As it is, she is not of her own class, not of ours: neither fish +nor flesh nor—but yes, perhaps, after all, she is a fowl.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>brokenly</i>]. Alas! Homing—with wounded wing! +[<i>She sinks into a chair with pathetic grace, her face in her +hands.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>surreptitiously grinning</i>]. Not at all what I meant. +[<i>Brutally.</i>] Peacocks don't fly.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>regaining her feet at a bound</i>]. You imitation +dandy! You—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with benevolence</i>]. My dear, your indignation for +your friend is chivalrous. It is admirable; but she is not worth +it. You do not understand her: you have probably seen her +so much that you have never seen her as she is.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>witheringly</i>]. But you, august Zeus, having <i>never</i> +seen her, will reveal her to me!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>smoothly urbane</i>]. If you have ears. You see, she +is not altogether unique, but of a variety known to men who +are wise enough to make a study of women.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>snapping out a short, loud laugh in his face</i>]. +Pouff!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>unruffled</i>]. I profess myself an apprentice. The +science itself is but in its infancy. Women themselves understand +very well that they are to be classified, and they fear that +we shall perceive it: they do not really wish to be known. Yet +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page038" name="page038"></a>(p. 038)</span> it is coming; some day our cyclopedists will have you sorted, +classed, and defined with precision; but the d'Alembert of the +future will not be a woman, because no woman so disloyal will +ever be found. Men have to acquire loyalty to their sex: yours +is an instinct. Citizen governess, I will give you a reading +of the little d'Anville from this unwritten work. To begin—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>feverishly interested, but affecting languor</i>]. <i>Must</i> +you?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. To Eloise d'Anville the most interesting thing +about a rose-bush has always been that Eloise d'Anville could +smell it. Moonlight becomes important when it falls upon her +face; sunset is worthy when she grows rosy in it. To her mind, +the universe was set in motion to be the background for a +decoration, and she is the decoration. She believes that the +cathedral was built for the fresco. And when a dog interests +her, it is because he would look well beside her in a painting. +Such dogs have no minds. I refer you to all the dogs in the +portraits of Beauties.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>not at all displeased; pretending carelessness</i>]. Ah, +you have heard that she is beautiful?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. Far worse: that she is a Beauty. Let nothing ever +tempt <i>you</i>, my dear, into setting up in that line. For you are +very well-appearing, I assure you; and if you had been surrounded +with all the disadvantages of the d'Anville, who knows +but that you might have become as famous a Beauty as she? +What makes a Beauty is not the sumptuous sculpture alone, but +a very peculiar arrogance—not in the least arrogance of mind, +my little governess. In this, your d'Anville emerged from +childhood full-panoplied indeed; and the feather-head court fell +headlong at her feet. It was the fated creature's ruin.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>placidly</i>]. And it is because of her beauty that you +drag her to the guillotine?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. Bless you, I merely convey her!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. Tell me, logician, was it not her beauty that inspired +her to give her property to the Nation?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. It was.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. What perception! I am faint with admiration. +And no doubt it was her beauty that made her a Republican?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. What else?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. Hail, oracle! [<i>She releases an arpeggio of satiric +laughter.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page039" name="page039"></a>(p. 039)</span> <span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. That laugh is diaphanous. I see you through it, +already convinced. [<i>She stops laughing immediately.</i>] Ha! +we may proceed. Remark this, governess: a Beauty is the living +evidence of man's immortality; the one plain proof that he has +a soul.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. It is not so bad then, after all?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. It is utterly bad. But of all people a Beauty is +most conscious of her duality. Her whole life is based upon +her absolute knowledge that her Self and her body are two. +She sacrifices all things to her beauty because her beauty feeds +her Self with a dreadful food which it has made her unable to +live without.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. My little gentleman, you talk like a sentimental +waiter. Your metaphors are all hot from the kitchen.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>nettled</i>]. It is natural; unlike your Eloise, I am +<i>really</i> of "the People"—and starved much in my youth.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. But, like her, you are still hungry.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. A Beauty is a species of cannibal priestess, my dear. +She will make burnt-offerings of her father and her mother, +her sisters—her lovers—to her beauty, that it may in turn +bring her the food she must have or perish.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. <i>Boum!</i> [<i>She snaps her fingers.</i>] And of course +she bathes in the blood of little children?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>grimly</i>]. Often.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>averting her gaze from his</i>]. This mysterious food—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. Not at all mysterious. Sensation. There you have +it. And that is why Eloise d'Anville is a renegade. You understand +perfectly.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. You are too polite. No.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>gaily</i>]. Behold, then! Many women who are not +Beauties are beautiful, but in such women you do not always +discover beauty at your first glance: it is disclosed with a subtle +tardiness. It does not dazzle; it is reluctant; but it grows as +you look again and again. You get a little here, a little there, +like glimpses of children hiding in a garden. It is shy, and +sometimes closed in from you altogether, and then, unexpectedly, +this belated loveliness springs into bloom before your very +eyes. It retains the capacity of surprise, the vital element of +charm. But the Beauty lays all waste before her at a stroke: +it is soon over. Thus your Eloise, brought to court, startled +Versailles; the sensation was overwhelming. Then Versailles +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page040" name="page040"></a>(p. 040)</span> got used to her, just as it had to its other prodigies: the fountains +were there, the King was there, the d'Anville was there; +and naturally, one had seen them; saw them every day—one +talked of matters less accepted. That was horrible to Eloise. +She had tasted; the appetite, once stirred, was insatiable. At +any cost she must henceforth have always the sensation of being +a sensation. She must be the pivot of a reeling world. So she +went into politics. Ah, Citizeness, there was one man who +understood Beauties—not Homer, who wrote of Helen! Romance +is gallant by profession, and Homer lied like a poet. +For the truth about the Trojan War is that the wise Ulysses +made it, not because Paris stole Helen, but because the Trojans +were threatening to bring her back.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>unwarily</i>]. Who was the man that understood +Beauties?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. Bluebeard. [<i>He crosses the room to the dressing-table, +leans his back against it in an easy attitude, his elbows +resting upon the top.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>slowly, a little tremulously</i>]. And so Eloise +d'Anville should have her head cut off?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. Well, she thought she was in politics, didn't she? +[<i>Suavely.</i>] You may be sure she thoroughly enjoyed her hallucination +that she was a great figure in the Revolution—which +was cutting off the heads of so many of her relatives and old +friends! Don't waste your pity, my dear.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>looking at him fixedly</i>]. Citizen, you must have +thought a great deal about my unhappy friend. She might be +flattered by so searching an interest.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>negligently</i>]. Not interest in her, governess, but +in the Emigrant who cools his heels on the other side of that +door, greatly to my enjoyment, waiting my pleasure to arrest +him. The poor wretch is the one remaining lover of this girl; +faithful because he let his passion for her become a habit; and +he will never get over it until he has had possession. She has +made him suffer frightfully, but I shall never forgive her for +not having dealt him the final stroke. It would have saved me +all the bother I have been put to in avenging the injury he +did me.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>frowning</i>]. What "final stroke" could she have +"dealt" him?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with sudden vehement intensity</i>]. She could have +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page041" name="page041"></a>(p. 041)</span> loved him! [<i>He strikes the table with his fist.</i>] I see it! I +see it! Beauty's husband! [<i>Pounding the table with each +exclamation, his voice rising in excitement.</i>] What a vision! +This damned, proud, loving Louis, a pomade bearer! A buttoner! +An errand-boy to the perfumer's, to the chemist's, to +the milliner's! A groom of the powder-closet—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>snatching at the opportunity</i>]. How noisy you are!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>discomfited, apologetically</i>]. You see, it is only so +lately that we of "the People" have dared even to whisper. +Of course, now that we are free to shout, we overdo it. We +let our voices out, we let our joys out, we let our hates out. +We let everything out—except our prisoners! [<i>He smiles winningly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>slowly</i>]. Do you guess what all this bluster—this +tirade upon the wickedness of beauty—makes me think?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. Certainly. Being a woman, you cannot imagine a +bitterness which is not "personal."</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>laughing</i>]. "Being a woman," I think that the +person who has caused you the greatest suffering in your life +must be very good-looking!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>calmly</i>]. Quite right. It was precisely this +d'Anville. I will tell you. [<i>He sits on the arm of a chair +near her, and continues briskly.</i>] I was not always a politician. +Six years ago I was a soldier in the Valny regiment of cavalry. +That was the old army, that droll army, that royal army; so +ridiculous that it was truly majestic. In the Valny regiment +we had some rouge-pots for officers—and for a colonel, who +but our Emigrant yonder! Aha! we suffered in the ranks, let +me tell you, when Eloise had been coy; and one morning it +was my turn. You may have heard that she was betrothed first +to Louis and later to several others? My martyrdom occurred +the day after she had announced to the court her betrothal to +the young Duc de Creil, whose father afterward interfered. +Louis put us on drill in a hard rain: he had the habit of relieving +his chagrin like that. My horse fell, and happened to +shower our commander with mud. Louis let out all his rage +upon me: it was an excuse, and, naturally, he disliked mud. +But I was rolling in it, with my horse: I also disliked it—and +I was indiscreet enough to attempt some small reply. That +finished my soldiering, Citizeness. He had me tied to a post +before the barracks for the rest of the day. I remember with +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page042" name="page042"></a>(p. 042)</span> remarkable distinctness that the valets of heaven had neglected +to warm the rain for that bath; that it was February; and that +Louis's orders had left me nothing to wear upon my back except +an unfulsome descriptive placard and my modesty. Altogether +it was a disadvantageous position, particularly for the exchange +of repartee with such of my comrades as my youthful amiability +had not endeared; I have seldom seen more cheerful indifference +to bad weather. Inclement skies failed to injure the spectacle: +it was truly the great performance of my career; some +people would not even go home to eat, and peddlers did a good +trade in cakes and wine. In the evening they whipped me conscientiously—my +tailor has never since made me an entirely +comfortable coat. Then they gave me the place of honor at +the head of a procession by torchlight and drummed me out of +camp with my placard upon my back. So I adopted another +profession: I had a friend who was a doctor in the stables of +d'Artois; and I knew horses. He made me his assistant.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>shuddering</i>]. You are a veterinarian!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>smiling</i>]. No; a horse-doctor. It was thus I "retired" +from the army and became a politician. My friend was +only a horse-doctor himself, but his name happened to be Marat.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. Ah, frightful! [<i>For the first time she begins to +feel genuine alarm.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. The sequence is simple. If Eloise d'Anville hadn't +coquetted with young Creil I shouldn't be Commissioner here +to-day, settling my account with Louis. I am in his debt for +more than the beating: I should tell you there was a woman +in my case, a slender lace-maker with dark eyes—very pretty +eyes. She had furnished me with a rival, a corporal; and he +brought her for a stroll in the rain past our barracks that day +when I was attracting so much unsought attention. They +waited for the afterpiece, enjoyed a pasty and a bottle of +Beaune, and went away laughing cozily together. I did not +see my pretty lace-maker again, not for years—not until a +month ago. Her corporal was still with her, and it was their +turn to be undesirably conspicuous. They were part of a procession +passing along the Rue St. Honoré on its way to the +Place of the Revolution. They were standing up in the cart; +the lace-maker had grown fat, and she was scolding her poor +corporal bitterly. What a habit that must have been!—they +were not five minutes from the guillotine. I own that a thrill +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page043" name="page043"></a>(p. 043)</span> of gratitude to Louis temporarily softened me toward him, +though at the very moment I was following him through the +crowd. At least he saved me from the lace-maker!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>shrinking from him</i>]. You are horrible!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. To my regret you must find me more and +more so.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>panting</i>]. You <i>are</i> going to take us back to Paris, +then? To the Tribunal—and to the—[<i>She covers her eyes +with her hands.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>gravely</i>]. I can give you no comfort, governess. +You are involved with the Emigrant, and, to be frank, I am +going to do as horrible things to Louis as I can invent—and +I am an ingenious man. [<i>His manner becomes sinister.</i>] I +am near the top. The cinders of Marat are in the Pantheon, +but Robespierre still flames; and he claims me as his friend. +I can do what I will. And I have much in store for Louis +before he shall be so fortunate as to die!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>faintly</i>]. And—and Eloise—d'Anville? [<i>Her +hands fall from her face: he sees large, beautiful tears upon +her cheeks.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>coldly</i>]. Yes. [<i>She is crushed for the moment; +then, recovering herself with a violent effort, lifts her head defiantly +and stands erect, facing him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. You take her head because your officer punished +you, six years ago, for a breach of military discipline!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>in a lighter tone</i>]. Oh no. I take it, just as she +injured me—incidentally. In truth, Citizeness, it isn't I who +take it: I only arrest her because the government has proscribed +her.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. And you've just finished telling me you were preparing +tortures for her! I thought you an intelligent man. +Pah! You're only a gymnast. [<i>She turns away from him +haughtily and moves toward the door.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>touching his scarf of office</i>]. True. I climb. [<i>She +halts suddenly, as if startled by this; she stands as she is, her +back to him, for several moments, and does not change her attitude +when she speaks.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>slowly</i>]. You climb alone.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with a suspicious glance at her</i>]. Yes—alone.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in a low voice</i>]. Why didn't you take the lace-maker +with you? You might have been happier. [<i>Very slowly +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page044" name="page044"></a>(p. 044)</span> she turns and comes toward him, her eyes full upon his: she +moves deliberately and with incomparable grace. He seems to +be making an effort to look away, and failing: he cannot release +his eyes from the glorious and starry glamour that holds them. +She comes very close to him, so close that she almost touches +him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in a half-whisper</i>]. You might have been happier +with—a friend—to climb with you.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>demoralized</i>]. Citizeness—I am—I—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in a voice of velvet</i>]. Yes, Say it. You are—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>desperately</i>]. I have told you that I am the most +susceptible of men.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>impulsively putting her hand on his shoulder</i>]. Is +it a crime? Come, my friend, you are a man who <i>does</i> climb: +you will go over all. You believe in the Revolution because +you have used it to lift you. But other things can help you, +too. Don't you need them?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>understanding perfectly, gasping</i>]. Need what? +[<i>She draws her hand from his shoulder, moves back from him +slightly, and crosses her arms upon her bosom with a royal +meekness.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>grandly</i>]. Do I seem so useless?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>in a distracted voice</i>]. Heaven help me! What +do you want?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Let these people go. [<i>Hurriedly, leaning near +him.</i>] I have promised to save them: give them their permit +to embark, and I—[<i>She pauses, flushing beautifully, but does +not take her eyes from him.</i>] I—I do not wish to leave France. +My place is in Paris. You will go into the National Committee. +You can be its ruler. You <i>will</i> rule it! I believe in +you! [<i>Glowing like a rose of fire.</i>] I will go with you. I +will help you! I will marry you!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>in a fascinated whisper</i>]. Good Lord! [<i>He stumbles +back from her, a strange light in his eyes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span>. You are afraid—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>with sudden loudness</i>]. I am! Upon my soul, I +am afraid!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>smiling gloriously upon him</i>]. Of what, my friend? +Tell me of what?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>explosively</i>]. Of myself! I am afraid of myself +because I am a prophet. This is precisely what I foretold to +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page045" name="page045"></a>(p. 045)</span> myself you would do! I knew it, yet I am aghast when it +happens—aghast at my own cleverness!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>bewildered to blankness</i>]. What?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>half hysterical with outrageous vanity</i>]. I swear +I knew it, and it fits so exactly that I am afraid of myself! +<i>Aha</i>, Valsin, you rogue! I should hate to have you on <i>my</i> +track! Citizen governess, you are a wonderful person, but not +so wonderful as this devil of a Valsin!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>vaguely, in a dead voice</i>]. I cannot understand +what you are talking about. Do you mean—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> And what a spell was upon me! I was near calling +Dossonville to preserve me.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>speaking with a strange naturalness, like a child's</i>]. +You mean—you don't want me?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Ah, Heaven help me, I am going to laugh again! +Oh, ho, ho! I am spent! [<i>He drops into a chair and gives +way to another attack of uproarious hilarity.</i>] Ah, ha, ha, ha! +Oh, my liver, ha, ha! No, Citizeness, I do not want you! +Oh, ha, ha, ha!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> <i>Oh!</i> [<i>She utters a choked scream and rushes at +him.</i>] Swine!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>warding her off with outstretched hands</i>]. Spare +me! Ha, ha, ha! I am helpless! Ho, ho, ho! Citizeness, it +would not be worth your while to strangle a man who is already +dying!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>beside herself</i>]. Do you dream that I <i>meant</i> it?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>feebly</i>]. Meant to strangle me?</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>frantic</i>]. To give myself to you!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. In short, to—to marry me! [<i>He splutters.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>furiously</i>]. It was a ruse—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>soothingly</i>]. Yes, yes, a trick. I saw that all along.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>even more infuriated</i>]. For their sake, beast! [<i>She +points to the other room.</i>] To save <i>them</i>!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>wiping his eyes</i>]. Of course, of course. [<i>He rises, +stepping quickly to the side of the chair away from her and +watching her warily.</i>] <i>I</i> knew it was to save them. We'll put +it like that.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise</span> [<i>in an anger of exasperation</i>]. It <i>was</i> that!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span>. Yes, yes. [<i>Keeping his distance.</i>] I saw it from +the first. [<i>Suppressing symptoms of returning mirth.</i>] It was +perfectly plain. You mustn't excite yourself—nothing could +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page046" name="page046"></a>(p. 046)</span> have been clearer! [<i>A giggle escapes him, and he steps hastily +backward as she advances upon him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Eloise.</span> Poodle! Valet! Scum of the alleys! Sheep of the +prisons! Jailer! Hangman! Assassin! Brigand! <i>Horse-doctor!</i> +[<i>She hurls the final epithet at him in a climax of +ferocity which wholly exhausts her; and she sinks into the chair +by the desk, with her arms upon the desk and her burning face +hidden in her arms.</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span>, <i>morbidly chuckling, in spite of +himself, at each of her insults, has retreated farther and farther, +until he stands with his back against the door of the inner room, +his right hand behind him, resting on the latch. As her furious +eyes leave him he silently opens the door, letting it remain a +few inches ajar and keeping his back to it. Then, satisfied that +what he intends to say will be overheard by those within, he +erases all expression from his face, and strides to the dismantled +doorway in the passage.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>calling loudly</i>]. Dossonville! [<i>He returns, coming +down briskly to</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span>. <i>His tone is crisp and soldier-like.</i>] +Citizeness, I have had my great hour. I proceed with the arrests. +I have given you four plenty of time to prepare yourselves. +Time? Why, the Emigrant could have changed clothes with +one of the women in there a dozen times if he had hoped to +escape in that fashion—as historical prisoners <i>have</i> won clear, +it is related. Fortunately, that is impossible just now; and he +will not dare to attempt it.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>appearing in the hallway</i>]. Present, my +chieftain!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>sharply</i>]. Attend, Dossonville. The returned +Emigrant, Valny-Cherault, is forfeited; but because I cherish +a special grievance against him, I have decided upon a special +punishment for him. It does not please me that he should have +the comfort and ministrations of loving women on his journey +to the Tribunal. No, no; the presence of his old sweetheart +would make even the scaffold sweet to him. Therefore I shall +take him alone. I shall let these women go.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> What refinement! Admirable! [<span class="smcap">Eloise</span> +<i>slowly rises, staring incredulously at</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>picking up the "permit" from the desk</i>]. "Permit +the Citizen Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie +Balsage, and his second sister, Marie Balsage, and Eloise +d'Anville—" Ha! You see, Dossonville, since one of these +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page047" name="page047"></a>(p. 047)</span> three women is here, there are two in the other room with the +Emigrant. They are to come out, leaving him there. First, +however, we shall disarm him. You and I have had sufficient +experience in arresting aristocrats to know that they are not +always so sensible as to give themselves up peaceably, and I +happened to see the outline of a pistol under the Emigrant's +frock the other day in the diligence. We may as well save one +of us from a detestable hole through the body. [<i>He steps +toward the door, speaking sharply.</i>] Emigrant, you have +heard. For your greater chagrin, these three devoted women +are to desert you. Being an aristocrat, you will pretend to +prefer this arrangement. They are to leave at once. Throw +your pistol into this room, and I will agree not to make the +arrest until they are in safety. They can reach your vessel in +five minutes. When they have gone, I give you my word not +to open this door for ten. [<i>A pistol is immediately thrown +out of the door, and falls at</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin's</span> <i>feet. He picks it up, his +eyes alight with increasing excitement.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>tossing the pistol to</i> <span class="smcap">Dossonville</span>]. Call the lieutenant. +[<span class="smcap">Dossonville</span> <i>goes to the window, leans out, and +beckons.</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>writes hastily at the desk, not sitting down.</i>] +"Permit the three women Balsage to embark without delay +upon the <i>Jeune Pierrette</i>. Signed: Valsin." There, Citizeness, +is a "permit" which permits. [<i>He thrusts the paper into the +hand of</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span>, <i>swings toward the door of the inner room, and +raps loudly upon it.</i>] Come, my feminines! Your sailors await +you—brave, but no judges of millinery. There's a fair wind +for you; and a grand toilet is wasted at sea. Come, charmers; +come! [<i>The door is half opened, and</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span>, +<i>white and trembling violently, enters quickly, shielding as much +as she can the inexpressibly awkward figure of her brother, behind +whom she extends her hand, closing the door sharply. He +wears the brocaded skirt which</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span> <i>has +taken from the portmanteau, and</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise's</span> <i>long mantle, the +lifted hood and</i> <span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne's</span> <i>veil shrouding his head +and face.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>in a stifled voice</i>]. At last! At last one beholds +the regal d'Anville! No Amazon—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>aghast</i>]. It looks like—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>shouting</i>]. It doesn't! [<i>He bows gallantly to</i> +<span class="smcap">Louis</span>.] A cruel veil, but, oh, what queenly grace! [<span class="smcap">Louis</span> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page048" name="page048"></a>(p. 048)</span> <i>stumbles in the skirt.</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>falls back, clutching at his side. +But</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span> <i>rushes to</i> <span class="smcap">Louis</span> <i>and throws herself upon her knees +at his feet. She pulls his head down to hers and kisses him +through the veil.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>madly</i>]. Oh, touching devotion! Oh, sisters! Oh, +love! Oh, honey! Oh, petticoats—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>interrupting humbly</i>]. The lieutenant, Citizen +Commissioner. [<i>He points to the hallway, where the +officer appears, standing at attention.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>wheeling</i>]. Officer, conduct these three persons to +the quay. Place them on board the <i>Jeune Pierrette</i>. The captain +will weigh anchor instantly. [<i>The officer salutes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Anne</span> [<i>hoarsely to</i> <span class="smcap">Louis</span>, <i>who is lifting the weeping</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span> +<i>to her feet</i>]. Quick! In the name of—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Off with you! [<span class="smcap">Madame de Laseyne</span> <i>seizes the +portmanteau and rushes to the broken doorway, half dragging +the others with her. They go out in a tumultuous hurry, followed +by the officer.</i> <span class="smcap">Eloise</span> <i>sends one last glance over her +shoulder at</i> <span class="smcap">Valsin</span> <i>as she disappears, and one word of concentrated +venom:</i> "Buffoon!" <i>In wild spirits he blows a kiss +to her. The fugitives are heard clattering madly down the +stairs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>excitedly</i>]. We can take the Emigrant now. +[<i>Going to the inner door.</i>] Why wait—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> That room is empty.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> What!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>shouting with laughter</i>]. He's gone! Not bare-backed, +but in petticoats: that's worse! He's gone, I tell you! +The other was the d'Anville.</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville.</span> Then you recog—</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin.</span> Imbecile, she's as well known as the Louvre! +They're off on their honeymoon! She'll take him now! She +will! She will, on the soul of a prophet! [<i>He rushes to the +window and leans far out, shouting at the top of his voice:</i>] +<i>Quits with you, Louis! Quits! Quits!</i> [<i>He falls back from +the window and relapses into a chair, cackling ecstatically.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Dossonville</span> [<i>hoarse with astonishment</i>]. You've let him +go! You've let 'em <i>all</i> go!</p> + +<p><span class="speaker">Valsin</span> [<i>weak with laughter</i>]. Well, <i>you're</i> not going to +inform. [<i>With a sudden reversion to extreme seriousness, he +levels a sinister forefinger at his companion.</i>] And, also, take +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page049" name="page049"></a>(p. 049)</span> care of your health, friend; remember constantly that you have +a weak throat, <i>and don't you ever mention this to my wife</i>! +These are bad times, my Dossonville, and neither you nor I +will see the end of them. Good Lord! Can't we have a little +fun as we go along? [<i>A fresh convulsion seizes him, and he +rocks himself pitiably in his chair.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<p class="ending">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page051" name="page051"></a>(p. 051)</span> THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE<br> +<i>A DRAMATIC FANTASY IN ONE ACT</i><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +ERNEST DOWSON<br> +<i>Performance Free</i></span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page053" name="page053"></a>(p. 053)</span> Ernest Christopher Dowson, now generally known simply as +Ernest Dowson, was born at the Grove, Belmont Hill, Lee, +Kent, August 2, 1867, and died in London thirty-three years +later. His schooling, because of his delicate health, was irregular, +and he spent too short a time at Queen's College, +Oxford, to take a degree. He lived abroad much, but during +his sojourns in London in the 'nineties belonged to the Rhymer's +Club<a id="footnotetag26" name="footnotetag26"></a><a href="#footnote26" title="Go to footnote 26"><span class="smaller">[26]</span></a> that met in an upper room of Johnson's own "Cheshire +Cheese." His death from consumption brought to a close a life +marred by waste and sordid associations.</p> + +<p><i>The Pierrot of the Minute</i>, Ernest Dowson's only dramatic +attempt, is touched like the preceding play with the glamour of +the old régime. Its charming artificiality suggests the pastoral +games to which the ladies and gentlemen of Louis XV's circle +may have turned for relief after the formalities and extravagances +of their life at court.</p> + +<p>Dowson's play, written in 1892, is mentioned in one of his +letters, dated October twenty-fourth of that year: "I have been +frightfully busy," he wrote, "having rashly undertaken to make +a little Pierrot play in verse ... which is to be played at +Aldershot and afterwards at the Chelsea Town Hall: the +article to be delivered in a fortnight. So until this period of +mental agony is past, I can go nowhere." Anyone who has +ever had to write something that had to be ready on a certain +date will understand the quality of Dowson's emotion in this +letter.</p> + +<p>A recent critic who has studied the literary fashions of the +group to which Dowson belonged and found that the members +were addicted to the frequent use of the adjective, white, says: +"Ernest Dowson was dominated by a sense of whiteness.... +<i>The Pierrot of the Minute</i> is a veritable symphony in white. +He calls for 'white music' and the Moon Maiden rides through +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page054" name="page054"></a>(p. 054)</span> the skies 'drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies,' and farther +on in the same poem we have a palace of many rooms:</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +<span class="min06em">"'</span>Within the fairest, clad in purity,<br> +Our mother dwelt immemorially:<br> +Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon-stones on her gown,<br> +The floor she treads with little pearls is sown....'"</p> + +<p>When the play was given in this country at the McCallum +Theatre at Northampton, Massachusetts, it was "staged in +black and white, the garden set having black walls on which +fantastic white forms were stenciled. The bench, the statue, +and Pierrot and his lady love were in white. To have tried +to depict a real garden would have crowded the small stage, +so a garden was suggested, and by suggestion caught the spirit +of the piece."<a id="footnotetag27" name="footnotetag27"></a><a href="#footnote27" title="Go to footnote 27"><span class="smaller">[27]</span></a></p> + +<p>Granville Bantock, the English musician, composed <i>The +Pierrot of the Minute</i>. <i>A Comedy Overture to a Dramatic +Phantasy by Ernest Dowson</i>, which he conducted at the +Worcester Festival in 1908. This music in whole or part may +be used in connection with a production of Dowson's play.</p> + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page055" name="page055"></a>(p. 055)</span> THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">A Moon Maiden</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Pierrot</span>.</li> +</ul> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>SCENE.—A glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon.</i></span> <i>In the +center a Doric temple with steps coming down the stage. +On the left a little Cupid on a pedestal. Twilight.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>with his hands full of lilies.</i></span> <i>He is burdened +with a little basket. He stands gazing at the Temple and +the Statue.</i></p> + +<p class="bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +My journey's end! This surely is the glade<br> +Which I was promised: I have well obeyed!<br> +A clue of lilies was I bid to find,<br> +Where the green alleys most obscurely wind;<br> +Where tall oaks darkliest canopy o'erhead,<br> +And moss and violet make the softest bed;<br> +Where the path ends, and leagues behind me lie<br> +The gleaming courts and gardens of Versailles;<br> +The lilies streamed before me, green and white;<br> +I gathered, following: they led me right,<br> +To the bright temple and the sacred grove:<br> +This is, in truth, the very shrine of Love!<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He gathers together his flowers and lays them at the foot +of Cupid's statue; then he goes timidly up the first steps +of the temple and stops.</i>]</span><br> +It is so solitary, I grow afraid.<br> +Is there no priest here, no devoted maid?<br> +Is there no oracle, no voice to speak,<br> +Interpreting to me the word I seek?<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>A very gentle music of lutes floats out from the temple.</i> +<span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>starts back; he shows extreme surprise; then he +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page056" name="page056"></a>(p. 056)</span> returns to the foreground, and crouches down in rapt attention +until the music ceases. His face grows puzzled +and petulant.</i>]</span><br> +Too soon! too soon! in that enchanting strain,<br> +Days yet unlived, I almost lived again:<br> +It almost taught me that I most would know—<br> +Why am I here, and why am I Pierrot?<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>Absently he picks up a lily which has fallen to the ground, +and repeats.</i>]</span><br> +Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot?<br> +That music and this silence both affright;<br> +Pierrot can never be a friend of night.<br> +I never felt my solitude before—<br> +Once safe at home, I will return no more.<br> +Yet the commandment of the scroll was plain;<br> +While the light lingers let me read again.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He takes a scroll from his bosom and reads.</i>]</span><br> +"<i>He loves to-night who never loved before;<br> +Who ever loved, to-night shall love once more.</i>"<br> +<i>I</i> never loved! I know not what love is.<br> +I am so ignorant—but what is this?<br> +<span class="left30">[<i>Reads.</i>]</span><br> +"<i>Who would adventure to encounter Love<br> +Must rest one night within this hallowed grove.<br> +Cast down thy lilies, which have led thee on,<br> +Before the tender feet of Cupidon.</i>"<br> +Thus much is done, the night remains to me.<br> +Well, Cupidon, be my security!<br> +Here is more writing, but too faint to read.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He puzzles for a moment, then casts the scroll down.</i>]</span><br> +Hence, vain old parchment. I have learnt thy rede!<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He looks round uneasily, starts at his shadow; then discovers +his basket with glee. He takes out a flask of wine, +pours it into a glass, and drinks.</i>]</span><br> +<i>Courage, mon Ami!</i> I shall never miss<br> +Society with such a friend as this.<br> +How merrily the rosy bubbles pass,<br> +Across the amber crystal of the glass.<br> +I had forgotten you. Methinks this quest<br> +Can wake no sweeter echo in my breast.<br> +<span class="left10">[<i>Looks round at the statue, and starts.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page057" name="page057"></a>(p. 057)</span> Nay, little god! forgive. I did but jest.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He fills another glass, and pours it upon the statue.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="add3em">This libation, Cupid, take,</span><br> +<span class="add4em">With the lilies at thy feet;</span><br> +<span class="add3em">Cherish Pierrot for their sake,</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Send him visions strange and sweet,</span><br> +<span class="add3em">While he slumbers at thy feet.</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Only love kiss him awake!</span><br> +<span class="add5em"><i>Only love kiss him awake!</i></span><br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>Slowly falls the darkness, soft music plays, while</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> +<i>gathers together fern and foliage into a rough couch at the +foot of the steps which lead to the Temple d'Amour. Then +he lies down upon it, having made his prayer. It is night. +He speaks softly.</i>]</span><br> +Music, more music, far away and faint:<br> +It is an echo of mine heart's complaint.<br> +Why should I be so musical and sad?<br> +I wonder why I used to be so glad?<br> +In single glee I chased blue butterflies,<br> +Half butterfly myself, but not so wise,<br> +For they were twain, and I was only one.<br> +Ah me! how pitiful to be alone.<br> +My brown birds told me much, but in mine ear<br> +They never whispered this—I learned it here:<br> +The soft wood sounds, the rustlings in the breeze,<br> +Are but the stealthy kisses of the trees.<br> +Each flower and fern in this enchanted wood<br> +Leans to her fellow, and is understood;<br> +The eglantine, in loftier station set,<br> +Stoops down to woo the maidly violet.<br> +In gracile pairs the very lilies grow:<br> +None is companionless except Pierrot.<br> +Music, more music! how its echoes steal<br> +Upon my senses with unlooked for weal.<br> +Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade<br> +Seems mine old joy in rout and masquerade.<br> +Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove,<br> +By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love.<br> +<span class="left30">[<i>Sleeps.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page058" name="page058"></a>(p. 058)</span> a bright radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple +upon the face of</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span>. <i>Presently a</i> <span class="smcap">Moon Maiden</span> +<i>steps out of the temple; she descends and stands over the +sleeper.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add3em">Who is this mortal</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Who ventures to-night</span><br> +<span class="add3em">To woo an immortal?</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Cold, cold the moon's light,</span><br> +<span class="add3em">For sleep at this portal,</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Bold lover of night.</span><br> +<span class="add3em">Fair is the mortal</span><br> +<span class="add4em">In soft, silken white,</span><br> +<span class="add3em">Who seeks an immortal.</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Ah, lover of night,</span><br> +<span class="add3em">Be warned at the portal,</span><br> +<span class="add4em">And save thee in flight!</span><br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>She stoops over him:</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>stirs in his sleep.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>murmuring</i>].<br> +Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore:<br> +"<i>He loves to-night who never loved before.</i>"</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Unwitting boy! when, be it soon or late,<br> +What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate?<br> +What if I warned him! He might yet evade,<br> +Through the long windings of this verdant glade;<br> +Seek his companions in the blither way,<br> +Which, else, must be as lost as yesterday.<br> +So might he still pass some unheeding hours<br> +In the sweet company of birds and flowers.<br> +How fair he is, with red lips formed for joy,<br> +As softly curved as those of Venus' boy.<br> +Methinks his eyes, beneath their silver sheaves,<br> +Rest tranquilly like lilies under leaves.<br> +Arrayed in innocence, what touch of grace<br> +Reveals the scion of a courtly race?<br> +Well, I will warn him, though, I fear, too late—<br> +What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate?<br> +But, see, he stirs, new knowledge fires his brain,<br> +And Cupid's vision bids him wake again.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page059" name="page059"></a>(p. 059)</span> Dione's Daughter! but how fair he is,<br> +Would it be wrong to rouse him with a kiss?<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>She stoops down and kisses him, then withdraws into the +shadow.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>rubbing his eyes</i>].<br> +Celestial messenger! remain, remain;<br> +Or, if a vision, visit me again!<br> +What is this light, and whither am I come<br> +To sleep beneath the stars so far from home?<br> +<span class="add6em">[<i>Rises slowly to his feet.</i>]</span><br> +Stay, I remember this is Venus' Grove,<br> +And I am hither come to encounter ——</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span> +[<i>coming forward, but veiled</i>].<br> +<span class="add14em">Love!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>in ecstasy, throwing himself at her feet</i>].<br> +Then have I ventured and encountered Love?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Not yet, rash boy! and, if thou wouldst be wise,<br> +Return unknowing; he is safe who flies.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Never, sweet lady, will I leave this place<br> +Until I see the wonder of thy face.<br> +Goddess or Naiad! lady of this Grove,<br> +Made mortal for a night to teach me love,<br> +Unveil thyself, although thy beauty be<br> +Too luminous for my mortality.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span> [<i>unveiling</i>].<br> +Then, foolish boy, receive at length thy will:<br> +Now knowest thou the greatness of thine ill.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Now have I lost my heart, and gained my goal.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll?<br> +<span class="add6em">[<i>Picks up the parchment.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +I read it all, as on this quest I fared,<br> +Save where it was illegible and hard.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Alack! poor scholar, wast thou never taught<br> +A little knowledge serveth less than naught?<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page060" name="page060"></a>(p. 060)</span> Hadst thou perused —— but, stay, I will explain<br> +What was the writing which thou didst disdain.<br> +<span class="add9em">[<i>Reads.</i>]</span><br> +"<i>Au Petit Trianon</i>, at night's full noon,<br> +Mortal, beware the kisses of the moon!<br> +Whoso seeks her she gathers like a flower—<br> +He gives a life, and only gains an hour."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>laughing recklessly</i>].<br> +Bear me away to thine enchanted bower,<br> +All of my life I venture for an hour.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Take up thy destiny of short delight;<br> +I am thy lady for a summer's night.<br> +Lift up your viols, maidens of my train,<br> +And work such havoc on this mortal's brain<br> +That for a moment he may touch and know<br> +Immortal things, and be full Pierrot.<br> +White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eglantine!<br> +To stir his tired veins like magic wine.<br> +What visitants across his spirit glance,<br> +Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance?<br> +Watch, and forget all weary things of earth,<br> +All memories and cares, all joy and mirth,<br> +While my dance woos him, light and rhythmical,<br> +And weaves his heart into my coronal.<br> +Music, more music for his soul's delight:<br> +Love is his lady for a summer's night.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The +dance finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and +stands at her side.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Pan made it long ago in Arcady.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +I heard it long ago, I know not where,<br> +As I knew thee, or ever I came here.<br> +But I forget all things—my name and race<br> +All that I ever knew except thy face.<br> +Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me,<br> +That I may tell it like a rosary.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page061" name="page061"></a>(p. 061)</span> Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees,<br> +How art thou designate—art thou Heart's-Ease?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Waste not the night in idle questioning,<br> +Since Love departs at dawn's awakening.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state,<br> +Since thou art lovely and compassionate.<br> +Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +I am to each the face of his desire.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove,<br> +Who craves a refuge on the breast of love.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon?<br> +Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car,<br> +Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star—<br> +Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,—<br> +Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies,<br> +Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids,<br> +Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades;<br> +Mount me beside thee, bear me far away<br> +From the low regions of the solar day;<br> +Over the rainbow, up into the moon,<br> +Where is thy palace and thine opal throne;<br> +There on thy bosom ——</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add10em">Too ambitious boy!</span><br> +I did but promise thee one hour of joy.<br> +This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light,<br> +Could hardly be completed in a night.<br> +Hast thou no craving less remote than this?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +I say not that: yet prithee have a care!<br> +Often audacity has proved a snare.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page062" name="page062"></a>(p. 062)</span> How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow—<br> +Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +As one who faints upon the Libyan plain<br> +Fears the oasis which brings life again!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Where far away green palm trees seem to stand<br> +May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught,<br> +Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Dost thou persist?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">I do entreat this boon!</span><br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a +petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell;<br> +Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle!<br> +Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream<br> +Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream:<br> +But with its frost such sweetness did conspire<br> +That all my veins are filled with running fire;<br> +Never I knew that life contained such bliss<br> +As the divine completeness of a kiss.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught,<br> +Warning, as usual, has gone for naught.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Had all my schooling been of this soft kind,<br> +To play the truant I were less inclined.<br> +Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce—<br> +I never knew a task by conning once.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Then come with me! below this pleasant shrine<br> +Of Venus we will presently recline,<br> +Until birds' twitter beckon me away<br> +To my own home, beyond the milky-way.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page063" name="page063"></a>(p. 063)</span> I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet<br> +Of Love thou knowest but the alphabet.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise,<br> +If all its rules be written in thine eyes.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">The Lady</span> <i>sits upon a step of the temple, and</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> +<i>leans upon his elbow at her feet, regarding her.</i>]</span><br> +Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn<br> +To be thy scholar always, always learn.<br> +Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth,<br> +Fragrant with all the spices of the South;<br> +Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away,<br> +For with it goes the light of all my day.<br> +Let me peruse it, till I know by rote<br> +Each line of it, like music, note by note;<br> +Raise thy long lashes, Lady! smile again:<br> +These studies profit me.<br> +<span class="add7em">[<i>Takes her hand.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add9em">Refrain, refrain!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>with passion</i>].<br> +I am but studious, so do not stir;<br> +Thou art my star, I thine astronomer!<br> +Geometry was founded on thy lip.<br> +<span class="add7em">[<i>Kisses her hand.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +This attitude becomes not scholarship!<br> +Thy zeal I praise; but, prithee, not so fast,<br> +Nor leave the rudiments until the last,<br> +Science applied is good, but 'twere a schism<br> +To study such before the catechism.<br> +Bear thee more modestly, while I submit<br> +Some easy problems to confirm thy wit.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +In all humility my mind I pit<br> +Against her problems which would test my wit.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span> [<i>questioning him from a little book bound deliciously +in vellum</i>].<br> +<span class="add6em">What is Love?</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Is it a folly,</span><br> +<span class="add4em"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page064" name="page064"></a>(p. 064)</span> Is it mirth, or melancholy?</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Joys above,</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Are there many, or not any?</span><br> +<span class="add8em">What is love?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>answering in a very humble attitude of scholarship</i>].<br> +<span class="add6em">If you please,</span><br> +<span class="add4em">A most sweet folly!</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Full of mirth and melancholy:</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Both of these!</span><br> +<span class="add4em">In its sadness worth all gladness,</span><br> +<span class="add6em">If you please!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add6em">Prithee where,</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Goes Love a-hiding?</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Is he long in his abiding</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Anywhere?</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Can you bind him when you find him;</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Prithee, where?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add6em">With spring days</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Love comes and dallies:</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Upon the mountains, through the valleys</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Lie Love's ways.</span><br> +<span class="add4em">Then he leaves you and deceives you</span><br> +<span class="add6em">In spring days.</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Thine answers please me: 'tis thy turn to ask.<br> +To meet thy questioning be now my task.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add1em">Since I know thee, dear Immortal,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Is my heart become a blossom,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">To be worn upon thy bosom.</span><br> +<span class="add1em">When thou turn me from this portal,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Whither shall I, hapless mortal,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Seek love out and win again</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Heart of me that thou retain?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add1em">In and out the woods and valleys,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Circling, soaring like a swallow,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Love shall flee and thou shalt follow:</span><br> +<span class="add1em"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page065" name="page065"></a>(p. 065)</span> Though he stops awhile and dallies,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Never shalt thou stay his malice!</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Moon-kissed mortals seek in vain</span><br> +<span class="add1em">To possess their hearts again!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add1em">Tell me, Lady, shall I never</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Rid me of this grievous burden?</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Follow Love and find his guerdon</span><br> +<span class="add1em">In no maiden whatsoever?</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Wilt thou hold my heart for ever?</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Rather would I thine forget,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">In some earthly Pierrette!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add1em">Thus thy fate, what'er thy will is!</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Moon-struck child, go seek my traces</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Vainly in all mortal faces!</span><br> +<span class="add1em">In and out among the lilies,</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Court each rural Amaryllis:</span><br> +<span class="add1em">Seek the signet of Love's hand</span><br> +<span class="add1em">In each courtly Corisande!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Now, verily, sweet maid, of school I tire:<br> +These answers are not such as I desire.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Why art thou sad?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">I dare not tell.</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span> [<i>caressingly</i>].<br> +<span class="add14em">Come, say!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Is love all schooling, with no time to play?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Though all love's lessons be a holiday,<br> +Yet I will humor thee: what wouldst thou play?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +What are the games that small moon-maids enjoy,<br> +Or is their time all spent in staid employ?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Sedate they are, yet games they much enjoy:<br> +They skip with stars, the rainbow is their toy.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page066" name="page066"></a>(p. 066)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +That is too hard!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">For mortal's play.</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add14em">What then?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Teach me some pastime from the world of men.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +I have it, maiden.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">Can it soon be taught?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +A single game, I learnt it at the Court.<br> +I sit by thee.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add6em">But, prithee, not so near.</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +That is essential, as will soon appear.<br> +Lay here thine hand, which cold night dews anoint,<br> +Washing its white ——</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add10em">Now is this to the point?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Prithee, forebear! Such is the game's design.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Here is my hand.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">I cover it with mine.</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +What must I next?<br> +<span class="add8em">[<i>They play.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">Withdraw.</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add14em">It goes too fast.</span><br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>They continue playing, until</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>catches her hand.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>laughing</i>].<br> +'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round +the stage; she eludes him.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page067" name="page067"></a>(p. 067)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch<br> +A moon-beam, must use twice as much despatch.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>sitting down sulkily</i>].<br> +I grow aweary, and my heart is sore.<br> +Thou dost not love me; I will play no more.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He buries his face in his hands.</i> <span class="smcap">The Lady</span> <i>stands over him.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +What is this petulance?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add10em">'Tis quick to tell—</span><br> +Thou hast but mocked me.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add12em">Nay! I love thee well!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Repeat those words, for still within my breast<br> +A whisper warns me they are said in jest.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +I jested not: at daybreak I must go,<br> +Yet loving thee far better than thou know.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine,<br> +Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine!<br> +The gods have wedded mortals long ere this.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +There was enough betrothal in my kiss.<br> +What need of further oaths?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add14em">That bound not thee!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Peace! since I tell thee that it may not be.<br> +But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale<br> +With some moon fancy or celestial tale.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Tell me of thee, and that dim, happy place<br> +Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span> [<i>seating herself</i>].<br> +Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air<br> +For mortals' breath is too refined and rare;<br> +Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears<br> +Its dome of agate through a myriad years.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page068" name="page068"></a>(p. 068)</span> A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone,<br> +Each one carved strangely from a precious stone.<br> +Within the fairest, clad in purity,<br> +Our mother dwelleth immemorially:<br> +Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown,<br> +The floor she treads with little pearls is sown;<br> +She sits upon a throne of amethysts,<br> +And orders mortal fortunes as she lists;<br> +I, and my sisters, all around her stand,<br> +And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain<br> +With shriveled fingers spun this web of bane!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Theirs and my mother's realm is far apart;<br> +Hers is the lustrous kingdom of the heart,<br> +And dreamers all, and all who sing and love,<br> +Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Me, even me, she hath led into this grove.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night,<br> +Often I watched my sisters take their flight<br> +Down heaven's stairway of the clustered stars<br> +To gaze on mortals through their lattice bars;<br> +And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss<br> +Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss.<br> +But all to whom they come, my sisters say,<br> +Forthwith forget all joyance of the day,<br> +Forget their laughter and forget their tears,<br> +And dream away with singing all their years—<br> +Moon-lovers always!<br> +<span class="add8em">[<i>She sighs.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">Why art sad, sweet Moon?</span><br> +<span class="add8em">[<i>Laughs.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +For this, my story, grant me now a boon.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +I am thy servitor.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page069" name="page069"></a>(p. 069)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">Would, then, I knew</span><br> +More of the earth, what men and women do.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +I will explain.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add6em">Let brevity attend</span><br> +Thy wit, for night approaches to its end.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me:<br> +That's the first lesson of society.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Society?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add4em">I mean the very best.</span><br> +Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest.<br> +I know it not, but am a <i>petit maître</i><br> +At rout and festival and <i>bal champêtre</i>.<br> +But since example be instruction's ease,<br> +Let's play the thing.—Now, Madame, if you please!<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses +her hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +What am I, then?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">A most divine Marquise!</span><br> +Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease.<br> +<span class="add8em">[<i>Passes her.</i>]</span><br> +Ah, that is better! To complete the plan,<br> +Nothing is necessary save a fan.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Cool is the night, what needs it?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add14em">Madame, pray</span><br> +Reflect, it is essential to our play.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span> [<i>taking a lily</i>].<br> +Here is my fan!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">So, use it with intent:</span><br> +The deadliest arm in beauty's armament!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page070" name="page070"></a>(p. 070)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +What do we next?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">We talk!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add12em">But what about?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +We quiz the company and praise the rout;<br> +Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly,<br> +Or what you will, so reputations die.<br> +Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace,<br> +With the red eminence.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add10em">A pretty face!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +For something tarter set thy wits to search—<br> +"She loves the churchman better than the church."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Her blush is charming; would it were her own!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Madame is merciless!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">Is that the tone?</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught.<br> +Madame was evidently bred at Court.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +I listened much, as best becomes a page.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +I like thy Court but little ——</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add14em">Hush! the Queen!</span><br> +Bow, but not low—thou knowest what I mean.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Nay, that I know not!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add10em">Though she wear a crown,</span><br> +'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page071" name="page071"></a>(p. 071)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Thou art a child: thy malice is a game.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +A most sweet pastime—scandal is its name.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Enough, it wearies me.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add10em">Then, rare Marquise,</span><br> +Desert the crowd to wander through the trees.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. +When they pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and +falls on his knee.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +What wouldst thou now?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +<span class="add12em">Ah, prithee, what, save thee!</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Was this included in thy comedy?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest<br> +I strive to quench the passion in my breast;<br> +In vain thy blandishments would make me play:<br> +Still I desire far more than I can say.<br> +My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous,<br> +Instruct me still, while time remains to us,<br> +Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon-maid, <i>Marquise</i>,<br> +So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease,<br> +Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>He entreats her with imploring gestures, she hesitates: then +puts her finger on her lip, hushing him.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +It is too late, for hark! the birds awake.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>.<br> +The birds awake! It is the voice of day!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span>.<br> +Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away.<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>The light changes, it grows daylight: and music imitates the +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page072" name="page072"></a>(p. 072)</span> twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: +then</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face +in his hands.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">The Lady</span> [<i>bending over him</i>].<br> +Music, my maids! His weary senses steep<br> +In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep,<br> +With Mandragore anoint his tired eyes,<br> +That they may open on mere memories,<br> +Then shall a vision seem his lost delight,<br> +With love, his lady for a summer's night.<br> +Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake,<br> +Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake.<br> +I leave thee, sleeper! Yea, I leave thee now,<br> +Yet take my legacy upon thy brow:<br> +Remember me, who was compassionate,<br> +And opened for thee once, the ivory gate.<br> +I come no more, thou shalt not see my face<br> +When I am gone to mine exalted place:<br> +Yet all thy days are mine, dreamer of dreams,<br> +All silvered over with the moon's pale beams:<br> +Go forth and seek in each fair face in vain,<br> +To find the image of thy love again.<br> +All maids are kind to thee, yet never one<br> +Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done.<br> +Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late,<br> +Yet never finds the maid to be his mate.<br> +Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate.<<br> +<span class="min1em">[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Moon Maiden</span> <i>withdraws: a song is sung from behind: +it is full day.</i>]</span></p> + + +<div class="center"> +<table class="poem20" border="0" cellpadding="0" summary="Rondel"> +<tr> +<td><span class="add2em"><span class="smcap">The Moon Maiden's Song</span></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Sleep! Cast thy canopy<br> +<span class="add2em">Over this sleeper's brain,</span><br> +Dim grow his memory,<br> +<span class="add2em">When he awake again.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Love stays a summer night,<br> +<span class="add2em">Till lights of morning come;</span><br> +Then takes her wingèd flight<br> +<span class="add2em">Back to her starry home.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td><span class="pagenum"><a id="page073" name="page073"></a>(p. 073)</span> Sleep! Yet thy days are mine;<br> +<span class="add2em">Love's seal is over thee:</span><br> +Far though my ways from thine,<br> +<span class="add2em">Dim though thy memory.</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Love stays a summer night,<br> +<span class="add2em">Till lights of morning come;</span><br> +Then takes her wingèd flight<br> +<span class="add2em">Back to her starry home.</span></td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> +<i>sleeping.</i>]</span></p> + + +<h2><i>EPILOGUE</i></h2> + +<p class="center">[<i>Spoken in the character of</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span>]</p> + +<div class="poem05"> +<p><i>The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs,<br> +A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs,<br> +(Although on no account let any say<br> +That</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>finished Mr. Dowson's play</i>).</p> + +<p><i>One night not long ago, at Baden Baden,—<br> +The birthday of the Duke,—his pleasure garden<br> +Was lighted gaily with</i> feu d'artifice,<br> +<i>With candles, rockets, and a center-piece<br> +Above the conversation house, on high,<br> +Outlined in living fire against the sky,<br> +A glittering</i> Pierrot, <i>radiant, white,<br> +Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight,<br> +Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red,<br> +Whose</i> pompons <i>too were fire, while on his head<br> +He wore a little cap, and I am told<br> +That rockets covered him with showers of gold.<br> +"Take our applause, you well deserve to win it,"<br> +They cried: "Bravo! the</i> Pierrot <i>of the minute!"<br> +What with applause and gold, one must confess<br> +That</i> Pierrot <i>had "arrived," achieved success,<br> +When, as it happened, presently, alas!<br> +A terrible disaster came to pass.<br> +His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout,<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page074" name="page074"></a>(p. 074)</span> His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out.<br> +There rose a sullen sound of discontent,<br> +The golden shower of rockets was all spent;<br> +He left off dancing with a sudden jerk,<br> +For he was nothing but a firework.<br> +The garden darkened and the people in it<br> +Cried, "He is dead,—the</i> Pierrot <i>of the minute!"</i></p> + +<p><i>With every artist it is even so;<br> +The artist, after all, is a</i> Pierrot—<br> +<i>A</i> Pierrot <i>of the minute, naif, clever,<br> +But Art is back of him, She lives for ever!</i></p> + +<p><i>Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, because<br> +We craved the golden shower of your applause!<br> +Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it,<br> +And cry, "Bravo! The</i> Pierrot <i>of the minute!"</i></p> +</div> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page075" name="page075"></a>(p. 075)</span> THE MAKER OF DREAMS<a id="footnotetag28" name="footnotetag28"></a><a href="#footnote28" title="Go to footnote 28"><span class="smaller">[28]</span></a><br> +<i>A FANTASY IN ONE ACT</i><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +OLIPHANT DOWN</span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page077" name="page077"></a>(p. 077)</span> <i>The Maker of Dreams</i> by the late Oliphant Down was first +given at the Royalty Theatre in Glasgow, November 20, 1911. +The design for the setting here reproduced was used when the +play was acted in March, 1915, at The Neighborhood Playhouse +in New York. The picture does not show how touches +of red here and there in the scene, and the brilliant blue sky, +visible through the quaint windows, enhanced the character of +the black and white of the walls and of the flower pots. The +back wall of the set was mounted on casters and, while +Pierrette slept, moved silently off stage, to disclose to the audience +a formal garden at the back, where a miniature Pierrot +and a tiny Pierrette did a joyous little dance, thus suggesting +to the spectators Pierrette's happy dream.</p> + +<p>Pierrot, the hero of this and of the preceding play, has had +an interesting stage history. To understand him fully we have +to go back to the comedy of masks that had fully developed in +Italy by the time of the Renascence. This comedy was a special +kind of play, the scenario of which only was written, the dialogue +being improvised by the individual players. Each player +wore a costume and a mask that never changed, and these fixed +his identity. Most of the parts had a strong local flavor, the +pedant, for example, hailing from Bologna, the overly shrewd +merchant, from Venice. Many of the characters have become +fixed types and reappear under their old names in various forms +of modern drama. Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, Punch +and Judy, and Pierrot are among those who live on in modern +drama. There is an enchanting play by Granville Barker and +Dion Clayton Calthrop called <i>The Harlequinade</i>, that describes +in a popular way the devious and uncertain paths traveled by +these stock characters down the ages.</p> + +<p>Pierrot's ancestry is not so clearly Italian as the others. +Pedrolino, a mischievous, intriguing buffoon, Pagliaccio, a madcap +who wore a painted hat of white wool and a garment of +white linen, whose face was covered with flour, and who wore +a white mask, have both been cited as types that may have contributed +to the figure of Pierrot, whose name makes its first +appearance in Molière's play, <i>Don Juan ou le Festin de Pierre</i>. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page078" name="page078"></a>(p. 078)</span> Not that this dull servant of Molière's is in any sense the +counterpart of the Pierrot of our day who is by turns languishing +or vivacious, impish or poetic, but never doltish. From the +seventeenth century, Pierrot, his costume borrowed from the +Neapolitan mask, Pulcinella, became more and more prominent +on both the Italian and the French stage. It was a certain +French pantomime actor by the name of Deburau who died a +few years before the middle of the nineteenth century, who +gave Pierrot the prominence that he enjoys to-day and who +dressed the character in the guise that he most often assumes +on the modern stage. "The short woolen tunic, with its great +buttons and its narrow sleeves, that overhung the hands, soon +became an ample calico blouse with wide long sleeves like those +of the Italian Pagliaccio. He suppressed the collar, which cast +an upward shadow from the footlights on to his face, and interfered +with the play of his countenance, and instead of the +white skull-cap of his predecessor, he emphasized the pallor of +his face by framing it in a cap of black velvet."<a id="footnotetag29" name="footnotetag29"></a><a href="#footnote29" title="Go to footnote 29"><span class="smaller">[29]</span></a> The Pierrot +of our fancy<a id="footnotetag30" name="footnotetag30"></a><a href="#footnote30" title="Go to footnote 30"><span class="smaller">[30]</span></a> comes to us also through the pictures of Watteau +and Pater and the designs of Aubrey Beardsley.</p> + +<p>A one-act farce, <i>The Quod Wrangle</i>, is the only other published +play of Oliphant Down's. Its plot, as outlined in <i>The +London Times</i> of March 4, 1914, reminds one strongly of +O. Henry's <i>The Cop and the Anthem</i>.</p> + +<a id="img009" name="img009"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img009.jpg" width="600" height="307" alt="" title=""> +<p><i>The Maker of Dreams</i> at The Neighborhood Playhouse, designed by Aline Bernstein.</p> +</div> + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page079" name="page079"></a>(p. 079)</span> THE MAKER OF DREAMS</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Pierrot</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Pierrette</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">The Manufacturer</span>.</li> +</ul> + +<p class="opening"><i><span class="min10pc">Evening. A room in an old cottage,</span> with walls of dark oak, +lit only by the moonlight that peers through the long, low +casement-window at the back, and the glow from the fire +that is burning merrily on the spectator's left. A cobbled +street can be seen outside, and a door to the right of the +window opens directly on to it. Opposite the fire is a +kitchen dresser with cups and plates twinkling in the firelight. +A high-backed oak settle, as though afraid of the +cold moonlight, has turned its back on the window and +warms its old timbers at the fire. In the middle of the +room stands a table with a red cover; there are chairs on +either side of it. On the hob, a kettle is keeping itself +warm; whilst overhead, on the hood of the chimney-piece, +a small lamp is turned very low.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><i><span class="min10pc">A figure flits past the window and,</span> with a click of the latch,</i> +<span class="smcap">Pierrette</span> <i>enters. She hangs up her cloak by the door, +gives a little shiver and runs to warm herself for a moment. +Then, having turned up the lamp, she places the +kettle on the fire. Crossing the room, she takes a tablecloth +from the dresser and proceeds to lay tea, setting out +crockery for two. Once she goes to the window and, drawing +aside the common red casement-curtains, looks out, but +returns to her work, disappointed. She puts a spoonful of +tea into the teapot, and another, and a third. Something +outside attracts her attention; she listens, her face brightening. +A voice is heard singing:</i></p> + +<p class="poem20"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page080" name="page080"></a>(p. 080)</span> "Baby, don't wait for the moon,<br> +<span class="add1em">She is caught in a tangle of boughs;</span><br> +And mellow and musical June<br> +<span class="add1em">Is saying 'Good-night' to the cows."</span></p> + +<p>[<i>The voice draws nearer and a conical white hat goes past the +window.</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>enters.</i>]</p> + +<p class="bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>throwing his hat to</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrette</span>]. Ugh! How +cold it is. My feet are like ice.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Here are your slippers. I put them down to +warm. [<i>She kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and +commences to slip off his shoes.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>singing:</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Baby, don't wait for the moon,<br> +<span class="add1em">She will put out her tongue and grimace;</span><br> +And mellow and musical June<br> +<span class="add1em">Is pinning the stars in their place."</span></p> + +<p class="poem05 top_0 bot_0">Isn't tea ready yet?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I +don't believe I sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when +he's cold either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own +voice.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I believe it is. Now it's singing like a bird. +We'll make the tea with the nightingale's tongue. [<i>She pours +the boiling water into the teapot.</i>] Come along.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>looking into the fire</i>]. I wonder. She had beauty, +she had form, but had she soul?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>cutting bread and butter at the table</i>]. Come +and be cheerful, instead of grumbling there to the fire.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I was thinking.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Come and have tea. When you sit by the fire, +thoughts only fly up the chimney.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. The whole world's a chimney-piece. Give people +a thing as worthless as paper, and it catches fire in them and +makes a stir; but real thought, they let it go up with the smoke.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page081" name="page081"></a>(p. 081)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Cheer up, Pierrot. See how thick I've spread +the butter.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. You're always cheerful.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I try to be happy.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Ugh! [<i>He has moved to the table. There is a +short silence, during which</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>sips his tea moodily.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Tea all right?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Middling.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Only middling! I'll pour you out some fresh.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Oh, it's all right! How you do worry a fellow!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Heigh-ho! Shall I chain up that big black dog?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I say, did you see that girl to-day?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Whereabouts?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Standing by the horse-trough. With a fine air, +and a string of great beads.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I didn't see her.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I did, though. And she saw me. Watched me all +the time I was singing, and clapped her hands like anything +each time. I wonder if it is possible for a woman to have a +soul as well as such beautiful coloring.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. She was made up!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I'm sure she was not. And how do you know? +You didn't see her.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Perhaps I <i>did</i> see her.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being +jealous. When you and I took on this show business, we arranged +to be just partners and nothing more. If I see anyone +I want to marry, I shall marry 'em. And if you see anyone +who wants to marry you, <i>you</i> can marry 'em.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I'm not jealous! It's absurd!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>singing abstractedly</i>].</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Baby, don't wait for the moon,<br> +<span class="add1em">She has scratched her white chin on the gorse;</span><br> +And mellow and musical June<br> +<span class="add1em">Is bringing the cuckoo remorse."</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Did you see that girl after the show?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, +I've had enough tea. I shall go out and try to find her.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could +help me to darn the socks.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page082" name="page082"></a>(p. 082)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed! I hope +life has got something better in it than darning.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the +world over. First we wear holes in our socks, and then we +mend them. The wise ones are those who make the best of it, +and darn as well as they can.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I say, that gives me an idea for a song.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Out with it, then.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is +what flashed through my mind as you spoke: [<i>He runs up on +to the table, using it as a stage.</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Life's a ball of worsted,<br> +<span class="add1em">Unwind it if you can,</span><br> +You who oft have boasted</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss +over the false accenting.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="poem20"> + That you are a man."</p> + +<p class="poem05 top_0 bot_0">Of course that's only a rough idea.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Are you going to sing it at the show?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>jumping down from the table</i>]. You're always so +lukewarm. A man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as +a baby.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Just now you said I was always cheerful.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. There you are; girding at me again.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is +dreadfully wet, and your shoes are awfully thin.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to +find that girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman of +my dreams?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal +woman?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Don't <i>you ever</i> picture an ideal man?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. No, I try to be practical.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Women are so unimaginative! They are such +pathetic, motherly things, and when they feel extra motherly +they say, "I'm in love." All that is so sordid and petty. I +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page083" name="page083"></a>(p. 083)</span> want a woman I can set on a pedestal, and just look up at +her and love her.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>speaking very fervently</i>].</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +"Pierrot, don't wait for the moon,<br> +<span class="add1em">There's a heart chilling cold in her rays;</span><br> +And mellow and musical June<br> +<span class="add1em">Will only last thirty short days."</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, +I'm off. [<i>As he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in +a mocking tone, "Baby, don't wait for the moon."</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrette</span> +<i>listens for a moment to his voice dying away in the distance. +Then she moves to the fire-place, and begins to stir the fire. +As she kneels there, the words of an old recitation form on her +lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again to an audience of +laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals.</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem10"> +<p>"There lives a maid in the big, wide world,<br> +<span class="add1em">By the crowded town and mart,</span><br> +And people sigh as they pass her by;<br> +<span class="add1em">They call her Hungry Heart.</span></p> + +<p>For there trembles that on her red rose lip<br> +<span class="add1em">That never her tongue can say,</span><br> +And her eyes are sad, and she is not glad<br> +<span class="add1em">In the beautiful calm of day.</span></p> + +<p>Deep down in the waters of pure, clear thought,<br> +<span class="add1em">The mate of her fancy lies;</span><br> +Sleeping, the night is made fair by his light<br> +<span class="add1em">Sweet kiss on her dreaming eyes.</span></p> + +<p>Though a man was made in the wells of time<br> +<span class="add1em">Who could set her soul on fire,</span><br> +Her life unwinds, and she never finds<br> +<span class="add1em">This love of her heart's desire.</span></p> + +<p>If you meet this maid of a hopeless love,<br> +<span class="add1em">Play not a meddler's part.</span><br> +Silence were best; let her keep in her breast<br> +<span class="add1em">The dream of her hungry heart."</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page084" name="page084"></a>(p. 084)</span> <span class="min1em">[<i>Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, +treble knock comes on the door;</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrette</span> <i>looks up wonderingly. +Again the knock sounds.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Come in. [<i>The door swings slowly open, as +though of its own accord, and without, on the threshold, is seen</i> +<span class="smcap">The Manufacturer</span>, <i>standing full in the moonlight. He is +a curious, though kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all +his years, he does not appear to be the least infirm. He is the +sort of person that children take to instinctively. He wears a +quaintly cut, bottle-green coat, with silver buttons and large +side-pockets, which almost hide his knee-breeches. His shoes +have large buckles and red heels. He is exceedingly unlike a +prosperous manufacturer, and, but for the absence of a violin, +would be mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word he +advances into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door +closes noiselessly behind him.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>jumping up and moving towards him</i>]. Oh, I'm +so sorry. I ought to have opened the door when you knocked.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. That's all right. I'm used to opening +doors. And yours opens much more easily than some I come +across. Would you believe it, some people positively nail their +doors up, and it's no good knocking. But there, you're wondering +who I am.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I was wondering if you were hungry.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, +no. I am a small eater; I might say a very small eater. A +smile or a squeeze of the hand keeps me going admirably.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at +home.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span> [<i>moving to the settle</i>]. Well, I have a +habit of making myself at home everywhere. In fact, most people +think you can't make a <i>home</i> without <i>me</i>. May I put my +feet on the fender? It's an old habit of mine. I always do it.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. They say round here:</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Without feet on the fender<br> +Love is but slender."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Quite right. It is the whole secret of +the domestic fireside. Pierrette, you have been crying.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I believe I have.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page085" name="page085"></a>(p. 085)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Bless you, I know all about it. It's +Pierrot. And so you're in love with him, and he doesn't care +a little bit about you, eh? What a strange old world it is! +And you cry your eyes out over him.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Oh, no, I don't often cry. But to-night he +seemed more grumpy than usual, and I tried so hard to cheer +him up.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Grumpy, is he?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. He doesn't mean it, though. It's the cold +weather, and the show hasn't been paying so well lately. +Pierrot wants to write an article about us for the local paper +by way of an advertisement. He thinks the editor may print +it if he gives him free passes for his family.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Do you think Pierrot is worth your tears?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Oh, yes!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. You know, tears are not to be wasted. +We only have a certain amount of them given to us just for +keeping the heart moist. And when we've used them all up +and haven't any more, the heart dries up, too.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Pierrot is a splendid fellow. You don't know +him as well as I do. It's true he's always discontented, but it's +only because he's not in love with anyone. You know, love does +make a tremendous difference in a man.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. That's true enough. And has it made +a difference in you?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Oh, yes! I put Pierrot's slippers down to +warm, and I make tea for him, and all the time I'm happy because +I'm doing something for him. If I weren't in love, I +should find it a drudgery.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Are you sure it's real love?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Why, yes!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Every time you think of Pierrot, do you +hear the patter of little bare feet? And every time he speaks, +do you feel little chubby hands on your breast and face?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>fervently</i>]. Yes! Oh, yes! That's just it!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. You've got it right enough. But why is +it that Pierrot can wake up all this poetry in you?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Because—oh, because he's just Pierrot. + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. "Because he's just Pierrot." The same +old reason.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Of course, he is a bit dreamy. But that's his +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page086" name="page086"></a>(p. 086)</span> soul. I am sure he could do great things if he tried. And have +you noticed his smile? Isn't it lovely! Sometimes, when he's +not looking, I want ever so much to try it on, just to see how +I should look in it. [<i>Pensively.</i>] But I wish he'd smile at +me a little more often, instead of at others. + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Ho! So he smiles at others, does he?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Hardly a day goes by but there's some fine lady +at the show. There was one there to-day, a tall girl with red +cheeks. He is gone to look for her now. And it is not their +faults. The poor things can't help being in love with him. +[<i>Proudly.</i>] I believe everyone is in love with Pierrot.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. But supposing one of these fine ladies +were to marry him?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Oh, they'd never do that. A fine lady would +never marry a poor singer. If Pierrot were to get married, I +think I should just ... fade away.... Oh, but I don't +know why I talk to you like this. I feel as if I had known +you for a long, long time. [<span class="smcap">The Manufacturer</span> <i>rises from +the settle and moves across to</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrette</span>, <i>who is now folding +up the white table-cloth.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span> [<i>very slowly</i>]. Perhaps you <i>have</i> known +me for a long, long time. [<i>His tone is so kindly and impressive +that</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrette</span> <i>forgets the table-cloth and looks up at him. +For a moment or two he smiles back at her as she gazes, spellbound; +then he turns away to the fire again, with the little +chuckle that is never far from his lips.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>taking a small bow from his side-pocket</i>]. Oh, +look at this.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span> [<i>in mock alarm</i>]. Oh, oh, I didn't mean +you to see that. I'd forgotten it was sticking out of my pocket. +I used to do a lot of archery at one time. I don't get much +chance now. [<i>He takes it and puts it back in his pocket.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>singing in the distance</i>].</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Baby, don't wait for the moon,<br> +<span class="add1em">She is drawing the sea in her net;</span><br> +And mellow and musical June<br> +<span class="add1em">Is teaching the rose to forget."</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span> [<i>in a whisper as the voice draws nearer</i>]. +Who is that?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page087" name="page087"></a>(p. 087)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Pierrot. [<i>Again the conical white hat flashes +past the window and</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>enters.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I can't find her anywhere. [<i>Seeing</i> <span class="smcap">The Manufacturer</span>.] +Hullo! Who are you?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. I am a stranger to you, but Pierrette +knew me in a moment.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. An old flame perhaps?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. True, I am an old flame. I've lighted +up the world for a considerable time. Yet when you say "old," +there are many people who think I'm wonderfully well preserved +for my age. How long do you think I've been trotting +about?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>testily, measuring a length with his hands</i>]. Oh, +about that long.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. I suppose being funny all day <i>does</i> get +on your nerves.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Pierrot, you needn't be rude.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span> [<i>anxious to be alone with</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span>]. +Pierrette, have you got supper in?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Oh, I must fly! The shops will all be shut. +Will you be here when I come back?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span> [<i>bustling her out</i>]. I can't promise, but +I'll try, I'll try. [<span class="smcap">Pierrette</span> <i>goes out. There is a silence, during +which</i> <span class="smcap">The Manufacturer</span> <i>regards</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>with amusement.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Well, friend Pierrot, so business is not +very brisk.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Brisk! If laughter meant business, it would be +brisk enough, but there's no money. However, I've done one +good piece of work to-day. I've arranged with the editor to +put an article in the paper. That will fetch 'em. [<i>Singing</i>]:</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +"Please come one day and see our house that's down among the trees,<br> +But do not come at four o'clock for then we count the bees,<br> +And bath the tadpoles and the frogs, who splash the clouds with gold,<br> +And watch the new-cut cucum<i>bers</i> perspiring with the cold."</p> + +<p class="poem05 top_0 bot_0">That's a song I'm writing.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Pierrot, if you had all the money in the +world you wouldn't be happy.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page088" name="page088"></a>(p. 088)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Wouldn't I? Give me all the money in the world +and I'll risk it. To start with, I'd build schools to educate +the people up to high-class things.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer.</span> You dream of fame and wealth and +empty ideals, and you miss all the best things there are. You +are discontented. Why? Because you don't know how to be +happy.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>reciting</i>]:</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Life's a running brooklet,<br> +<span class="add1em">Catch the fishes there,</span><br> +You who wrote a booklet<br> +<span class="add1em">On a woman's hair."</span></p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em">[<i>Explaining.</i>]</span> That's another song I'm writing. It's the +second verse. Things come to me all of a sudden like that. +I must run out a third verse, just to wind it up.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Why don't you write a song without +any end, one that goes on for ever?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I say, that's rather silly, isn't it?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. It all depends. For a song of that sort +the singer must be always happy.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. That wants a bit of doing in my line.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Shall you and I transact a little business?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. By all means. What seats would you like? There +are the front rows covered in velvet, one shilling; wooden +benches behind, sixpence; and, right at the back, the twopenny +part. But, of course, you'll have shilling ones. How many +shall we say?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer.</span> You don't know who I am.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. That makes no difference. All are welcome, +and we thank you for your courteous attention.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Pierrot, I am a maker of dreams.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. A what?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. I make all the dreams that float about +this musty world.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I say, you'd better have a rest for a bit. I expect +you're a trifle done up.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't +tumble to my calling. A child or one of the "people" would +in a moment. I am a maker of dreams, little things that glide +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page089" name="page089"></a>(p. 089)</span> about into people's hearts and make them glad. Haven't you +often wondered where the swallows go to in the autumn? +They come to my workshop, and tell me who wants a dream, +and what happened to the dreams they took with them in the +spring.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. When flowers fade, have you never wondered +where their colors go to, or what becomes of all the butterflies +in the winter? There isn't much winter about my +workshop.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I had never thought of it before.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. It's a kind of lost property office, where +every beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its way. +And there I make my celebrated dream, the dream that is +called "love."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Ho! ho! Now we're talking.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. You don't believe in it?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't +last. If there is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is soul, +there isn't form. Oh, I've tried hard enough to believe it, but, +after the first wash, the colors run.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. You only got hold of a substitute. Wait +until you see the genuine article.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. But how is one to tell it?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. There are heaps of signs. As soon as +you get the real thing, your shoulder-blades begin to tingle. +That's love's wings sprouting. And, next, you want to soar +up among the stars and sit on the roof of heaven and sing to +the moon. Of course, that's because I put such a lot of the +moon into my dreams. I break bits off until it's nearly all +gone, and then I let it grow big again. It grows very quickly, +as I dare say you've noticed. After a fortnight it is ready for +use once more.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. This is most awfully fascinating. And do the +swallows bring all the dreams?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Not always; I have other messengers. +Every night when the big clock strikes twelve, a day slips down +from the calendar, and runs away to my workshop in the Land +of Long Ago. I give him a touch of scarlet and a gleam of +gold, and say, "Go back, little Yesterday, and be a memory +in the world." But my best dreams I keep for to-day. I buy +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page090" name="page090"></a>(p. 090)</span> babies, and fit them up with a dream, and then send them complete +and carriage paid ... in the usual manner.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I've been dreaming all my life, but they've +always been dreams I made myself. I suppose I don't mix 'em +properly.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer.</span> You leave out the very essence of them. +You must put in a little sorrow, just to take away the over-sweetness. +I found that out very soon, so I took a little of the +fresh dew that made pearls in the early morning, and I +sprinkled my dreams with the gift of tears.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>ecstatically</i>]. The gift of tears! How beautiful! +You know, I should rather like to try a real one. Not one of +my own making.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Well, there are plenty about, if you only +look for them.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. That is all very well, but who's going to look +about for stray dreams?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. I once made a dream that would just suit +you. I slipped it inside a baby. That was twenty years ago, +and the baby is now a full-grown woman, with great blue eyes +and fair hair.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. It's a lot of use merely telling me about her.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. I'll do more. When I shipped her to +the world, I kept the bill of lading. Here it is. You shall +have it.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Thanks, but what's the good of it?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Why, the holder of that is able to claim +the goods; you will notice it contains a complete description, +too. I promise you, you're in luck.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Has she red cheeks and a string of great beads?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. No.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Ah, then it is not she. Where shall I find her?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. That's for you to discover. All you have +to do is to search.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I'll start at once. [<i>He moves as if to go.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. I shouldn't start out to-night.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. But I want to find her soon. Somebody else may +find her before me.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Pierrot, there was once a man who +wanted to gather mushrooms.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>annoyed at the commonplace</i>]. Mushrooms!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page091" name="page091"></a>(p. 091)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Fearing people would be up before him, +he started out overnight. Morning came, and he found none, +so he returned disconsolate to his house. As he came through +the garden, he found a great mushroom had grown up in the +night by his very door-step. Take the advice of one who knows, +and wait a bit.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. If that's your advice.... But tell me this, do +you think I shall find her?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. I can't say for certain. Would you consider +yourself a fool?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Ah ... of course ... when you ask me a +direct thing like that, you make it ... er ... rather awkward +for me. But, if I may say so, as man to ma ... I +mean as man to ... [<i>he hesitates</i>].</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span> [<i>waiving the point</i>]. Yes, yes.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Well, I flatter myself that ...</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Exactly. And that's your principal danger. +Whilst you are striding along gazing at the stars, you +may be treading on a little glow-worm. Shall I give you a +third verse for your song?</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Life's a woman calling,<br> +<span class="add1em">Do not stop your ears,</span><br> +Lest, when night is falling,<br> +<span class="add1em">Darkness brings you tears."</span></p> + +<p>[<span class="smcap">The Manufacturer's</span> <i>kindly and impressive tone holds</i> +<span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>as it had held</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrette</span> <i>some moments before. +Whilst the two are looking at each other, a little red cloak +dances past the window, and</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrette</span> <i>enters with her +marketing.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Oh, I'm so glad you're still here.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. But I must be going now. I am a great +traveler.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>standing against the door, so that he cannot +pass</i>]. Oh, you mustn't go yet.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Don't make me fly out of the window. +I only do that under very unpleasant circumstances.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>gaily, with mock eloquence</i>]. Pierrette, regard +our visitor. You little knew whom you were entertaining. +You see before you the maker of the dreams that slip about +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page092" name="page092"></a>(p. 092)</span> the world like little fish among the rushes of a stream. He +has given me the bill of lading of his great masterpiece, and it +only remains for me to find her. [<i>Dropping to the commonplace.</i>] +I wish I knew where to look.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Manufacturer</span>. Before I go, I will give you this little +rhyme:</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Let every woman keep a school,<br> +For every man is born a fool."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em">[<i>He bows, and goes out quickly and silently.</i>]</span> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>running to the door, and looking out</i>]. Why, +how quickly he has gone! He's out of sight.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. At last I am about to attain my great ideal. There +will be a grand wedding, and I shall wear my white coat with +the silver braid, and carry a tall gold-topped stick. [<i>Singing:</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +"If we play any longer, I fear you will get<br> +Such a cold in the head, for the grass is so wet.<br> +But during the night, Margareta divine,<br> +I will hang the wet grass up to dry on the line."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05">Pierrette, I feel that I am about to enter into a man's inheritance, +a woman's love.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I wish you every happiness.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span> [<i>singing teasingly:</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +"We shall meet in our dreams, that's a thing understood;<br> +You dream of the river, I'll dream of the wood.<br> +I am visiting you, if the river it be;<br> +If we meet in the wood, you are visiting me."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. We must make lots of money, so that you can +give her all she wants. I'll dance and dance until I fall, and +the people will exclaim, "Why, she has danced herself to +death."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. You're right. We must pull the show together. +I'll do that article for the paper at once. [<i>He takes paper, +ink, etc., from the dresser, and, seating himself at the table, +commences to write.</i>] "There has lately come to this town a +company of strolling players, who give a show that is at once +musical and droll. The audience is enthralled by Pierrot's +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page093" name="page093"></a>(p. 093)</span> magnificent singing and dancing, and ... er ... very much +entertained by Pierrette's homely dancing. Pierrette is a +charming comedienne of twenty, with ..." what color hair?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Fair, quite fair.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Funny how one can see a person every day and +not know the color of their hair. "Fair hair and ..." +eyes?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Blue, Pierrot.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. "Fair hair and blue eyes." Fair! Blue! Oh, +of course it's nonsense, though.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. What's nonsense?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Something I was thinking. Most girls have fair +hair and blue eyes.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Yes, Pierrot, we can't all be ideals.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. How musical your voice sounds! I can't make it +out. Oh, but, of course, it is all nonsense! [<i>He takes the bill +of lading from his pocket and reads it.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. What's nonsense?... Pierrot, won't you +tell me?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Pierrette, stand in the light.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette.</span> Is anything the matter?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. I almost believe that nothing matters. [<i>Reading +and glancing at her.</i>] "Eyes that say 'I love you'; arms that +say 'I want you'; lips that say 'Why don't you?'" Pierrette, +is it possible! I've never noticed before how beautiful you +are. You don't seem a bit the same. I believe you have lost +your real face, and have carved another out of a rose.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Oh, Pierrot, what is it?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Love! I've found it at last. Don't you understand +it all?</p> + +<p class="poem10"> +"I am a fool<br> +Who has learned wisdom in your school."</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05">To think that I've seen you every day, and never dreamed +... dreamed! Yes, ah yes, it's one of his beautiful dreams. +That is why my heart seems full of the early morning.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. Ah, Pierrot!</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Oh, how my shoulders tingle! I want to soar up, +up. Don't you want to fly up to the roof of heaven and sing +among the stars?</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page094" name="page094"></a>(p. 094)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span>. I have been sitting on the moon ever so long, +waiting for my lover. Pierrot, let me try on your smile. Give +it to me in a kiss. [<i>With their hands outstretched behind +them, they lean towards each other, till their lips meet in a +long kiss.</i>]</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrette</span> [<i>throwing back her head with a deep sigh of happiness.</i>] +Oh, I am so happy. This might be the end of all +things.</p> + +<p class="top_0 bot_0 poem05"><span class="min1em speaker">Pierrot</span>. Pierrette, let us sit by the fire and put our feet on +the fender, and live happily ever after. [<i>They have moved +slowly to the settle. As they sit there,</i> <span class="smcap">Pierrot</span> <i>sings softly:</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"Baby, don't wait for the moon,<br> +<span class="add1em">The stairs of the sky are so steep;</span><br> +And mellow and musical June<br> +<span class="add1em">Is waiting to kiss you to sleep."</span></p> + +<p>[<i>The lamp on the hood of the chimney-piece has burned +down, leaving only the red glow from the fire upon their faces, +as the curtain whispers down to hide them.</i>]</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page095" name="page095"></a>(p. 095)</span> GETTYSBURG<a id="footnotetag31" name="footnotetag31"></a><a href="#footnote31" title="Go to footnote 31"><span class="smaller">[31]</span></a><br> +<i>A WOOD-SHED COMMENTARY</i><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +PERCY MACKAYE</span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page097" name="page097"></a>(p. 097)</span> Percy MacKaye was born in New York, March 16, 1875, +the son of Steele MacKaye, a well-known dramatist and +theatrical inventor of his day. "My own early dramatic training," +writes the son, "was in the theatre in relation with my +father's work there as dramatist, actor, and director." In +another place he says: "I have not sought to conceal, or to +put aside, the grateful enthusiasm I feel, as a son and comrade +of Steele MacKaye, for those examples of untiring devotion +to the theatre and of constructive achievement in its +art, by which his life has been an inspiration to my own, to +follow—however haltingly and through different means—the +trail of his large leadership." Percy MacKaye was graduated +from Harvard in 1897 and later spent a year studying at the +University of Leipzig. After travel abroad, he returned to +New York in 1900 and taught there in a private school till +1904. He spent some time in the next five years lecturing on +the Drama of Democracy and the Civic Theatre at various +American universities. In 1904 he joined the colony of artists +and men of letters at Cornish, New Hampshire, the home of +Saint-Gaudens, Maxfield Parrish, Winston Churchill, and +others. Since that date Percy MacKaye has devoted himself +wholly to poetry and the drama, writing community masques, +plays of various kinds, and operas.<a id="footnotetag32" name="footnotetag32"></a><a href="#footnote32" title="Go to footnote 32"><span class="smaller">[32]</span></a> It is interesting to note +that one of the latest products of his pen, <i>Washington, the Man +Who Made Us, A Ballad Play</i>, was translated into French +and presented by M. Copeau's players, at the Théâtre du +Vieux Colombier, during their second season in New York, and +later acted in English by Walter Hampden, the scene designs +being made by Robert Edmond Jones. In October, 1920, he +was invited to Miami University, Oxford, Ohio, not to teach +but to continue his own creative work, quite untrammeled, +filling there the first fellowship in creative literature ever established +in this country.</p> + +<p><i>Yankee Fantasies</i>, a collection of five one-act plays of which +<i>Gettysburg</i> is one, is the expression of Percy MacKaye's belief +that the American dramatist may find "north of Boston," or, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page098" name="page098"></a>(p. 098)</span> in fact, in almost any rural neighborhood, material for "quaint +and lovely interpretation of our native environment now +ignored." These plays, published in 1912, testified also to his +conviction that the time had come for the development of the +one-act play in this country, not only because this form is distinctive +and capable of expressing what the full-length play +cannot, but also because a receptive audience was already organized. +He found even then that amateurs in schools, colleges, +and elsewhere were clamoring to perform one-act plays, +to see them performed, and to read them. At that date Little +Theatres were just beginning to be, but in the preface to +<i>Yankee Fantasies</i>, the author advocated the establishment of +Studio Theatres, in essence experimental, many of which have +since come into existence under different names, wherein playwrights +might practice the new craft of the one-act play as in +a workshop. The one-act play may be said to have arrived in +the nine years that have elapsed since <i>Gettysburg</i> was published.</p> + +<p>The one-act play has shown no tendency, however, to rival +the short-story in the matter of local color. Kentucky, California, +Iowa, Louisiana, to name but a few of the favored +states which have served as rich backgrounds for many finely +flavored narratives of American life, have been neglected as +sources of dramatic material. But though Percy MacKaye may +perhaps be matched with Mary Wilkins, there is no writer who +has made notable use in the one-act play of localities, associated, +for example, with the art of George W. Cable, Bret +Harte, James Lane Allen, or Hamlin Garland. One of the +paths of glory for the American dramatist lies undoubtedly in +this direction.</p> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page099" name="page099"></a>(p. 099)</span> GETTYSBURG</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Link Tadbourne</span>, <i>ox-yoke maker</i>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Polly</span>, <i>his grandniece</i>.</li> +</ul> + + +<p class="center"><i>The Place is country New Hampshire, at the present time.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>SCENE.—A woodshed, in the ell of a farm house.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>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.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>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.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply +is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stove-wood +and kindlings mixed with small chips on the floor, +which is piled deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips +and wood-dust.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>Not far from this mounded pile, at right center of the scene, +stands a wooden arm-chair, in which</i> <span class="smcap">Link Tadbourne</span>, +<i>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 mustache of a +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page100" name="page100"></a>(p. 100)</span> 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.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>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</i> <span class="smcap">Polly</span>—<i>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</i> <span class="smcap">Link</span>. <i>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</i> <span class="smcap">Link</span>, <i>surveying +the shed.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>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.<a id="footnotetag33" name="footnotetag33"></a><a href="#footnote33" title="Go to footnote 33"><span class="smaller">[33]</span></a></i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>Taking up a hoe,</i> <span class="smcap">Polly</span>—<i>with careful steps—moves among the +hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping +and smoothing the little mounds with the hoe.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>snapping his eyes wide open, sits up</i>].<br> +Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add14em">Just</span><br> +a kitten-nap, I guess.<br> +<span class="add4em">[<i>Laying the hoe down, she approaches.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="add10em">The yoke done?</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page101" name="page101"></a>(p. 101)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong</i>].<br> +<span class="add14em">Thar!</span><br> +When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug,<br> +I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to—</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he +holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the +two with expert eye.</i>]</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +Yes, Uncle Link.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add8em">What's that I used to sing ye?</span><br> +<span class="add6em">"Polly, put the kittle on,</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Polly, put the kittle on,</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Polly, put the kittle on—" [<i>Chuckling.</i>]</span><br> +We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +The kettle's boilin'.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add8em">Wall, then, steep him good.</span></p> +<p class="gettys2">[<span class="smcap">Polly</span> <i>takes from</i> <span class="smcap">Link</span> <i>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 further +end of the box, steam then emerges through a small +hole.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +You're feelin' smart to-day.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add10em">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.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>cheerfully</i>].<br> +I guess you'll soon be walkin' round.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add10em">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.</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page102" name="page102"></a>(p. 102)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>pointing to the ox-yoke</i>].<br> +<span class="add14em">You're fitter +sittin' than most folks standin'.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>briskly</i>]. Oh, they can't +keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's +my second natur' sence I was a boy.<br> +[<i>Again in the distance a bugle sounds.</i> <span class="smcap">Link</span> <i>starts.</i>]<br> +What's that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add6em">Why, that's the army veterans +down to the graveyard. This is Decoration +mornin': you ain't forgot?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add8em">So 'tis, so 'tis.</span> +Roger, your young man—ha! [<i>Chuckling.</i>] He come and axed me +was I agoin' to the cemetery.<br> +"Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> +He meant—to decorate the graves.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add10em">O' course;</span> +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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +<span class="add3em">Dear no! I told my boys and girls</span> +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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>looking up at her proudly</i>].<br> +Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>caressing him</i>].<br> +School-master, 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page103" name="page103"></a>(p. 103)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +No <i>Sir</i>! We're goin' to celebrate right here, +and you're to teach me to keep school some more.<br> +[<i>She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>looking up</i>].<br> +What's thar?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add4em">Your teachin' rig.</span><br> +<span class="add6em">[<i>She helps him on with it.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add8em">The old blue coat!—</span><br> +My, but I'd like to see the boys: [<i>Gazing at the hat.</i>] the Grand +Old Army Boys! [<i>Dreamily.</i>] Yes, we was boys: jest boys!<br> +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 pictur's out, and prayed to them +'most more 'n the Allmighty.</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<span class="smcap">Link</span> <i>looks up suddenly—a strange light in his face. +Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds.</i>]</p> +<p><span class="add14em">Thar she blows</span><br> +Agin!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +<span class="add4em">They're marchin' to the graves with flowers.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming</i>].<br> +<span class="add10em">Uncle Link,</span><br> +you want that I should steam this longer?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>absently</i>].<br> +<span class="add14em">Oh,</span><br> +A kittleful, a kittleful.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page104" name="page104"></a>(p. 104)</span> <span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>coming over to him</i>].<br> +<span class="add8em">Now, then,</span><br> +I'm ready for school.—I hope I've drawed the map +all right.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +<span class="add6em">Map? Oh, the map!</span><br> +[<i>Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods.</i>]<br> +<span class="add12em">Yes, thar she be:</span><br> +old Gettysburg!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +<span class="add8em">I know the places—most.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +So, <i>do</i> ye? Good, now: whar's your marker?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>taking up the hoe</i>].<br> +<span class="add14em">Here.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +Willoughby Run: whar's that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>points with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile</i>].<br> +<span class="add10em">That's farthest over +next the barn door.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add6em">My, how we fit the Johnnies</span><br> +thar, the fust mornin'! Jest behind them willers,<br> +acrost the Run, that's whar we captur'd Archer.<br> +My, my!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add6em">Over there—that's Seminary Ridge.</span><br> +[<i>She points to different heights and depressions, as</i> <span class="smcap">Link</span> +<i>nods his approval.</i>]<br> +Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheatfield—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>continuing</i>].<br> +<span class="add10em">Cemetery Hill,</span><br> +Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here<br> +is Cemetery Ridge.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>pointing to the little flag</i>].<br> +<span class="add8em">And colors flyin'!</span><br> +We <i>kep</i> 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days,<br> +from start to finish.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add6em">Have I learned 'em right?</span></p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page105" name="page105"></a>(p. 105)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +<i>A</i> number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill:<br> +I don't jest spy Culp's Hill.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add8em">There wa'n't enough</span><br> +kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay<br> +east there, towards the kitchen.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add10em">Let it go!</span><br> +That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar<br> +and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep it thar,<br> +too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum.<br> +Let Culp's Hill lay for now.—Lend me your marker.<br> +[<span class="smcap">Polly</span> <i>hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches +with it and digs in the chips.</i>]<br> +Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So:<br> +smooth off them chips.<br> +<span class="add6em">[<span class="smcap">Polly</span> <i>does so with her foot.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="add12em">You better guess 't was deep</span><br> +as hell, that second day, come sundown.—Here,<br> +<span class="add6em">[<i>He hands back the hoe to her.</i>]</span><br> +flat down the Wheatfield yonder.<br> +<span class="add8em">[<span class="smcap">Polly</span> <i>does so.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="add12em">Goda'mighty!</span><br> +that Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter<br> +than any pancake what you ever cooked,<br> +Polly; and 't wan't no maple syrup neither<br> +was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black<br> +all over it, that nightfall.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add8em">Here's the road</span><br> +to Emmetsburg.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add6em">No, 'tain't: this here's the pike</span><br> +to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin',<br> +after an all-night march, jest in the nick<br> +to save our second day. The Emmetsburg<br> +road's thar.—Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +At sunset, July second, Sixty-three.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>nodding, reminiscent</i>].<br> +The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun:<br> +she set a dozen times that afternoon,<br> +red-yeller as a punkin jacko'lantern,<br> +rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page106" name="page106"></a>(p. 106)</span> till she clean busted, like the other bombs,<br> +behind the hills.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>. <span class="add6em">My! Wa'n't you never scart</span><br> +and wished you'd stayed t' home?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add10em">Scart? Wall, I wonder!</span><br> +Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars.<br> +I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,—<br> +a dressy mister, span-new from the city—<br> +layin' the law down: "All this <i>stars and stripes</i>,"<br> +says he, "and <i>red and white and blue</i> is rubbish,<br> +mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!"<br> +"I wan't t' know!" says I. "In Sixty-three,<br> +I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown<br> +I met him stumblin'—with two dead men's muskets<br> +for crutches—towards a bucket, full of ink—<br> +water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell,<br> +he tuk the rest to wash his bullet holes.—<br> +Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick,<br> +with <i>red and white and blue</i>, tore 'most t' tatters,<br> +a-danglin' from it." "Be you color sergeant?"<br> +says I. "Not me," says Link; "the sergeant's dead,<br> +but when he fell, he handed me this bit<br> +o' <i>rubbish</i>—red and white and blue." And Link<br> +he laughed. "What be you laughin' for?" says I.<br> +"Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!" says Link.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +What did the span-new mister say to that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +I didn't stop to listen. Them as never<br> +heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't<br> +guess what they be. [<i>Sitting up and blinking hard.</i>]<br> +<span class="add10em">But this ain't keepin' school!</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>quietly</i>].<br> +I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +The second day, 'fore sunset.<br> +<span class="add4em">[<i>He takes the hoe and points with it.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="add12em">Yon's the Wheatfield.</span><br> +Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels.<br> +Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge<br> +behind 'em. Hancock—he's our general—<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page107" name="page107"></a>(p. 107)</span> he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements<br> +from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose<br> +the Ridge, and lose the Ridge—lose God-and-all!—<br> +Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington,<br> +Abe Lincoln and the White House in one bite!—<br> +So the Union, Polly,—me and you and Roger,<br> +your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam—is all<br> +thar—growin' in that Wheatfield.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>smiling proudly</i>].<br> +<span class="add12em">And they're growin'</span><br> +still!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>.<br> +<span class="add3em">Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls,</span><br> +thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers:<br> +gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat tops.<br> +And now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat,<br> +thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round<br> +in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces,<br> +and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke,<br> +and stingin' smother, and—up thar through the dark—<br> +that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon<br> +lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder!</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music +of a brass band begins. Again</i> <span class="smcap">Link's</span> <i>face twitches, +and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the +sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly growing +louder, permeates the scene.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow<br> +the created world to act that awful?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add10em">Now,</span><br> +I wonder!—Cast your eye along this hoe:<br> +[<i>He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron.</i>]<br> +Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see<br> +yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?—That's the boy<br> +I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link,"<br> +they call him, 'cause his legs is spry 's a squirrel's.—<br> +Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes<br> +like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day,<br> +keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.<br> +<span class="add2em">[<i>Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page108" name="page108"></a>(p. 108)</span> If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you.<br> +But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein'<br> +them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps<br> +o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized<br> +Link as his livin' image, and so kep him<br> +to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs,<br> +and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs,<br> +list'nin' to bugles—bugles—bugles, callin'.<br> +[<span class="smcap">Link</span> <i>clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music +draws nearer.</i> <span class="smcap">Polly</span> <i>touches him soothingly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span>.<br> +Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind 'em.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span> [<i>relaxing under her touch</i>].<br> +No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct—<br> +onct we was boys, onct we was boys—with legs.<br> +But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle.<br> +<i>Onct</i>, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin'<br> +outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin'<br> +outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds<br> +ablowin' <i>Glory Hallelujahs</i>, like<br> +brass music, from his mouth.—But never mind!<br> +'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now.<br> +Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin'<br> +gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.<br> +<span class="add8em">[<i>With smoldering fire.</i>]</span><br> +But jest the same—</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>His face convulses and he cries out, terribly—straining in +his chair to rise.</i>]</p> +<p class="add10em">—for holy God, that band!<br> +Why don't they stop that band!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Polly</span> [<i>going</i>].<br> +<span class="add12em">I'll run and tell them.</span><br> +Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>Glancing back anxiously,</i> <span class="smcap">Polly</span> <i>disappears outside. The +approaching band begins to play "John Brown's +Body."</i> <span class="smcap">Link</span> <i>sits motionless, gripping his chair.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Link</span>. <span class="add8em"><i>Set quiet!</i></span><br> +Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand,<br> +and Link—he kin set quiet.—Goda'mighty,<br> +how <i>kin</i> he set, and them a-marchin' thar<br> +with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page109" name="page109"></a>(p. 109)</span> the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin'<br> +home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown,<br> +a-singin' <i>Glory</i> to ye! Jest look down:<br> +thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge:<br> +don't say ye disremember <i>them</i>! And thar's<br> +the colors: Look, he's picked 'em up—the sergeant's<br> +blood splotched 'em some—but thar they be, still flyin'!<br> +Link done that: Link—the spry boy, what they call<br> +Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step,<br> +have ye? [<i>Again he cries out, beseechingly.</i>]—<br> +<span class="add6em">My God, why do You keep on marchin'</span><br> +and leave him settin' here?</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>To the music outside, the voices of children begin to +sing the words of "John Brown's Body." At the +sound,</i> <span class="smcap">Link's</span> <i>face becomes transformed with emotion, +his body shakes and his shoulders heave and +straighten.</i>]</p> +<p><span class="add10em">No!—I—<i>won't</i>—set!</span><br> +[<i>Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and +stands.</i>]<br> +Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come<br> +ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line.<br> +Them voices—Lord, I guess you've brought along<br> +your Sunday choir of young angel folks<br> +to help the boys out.<br> +<span class="add2em">[<i>Following the music with swaying arms.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="add8em">Glory!—Never mind</span><br> +me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm<br> +goin' t' jine in, or bust!</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>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:</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="add1em">"—a-mold'rin' in the grave,</span><br> +John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave,<br> +John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave,<br> +<span class="add1em">But his soul goes—"</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page110" name="page110"></a>(p. 110)</span> [<i>Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries +aloud, astounded</i>:]<br> +<span class="add8em">Lord, Lord, my legs!</span><br> +Whar did Ye git my legs?</p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the little +flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously.</i>]</p> +<p><span class="add10em">I'm comin', boys!</span><br> +Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.<br> +[<i>With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the +woodpile.</i>]<br> +Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge!<br> +Jine in, jine in!<br> +<span class="add8em">[<i>Swinging the flag.</i>]</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Hooray!—Hooray!—Hooray!</span></p> +<p class="gettys2">[<i>Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old +men and children sing martially to the brass music.</i><br> +<span class="min1em"><i>With his final cheer,</i> <span class="smcap">Link</span> <i>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:</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="poem20"> +<span class="add3em">"—ry hallelujah,</span><br> +Glory, glory hallelujah,<br> +<span class="add1em">His truth is marchin' on!"</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page111" name="page111"></a>(p. 111)</span> WURZEL-FLUMMERY<a id="footnotetag34" name="footnotetag34"></a><a href="#footnote34" title="Go to footnote 34"><span class="smaller">[34]</span></a><br> +<i>A COMEDY IN ONE ACT</i><br> +<span class="smaller">By</span><br> +A. A. MILNE</h1> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page113" name="page113"></a>(p. 113)</span> Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882. He +was a student at Westminster School, the library of which is +familiar ground to every reader of Irving's <i>Sketch Book</i>. From +there he proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. On his +graduation, he went into journalism in London. He was assistant +editor of <i>Punch</i> from 1906 to 1914. During the War +he was a lieutenant in the Fourth Royal Warwickshire Regiment. +In the introduction to his volume of <i>First Plays</i>, in which +<i>Wurzel-Flummery</i> appears, he gives the following whimsical +account of his career as a dramatist: "These five plays [<i>The +Lucky One</i>, <i>The Boy Comes Home</i>, <i>Belinda</i>, <i>The Red Feather</i>, +<i>Wurzel-Flummery</i>] were written in the order in which they +appear now, during the years 1916 and 1917. They would +hardly have been written had it not been for the War, although +only one of them is concerned with that subject. To his other +responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume.</p> + +<p>"For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, +but the recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing +is a luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and +much more expensive in time and money. When an article is +written, the financial reward (and we may as well live as not) +is a matter of certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is not in +'the front rank'—but I never heard of one who wasn't—can +at least be sure of publication. But when a play is written, +there is no certainty of anything save disillusionment.</p> + +<p>"To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to +me a depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's +in the morning. I thought I could write one (we all think we +can), but I could not afford so unpromising a gamble. But +once in the Army the case was altered. No duty now urged +me to write. My job was soldiering, and my spare time was +my own affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf; that +was one way of amusing oneself. Another way was—why +not?—to write plays.</p> + +<p>"So we began with <i>Wurzel-Flummery</i>. I say 'we,' because +another is mixed up in this business even more seriously than +the Kaiser. She wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page114" name="page114"></a>(p. 114)</span> evening drew us out for a walk along the byways—where there +was no saluting, and one could smoke a pipe without shocking +the Duke of Cambridge—then it was to discuss the last scene +and to wonder what would happen in the next. We did not +estimate the money or publicity which might come from this +new venture; there has never been any serious thought of making +money by my bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when +I am trying to play golf. But secretly, of course, we hoped. +It was that which made it so much more exciting than any +other game.</p> + +<p>"Our hopes were realized to the following extent:</p> + +<p>"Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault +at the New Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written +in three acts, in which form it was shown to one or two +managers. At the beginning of 1917 I was offered the chance +of production in a triple bill if I cut it down into a two-act +play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut thirty pages of +one's first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on the way, +has at least a certain morbid fascination. It appeared, therefore, +in two acts; and one kindly critic embarrassed us by +saying that a lesser artist would have written it in three acts, +and most of the other critics annoyed us by saying that a greater +artist would have written it in one act. However, I amused +myself some months later by slaying another character—the +office-boy, no less—thereby getting it down to one act, and was +surprised to find that the one-act version was, after all, the +best.... At least, I think it is.... At any rate, that is +the version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am +rather tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning +to wonder if anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery +at all. Possibly the whole thing is an invention."</p> + +<p><i>Wurzel-Flummery</i> was first produced in this country at the +Arts and Crafts Theatre in Detroit; recently it was acted again +by The Players of St. Louis.</p> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page115" name="page115"></a>(p. 115)</span> WURZEL-FLUMMERY</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Robert Crawshaw</span>, M.P.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Margaret Crawshaw</span> (<i>his wife</i>).</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Viola Crawshaw</span> (<i>his daughter</i>).</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Richard Meriton</span>, M.P.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Denis Clifton</span>.</li> +</ul> + + +<p><i>SCENE.</i>—<span class="smcap">Robert Crawshaw's</span> <i>town house. Morning.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>It is a June day before the War in the morning-room of</i> +<span class="smcap">Robert Crawshaw's</span> <i>town house. Entering it with our +friend the house-agent, our attention would first be called +to the delightful club fender round the fireplace. On one +side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out at right angles. +In a corner of the sofa</i> <span class="smcap">Miss Viola Crawshaw</span> <i>is sitting, +deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate +to catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he +points out the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is +young and pretty. In the middle of the room and facing +the fireplace is (observe) a solid knee-hole writing-table, +covered with papers and books of reference, and supported +by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The rest +of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the +walls, we must leave until another time, for at this moment +the door behind the sofa opens and</i> <span class="smcap">Richard +Meriton</span> <i>comes in. He looks about thirty-five, has a +clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed +suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind</i> <span class="smcap">Viola</span> <i>and +puts his hands over her eyes.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Three guesses who it is.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>putting her hands over his</i>]. The Archbishop of +Canterbury.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page116" name="page116"></a>(p. 116)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. No.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. The Archbishop of York.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, +then, your last guess.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Richard Meriton, M.P.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Wonderful! [<i>He kisses the top of her head +lightly and goes round to the club fender, where he sits with +his back to the fireplace.</i>] How did you know? [<i>He begins +to fill a pipe.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>smiling</i>]. Well, it couldn't have been father.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast +anyway. Anything in the paper?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. There's a letter from father pointing out that ——</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing +out.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Anyhow, it's in big print.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. It would be.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola.</span> You are very cynical this morning, Dick.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. The sausages were cold, dear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the +same side as father.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told +you that before.... Viola, do you really think it would +make a difference?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke +the other day.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. No, I don't, really.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only +equaled by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what +it means, but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a +son-in-law.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to +Basingstoke to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Of course not.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. And Robert doesn't really.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Then why does he say it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. +The whole structure of the British Constitution rests upon +Robert's right to say things like that at Basingstoke.... +But really, darling, we're very good friends. He's always asking +my advice about things—he doesn't take it, of course, but +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page117" name="page117"></a>(p. 117)</span> still he asks it; and it was awfully good of him to insist on my +staying here while my flat was being done up. [<i>Seriously.</i>] I +bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I +should never have known you. You were just "Viola"—the +girl I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; and now—oh, +why won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like +this.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Because I love you, Dick, and because I know +father. He would, as they say in novels, show you the door. +[<i>Smiling.</i>] And I want you this side of the door for a little +bit longer.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>firmly</i>]. I shall tell him before I go.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>pleadingly</i>]. But not till then; that gives us two +more days. You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know +to get round him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor—and +father hates poor people.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>viciously</i>]. Damn money!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>thoughtfully</i>]. I think that's what father means by +spiritual instability.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Viola! [<i>He stands up and holds out his arms to +her. She goes to him and</i>—] Oh, Lord, look out!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>reaching across to the mantelpiece</i>]. Matches?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Thanks very much. [<i>He lights his pipe as</i> +<span class="smcap">Robert Crawshaw</span> <i>comes in.</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span> <i>is forty-five, but +his closely-trimmed mustache and whiskers, his inclination to +stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in trousers which +he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, and, +what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he undoubtedly +is.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Good-morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that +I was bad at breakfasts?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Viola, where's your mother?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>making for the door</i>]. I don't know, father; do +you want her?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I wish to speak to her.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. All right, I'll tell her. [<i>She goes out.</i> <span class="smcap">Richard</span> +<i>picks up "The Times" and sits down again.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>sitting down in a business-like way at his desk</i>]. +Richard, why don't you get something to do?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page118" name="page118"></a>(p. 118)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from +your—ah—work in the House.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>a trifle cool</i>]. I have something to do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. +You should get a directorship or something in the City.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I hate the City.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual +arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at +Basingstoke.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>dryly</i>]. Yes, so Viola was telling me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant +nothing personal. [<i>Clearing his throat.</i>] It is justly one of +the proudest boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities +are not allowed to interfere with his private friendships.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>carelessly</i>]. Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself +one day.</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Margaret</span>. <span class="smcap">Margaret</span> <i>has been in love with</i> <span class="smcap">Robert +Crawshaw</span> <i>for twenty-five years, the last twenty-four +years from habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather +foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, but you might +sometimes call her a poor dear.</i></span></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em;"><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your +breakfast was all right.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Excellent, thank you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>obviously uncomfortable</i>]. Yes—er—h'r'm—Richard—er—what +are your—er—plans?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Of course not. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Robert</span>.] Are you, dear?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Perhaps we had better come into my room, +Margaret. We can leave Richard here with the paper.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. No, no; I'm going.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>going to the door with him</i>]. I have some particular +business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should +like to consult you in the matter afterwards.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Right. [<i>He goes out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary +news for you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>sitting down</i>]. Yes, Robert?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page119" name="page119"></a>(p. 119)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. This letter has just come by hand. [<i>He reads +it.</i>] "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure +to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony +Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of £50,000."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Robert!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached—namely, +that you should take the name of—Wurzel-Flummery."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Robert!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. "I have the honor to be, your obedient +servant, Denis Clifton." [<i>He folds the letter up and puts it +away.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's +left you the money?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>calmly</i>]. I have not the slightest idea, Margaret. +Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked +Mr. Denis Clifton to come and see me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just +fancy!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Wurzel-Flummery!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. We can have the second car now, dear, can't +we? And what about moving? You know you always said +you ought to be in a more central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, +M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so much more—more +Cabinety.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of +Curzon Street—I don't know what <i>that</i> sounds like.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, +dear. They can't really expect us to change our name to—Wurzley-Fothergill.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Wurzel-Flummery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you +could talk the solicitor round—this Mr. Denis Clifton. After +all, it doesn't matter to <i>him</i> what we call ourselves. Write +him one of your letters, dear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, +Margaret.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.—Mr.—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Antony Clifton.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together +with the name of Wurzley-Fothergill—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Wurzel—oh, well, never mind.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page120" name="page120"></a>(p. 120)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will +take the fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. +It's too absurd, when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, +M.P., to expect you to call yourself Wurzley-Fothergill.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>impatiently</i>]. Yes, yes. The point is that this +Mr. Clifton has left me the money on <i>condition</i> that I change +my name. If I don't take the name, I don't take the money.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. But is that legal?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Perfectly. It is often done. People change +their names on succeeding to some property.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. I thought it was only when your name was +Moses and you changed it to Talbot.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>to himself</i>]. Wurzel-Flummery!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. I wonder why he left you the money at all. +Of course it was very nice of him, but if you didn't know +him—Why do you think he did, dear?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I know no more than this letter. I suppose +he had—ah—followed my career, and was—ah—interested in +it, and being a man with no relations, felt that he could—ah—safely +leave this money to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery +was his mother's maiden name, or the name of some other friend +even dearer to him; he wished the name—ah—perpetuated, +perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the history of our +country, and—ah—made this will accordingly. In a way it +is a kind of—ah—sacred trust.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. It requires some consideration. I have my +career to think about, my duty to my country.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in +politics, isn't it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. +The view of riches which socialists and suchlike people +profess to take is entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who +spends his money thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly +as anybody.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Yes, dear. Then you think we <i>could</i> have that +second car and the house in Curzon Street?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand +pounds, properly invested, is only two thousand a year. When +you have deducted the income-tax—and the tax on unearned +income is extremely high just now—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page121" name="page121"></a>(p. 121)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves +Wurzel-Flummery it would count as <i>earned</i> income.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is +earned. Even if it is left to you by another, it is presumably +left to you in recognition of certain outstanding qualities which +you possess. But Parliament takes a different view. I do not +for a moment say that fifty thousand pounds would not be +welcome. Fifty thousand pounds is certainly not to be sneezed +at—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. I should think not, indeed!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>unconsciously rising from his chair</i>]. And +without this preposterous condition attached I should be pleased +to accept this trust, and I would endeavor, Mr. Speaker—[<i>He +sits down again suddenly.</i>] I would endeavor, Margaret, +to carry it out to the best of my poor ability. But—Wurzel-Flummery!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to +get used to the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham +for twenty-five years. It is surprising how quickly it comes to +you. I think I only signed my name Margaret Debenham once +after I was married.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>kindly</i>]. The cases are rather different, Margaret. +Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward +to the day when she will change her name, cannot have this +feeling for the—ah—honor of his name, which every man—ah—feels. +Such a feeling is naturally more present in my own +case since I have been privileged to make the name of Crawshaw +in some degree—ah—well-known, I might almost say +famous.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>wistfully</i>]. I used to be called "the beautiful +Miss Debenham of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington +knew of me. Of course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert +Crawshaw.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>getting up and walking over to the fireplace</i>]. +In a way it would mean beginning all over again. It is half +the battle in politics to get your name before the public. "Whoever +is this man Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. +Fifty thousand pounds is fifty thousand pounds.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty +to accept it. But—well, all I say is that a <i>gentleman</i> would +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page122" name="page122"></a>(p. 122)</span> have left it without any conditions. Or at least he would +merely have expressed his <i>wish</i> that I should take the name, +without going so far as to enforce it. Then I could have +looked at the matter all round in an impartial spirit.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>pursuing her thoughts</i>]. The linen is marked +R. M. C. now. Of course, we should have to have that altered. +Do you think R. M. F. would do, or would it have to be +R. M. W. hyphen F.?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. What? Oh—yes, there will be a good deal +of that to attend to. [<i>Going up to her.</i>] I think, Margaret, +I had better talk to Richard about this. Of course, it would +be absurd to refuse the money, but—well, I should like to have +his opinion.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>getting up</i>]. Do you think he would be very +sympathetic, dear? He makes jokes about serious things—like +bishops and hunting—just as if they weren't at all serious.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new—ah—point +of view. I do not hold myself in the least bound +to act on anything he says. I regard him as a constituent, +Margaret.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Then I will send him to you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>putting his hands on her shoulders</i>]. Margaret, +what do you really feel about it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Just whatever <i>you</i> feel, Robert.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>kissing her</i>]. Thank you, Margaret; you are +a good wife to me. [<i>She goes out.</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span> <i>goes to his +desk and selects a "Who's Who" from a little pile of reference-books +on it. He walks round to his chair, sits down in it and +begins to turn the pages, murmuring names beginning with +"C" to himself as he gets near the place. When he finds it, +he murmurs "Clifton—that's funny" and closes the book. +Evidently the publishers have failed him.</i>]</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Richard</span>.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Well, what's the news? [<i>He goes to his old seat +on the fender.</i>] Been left a fortune?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>simply</i>]. Yes.... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. +I never met him and I know nothing about him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>surprised</i>]. Not really? Well, I congratulate +you. [<i>He sighs.</i>] To them that hath—But what on earth +do you want my advice about?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page123" name="page123"></a>(p. 123)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. There is a slight condition attached.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Oho!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. The condition is that with this money—fifty +thousand pounds—I take the name of—ah—Wurzel-Flummery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>jumping up</i>]. What!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>sulkily</i>]. I said it quite distinctly—Wurzel-Flummery. +[<span class="smcap">Richard</span> <i>in an awed silence walks over to the +desk and stands looking down at the unhappy</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span>. <i>He +throws out his left hand as if introducing him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>reverently</i>]. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, +M.P., one of the most prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. +Oh, you ... oh!... oh, how too heavenly! +[<i>He goes back to his seat, looks up and catches</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw's</span> +<i>eye, and breaks down altogether.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>rising with dignity</i>]. Shall we discuss it seriously, +or shall we leave it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery +seriously? "Mr. Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen +words seconded the motion." ... "'Sir,' went on +Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"—Oh, poor Robert!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>sitting down sulkily</i>]. You seem quite certain +that I shall take the money.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I am quite certain.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Would <i>you</i> take it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>hesitating</i>]. Well—I wonder.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's +in a name?"</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare—<i>William</i> +Shakespeare—said. [<i>Dramatically rising.</i>] Who steals +my purse with fifty thousand in it—steals trash. [<i>In his +natural voice.</i>] Trash, Robert. [<i>Dramatically again.</i>] But +he who filches from me my good name of Crawshaw [<i>lightly</i>] +and substitutes the rotten one of Wurzel—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>annoyed</i>]. As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery +is a very good old name. I seem to remember some—ah—Hampshire +Wurzel-Flummeries. It is a very laudable +spirit on the part of a dying man to wish to—ah—perpetuate +these old English names. It all seems to me quite natural and +straightforward. If I take this money I shall have nothing to +be ashamed of.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page124" name="page124"></a>(p. 124)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I see.... Look here, may I ask you a few +questions? I should like to know just how you feel about the +whole business?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>complacently folding his hands</i>]. Go ahead.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you +and said, "My poor man, here's five pounds for you," what +would you do? Tell him to go to the devil, I suppose, +wouldn't you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>humorously</i>]. In more parliamentary language, +perhaps, Richard. I should tell him I never took money +from strangers.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, +you would take it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I most certainly shouldn't.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. But if he died and left it to you, <i>then</i> you would?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>blandly</i>]. Ah, I thought you were leading up +to that. That, of course, is entirely different.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Why?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Well—ah—wouldn't <i>you</i> take ten thousand +pounds if it were left to you by a stranger?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I daresay I should. But I should like to know +why it would seem different.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>professionally</i>]. Ha—hum! Well—in the first +place, when a man is dead he wants his money no longer. You +can therefore be certain that you are not taking anything from +him which he cannot spare. And in the next place, it is the +man's dying wish that you should have the money. To refuse +would be to refuse the dead. To accept becomes almost a +sacred duty.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't +take it from him when he's alive, because if you did, you +couldn't decently refuse him a little gratitude; but you know +that it doesn't matter a damn to him what happens to his +money after he's dead, and therefore you can take it without +feeling any gratitude at all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. No, I shouldn't put it like that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>smiling</i>]. I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. No doubt you can twist it about so that—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next +point. Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to +part your hair down the middle, shave off your mustache, and +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page125" name="page125"></a>(p. 125)</span> wear only one whisker—if he met you suddenly in the street, +seemed to dislike your appearance, took out a fiver and begged +you to hurry off and alter yourself—of course you'd pocket the +money and go straight to your barber's?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Now you are merely being offensive.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if +he had left you five pounds in his will?—well, then twenty +pounds?—a hundred pounds?—a thousand pounds?—fifty thousand +pounds?—[<i>Jumping up excitedly.</i>] It's only a question +of price—fifty thousand pounds, Robert—a pink tie with +purple spots, hair parted across the back, trousers with a patch +in the seat, call myself Wurzel-Flummery—any old thing you +like, you can't insult me—anything you like, gentlemen, for fifty +thousand pounds. [<i>Lowering his voice.</i>] Only you must leave +it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty—a +sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. [<i>He sinks back into +the sofa and relights his pipe.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>rising with dignity</i>]. It is evidently useless to +prolong this conversation.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>waving him down again</i>]. No, no, Robert; I've +finished. I just took the other side—and I got carried away. +I ought to have been at the Bar.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. You take such extraordinary views of things. +You must look facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern +world, and we are modern people living in it. Take the +matter-of-fact view. You may like or dislike the name of—ah—Wurzel-Flummery, +but you can't get away from the fact +that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>wistfully</i>]. I don't know why people shouldn't +sneeze at money sometimes. I should like to start a society +for sneezing at fifty thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in +a small way, of course; we'd begin by sneezing at five pounds—and +work up.... The trouble is that we're all inoculated +in our cradles against that kind of cold.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>pleasantly</i>]. You will have your little joke. +But you know as well as I do that it is only a joke. There +can be no serious reason why I should not take this money. +And I—ah—gather that you don't think it will affect my +career?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>carelessly</i>]. Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get +you into all the comic papers.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page126" name="page126"></a>(p. 126)</span> +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em"><span class="smcap">Margaret</span> <i>comes in at this moment, to the relief of</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span>, +<i>who is not quite certain if he is being flattered or +insulted again.</i></span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Well, have you told him?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>making way for her on the sofa</i>]. I have heard +the news, Mrs. Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion +that he should have no difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery +as famous as he has already made that of Crawshaw. +At any rate I hope he will.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. How nice of you!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Well, it's settled then. [<i>Looking at his watch.</i>] +This solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after all, +we can manage something about—Ah, Viola, did you want +your mother?</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Viola</span>.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's +Richard, so it can't be very serious.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. What a reputation!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Well, it's over now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Viola had better know, hadn't she?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. She'll have to know some time, of course.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>sitting down firmly on the sofa</i>]. Of course she will. +So you'd better tell her now. I knew there was something +exciting going on this morning.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>embarrassed</i>]. Hum—ha—[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Margaret</span>.] +Perhaps you'd better tell her, dear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>simply and naturally</i>]. Father has come into +some property, Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. +But your father doesn't think it will matter.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. How thrilling! What is the name, mother?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Your father says it is—dear me, I shall never +remember it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>mumbling</i>]. Wurzel-Flummery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>after a pause</i>]. Dick, <i>you</i> tell me, if nobody else +will.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Robert said it just now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just +a—do say it again, father.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>sulkily but plainly</i>]. Wurzel-Flummery.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page127" name="page127"></a>(p. 127)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>surprised</i>]. Do you spell it like that? I mean like +a wurzel and like flummery?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Exactly, I believe.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>to herself</i>]. Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery—I +mean they'd have to look at you, wouldn't they? [<i>Bubbling +over.</i>] Oh, Dick, what a heavenly name! Who had +it first?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. They are an old Hampshire family—that is so, +isn't it, Robert?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>annoyed</i>]. I said I thought that I remembered—Margaret, +can you find Burke there? [<i>She finds it, and he +buries himself in the families of the great.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like +being Miss Wurzel-Flummery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have +to stand in front of my glass and tell myself who I am.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. It's all right for <i>you</i>. You know you'll change +your name one day, and then it won't matter what you've been +called before.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>secretly</i>]. H'sh! [<i>She smiles lovingly at him, and +then says aloud.</i>] Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the +papers, "A marriage has been arranged between Miss Viola +Wurzel-Flummery ..." and everybody will say, "And about +time too, poor girl."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span>]. Have you found it, dear?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>resentfully</i>]. This is the 1912 edition.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought +to be in by then.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, +Dick, what fun it will be being announced! Just think of the +footman throwing open the door and saying—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maid</span> [<i>announcing</i>]. Mr. Denis Clifton. [<i>There is a little +natural confusion as</i> <span class="smcap">Clifton</span> <i>enters jauntily in his summer +suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm.</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span> +<i>goes towards him and shakes hands.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of +you to come. [<i>Looking doubtfully at his clothes.</i>] Er—it is +Mr. Denis Clifton, the solicitor?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>cheerfully</i>]. It is. I must apologize for not looking +the part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's +in time. Very careless of them when they had promised. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page128" name="page128"></a>(p. 128)</span> And my clerk dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep +by me for these occasions.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>bewildered</i>]. Ah yes, quite so. But you have—ah—full +legal authority to act in this matter?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>introducing</i>]. My wife—and daughter. +[<span class="smcap">Clifton</span> <i>bows gracefully.</i>] My friend, Mr. Richard +Meriton.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>happily</i>]. Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This +is quite a situation, as we say in the profession.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>amused by him</i>]. In the legal profession?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. In the theatrical profession. [<i>Turning to</i> <span class="smcap">Margaret</span>.] +I am a writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not +giving away a professional secret when I tell you that most of +the managers in London have thanked me for submitting my +work to them.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>firmly</i>]. I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you +were the solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late +Mr. Antony Clifton.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my +being a solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not +to say probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; +I belong to the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. +Officially I have embraced the profession of a solicitor—[<i>Frankly, +to</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Crawshaw</span>.] But you know what these +official embraces are.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span>. I'm afraid—[<i>She turns to her husband for +assistance.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Richard</span>]. Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am +wedded to the Muses.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Dick, isn't he lovely?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. +Clifton, I take it that we are concerned with legal business. +Should I ever wish to produce a play, the case would be different.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the +solicitor for as long as you wish. [<i>He puts his hat down on a +chair with the papers in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on +dreamily.</i>] Mr. Denis Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In +spite of an indifferent make-up, his manner of taking off his +gloves and dropping them into his hat—[<i>He does so.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page129" name="page129"></a>(p. 129)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span>]. I think, perhaps, Viola +and I—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>making a move too</i>]. We'll leave you to your +business, Robert.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>holding up his hand</i>]. Just one moment if I may. +I have a letter for you, Mr. Meriton.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>surprised</i>]. For me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity—oh, +but I said that before—he took it round to your rooms this +morning, but found only painters and decorators there. [<i>He is +feeling in his pockets and now brings the letter out.</i>] I brought +it along, hoping that Mr. Crawshaw—but of course I never +expected anything so delightful as this. [<i>He hands over the +letter with a bow.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Thanks. [<i>He puts it in his pocket.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. +Crawshaw</span>.] One so rarely has an opportunity of being +present when one's own letters are read. I think the habit they +have on the stage of reading letters aloud to each other is such +a very delightful one. [<span class="smcap">Richard</span>, <i>with a smile and a shrug, +has opened his letter while</i> <span class="smcap">Clifton</span> <i>is talking.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Good Lord!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Dick, what is it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>reading</i>]. "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear +Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that under the will of +the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent +of £50,000."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Dick!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. "A trifling condition is attached—namely, that +you should take the name of—Wurzel-Flummery." [<span class="smcap">Clifton</span>, +<i>with his hand on his heart, bows gracefully from one to the +other of them.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>annoyed</i>]. Impossible! Why should he leave +any money to you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Dick! How wonderful!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>mildly</i>]. I don't remember ever having had a +morning quite like this.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>angrily</i>]. Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a +man of the utmost—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page130" name="page130"></a>(p. 130)</span> it. I won't even argue about it. [<i>Tearing the letter into +bits.</i>] That's what I think of your money. [<i>He stalks indignantly +from the room.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must +tell him—[<i>She hurries after him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Margaret</span> [<i>with dignity</i>]. Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised +at you. [<i>She goes out too.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>looking round the room</i>]. And now, Mr. Crawshaw, +we are alone.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have +a good deal to explain—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been +looking forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour +this morning dressing for it. [<i>He takes papers from his hat +and moves to the sofa.</i>] Perhaps I had better begin from the +beginning.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>interested, indicating the papers</i>]. The documents +in the case?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh dear, no—just something to carry in the hand. +It makes one look more like a solicitor. [<i>Reading the title.</i>] +"Watherston v. Towser—<i>in re</i> Great Missenden Canal Company." +My clerk invents the titles; it keeps him busy. He is +very fond of Towser; Towser is always coming in. [<i>Frankly.</i>] +You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first real case, and I only +got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My efforts to introduce +a little picturesqueness into the dull formalities of the law +do not meet with that response that one would have expected.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>looking at his watch</i>]. Yes. Well, I'm a busy +man, and if you could tell me as shortly as possible why your +uncle left this money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton +too, under these extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged +to you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to +being entirely frank with you. It will be a pleasure.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. You understand, of course, my position. I +think I may say that I am not without reputation in the country; +and proud as I am to accept this sacred trust, this money +which the late Mr. Antony Clifton has seen fit—[<i>modestly</i>] +one cannot say why—to bequeath to me, yet the use of the name +Wurzel-Flummery would be excessively awkward.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>cheerfully</i>]. Excessively.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page131" name="page131"></a>(p. 131)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it +was absolutely essential that the name should go with the +money.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Well [<i>thoughtfully</i>], you may have the name +<i>without</i> the money if you like. But you must have the name.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>disappointed</i>]. Ah! [<i>Bravely.</i>] Of course, +I have nothing against the name, a good old Hampshire name—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>shocked</i>]. My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't +think—you didn't really think that anybody had been called +Wurzel-Flummery before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton +were to be the first, the founders of the clan, the designers of +the Wurzel-Flummery sporran—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me +that it is not a real name at all?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because—er—<i>I</i> +made it up.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>outraged</i>]. And you have the impudence to +propose, sir, that I should take a made-up name?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>soothingly</i>]. Well, all names are made up some +time or other. Somebody had to think of—Adam.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow +this trifling with serious subjects.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. It's all so simple, really.... You see, my +Uncle Antony was a rather unusual man. He despised money. +He was not afraid to put it in its proper place. The place he +put it in was—er—a little below golf and a little above classical +concerts. If a man said to him, "Would you like to make fifty +thousand this afternoon?" he would say—well, it would depend +what he was doing. If he were going to have a round +at Walton Heath—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in +this way.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he +didn't find many to agree with him. In fact, he used to say +that there was nothing, however contemptible, that a man +would not do for money. One day I suggested that if he left +a legacy with a sufficiently foolish name attached to it, somebody +might be found to refuse it. He laughed at the idea. +That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I said; "leave +the same silly name to two people, two well-known people, +rival politicians, say, men whose own names are already public +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page132" name="page132"></a>(p. 132)</span> property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched +him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said. "Upon what +vile bodies shall we experiment?" We decided on you and +Mr. Meriton. The next thing was to choose the name. I +started on the wrong lines. I began by suggesting names like +Porker, Tosh, Bugge, Spiffkins—the obvious sort. My uncle—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>boiling with indignation</i>]. How <i>dare</i> you discuss +me with your uncle, sir! How dare you decide in this +cold-blooded way whether I am to be called—ah—Tosh—or-ah—Porker!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. My uncle wouldn't hear of Tosh or Porker. He +wanted a humorous name—a name he could roll lovingly round +his tongue—a name expressing a sort of humorous contempt—Wurzel-Flummery! +I can see now the happy ruminating smile +which came so often on my Uncle Antony's face in those latter +months. He was thinking of his two Wurzel-Flummeries. I +remember him saying once—it was at the Zoo—what a pity +it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole Cabinet. +A whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummeries; it would have been +rather jolly.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. You force me to say, sir, that if <i>that</i> was the +way you and your uncle used to talk together at the Zoo, his +death can only be described as a merciful intervention of Providence.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this +somewhere, you know. I hope he is. He would have loved +this morning. It was his one regret that from the necessities +of the case he could not live to enjoy his own joke; but he had +hopes that echoes of it would reach him wherever he might be. +It was with some such idea, I fancy, that toward the end he +became interested in spiritualism.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>rising solemnly</i>]. Mr. Clifton, I have no interest +in the present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what +means he has of overhearing a private conversation between you +and myself. But if, as you irreverently suggest, he is listening +to us, I should like him to hear this. That, in my opinion, you +are not a qualified solicitor at all, that you never had an uncle, +and that the whole story of the will and the ridiculous condition +attached to it is just the tomfool joke of a man who, by +his own admission, wastes most of his time writing unsuccessful +farces. And I propose—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page133" name="page133"></a>(p. 133)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. +Not farces, comedies—of a whimsical nature.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report +the whole matter to the Law Society. And you know your way +out, sir.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Then I am to understand that you refuse the +legacy, Mr. Crawshaw?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>startled</i>]. What's that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand +pounds?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. If the money is really there, I most certainly +do not refuse it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Oh, the money is most certainly there—and the +name. Both waiting for you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>thumping the table</i>]. Then, sir, I accept them. +I feel it my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence +in the late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely +the motives that you have suggested to him, and I consider it +a sacred duty to show what I think of your story by accepting +the trust which he has bequeathed to me. You will arrange +further matters with my solicitor. Good-morning, sir.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>to himself as he rises</i>]. Mr. Crawshaw here drank +a glass of water. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw.</span>] Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, +farewell. May I express the parting wish that your future +career will add fresh luster to—my name. [<i>To himself as he +goes out.</i>] Exit Mr. Denis Clifton with dignity. [<i>But he has +left his papers behind him.</i> <span class="smcap">Crawshaw</span>, <i>walking indignantly +back to the sofa, sees the papers and picks them up.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>contemptuously</i>]. "Watherston v. Towser—<i>in +re</i> Great Missenden Canal Company." Bah! [<i>He tears +them up and throws them into the fire. He goes back to his +writing-table and is seated there as</i> <span class="smcap">Viola</span>, <i>followed by</i> +<span class="smcap">Meriton</span>, <i>comes in.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but +I have told him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. If Richard has the very natural feeling that +it would be awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummeries +in the House of Commons, I should be the last to +interfere with his decision. In any case, I don't see what concern +it is of yours, Viola.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page134" name="page134"></a>(p. 134)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>surprised</i>]. But how can we get married if he +doesn't take the money?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>hardly understanding</i>]. Married? What does +this mean, Richard?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought +to have told you before, but anyhow we were going to have told +you in a day or two. Viola and I want to get married.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. And what did you want to get married on?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>with a smile</i>]. Not very much, I'm afraid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. We're all right now, father, because we shall have +fifty thousand pounds.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>sadly</i>]. Oh, Viola, Viola!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. But naturally this puts a very different complexion +on matters.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect +me to entrust my daughter to a man who is so little provident +for himself that he throws away fifty thousand pounds because +of some fanciful objection to the name which goes +with it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>in despair</i>]. You don't understand, Robert.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. I understand this, Richard. That if the name +is good enough for me, it should be good enough for you. You +don't mind asking Viola to take <i>your</i> name, but you consider +it an insult if you are asked to take <i>my</i> name.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>miserably to</i> <span class="smcap">Viola</span>]. Do you want to be Mrs. +Wurzel-Flummery?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, +darling.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>beaten</i>]. Heaven help me! you'll make me take +it. But you'll never understand.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span> [<i>stopping to administer comfort to him on his +way out</i>]. Come, come, Richard. [<i>Patting him on the shoulder.</i>] +I understand perfectly. All that you were saying about +money a little while ago—it's all perfectly true, it's all just +what I feel myself. But in practice we have to make allowances +sometimes. We have to sacrifice our ideals for—ah—others. +I shall be very proud to have you for a son-in-law, +and to feel that there will be the two of us in Parliament together +upholding the honor of the—ah—name. And perhaps +now that we are to be so closely related, you may come to feel +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page135" name="page135"></a>(p. 135)</span> some day that your views could be—ah—more adequately put +forward from <i>my</i> side of the House.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Go on, Robert; I deserve it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Crawshaw</span>. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in +our news. And you must send that solicitor a line—or perhaps +a telephone message would be better. [<i>He goes to the +door and turns round just as he is going out.</i>] Yes, I think +the telephone, Richard; it would be safer. [<i>Exit.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>holding out his hands to</i> <span class="smcap">Viola</span>]. Come here, +Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And +soon, please, darling. [<i>She comes to him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span> [<i>shaking his head sadly at her</i>]. I don't know +what I've done, Viola. [<i>Suddenly.</i>] But you're worth it. [<i>He +kisses her, and then says in a low voice.</i>] And God help me +if I ever stop thinking so!</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Mr. Denis Clifton</span>. <i>He sees them, and walks about +very tactfully with his back towards them, humming to +himself.</i></span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Hullo!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>to himself</i>]. Now where did I put those papers? +[<i>He hums to himself again.</i>] Now where—oh, I beg your +pardon! I left some papers behind.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Dick, you'll tell him. [<i>As she goes out, she says to</i> +<span class="smcap">Clifton</span>.] Good-by, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing +such nice letters.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Good-by, Miss Crawshaw.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span>. Just say it to see how it sounds.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Good-by, Miss Wurzel-Flummery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Viola</span> [<i>smiling happily</i>]. No, not Miss, Mrs. [<i>She goes +out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>looking in surprise from her to him</i>]. You don't +mean—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. +Clifton.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Dear me, what a situation! [<i>Thoughtfully to +himself.</i>] I wonder how a rough scenario would strike the +managers.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Poor Mr. Clifton!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page136" name="page136"></a>(p. 136)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. Why poor?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear +what I said to Crawshaw about money before you came.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>thoughtfully</i>]. Oh! was it very—[<i>Brightening +up.</i>] But I expect Uncle Antony heard. [<i>After a pause.</i>] +Well, I must be getting on. I wonder if you've noticed any +important papers lying about, in connection with the Great +Missenden Canal Company—a most intricate case, in which my +clerk and I—[<i>He has murmured himself across to the fireplace, +and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch +his eye. He picks up one of the fragments.</i>] Ah, yes. Well, +I shall tell my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. +He had got quite fond of that canal. [<i>He turns to go, but +first says to</i> <span class="smcap">Meriton</span>.] So you're taking the money, Mr. +Meriton?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span>. And Mr. Crawshaw too?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Richard</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Clifton</span> [<i>to himself as he goes out</i>]. They are both taking +it. [<i>He stops and looks up to</i> <span class="smcap">Uncle Antony</span> <i>with a smile.</i>] +Good old Uncle Antony—<i>he</i> knew—<i>he</i> knew! [<span class="smcap">Meriton</span> +<i>stands watching him as he goes.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page137" name="page137"></a>(p. 137)</span> MAID OF FRANCE<a id="footnotetag35" name="footnotetag35"></a><a href="#footnote35" title="Go to footnote 35"><span class="smaller">[35]</span></a><br> +<span class="smaller">By</span><br> +HAROLD BRIGHOUSE</h1> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page139" name="page139"></a>(p. 139)</span> Miss Horniman could hardly have foreseen the development +of a Manchester school of dramatists as the outcome of her +experiment with repertory at the Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, +because her purpose was to produce good plays irrespective +of geographical limitations. But the fact is that the +project was a source of real inspiration to a group of young +Lancashire writers among whom may be mentioned Allan +Broome, Stanley Houghton, and Harold Brighouse. There is +no plainer illustration of the relations between the audience and +the play, or between the theatre and the play, or between the +actor and the play than the dramatic activity that followed the +establishment of the Abbey Theatre in Dublin and the setting +up of Miss Horniman's experiment in Manchester.</p> + +<p>Although in this collection, Brighouse is represented by <i>Maid +of France</i>, a play with no local Lancashire coloring, first given +on July 16, 1917, in London, not Manchester (it was later +produced at the Greenwich Village Theatre in New York, beginning +April 18, 1918), he has up to the present time written +seven plays about Lancashire. He has been particularly successful +in one-act drama; <i>Lonesome Like</i>, <i>The Price of Coal</i>, +and <i>Spring in Bloomsbury</i> have been popular here and in England. +B. Iden Payne, who directed productions at the Gaiety +Theatre for some time, says: "In all Harold Brighouse's plays +there is in the acting more laughter than one would expect from +the reading." A number of Brighouse's plays have been published; +in the introduction to the latest volume,<a id="footnotetag36" name="footnotetag36"></a><a href="#footnote36" title="Go to footnote 36"><span class="smaller">[36]</span></a> he writes: +"In another age than ours play-books were a favorite, if not +the only form of light reading.... The reader mentally +producing a play from the book in his hand looks through a +magic casement at what he gloriously will instead of through +a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a mere human producer." +This playwright's attitude toward the reading of plays, +with its appeal to the imagination, is one justification for a +collection like the present one.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page140" name="page140"></a>(p. 140)</span> Brighouse is himself a Manchester man, having been born in +Eccles, a suburb, on July 26, 1882. He was educated at the +Manchester Grammar School. Until 1913 he was engaged in +business, carrying on his literary work at the same time, but +in that year he gave himself up exclusively to writing. Besides +plays, he has written fiction and criticism. During the +Great War, he was attached to the Intelligence Staff of the +Air Ministry.</p> + + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page141" name="page141"></a>(p. 141)</span> MAID OF FRANCE</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Jeanne d'Arc</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Blanche</span>, <i>a flower-girl.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Paul</span>, <i>a French Poilu.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Fred</span>, <i>an English Tommy.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Gerald Soames</span>, <i>an English lieutenant.</i></li> +</ul> + + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><span class="smcap">The Scene</span> <i>represents one side of a square in a French town +on Christmas Eve, 1916. The buildings shown have suffered +from German shells, except the church in the center +which stands immune, protected, as it were, by the statue +of Jeanne d'Arc which stands on a pedestal, surrounded by +steps in front of it. The church is lighted up within for +the midnight mass, but it is its side which presents itself to +one's view, so that the ingoing worshipers are not seen. +The statue is of the Maid in her armor. It is nearly midnight +on Christmas Eve and the lighting, which should not +be too realistically obscure, suggests faint moonlight.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><span class="smcap">Paul</span>, <i>a French private in war-worn uniform, stands by the +steps, gazing adoringly at the statue. He is a charmingly +simple, credulous man, in peace a peasant. To him there +enters from the right,</i> <span class="smcap">Blanche</span>, <i>a flower-girl, in a cloak, +with a basket of flowers. In face and figure,</i> <span class="smcap">Blanche</span> +<i>must resemble the statue. She is a pert, impudent, extremely +self-possessed saleswoman, burning, however, with +the fierce light of French patriotism which, almost in spite +of herself, is apt to get the better of her. Ready as she +is to trade upon</i> <span class="smcap">Paul's</span> <i>mystic reverence for the Maid, +familiarity with the statue has not bred contempt in her. +She stops by</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span>, <i>offering her flowers with a cajoling +smile.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Will you buy a flower, monsieur?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Flower, mademoiselle? You can sell flowers at this +hour when it is nearly midnight?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page142" name="page142"></a>(p. 142)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. There is moonlight, and I have a smile, monsieur. +It is my smile which sells the flowers. Does not monsieur agree +that it is irresistible?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>uneasily</i>]. Mademoiselle has charm.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. And I have charms for you. My flowers. Will +you not buy a flower, monsieur, and I will pin it to your uniform +where it will draw all the ladies' eyes to you when you +promenade on the boulevard?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I do not promenade. I stay here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Here in the Square where it is dull and +lonely? But on the boulevards are lights, monsieur, and +gaiety, and people promenade because to-night is Christmas +Eve.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Mademoiselle, you're kind. Will you be kind to +me and tell me something?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. What can I tell?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I am only a peasant and I do not know many things. +But you live in the town and you must know. They say, mademoiselle, +they have told me, that there are miracles on Christmas +Eve.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Did you believe them?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I did not know. I only hoped.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. What did you hope?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>very earnestly</i>]. I have been told that stone can speak +on Christmas Eve. And I want, oh, mademoiselle, I want to +hear the blessed voice of our glorious Maid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Monsieur has sentiment.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>pleadingly</i>]. You think that she will speak to me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span> [<i>dropping all banter</i>]. Monsieur, she speaks in +stone to all of us. She stands erect, serene, like the unconquerable +spirit of France and cries defiance at the Boche. They +sent their shells like hail and ground our homes to powder and +made a desolation of our streets, but they could not touch the +statue of the Maid nor the church she guards.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. And she speaks! She speaks!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. She is the soul of France, monsieur, defying +tyranny, invincible and unafraid. She is a message to each one +of us. As the shells fell all around and could not harm her, +so must we stand unshaken for the France we love. She speaks +of freedom and deliverance.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. And she will speak to me?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page143" name="page143"></a>(p. 143)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span> [<i>pityingly as she sees how literally he has taken +her</i>]. Perhaps.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. What must I do, mademoiselle, to hear her voice?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span> [<i>seeing in this too good an opportunity for selling +a flower</i>]. Will you not buy a flower for the Maid? They +come from far away, from the South where there is always +sun, and so they are not cheap. But, for a franc, you may have +one lily of Lorraine to put upon the statue of the Maid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. A lily of Lorraine!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span> [<i>showing a flower, then taking it back tantalizingly</i>]. +See, monsieur! How could she refuse to speak to you +if you gave her that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. It is the way to make her speak! [<i>Puts out hand +for the flower and then draws back.</i> ] But a franc! And I +have nothing but one sou.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. One sou! When flowers are so dear, and have +to come so far! Mon dieu, monsieur, but you have had a +thirsty day if a sou is all that you have left from the wineshops.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I did not spend it there, mademoiselle. I gave it +to the church, this church where is the statue of our Maid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span> [<i>only half scoffing</i>]. Monsieur is devout.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Not always, mademoiselle. But I was born at +Domremy where she was born and I have always adored our +sainted Maid who died for France. Perhaps because of that, +perhaps without the flower, Jeanne will speak to me at midnight +when they say the statues come to life.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span> [<i>touched</i>]. Monsieur, I do not know. Perhaps +she will. But see, here is a lily of Lorraine which I give you +for the Maid. Put it upon her statue and perhaps it will +awaken her to speech.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Mademoiselle! [<i>Taking the flower.</i>] How can I +thank you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. I also am a maid of France, monsieur. You are +a soldier and you fight for France. But I must sell my flowers +now. Perhaps, when I have sold them, I will come again to +see if Jeanne has spoken.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. You think she will?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Monsieur, have faith. All things are possible +on Christmas Eve. [<i>She moves L.</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>goes to the statue and +puts the lily on its breast.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page144" name="page144"></a>(p. 144)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Holy Virgin, the lies I've told! What simplicity! +But Jeanne might. She might. [<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Blanche</span> <i>L.</i> +<span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>stands, watching. An English lieutenant,</i> <span class="smcap">Gerald +Soames</span>, <i>enters R., carrying a small wreath of evergreens. He +is awkward and self-conscious and stops short when he sees</i> +<span class="smcap">Paul</span>, <i>annoyed in the English way at being found out in an +act of sentiment. By consequence, the little ceremony he had +proposed falls short of the impressiveness he designed for it.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Gerald</span>. O Lord, there's a fellow there. Er—[<span class="smcap">Paul</span> +<i>salutes.</i>] Oh—er—c'est ici la statue de Jeanne d'Arc, n'est-ce +pas?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Mais oui, monsieur.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Gerald</span>. And that's about as far as my French will go. I +say, you're not on duty, are you? Vous n'êtes pas de garde?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Non, monsieur.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Gerald</span>. No, of course you're not. Damned silly question +to ask. All the same, I wish he'd take a hint. I say. Lord, +I've forgotten the French for "have a drink." Besides, he +couldn't. It's too late. I'll just do what I came for and go. +[<i>Puts back into pocket the coin he had taken out.</i>] After all, +the fellow's as good a right to be here as I have. I'll have one +more shot. N'avez-vous pas des affaires?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Mais non, monsieur. Pas ce soir. Je suis en congé.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Gerald</span>. Heaven knows what that means, except that he's +a fixture. Oh well, I don't care if he does see me. He'll not +know what to make of it, anyhow. [<i>Up to statue.</i>] Jeanne +d'Arc, I'm putting this wreath on your statue. It's an English +wreath and it came from England. It's English holly and +English ivy and it's supposed to mean that England's sorry for +the awful things she did to you and I hope you've forgiven us +all. [<i>He has cap off. Now puts cap on.</i>] I think that's all. +[<i>Places wreath at statue's feet. Stands erect, salutes, turns.</i>] +Hang that French fellow. I suppose he'll think I'm mad. +[<span class="smcap">Gerald</span> <i>goes down steps and off R.</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>salutes, then goes +up steps to look at the wreath.</i> <span class="smcap">Fred Colledge</span>, <i>an English +private, enters L. Without noticing</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span>, <i>he sits on the steps +and lights a cigarette. In the light of his match he sees</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span>, +<i>gives a little amused laugh and lies back making himself comfortable, +turning up coat-collar, etc.</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>sees him, and is +shocked. Comes down steps.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Monsieur!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page145" name="page145"></a>(p. 145)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Hullo, cockey. How are you getting on?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Monsieur! This place. These steps. One does not +rest upon these steps.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Ho yes, one does. I'm doing it, so I ought to +know.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. But here, monsieur. Outside the church.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. That's all right. The better the place the better the +seat. It ain't a feather-bed in the old house at home, but I've +sort of lost the feather-bed 'abit lately.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. One should not sit on these steps, monsieur.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. You must like that tune, old son, the way you stick +to it. And, if you ask me, one should not do a pile of things +that one's been doing over here. Take me, now. By rights, I +ought to be eating roast beef and plum-pudding to-morrow in +Every Street. Third turn on the left below the Mile End +Pavilion, but I suppose I'm the same way as you. Going back +on the train at 2 <span class="smcap">A.M</span>. to eat my Christmas dinner in the blooming +trenches. That's you, ain't it? And it's me, too. So let's +sit down together and do an entente for an hour. Don't talk +and I'll race you to where the dreams come from. [<i>He pulls</i> +<span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>down genially beside him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>sitting</i>]. I ought not to sit here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Ain't these steps soft enough for you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Monsieur, you do not understand. I come from +Domremy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Do you? I'm Mile End myself. What about it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. But Domremy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Can't say I'm much the wiser.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. But here, monsieur. This statue. It is our glorious +maid. C'est Jeanne d'Arc.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Ark, eh? Is that old Noah? [<i>Gets up to look at +statue.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>rising</i>]. Jeanne d'Arc, monsieur. She— + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Oh, it's a lady, is it? Dressed like that for riding, +I reckon. So that's old Noah's wife, is it? Well, the old cock +had a bit of taste.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. It is Jeanne d'Arc. You call her—what do you call +her?—Joan of—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Not guilty. I ain't so forward with the ladies. I +don't call them in their Christian names till I've been introduced.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page146" name="page146"></a>(p. 146)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. You English call her Joan of Arc. The great Jeanne +d'Arc. She—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Wait a bit. Now don't excite me for a moment. +I'm thinking. I've heard that name before.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. But yes, monsieur. In history.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. That's done it. I take you, cockey. I knew it was +a way back. Well, she's nothing in my life. [<i>Returns to steps +and sits.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. She is of my life. I come from Domremy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. So you said.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. It was her birthplace.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span> [<i>clapping him on the shoulder</i>]. Cockey, I'm with you +now. I know the feeling. Why, we'd a man born in our +street that played center-forward for the Arsenal. Makes you +proud of the place where you were born. Na pooed now, poor +devil. Got his head blown off last month. He was a sergeant +in our lot. 'Ave a woodbine?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Not here, monsieur.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Please yourself. Smoke your own. Them black +things are no use to me. It's a rum country yours, old son. +Light beer and black tobacco. But you fight on it all right. +Oh yes, you fight all right. 'Ere, 'ave a piece of chocolate to +keep the cold out. My missus sent me that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>accepting</i>]. Merci. I hope madame is well.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Eh? Who's madame? Oh, you mean old Sally. +She's all right. In bed. That's where she is. And I'm here. +But I could do with a bit of a snooze myself. Come on, let's +do a doss together.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. A doss?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Yus. Wait a bit. I speak French when I'm 'appy. +Je vais dormir. Vous likewise dormir.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I did not come to sleep, monsieur. I came to watch.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Watch? What do you want to watch for here? No +Germans here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. C'est la nuit de Noël, monsieur. They say the statues +come to life on Christmas Eve, and I am watching here to +see if Jeanne will breathe and move and speak to a piou-piou +from Domremy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. You know, old son, you could have scared me once +with a tale like that. But not to-day. I've been seeing life +lately. If old Nelson got down off his perch, and I met him +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page147" name="page147"></a>(p. 147)</span> walking in Trafalgar Square, I'd just salute and think no more +about it. You can't raise my hair now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Then you believe that she will speak?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. You go to sleep, cockey, and there's no knowing what +you'll hear. Come on, old sport. Je dormir and vous dormir, +and we'll be a blooming dormitory. [<span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>hesitates, looks at +statue, then lies by</i> <span class="smcap">Fred</span>.] That's right. Lie close. Two can +keep warmer than one. Oh well, good-night all. Merry +Christmas, and to hell with the Kaiser. [<i>They sleep. The +statue is darkened, and the lay figure of the statue is replaced +by the living</i> <span class="smcap">Jeanne</span>. <i>Bells chime midnight. As they begin,</i> +<span class="smcap">Jeanne</span> <i>awakes. With the first chime, light shines dimly on +the statue. By the last chime, the statue is in brilliant light and</i> +<span class="smcap">Jeanne</span> <i>stirs on the pedestal and bends to the wreath. She +lifts it, wondering.</i></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. The wreath is here. I did not dream it, then. I +saw him come and lay the wreath at my feet. I saw his uniform, +and the uniform was not of France. I saw his face, and +it was not a Frenchman's face. I heard his voice, and the voice +was an English voice. I do not understand. Why should the +English bring a wreath to me? I do not want their wreath. +I want no favors from an Englishman. I am Jeanne d'Arc. +I am your enemy, you English, whom I made to bite the dust +at Orléans and vanquished at Patay. It was I who bore the +standard into the cathedral at Rheims when we crowned my +Dauphin the anointed King of France, and English Bedford +trembled at my name. Burgundians took me at Compiègne. +Your English money bought me from them, and your English +hatred gave me up to mocking priests to try for sorcery. You +called me "Heretic," "Relapsed," "Apostate," and "Idolater," +and burnt me for a witch in Rouen market-place. And now do +you lay a wreath at Jeanne's feet? And do you think she +thanks you? I scorn your wreath. This wreath an English +soldier set at Jeanne's feet. I tear it, and I trample on it. +[<span class="smcap">Fred</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>have awakened during this speech. Both are +bewildered at first, like men who dream. But as</i> <span class="smcap">Jeanne</span> <i>is +about to tear the wreath</i> <span class="smcap">Fred</span> <i>interposes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. I dunno if I'm awake or asleep, but that there wreath, +lady—I say, don't tear it. I don't know nothing about it bar +what you've just said, but if any of our blokes put it there, you +can take it from me it was kindly meant.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page148" name="page148"></a>(p. 148)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. You? Who are you? You're—You're English.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span> [<i>apologetically</i>]. Yus. I'm English. I don't see that +I can help it, though. I just happen to be English same as a +dawg. I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I'm English all right. +And—No. Blimey, I won't apologize for it. I'm English. +I'm English, and proud of it. So there!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. Why are the English here in France? Why do I +see so many of them?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Maid—Jeanne—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. You! You are not English. You are a soldier +of France.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I am of France.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. Then shame to you, soldier of France! Shame +on a Frenchman who can forget his pride of race and make a +comrade of an Englishman!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Maid, you do not understand.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. No. I do not understand. I do not understand +treachery. I do not understand baseness, dishonor, and the +perfidy of one who has forgotten he is French. The English +are the foes of France, and you consort with them. You—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. 'Ere, 'ere, 'alf a mo'. Steady on, lady. You've got +to learn something. All that stuff you've just been talking +about the Battle of Waterloo. It's a wash-out now. We've +cut it out. This 'ere bloke you're grousing at 'e's a friend of +mine, and I'll pipe up for a friend when 'e's being reprimanded +undeserving.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. It is for that I blame a son of France, that he +makes friends with you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Well, it's your mistake. That's the worst of coming +out of history. You're out of date. If I took my great-grandmother +on a motor-bus to a picture-show, she'd have the +same sort of fit that you've got, only it's worse with you. +You're further back. And I'll tell you something. That old +French froggy business is dead and gorn. We've given it up. +Time's passed when an Englishman thought he could lick two +Frenchmen with one hand tied behind his back. It's a back +number, lady. Carpentier put the lid on that. You ask Billy +Wells. Us blokes and the French, we're feeding out of one +another's hands to-day.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. I have seen the English and the French together +in the streets. They do not fight.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page149" name="page149"></a>(p. 149)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Lord bless you, no. Provost-marshal wouldn't let +'em, if they wanted a friendly scrap.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. They fraternize. I have seen them walking arm-in-arm.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. That's natural enough.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. Natural, for French and English!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Yes, lady, natural. If you'd seen the Frenchies fighting, +same as I have, you'd want to walk arm-in-arm with them +yourself, and be proud to do it, too.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. The English, are our brothers, Maid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Gorlummy, we're more than that. I've known +brothers do the dirty on each other. Us and the French, we're—why, +we're <i>pals</i>. So that's all right, lady. Just let me put +that wreath back where you got it from. I'm sure you'll 'urt +someone's feelings if you trample on it. [<i>He tries to take +wreath, she prevents him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. When you have shown me why I should accept +an English wreath, perhaps I will. So far I've yet to +learn why a soldier of France is friendly with an Englishman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. I can't show you more than this, can I? [<i>Links arms +with</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. That is not reason.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>unlinking his arm</i>]. Perhaps I can show you reason. +I who was born at Domremy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. You come from there! My home?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. You know St. Remy's church and the Meuse and +the beech-tree where they said the fairies used to dance. The +tree. Is it still there?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I do not know.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. And the fields! The fields where I kept my +father's sheep, and the wolves would not come near when I +had charge of them, and the birds came to me and ate bread +from my lap. You know those fields of Domremy?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I knew them once.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. You knew my church. It still is there?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Who can say?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. Cannot you, who were baptized in it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Jeanne, the Germans came to Domremy. I do not +know if anything is left.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page150" name="page150"></a>(p. 150)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. The Germans? But the Germans did not count +when I lived there.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. No, and they'll count a sight less before so long.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. They came like a thunderstorm, Jeanne. They +swept our men away. They tore up treaties, and they came +through Belgium and ravished it, and took us unawares. They +blotted out our frontiers and came on like the tide till even +Paris heard the sound of German guns. And then the English +came, slowly at first, and just a little late, but not too late, +then more and more and all the time more English came. They +swept the Germans from the seas and drove their ships to hide. +Shoulder to shoulder they have fought for France. They hurled +the Germans back from Paris, and when their soldiers fell more +came and more. Their plowmen and their clerks, their great +lords and their scullions, all came to France to fight with us +for la patrie. Their women make munitions and—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Yus. I daresay. Very fine. Only that'll do. We +ain't done nothing to make a song about.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Our children and our children's children will make +songs of what the English did.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. You let 'em. Leave it to 'em. Way I look at it is +this, lady. There's a big swelled-headed bully, and he gets a +little fellow down and starts kicking 'im. Well, it ain't manners, +and we blokes comes along to teach 'im wot's wot. That's +all there is to it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. There's more than I could tell in a hundred years, +Jeanne.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Then what's the good of trying?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. He tried because he had to make me understand +your friendship and all the noble thought and noble deed that +lie behind this little wreath. [<i>She raises the wreath.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span> [<i>interposing</i>]. Oh, I say now, lady, go easy with that +wreath, won't you? I—I wouldn't trample it if I were you. +Battle of Waterloo's a long time ago.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. Don't be afraid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Gave me a turn to see you pick it up like that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span> [<i>putting it on her head</i>]. The English wreath is +in its right place now. Here, on the head of Jeanne d'Arc. +I'll wear that wreath forever. Give me your hand, you English +soldier.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. I've not washed since morning, lady.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page151" name="page151"></a>(p. 151)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. Your hand, that fights for France. [<i>She takes it.</i>] +And yours, soldier of France.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Jeanne! But you—[<i>Holding back timidly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jeanne</span>. I am where I would always be—[<i>she has a hand +of both</i>]—amongst my fighting men. They have set me on a +pedestal and made a saint of me, but I am better here, between +you two, both soldiers of France. They will not let me fight +for France to-day. Save for this mystic hour on Christmas Eve +I am a thing of stone. But Jeanne lives on. Her spirit fights +for France to-day as Jeanne fought five hundred years ago. And, +in this hour when I am granted speech, I say, "Fight on, fight +on for France till France and Belgium are free and the invader +pays the price of treachery. And you, you English who have +come to France, and you in England who are making arms for +France, I, who have hated you, I, whom you burnt, I, Jeanne +d'Arc of Rheims and Orléans, I give you thanks. My people +are your people, and my cause your cause. Vivent! Vivent +les Anglais!" [<i>During this speech she drops the soldiers' +hands. They resume gradually their sleeping attitudes.</i> <span class="smcap">Jeanne</span> +<i>mounts her pedestal, and gives the last words from it, then +becomes stone again. The light fades to darkness, then becomes +the moonlight of the opening.</i> <span class="smcap">Blanche</span> <i>enters L. She +goes to the steps, looks at the sleeping soldiers, and stands above +them. Her basket is empty but for one flower.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span> [<i>stirring and seeing her</i>]. Jeanne!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. My name is Blanche, monsieur.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. But I—you—[<i>he rises</i>]. Mademoiselle, you are +very like—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. I am the flower-girl whom you saw before you +went to sleep, and I am very like myself, monsieur.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Was I asleep? [<i>Looks at statue.</i>] Yes. There is +Jeanne.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Where else should Jeanne be but on her +pedestal?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span> [<i>stirring</i>]. Revelley again before you've hardly closed +your blooming eyes. [<i>Sits up sharply on seeing</i> <span class="smcap">Blanche</span>.] +Hullo! You're—you're—[<i>Turns to</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span>.] Why, cockey, +it wasn't a yarn. The statues do walk about in France. +There's one of them doing it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. You saw her too?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Saw her? Of course I seen her. She's there. Ain't +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page152" name="page152"></a>(p. 152)</span> you and me been talking familiar with her for the last ten +minutes?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Yes, with Jeanne.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Took my 'and she did, and chanced the dirt.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. You have been dreaming, monsieur. C'était une +rêverie.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Who's raving? Well, it may be raving, but we all +raved together. You and me and 'im, and I'll eat my bayonet +raw if you didn't stand there and take us by the hands and +tell us you were that there Joan of Arc what used to tell old +Bonaparte what to do when he was in an 'ole.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. It was not I. There is the statue, monsieur. +[<i>Points to it.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Where? [<i>Looks.</i>] Well, that's queer. You're the +dead spit and image of 'er, too. And 'ere, 'ere, cockey! [<i>Takes</i> +<span class="smcap">Paul's</span> <i>arm excitedly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Monsieur?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Look at the statue. Look at its head. Who put that +wreath on it? Did you climb up there?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. No.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. No. You know you didn't. We saw her put it on +herself.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. But, monsieur, then you have dreamed the same +dream as I.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. I saw you all right, and you saw me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I saw you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. And we both saw 'er. It's a rum go, cockey, but I +told you I'd given up being surprised. Our lot and yours we're +going whacks in licking the Germans, ain't we? Yus, and now +we're going whacks in the same dream, so that's that and chance +it. Ententing again, only extra cordial. [<i>Scratches head.</i>] I +don't quite see where she comes in, though, if she ain't the statue.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. I am a flower-girl, monsieur.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Not so many flowers about you, then.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. I have sold out, all but one flower, monsieur, +and I came back to see if you [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span>] had got your wish.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. Yes, mademoiselle, I had my wish. The saints sent +Jeanne to me in a dream.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. You happy man, to get your wish!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Paul</span>. I am happy, mademoiselle. I have spoken with +Jeanne d'Arc.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page153" name="page153"></a>(p. 153)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. And you and me will be speaking with our sergeants +if we don't buck up and catch that blinking train. Come on, +old son, back to the Big Stink for us.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Messieurs return to fight?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Lord love you, no. It's only a rumor about the war. +We're a Cook's excursion on a joy-ride seeing the sights of +France. [<span class="smcap">Fred</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>move R. together.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Monsieur!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span> [<i>stopping</i>]. Well?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. I kept one flower back. It is for you—for the +brave English soldier who goes out to fight for France.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Don't make me homesick. Reminds me of the flower-pots +on my kitchen window-sill. [<i>Takes flower and produces +chocolate.</i>] 'Ere, miss, 'ave a bit of chocolate. Made in England, +that was.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Monsieur will need it for himself.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Go on. Take it. I'm all right. It's Christmas Day +and extra rations. [<i>Kisses her.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Blanche</span>. Merci, monsieur. Et bonne chance, mes braves, +bonne chance.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fred</span>. Oh, we'll chance it all right. Merry Christmas, old +dear. [<span class="smcap">Fred</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Paul</span> <i>go off together R.</i> <span class="smcap">Blanche</span> <i>watches +them go. Lights in the church go out. Girls enter L. as if +coming from Mass, singing a carol.</i>]</p> + +<p class="center smcap" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">Girls</p> + +<div class="poem30"> +<p>Noël! Noël! thy babe that lies<br> +Within the manger, Mother-Maid,<br> +Is King of earth and Paradise,<br> +O guard him well, Noël, Noël<br> +Ye shepherds sing, be not afraid.</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em;">O little hills of France, awake,<br> +For angel hosts are chanting high,<br> +His heart is piercèd for our sake,<br> +Noël, Noël, we guard him well,<br> +He liveth though all else shall die.</p> +</div> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em;">[<span class="smcap">Blanche</span> <i>joins them, singing as they cross.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page155" name="page155"></a>(p. 155)</span> SPREADING THE NEWS<a id="footnotetag37" name="footnotetag37"></a><a href="#footnote37" title="Go to footnote 37"><span class="smaller">[37]</span></a><br> +<span class="smaller">By</span><br> +AUGUSTA GREGORY</h1> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page157" name="page157"></a>(p. 157)</span> Isabella Augusta Persse, later Lady Gregory, was born at +Roxborough, County Galway, Ireland, in 1859. One who saw +her in the early years of her married life describes her thus: +"She was then a young woman, very earnest, who divided her +hair in the middle and wore it smooth on either side of a broad +and handsome brow. Her eyes were always full of questions. +... In her drawing-room were to be met men of assured +reputation in literature and politics and there was always the +best reading of the times upon her tables."</p> + +<p>Two closely related interests have always divided Lady +Gregory's attention. Her occupation with the Irish Players has +been constant, and she has from the beginning been a director +of the Abbey Theatre, where <i>Spreading the News</i> was first +performed on December 27, 1904. This play was also included +in the American repertory of the Players, whom Lady Gregory +accompanied on their visit to the United States in 1911. The +spirit that she puts into her work with them is well illustrated +by those lines of Blake which she quoted in a speech made +at a dinner given her by <i>The Outlook</i> when she was in +New York. Her hard work having been commented on, she +replied:</p> + +<p class="poem20"> +"I will not cease from mental strife<br> +Or let the sword fall from my hand<br> +Till we have built Jerusalem<br> +In—Ireland's—fair and lovely land."</p> + +<p>In her book on <i>Our Irish Theatre, A Chapter of Autobiography</i>, +she relates the story of how one day when she assembled +the company for rehearsal in Washington, D. C., she invited +them to leave their work and come with her to Mount Vernon +for a holiday and picnic. "I told them," she writes, "the +holiday was not a precedent, for we might go to a great many +countries before finding so great a man to honor." Washington, +it seems, had been a friend of her grandfather's who had +been in America with his regiment.</p> + +<p>Her other great interest has been the folklore of Ireland. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page158" name="page158"></a>(p. 158)</span> She has been called the Irish Malory, because through her retelling +of the Irish sagas, she has popularized and made accessible +the great cycles of heroic legends. She has employed for +the vernacular of these romances and folk tales what she calls +Kiltartan English, Kiltartan being the village near her home, +the dialect of which she has assimilated and utilized. Lady +Gregory has also used her historical and legendary knowledge +for the background of some of her plays.</p> + +<p>It is said that the original impulse that influenced Lady +Gregory to interest herself in these old Irish stories came from +Yeats, her friend and associate in the project of the Irish National +Theatre. It was his suggestion in the first place that +led to her writing <i>Cuchulain of Muirthemne</i>. "He could not +have been long at Coole," writes George Moore of Yeats, +"before he began to draw her attention to the beauty of the +literature that rises among the hills and bubbles irresponsibly, +and set her going from cabin to cabin taking down stories, and +encouraging her to learn the original language of the country, +so that they might add to the Irish idiom which the peasant +had already translated into English, making in this way a language +for themselves." The influence continues, for her latest +book, <i>Visions and Beliefs in the West of Ireland</i>, contains two +essays and notes from the pen of Yeats.</p> + +<p>The literary association of Yeats and Lady Gregory has been +a fruitful one for Ireland. Not only has Yeats encouraged +Lady Gregory's researches into the past, but she has been of +the greatest assistance to him in his work. When he is at +Coole, she writes from his dictation, arranges his manuscript, +reads to him and serves him as literary counselor.</p> + +<p>Lady Gregory's life touches the life of Ireland at many +points. In addition to her literary occupations, she lectures and +co-operates actively with a number of societies that have as +their aim social or political betterment.</p> + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page159" name="page159"></a>(p. 159)</span> SPREADING THE NEWS</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Bartley Fallon</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Mrs. Fallon</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Jack Smith</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Shawn Early</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Tim Casey</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">James Ryan</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Mrs. Tarpey</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Mrs. Tully</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Jo Muldoon</span>, <i>a policeman</i>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">A Removable Magistrate</span>.</li> +</ul> + + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>SCENE.</i>—<i>The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall.</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. +Tarpey</span> <i>sitting at it.</i> <span class="smcap">Magistrate</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>enter.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and sheep +and mud. No system. What a repulsive sight!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. That is so, indeed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. I suppose there is a good deal of disorder in +this place?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. There is.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Common assault?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. It's common enough.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Agrarian crime, no doubt?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. That is so.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing +into houses?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. There was one time, and there might be again.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. That is bad. Does it go any farther than +that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. Far enough, indeed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Homicide, then! This district has been +shamefully neglected! I will change all that. When I was +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page160" name="page160"></a>(p. 160)</span> in the Andaman Islands, my system never failed. Yes, yes, I +will change all that. What has that woman on her stall?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. Apples mostly—and sweets.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Just see if there are any unlicensed goods +underneath—spirits or the like. We had evasions of the salt +tax in the Andaman Islands.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span> [<i>sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of +apples</i>]. I see no spirits here—or salt.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Tarpey</span>]. Do you know this town +well, my good woman?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span> [<i>holding out some apples</i>]. A penny the half-dozen, +your honor.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span> [<i>shouting</i>]. The gentleman is asking do you +know the town! He's the new magistrate!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span> [<i>rising and ducking</i>]. Do I know the town? +I do, to be sure.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>shouting</i>]. What is its chief business?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Business, is it? What business would the +people here have but to be minding one another's business?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. I mean what trade have they?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Not a trade. No trade at all but to be +talking.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. I shall learn nothing here. [<span class="smcap">James Ryan</span> +<i>comes in, pipe in mouth. Seeing</i> <span class="smcap">Magistrate</span> <i>he retreats +quickly, taking pipe from mouth.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. 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. [<span class="smcap">Magistrate</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>go +out left.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my +apples this way and that way. [<i>Begins arranging them.</i>] +Showing off he was to the new magistrate. [<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley +Fallon</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Fallon</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. So you might, indeed. [<i>She puts her +basket on a barrel and begins putting parcels in it, taking +them from under her cloak.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page161" name="page161"></a>(p. 161)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be +buried in America.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Never fear, Bartley Fallon, but I'll give +you a good burying the day you'll die.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Leave off talking of dying. It might be +twenty years you'll be living yet.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>with a deep sigh</i>]. I'm thinking if I'll be living +at the end of twenty years, it's a very old man I'll be then!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span> [<i>turns and sees them</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>raising his voice</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Leave off talking of misfortunes, and listen +to Jack Smith that is coming the way, and he singing. [<i>Voice +of</i> <span class="smcap">Jack Smith</span> <i>heard singing:</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem20" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em"> +I thought, my first love,<br> +<span class="add1em">There'd be but one house between you and me,</span><br> +And I thought I would find<br> +<span class="add1em">Yourself coaxing my child on your knee.</span><br> +Over the tide<br> +<span class="add1em">I would leap with the leap of a swan,</span><br> +Till I came to the side<br> +<span class="add1em">Of the wife of the red-haired man!</span></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em;"><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Jack Smith</span> <i>comes in; he is a red-haired man, and is carrying +a hayfork.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. That should be a good song if I had my +hearing.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span> [<i>shouting</i>]. It's "The Red-haired Man's +Wife."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page162" name="page162"></a>(p. 162)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. I know it well. That's the song that has +a skin on it! [<i>She turns her back to them and goes on arranging +her apples.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Where's herself, Jack Smith?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. 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. [<i>He lays down hayfork and lights his +pipe.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. 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. [<i>A voice +heard, "Go on, now, go on out o' that. Go on I say."</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. 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. +[<i>He goes out, leaving his hayfork.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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. [<i>Calls.</i>] Jack +Smith! Jack Smith!—He's gone through the crowd—hurry +after him, Bartley, he'll be wanting it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. I'll do that. This is no safe place to be leaving +it. [<i>He takes up fork awkwardly and upsets the basket.</i>] +Look at that now! If there is any basket in the fair upset, it +must be our own basket! [<i>He goes out to right.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span> [<i>turning from stall</i>]. God help us, Mrs. +Fallon, what happened your basket?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. It's himself that knocked it down, bad manners +to him. [<i>Putting things up.</i>] My grand sugar that's +destroyed, and he'll not drink his tea without it. I had best +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page163" name="page163"></a>(p. 163)</span> go back to the shop for more, much good may it do him! +[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Tim Casey</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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 [<i>jerks elbow</i>] following Jack Smith with a hayfork. +[<i>She goes out to left.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Following Jack Smith with a hayfork! Did +ever anyone hear the like of that. [<i>Shouts.</i>] Did you hear +that news, Mrs. Tarpey?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. I heard no news at all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. 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! [<i>She goes out. Enter</i> +<span class="smcap">Shawn Early</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Tully</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. Do you tell me so? Well, that's a queer +thing, and Bartley Fallon so quiet a man!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. I wouldn't wonder at all. I would never +think well of a man that would have that sort of a moldering +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page164" name="page164"></a>(p. 164)</span> look. It's likely he has overtaken Jack by this. [<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">James +Ryan</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Tarpey</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. The police after them? Bartley Fallon +must have injured Jack so. They wouldn't meddle in a fight +that was only for show!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. Why wouldn't he injure him? There was +many a man killed with no more of a weapon than a hayfork.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. Wait till I run north as far as Kelly's bar +to spread the news! [<i>He goes out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. I'll go tell Jack Smith's first cousin that is +standing there south of the church after selling his lambs. +[<i>Goes out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. I'll go telling a few of the neighbors I see +beyond to the west. [<i>Goes out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. I'll give word of it beyond at the east of +the green. [<i>Is going out when</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Tarpey</span> <i>seizes hold of +him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Stop a minute, Shawn Early, and tell me +did you see red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary, in any place?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. I did. At her own house she was, drying +clothes on the hedge as I passed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. What did you say she was doing?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span> [<i>breaking away.</i>] Laying out a sheet on +the hedge. [<i>He goes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. 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! [<i>Calls out.</i>] 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! [<i>She sits down and rocks herself.</i>] +Oh, 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! [<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Tim Casey</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. What is it, Mrs. Tarpey? What happened +since?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Oh, my poor Jack Smith!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Did Bartley overtake him?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page165" name="page165"></a>(p. 165)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Oh, the poor man!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Is it killed he is?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Stretched in the Five Acre Meadow!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. The Lord have mercy on us! Is that a +fact?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Without the rites of the Church or a +ha'porth!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Who was telling you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. And the wife laying out a sheet for his +corpse. [<i>Sits up and wipes her eyes.</i>] I suppose they'll wake +him the same as another? [<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Tully</span>, <span class="smcap">Shawn +Early</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">James Ryan</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. There is great talk about this work in every +quarter of the fair.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. Ochone! cold and dead. And myself maybe +the last he was speaking to!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. The Lord save us! Is it dead he is?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Dead surely, and the wife getting provision +for the wake.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. Well, now, hadn't Bartley Fallon great +venom in him?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. You may be sure he had some cause. Why +would he have made an end of him if he had not? [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. +Tarpey</span>, <i>raising her voice.</i>] What was it rose the dispute at +all, Mrs. Tarpey?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. 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."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. She must have followed him from her own +house. It is likely some person roused him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. I never knew, before, Bartley Fallon was great +with Jack Smith's wife.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. 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 +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page166" name="page166"></a>(p. 166)</span> know of it, and if Jack Smith himself didn't know of it, it is +not likely you would know of it, Tim Casey.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. It would be easy for him to marry her if he +brought her to America.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. 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! [<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. +Fallon</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. Be easy now, Mrs. Fallon. Sure there is no +one at all in the whole fair but is sorry for you!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Is that what you are saying, Bridget Tully, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page167" name="page167"></a>(p. 167)</span> 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 +whisky. [<i>Turning to go.</i>] 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. [<i>Calls +out.</i>] Bartley! Bartley Fallon! Where are you? [<i>Going +out.</i>] Did anyone see Bartley Fallon? [<i>All turn to look after +her.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. It is hard for her to believe any such a thing, +God help her! [<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley Fallon</span> <i>from right, carrying +hayfork.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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! [<i>All turn round and face him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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? [<i>Holds +out fork.</i>] 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—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span> [<i>backing</i>]. I will not take it, Bartley Fallon, +I'm very thankful to you!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>turning to apple stall</i>]. 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—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page168" name="page168"></a>(p. 168)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. 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. [<i>Thrusts him +back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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 never +touched it or meddled with it at all!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. It is a pity, indeed, you ever did.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Will you yourself take it, James Ryan? You +were always a neighborly man.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span> [<i>backing</i>]. There is many a thing I would do +for you, Bartley Fallon, but I won't do that!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. 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—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. If no one at all will take it, maybe it's best to +give it up to the police.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. There'd be a welcome for it with them surely! +[<i>Laughter.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. And it is to the police Kitty Keary herself +will be brought.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span> [<i>rocking to and fro</i>]. I wonder now who +will take the expense of the wake for poor Jack Smith?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. The wake for Jack Smith!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Why wouldn't he get a wake as well as +another? Would you begrudge him that much?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. The whole town knows of it by this.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Do they say what way did he die?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. The stab of a hayfork!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. You don't know, I suppose, that the body +was found in the Five Acre Meadow?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. The Five Acre Meadow!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. It is likely you don't know that the police +are after the man that did it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. The man that did it!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page169" name="page169"></a>(p. 169)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. You don't know, maybe, that he was made +away with for the sake of Kitty Keary, his wife?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Kitty Keary, his wife! [<i>Sits down bewildered.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. And what have you to say now, Bartley +Fallon?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>crossing himself</i>]. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and +Jo Muldoon along with him! It's best for us to quit +this.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. That is so. It is best not to be mixed in +this business at all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. Bad as he is, I wouldn't like to be an informer +against any man. [<i>All hurry away except</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. +Tarpey</span>, <i>who remains behind her stall. Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Magistrate</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. I am sure you did not, indeed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. It was well I had not gone home. I caught +a few words here and there that roused my suspicions.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. So they would, too.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. You heard the same story from everyone you +asked?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. The same story—or if it was not altogether +the same, anyway it was no less than the first story.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. What is that man doing? He is sitting alone +with a hayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder was done +with a hayfork!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span> [<i>in a whisper</i>]. That's the very man they say +did the act; Bartley Fallon himself!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. 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. [<i>He walks +up to</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley</span>, <i>folds his arms, and stands before him.</i>] Here, +my man, do you know anything of John Smith?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Of John Smith! Who is he, now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. Jack Smith, sir—Red Jack Smith!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page170" name="page170"></a>(p. 170)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>coming a step nearer and tapping him on the +shoulder</i>]. Where is Jack Smith?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly</i>]. +Where is he, indeed?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. What have you to tell?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. I ask you, for the third time, where is he?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Tell me all you know.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. All that I know—Well, there are the three +estates; there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there is—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Nonsense! This is trifling! Get to the +point.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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! [<i>Starts up.</i>] 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>]. Conscience-struck! He will +confess all now!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>]. I must note down his words. +[<i>Takes out notebook.</i>] [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley</span>.] I warn you that +your words are being noted.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>writing</i>]. At the day of judgment—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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 night time?—I wouldn't wonder at all at +that, being as I am an unfortunate man!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page171" name="page171"></a>(p. 171)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>sternly</i>]. Tell me this truly. What was the +motive of this crime?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. The motive, is it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Yes; the motive; the cause.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. I'd sooner not say that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. You had better tell me truly. Was it money?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Not at all! What did poor Jack Smith ever +have in his pockets unless it might be his hands that would be +in them?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Any dispute about land?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>indignantly</i>]. Not at all! He never was a +grabber or grabbed from anyone!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. You will find it better for you if you tell +me at once.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. There is no use in hiding it. It will be discovered +in the end.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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? [<i>Puts his hand to his mouth, and</i> +<span class="smcap">Magistrate</span> <i>stoops.</i>] 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>]. Put on the handcuffs. We +have been saved some trouble. I knew he would confess if +taken in the right way. [<span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>puts on handcuffs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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. [<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Fallon</span>, <i>followed by the rest. +She is looking back at them as she speaks.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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! [<i>Turns and sees +him.</i>] What in the earthly world do I see before me? Bartley +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page172" name="page172"></a>(p. 172)</span> Fallon in charge of the police! Handcuffs on him! Oh, Bartley, +what did you do at all at all?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Oh, Mary, there has a great misfortune come +upon me! It is what I always said, that if there is ever any +misfortune—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched +I am?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. This man has been arrested on a charge of +murder.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Whose charge is that? Don't believe +them! They are all liars in this place! Give me back my +man!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. The saints of heaven protect us! And what +did he want killing Jack Smith?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. It is best you should know all. He did it on +account of a love affair with the murdered man's wife.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span> [<i>sitting down</i>]. With Jack Smith's wife! +With Kitty Keary!—Ochone, the traitor!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Crowd</span>. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, +indeed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. +Fallon.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any +word you'll say! [<i>Stops her ears.</i>] Oh, isn't he the treacherous +villain? Ohone go deo!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to +the town, so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like that +in his heart!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Is it your wits you have lost or is it I myself that +have lost my wits?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Let you be quiet till I tell you!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page173" name="page173"></a>(p. 173)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish. +A thing that was never heard of before!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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! [<i>Voice of</i> <span class="smcap">Jack Smith</span> +<i>heard singing.</i>]</p> + +<p class="poem20" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">The sea shall be dry,<br> +<span class="add1em">The earth under mourning and ban!</span><br> +Then loud shall he cry<br> +<span class="add1em">For the wife of the red-haired man!</span> +</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. It's Jack Smith's voice—I never knew a ghost to +sing before—It is after myself and the fork he is coming! +[<i>Goes back. Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Jack Smith</span>.] Let one of you give him +the fork and I will be clear of him now and for eternity!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tarpey</span>. The Lord have mercy on us! Red Jack +Smith! The man that was going to be waked!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">James Ryan</span>. Is it back from the grave you are come?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Shawn Early</span>. Is it alive you are, or is it dead you are?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tim Casey</span>. Is it yourself at all that's in it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Tully</span>. Is it letting on you were to be dead?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary, +your wife, from bringing my man away with her to America!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Fallon</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. I'll break the head of any man that says that! +Who is it says it? [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Tim Casey</span>.] Was it you said it? +[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Shawn Early</span>.] Was it you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">All together</span> [<i>backing and shaking their heads</i>]. It +wasn't I said it!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. Tell me the name of any man that said it!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page174" name="page174"></a>(p. 174)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">All together</span> [<i>pointing to</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley</span>]. It was him that +said it!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. Let me at him till I break his head! [<span class="smcap">Bartley</span> +<i>backs in terror. Neighbors hold</i> <span class="smcap">Jack Smith</span> <i>back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span> [<i>trying to free himself</i>]. 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 [<i>trying to rush at him again</i>], 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. [<i>Makes another rush, but is held back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span> [<i>pointing to</i> <span class="smcap">Jack Smith</span>]. 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—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Policeman</span>. So he might be, too.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. We must take both these men to the scene of +the murder. We must confront them with the body of the real +Jack Smith.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Jack Smith</span>. I'll break the head of any man that will find +my dead body! + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. I'll call more help from the barracks. [<i>Blows</i> +<span class="smcap">Policeman's</span> <i>whistle.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Magistrate</span>. Come on! [<i>They turn to the right.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page175" name="page175"></a>(p. 175)</span> MUSIC FOR THE SONG IN THE PLAY<br> +<span class="smaller">THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE</span></h1> + +<p class="p2 center"><a href="music/redhairedman.mid">Listen</a></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/mus001.jpg"> +<img src="images/mus001tb.jpg" width="450" height="590" alt="Red-haired man"wife."></a> +</div> + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page176" name="page176"></a>(p. 176)</span> AUTHOR'S NOTE</h2> + +<p>The idea of this play first came to me as a tragedy. I kept seeing as +in a picture people sitting by the roadside, and a girl passing to the +market, gay and fearless. And then I saw her passing by the same +place at evening, her head hanging, the heads of others turned from +her, because of some sudden story that had risen out of a chance word, +and had snatched away her good name.</p> + +<p>But comedy and not tragedy was wanted at our theatre to put beside +the high poetic work, <i>The King's Threshold</i>, <i>The Shadowy Waters</i>, +<i>On Baile's Strand</i>, <i>The Well of the Saints</i>; and I let laughter have +its way with the little play. I was delayed in beginning it for a +while, because I could only think of Bartley Fallon as dull-witted or +silly or ignorant, and the handcuffs seemed too harsh a punishment. +But one day by the seat at Duras a melancholy man who was telling +me of the crosses he had gone through at home said—"But I'm thinking +if I went to America, it's long ago to-day I'd be dead. And it's a +great expense for a poor man to be buried in America." Bartley was +born at that moment, and, far from harshness, I felt I was providing +him with a happy old age in giving him the lasting glory of that great +and crowning day of misfortune.</p> + +<p>It has been acted very often by other companies as well as our own, +and the Boers have done me the honor of translating and pirating it.</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page177" name="page177"></a>(p. 177)</span> WELSH HONEYMOON<a id="footnotetag38" name="footnotetag38"></a><a href="#footnote38" title="Go to footnote 38"><span class="smaller">[38]</span></a><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +JEANNETTE MARKS</span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page179" name="page179"></a>(p. 179)</span> Jeannette Marks, playwright, poet, essayist, and writer of +short stories, was born in 1875 at Chattanooga, Tennessee. She +grew up in Philadelphia, however, where her father was a +member of the faculty of the University of Pennsylvania. Her +education in this country was supplemented by a sojourn at a +school in Dresden. She took her first degree at Wellesley College +in 1900, and her master's degree there in 1903. Her +graduate studies were pursued at the Bodleian Library and at +the British Museum. Since 1901 she has taught English literature +at Mount Holyoke.</p> + +<p>The play here reprinted, <i>Welsh Honeymoon</i>, was one of the +two—the other was her <i>The Merry, Merry Cuckoo</i>—that won +the Welsh National Theatre First Prize for the best Welsh +plays in November, 1911, the year after Josephine Preston +Peabody had carried off the palm at Stratford-on-Avon.</p> + +<p>She writes in her preface to <i>Three Welsh Plays</i>, the collection +from which <i>Welsh Honeymoon</i> is drawn:</p> + +<p>"'Poetry' and 'song' are words which convey, better than +any other two words could, the priceless gifts of the Welsh +people to the world. With their love for music, for beauty, +for the significance of their land and its folklore, their inherent +romance in the difficult art of living, they have transformed +ugliness into beauty, turned loneliness into speech, and ever +recalled life to its only permanent possessions in wonder and +romance.</p> + +<p>"Curiously enough, the Welsh, rich in poetry and music, +have been almost altogether devoid of plays. But no one who +has read those first Welsh tales in the 'Mabinogion' (c. 1260) +could for an instant think the Cymru devoid of the dramatic +instinct. The Welsh way of interpreting experience is essentially +dramatic. <i>The Dream of Maxen Wledig</i>, <i>The Dream +of Rhonabwy</i>, both from the 'Mabinogion,' are sharply dramatic, +although then and later Welsh literature remained practically +devoid of the play form. Experience dramatized is, too, +that Pilgrim's Progress of Gwalia: 'Y Bardd Cwsg' (1703).</p> + +<p>"Every gift of the Welsh would seem to promise the realization +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page180" name="page180"></a>(p. 180)</span> some day of a great national drama, for they have not only +the gift of poetry and the power to seize the symbol—short cut +through experience—which can, even as the crutch of Ibsen's +Little Eyolf, lift a play into greatness; they have, also, natures +profoundly emotional and yet intellectually critical. They are, +humanly speaking, perfect tools for the achievement of great +drama. But it is a drab journey from those 'Mabinogion' +days of wonder, coarse and crude as they were in many ways, +yet intensely vital, through the 'Bardd Cwsg' to Twm o'r +Nant (1739-1810) the so-called 'Welsh Shakespeare,' whose +Interludes might, with sufficient worrying, afford delectation +to the rock-ribbed Puritanism which has stood, as much as any +other oppression, in the way of Gwalia's full development of +her genius for beauty.</p> + +<p>"It was, then, a significant moment when 'The Welsh National +Theatre' came into existence with so powerful a patron +as Lord Howard de Walden, lessee of the Haymarket, and +Owen Rhoscomyl (Captain Owen Vaughan) and other gifted +Welsh literati for its sponsors. And it did not seem an insignificant +moment to one person, the playwright of <i>The Merry +Merry Cuckoo</i> and <i>Welsh Honeymoon</i>, when she learned +through her friendly agent, Curtis Brown of London, that she +had received one of the Welsh National Theatre's first prizes +(1911)."</p> + +<p>Jeannette Marks's interest in Wales is the result of a number +of holidays spent in wandering through its highways and +byways. Books of hers like <i>Through Welsh Doorways</i> and +<i>Gallant Little Wales</i> bespeak an affectionate intimacy with +homes and inhabitants. In the last named, especially, the chapters +called "Cambrian Cottages" and "Welsh Wales" contain +material that is highly illuminating in connection with the interpretation +of her plays. Edward Knobloch, the playwright, is +said to have pointed out to the author the dramatic situations +inherent in her short stories and sketches, a suggestion which +bore fruit in <i>Three Welsh Plays</i>.</p> + +<p>The first performance of <i>Welsh Honeymoon</i> was given by +the American Drama Society in Boston in February, 1916. It +has also been produced by the Boston Women's City Club, the +Vagabond Players in Baltimore, the Hull House Players in +Chicago, and the Prince Street Players in Rochester.</p> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page181" name="page181"></a>(p. 181)</span> WELSH HONEYMOON<a id="footnotetag39" name="footnotetag39"></a><a href="#footnote39" title="Go to footnote 39"><span class="smaller">[39]</span></a></h2> + + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Vavasour Jones.</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Catherine Jones</span>, <i>his wife</i>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Eilir Morris</span>, <i>nephew of Vavasour Jones</i>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Mrs. Morgan</span>, <i>the baker</i>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Howell Howell</span>, <i>the milliner</i>.</li> +</ul> + +<p><i>PLACE.</i>—<i>Beddgelert, a little village in North Wales.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>A Welsh kitchen. At back, in center, a deep ingle, with two +hobs and fire bars fixed between, on either side settles. On +the left-hand side near the fire a church; on the right, in +a pile, some peat ready for use. Above the fireplace is a +mantel on which are set some brass candlesticks, a deep +copper cheese bowl, and two pewter plates. Near the left +settle is a three-legged table set with teapot, cups and +saucers for two, a plate of bread and butter, a plate of +jam, and a creamer. At the right and to the right of the +door, is a tall, highly polished, oaken grandfather's clock, +with a shining brass face; to the left of the door is a +tridarn. The tridarn dresser is lined with bright blue +paper and filled with luster china. The floor is of beaten +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page182" name="page182"></a>(p. 182)</span> clay, whitewashed around the edges; from the rafters of +the peaked ceiling hang flitches of bacon, hams, and bunches +of onions and herbs. On the hearth is a copper kettle +singing gaily; and on either side of the fireplace are +latticed windows opening into the kitchen. Through the +door to the right, when open, may be seen the flagstones +and cottages of a Welsh village street; through latticed +windows the twinkling of many village lights.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>It is about half after eleven on Allhallows' Eve in the +village of Beddgelert.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>At rise of curtain, the windows of kitchen are closed; +the fire is burning brightly, and two candles are lighted on +the mantelpiece.</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour Jones</span>, <i>about thirty-five years +old, dressed in a striped vest, a short, heavy blue coat, cut +away in front, and with swallowtails behind, and trimmed +with brass buttons, and somewhat tight trousers down to +his boot tops, is standing by the open door at the right, +looking out anxiously on to the glittering, rain-wet flagstone +street and calling after someone.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour<a id="footnotetag40" name="footnotetag40"></a><a href="#footnote40" title="Go to footnote 40"><span class="smaller">[40]</span></a></span> [<i>calling</i>]. Kats, Kats, mind ye come home soon +from Pally Hughes's!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>from a distance</i>]. Aye, I'm no wantin' to go, +but I must. Good-by!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Good-by! Kats, ye mind about comin' home? +[<i>There is no reply, and</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>looks still further into the +rain-wet street. He calls loudly and desperately.</i>] Kats, Kats +darlin', I cannot let you go without tellin' ye that—Kats, do +ye hear? [<i>There is still no reply and after one more searching +of the street,</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>closes the door and sits down on the +end of the nearest settle.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Dear, dear, she's gone, an' I may never see her +again, an' I'm to blame, an' she didn't know whatever that in +the night—[<i>Loud knocking on the closed door;</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> +<i>jumps and stands irresolute.</i>] The devil, it can't be comin' for +her already? [<i>The knocking grows louder.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Voice</span> [<i>calling</i>]. Catherine, Vavasour, are ye in?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>opening the door</i>]. Aye, come in, whoever ye +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page183" name="page183"></a>(p. 183)</span> are. [<span class="smcap">Mrs. Morgan</span>, <i>the Baker, dressed in a scarlet whittle +and freshly starched white cap beneath her tall Welsh beaver +hat, enters, shaking the rain from her cloak.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Morgan</span>. Where's Catherine?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. She's gone, Mrs. Morgan.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Morgan</span>. Gone? Are ye no goin'? Not goin' to +Pally Hughes's on Allhallows' Eve?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>shaking his head and looking very white</i>]. Nay, +I'm no feelin' well.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Morgan</span>. Aye, I see ye're ill?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Well, I'm not ill, but I'm not well. Not well +at all, Mrs. Morgan.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mrs. Morgan</span>. We'll miss ye, but I must hurryin' on whatever; +I'm late now. Good-night!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>speaking drearily</i>]. Good-night! [<i>He closes +the door and returns to the settle, where he sits down by the +pile of peat and drops his head in his hand. Then he starts up +nervously for no apparent cause and opens one of the lattice +windows. With an exclamation of fear, he slams it to and +throws his weight against the door. Calling and holding hard +to the door.</i>] Ye've no cause to come here! Ye old death's +head, get away! [<i>Outside there is loud pounding on the door +and a voice shouting for admittance.</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>is obliged to +fall back as the door is gradually forced open, and a head is +thrust in, a white handkerchief tied over it.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Howell Howell</span> [<i>seeing the terror-stricken face of</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span>]. +Well, man, what ails ye; did ye think I was a ghost? +[<span class="smcap">Howell Howell</span>, <i>the Milliner, in highlows and a plum-colored +coat, a handkerchief on his hat, enters, stamping off the +rain and closing the door. He carefully wipes off his plum-colored +sleeves and speaks indignantly.</i>] Well, man, are ye +crazy, keepin' me out in the rain that way? Where's Catherine?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>stammering</i>]. She's at P-p-p-ally Hughes's.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Howell Howell</span>. Are ye no goin'?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Nay, Howell Howell, I'm no goin'.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Howell Howell</span>. An' dressed in your best? What's the +matter? Have ye been drinkin' whatever?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>wrathfully</i>]. Drinkin'! I'd better be drinkin' +when neighbors go walkin' round the village on Allhallows' +Eve with their heads done up in white.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Howell Howell</span>. Aye, well, I can't be spoilin' the new +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page184" name="page184"></a>(p. 184)</span> hat I have, that I cannot. A finer beaver there has never been +in my shop. [<i>He takes off the handkerchief, hangs it where +the heat of the fire will dry it a bit, and then, removing the +beaver, shows it to</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span>, <i>turning it this way and that.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>absent-mindedly</i>]. Aye, grand, grand, man!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Howell Howell</span>. What are ye gazin' at the clock for?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>guiltily</i>]. I'm no lookin' at anything.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Howell Howell</span>. Well, indeed, I must be goin', or I shall +be late at Pally Hughes's. Good-night.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Good-night. [<i>He closes the door and stands +before the clock, studying it. While he is studying its face the +door opens slowly, and the tumbled, curly head of a lad about +eighteen years of age peers in. The door continues slowly to +open.</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>unconscious all the while.</i>] 'Tis ten now. +Ten, eleven, twelve; that's three hours left, 'tis; nay, nay, 'tis +only two hours left, after all, an' then—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>bounding in and shutting the door behind +him with a bang</i>]. Boo! Whoo—o—o!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>his face blanched, dropping limply on to the +settle</i>]. The devil!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>troubled</i>]. Uch, the pity, Uncle! I didn't +think, an' ye're ill!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Tut, tut, 'tis no matter, an' I'm not ill—not ill +at all, but Eilir, lad, ye're kin, an'—could ye promise never +to tell?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>who thinks his uncle has been drinking, +speaks to him as if he would humor his whim</i>]. Aye, Uncle, +I'm kin, an' I promise. Tell on. What is it? Are ye sick?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>drearily</i>]. Uch, lad, I'm not sick!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Well, what ails ye?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. 'Tis Allhallows' Eve an'—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Aren't ye goin' to Pally Hughes's?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>moaning and rising</i>]. Ow, the devil, goin' to +Pally Hughes's while 'tis drawin' nearer an' nearer an'—Ow! +'Tis the night when Catherine must go.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. When Aunt Kats must go! What do you +mean?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. She'll be dead to-night at twelve.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>bewildered</i>]. Dead at twelve? But she's at +Pally Hughes's. Does she know it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. No, but I do, an' to think I've been unkind to +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page185" name="page185"></a>(p. 185)</span> her! I've tried this year to make up for it, but 'tis no use, lad; +one year'll never make up for ten of harsh words, whatever. +Ow! [<i>Groaning,</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>collapses on to the settle +and rocks to and fro, moaning aloud.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>mystified</i>]. Well, ye've not been good to +her, Uncle, that's certain; but ye've been different the past +year.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>sobbing</i>]. Aye, but a year'll not do any good, +an' she'll be dyin' at twelve to-night. Ow! I've turned to the +scriptures to see what it says about a man an' his wife, but +it'll no do, no do, no do!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Have ye been drinkin', Uncle?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>hotly</i>]. Drinkin'!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Well, indeed, no harm, but, Uncle, I cannot +understand why Aunt Kats's goin' an' where.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>rising suddenly from the settle and seizing</i> <span class="smcap">Eilir</span> +<i>by the coat lapel</i>]. She's goin' to leave me, lad; 'tis Allhallows' +Eve whatever! An' she'll be dyin' at twelve. Aye, a year ago +things were so bad between us, on Allhallows' Eve I went down +to the church porch shortly before midnight to see whether the +spirit of your Aunt Kats would be called an'—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Uncle, 'twas fair killin' her!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. I wanted to see whether she would live the +twelve months out. An' as I was leanin' against the church +wall, hopin', aye, lad, prayin' to see her spirit there, an' know +she'd die, I saw somethin' comin' 'round the corner with white +over its head.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>wailing</i>]. Ow—w!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. It drew nearer an' nearer, an' when it came in +full view of the church porch, it paused, it whirled around like +that, an' sped away with the shroud flappin' about its feet, an' +the rain beatin' down on its white hood.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>wailing again</i>]. Ow—w!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. But there was time to see that it was the +spirit of Catherine, an' I was glad because my wicked prayer +had been answered, an' because with Catherine dyin' the next +Allhallows', we'd have to live together only the year out.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>raising his hand</i>]. Hush, what's that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. 'Tis voices whatever. [<i>Both listen,</i> <span class="smcap">Eilir</span> <i>goes +to the window,</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>to the door. The voices become +louder.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page186" name="page186"></a>(p. 186)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. They're singin' a song at Pally Hughes's. +[<i>Voices are audibly singing:</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem20" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"> +<p style="margin-bottom: 1em;">Ni awn adre bawb dan ganu,<br> +<span class="add1em">Ar hyd y nos;</span><br> +Saif ein hiaith safo Cymru,<br> +<span class="add1em">Ar hyd y nos;</span><br> +Bydded undeb a brawdgarwch<br> +Ini'n gwlwm diogelwch,<br> +Felly canwn er hyfrydwch,<br> +<span class="add1em">Ar hyd y nos.</span></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em;">Sweetly sang beside a fountain,<br> +<span class="add1em">All through the night,</span><br> +Mona's maiden on that mountain,<br> +<span class="add1em">All through the night.</span><br> +When wilt thou, from war returning,<br> +In whose breast true love is burning,<br> +Come and change to joy my mourning,<br> +<span class="add1em">By day and night?</span></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Aye, they're happy, an' Kats does not know. I +went home that night, lad, thinkin' 'twas the last year we'd +have to live together, an', considerin' as 'twas the last year, +I might just as well try to be decent an' kind. An' when I +reached home, Catherine was up waitin' for me an' spoke so +pleasantly, an' we sat down an' had a long talk—just like the +days when we were courtin'.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Did she know, Uncle?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>puzzled</i>]. Nay, how could she know. But she +seems queer,—as if she felt the evil comin'. Well, indeed, each +day was sweeter than the one before, an' we were man an' wife +in love an' kindness at last, but all the while I was thinkin' +of that figure by the churchyard. Lad, lad, ye'll be marryin' +before long,—be good to her, lad, be good to her! [<span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> +<i>lets go the lapels of</i> <span class="smcap">Eilir's</span> <i>coat and sinks back on to the settle, +half sobbing. Outside the roar of wind and rain growing +louder can be heard.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>looking at the clock</i>]. An' here 'tis Allhallows' +Eve again, an' the best year of my life is past, an' she must die +in an hour an' a half. Ow, ow! It has all come from my +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page187" name="page187"></a>(p. 187)</span> own evil heart an' evil wish. Think, lad, prayin' for her +callin'; aye, goin' there, hopin' ye'd see her spirit, an' countin' +on her death!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>mournfully</i>]. Aye, Uncle, 'tis bad, an' I've +no word to say to ye for comfort. I recollect well the story +Granny used to tell about Christmas Pryce; 'twas somethin' the +same whatever. An' there was Betty Williams was called a +year ago, an' is dead now; an' there was Silvan Griffith, an' +Geffery, his friend, an' Silvan had just time to dig Geffery's +grave an' then his own, too, by its side, an' they was buried +the same day an' hour.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>wailing</i>]. Ow—w—w! [<i>At that moment the +door is blown violently open by the wind; both men jump and +stare out into the dark where only the dimmed lights of the +rain-swept street are to be seen, and the very bright windows +of Pally Hughes's cottage.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Uch, she'll be taken there!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Aye, an', Eilir, she was loath to go to Pally's, +but I could not tell her the truth.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Are ye not goin', Uncle?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Nay, lad, I cannot go. I'm fair crazy. I'll +just be stayin' home, waitin' for them to bring her back. +Ow—w—w!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Tut, tut, Uncle, I'm sorry. I'll just see for +ye what they're doin'. [<span class="smcap">Eilir</span> <i>steps out and is gone for an +instant. He comes back excitedly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>shouting after him</i>]. Can ye see her, lad?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>returning</i>]. Dear, they've a grand display, +raisins an' buns, an' spices an' biscuits—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. But your Aunt Kats?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Aye, an' a grand fire, an' a tub with apples +in it an'—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. But Catherine?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Aye, she was there near the fire, an' just +as I turned, they blew the lights out.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Blew the lights out! Uch, she'll be taken there +whatever!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. They're tellin' stories in the dark.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Go back again an' tell what ye can see of your +Aunt Kats, lad.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. Aye.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page188" name="page188"></a>(p. 188)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>shouting after him</i>]. Find where she's sittin', +lad—make certain of that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>running in breathless</i>]. They're throwin' +nuts on the fire—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Is she there?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. I'm thinkin' she is, but old Pally Hughes +was just throwin' a nut on the fire an'—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>impatiently</i>]. 'Tis no matter about Pally +Hughes whatever, but your Aunt Kats, did—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span>. There was only the light of the fire; I did +not see her, but I'll go again.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Watch for her nut an' see does it burn brightly.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Eilir Morris</span> [<i>going out</i>]. Aye.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>calling after</i>]. Mind, I'm wantin' to know +what she's doin'. [<i>He has scarcely spoken the last word when +a great commotion is heard: a door across the street being +slammed to violently, and the sound of running feet.</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> +<i>straightens up, his eyes in terror on the door, which</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine +Jones</span> <i>throws open and bursts through.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>holding out his arms</i>]. Catherine, is it really +ye! [<span class="smcap">Catherine</span>, <i>after a searching glance at him, draws herself +up.</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>draws himself up, too, and then stoops to +pick up some peat which he puts on the fire, and crosses over to +left and sits down on the settle near the chimney, without having +embraced her.</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine's</span> <i>face is flushed, her eyes wild +under the pretty white cap she wears, a black Welsh beaver +above it. She is dressed in a scarlet cloak, under this a tight +bodice and short, full skirt, bright stockings, and clogs with +brass tips. Her apron is of heavy linen, striped; over her breast +a kerchief is crossed, and from the elbows down to the wrist +are full white sleeves stiffly starched.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span>. Yiss, yiss, 'twas dull at Pally's—very dull. +My nut didn't burn very brightly, an'—an'—well, indeed, my +feet was wet, an' I feared takin' a cold.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Yiss, yiss, 'tis better for ye here, dearie. [<i>Then +there is silence between them.</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine</span> <i>still breathes heavily +from the running, and</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>shuffles his feet. While they +are both sitting there, unable to say a word, the door opens +without a sound, and</i> <span class="smcap">Eilir's</span> <i>curly head is thrust in. A guttural +exclamation from him makes them start and look towards +the door, but he closes it before they can see him.</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine</span> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page189" name="page189"></a>(p. 189)</span> <i>then takes off her beaver and looks at</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span>. <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> +<i>opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>desperately</i>]. Did ye have a fine time at Pally's?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span>. Aye, 'twas gay an' fine an'—an'—yiss, yiss, so +'twas an' so 'twasn't.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>his eyes seeking the clock</i>]. A quarter past +eleven, uch! Katy, do ye recall Pastor Evan's sermon, the one +he preached last New Year?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>also glancing at the clock</i>]. Sixteen minutes +after eleven—yiss—yiss—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>catching</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine's</span> <i>glance at the clock</i>]. +Well, Catherine, do—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span>. Yiss, yiss, I said I did whatever. 'Twas about +inheritin' the grace of life together.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Kats, dear, wasn't he sayin' that love is eternal, +an' that—a man—an'—an'—his wife was lovin' for—for—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>glancing at the clock and meeting</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour's</span> +<i>eyes just glancing away from the clock</i>]. Aye, lad, for ever-lastin' +life! Uch, what have I done?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>unheeding and doubling up as if from pain</i>]. +Half after eleven! Yiss, yiss, dear, didn't he say that the Lord +was mindful of us—of our difficulties, an' our temptations an' +our mistakes?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>tragically</i>]. Aye, an' our mistakes. Ow, ow, +ow, but a half hour's left!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. Do ye think, dearie, that if a man were to—to—uch!—be +unkind to his wife—an' was sorry an' his wife—his +wife dies, that he'd be—be—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>tenderly</i>]. Aye, I'm thinkin' so. An', lad +dear, do ye think if anythin' was to happen to ye to-night,—yiss, +<i>this</i> night,—that ye'd take any grudge against me away +with ye?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>stiffening</i>]. Happen to <i>me</i>, Catherine? [<span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> +<i>collapses, groaning.</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine</span> <i>goes to his side on the +settle.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>in an agonized voice</i>]. Uch, dearie, what is it, +what is it, what ails ye?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>slanting an eye at the clock</i>]. Nothin', nothin' +at all. Ow, the devil, 'tis twenty minutes before twelve whatever!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span>. Lad, lad, what is it?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page190" name="page190"></a>(p. 190)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. 'Tis nothin', nothin' at all—'tis—ow!—'tis just +a little pain across me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>her face whitening as she steals a look at the +clock and puts her arm around</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span>]. Vavasour, lad +dear, is that the wind in the chimney? Put your arm about +me an' hold fast.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>both hands across his stomach, his eyes on the +clock</i>]. Ow—ten minutes!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>shaking all over</i>]. Is that a step at the door?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>unheeding</i>].'Tis goin' to strike now in a +minute.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>her eyes in horror on the clock</i>]. Five minutes +before twelve!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>almost crying, his eyes fixed on the clock's face</i>]. +Uch, the toad, the serpent!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>her face in her hands</i>]. Dear God, he's goin' +now!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>covering his eyes</i>]. Uch, the devil! Uch, the +gates of hell! [<span class="smcap">Catherine</span> <i>cries out.</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span> <i>groans loudly. +The clock is striking: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, +Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve! The last loud clang +vibrates and subsides. Through a chink in her fingers</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine</span> +<i>is peering at</i> <span class="smcap">Vavasour</span>. <i>Through a similar chink his +agonized eyes are peering at her.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>gulping</i>]. Uch!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span>. The devil!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>putting out her hand to touch him</i>]. Lad, +dear! [<i>They embrace, they kiss, they dance madly about. +Then they do it all over again. While they are doing this,</i> +<span class="smcap">Eilir</span> <i>opens the door again and thrusts in his head. He stares +open-eyed, open-mouthed at them, and leans around the side of +the door to see what time it is, saying audibly "five minutes +past twelve," grunts his satisfaction, and closes the door.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>mad with joy</i>]. Kats, are ye here, really here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>surprised</i>]. Am <i>I</i> here? Tut, lad, are <i>ye</i> +here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>shrewdly</i>]. Yiss, that is are we <i>both</i> here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>perplexed</i>]. Did ye think I wasn't goin' to be?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>suppressed intelligent joy in his eyes</i>]. No—o, +not that, only I thought, I thought ye was goin' to—to—faint, +Kats. I thought ye looked like it, Kats.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page191" name="page191"></a>(p. 191)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>the happiness on her face vanishing, sinks on to +the nearest settle</i>]. Uch, I'm a bad, bad woman, aye, Vavasour +Jones, a <i>bad</i> woman!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>puzzled, yet lightly</i>]. Nay, Kats, nay!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>desperately and almost in tears</i>]. Ye cannot +believe what I must tell ye. Lad, a year ago this night I went +to the church porch, hopin', aye, prayin', ye'd be called, that I'd +see your spirit walkin'.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>starting and recovering himself</i>]. Catherine, ye +did that!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>plunging on with her confession</i>]. Aye, lad, I +did, I'd been so unhappy with the quarrelin' an' hard words. +I could think of nothin' but gettin' rid of them.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>in a tone of condemnation and standing over +her</i>]. That was bad, very bad indeed!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span>. An' then, lad, when I reached the church +corner an' saw your spirit was really there, <i>really</i> called, an' I +knew ye'd not live the year out, I was frightened, but uch! lad, +I was glad, I was indeed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>looking grave</i>]. Catherine, 'twas a terrible thing +to do!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>meekly</i>]. Yiss, I know it now, but I didn't +then. I was hard-hearted, an' I was weak with longin' to +escape from it all. An' when I ran home I was frightened, but +uch! lad, I was glad, too, an' now it hurts me so to think of +it. Can you no comfort me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>grudgingly, but not touching</i> <span class="smcap">Catherine's</span> <i>outstretched +hand</i>]. Aye, well, I could, but, Kats, 'twas such a +terrible thing to do!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span>. Yiss, yiss, ye'll never be able to forgive me, I'm +thinkin'. An' then when ye came in from the lodge, ye spoke +so pleasantly to me that I was troubled. An' now the year +through it has grown better an' better, an' I could think of +nothin' but lovin' ye, an' wishing' ye to live, an' knowin' I +was the cause of your bein' called. Uch, lad, <i>can</i> ye forgive +me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>slowly</i>]. Aye, I can, none of us is without sin; +but, Catherine, it was wrong, aye, aye, 'twas a wicked thing +for a woman to do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>still more meekly</i>]. An' then to-night, lad, I +was expectin' ye to go, knowin' ye couldn't live after twelve, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page192" name="page192"></a>(p. 192)</span> an' ye sittin' there so innocent an' mournful. An' when the +time came, I wanted to die myself. Uch!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>sitting down beside her and putting an arm +about her as he speaks in a superior tone of voice</i>]. No matter, +dearie, now. It <i>was</i> wrong in ye, but we're still here, an' it's +been a sweet year, yiss, better nor a honeymoon, an' all the +years after we'll make better nor this. There, there, Kats, +let's have a bit of a wassail to celebrate our Allhallows' honeymoon, +shall we?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>starting to fetch a bowl</i>]. Yiss, lad, 'twould +be fine, but, Vavasour, can ye forgive me, think, lad, for hopin', +aye, an' prayin' to see your spirit called, just wishin' that ye'd +not live the year out?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>with condescension</i>]. Kats, I can, an' I'm not +layin' it up against ye, though 'twas a wicked thing for ye to +do—for anyone to do. Now, darlin', fetch the bowl.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>starting for the bowl again but turning on +him</i>]. Vavasour, how does it happen that the callin' is set aside, +an' that ye're really here? Such a thing has not been in +Beddgelert in the memory of man.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Vavasour</span> [<i>with dignity</i>]. I'm not sayin' how it's happened, +Kats, but I'm thinkin' 'tis modern times whatever, an' things +have changed—aye, indeed, 'tis modern times.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Catherine</span> [<i>sighing contentedly</i>]. Good! 'Tis lucky 'tis +modern times whatever!</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page193" name="page193"></a>(p. 193)</span> RIDERS TO THE SEA<a id="footnotetag41" name="footnotetag41"></a><a href="#footnote41" title="Go to footnote 41"><span class="smaller">[41]</span></a><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE</span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page195" name="page195"></a>(p. 195)</span> "He was of a dark type of Irishman, though not black-haired. +Something in his air gave one the fancy that his face +was dark from gravity. Gravity filled the face and haunted +it, as though the man behind were forever listening to life's +case before passing judgment.... When someone spoke to +him he answered with grave Irish courtesy. When the talk +became general he was silent.... His manner was that of +a man too much interested in the life about him to wish to be +more than a spectator. His interest was in life, not in ideas." +In these words, John Masefield gives his first impressions of +John Millington Synge, whom he met at a friend's house, in +London, in January, 1903.</p> + +<p>Synge, born April 16, 1871, at Newton Little, near Dublin, +and dying in Dublin, March 24, 1909, belongs to that group +of "inheritors of unfulfilled renown" who died before the +prime of life was reached. He left six plays, notable the +<i>Riders to the Sea</i> and <i>Deirdre of the Sorrows</i>, that are among +the greatest in our language. He was delicate from the beginning, +and after some education in private schools in Dublin +and Bray, left school when about fourteen and studied with a +tutor. In 1892 he took his B.A. degree from Trinity College, +Dublin, whose rolls contain a number of names famous in English +literature. While at college, he studied music at the Royal +Irish Academy of Music, where he won a scholarship. His first +impulse was to make music his career, and he spent portions +of the next four years in Germany, France, and Italy studying +music and traveling. In May, 1898, he first went to the Aran +Islands, later to be the scene of <i>Riders to the Sea</i>. Thereafter +in Paris in 1899 he met Yeats, who advised him to go +back to the Aran Islands to renew his contact with the simple +folk there. For the next three years he divided his time between +Paris and Ireland. It was in 1904 that his play, <i>Riders to the +Sea</i>,<a id="footnotetag42" name="footnotetag42"></a><a href="#footnote42" title="Go to footnote 42"><span class="smaller">[42]</span></a> was first produced. He was at Dublin that same year +for the opening of the Abbey Theatre, of which he was one of +the advisers. Whenever the Irish Players visited England, he +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page196" name="page196"></a>(p. 196)</span> traveled with them. In 1909 came the operation that ended +his life.</p> + +<p>Synge's book, <i>The Aran Islands</i>, which is a record of his +various visits to these three islands lying about thirty miles off +the coast of County Galway, is full of material that throws +light on the setting and characterization of <i>Riders to the Sea</i>. +The central incident in this play was suggested to Synge while +he was sojourning on Inishmaan, the middle island of the Aran +group, by a tale that he heard of a man whose body had been +washed up on a distant coast, and who had been identified as +belonging to the Islands, because of his characteristic garments. +When on Inishmaan, Synge himself lived in just such a cottage +as that which is the background for the tragedy of Maurya's +sons. He wrote of this cottage, "The kitchen itself, where I +will spend most of my time, is full of beauty and distinction. +The red dresses of the women who cluster round the fire on +their stools give a glow of almost Eastern richness, and the +walls have been toned by the surf-smoke to a soft brown that +blends with the gray earth-color of the floor. Many sorts of +fishing-tackle, and the nets and oilskins of the men, are hung up +on the walls or among the open rafters." And the following +passage from his <i>Aran Islands</i> is an eloquent description of the +atmosphere there: "A week of smoking fog has passed over and +given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round +the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere +but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of +waves.</p> + +<p>"The slaty limestone has grown black with the water that +is dripping on it, and wherever I turn there is the same gray +obsession twining and wreathing itself among the narrow fields, +and the same wail from the wind that shrieks and whistles in +the loose rubble of the walls."</p> + +<p>Mr. Masefield, in his recollections of Synge, reports also the +following conversation between himself and the Irish playwright: +Synge saying, "They [the islanders] asked me to fiddle +to them so that they might dance," and Mr. Masefield asking, +"Do you play, then?" and Synge answering, "I fiddle a little. +I try to learn something different for them every time. The +last time I learned to do conjuring tricks. They'd get tired of +me if I didn't bring something new. I'm thinking of learning +the penny whistle before I go again."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page197" name="page197"></a>(p. 197)</span> A later visitor<a id="footnotetag43" name="footnotetag43"></a><a href="#footnote43" title="Go to footnote 43"><span class="smaller">[43]</span></a> to the Aran Islands, Miss B. N. Hedderman, +a district nurse, gives further evidences of the simplicity of +those people from whom the characters of <i>Riders to the Sea</i> +were drawn. She tells of a man who owned a house with two +comfortable rooms in it, one of which he leveled ruthlessly +because he had dreamed that it hindered the passage of the +"good people." The illustrations in her little book showing +cottage interiors and peasant costumes will be found useful by +groups who are planning to produce <i>Riders to the Sea</i>. But +the best guide to the costumes and social life of the West of +Ireland is J. B. Yeats.<a id="footnotetag44" name="footnotetag44"></a><a href="#footnote44" title="Go to footnote 44"><span class="smaller">[44]</span></a></p> + +<p>The <i>Drama Calendar</i> of December 13, 1920, offers the following +suggestion for a musical setting for the play: "The +attention of Little Theatre directors is called to a musical prelude +to Synge's <i>Riders to the Sea</i>, arranged by Henry F. +Gilbert from the Symphonic Prologue, which was played at the +Worcester Musical Festival this fall. This original arrangement +of the material is intended to build the mood which the +play sustains, and is simply orchestrated for seven instruments. +Every Little Theatre should be able to gather such an orchestra. +Here is an opportunity to give continuity to a program of one-acts; +music answers a question which is one of the hardest the +director has to solve: how a mood which is to be created and +sustained in the brief space of twenty minutes shall not be too +fleeting."</p> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page198" name="page198"></a>(p. 198)</span> RIDERS TO THE SEA<br> +<i>A PLAY IN ONE ACT</i><br> +<i>First performed at the Molesworth Hall, Dublin, +February 25, 1904.</i></h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Maurya</span>, <i>an old woman.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Bartley</span>, <i>her son.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Cathleen</span>, <i>her daughter.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Nora</span>, <i>a younger daughter.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Men and Women</span>.</li> +</ul> + + +<p><i>SCENE.</i>—<i>An Island off the West of Ireland.</i></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>Cottage kitchen, with nets, oil-skins, spinning wheel, some new +boards standing by the wall, etc.</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span>, <i>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.</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span>, <i>a young girl, puts her head +in at the door.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>in a low voice</i>]. Where is she?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. She's lying down, God help her, and may be +sleeping, if she's able. [<span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>comes in softly, and takes a +bundle from under her shawl.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>spinning the wheel rapidly</i>]. What is it you +have?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a shirt +and a plain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal. +[<span class="smcap">Cathleen</span> <i>stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and +leans out to listen.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. We're to find out if it's Michael's they are, some +time herself will be down looking by the sea.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page199" name="page199"></a>(p. 199)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. How would they be Michael's, Nora? How +would he go the length of that way to the far north?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. 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." [<i>The door +which</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>half closed is blown open by a gust of wind.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>looking out anxiously</i>]. Did you ask him would +he stop Bartley going this day with the horses to the Galway +fair?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. "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."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. 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. [<i>She goes over to the table with the +bundle.</i>] Shall I open it now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. Maybe she'd wake up on us, and come in before +we'd done. [<i>Coming to the table.</i>] It's a long time we'll +be, and the two of us crying.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>goes to the inner door and listens</i>]. She's moving +about on the bed. She'll be coming in a minute.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. 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. [<i>They put the ladder against the +gable of the chimney;</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span> <i>goes up a few steps and +hides the bundle in the turf-loft.</i> <span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>comes from the +inner room.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>looking up at</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span> <i>and speaking querulously.</i>] +Isn't it turf enough you have for this day and evening?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. There's a cake baking at the fire for a short +space [<i>throwing down the turf</i>] and Bartley will want it when +the tide turns if he goes to Connemara. [<span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>picks up the +turf and puts it round the pot-oven.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>sitting down on a stool at the fire</i>]. 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.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page200" name="page200"></a>(p. 200)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon +Simon and Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he +would go.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. Where is he itself?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. I hear someone passing the big stones.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>looking out</i>]. He's coming now, and he in a hurry.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>comes in and looks round the room. Speaking +sadly and quietly</i>]. Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, +was bought in Connemara?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>coming down</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>giving him a rope</i>]. Is that it, Bartley?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. You'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hanging +by the boards. [<span class="smcap">Bartley</span> <i>takes the rope.</i>] 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>beginning to work with the rope</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. 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. [<i>She looks round at the boards.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span>. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>working at the halter, to</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span>]. Let you +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page201" name="page201"></a>(p. 201)</span> 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. How would the like of her get a good price for +a pig?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. 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? [<span class="smcap">Bartley</span> +<i>lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and puts on a +newer one of the same flannel.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span>]. Is she coming to the pier?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>looking out</i>]. She's passing the green head and letting +fall her sails.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>getting his purse and tobacco</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl +over her head</i>]. Isn't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a +word from an old woman, and she holding him from the sea?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bartley</span> [<i>taking the halter</i>]. 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. [<i>He goes out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>crying out as he is in the door</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. 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? +[<span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aimlessly +without looking round.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>turning towards her</i>]. You're taking away the turf +from the cake.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page202" name="page202"></a>(p. 202)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>crying out</i>]. The Son of God forgive us, Nora, +we're after forgetting his bit of bread. [<i>She comes over to +the fire.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. And it's destroyed he'll be going till dark night, +and he after eating nothing since the sun went up.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>turning the cake out of the oven</i>]. 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 forever. [<span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>sways +herself on her stool.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in +a cloth; to</i> <span class="smcap">Maurya</span>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>taking the bread</i>]. Will I be in it as soon as +himself?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. If you go now quickly.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>standing up unsteadily</i>]. It's hard set I am to +walk.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>looking at her anxiously</i>]. Give her the stick, +Nora, or maybe she'll slip on the big stones.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. What stick?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. The stick Michael brought from Connemara.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>taking a stick</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>gives her</i>]. 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. [<i>She goes out +slowly.</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>goes over to the ladder.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd turn back quickly. +She's that sorry, God help her, you wouldn't know the thing +she'd do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. Is she gone round by the bush?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>looking out</i>]. She's gone now. Throw it down +quickly, for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it again.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>getting the bundle from the loft</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>taking the bundle</i>]. Did he say what way they +were found?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>coming down</i>]. "There were two men," says he, +"and they rowing round with poteen before the cocks crowed, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page203" name="page203"></a>(p. 203)</span> and the oar of one of them caught the body, and they passing +the black cliffs of the north."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>trying to open the bundle</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>giving her a knife</i>]. I've heard tell it was a long way +to Donegal.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>cutting the string</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. And what time would a man take, and he floating? +[<span class="smcap">Cathleen</span> <i>opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking. +They look at them eagerly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>in a low voice</i>]. The Lord spare us, Nora! +isn't it a queer hard thing to say if it's his they are surely?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. I'll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put +the one flannel on the other. [<i>She looks through some clothes +hanging in the corner.</i>] It's not with them, Cathleen, and +where will it be?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. I'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, +for his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it. [<i>Pointing +to the corner.</i>] There's a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. +Give me that and it will do. [<span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>brings it to her and they +compare the flannel.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>who has taken up the stocking and counted the +stitches, crying out</i>]. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>taking the stocking</i>]. It's a plain stocking.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. It's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and +I put up three score stitches, and I dropped four of them.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>counts the stitches</i>]. It's that number is in it. +[<i>Crying out.</i>] 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>swinging herself round, and throwing out her arms +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page204" name="page204"></a>(p. 204)</span> on the clothes</i>]. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>after an instant</i>]. Tell me is herself coming, +Nora? I hear a little sound on the path.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>looking out</i>]. She is, Cathleen. She's coming up to +the door.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>helping</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span> <i>to close the bundle</i>]. We'll put +them here in the corner. [<i>They put them into a hole in the +chimney corner.</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span> <i>goes back to the spinning-wheel.</i></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. Will she see it was crying I was?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. Keep your back to the door the way the light'll +not be on you. [<span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>sits down at the chimney corner, with +her back to the door.</i> <span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>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</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>points to the bundle of +bread.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>after spinning for a moment</i>]. You didn't give +him his bit of bread? [<span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>begins to keen softly, without +turning round.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. Did you see him riding down? [<span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>goes +on keening.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>a little impatiently</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>with a weak voice</i>]. My heart's broken from this +day.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>as before</i>]. Did you see Bartley?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. I seen the fearfulest thing.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>leaves her wheel and looks out</i>]. God forgive +you; he's riding the mare now over the green head, and the +gray pony behind him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head +and shows her white tossed hair. With a frightened voice</i>]. +The gray pony behind him.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page205" name="page205"></a>(p. 205)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>coming to the fire</i>]. What is it ails you, at all?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>speaking very slowly</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen and Nora</span>. Uah. [<i>They crouch down in front +of the old woman at the fire.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. Tell us what it is you seen.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. 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. +[<i>She puts up her hands, as if to hide something from her eyes.</i>] +The Son of God spare us, Nora!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. What is it you seen?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. I seen Michael himself.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>speaking softly</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>a little defiantly</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>begins to keen</i>]. It's destroyed we are from +this day. It's destroyed, surely.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. Didn't the young priest say the Almighty God +wouldn't leave her destitute with no son living?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>in a low voice, but clearly</i>]. 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. [<i>She pauses for a moment, the +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page206" name="page206"></a>(p. 206)</span> girls start as if they heard something through the door that is +half open behind them.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>in a whisper</i>]. Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did +you hear a noise in the north-east?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>in a whisper</i>]. There's someone after crying +out by the seashore.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>continues without hearing anything</i>]. 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. +[<i>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.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>half in a dream, to</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span>]. Is it Patch, or +Michael, or what is it at all?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. Michael is after being found in the far north, +and when he is found there how could he be here in this place?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span>. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. It's Michael, God spare him, for they're after +sending us a bit of his clothes from the far north. [<i>She reaches +out and hands</i> <span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>the clothes that belonged to</i> <span class="smcap">Michael</span>. +<span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>stands up slowly, and takes them in her hands.</i> +<span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>looks out.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span>. They're carrying a thing among them and there's +water dripping out of it and leaving a track by the big stones.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>in a whisper to the women who have come in</i>]. +Is it Bartley it is?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">One of the Women</span>. It is surely, God rest his soul. +[<i>Two younger women come in and pull out the table. Then +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page207" name="page207"></a>(p. 207)</span> men carry in the body of</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley</span>, <i>laid on a plank, with a bit +of a sail over it, and lay it on the table.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>to the women, as they are doing so</i>]. What +way was he drowned?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">One of the Women</span>. The gray pony knocked him into the +sea, and he was washed out where there is a great surf on the +white rocks. [<span class="smcap">Maurya</span> <i>has gone over and knelt down at the +head of the table. The women are keening softly and swaying +themselves with a slow movement.</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span> <i>kneel +at the other end of the table. The men kneel near the door.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>raising her head and speaking as if she did not +see the people around her</i>]. 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. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Nora</span>.] Give me the Holy +Water, Nora, there's a small sup still on the dresser. [<span class="smcap">Nora</span> +<i>gives it to her.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>drops</i> <span class="smcap">Michael's</span> <i>clothes across</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley's</span> <i>feet, +and sprinkles the Holy Water over him</i>]. 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'ld 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. [<i>She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying +prayers under her breath.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>to an old man</i>]. 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.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Old Man</span> [<i>looking at the boards</i>]. Are there nails +with them?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. There are not, Colum; we didn't think of the +nails.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page208" name="page208"></a>(p. 208)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Another Man</span>. It's a great wonder she wouldn't think of +the nails, and all the coffins she's seen made already.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span>. It's getting old she is, and broken. [<span class="smcap">Maurya</span> +<i>stands up again very slowly and spreads out the pieces of</i> +<span class="smcap">Michael's</span> <i>clothes beside the body, sprinkling them with the +last of the Holy Water.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Nora</span> [<i>in a whisper to</i> <span class="smcap">Cathleen</span>]. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Cathleen</span> [<i>slowly and clearly</i>]. 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?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>puts the empty cup mouth downwards on the +table, and lays her hands together on</i> <span class="smcap">Bartley's</span> <i>feet</i>]. 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 +[<i>bending her head</i>]; and may He have mercy on my soul, +Nora, and on the soul of everyone is left living in the world. +[<i>She pauses, and the keen rises a little more loudly from the +women, then sinks away.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Maurya</span> [<i>continuing</i>]. 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 forever, and we must be satisfied. [<i>She kneels +down again and the curtain falls slowly.</i>]</p> +</div> + + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page209" name="page209"></a>(p. 209)</span> A NIGHT AT AN INN<a id="footnotetag45" name="footnotetag45"></a><a href="#footnote45" title="Go to footnote 45"><span class="smaller">[45]</span></a><br> +<i>A PLAY IN ONE ACT</i><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +LORD DUNSANY</span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page211" name="page211"></a>(p. 211)</span> Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, eighteenth baron +Dunsany, was born in 1878, a lord of the British Empire, heir +to an ancient barony, created by Henry VI in the middle of +the fifteenth century. He went from Eton to Sandhurst, the +English military college, held a lieutenancy in a famous regiment, +the Coldstream Guards, saw active service in the South +African War and served in the Great War as an officer in the +Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. He turned aside from his career +as a soldier in 1906 to stand for West Wiltshire as the Conservative +candidate, but he was defeated. He writes enthusiastically +always of his interest in sport; he has gone to the ends +of the earth to shoot big game. His first book, <i>The Gods of +Pegana</i>, was published in 1905. He has since written sketches, +fantastic tales, and plays,<a id="footnotetag46" name="footnotetag46"></a><a href="#footnote46" title="Go to footnote 46"><span class="smaller">[46]</span></a> and latterly introductions to the +poems of Francis Ledwidge, the Irish peasant poet, who fell in +battle in 1917. Dunsany's early plays were put on at the +Abbey Theatre where Yeats produced <i>The Glittering Gate</i> in +1909.</p> + +<p>The initial American productions were also made in Little +Theatres, under the auspices of the Stage Society of Philadelphia +and at The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York, +where the first performance on any stage of <i>A Night at an Inn</i> +was given on April 22, 1916. It was an immediate success +and aroused great general interest in Dunsany's other +plays. It was remarked at the time that its scene on an English +moor was far from "his own Oriental Never Never +Land," and that it recalled in its substance <i>The Moonstone</i> by +Wilkie Collins and <i>The Mystery of Cloomber</i> by A. Conan +Doyle. Dunsany, unlike the other playwrights associated with +the Irish National Theatre, has borrowed the glamour of the +Orient rather than that of Celtic lore, to heighten his dramatic +effects. There is, in fact, much that is Biblical in his mood +and in his diction.</p> + +<p>When, at a later date, Lord Dunsany saw the production of +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page212" name="page212"></a>(p. 212)</span> <i>A Night at an Inn</i> at The Neighborhood Playhouse, the effect +of the play "exceeded his own expectations, and he was surprised +to note the thrill which it communicated to his audience. +'It's a very simple thing,' he said,—'merely a story of some +sailors who have stolen something and know that they are +followed. Possibly it is effective because nearly everybody, at +some time or other, has done something he was sorry for, has +been afraid of retribution, and has felt the hot breath of a pursuing +vengeance on the back of his neck.... <i>A Night at an +Inn</i> was written between tea and dinner in a single sitting. +That was very easy.'"<a id="footnotetag47" name="footnotetag47"></a><a href="#footnote47" title="Go to footnote 47"><span class="smaller">[47]</span></a></p> + +<p><i>A Night at an Inn</i> is one of Dunsany's contributions to the +revival of romance in our generation. In an article published +ten years ago, called <i>Romance and the Modern Stage</i>, he wrote: +"Romance is so inseparable from life that all we need, to +obtain romantic drama, is for the dramatist to find any age or +any country where life is not too thickly veiled and cloaked +with puzzles and conventions, in fact to find a people that is +not in the agonies of self-consciousness. For myself, I think +it is simpler to imagine such a people, as it saves the trouble +of reading to find a romantic age, or the trouble of making a +journey to lands where there is no press.... The kind of +drama that we most need to-day seems to me to be the kind +that will build new worlds for the fancy; for the spirit, as +much as the body, needs sometimes a change of scene."</p> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page213" name="page213"></a>(p. 213)</span> A NIGHT AT AN INN</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">A. E. Scott-Fortesque</span> (The Toff), <i>a dilapidated gentleman.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">William Jones</span> (Bill) <span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">}</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Albert Thomas</span> <span style="margin-left: 7em;">} <i>merchant sailors.</i></span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Jacob Smith</span> (Sniggers) <span style="margin-left: 4.3em;">}</span></li> +<li>First Priest of Klesh.</li> +<li>Second Priest of Klesh.</li> +<li>Third Priest of Klesh.</li> +<li>Klesh.</li> +</ul> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>The curtain rises on a room in an inn.</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Bill</span> +<i>are talking,</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>is reading a paper.</i> <span class="smcap">Albert</span> <i>sits a +little apart.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. What's his idea, I wonder?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. I don't know.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. And how much longer will he keep us here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. We've been here three days.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. And 'aven't seen a soul.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. And a pretty penny it cost us when he rented the pub.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. 'Ow long did 'e rent the pub for?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. You never know with him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. It's lonely enough.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. 'Ow long did you rent the pub for, Toffy? [<span class="smcap">The +Toff</span> <i>continues to read a sporting paper; he takes no notice of +what is said.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. 'E's <i>such</i> a toff.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Yet 'e's clever, no mistake.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Those clever ones are the beggars to make a +muddle. Their plans are clever enough, but they don't work, +and then they make a mess of things much worse than you +or me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Ah!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I don't like this place.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page214" name="page214"></a>(p. 214)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Why not?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I don't like the looks of it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. He's keeping us here because here those niggers can't +find us. The three heathen priests what was looking for us so. +But we want to go and sell our ruby soon.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. There's no sense in it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Why not, Albert?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Because I gave those black devils the slip in Hull.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. You give 'em the slip, Albert?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. The slip, all three of them. The fellows with the +gold spots on their foreheads. I had the ruby then and I give +them the slip in Hull.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. How did you do it, Albert?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. I had the ruby and they were following me....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Who told them you had the ruby? You didn't +show it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. No.... But they kind of know.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. They kind of know, Albert?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Yes, they know if you've got it. Well, they sort +of mouched after me, and I tells a policeman and he says, O, +they were only three poor niggers and they wouldn't hurt me. +Ugh! When I thought of what they did in Malta to poor +old Jim.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Yes, and to George in Bombay before we started.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Ugh!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Why didn't you give 'em in charge?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. What about the ruby, Bill?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Ah!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Well, I did better than that. I walks up and +down through Hull. I walks slow enough. And then I turns +a corner and I runs. I never sees a corner but I turns it. But +sometimes I let a corner pass just to fool them. I twists about +like a hare. Then I sits down and waits. No priests.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. What?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. No heathen black devils with gold spots on their +face. I give 'em the slip.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Well done, Albert!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span> [<i>after a sigh of content</i>]. Why didn't you tell us?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. 'Cause 'e won't let you speak. 'E's got 'is plans +and 'e thinks we're silly folk. Things must be done 'is way. +And all the time I've give 'em the slip. Might 'ave 'ad one +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page215" name="page215"></a>(p. 215)</span> o' them crooked knives in him before now but for me who give +'em the slip in Hull.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Well done, Albert! Do you hear that, Toffy? +Albert has give 'em the slip.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Yes, I hear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Well, what do you say to that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. O.... Well done, Albert!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. And what a' you going to do?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Going to wait.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Don't seem to know what 'e's waiting for.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. It's a nasty place.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. It's getting silly, Bill. Our money's gone and we +want to sell the ruby. Let's get on to a town.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. But 'e won't come.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Then we'll leave him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. We'll be all right if we keep away from Hull.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. We'll go to London.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. But 'e must 'ave 'is share.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. All right. Only let's go. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span>.] +We're going, do you hear? Give us the ruby.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Certainly. [<i>He gives them a ruby from his +waistcoat pocket; it is the size of a small hen's egg. He goes +on reading his paper.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Come on, Sniggers. [<i>Exeunt</i> <span class="smcap">Albert</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Sniggers</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Good-by, old man. We'll give you your fair share, +but there's nothing to do here—no girls, no halls, and we must +sell the ruby.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. I'm not a fool, Bill.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. No, no, of course not. Of course you ain't, and +you've helped us a lot. Good-by. You'll say good-by?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Oh, yes. Good-by. [<i>Still reads his paper. +Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Bill</span>. <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>puts a revolver on the table beside him +and goes on with his papers. After a moment the three men +come rushing in again, frightened.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span> [<i>out of breath</i>]. We've come back, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. So you have.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Toffy.... How did they get here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. They walked, of course.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. But it's eighty miles.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Did you know they were here, Toffy?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page216" name="page216"></a>(p. 216)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Expected them about now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Eighty miles!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Toffy, old man ... what are we to do?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Ask Albert.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. If they can do things like this, there's no one can save +us but you, Toffy.... I always knew you were a clever +one. We won't be fools any more. We'll obey you, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. You're brave enough and strong enough. There +isn't many that would steal a ruby eye out of an idol's head, +and such an idol as that was to look at, and on such a night. +You're brave enough, Bill. But you're all three of you fools. +Jim would have none of my plans, and where's Jim? And +George. What did they do to him?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Don't, Toffy!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Well, then, your strength is no use to you. +You want cleverness; or they'll have you the way they had +George and Jim.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">All</span>. Ugh!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Those black priests would follow you round +the world in circles. Year after year, till they got the idol's +eye. And if we died with it, they'd follow our grandchildren. +That fool thinks he can escape from men like that by running +round three streets in the town of Hull.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. God's truth, <i>you</i> 'aven't escaped them, because +they're <i>'ere</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. So I supposed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. You <i>supposed</i>!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Yes, I believe there's no announcement in the +Society papers. But I took this country seat especially to receive +them. There's plenty of room if you dig, it is pleasantly +situated, and, what is more important, it is in a very quiet +neighborhood. So I am at home to them this afternoon.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Well, <i>you're</i> a deep one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. And remember, you've only my wits between +you and death, and don't put your futile plans against those of +an educated gentleman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. If you're a gentleman, why don't you go about +among gentlemen instead of the likes of us?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Because I was too clever for them as I am too +clever for you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Too clever for them?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page217" name="page217"></a>(p. 217)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. I never lost a game of cards in my life.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. You never lost a game?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Not when there was money in it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Well, well!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Have a game of poker?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">All</span>. No, thanks.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Then do as you're told.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. All right, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I saw something just then. Hadn't we better +draw the curtains?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. No.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. What?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Don't draw the curtains.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. O, all right.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. But, Toffy, they can see us. One doesn't let the +enemy do that. I don't see why....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. No, of course you don't.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. O, all right, Toffy. [<i>All begin to pull out revolvers.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span> [<i>putting his own away</i>]. No revolvers, please.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Why not?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Because I don't want any noise at my party. +We might get guests that hadn't been invited. <i>Knives</i> are a +different matter. [<i>All draw knives.</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>signs to them +not to draw them yet.</i> <span class="smcap">Toffy</span> <i>has already taken back his +ruby.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. I think they're coming, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Not yet.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. When will they come?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. When I am quite ready to receive them. Not +before.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I should like to get this over.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Should you? Then we'll have them now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Yes. Listen to me. You shall do as you see +me do. You will all pretend to go out. I'll show you how. +I've got the ruby. When they see me alone they will come for +their idol's eye.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. How can they tell like this which of us has it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. I confess I don't know, but they seem to.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. What will you do when they come in?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. I shall do nothing.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page218" name="page218"></a>(p. 218)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. What?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. They will creep up behind me. Then, my +friends, Sniggers and Bill and Albert, who gave them the slip, +will do what they can.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. All right, Toffy. Trust us.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. If you're a little slow, you will see enacted the +cheerful spectacle that accompanied the demise of Jim.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Don't, Toffy. We'll be there, all right.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Very well. Now watch me. [<i>He goes past +the windows to the inner door R. He opens it inwards, then +under cover of the open door, he slips down on his knee and +closes it, remaining on the inside, appearing to have gone out. +He signs to the others, who understand. Then he appears to +re-enter in the same manner.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Now, I shall sit with my back to the door. +You go out one by one, so far as our friends can make out. +Crouch very low to be on the safe side. They mustn't see you +through the window. [<span class="smcap">Bill</span> <i>makes his sham exit.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Remember, no revolvers. The police are, I +believe, proverbially inquisitive. [<i>The other two follow</i> <span class="smcap">Bill</span>. +<i>All three are now crouching inside the door R.</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> +<i>puts the ruby beside him on the table. He lights a cigarette. +The door at the back opens so slowly that you can hardly say +at what moment it began.</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>picks up his paper. +A native of India wriggles along the floor ever so slowly, seeking +cover from chairs. He moves L. where</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>is. +The three sailors are R.</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Albert</span> <i>lean forward.</i> +<span class="smcap">Bill's</span> <i>arm keeps them back. An arm-chair had better conceal +them from the Indian. The black Priest nears</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span>. +<span class="smcap">Bill</span> <i>watches to see if any more are coming. Then he leaps +forward alone—he has taken his boots off—and knifes the +Priest. The Priest tries to shout but</i> <span class="smcap">Bill's</span> <i>left hand is over +his mouth.</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>continues to read his sporting paper. +He never looks around.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span> [<i>sotto voce</i>]. There's only one, Toffy. What shall +we do?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span> [<i>without turning his head</i>]. Only one?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Wait a moment. Let me think. [<i>Still apparently +absorbed in his paper.</i>] Ah, yes. You go back, Bill. +We must attract another guest.... Now, are you ready?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page219" name="page219"></a>(p. 219)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. All right. You shall now see my demise at my +Yorkshire residence. You must receive guests for me. [<i>He +leaps up in full view of the window, flings up both arms and +falls to the floor near the dead Priest.</i>] Now, be ready. [<i>His +eyes close. There is a long pause. Again the door opens, very, +very slowly. Another priest creeps in. He has three golden +spots upon his forehead. He looks round, then he creeps up to +his companion and turns him over and looks inside of his +clenched hands. Then he looks at the recumbent</i> <span class="smcap">Toff</span>. <i>Then +he creeps toward him.</i> <span class="smcap">Bill</span> <i>slips after him and knifes him like +the other with his left hand over his mouth.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span> [<i>sotto voce</i>]. We've only got two, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Still another.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. What'll we do?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span> [<i>sitting up</i>]. Hum.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. This is the best way, much.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Out of the question. Never play the same +game twice.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Why not, Toffy?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Doesn't work if you do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Well?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. I have it, Albert. You will now walk into +the room. I showed you how to do it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Just run over here and have a fight at this +window with these two men.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. But they're ...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Yes, they're dead, my perspicuous Albert. But +Bill and I are going to resuscitate them.... Come on. +[<span class="smcap">Bill</span> <i>picks up a body under the arms.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. That's right, Bill. [<i>Does the same.</i>] Come +and help us, Sniggers.... [<span class="smcap">Sniggers</span> <i>comes.</i>] Keep low, +keep low. Wave their arms about, Sniggers. Don't show +yourself. Now, Albert, over you go. Our Albert is slain. +Back you get, Bill. Back, Sniggers. Still, Albert. Mustn't +move when he comes. Not a muscle. [<i>A face appears at the +window and stays for some time. Then the door opens and, +looking craftily round, the third Priest enters. He looks at his +companions' bodies and turns round. He suspects something. +He takes up one of the knives and with a knife in each hand +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page220" name="page220"></a>(p. 220)</span> he puts his back to the wall. He looks to the left and +right.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Come on, Bill. [<i>The Priest rushes to the +door.</i> <span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>knifes the last Priest from behind.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. A good day's work, my friends.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Well done, Toffy. Oh, you are a deep one!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. A deep one if ever there was one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. There ain't any more, Bill, are there?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. No more in the world, my friend.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Aye, that's all there are. There were only three in +the temple. Three priests and their beastly idol.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. What is it worth, Toffy? Is it worth a thousand +pounds?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. It's worth all they've got in the shop. Worth +just whatever we like to ask for it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Then we're millionaires now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Yes, and, what is more important, we no longer +have any heirs.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. We'll have to sell it now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. That won't be easy. It's a pity it isn't small and +we had half a dozen. Hadn't the idol any other on him?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. No, he was green jade all over and only had this one +eye. He had it in the middle of his forehead and was a long +sight uglier than anything else in the world.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I'm sure we ought all to be very grateful to Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. And, indeed, we ought.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. If it hadn't been for him....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Yes, if it hadn't been for old Toffy....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. He's a deep one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Well, you see I just have a knack of foreseeing +things.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I should think you did.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Why, I don't suppose anything happens that our Toff +doesn't foresee. Does it, Toffy?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Well, I don't think it does, Bill. I don't think +it often does.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Life is no more than just a game of cards to our +old Toff.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Well, we've taken these fellows' trick.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span> [<i>going to window</i>]. It wouldn't do for anyone +to see them.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page221" name="page221"></a>(p. 221)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Oh, nobody will come this way. We're all +alone on a moor.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Where will we put them?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Bury them in the cellar, but there's no hurry.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. And what then, Toffy?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Why, then we'll go to London and upset the +ruby business. We have really come through this job very +nicely.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. I think the first thing that we ought to do is to give +a little supper to old Toffy. We'll bury these fellows to-night.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Yes, let's.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. The very thing!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. And we'll all drink his health.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Good old Toffy!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. He ought to have been a general or a premier. +[<i>They get bottles from cupboard, etc.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Well, we've earned our bit of a supper. [<i>They +sit down.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span> [<i>glass in hand</i>]. Here's to old Toffy, who guessed +everything!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span>. Good old Toffy!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Toffy, who saved our lives and made our fortunes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span>. Hear! Hear!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. And here's to Bill, who saved me twice to-night.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Couldn't have done it but for your cleverness, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Hear, hear! Hear! Hear!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. He foresees everything.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. A speech, Toffy. A speech from our general.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">All</span>. Yes, a speech.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. A speech.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Well, get me some water. This whisky's too +much for my head, and I must keep it clear till our friends +are safe in the cellar.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Water? Yes, of course. Get him some water, +Sniggers.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. We don't use water here. Where shall I get it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Outside in the garden. [<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Here's to future!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Here's to Albert Thomas, Esquire.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. And William Jones, Esquire. [<i>Re-enter</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span>, +<i>terrified.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page222" name="page222"></a>(p. 222)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Hullo, here's Jacob Smith, Esquire, J. P., alias +Sniggers, back again.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Toffy, I've been thinking about my share in that +ruby. I don't want it, Toffy; I don't want it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Nonsense, Sniggers. Nonsense.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. You shall have it, Toffy, you shall have it yourself, +only say Sniggers has no share in this 'ere ruby. Say it, +Toffy, say it!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Want to turn informer, Sniggers?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. No, no. Only I don't want the ruby, Toffy....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. No more nonsense, Sniggers. We're all in +together in this. If one hangs, we all hang; but they won't +outwit me. Besides, it's not a hanging affair, they had their +knives.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Toffy, Toffy, I always treated you fair, Toffy. +I was always one to say, Give Toffy a chance. Take back my +share, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. What's the matter? What are you driving at?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. Take it back, Toffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Answer me, what are you up to?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I don't want my share any more.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Have you seen the police? [<span class="smcap">Albert</span> <i>pulls out his +knife.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. No, no knives, Albert.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. What then?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. The honest truth in open court, barring the +ruby. We were attacked.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. There's no police.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Well, then, what's the matter?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Out with it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I swear to God....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Well?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. Don't interrupt.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I swear I saw something <i>what I didn't like</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. What you didn't like?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span> [<i>in tears</i>]. O Toffy, Toffy, take it back. Take +my share. Say you take it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. What has he seen? [<i>Dead silence, only broken +by</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers's</span> <i>sobs. Then steps are heard. Enter a hideous +idol. It is blind and gropes its way. It gropes its way to the +ruby and picks it up and screws it into a socket in the forehead.</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page223" name="page223"></a>(p. 223)</span> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span> <i>still weeps softly, the rest stare in horror. The idol +steps out, not groping. Its steps move off, then stop.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. O, great heavens!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span> [<i>in a childish, plaintive voice</i>]. What is it, Toffy?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Albert, it is that obscene idol [<i>in a whisper</i>] come +from India.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. It is gone.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. It has taken its eye.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. We are saved.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">A Voice Off</span> [<i>with outlandish accent</i>]. Meestaire William +Jones, Able Seaman. [<span class="smcap">The Toff</span> <i>has never spoken, never +moved. He only gazes stupidly in horror.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Bill</span>. Albert, Albert, what is this? [<i>He rises and walks +out. One moan is heard.</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers</span> <i>goes to the window. He +falls back sickly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span> [<i>in a whisper</i>]. What has happened?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I have seen it. I have seen it. O, I have seen +it! [<i>He returns to table.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span> [<i>laying his hand very gently on</i> <span class="smcap">Sniggers's</span> <i>arm, +speaking softly and winningly.</i>] What was it, Sniggers?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I have seen it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. What?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. O!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Voice</span>. Meestaire Albert Thomas, Able Seaman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span>. Must I go, Toffy? Toffy, must I go?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span> [<i>clutching him</i>]. Don't move.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Albert</span> [<i>going</i>]. Toffy, Toffy. [<i>Exit.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Voice</span>. Meestaire Jacob Smith, Able Seaman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sniggers</span>. I can't go, Toffy. I can't go. I can't do it. +[<i>He goes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Voice</span>. Meestaire Arnold Everett Scott-Fortescue, late Esquire, +Able Seaman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Toff</span>. I did not foresee it. [<i>Exit.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page225" name="page225"></a>(p. 225)</span> THE TWILIGHT SAINT<a id="footnotetag48" name="footnotetag48"></a><a href="#footnote48" title="Go to footnote 48"><span class="smaller">[48]</span></a><br> +<span class="smaller">By +STARK YOUNG</span></h1> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page226" name="page226"></a>(p. 226)</span> Stark Young, dramatist and critic, the author of <i>The Twilight +Saint</i>, was born in Como, Mississippi, on October 11, +1881. He was graduated from the university of his native +state and a year later took his master's degree at Columbia +University. From 1907 to 1915 he taught at the University +of Texas, and from 1915 to 1921 he was professor of English +at Amherst College. His travels have taken him to Greece, +and to Spain, and to Italy where he has lingered, making a +special study of the native drama.</p> + +<p>The text of <i>The Twilight Saint</i> has undergone revision by +the author since its first appearance. It was acted in 1918 with +<i>Madretta</i>, another of the author's plays, at the dramatic school +of the Carnegie Institute of Technology in Pittsburgh, under +the direction of Thomas Wood Stevens. The author writes: +"The only instruction I should like to propose is that the +actor of St. Francis keep him very simple, not get him moralizing +and long-faced. In Egan's book on St. Francis<a id="footnotetag49" name="footnotetag49"></a><a href="#footnote49" title="Go to footnote 49"><span class="smaller">[49]</span></a> there is +a picture of the preaching to the birds in which Boutet de +Monvel shows a Tuscan type that is my idea of the man simplified." +The play itself suggests charming by-ways of literature +that lead in one direction perhaps to Hewlett's <i>Earthwork +Out of Tuscany</i> and Josephine Preston Peabody's <i>The Wolf +of Gubbio</i>, and in another possibly to the Saint's own <i>Little +Flowers</i>, and <i>Canticle to the Sun</i>.</p> + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page227" name="page227"></a>(p. 227)</span> THE TWILIGHT SAINT</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Guido</span>, <i>the husband, a young poet.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Lisetta</span>, <i>his wife.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Pia</span>, <i>a neighbor woman.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">St. Francis of Assisi</span>.</li> +</ul> + + +<p class="center"><i>In the year 1215 A.D.</i> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>A room in</i> <span class="smcap">Guido's</span> <i>house, on a hillside near Bevagna. It is a +poor apartment, clumsily kept. On your left near the +front is a bed; on the floor by the bed lie scattered pages +of manuscript. A table littered with manuscripts and +crockery stands against the back wall of the room to the +right. On the right hand wall is a big fireplace with copper +vessels and brass. A bench sits by the fireplace and +several stools about the room. On the stone flags two +sheepskins are spread.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>Through the open door in the middle of the back wall rises the +slope of a hill, green with spring and starred with flowers. +A stream is visible through the grass and the drowsy sound +of the water fills the air. The late yellow sunlight falls +through a window over the bed like gilding and floods +the hill without.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><span class="smcap">Lisetta</span> <i>lies on the bed, still, her eyes closed.</i> <span class="smcap">Pia</span> <i>sits on the +ingle bench, halfway in the great fireplace, shelling peas. +She is a little peasant woman with a kerchief on her head +and a wrinkled face as brown as a nut.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><span class="smcap">Guido</span> <i>sits at the table, his face to the wall, his chin on his palm.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Guido, Guido, thou hast not spoke this hour,<br> +Nor read one word nor written aught. Dear Lord,<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page228" name="page228"></a>(p. 228)</span> The lion on the palace at Assisi<br> +Sits not more still in stone! Guido, look thou!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span> [<i>turning round without looking at her</i>].<br> +Yes, old Pia, good neighbor.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Yes, old Pia! Guido, grieve not so much,<br> +Lisetta will be well before the spring<br> +Comes round again.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Yes, Lisetta will be well perhaps. God grant!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Well, what then?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +'Tis not only of her I think, Pia, here am I<br> +Shut in this house from month to month a nurse;<br> +Here lies she sick, this child, and may not stir;<br> +And I, lacking due means to hire, must serve<br> +The house; while my best self, my soul, my art,<br> +Rust. My soul is scorched with holy thirst,<br> +My temples throb, my veins run fire; but yet,<br> +For all my dim distress and vague desire,<br> +No word, no single song, no verse, has come—<br> +O Blessed God!—stifled with creature needs,<br> +And with necessity about my throat!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Thy corner is too hot, the glaring sun<br> +Is yet on the wall.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +'Tis not that sun that maddens me, O Pia!<br> +Can you not see me shrunk? Have you not heard<br> +That other Guido of Perugia<br> +How he is grown? How lately at the feast<br> +That Ugolino, the great cardinal,<br> +Spread at Assisi Easter night, Guido<br> +Read certain of his verses and declaimed<br> +Pages of cursed sonnets to the guests.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Young Guido of Perugia, thy friend?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Yea. And when he ended, came the Duke<br> +Down from the dais to kiss that Guido's hand<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page229" name="page229"></a>(p. 229)</span> Humbly, and said that poesy was king.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Madonna, kissed by the Duke!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +And I, O God, I might have honor too<br> +Could I but break this prison where I drudge!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Speak low, her sleep is light. Her road is hard<br> +As well as thine. For all this year, since thou<br> +Didst bring her to Rieto here to us,<br> +Hath she lain on her bed, broken with pain,<br> +This child that is thy wife and loveth thee.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Aye, yes, 'tis true, she loveth me, she loveth me,<br> +And I love her. 'Tis worse—add grief to care,<br> +And Poesy fares worse.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +And she is grown most pale and still of late.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Look, Pia, how she lieth there like death,<br> +That far-off patience on her face. Now, now,<br> +Surely I needs must make a song! And yet<br> +I may not; ashes and floor-sweeping clog<br> +My soul within me!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Nay, let thy dreams pass. Look thou, how pale!<br> +Dear Lord, how blue her little veins do shine!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Thou art most kind, good neighbor, to come here<br> +Helping our house. And it is very strange<br> +That when we are so kind we cannot know<br> +The heart also. For in my soul I hear<br> +A bell summoning me always—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +If I should stew in milk the peas, maybe—<br> +Do you think the child would eat it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +For thy world is not my world, kind old friend.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Why do you not walk, Guido, for a while,<br> +I have an hour yet.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page230" name="page230"></a>(p. 230)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Then I will go, Pia. But not for long,<br> +I will come back soon enough to my chores, be sure;<br> +Mine is a short tether.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>He goes out.</i> <span class="smcap">Lisetta</span> <i>on the bed opens her eyes.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Yes, dear child.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia, turn my pillow, I am stifled.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +There! Thou hast slept well?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +I have not slept.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Holy Virgin, thou hast not slept!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia, think you I did not know? This month<br> +I scarce have slept for thinking on his lot.<br> +I read his fighting soul. Where are his songs,<br> +The great renown that waited him? Down, down,<br> +Struck by the self-same hand that shattered me.<br> +I listen night on night and hear him moan<br> +In his sleep—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +It is his love for thee, Lisetta.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +The padre from the village hemmed and said<br> +That God had sent me and my sickness here<br> +For Guido's cross to bear, his scourge. They thought<br> +I slept—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Thou hast dreamed this, he loveth thee, Lisetta.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Yea, loveth me somewhat but glory more.<br> +And I would have it so. O Mother of God,<br> +When wilt thou send me death? O Blessed Mother,<br> +I have lain so still!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Beware, Lisetta, tempt not God!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page231" name="page231"></a>(p. 231)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Death is the sister of all them that weep, Pia.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Child, child, try thou to sleep.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +For thy sake will I try.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Aye, sleep now. I will smooth thy bed.</p> +<p><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Pia</span> <i>begins to draw up the covers smooth. She stops suddenly +to listen.</i>]</span><br> +Hist!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +What, good Pia?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Footsteps. Look, it is a monk.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Francis of Assisi</span> <i>comes to the door.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +I have not eaten food this day. Hast thou<br> +Somewhat that I may eat?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Alas, poor brother, sit thee here; there's bread<br> +And cheese and lentils, eat thy store. Poor 'tis,<br> +But given in His name.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +I will eat then and bless thee.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +He taketh but a crust!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +It is enough. He that hath eaten long<br> +The bread of the heart hath little hunger in him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Sit thou and rest, poor soul.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +Nay, I must go on. My daughter, child,<br> +Thou sleepest not for all thy lowered lids.<br> +Tears quiver on thy lashes, hast thou pain?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +The tears of women even in dreams may fall,<br> +Good brother. Wilt thou not bide?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +I must fare on.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page232" name="page232"></a>(p. 232)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Aye, aye, the world lies open to thy hand,<br> +But unto me this twelvemonth is a death.<br> +The flesh is dead, and dying lies my soul,<br> +Shrunk like a flower in my fevered hand.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span> [<i>he goes over and stands beside the bed</i>].<br> +My dear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +I may not see the stars rise on the hills,<br> +Nor tend the flocks at even, nor rise to do<br> +Aught of the small sweet round of duties owed<br> +To him I love; but lie a burden to him,<br> +Calling on death who heareth not.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +My life hath given me words for thee to hear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Surely thy life is peace.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +There is a life larger than life, that dwells<br> +Invisible from all; whose lack alone<br> +Is death. There in thy soul the stars may rise,<br> +And at the even the gentle thoughts return<br> +To flock the quiet pastures of the mind;<br> +And in the large heart love is all thou owest<br> +For service unto God and thy Beloved.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Little Brother!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Francis</span>.<br> +May you have God's peace, dear friends. Farewell.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>He goes out.</i> <span class="smcap">Pia</span> <i>stands a moment wiping her eyes, then +returns to shelling the peas. There is a silence for a while.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Why dost thou look so long upon the door?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia, the spring smiles on the tender grass,<br> +Surely the sun is brighter where he stood.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +'Tis a glaring sun for twilight.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia, 'twill be the gentlest of all eves.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page233" name="page233"></a>(p. 233)</span> Surely God sent the brother for my need,<br> +To give His peace.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Aye, and my old heart ripens at his words<br> +Like apples in the sun. 'Tis a sweet monk.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Who is he, think you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +One of the Little Poor Men, by his brown.<br> +They are too thin, these brothers, and do lack<br> +Stomach for life. [<i>She returns to the peas.</i>] Mark, oh, 'tis merry now<br> +To see the little beggars from their pods<br> +Popping like schoolboys from their shoes in spring!<br> +The season hath been so fine and dry this year<br> +My peas are smaller and must have more work.<br> +Well, well, labor is good, and things made scarce<br> +Are better loved.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia, thou art a good woman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Child, do not make me cry. 'Tis thy pure heart<br> +Deceives thee. Stubborn I am and full of sloth,<br> +And a wicked old thing.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +I would not grieve thee. Pia, 'twas my love<br> +That sees thy goodness better than thyself.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span> [<i>hanging the kettle of peas over the coals</i>].<br> +Lisetta, I see the sky at the chimney top.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Pia</span> <i>begins to sing in her sweet, old, cracked voice, as she +stirs the pot</i>:]</span></p> + +<p class="poem20" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"> +<i>Firefly, firefly, come from the shadows,<br> +Twilight is falling over the meadows,<br> +Burn, little garden lamps, flicker and shimmer,<br> +Shine, little meadow stars, twinkle and glimmer.<br> +Firefly, firefly, shine, shine!</i></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Yes.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page234" name="page234"></a>(p. 234)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia, come near me here. [<span class="smcap">Pia</span> <i>kneels by the bed.</i>] Can you not see<br> +How much I love? If I could only speak<br> +To him or he to me, Guido, my love!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Surely he is beside thee often.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +His hand is near, but not his heart.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Nay, child, 'tis Guido's way. He speaks but little.<br> +When I speak to him look what he says,<br> +"Yes, good Pia," 'tis not much.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Aye, tell me not. On winter nights I lay<br> +Hearing the tree limbs rattle there like hail,<br> +And from the corner eaves the dropping rain<br> +Like big dogs lapping all about—and he<br> +Spoke not to me. He sat beside his taper<br> +But never a line wrote down. Once I had words,<br> +Bright dreams, that shone through him, the same fire shone<br> +Through both, his songs were mine!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Yes, thine—rest thee, rest thee!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +But more his, Pia, more his!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Aye, his. Wilt thou not eat the broth?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Not now, good Pia, 'tis not for food I die.<br> +'Tis not for food.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Yet thou must eat.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Wilt thou not read one song of these to me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +Close then thine eyes and rest.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Lisetta</span> <i>closes her eyes. A shepherd's pipe far-off and faint +begins to play; from this on to the end of the play you +can hear the shepherd's pipe.</i> <span class="smcap">Pia</span> <i>takes up at random a +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page235" name="page235"></a>(p. 235)</span> sheet of the manuscripts. She sighs a great sigh, and begins +to mimic</i> <span class="smcap">Lisetta's</span> <i>voice.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="center smcap">The Ballad of the Running Water</p> + +<p class="poem30"> +O music locked amid the stones,<br> +Beside the—amid the—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Read on—and thou hast told me day by day<br> +Thou couldst not read.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span>.<br> +I read from hearing thee from day to day<br> +Repeat the verses.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Fie! Give them to me here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>She takes the paper and holds it in her hands on her breast, +and reads without looking at it.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="poem30"><i>O music locked amid the stones,<br> +My love hath spoken like to thee,</i></p> + +<p>Pia, think you—Pia, do you not hear<br> +The mowers and the reapers in the fields<br> +Singing the evening song, and the twilight pipes?<br> +The twilight is the hour when hearts break!<br> +How many lonely twilights will there be<br> +Ere God will spare me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Pia</span> [<i>kneeling</i>].<br> +Hush, child, hush, darling!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Lisetta</span> <i>turns her face to the window by the bed.</i> <span class="smcap">Pia</span> +<i>strokes her hand and sings softly:</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="poem30"><i>Firefly, firefly, come from the shadows—</i><7p> + +<p>There!—he is coming now, I hear his steps<br> +Upon the gravel road. Good-night, sweet child,<br> +I'll get me home.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Pia, good-night once more.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Pia</span> <i>slips away.</i> <span class="smcap">Guido</span> <i>enters softly. The twilight is gone +and the moon falls through the window over the bed. +The hill outside is bright with moonlight.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span> [<i>softly</i>].<br> +Asleep, Lisetta?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Guido! Ah, I have need of naught, Guido.<br> +Thou needst not leave yet the pleasant air.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page236" name="page236"></a>(p. 236)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Lisetta, my love, I have been long from thee.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Let not that trouble thee, my needs are few,<br> +And Pia is most kind.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +So little I may do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Thou hast already served to weariness.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>He kneels beside her bed.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +My love, I have been long from thee, but now<br> +I will not leave thee any more. Oh, God,<br> +Let these kisses tell my heart to her.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Guido, my love, perhaps I dream of thee!<br> +Perhaps God sends a dream to solace me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Along the stream I went and where it crossed<br> +Bevagna road—where the chestnut grows, thou knowest—<br> +Lisetta, I saw him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Yes, yes, I know, whom sawest thou?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +The brother, Francis of Assisi.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Guido, sawest thou him?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Aye, him. There had he stopped to rest, being spent;<br> +And round him came the birds, beating their wings<br> +Upon his cloak and lighting on his arm.<br> +I saw him smile on them and heard him speak!<br> +"My brother birds, little brothers, ye should love God<br> +Who gave you your wings and your bright songs and spread<br> +The soft air for you." He stroked their necks<br> +And blessed them. And then I saw his eyes.<br> +"Father," I cried, "speak thou to me, I faint<br> +Beside my way!"</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Aye, and he said? Guido, what said he?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page237" name="page237"></a>(p. 237)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +"Thou art as one that lieth at the gate<br> +Of Paradise and entereth not. For God<br> +Hath given thee thy soul for its own life,<br> +And not for glory among men."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Guido!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Lisetta, from his kind eyes I drank, and knew<br> +How God had magnified my soul through him,<br> +And sent me peace. And I returned to thee;<br> +For here in thee have I my glory.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Guido, the old spring comes back again. And now<br> +I may speak. Guido, look through my window vines there<br> +Where the stars rise. O Love, I have not slept<br> +For lacking thee. And often have I seen<br> +The moonlight lie like sleep upon the hill,<br> +And in the garden of the sky the moon<br> +Drift like a blown rose, Guido, and yet<br> +I might not speak.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +Thou art my saint and shrine!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Lisetta</span>.<br> +Now shall my dream become thy song again,<br> +And the long twilight be more sweet, Guido!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Guido</span>.<br> +I pray thee rest thee now and sleep. Good-night.<br> +My full heart breaks in song; and I will sit<br> +Hearing the blessed saints within my soul,<br> +And will not stir from thee lest thou shouldst wake<br> +When I might not be near to serve thy need.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>The shepherd pipe far-off and faint is heard playing.</i>]</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page239" name="page239"></a>(p. 239)</span> THE MASQUE OF THE TWO +STRANGERS<a id="footnotetag50" name="footnotetag50"></a><a href="#footnote50" title="Go to footnote 50"><span class="smaller">[50]</span></a><br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +LADY ALIX EGERTON</span></h1> + +<a id="img010" name="img010"></a> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/img010.jpg" width="400" height="631" alt="" title=""> +<p>Costumes for <i>The Masque of the Two Strangers</i> +designed at the Washington Irving High School.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page241" name="page241"></a>(p. 241)</span> Between the Lady Alice Egerton, who acted in the masque +of <i>Comus</i>, which Milton composed for presentation before +John, earl of Bridgewater, then President of Wales, and the +Lady Alix Egerton, author of <i>The Masque of the Two +Strangers</i>, lie three hundred years; but throughout these centuries +the descendants of the first earl of Bridgewater have +cherished consistently the great traditions of English literature. +The family has owned for many generations the Ellesmere +Chaucer and the Bridgewater manuscript of <i>Comus</i>, both of +which have recently been edited by the twentieth century Lady +Alix Egerton.</p> + +<p>Her <i>The Masque of the Two Strangers</i> here reprinted was +given at the Washington Irving High School in March, 1921. +The designs for the costumes used in this production are here +illustrated. The following notes will help the reader to reconstruct +the costumes from the pictures:</p> + +<ul class="none"> +<li>I. <i>The Princess</i></li> + <li class="add2em">White soft material.</li> + <li class="add2em">Spangled trimming.</li> + <li class="add2em">Mantle of blue.</li> + <li class="add2em">Veil of blue net.</li> + <li class="add2em">Hennin (head dress) in silver.</li> +<li>II. <i>Hope</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Glass ball.</li> + <li class="add2em">Lavender under slip.</li> + <li class="add2em">Veil of rose pink.</li> +<li>III. <i>Joy</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Draping of orange yellow.</li> + <li class="add2em">Flowers of various colors.</li> + <li class="add2em">Vermilion scarf.</li> +<li>IV. <i>Love</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Long, full cape of deep purple; cowl falling back.</li> + <li class="add2em">Cerise costume.</li> + <li class="add2em">Silver surcoat and helmet.</li> +<li>V. <i>Laughter</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Yellow and black.</li> + <li class="add2em">Trimming of bells.</li> +<li>VI. <i>Poetry</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Light green with silver; paper design on border.</li> +<li><span class="pagenum"><a id="page242" name="page242"></a>(p. 242)</span> +VII. <i>Song</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Robe dyed in rainbow hues.</li> + <li class="add2em">Silver wings.</li> +<li>VIII. <i>Dance</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Vermilion.</li> +<li>IX. <i>Power</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Bright blue.</li> + <li class="add2em">Gems.</li> + <li class="add2em">Gilt headpiece jeweled.</li> + <li class="add2em">Mantle and sash of purple.</li> +<li>X. <i>Fame</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Robe of deep green.</li> + <li class="add2em">Gold border.</li> + <li class="add2em">Laurel leaves on gold crown.</li> +<li>XI. <i>Riches</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Knight's close-fitting short coat of henna.</li> + <li class="add2em">(Flannel dyed to represent felt or leather.)</li> + <li class="add2em">Gold lacings; gold paper design on coat; gold and henna helmet.</li> +<li>XII. <i>Service</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Soft yellow shaded to brown at bottom of skirt and sleeves.</li> + <li class="add2em">Front panel of dark green forming part of head drapery.</li> +<li>XIII. <i>Sorrow</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Gray.</li> +<li>XIV. <i>Herald</i></li> + <li class="add2em">Dark red and gold.</li> +</ul> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page243" name="page243"></a>(p. 243)</span> <i>PROLOGUE</i></h2> + +<p class="center">[<i>Enter a</i> <span class="smcap">Jester</span>.]</p> + +<p>Good people, of your gentle courtesy,<br> +I pray your patience, now, and list to me.<br> +Before you I will here present to-day<br> +A story told in the medieval way.<br> +Now sad—now merry—here and there a song,<br> +While through it all a meaning runs along.<br> +On this side is the Court of Youth where dwells<br> +A Princess who is held by magic spells.<br> +On that is the vast Otherworld from whence<br> +The great Immortals come for her defense.<br> +Betwixt the greater and the lesser Power,<br> +That duel that goes on from hour to hour<br> +Throughout the ages, I would have you see<br> +Depicted in this passing phantasy.</p> + +<p class="right10">[<i>Music of Masque begins.</i>]</p> + +<p>The players come and I had best away;<br> +I'll come back afterwards and end my say.</p> + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page244" name="page244"></a>(p. 244)</span> THE MASQUE OF THE TWO +STRANGERS<a id="footnotetag51" name="footnotetag51"></a><a href="#footnote51" title="Go to footnote 51"><span class="smaller">[51]</span></a></h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">Joy</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Laughter</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Song</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Dance</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Service</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Poetry</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Hope</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Joy</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Princess Douce-Cœur</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Sorrow</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Fame</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Riches</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Power</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Love</span>.</li> +</ul> + + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><span class="smcap">Joy</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Laughter</span> <i>run in laughing, chase each other round +the stage and pelt each other with flowers.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Laughter</span> [<i>flinging herself on the ground, breathless</i>].<br> +Ah, it is good to run and laugh again.<br> +I am so weary of these somber days.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Joy</span>.<br> +And I of sitting silent in the house.<br> +We used before to have such merry games,<br> +Now Douce-cœur will not even smile.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Laughter</span> [<i>mysteriously</i>].<br> +She says that she will never laugh again.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Joy</span>.<br> +And when I called to her to come and play<br> +At hide-and-seek down in the rose-garden,<br> +She said her playing days were over now.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Laughter</span>.<br> +It seems so strange. Only a while ago<br> +We played at ball across the laurel hedge,<br> +And when the ball fell in the fountain-court<br> +And rolled into the water, floating out<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page245" name="page245"></a>(p. 245)</span> To where the lilies lay half closed in sleep,<br> +'Twas she who went in barefoot, with her dress<br> +Kilted above her knees, and laughed to feel<br> +The flicking of the golden fishes' tails.<br> +She said her pink toes looked like coral shells,<br> +And splashed the water just to see it shine<br> +Like diamonds in the sun upon my hair.<br> +A while ago she was a child with us.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Joy</span> [<i>sighs</i>].<br> +Laughter, I like not living at the Court. [<i>Starting.</i>]<br> +Someone is coming.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>They run and hide behind a seat.</i> <span class="smcap">Song</span> <i>enters, humming +to herself and twisting flowers into a garland.</i> <span class="smcap">Joy</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Laughter</span> <i>spring out upon her and catch hold of her +hands one on each side.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Laughter</span>. Why, 'tis only Song.<br> +For three days now we have not heard thy voice.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Song</span>.<br> +No, Douce-cœur says life is too sad for songs.<br> +Yet music is a gift of the high gods<br> +And like the birds I sing or I must die.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Joy</span> [<i>coaxingly</i>].<br> +Sing us a ballad while we are alone.<br> +Old Service is asleep beside the well<br> +And will not hear thee.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Song</span> [<i>sitting on the seat</i>].<br> +Well, what shall I sing?<br> +How would you like "All on an April Day?"</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Joy</span> [<i>clapping her hands</i>].<br> +About the knight who rode to Amiens Town?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Laughter</span>.<br> +Then will we sing the refrain, Joy and I.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em"><span class="smcap">Song</span> [<i>begins very softly, and, forgetting, sings louder to +the end</i>].</span></p> + +<div class="poem20" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"> +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>A lover rode to Amiens town<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day);</span><br> +He looked not up, he looked not down<br> +But fixed his gaze on Amiens town<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page246" name="page246"></a>(p. 246)</span> +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>The cuckoo sang above his head<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day);</span><br> +The blossoming trees were white and red,<br> +Yet still he never turned his head<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>The dappled grass with daisies strewn<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day)</span><br> +Was trodden by his horse's shoon;<br> +He heeded not those daisies strewn<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>He wore a ragged surcoat green<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day)</span><br> +But no device thereon was seen.<br> +Nor blazon on that surcoat green<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>He rode in by the Eastern Gate<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day);</span><br> +Though poor and mean was his estate<br> +Kings have gone through that Eastern Gate<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>He stood by the Cathedral door<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day)</span><br> +And watched of ladies fair a score<br> +Pass in through the Cathedral door<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>A knot of ribbon at his feet<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day)</span><br> +And one swift smile, such radiance sweet<br> +Fell with the ribbon at his feet<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>He hid the token in his breast<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day)</span><br> +Yet to his lips full oft he prest<br> +The ribbon hidden in his breast<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>A lover rode to Amiens town<br> +<span class="add5em">(All on an April day),</span><br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page247" name="page247"></a>(p. 247)</span> A beggar wore a starry crown<br> +And a King rode out of Amiens town<br> +<span class="add5em">(Sing hey!—the Lover's Way).</span></i></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="min1em" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em">[<i>After the 4th verse enter</i> <span class="smcap">Dance</span>, <i>who dances through the +remaining verses.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Service</span> <i>hurriedly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Service</span>. How now, what noise is this? Thou knowest, +Song, thy voice may not be heard at all, and ye children too, +ye will get sent away. Sure, that ye will. Here am I sent +packing off to seek for the Wise Woman Poetry. The heralds +too are up and down the land with proclamations. Go in, go +in; Douce-cœur is wandering with the Gray Stranger in the +garden, and when she comes, may want your company.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Poetry</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +I am the mouthpiece of the Eternal Gods,<br> +And in my voice, that down the ages rings,<br> +Men hear the ceaseless heart-beats of the world.<br> +Without me all that has been would have died<br> +And lain forgotten in a silent grave.<br> +The present echoes what I once have sung,<br> +The future holds the secrets I have read.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Service</span>. Hail, and well met! I was but starting forth to +seek thee. Thou who hast the wisdom of all time mayst help +us in our hour of need; an evil spell has been cast about the +Princess, and how it is to be broken, none of us know.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +Good Service, tell me all; for I presume,<br> +Despite the tender care which through her life<br> +Has shielded Douce-cœur like a ring of steel,<br> +That to her side some foe has won his way<br> +And dimmed the peaceful mirror of her soul.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Service</span>. Yea, truly, one evening as the sun was setting a +woman clad in long gray robes entered the Palace gates and +meeting the Princess on the terrace walk led her down among +the cypresses. They sat long together in the twilight and ever +since Douce-cœur is changed. No smile curves her lips, the +sunlight is gone from her face, and she goes always with veiled +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page248" name="page248"></a>(p. 248)</span> head, and sad unseeing eyes. I heard but now her companions +are to be sent away. Joy, Laughter, Song and Dance, all to +be banished. This is the Gray Woman's doing, but why, no +man can say.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +The stranger in gray robes of whom ye speak<br> +Is Sorrow's self, whose other name is Pain.<br> +She comes, and when she comes none may resist.<br> +Against her none have power to bar their gates.<br> +Ye who have always cherishèd Douce-cœur<br> +And guarded her from knowledge of the World,<br> +Have left her ignorance a prey to pain.<br> +Thus night has fallen on a tender heart<br> +That never saw the shadows for the sun.<br> +Queen Sorrow, who can hide the stars of heaven,<br> +Has torn the golden veil from top to hem,<br> +And in the outer darkness Douce-cœur stands,<br> +Seeing no rift to tell of light eclipsed,<br> +Knowing no key to all the mystery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Service</span>. The King, her father, has sent proclamations forth +that whoso can bring back the smiles to Douce-cœur's lips, the +sunshine to her face, whoso can win her from the Gray +Woman's side, on him shall half the kingdom be bestowed and +Douce-cœur's hand in marriage. The Heralds have gone crying +this abroad, and we have word three suitors are traveling +here post-haste.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +I know not who these suitors chance to be<br> +But not by them may Sorrow be cast out.<br> +One only holds a mightier spell than hers,<br> +And I will send my constant messenger<br> +To seek him to the ends of all the Earth.<br> +Come to me, Child, who holdst Eternal Youth.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Hope</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Hope</span>. Didst call me, Poetry?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>. <span class="add8em">Yea, child of my Heart,</span><br> +Go out into the wilderness for me.<br> +Find me the Stranger in a Pilgrim's garb<br> +Around whose head the song birds pipe their lays,<br> +Beneath whose feet the withered flowers revive.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page249" name="page249"></a>(p. 249)</span> Say, "In the Court of Youth Queen Sorrow reigns<br> +And shadows lie like night on Douce-cœur's heart."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Hope</span>.<br> +In the great Court of Youth, Queen Sorrow reigns<br> +And shadows lie like night on Douce-cœur's heart.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +Bid him come hither. Haste thee on thy way.</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Hope</span>. <i>Trumpet music. Herald heard off. "Oyez! +Oyez! Oyez!"</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Service</span>. Here comes the Herald!</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span> <i>repeating "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herald</span> [<i>facing audience</i>]. Know all whom it may concern +throughout this realm, that as One has come and brought darkness +on the Land, to all good people is this Proclamation made. +Whoso can drive the Gray Woman forth, whoso can free the +Princess Douce-cœur from her spell, whoso can bring back the +sunshine to the Land, unto him will be given the half of +the kingdom, and the Hand of the Princess Douce-cœur in +marriage. Given on this day of June. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"</p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span>. <i>"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" dies away in the +distance.</i>]</span></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em">[<i>Music. Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Joy</span>, <span class="smcap">Laughter</span>, <span class="smcap">Song</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Dance</span>, <i>followed +by</i> <span class="smcap">Princess Douce-cœur</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Sorrow</span>.]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>.<br> +Ye children of the Court, your hour has struck.<br> +Your doom of banishment has been pronounced,<br> +For where I am there can ye never be.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Song</span>.<br> +Douce-cœur, I pray thee hear me. Let me sing<br> +One of the old songs that we loved—may be<br> +The memory of those happy days will rise<br> +And lift the weight of sadness from thy face.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +Douce-cœur, I charge thee, listen. All the past<br> +Of Childhood calls thee in the voice of Song.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Sing if thou wilt. Those days were long ago.</p> + +<p class="smcap min1em speaker">Song.</p> + +<div class="poem20"> +<p style="margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>I stood beside the lilac bush<br> +<span class="add1em">While all its blossoms rained on me,</span><br> +I watched the white wraith of a moon<br> +<span class="add1em">Turn to pale gold above the sea.</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>I held a wand of almond bough<br> +<span class="add1em">And waved it three times circlewise,</span><br> +I whispered words of faery lore<br> +<span class="add1em">With beating heart and close shut eyes.</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>I oped them on a forest scene<br> +<span class="add1em">Of summer-land; the open glade</span><br> +Lay shining like a tourmaline<br> +<span class="add1em">Set in a ring of duller jade.</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>I saw three queens with shining crowns<br> +<span class="add1em">Go riding by on palfreys gray;</span><br> +I saw three knights that followed close,<br> +<span class="add1em">And dreams were in their eyes that day.</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>I saw a minstrel with his harp,<br> +<span class="add1em">His cloak was green and patched and torn;</span><br> +I saw a hunter with his bow,<br> +<span class="add1em">I heard the winding of his horn.</span></i></p> + +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><i>I saw a bush of lavender<br> +<span class="add1em">With clouds of fluttering butterflies,</span><br> +Then I looked backward to the earth<br> +<span class="add1em">And broke my faery spell with sighs.</span></i></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-Cœur</span>.<br> +I cannot bear thy music. In my heart<br> +No answering chords respond. The past is dead.<br> +I hear the tears of thousands in thy voice.<br> +When Sorrow speaks—I hear no tones but hers.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>.<br> +No, thou art mine, Princess. I hold thee fast.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +Douce-cœur, I bid thee raise thy heavy eyes.<br> +Dance is the eldest daughter of my heart.<br> +Born when the rhythm of the stars was voiced,<br> +The past and future meet alike in her.<br> +Let her bring back the sunshine to thy face.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page251" name="page251"></a>(p. 251)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dance</span>.<br> +With flying feet we chased the hours away.<br> +I used to make thee clap thy hands in glee<br> +And thought to go with thee along the years.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +My feet are lead, but dance on if thou wilt,<br> +What can the future hold for me and thee?</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>As the Dance ends, she cries:</i>]</p> + +<p>Ah, Sorrow, bid them cease and drive them hence.<br> +Send Joy and Laughter, Song and Dance away.<br> +Call Silence here who is thy foster-child.<br> +I am afraid of all this mocking world<br> +And fain would live alone, alone with thee.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>.<br> +Go forth, go forth into the wilderness. Here is no room for ye.<br> +Go forth into the void that lies beyond. Here I in majesty<br> +Henceforth shall reign, veiling the sun and stars to all eternity.<br> +Go forth. Let wide-eyed Silence take the place ye occupied before<br> +Where flowers ye scattered he henceforth shall strew ashes upon the floor.<br> +Twilight shall fall upon this Court of Youth now and for evermore.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Exeunt</i> <span class="smcap">Song</span>, <span class="smcap">Dance</span>, <span class="smcap">Joy</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Laughter</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +Douce-cœur, thine eyes are bound. Thou dost but see<br> +With vision warped by her who holds thy hand.<br> +I, who have watched the web of Life unfold<br> +And hold the secrets of a million lives,<br> +Can tell thee from the heights whereon I dwell,<br> +It is not thus that thou wilt help the world.<br> +Thou canst not right the wrong with further wrong.<br> +But now thine ears are dulled; thou wilt not hear<br> +What I might teach thee.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>During this speech enter</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span> <i>who speaks to</i> <span class="smcap">Service</span>. +<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span>.]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page252" name="page252"></a>(p. 252)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Service</span>. Three suitors, Fame, Riches, and Power are at the +gate, Princess, and claim an audience. They have banished the +Gray Woman from the side of others and seek to do this for +thee. With them they bring charms that have before broken +the spells of Sorrow; these are beyond price but each asks in +exchange thy hand in marriage as promised in the proclamation +cried by the heralds.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span> [<i>turning to</i> <span class="smcap">Sorrow</span>].<br> +What must I do?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>. Bid them approach, my child;<br> +It may be their rich gifts will pleasure thee.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span> <i>followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Fame</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herald</span>.<br> +Fame, Lord of the Marches of the East, salutes thee.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fame</span>.<br> +Fame am I called, Princess. I bring thee this<br> +Crown of Unfading Leaves for which men pray<br> +And toil throughout their lives—unsatisfied.<br> +It shall be thine unsought. Grant me thy hand,<br> +And thou shalt live in glamour of high destiny.<br> +Thy name shall sound in honor through the world;<br> +Thy words shall set the hearts of men aflame.<br> +Let me but place the wreath about thy head,<br> +Thus shalt thou strike this lyre with deathless notes<br> +Which shall, vibrating through the fields of space,<br> +Ring on, and on, nor ever find a goal.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>.<br> +Deaf are the ears on which thy phrases fall.<br> +With one so young what are thy spells to mine?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +I see thy wreath of leaves, entwined with asps<br> +Whose forked tongues whisper "jealousy and hate."<br> +Thy harp is out of tune with Sorrow's voice.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +She is too tender for thine upward way.<br> +The solitude of those who follow thee<br> +Is not for her. Pass on, my lord, pass on.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span>, <i>followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Riches</span>.]</p> + +<a id="img011" name="img011"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;"> +<img src="images/img011.jpg" width="400" height="611" alt="" title=""> +<p>Costumes for <i>The Masque of the Two Strangers</i> +designed at the Washington Irving High School.</p> +</div> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page254" name="page254"></a>(p. 254)</span> +<p style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span class="min1em speaker">Herald</span>.<br> +Riches, Lord of the Marches of the West, salutes thee.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Riches</span>.<br> +My name is Riches, and I offer thee<br> +A store of wealth exhaustless as the sand.<br> +This is the symbol of my opulence,<br> +A casket in whose depths gold never fails.<br> +Grant me thy hand, and thou, Princess, shalt gain<br> +All that the world contains of happiness.<br> +Thy palace shall be built of precious stones,<br> +And thou shalt walk on rose-leaves every day.<br> +Sorrow shall be forgotten in my arms,<br> +Nothing shall be denied thee wealth can buy.<br> +All things—all men yield to the touch of gold.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>.<br> +Blind are the eyes on which thy visions rise.<br> +My spells have turned thy glories into dust.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-Cœur</span>.<br> +The gold thou offerest me is stained with blood;<br> +Thy precious stones were won with tears and toil;<br> +The sum of all thy wealth could not reflower<br> +The arid wastes that Sorrow has laid bare.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +She is too simple for thy promises;<br> +To one who knows not Sister Poverty<br> +Thy lures, my lord, appear as idle words.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span>, <i>followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Power</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herald</span>.<br> +Power, Lord of the Marches North and South, salutes thee.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Herald</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Power</span>.<br> +My name, Princess, is Power and this my gift.<br> +My brothers brought thee fair renown and gold<br> +With freedom from the spells that Sorrow weaves.<br> +All these I offer thee. If thou accept,<br> +Together we will sway men's destinies,<br> +Together we may rule their hearts—their souls—<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page255" name="page255"></a>(p. 255)</span> Together turn the very universe.<br> +Our throne shall rise a monument of might,<br> +Its steps shall mount from the green land of earth,<br> +Its canopy shall scrape the stars of Heaven.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>.<br> +I have set that about her like a net<br> +Thou canst not deal with. Never yet, O Power,<br> +Hast thou been known to cut through cords of fear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-Cœur</span>.<br> +I would not wield thy scepter for an hour.<br> +The burden of its weight would bear me down.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +She is too young, too gentle for the heights<br> +Where thou wouldst raise her. Be content, my lords;<br> +What ye have done is well, but One alone<br> +Can break the spell, and he is at the gates.<br> +Already Hope returns. He comes, he comes.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Hope</span> <i>running.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Hope</span>.<br> +The stranger comes; he whom I went to seek.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fame</span>.<br> +The Stranger comes whose music fills the world.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Riches</span>.<br> +The Stranger comes, whose treasure gilds the world.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Power</span>.<br> +The Stranger comes, whose scepter rules the world.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Sorrow</span>].<br> +Now shall thy spell be broken. Dost thou hear<br> +The measured footsteps of approaching Fate?<br> +The one who comes clad in a Pilgrim's garb<br> +Has ever proved thy silent conqueror.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Sorrow</span>.<br> +I yield to him who is the greatest here,<br> +But those who have not met me by the way<br> +Can never know him as he may be known.<br> +They only who have trod the dark abyss<br> +May dare to stand upon the topmost height.<br> +For they whose eyes were blindfold for awhile<br> +Alone can bear that blaze of brilliant light.<br> +Thus have I brought thee more than all thy Court.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page256" name="page256"></a>(p. 256)</span> Learn from his lips to see the world anew.<br> +I drew that gray veil all about thy head<br> +Thinking perchance to keep thee for my own,<br> +But thou wert made for sunlight, not for gloom.<br> +Thus do I leave thee. Fare thee well, Princess!</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Love</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span> [<i>starts up and tries to hold</i> <span class="smcap">Sorrow</span> <i>back</i>].<br> +Ah, stay with me, thou art my only friend!</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<span class="smcap">Love</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Sorrow</span> <i>look at each other, she draws her veil +across her face and exit.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Who art thou, Stranger, in a pilgrim's guise<br> +Who comest unattended, unannounced?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +I may not tell thee that. Thou first must learn<br> +Out of thine own heart to recall my name.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Fame, Power, and Riches brought me costly gifts<br> +Which I refused.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>. <span class="add5em">I come with empty hands.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Thy coming caused Queen Sorrow to depart;<br> +What right hast thou to drive my friends from me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +I came to bring thee swift deliverance,<br> +She laid a spell upon thee which in time<br> +Had turned thy heart to unresponsive stone.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +She brought me peace and sure oblivion<br> +Of all this dark and weary world around.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +Art thou so sure, Princess, the world is dark?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +So sure? Have I not heard the children weep?<br> +Is not my heart torn with their piteous cries?<br> +We live, and round us lies their sea of tears,<br> +A mighty sea that could engulf a realm.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +I met a Child outside thy Palace once.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page257" name="page257"></a>(p. 257)</span> His dress was ragged, but he smiled at me,<br> +And in his hand he held a purple flower.<br> +I knew it for the magic flower of Dream.<br> +I asked him "Art thou happy?" and he said<br> +"I'm mostly hungry; sometimes I am cold;<br> +And there are stones and thorns that hurt my feet,<br> +But while my Flower lives I am quite content.<br> +And I have friends too, in the Palace there;<br> +Laughter and Dance they come and play with me."<br> +I met that Child to-day, Princess. His face<br> +Was white and pinched, and down his baby cheeks<br> +The tears were running, "See, my Flower has died,<br> +And Dance and Laughter have been sent away.<br> +Joy too is gone. Queen Sorrow reigns at Court."<br> +Even the children now can play no more.<br> +He never knew before the world was dark.<br> +Art thou so sure, Princess, the Child was wrong?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Have I not heard bereavèd mothers weep?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +There thou dost touch a chord in ignorance.<br> +Thou canst not guess the strength of Motherhood,<br> +The hopes, the joys, the passionate regrets.<br> +She who has borne her child close to her heart<br> +Has lit a star in Heaven that lights her way.<br> +I kneel by them in their Gethsemane<br> +And teach them how to weave immortal wreaths<br> +Out of the sweetest flowers of Memory;<br> +For them the sun still shines behind the clouds,<br> +Art thou so sure the world is wholly dark?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +There echo in my ears the groans of Toil,<br> +Of those who labor on from year to year<br> +Until they sink beneath their weary lot.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +Toil is the destiny of man, Princess,<br> +And none may question the Supreme Decree.<br> +Perchance through toil alone man may redeem<br> +A past that is forgotten. Who can tell?<br> +And there is still some aftermath of joy<br> +In labor well achieved, some dignity<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page258" name="page258"></a>(p. 258)</span> In toil accomplished. If the way is hard<br> +And seeming endless, those who seek for me<br> +Will often find me singing at their side.<br> +Mine is the Brotherhood of Sympathy.<br> +But thou hast banished Song, in silence now<br> +The toilers have to go upon their way.<br> +Art thou so sure, it was all dark before?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +What light is there for those who strive and fail?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +One only fails. He whom some term Success,<br> +He who gives heart and soul and youth and strength<br> +To an unworthy cause. Failure is he<br> +Who sacrifices me before the world,<br> +Who prostitutes the God in him for what<br> +Will turn to dust and ashes in his hand.<br> +'Tis he alone is outcast though he thinks<br> +Himself the sun of all the universe.<br> +To those, Princess, who striving seem to fail,<br> +It is not failure, for none see the end,<br> +And they who sigh are only those who seek<br> +An earlier consummation than is just;<br> +If they cling fast to me they still behold<br> +The white star-flowers Hope plants about the world.<br> +Who knows to what fair land rough seas may lead?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Lo! over all I see the cruel hand<br> +Of Death outstretched, certain and pitiless.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +The hand of Death is full of tenderness.<br> +He leads men through that dark mysterious gate—<br> +That all must pass into another life—<br> +To other lives that through the cycles bring<br> +The souls of men upward from step to step,<br> +Uniting those for ever who are one.<br> +Death hushes them like children on his breast.<br> +Setting his own smile on their silent lips—<br> +That tender smile of strange triumphant peace.<br> +Death is my Brother, and I say to thee,<br> +Learn to know me, thou wilt not fear his hand.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page259" name="page259"></a>(p. 259)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Another hand is knocking at my heart<br> +Whose touch I know not, and I feel afraid—<br> +Afraid to listen. Yet I long to hear.<br> +Stranger, who art thou? Let me see thy face.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +Learn to know me and thou shalt nothing fear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Who art thou? Let me look into thine eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +Learn to know me and thou wilt find the Light.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +Pilgrim, who art thou? Let me know thy name.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +Dost thou not know me, Douce-cœur?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span> [<i>slowly</i>].<br> +Thou art Love!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +And dost thou know the meaning of my name?<br> +Tell me thou art not fearful any more.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +The darkness that was bound about mine eyes<br> +Is falling from me. In the growing light<br> +The answer to Life's riddle is made clear.<br> +I seem to stand upon a height, caught up<br> +In ecstasy of rapture near the sun.<br> +The day is dawning; far before my eyes<br> +I see the earth spread out there like a map.<br> +Shadow and sunshine traveling on the road<br> +O'ertake each other, mingle—and are one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Fame</span>.<br> +O Love, all hail! What is my crown to thine?<br> +Thy music is the song of all the stars<br> +Which rings through every heart attune to thine.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Riches</span>.<br> +O Love, all hail! What is my wealth to thine?<br> +Thy treasures are the moons of happiness,<br> +Thy boundless gold the sunshine of the world.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Power</span>.<br> +O Love, all hail! Thine is the greater rule,<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page260" name="page260"></a>(p. 260)</span> The force predominating. Thou alone<br> +Art the unvanquished King who conquers all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Poetry</span>.<br> +O Love, whose face is sought by all the world,<br> +Bid her go forth out of her Palace gates<br> +Into her kingdom that lies all around,<br> +Teach her what means to use to right the wrong<br> +And ease the burden man has laid on man.<br> +My voice that once could rouse men's sleeping souls<br> +Grows weary, and men often heed me not,<br> +Turning deaf ears that will not hear my words;<br> +'Tis thou alone canst wind that mystic horn<br> +Which wakes alike the sleeping and the dead.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Douce-cœur</span>.<br> +O Love, I pray thee call the children back,<br> +I am ashamed to think I drove them forth,<br> +I erred in ignorance. Forgive me, lord.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Joy</span>, <span class="smcap">Laughter</span>, <span class="smcap">Song</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Dance</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Love</span>.<br> +All ye who came to battle Sorrow's spell,<br> +Be with her now. And ye who hold in fee<br> +Her happy days, go with her through the years.<br> +I all unseen will guide her destiny.<br> +And when, Princess, I come again to thee,<br> +A worshiper will follow in my train.<br> +From other lips than mine thou then shalt learn<br> +The sweetest and the tenderest tale of all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Music</span>.<br> +Now let us join with Song. In merry mirth<br> +Draw to a fitting close our Interlude.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Song</span>.<br> +Sorrow reigned her little day<br> +Love has driven her far away<br> +Brought the sunshine back to Court<br> +Thus we end in merry sport.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Exeunt</i> <span class="smcap">All</span>.]</p> +</div> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page261" name="page261"></a>(p. 261)</span> <i>EPILOGUE</i></h2> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Jester</span>.]</p> + +<p>The Tale is over and their parts are done,<br> +And Love again has proved the strongest one.<br> +I wonder has it pleased you now to see<br> +The oldest tale told thus in phantasy.<br> +And let your answer be whate'er it may,<br> +Whether your thumbs be up or down to-day<br> +Will hurt not me. I did not write the play.</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page263" name="page263"></a>(p. 263)</span> THE INTRUDER<br> +<span class="smaller">By<br> +MAURICE MAETERLINCK</span></h1> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page265" name="page265"></a>(p. 265)</span> Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck, to give him +his full baptismal name, was born in Ghent on August 29, +1862. He was sent to the Jesuit College de Sainte-Barbe, the +institution which another great Belgian, Emile Verhaeren, also +attended. In 1885, Maeterlinck entered the University of +Ghent to study law, but his practice of this profession was confined +to a scant year or two. Maeterlinck's chief interest in +his college years seems to have been the modern movement in +Belgian literature. But the frequency of his visits to Paris increased +in the years between 1886 and 1896, and finally in the +latter year he settled there.</p> + +<p>The following word picture supplements the photographs of +Maeterlinck that are so frequently reproduced in our magazines +and newspapers: "Maeterlinck is easily described: a man +of about five feet nine in height, inclined to be stout; silver +hair lends distinction to the large round head and boyish fresh +complexion; blue-gray eyes, now thoughtful, now merry, and +an unaffected off-hand manner. The features are not cut, left +rather 'in the rough,' as sculptors say, even the heavy jaw and +chin are drowned in fat; the forehead bulges and the eyes lose +color in the light and seem hard; still, an interesting and attractive +personality."</p> + +<p>Maeterlinck's fame rests on his poetry and his essays no less +than on his plays. <i>L'Intruse</i>, <i>The Intruder</i>, reprinted here, +belongs to the early years of his activity as a playwright. It +was printed in 1890 in a Belgian periodical, <i>La Wallonie</i>, and +was acted for the first time a year later at Paul Fort's Théâtre +d'Art in Paris, at a performance given for the benefit of the +poet, Paul Verlaine, and the painter, Paul Gauguin. Maeterlinck, +though publishing volumes of essays from time to time, +continues to write for the theatre.<a id="footnotetag52" name="footnotetag52"></a><a href="#footnote52" title="Go to footnote 52"><span class="smaller">[52]</span></a> In 1908 <i>The Blue Bird</i>, +dramatizing the quest for Truth, one of the most popular of +modern plays, was given for the first time in Moscow, to be +followed ten years later by the première in New York of a +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page266" name="page266"></a>(p. 266)</span> sequel, <i>The Betrothal</i>, similarly dramatizing the search for +Beauty. In 1910 came his translation of <i>Macbeth</i> into French. +A year later he was awarded the Nobel prize for literature.</p> + +<p><i>The Intruder</i>, the theme of which is the mysterious coming +of death, is an illustration of one of Maeterlinck's pet theories +in regard to the subject matter of the drama. He expresses it +in this way in his famous essay on <i>The Tragic in Daily Life</i>: +"An old man, seated in his armchair, waiting patiently with +his lamp beside him—submitting with bent head to the presence +of his soul and his destiny—motionless as he is, does yet live +in reality a deeper, more human, more universal life than ... +the captain who conquers in battle." To plays based on this +theory has been given the name "static drama." <i>The Intruder</i> +illustrates also Maeterlinck's use of symbols. The Grandfather +in the play is blind, for instance; blind characters in +Maeterlinck's plays are symbols of the spiritual blindness of the +human race; the gardener sharpening his scythe stands for +death; the mysterious quenching of the lamp—it may have gone +out because there was no oil in it—signifies the going out of life.</p> + +<p>The problem in the staging of this play is the "creation of +a mood or atmosphere, rather than the unfolding of an +action." One of the settings used in this country is here +reproduced. It was designed for the Arts & Crafts Theatre +of Detroit. Sheldon Cheney, whose description of Sam +Hume's plastic units for the stage of this Little Theatre is +given in the Introduction on page xxxi, has described the rearrangement +of this equipment and the additions that can be +made to it for the production of this play as follows: "For +Maeterlinck's <i>The Intruder</i>, which demanded a room in an +old château, one important addition was made, a flat with a +door. At the left was the arch, then a pylon and curtain, and +then the Gothic window with practicable casements added. +The rest of the back wall was made up of the new door-piece +flanked by curtains, while the third wall consisted of two pylons +and curtains. Stairs and platforms were utilized before the +window and under the arch. A small two-stair unit was added, +leading to the new door. This arrangement afforded exactly +that suggestion of spaciousness and mystery for which the play +calls." When the play was given at the Independent Theatre +in London in 1895, it was played behind a blue gauze curtain.</p> + +<p>On one of Maeterlinck's visits to London, he was taken by +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page267" name="page267"></a>(p. 267)</span> Alfred Sutro, the dramatist, to call on Barrie in his flat at the +Adelphi. Maeterlinck was asked to write his name on the +whitewashed wall of Barrie's studio. He did so and added +above the signature: "<i>Au père de Peter Pan, et au grandpère +de L'Oiseau Bleu.</i>"</p> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page268" name="page268"></a>(p. 268)</span> THE INTRUDER</h2> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">The Three Daughters</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">The Grandfather</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">The Father</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">The Uncle</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">The Servant</span>.</li> +</ul> + + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>A dimly lighted room in an old country-house. A door on the +right, a door on the left, and a small concealed door in a +corner. At the back, stained-glass windows, in which the +color green predominates, and a glass door opening on to +a terrace. A Dutch clock in one corner. A lamp lighted.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Three Daughters</span>. Come here, grandfather. Sit +down under the lamp.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. There does not seem to me to be +much light here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Shall we go on to the terrace, or stay in +this room?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Would it not be better to stay here? It has +rained the whole week, and the nights are damp and cold.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. Still the stars are shining.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Ah! stars—that's nothing.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. We had better stay here. One never +knows what may happen.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. +The danger is past, and she is saved....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I fancy she is not going on well....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Why do you say that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I have heard her speak.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But the doctors assure us we may be +easy....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. You know quite well that your father-in-law +likes to alarm us needlessly.</p> +</div> + +<a id="img012" name="img012"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="margin-top: 1.5em;"> +<img src="images/img012.jpg" width="600" height="338" alt="" title=""> +<p><i>Courtesy of Theatre Arts Magazine</i><br> +Setting for <i>The Intruder</i> composed of plastic units designed by Sam Hume.</p> +</div> + +<div class="gettys"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page269" name="page269"></a>(p. 269)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I don't look at these things as you +others do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. +She looked very well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly +now; and we are not going to spoil, without any reason, the +first comfortable evening that luck has thrown in our way.... +It seems to me we have a perfect right to be easy, and +even to laugh a little, this evening, without apprehension.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. That's true; this is the first time I have felt +at home with my family since this terrible confinement.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. When once illness has come into a house, it +is as though a stranger had forced himself into the family +circle.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. And then you understood, too, that you +should count on no one outside the family.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. You are quite right.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Why could I not see my poor +daughter to-day?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. You know quite well—the doctor forbade it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I do not know what to think....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It is absurd to worry.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>pointing to the door on the left</i>]. She +cannot hear us?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. We shall not talk too loud; besides, the door +is very thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is +sure to warn us if we are making too much noise.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>pointing to the door on the right</i>]. +He cannot hear us?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. No, no.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. He is asleep?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I suppose so.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Someone had better go and see.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. The little one would cause <i>me</i> more anxiety +than your wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, +and he has scarcely stirred. He has not cried once all the +time! He is like a wax doll.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I think he will be deaf—dumb too, +perhaps—the usual result of a marriage between cousins.... +[<i>A reproving silence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering +he has caused his mother.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page270" name="page270"></a>(p. 270)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little +thing's fault. He is quite alone in the room?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay +in his mother's room any longer.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. But the nurse is with him?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has +well deserved it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see +if he is asleep.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. Yes, father. [<span class="smcap">The Three +Sisters</span> <i>get up, and go into the room on the right, hand in +hand.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. When will your sister come?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I think she will come about nine.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It is past nine. I hope she will come this +evening, my wife is so anxious to see her.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. She is certain to come. This will be the first +time she has been here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. She has never been into the house.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Will she be alone?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. +They are not allowed to go out alone.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But she is the Superior.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. The rule is the same for all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Do you not feel anxious?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Why should we feel anxious? What's the +good of harping on that? There is nothing more to fear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Your sister is older than you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. She is the eldest of us all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I do not know what ails me; I feel +uneasy. I wish your sister were here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. She will come; she promised to.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I wish this evening were over!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">The Three Daughters</span> <i>come in again.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He is asleep?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. Yes, father; very sound.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. What shall we do while we are waiting?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Waiting for what?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Waiting for our sister.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. You see nothing coming, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span> [<i>at the window</i>]. Nothing, father.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page271" name="page271"></a>(p. 271)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Not in the avenue? Can you see the +avenue?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can +see the avenue as far as the cypress wood.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. And you do not see anyone?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. No one, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. What sort of a night is it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Yes, yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. A little wind is rising in the avenue.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. A little wind in the avenue?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes; the trees are trembling a little.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I cannot hear the nightingales any +longer.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I think someone has come into the garden, +grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Who is it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I do not know; I can see no one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Because there is no one there.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. There must be someone in the garden; +the nightingales have suddenly ceased singing.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. But I do not hear anyone coming.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Someone must be passing by the pond, +because the swans are scared.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Another Daughter</span>. All the fishes in the pond are diving +suddenly.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. You cannot see anyone?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. No one, father.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But the pond lies in the moonlight....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes; I can see that the swans are scared.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. +She must have come in by the little gate.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I cannot understand why the dogs do not +bark.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I can see the watch-dog right at the back +of his kennel. The swans are crossing to the other bank!...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and +see. [<i>He calls.</i>] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There +is no one there.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page272" name="page272"></a>(p. 272)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I am sure that someone has come into +the garden. You will see.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. But she would answer me!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Are not the nightingales beginning to +sing again, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I cannot hear one anywhere.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. And yet there is no noise.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. There is a silence of the grave.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It must be some stranger that scares +them, for if it were one of the family they would not be +silent.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. How much longer are you going to discuss +these nightingales.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Are all the windows open, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. The glass door is open, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating +into the room.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. There is a little wind in the garden, +grandfather, and the rose-leaves are falling.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Well, shut the door. It is late.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Two Other Daughters</span>. We cannot shut the door.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Why, what is the matter with the +door, my children?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. You need not say that in such an extraordinary +voice. I will go and help them.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. We cannot manage to shut it +quite.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It is because of the damp. Let us all push +together. There must be something in the way.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some +work in the cellar.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. He will make a noise in the house.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I will tell him to work quietly. [<i>Suddenly +the sound of a scythe being sharpened is heard outside.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>with a shudder</i>]. Oh!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. What is that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. +I cannot quite see; he is in the shadow of the house.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page273" name="page273"></a>(p. 273)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It is the gardener going to mow.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. He mows by night?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Is not to-morrow Sunday?—Yes.—I noticed +that the grass was very long round the house.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It seems to me that his scythe makes +as much noise ...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. He is mowing near the house.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Can you see him, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. No, grandfather. He stands in the dark.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I am afraid he will wake my daughter.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. We can scarcely hear him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It sounds to me as if he were mowing +inside the house.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. The invalid will not hear it; there is no +danger.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning +well this evening.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It wants filling.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt +badly since the window was shut.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I fancy the chimney is dirty.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It will burn better presently.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept +for three nights.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He has been so much worried.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. He always worries too much. At times he +will not listen to reason.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It is quite excusable at his age.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. God knows what we shall be like at his age!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He is nearly eighty.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Then he has a right to be strange.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He is like all blind people.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. They think too much.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. They have too much time to spare.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. They have nothing else to do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. And, besides, they have no distractions.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. That must be terrible.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Apparently one gets used to it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I cannot imagine it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. They are certainly to be pitied.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Not to know where one is, not to know where +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page274" name="page274"></a>(p. 274)</span> one has come from, not to know whither one is going, not to +be able to distinguish midday from midnight, or summer from +winter—and always darkness, darkness! I would rather not +live. Is it absolutely incurable?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Apparently so.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. But he is not absolutely blind?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He can perceive a strong light.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Let us take care of our poor eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He often has strange ideas.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. At times he is not at all amusing.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He says absolutely everything he thinks.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. But he was not always like this?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. No; once he was as rational as we are; he +never said anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages +him a little too much; she answers all his questions....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It would be better not to answer them. It's +a mistaken kindness to him. [<i>Ten o'clock strikes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>waking up</i>]. Am I facing the glass +door?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Am I facing the glass door?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. There is nobody at the glass door?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. No, grandfather; I do not see anyone.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I thought someone was waiting. No +one has come?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. No one, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>to the</i> <span class="smcap">Uncle</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Father</span>]. And +your sister has not come?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It is too late; she will not come now. It is +not nice of her.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [<i>A +noise, as of someone coming into the house.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. She is here! Did you hear?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Yes; someone has come in at the basement.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It must be our sister. I recognized her step.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I heard slow footsteps.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. She came in very quietly.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. She knows there is an invalid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I hear nothing now.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page275" name="page275"></a>(p. 275)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. She will come up directly; they will tell her +we are here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I am glad she has come.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I was sure she would come this evening.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. She is a very long time coming up.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. However, it must be she.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. We are not expecting any other visitors.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I cannot hear any noise in the basement.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I will call the servant. We shall know how +things stand. [<i>He pulls a bell-rope.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I can hear a noise on the stairs already.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It is the servant coming up.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It sounds to me as if she were not +alone.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. She is coming up slowly....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I hear your sister's step!<7p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I can only hear the servant.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It is your sister! It is your sister!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>There is a knock at the little door.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I will go and open myself. [<i>He partly opens +the little door;</i> <span class="smcap">The Servant</span> <i>remains outside in the opening.</i>] +Where are you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. Here, sir.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Your sister is at the door?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I can only see the servant.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It is only the servant. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">The Servant</span>.] +Who was that, that came into the house?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. Came into the house?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Yes; someone came in just now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. No one came in, sir.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Who is it sighing like that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It is the servant; she is out of breath.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Is she crying?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. No; why should she be crying?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">The Servant</span>]. No one came in just +now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. No, sir.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But we heard someone open the door!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. It was I shutting the door.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page276" name="page276"></a>(p. 276)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It was open?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. Yes, sir.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Why was it open at this time of night?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Then who was it that opened it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. I do not know, sir. Someone must have +gone out after me, sir....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. You must be careful.—Don't push the door; +you know what a noise it makes!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. But, sir, I am not touching the door.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But you are. You are pushing as if you +were trying to get into the room.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. But, sir, I am three yards away from the +door.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Don't talk so loud....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Are they putting out the light?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. No, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It seems to me it has grown pitch +dark all at once.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">The Servant</span>]. You can go down again +now; but do not make so much noise on the stairs.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Servant</span>. I did not make any noise on the stairs.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go +down quietly; you will wake your mistress. And if anyone +comes now, say that we are not at home.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Yes; say that we are not at home.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>shuddering</i>]. You must not say +that!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>.... Except to my sister and the doctor.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. When will the doctor come?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. He will not be able to come before midnight. +[<i>He shuts the door. A clock is heard striking eleven.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. She has come in?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Who?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. The servant.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. No, she has gone downstairs.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I thought that she was sitting at the +table.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. The servant?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. That would complete one's happiness!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page277" name="page277"></a>(p. 277)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. No one has come into the room?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. No; no one has come in.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. And your sister is not here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Our sister has not come.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You want to deceive me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Deceive you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love +of God!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. Grandfather! Grandfather! what +is the matter with you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Something has happened! I am sure +my daughter is worse!...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Are you dreaming?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You do not want to tell me!... +I can see quite well there is something....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. In that case you can see better than we +can.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Ursula, tell me the truth!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. But we have told you the truth, grandfather!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You do not speak in your ordinary +voice.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. That is because you frighten her.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Your voice is changed too.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. You are going mad! [<i>He and</i> <span class="smcap">The Uncle</span> +<i>make signs to each other to signify</i> <span class="smcap">The Grandfather</span> <i>has +lost his reason.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I can hear quite well that you are +afraid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But what should we be afraid of?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Why do you want to deceive me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Who is thinking of deceiving you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Why have you put out the light?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. But the light has not been put out; there is +as much light as there was before.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. It seems to me that the lamp has gone +down.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I see as well now as ever.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I have millstones on my eyes! Tell +me, girls, what is going on here! Tell me, for the love of +God, you who can see! I am here, all alone, in darkness without +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page278" name="page278"></a>(p. 278)</span> end! I do not know who seats himself beside me! I do +not know what is happening a yard from me!... Why +were you talking under your breath just now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. No one was talking under his breath.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You did talk in a low voice at the +door.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. You heard all I said.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You brought someone into the +room!...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But I tell you no one has come in!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Is it your sister or a priest?—You +should not try to deceive me.—Ursula, who was it that +came in?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. No one, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You must not try to deceive me; I +know what I know.—How many of us are there here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. There are six of us round the table, +grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You are all round the table?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You are there, Paul?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You are there, Oliver?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. +That's not alarming, is it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You are there, Geneviève?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">One of the Daughters</span>. Yes, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You are there, Gertrude?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Another Daughter</span>. Yes, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You are here, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. Yes, grandfather; next to you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. And who is that sitting there?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Where do you mean, grandfather?—There +is no one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. There, there—in the midst of us!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. But there is no one, grandfather!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. We tell you there is no one!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. But you cannot see—any of you!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Pshaw! You are joking?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I do not feel inclined for joking, I +can assure you.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page279" name="page279"></a>(p. 279)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Then believe those who can see.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>undecidedly</i>]. I thought there was +someone.... I believe I shall not live long....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Why should we deceive you? What use +would there be in that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It would be our duty to tell you the +truth....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. What would be the good of deceiving each +other?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. You could not live in error long.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>trying to rise</i>]. I should like to pierce +this darkness!...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Where do you want to go?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Over there....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Don't be so anxious....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. You are strange this evening.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It is all of you who seem to me to +be strange!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Do you want anything?...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I do not know what ails me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. Grandfather! grandfather! What +do you want, grandfather?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Give me your little hands, my children.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Three Daughters</span>. Yes, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Why are you all three trembling, +girls?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. We are scarcely trembling at all, +grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I fancy you are all three pale.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. It is late, grandfather, and we +are tired.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself +would do well to take a little rest.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I could not sleep to-night!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. We will wait for the doctor.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Prepare me for the truth.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. But there is no truth!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Then I do not know what there is!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I tell you there is nothing at all!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I wish I could see my poor daughter!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page280" name="page280"></a>(p. 280)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. But you know quite well it is impossible; +she must not be awaked unnecessarily.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. You will see her to-morrow.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. There is no sound in her room.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It is a very long time since I saw my +daughter!... I took her hands yesterday evening, but I +could not see her!... I do not know what has become of +her!... I do not know how she is.... I do not know +what her face is like now.... She must have changed these +weeks!... I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my +hands.... There is nothing but the darkness between her +and me, and the rest of you!... I cannot go on living like +this ... this is not living.... You sit there, all of you, +looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not one of you +has pity on me!... I do not know what ails me.... No +one tells me what ought to be told me.... And everything +is terrifying when one's dreams dwell upon it.... But why +are you not speaking?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. What should we say, since you will not believe +us?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You are afraid of betraying yourselves!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Come now, be rational!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. You have been hiding something from +me for a long time!... Something has happened in the +house.... But I am beginning to understand now.... +You have been deceiving me too long!—You fancy that I shall +never know anything?—There are moments when I am less +blind than you, you know!... Do you think I have not +heard you whispering—for days and days—as if you were in +the house of someone who had been hanged—I dare not say +what I know this evening.... But I shall know the truth!... +I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; but I have +known it for a long time, in spite of you!—And now, I feel +that you are all paler than the dead!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Three Daughters</span>. Grandfather! grandfather! What +is the matter, grandfather?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It is not you that I am speaking of, +girls. No, it is not you that I am speaking of.... I know +quite well you would tell me the truth—if they were not by! +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page281" name="page281"></a>(p. 281)</span> ... And besides, I feel sure that they are deceiving you as +well.... You will see, children—you will see!... Do +not I hear you all sobbing?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father.</span> Is my wife really so ill?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It is no good trying to deceive me any +longer; it is too late now, and I know the truth better than +you!...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. But <i>we</i> are not blind; we are not.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Would you like to go into your daughter's +room? This misunderstanding must be put an end to.—Would +you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>becoming suddenly undecided</i>]. No, +no, not now—not yet.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle.</span> You see, you are not reasonable.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. One never knows how much a man +has been unable to express in his life!... Who made that +noise?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It seems to me to be very unsteady—very!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. It is the cold wind troubling it....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I think it is going out.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. There is no more oil.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. It has gone right out.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. We cannot stay like this in the dark.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Why not?—I am quite accustomed to it.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. There is a light in my wife's room.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. We will take it from there presently, when +the doctor has been.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Well, we can see enough here; there is the +light from outside.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather.</span> Is it light outside?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Lighter than here.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father.</span> So would I. [<i>Silence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. It seems to me the clock makes a great +deal of noise....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Eldest Daughter</span>. That is because we are not talking +any more, grandfather.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page282" name="page282"></a>(p. 282)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. But why are you all silent?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. What do you want us to talk about?—You +are really very peculiar to-night.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather.</span> Is it very dark in this room?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. There is not much light. [<i>Silence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the +window a little.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Yes, child; open the window a little. I +begin to feel the want of air myself. [<i>The girl opens the +window.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. I really believe we have stayed shut up too +long.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather.</span> Is the window open?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. One would not have thought it was +open; there is not a sound outside.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter.</span> No, grandfather; there is not the slightest +sound.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. The silence is extraordinary!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. One could hear an angel tread!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. That is why I do not like the country.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I wish I could hear some sound. +What o'clock is it, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. It will soon be midnight, grandfather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em">[<i>Here</i> <span class="smcap">The Uncle</span> <i>begins to pace up and down the room.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Who is that walking round us like +that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I +want to walk about a little. [<i>Silence.</i>]—But I am going to +sit down again;—I cannot see where I am going. [<i>Silence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I wish I were out of this place!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Where would you like to go, grandfather?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I do not know where—into another +room, no matter where! no matter where!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Where could we go?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It is too late to go anywhere else. [<i>Silence. +They are sitting, motionless, round the table.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. What is that I hear, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves +falling.—Yes, it is the leaves falling on the terrace.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page283" name="page283"></a>(p. 283)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather.</span> Go and shut the window, Ursula.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Yes, grandfather. [<i>She shuts the window, +comes back, and sits down.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I am cold. [<i>Silence.</i> <span class="smcap">The Three +Sisters</span> <i>kiss each other.</i>] What is that I hear now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. It is the three sisters kissing each other.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. +[<i>Silence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. What is that I hear now, Ursula?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping +of my hands. [<i>Silence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. And that?...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Daughter</span>. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps +my sisters are trembling a little?...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. I am afraid, too, my children. [<i>Here +a ray of moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained +glass, and throws strange gleams here and there in the room. +A clock strikes midnight; at the last stroke there is a very vague +sound, as of someone rising in haste.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span> [<i>shuddering with peculiar horror</i>]. +Who is that who got up?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle.</span> No one got up!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. I did not get up!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Three Daughters</span>. Nor I!—Nor I!—Nor I!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Someone got up from the table!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. Light the lamp!... [<i>Cries of terror are +suddenly heard from the child's room, on the right; these cries +continue, with gradations of horror, until the end of the scene.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Listen to the child!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. He has never cried before!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Father</span>. Let us go and see him!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Uncle</span>. The light! The light! [<i>At this moment, +quick and heavy steps are heard in the room on the left.—Then +a deathly silence.—They listen in mute terror, until the door +of the room opens slowly, the light from it is cast into the room +where they are sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the +threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes the +sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They +understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, +silently enter the chamber of death, while</i> <span class="smcap">The Uncle</span> <i>politely +steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls pass. The +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page284" name="page284"></a>(p. 284)</span> blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way round +the table in the darkness.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Grandfather</span>. Where are you going?—Where are +you going?—The girls have left me all alone!</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page285" name="page285"></a>(p. 285)</span> FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES<a id="footnotetag53" name="footnotetag53"></a><a href="#footnote53" title="Go to footnote 53"><span class="smaller">[53]</span></a><br> + +<span class="smaller"><i>A DRAMA IN ONE ACT</i><br> +By<br> +JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY</span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page287" name="page287"></a>(p. 287)</span> Josephine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Lionel S. Marks) was +born in New York on May 30, 1874. She attended the Girls' +Latin School in Boston and later went to Radcliffe College. +From 1901 to 1903 she taught English literature at Wellesley +College. Her verse, dramatic and lyric, has made her an outstanding +figure in American letters.</p> + +<p><i>Fortune and Men's Eyes</i> (1900), the first of her published +plays, is written in blank verse. <i>Marlowe</i>, likewise a study of +a great Elizabethan, <i>The Wings</i>, the setting of which is early +English, <i>The Piper</i>, a new version of the medieval legend +made famous by Browning, and <i>The Wolf of Gubbio</i>, dominated +by the lovely figure of St. Francis of Assisi, are also +poetic dramas. Her best known play, <i>The Piper</i>, was awarded +the first prize in 1910 in the Stratford-on-Avon competition in +which there were three hundred and fifteen contestants. It +was then produced at the Memorial Theatre at Stratford.</p> + +<p>In recent years two playwrights have consulted Shakespeare's +sonnets for dramatic themes; first, Josephine Preston Peabody +found in them a motive for her poetic play, <i>Fortune and Men's +Eyes</i>, and later George Bernard Shaw turned them to dramatic +account, in his own fashion, in <i>The Dark Lady of the Sonnets</i>. +The dramatic situation chosen for <i>Fortune and Men's Eyes</i> has +been read by some Shakespearian scholars into the familiar dedication +of the 1609 edition of the Sonnets, which runs: "To +the only begetter of these ensuing sonnets Mr. W. H. all happiness +and that eternity promised by our ever-living poet +wisheth the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth T. T." +The last initials stand for the name of the publisher, Thomas +Thorpe. "Begetter" has been variously interpreted as inspirer +of the Sonnets or as partner in the commercial enterprise +of their publication. "Mr. W. H." has been more usually +identified with William Herbert, earl of Pembroke, though +some have thought that the initials were inverted and referred +to Henry Wriothesly, earl of Southampton, to whom Shakespeare's +other poems were dedicated. If W. H. does refer to +the earl of Pembroke, it is usually held that the "dark lady" +is in reality the blond Mistress Mary Fytton, whose name +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page288" name="page288"></a>(p. 288)</span> was coupled with Pembroke's. Whether the sonnets are in +any sense at all autobiographical has also been endlessly debated. +It was admittedly an age when every poet tried his +hand at sonnet sequences and in all these sequences, not excepting +Shakespeare's, there are to be found the same conventional +conceits. But it is generally believed now that the +sonnets of Spenser and Sidney refer to the personal experiences +of their authors. It is quite possible, then, that Shakespeare, too, +may have used a literary convention as a means of personal +expression, though it seems impertinent in any case to question +the feeling back of "When in disgrace with fortune and men's +eyes." This brief reference to conflicting interpretations of the +Sonnets shows how material of dramatic value may lurk even +in the purlieus of textual criticism.</p> + +<p>Josephine Preston Peabody herself says: "The play was +written after long worship of the W. S. Sonnets, as a method +of introspection, to satisfy my own curiosity concerning the +truth of the sonnet theories. In spite of recurrent threats, by +one actor after another, it has never yet been produced on the +professional stage. But it has been read and recommended for +reading, in various colleges, as a picture of Elizabethan times, +and as an interpretation of the Pembroke-Fytton aspect of the +sonnet story."</p> + + + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page289" name="page289"></a>(p. 289)</span> FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES</h2> + +<p class="poem10"><i>"When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes" ...</i></p> + +<p class="right10">Sonnet xxix.</p> + +<ul class="none left30"> +<li>CHARACTERS</li> +</ul> + +<ul class="none left20"> +<li><span class="smcap">William Herbert</span>, <i>son of the Earl of Pembroke.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Simeon Dyer</span>, <i>a Puritan.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Tobias</span>, <i>host of "The Bear and The Angel."</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Wat Burrow</span>, <i>a bear-ward.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Dickon</span>, <i>a little boy, son to</i> <span class="smcap">Tobias</span>.</li> +<li><span class="smcap">Chiffin</span>, <i>a ballad-monger.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">A Prentice</span>.</li> +<li> </li> +<li><span class="smcap">A Player</span>, <i>master W. S. of the Lord Chamberlain's Company.</i></li> +<li> </li> +<li><span class="smcap">Mistress Mary Fytton</span>, <i>a maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Mistress Anne Hughes</span>, <i>also of the Court.</i></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Taverners and Prentices</span>.</li> +</ul> + +<p><i>Time represented: An afternoon in the autumn of the year 1599.</i></p> + + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>SCENE.</i>—<i>Interior of "The Bear and the Angel," South +London. At back, the center entrance gives on a short +alley-walk which joins the street beyond at a right angle. +To right and left of this doorway, casements. Down, on +the right, a door opening upon the inn-garden; a second +door on the right, up, leading to a tap-room. Opposite +this, left, a door leading into a buttery. Opposite the +garden-door, a large chimney-piece with a smoldering +wood-fire. A few seats; a lantern (unlighted) in a corner. +In the foreground, to the right, a long and narrow +table with several mugs of ale upon it, also a lute.</i></span></p> + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>At one end of the table</i> <span class="smcap">Wat Burrow</span> <i>is finishing his ale and +holding forth to the</i> <span class="smcap">Prentice</span> <i>(who thrums the lute) and +a group of taverners, some smoking. At the further end +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page290" name="page290"></a>(p. 290)</span> of the table</i> <span class="smcap">Simeon Dyer</span> <i>observes all with grave curiosity.</i> +<span class="smcap">Tobias</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>draw near. General noise.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentice</span> [<i>singing</i>].<br> +<i><span class="add2em">What do I give for the Pope and his riches!</span><br> +<span class="add2em">I's my ale and my Sunday breeches;</span><br> +<span class="add2em">I's an old master, I's a young lass,</span><br> +<span class="add2em">And we'll eat green goose, come Martinmas!</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Sing Rowdy Dowdy,</span><br> +<span class="add6em">Look ye don't crowd me</span><br> +<span class="add6em">I's a good club,</span><br> +<span class="add10em">—So let me pass!</span></i></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>.<br> +Again! again!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentice</span>. <span class="add6em"><i>Sing Rowdy—</i></span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span> [<i>finishing his beer</i>]. Swallow it down.<br> +Sling all such froth and follow me to the Bear!<br> +They stay for me, lined up to see us pass<br> +From end to end o' the alley. Ho! You doubt?<br> +From Lambeth to the Bridge!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Taverners</span>. } <span class="add4em">{ 'Tis so; ay.</span></p> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentices</span>. } <span class="add4em">{ Come, follow! Come.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add6em">Greg's stuck his ears</span><br> +With nosegays, and his chain is wound about<br> +Like any May-pole. What? I tell ye, boys,<br> +Ye have seen no such bear, a Bear o' Bears,<br> +Fit to bite off the prophet, in the show,<br> +With seventy such boys!<br> +[<i>Pulling</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon's</span> <i>ear</i>]. Bears, say you, bears?<br> +Why, Rursus Major, as your scholars tell,<br> +A royal bear, the greatest in his day,<br> +The sport of Alexander, unto Nick—<br> +Was a ewe-lamb, dyed black; no worse, no worse.<br> +To-morrow come and see him with the dogs;<br> +He'll not give way,—not he!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>. <span class="add8em">To-morrow's Thursday!</span><br> +To-morrow's Thursday!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentice</span>. <span class="add6em">Will ye lead by here?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tobias</span>.<br> +Ay, that would be a sight. <span class="add1em">Wat, man, this way!</span></p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page291" name="page291"></a>(p. 291)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>.<br> +Ho, would you squinch us? Why, there be a press<br> +O' gentry by this tide to measure Nick<br> +And lay their wagers, at a blink of him,<br> +Against to-morrow! Why, the stairs be full.<br> +To-morrow you shall see the Bridge a-creak,<br> +The river—dry with barges,—London gape,<br> +Gape! While the Borough buzzes like a hive<br> +With all their worships! Sirs, the fame o' Nick<br> +Has so pluckt out the gentry by the sleeve,<br> +'Tis said the Queen would see him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tobias</span>. } <span class="add4em">{ Ay, 'tis grand.</span></p> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>. } <span class="add4em">{ O-oh, the Queen?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentice</span>.<br> +How now? Thou art no man to lead a bear,<br> +Forgetting both his quality and hers!<br> +Drink all; come, drink to her.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tobias</span>. <span class="add8em">Ay, now.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat.</span> <span class="add12em">To her!—</span><br> +And harkee, boy, this saying will serve you learn:<br> +"The Queen, her high and glorious majesty!"</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span> [<i>gravely</i>].<br> +Long live the Queen!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add6em">Maker of golden laws</span><br> +For baitings! She that cherishes the Borough<br> +And shines upon our pastimes. By the mass!<br> +Thank her for the crowd to-morrow. But for her,<br> +We were a homesick handful of brave souls<br> +That love the royal sport. These mouthing players,<br> +These hookers, would 'a' spoiled us of our beer—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentice</span>.<br> +Lying by to catch the gentry at the stairs,—<br> +All pressing to Bear Alley—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add10em">Run 'em in</span><br> +At stage-plays and show-fooleries on the way.<br> +Stage-plays, with their tart nonsense and their flags,<br> +Their "Tamerlanes" and "Humors" and what not!<br> +My life on't, there was not a man of us<br> +But fared his Lent, by reason of their fatness,<br> +And on a holiday ate not at all!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page292" name="page292"></a>(p. 292)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tobias</span> [<i>solemnly</i>].<br> +'Tis so; 'tis so.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add4em">But when she heard it told</span><br> +How lean the sport was grown, she damns stage-plays<br> +O' Thursday. So: Nick gets his turn to growl!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentice</span>.<br> +As well as any player.<br> +[<i>With a dumb show of ranting among the</i> <span class="smcap">Taverners</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add6em">Players?—Hang them!</span><br> +I know 'em, I. I've been with 'em.... I was<br> +As sweet a gentlewoman in my voice<br> +As any of your finches that sings small.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tobias</span>. <span class="add12em">'Twas high.</span></p> + +<p>[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>, <i>followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Chiffin</span>, <i>the ballad-monger. +He is abstracted and weary.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span> [<i>lingering at the table</i>].<br> +I say, I've played.... There's not one man<br> +Of all the gang—save one.... Ay, there be one<br> +I grant you, now!... He used me in right sort;<br> +A man worth better trades.</p> + +<p class="add8em">[<i>Seeing</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="add12em">—Lord love you, sir!</span><br> +Why, this is you indeed. 'Tis a long day, sir,<br> +Since I clapped eyes on you. But even now<br> +Your name was on my tongue as pat as ale!<br> +You see me off. We bait to-morrow, sir;<br> +Will you come see? Nick's fresh, and every soul<br> +As hot to see the fight as 'twere to be—<br> +Man Daniel, baited with the lions!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tobias</span>. <span class="add10em">Sir,</span><br> +'Tis high ... 'tis high.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add6em">We show him in the street</span><br> +With dogs and all, ay, now, if you will see.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Why, so I will. A show and I not there?<br> +Bear it out bravely, Wat. High fortune, man!<br> +Commend me to thy bear.</p> + +<p class="add8em">[<i>Drinks and passes him the cup.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add6em">Lord love you, sir!</span><br> +'Twas ever so you gave a man godspeed....<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page293" name="page293"></a>(p. 293)</span> And yet your spirits flag; you look but palely.<br> +I'll take your kindness, thank ye.</p> + +<p class="add8em">[<i>Turning away.</i>]</p> + +<p class="bot_1"><span class="add12em">In good time!</span><br> +Come after me and Nick, now. Follow all;<br> +Come boys, come, pack!</p> + +<p class="top_1 add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Wat</span>,</span> <i>still descanting. Exeunt most of the</i> <span class="smcap">Taverners</span>, +<i>with the</i> <span class="smcap">Prentice</span>. <span class="smcap">Simeon Dyer</span> <i>draws +near</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>, <i>regarding him gravely.</i> <span class="smcap">Chiffin</span> +<i>sells ballads to those who go out.</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>is about to +follow them, when</i> <span class="smcap">Tobias</span> <i>stops him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Tobias</span>.<br> +What? Not so fast, you there;<br> +Who gave you holiday? Bide by the inn;<br> +Tend on our gentry.</p> + +<p class="add8em">[<i>Exit after the crowd.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Chiffin</span>. <span class="add8em">Ballads, gentlemen?</span><br> +Ballads, new ballads?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>.]<br> +With your pardon, sir,<br> +I am gratified to note your abstinence<br> +From this deplorable fond merriment<br> +Of baiting of a bear.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add4em">Your friendship then</span><br> +Takes pleasure in the heaviness of my legs.<br> +But I am weary I would see the bear.<br> +Nay, rest you happy; malt shall comfort us.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span>.<br> +You do mistake me. I am—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Chiffin</span>. <span class="add8em">Ballad, sir?</span><br> +"How a Young Spark would Woo a Tanner's Wife,<br> +And She Sings Sweet in Turn."</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span> [<i>indignantly</i>].<br> +<span class="add12em">Abandoned poet!</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Chiffin</span> [<i>indignantly</i>].<br> +I'm no such thing! An honest ballad, sir,<br> +No poetry at all.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Good, sell thy wares.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page294" name="page294"></a>(p. 294)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Chiffin</span>.<br> +"A Ballad of a Virtuous Country-Maid<br> +Forswears the Follies of the Flaunting Town"—<br> +And tends her geese all day, and weds a vicar.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span>.<br> +A godlier tale, in sooth. But speak, my man;<br> +If she be virtuous, and the tale a true one,<br> +Can she not do't in prose?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add8em">Beseech her, man.</span><br> +'Tis scandal she should use a measure so.<br> +For no more sin than dealing out false measure<br> +Was Dame Sapphira slain.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span>. <span class="add8em">You are with me, sir;</span><br> +Although methinks you do mistake the sense<br> +O' that you have read.... This jigging, jog-trot rime,<br> +This ring-me-round, debaseth mind and matter,<br> +To make the reason giddy—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Chiffin</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>].<br> +<span class="add10em">Ballad, sir?</span><br> +"Hear All!" A fine brave ballad of a Fish<br> +Just caught off Dover; nay, a one-eyed fish,<br> +With teeth in double rows.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add6em">Nay, nay, go to.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Chiffin</span>.<br> +"My Fortune's Folly," then; or "The True Tale<br> +Of an Angry Gull;" or "Cherries Like Me Best."<br> +"Black Sheep, or How a Cut-Purse Robbed His Mother;"<br> +"The Prentice and the Dell!"... "Plays Play not Fair,"<br> +Or how a <i>gentlewoman's</i> heart was took<br> +By a player that was king in a stage-play....<br> +"The Merry Salutation," "How a Spark<br> +Would Woo a Tanner's Wife!" "The Direful Fish"—<br> +Cock's passion, sir! not buy a cleanly ballad<br> +Of the great fish, late ta'en off Dover coast,<br> +Having two heads and teeth in double rows....<br> +Salt fish catched in fresh water?...<br> +<span class="add12em">'Od's my life!</span><br> +What if or salt or fresh? A prodigy!<br> +A ballad like "Hear All!" And me and mine,<br> +Five children and a wife would bait the devil,<br> +May lap the water out o' Lambeth Marsh<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page295" name="page295"></a>(p. 295)</span> Before he'll buy a ballad. My poor wife,<br> +That lies a-weeping for a tansy-cake!<br> +Body o' me, shall I scent ale again?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Why, here's persuasion; logic, arguments.<br> +Nay, not the ballad. Read for thine own joy.<br> +I doubt not but it stretches, honest length,<br> +From Maid Lane to the Bridge and so across.<br> +But for thy length of thirst—</p> +<p class="add8em">[<i>Giving him a coin.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="add12em">That touches near.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Chiffin</span> [<i>apart</i>].<br> +A vagrom player, would not buy a tale<br> +O' the Great Fish with the twy rows o' teeth!<br> +Learn you to read! [<i>Exit.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span>.<br> +Thou seemest, sir, from that I have overheard,<br> +A man, as one should grant, beyond thy calling....<br> +I would I might assure thee of the way,<br> +To urge thee quit this painted infamy.<br> +There may be time, seeing thou art still young,<br> +To pluck thee from the burning. How are ye 'stroyed,<br> +Ye foolish grasshoppers! Cut off, forgotten,<br> +When moth and rust corrupt your flaunting shows,<br> +The Earth shall have no memory of your name!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>.<br> +Pray you, what's yours?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span>. <span class="add6em">I am called Simeon Dyer.</span></p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>There is the sudden uproar of a crowd in the distance. +It continues at intervals for some time.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Prentices</span>. } <span class="add1em">Hey, lads?</span><br> +<span class="add4em">}</span> <span class="add1em">Some noise beyond: Come, cudgels, come!</span><br> +<span class="add4em">}</span> <span class="add1em">Come on, come on, I'm for it.</span></p> + +<p>[<i>Exeunt all but</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>, <span class="smcap">Simeon</span>, <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span>.<br> +Something untoward, without: or is it rather<br> +The tumult of some uproar incident<br> +To this ... vicinity?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add6em">It is an uproar</span><br> +Most incident to bears.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>. <span class="add8em">I would I knew!</span></p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page296" name="page296"></a>(p. 296)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>holding him off at arm's length</i>].<br> +Hey, boy? We would have tidings of the bear:<br> +Go thou, I'll be thy surety. Mark him well.<br> +Omit no fact; I would have all of it:<br> +What manner o' bear he is,—how bears himself;<br> +Number and pattern of ears, and eyes what hue;<br> +His voice and fashion o' coat. Nay, come not back,<br> +Till thou hast all. Skip, sirrah!</p> + +<p class="add8em">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span>. <span class="add10em">Think, fair sir.</span><br> +Take this new word of mine to be a seed<br> +Of thought in that neglected garden plot,<br> +Thy mind, thy worthier part. But think!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add12em">Why, so;</span><br> +Thou hast some right, friend; now and then it serves.<br> +Sometimes I have thought, and even now sometimes,<br> +... I think.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Simeon</span> [<i>benevolently</i>]. Heaven ripen thought unto an harvest! +[<i>Exit.</i>]</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>rises, stretches his arms, and paces the +floor, wearily.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>alone</i>].<br> +Some quiet now.... Why should I thirst for it<br> +As if my thoughts were noble company?<br> +Alone with the one man of all living men<br> +I have least cause to honor....<br> +<span class="add12em">I'm no lover,</span><br> +That seek to be alone!... She is too false—<br> +At last, to keep a spaniel's loyalty.<br> +I do believe it. And by my own soul,<br> +She shall not have me, what remains of me<br> +That may be beaten back into the ranks.<br> +I will not look upon her.... Bitter Sweet.<br> +This fever that torments me day by day—<br> +Call it not love—this servitude, this spell<br> +That haunts me like a sick man's fantasy,<br> +With pleading of her eyes, her voice, her eyes—<br> +It shall not have me. I am too much stained:<br> +But, God or no God, yet I do not live<br> +And have to bear my own soul company,<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page297" name="page297"></a>(p. 297)</span> +To have it stoop so low. She looks on Herbert.<br> +Oh, I have seen. But he,—he must withstand.<br> +He knows that I have suffered,—suffer still—<br> +Although I love her not. Her ways, her ways—<br> +It is her ways that eat into the heart<br> +With beauty more than Beauty; and her voice<br> +That silvers o'er the meaning of her speech<br> +Like moonshine on black waters. Ah, uncoil!...<br> +He's the sure morning after this dark dream;<br> +Clear daylight and west wind of a lad's love;<br> +With all his golden pride, for my dull hours,<br> +Still climbing sunward! Sink all loves in him!<br> +And cleanse me of this cursèd, fell distrust<br> +That marks the pestilence....<br> +<span class="add12em"><i>'Fair, kind, and true.'</i></span><br> +Lad, lad. How could I turn from friendliness<br> +To worship such false gods?—<br> +There cannot thrive a greater love than this,<br> +'Fair, kind, and true.' And yet, if She were true<br> +To me, though false to all things else;—one truth,<br> +So one truth lived—. One truth! O beggared soul<br> +—Foul Lazarus, so starved it can make shift<br> +To feed on crumbs of honor!—Am I this?</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Anne Hughes</span>. <i>She has been running in evident +terror, and stands against the door looking about her.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +Are you the inn-keeper?</p> + +<p class="add2em">[<span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>turns and bows courteously.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="add10em">Nay, sir, your pardon.</span><br> +I saw you not... And yet your face, methinks,<br> +But—yes, I'm sure....<br> +<span class="add10em">But where's the inn-keeper?</span><br> +I know not where I am, nor where to go.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Madam, it is my fortune that I may<br> +Procure you service. [<i>Going towards the door. The uproar +sounds nearer.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. <span class="add8em">Nay! what if the bear—</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +The bear?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page298" name="page298"></a>(p. 298)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +The door! The bear is broken loose.<br> +Did you not hear? I scarce could make my way<br> +Through that rank crowd, in search of some safe place.<br> +You smile, sir! But you had not seen the bear,—<br> +Nor I, this morning. Pray you, hear me out,—<br> +For surely you are gentler than the place.<br> +I came ... I came by water ... to the Garden,<br> +Alone, ... from bravery, to see the show<br> +And tell of it hereafter at the Court!<br> +There's one of us makes count of all such 'scapes<br> +('Tis Mistress Fytton). She will ever tell<br> +The sport it is to see the people's games<br> +Among themselves,—to go <i>incognita</i><br> +And take all as it is not for the Queen,<br> +Gallants and rabble! But by Banbury Cross,<br> +I am of tamer mettle!—All alone,<br> +Among ten thousand noisy watermen;<br> +And then the foul ways leading from the Stair;<br> +And then ... no friends I knew, nay, not a face.<br> +And my dear nose beset, and my pomander<br> +Lost in the rout,—or else a cut-purse had it:<br> +And then the bear breaks loose! Oh, 'tis a day<br> +Full of vexations, nay, and dangers too.<br> +I would I had been slower to outdo<br> +The pranks of Mary Fytton.... You know her, sir?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +If one of my plain calling may be said<br> +To know a maid-of-honor. [<i>More lightly.</i>] And yet more:<br> +My heart has cause to know the lady's face.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span> [<i>blankly</i>].<br> +Why, so it is.... Is't not a marvel, sir,<br> +The way she hath? Truly, her voice is good....<br> +And yet,—but oh, she charms; I hear it said.<br> +A winsome gentlewoman, of a wit, too.<br> +We are great fellows; she tells me all she does;<br> +And, sooth, I listen till my ears be like<br> +To grow for wonder. Whence my 'scape, to-day!<br> +Oh, she hath daring for the pastimes here;<br> +I would—change looks with her, to have her spirit!<br> +Indeed, they say she charms Someone, by this.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page299" name="page299"></a>(p. 299)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Someone....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. <span class="add4em">Hast heard?</span><br> +Why sure my Lord of Herbert.<br> +Ay, Pembroke's son. But there I doubt,—I doubt.<br> +He is an eagle will not stoop for less<br> +Than kingly prey. No bird-lime takes him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add12em">Herbert....</span><br> +He hath shown many favors to us players.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +Ah, now I have you!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add4em">Surely, gracious madam;</span><br> +My duty; ... what besides?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. <span class="add10em">This face of yours.</span><br> +'Twas in some play, belike. [<i>Apart.</i>] ... I took him for<br> +A man it should advantage me to know!<br> +And he's a proper man enough.... Ay me!</p> + +<p>[<i>When she speaks to him again it is with encouraging +condescension.</i>]</p> + +<p>Surely you've been at Whitehall, Master Player?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>bowing</i>].<br> +So.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. And how oft? And when?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add8em">Last Christmas tide;</span><br> +And Twelfth Day eve, perchance. Your memory<br> +Freshens a dusty past.... The hubbub's over.<br> +Shall I look forth and find some trusty boy<br> +To attend you to the river?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. <span class="add8em">I thank you, sir.</span></p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He goes to the door and steps out into the alley, looking +up and down. The noise in the distance springs up +again.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>[<i>Apart.</i>] 'Tis not past sufferance. Marry, I could stay<br> +Some moments longer, till the streets be safe.<br> +Sir, sir!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>returning</i>].<br> +Command me, madam.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. <span class="add8em">I will wait</span><br> +A little longer, lest I meet once more<br> +That ruffian mob or any of the dogs.<br> +These sports are better seen from balconies.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page300" name="page300"></a>(p. 300)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Will you step hither? There's an arbored walk<br> +Sheltered and safe. Should they come by again,<br> +You may see all, an't like you, and be hid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +A garden there? Come, you shall show it me.</p> +</div> + +<p class="add3em"><span class="min1em">[<i>They go out into the garden on the right, leaving the +door shut. Immediately enter, in great haste,</i> <span class="smcap">Mary +Fytton</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">William Herbert</span>, <i>followed by</i> +<span class="smcap">Dickon</span>, <i>who looks about and, seeing no one, goes +to setting things in order.</i>]</span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +Quick, quick!... She must have seen me. Those big eyes,<br> +How could they miss me, peering as she was<br> +For some familiar face? She would have known,<br> +Even before my mask was jostled off<br> +In that wild rabble ... bears and bearish men.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Why would you have me bring you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add12em">Why? Ah, why!</span><br> +Sooth, once I had a reason: now 'tis lost,—<br> +Lost! Lost! Call out the bell-man.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span> [<i>seriously</i>]. <span class="add6em">Shall I so?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Nay, nay; that were a merriment indeed,<br> +To cry us through the streets! [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span>.] You riddling charm.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +A riddle, yet? You almost love me, then.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Almost?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +Because you cannot understand.<br> +Alas, when all's unriddled, the charm goes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Come, you're not melancholy?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add10em">Nay, are you?</span><br> +But should Nan Hughes have seen us, and spoiled all—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +How could she so?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page301" name="page301"></a>(p. 301)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add6em">I know not ... yet I know</span><br> +If she had met us, she could steal To-day,<br> +Golden To-day.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>. <span class="add4em">A kiss; and so forget her.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +Hush, hush,—the tavern-boy there.<br> +[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>.] <span class="add6em">Tell me, boy,—</span><br> +[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert</span>.] <span class="add3em">Some errand, now; a roc's egg!</span><br> +<span class="add2em">Strike thy wit.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +What is't you miss? Why, so. The lady's lost<br> +A very curious reason, wrought about<br> +With diverse broidery.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add6em">Nay, 'twas a mask.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +A mask, arch-wit? Why will you mock yourself<br> +And all your fine deceits? Your mask, your reason,<br> +Your reason with a mask!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add6em">You are too merry.</span><br> +[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>.] A mask it is, and muffler finely wrought<br> +With little amber points all hung like bells.<br> +I lost it as I came, somewhere....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>. <span class="add10em">Somewhere</span><br> +Between the Paris Gardens and the Bridge.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +Or below Bridge—or haply in the Thames!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +No matter where, so you do bring it back.<br> +Fly, Mercury! Here's feathers for thy heels. [<i>Giving coin.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span> [<i>aside</i>].<br> +Weights, weights! [<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>.]</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Herbert</span> <i>looks about him, opens the door of the taproom, +grows troubled. She watches him with dissatisfaction, +seeming to warm her feet by the fire +meanwhile.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span> [<i>apart</i>].<br> +I know this place. We used to come<br> +Together, he and I ...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span> [<i>apart</i>]. <span class="add6em">Forgot again.</span><br> +O the capricious tides, the hateful calms,<br> +And the too eager ship that would be gone<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page302" name="page302"></a>(p. 302)</span> +Adventuring against uncertain winds,<br> +For some new, utmost sight of Happy Isles!<br> +Becalmed,—becalmed ... But I will break this calm.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>She sees the lute on the table, crosses and takes it up, running +her fingers over the strings very softly. She sits.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Ah, mermaid, is it you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add8em">Did you sail far?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Not I; no, sooth. [<i>Crossing to her.</i>]<br> +<span class="add8em">Mermaid, I would not think.</span><br> +But you—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +I think not. I remember nothing.<br> +There's nothing in the world but you and me;<br> +All else is dust. Thou shalt not question me;<br> +Or if,—but as a sphinx in woman-shape:<br> +And when thou fail'st at answer, I shall turn,<br> +And rend thy heart and cast thee from the cliff.<br> +[<i>She leans her head back against him, and he kisses her.</i>]<br> +So perish all who guess not what I am!...<br> +Oh, but I know you: you are April-Days.<br> +Nothing is sure, but all is beautiful!</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>She runs her fingers up the strings, one by one, and +listens, speaking to the lute.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>Is it not so? Come, answer. Is it true?<br> +Speak, sweeting, since I love thee best of late,<br> +And have forsook my virginals for thee.<br> +<i>All's beautiful indeed and all unsure?</i><br> +<i>"Ay"</i> ... (Did you hear?) <i>He's fair and faithless? "Ay."</i> [<i>Speaking with the lute.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Poor oracle, with only one reply!—<br> +Wherein 'tis unlike thee.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <i><span class="add8em">Can he love aught</span><br> +So well as his own image in the brook,<br> +Having once seen it?</i></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>. <span class="add5em">Ay!</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add8em">The lute saith "<i>No."</i> ...</span><br> +O dullard! Here were tidings, would you mark.<br> +What said I? <i>Oracle, can he love aught<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page303" name="page303"></a>(p. 303)</span> +So dear as his own image in the brook,<br> +Having once looked</i>?... No, truly.<br> +[<i>With sudden abandon.</i>] <span class="add4em">Nor can I!</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +O leave this game of words, you thousand-tongued.<br> +Sing, sing to me. So shall I be all yours<br> +Forever;—or at least till you be mute!...<br> +I used to wonder he should be thy slave:<br> +I wonder now no more. Your ways are wonders;<br> +You have a charm to make a man forget<br> +His past and yours, and everything but you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span> [<i>speaking</i>].<br> +<i><span class="add4em">"When daisies pied and violets blue</span><br> +<span class="add5em">And lady-smocks all silver-white"—</span></i><br> +How now?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +"How now?" That song ... thou wilt sing that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +Marry, what mars the song?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>. <span class="add8em">Have you forgot</span><br> +Who made it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add4em">Soft, what idleness! So fine?</span><br> +So rude? And bid me sing! You get but silence;<br> +Or, if I sing,—beshrew me, it shall be<br> +A dole of song, a little starveling breath<br> +As near to silence as a song can be.<br> +[<i>She sings under-breath, fantastically.</i>]<br> +<i><span class="add5em">Say how many kisses be</span><br> +<span class="add5em">Lent and lost twixt you and me?</span><br> +<span class="add5em">'Can I tell when they begun?'</span><br> +<span class="add5em">Nay, but this were prodigal:</span><br> +<span class="add5em">Let us learn to count withal.</span><br> +<span class="add5em">Since no ending is to spending,</span><br> +<span class="add5em">Sum our riches, one by one.</span><br> +<span class="add5em">'You shall keep the reckoning,</span><br> +<span class="add5em">Count each kiss while I do sing.'</span></i></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Oh, not these little wounds. You vex my heart;<br> +Heal it again with singing,—come, sweet, come.<br> +Into the garden! None shall trouble us.<br> +This place has memories and conscience too:<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page304" name="page304"></a>(p. 304)</span> +Drown all, my mermaid. Wind them in your hair<br> +And drown them, drown them all.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He swings open the garden-door for her. At the same +moment</i> <span class="smcap">Anne's</span> <i>voice is heard approaching.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span> [<i>without</i>]. Some music there?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Perdition! Quick—behind me, love.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Swinging the door shut again, and looking through the +crack.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +'Tis she—<br> +Nan Hughes, 'tis she! How came she here? By heaven,<br> +She crosses us to-day. Nan Hughes lights here<br> +In a Bank tavern! Nay, I'll not be seen.<br> +Sooner or later it must mean the wreck<br> +Of both ... should the Queen know.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>. <span class="add10em">The spite of chance!</span><br> +She talks with someone in the arbor there<br> +Whose face I see not. Come, here's doors at least.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>They cross hastily.</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>opens the door on the left and +looks within.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +Too thick.... I shall be penned. But guard you this<br> +And tell me when they're gone. Stay, stay;—mend all.<br> +If she have seen me,—swear it was not I.<br> +Heaven speed her home, with her new body-guard!</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Exit, closing door.</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert</span> <i>looks out into the garden.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +By all accursèd chances,—none but he!</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Retires up to stand beside the door, looking out of casement. +Re-enter from the garden,</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span>, <i>followed +by</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>.]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +No, 'twas some magic in my ears, I think.<br> +There's no one here. [<i>Seeing</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert</span>.]<br> +<span class="add8em">But yes, there's someone here:—</span><br> +The inn-keeper. Are you—<br> +<span class="add10em">Saint Catherine's bones!</span><br> +My Lord of Herbert. Sir, you could not look<br> +More opportune. But for this gentleman—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page305" name="page305"></a>(p. 305)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span> [<i>bowing</i>].<br> +My friend, this long time since,—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +Marry, your friend?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>regarding</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert</span> <i>searchingly</i>].<br> +This long time since.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. <span class="add8em">Nay, is it so, indeed?</span><br> +[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert</span>.] My day's fulfilled of blunders! O sweet sir,<br> +How can I tell you? But I'll tell you all<br> +If you'll but bear me escort from this place<br> +Where none of us belongs. Yours is the first<br> +Familiar face I've seen this afternoon!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span> [<i>apart</i>].<br> +A sweet assurance.<br> +[<i>Aloud.</i>] <span class="add4em">But you seek ... you need</span><br> +Some rest—some cheer, some—Will you step within?<br> +<span class="add2em">[<i>Indicating tap-room.</i>]</span><br> +The tavern is deserted, but—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>. <span class="add10em">Not here!</span><br> +I've been here quite an hour. Come, citywards,<br> +To Whitehall! I have had enough of bears<br> +To quench my longing till next Whitsuntide.<br> +Down to the river, pray you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>. <span class="add8em">Sooth, at once?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +At once, at once.<br> +[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>.] I crave your pardon, sir,<br> +For sundering your friendships. I've heard say<br> +A woman always comes between two men<br> +To their confusion. You shall drink amends<br> +Some other day. I must be safely home.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>reassured by</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert's</span> <i>reluctance to go.</i>]<br> +It joys me that your trials have found an end;<br> +And for the rest, I wish you prosperous voyage;<br> +Which needs not, with such halcyon weather toward.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span> [<i>apart</i>].<br> +It cuts: and yet he knows not. Can it pass?<br> +[<i>To him.</i>] Let us meet soon. I have—I know not what<br> +To say—nay, no import; but chance has parted<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page306" name="page306"></a>(p. 306)</span> +Our several ways too long. To leave you thus,<br> +Without a word—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne.</span> <span class="add6em">You are in haste, my lord!</span><br> +By the true faith, here are two friends indeed!<br> +Two lovers crossed: and I,—'tis I that bar them.<br> +Pray tarry, sir. I doubt not I may light<br> +Upon some link-boy to attend me home<br> +Or else a drunken prentice with a club,<br> +Or that patched keeper strolling from the Garden<br> +With all his dogs along; or failing them,<br> +A pony with a monkey on his back,<br> +Or, failing that, a bear! Some escort, sure,<br> +Such as the Borough offers! I shall look<br> +Part of a pageant from the Lady Fair,<br> +And boast for three full moons, "Such sights I saw!"<br> +Truly, 'tis new to me: but I doubt not<br> +I shall trick out a mind for strange adventure,<br> +As high as—Mistress Fytton!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>. <span class="add8em">Say no more,</span><br> +Dear lady! I entreat you pardon me<br> +The lameness of my wit. I'm stark adream;<br> +You lighted here so suddenly, unlooked for<br> +Vision in Bankside.... Let me hasten you,<br> +Now that I see I dream not. It grows late.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span>.<br> +And can you grant me such a length of time?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span>.<br> +Length? Say Illusion! Time? Alas, 'twill be<br> +Only a poor half-hour [<i>loudly</i>], a poor half-hour!<br> +[<i>Apart.</i>] Did she hear that, I wonder?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>bowing over</i> <span class="smcap">Anne's</span> <i>hand</i>]. Not so, madam;<br> +A little gold of largess, fallen to me<br> +By chance.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span> [<i>to him</i>].<br> +A word with you—<br> +[<i>Apart.</i>] <span class="add4em">O, I am gagged!</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Anne</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>].<br> +You go with us, sir?</p> + +<p class="add4em">[<i>He moves towards door with them.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add4em">No, I do but play</span><br> +Your inn-keeper.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page307" name="page307"></a>(p. 307)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Herbert</span> [<i>apart, despairingly</i>].<br> +The eagle is gone blind.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Exeunt, leaving doors open. They are seen to go down +the walk together. At the street they pause,</i> <span class="smcap">The +Player</span>, <i>bowing slowly, then turning back towards +the inn;</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>holding</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert's</span> <i>arm. Within, the +door on the left opens slightly, then</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>appears.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +'Tis true. My ears caught silence, if no more.<br> +They're gone....</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>She comes out of her hiding-place and opens the left-hand +casement to see</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span> <i>disappearing with</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert</span>.]</span></p> + +<p>She takes him with her! He'll return?<br> +Gone, gone, without a word; and I was caged,—<br> +And deaf as well. O, spite of everything!<br> +She's so unlike.... How long shall I be here<br> +To wait and wonder? He with her—with her!</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">The Player</span>, <i>having come slowly back to the door, hears +her voice.</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>darts towards the entrance to look +after</i> <span class="smcap">Herbert</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Anne</span>. <i>She sees him and recoils. +She falls back step by step, while he stands holding +the door-posts with his hands, impassive.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>You!...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Yes.... [<i>After a pause.</i>] And you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add10em">Do you not ask me why</span><br> +I'm here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +I am not wont to shun the truth:<br> +But yet I think the reason you could give<br> +Were too uncomely.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add6em">Nay;—</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add8em">If it were truth;</span><br> +If it were truth! Although that likelihood<br> +Scarce threatens.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add4em">So. Condemned without a trial.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +O, speak the lie now. Let there be no chance<br> +For my unsightly love, bound head and foot,<br> +Stark, full of wounds and horrible,—to find<br> +Escape from out its charnel-house; to rise<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page308" name="page308"></a>(p. 308)</span> +Unwelcome before eyes that had forgot,<br> +And say it died not truly. It should die.<br> +Play no imposture: leave it,—it is dead.<br> +I have been weak in that I tried to pour<br> +The wine through plague-struck veins. It came to life<br> +Over and over, drew sharp breath again<br> +In torture such as't may be to be born,<br> +If a poor babe could tell. Over and over,<br> +I tell you, it has suffered resurrection,<br> +Cheating its pain with hope, only to die<br> +Over and over;—die more deaths than men<br> +The meanest, most forlorn, are made to die<br> +By tyranny or nature.... Now I see all<br> +Clear. And I say, it shall not rise again.<br> +I am as safe from you as I were dead.<br> +I know you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add4em">Herbert—</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add6em">Do not touch his name.</span><br> +Leave that; I saw.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add6em">You saw? Nay, what?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add12em">The whole</span><br> +Clear story. Not at first. While you were hid,<br> +I took some comfort, drop by drop, and minute<br> +By minute. (Dullard!) Yet there was a maze<br> +Of circumstance that showed even then to me<br> +Perplext and strange. You here unravel it.<br> +All's clear: you are the clue. [<i>Turning away.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span> [<i>going to the casement</i>].<br> +[<i>Apart.</i>] <span class="add10em">Caged, caged!</span><br> +Does he know all? Why were those walls so dense?<br> +[<i>To him.</i>] Nan Hughes hath seized the time to tune your mind<br> +To some light gossip. Say, how came she here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +All emulation, thinking to match you<br> +In high adventure:—liked it not, poor lady!<br> +And is gone home, attended.</p> +</div> + +<p class="add8em">[<i>Re-enter</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>.]</p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span>] <span class="add4em">They be lost!—</span><br> +Thy mask and muffler;—'tis no help to search.<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page309" name="page309"></a>(p. 309)</span> +Some hooker would 'a' swallowed 'em, be sure,<br> +As the whale swallows Jonas, in the show.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +'Tis nought: I care not.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span> [<i>looking at the fire</i>].<br> +Hey, it wants a log.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>While he mends the fire, humming,</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>stands +taking thought.</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>speaks apart, going to casement +again to look out.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span> [<i>apart</i>].<br> +I will have what he knows. To cast me off:—<br> +Not thus, not thus. Peace, I can blind him yet,<br> +Or he'll despise me. Nay, I will not be<br> +Thrust out at door like this. I will not go<br> +But by mine own free will. There is no power<br> +Can say what he might do to ruin us,<br> +To win Will Herbert from me,—almost mine,<br> +And I all his, all his—O April-Days!—<br> +Well, friendship against love? I know who wins.<br> +He is grown dread.... But yet he is a man.</p> + +<p class="add5em">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>into tap-room.</i>]</p> + +<p>[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>, <i>suavely.</i>] Well, headsman?</p> + +<p class="add6em">[<i>He does not turn.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="add8em">Mind your office: I am judged.</span><br> +Guilty, was it not so?... What is to do,<br> +Do quickly.... Do you wait for some reprieve?<br> +Guilty, you said. Nay, do you turn your face<br> +To give me some small leeway of escape?<br> +And yet, I will not go ...</p> + +<p class="add6em">[<i>Coming down slowly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="add12em">Well, headsman?...</span><br> +You ask not why I came here, Clouded Brow,<br> +Will you not ask me why I stay? No word?<br> +O blind, come lead the blind! For I, I too<br> +Lack sight and every sense to linger here<br> +And make me an intruder where I once<br> +Was welcome, oh most welcome, as I dreamed.<br> +Look on me, then. I do confess, I have<br> +Too often preened my feathers in the sun<br> +And thought to rule a little, by my wit.<br> +I have been spendthrift with men's offerings<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page310" name="page310"></a>(p. 310)</span> +To use them like a nosegay,—tear apart,<br> +Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, until<br> +I found the heart all bare, the curious heart<br> +I longed to see for once, and cast away.<br> +And so, at first, with you.... Ah, now I think<br> +You're wise. There's nought so fair, so ... curious.<br> +So precious-rare to find as honesty.<br> +'Twas all a child's play then, a counting-off<br> +Of petals. Now I know.... But ask me why<br> +I come unheralded, and in a mist<br> +Of circumstance and strangeness. Listen, love;<br> +Well then, dead love, if you will have it so.<br> +I have been cunning, cruel,—what you will:<br> +And yet the days of late have seemed too long<br> +Even for summer! Something called me here.<br> +And so I flung my pride away and came,<br> +A very woman for my foolishness,<br> +To say once more,—to say ...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add8em">Nay, I'll not ask.</span><br> +What lacks? I need no more, you have done well.<br> +'Tis rare. There is no man I ever saw<br> +But you could school him. Women should be players.<br> +You are sovran in the art: feigning and truth<br> +Are so commingled in you. Sure, to you<br> +Nature's a simpleton hath never seen<br> +Her own face in the well. Is there aught else?<br> +To ask of my poor calling?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add10em">I deserved it</span><br> +In other days. Hear how I can be meek.<br> +I am come back, a foot-worn runaway,<br> +Like any braggart boy. Let me sit down<br> +And take Love's horn-book in my hands again<br> +And learn from the beginning;—by the rod,<br> +If you will scourge me, love. Come, come, forgive.<br> +I am not wont to sue: and yet to-day<br> +I am your suppliant, I am your servant,<br> +Your link-boy, ay, your minstrel: ay,—wilt hear?</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Takes up the lute, and gives a last look out of the casement.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>The tumult in the streets is all apart<br> +With the discordant past. The hour that is<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page311" name="page311"></a>(p. 311)</span> +Shall be the only thing in all the world.<br> +[<i>Apart.</i>] I will be safe. He'll not win Herbert from me!</p> + +<p class="add8em">[<i>Crossing to him.</i>]</p> + +<p>Will you have music, good my lord?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>catching the lute from her.</i>] Not that.<br> +Not that! By heaven, you shall not.... Nevermore.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +So ... But you speak at last. You are, forsooth,<br> +A man: and you shall use me as my due;—<br> +A woman, not the wind about your ears;<br> +A woman whom you loved.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>half-apart, still holding the lute</i>].<br> +<span class="add10em">Why were you not</span><br> +That beauty that you seemed?... But had you been,<br> +'Tis true, you would have had no word for me,—<br> +No looks of love!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add4em">The man reproaches me?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Not I—not I.... Will Herbert, what am I<br> +To lay this broken trust to you,—to you,<br> +Young, free, and tempted: April on his way,<br> +Whom all hands reach for, and this woman here<br> +Had set her heart upon!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add8em">What fantasy!</span><br> +Surely he must have been from town of late,<br> +To see the gude-folks! And how fare they, sir?<br> +Reverend yeoman, say, how thrive the sheep?<br> +What did the harvest yield you?—Did you count<br> +The cabbage heads? and find how like ... nay, nay!<br> +But our gude-wife, did she bid in the neighbors<br> +To prove them that her husband was no myth?<br> +Some Puritan preacher, nay, some journeyman,<br> +To make you sup the sweeter with long prayers?<br> +This were a rare conversion, by my soul!<br> +From sonnets unto sermons:—eminent!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Oh, yes, your scorn bites truly: sermons next.<br> +There is so much to say. But it must be learned,<br> +And I require hard schooling, dream too much<br> +On what I would men were,—but women most.<br> +I need the cudgel of the task-master<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page312" name="page312"></a>(p. 312)</span> +To make me con the truth. Yes, blind, you called me,<br> +And 'tis my shame I bandaged mine own eyes<br> +And held them dark. Now, by the grace of God,<br> +Or haply because the devil tries too far,<br> +I tear the blindfold off, and I see all.<br> +I see you as you are; and in your heart<br> +The secret love sprung up for one I loved,<br> +A reckless boy who has trodden on my soul—<br> +But that's a thing apart, concerns not you.<br> +I know that you will stake your heaven and earth<br> +To fool me,—fool us both.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span> [<i>with idle interest</i>].<br> +Why were you not<br> +So stern a long time since? You're not so wise<br> +As I have heard them say.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>standing by the chimney</i>].<br> +Wise? Oh, not I.<br> +Who was so witless as to call me wise?<br> +Sure he had never bade me a good-day<br> +And seen me take the cheer....<br> +<span class="add12em">I was your fool</span><br> +Too long.... I am no longer anything.<br> +Speak: what are you?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span> [<i>after a pause</i>].<br> +The foolishest of women:<br> +A heart that should have been adventurer<br> +On the high seas; a seeker in new lands,<br> +To dare all and to lose. But I was made<br> +A woman.<br> +<span class="add4em">Oh, you see!—could you see all.</span><br> +What if I say ... the truth is not so far,</p> + +<p class="add6em">[<i>Watching him.</i>]</p> + +<p>Yet farther than you dream. If I confess ...<br> +He charmed my fancy ... for the moment,—ay<br> +The shine of his fortunes too, the very name<br> +Of Pembroke?... Dear my judge,—ay, clouded brow<br> +And darkened fortune, be not black to me!<br> +I'd try for my escape; the window's wide,<br> +No one forbids, and yet I stay—I stay.</p> + +<p class="tb">.......</p> + +<p>Oh, I was niggard, once, unkind—I know,<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page313" name="page313"></a>(p. 313)</span> +Untrusty: loved, unloved you, day by day:<br> +A little and a little,—why, I knew not,<br> +And more, and wondered why;—then not at all:<br> +Drank up the dew from out your very heart,<br> +Like the extortionate sun, to leave you parched<br> +Till, with as little grace, I flung all back<br> +In gusts of angry rain! I have been cruel.<br> +But the spell works; yea, love, the spell, the spell<br> +Fed by your fasting, by your subtlety<br> +Past all men's knowledge.... There is something rare<br> +About you that I long to flee and cannot:—<br> +Some mastery ... that's more my will than I.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>She laughs softly. He listens, looking straight ahead, +not at her, immobile, but suffering evidently. She +watches his face and speaks with greater intensity. +Here she crosses nearer and falls on her knees.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>Ah, look: you shall believe, you shall believe.<br> +Will you put by your Music? Was I that?<br> +Your Music,—very Music?... Listen, then,<br> +Turn not so blank a face. Thou hast my love.<br> +I'll tell thee so till thought itself shall tire<br> +And fall a-dreaming like a weary child, ...<br> +Only to dream of you, and in its sleep<br> +To murmur You.... Ah, look at me, love, lord ...<br> +Whom queens would honor. Read these eyes you praised,<br> +That pitied, once,—that sue for pity now.<br> +But look! You shall not turn from me—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add12em">Eyes, eyes!—</span><br> +The darkness hides so much.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>. <span class="add8em">He'll not believe....</span><br> +What can I do? What more,—what more, you ... man?<br> +I bruise my heart here, at an iron gate....</p> + +<p class="add1em">[<i>She regards him half gloomily without rising.</i>]</p> + +<p>Yet there is one thing more.... You'll take me, now?—<br> +My meaning.... You were right. For once I say it.<br> +There is a glory of discovery [<i>ironically</i>]<br> +To the black heart ... because it may be known<br> +But once,—but once....<br> +<span class="add8em">I wonder men will hide</span><br> +Their motives all so close. If they could guess,—<br> +It is so new to feel the open day<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page314" name="page314"></a>(p. 314)</span> +Look in on all one's hidings, at the end.<br> +So.... You were right. The first was all a lie:<br> +A lie, and for a purpose....<br> +Now,—[<i>she rises and stands off, regarding him abruptly</i>],<br> +And why, I know not,—but 'tis true, at last,<br> +I do believe ... I love you.<br> +<span class="add10em">Look at me!</span></p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He stands by the fireside against the chimney-piece. She +crosses to him with passionate appeal, holding out her +arms. He turns his eyes and looks at her with a rigid +scrutiny. She endures it for a second, then wavers; +makes an effort, unable to look away, to lift her arms +towards his neck; they falter and fall at her side. +The two stand spellbound by mutual recognition. +Then she speaks in a low voice.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mary</span>.<br> +Oh, let me go!</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>She turns her head with an effort,—gathers her cloak +about her, then hastens out as if from some terror.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>is alone beside the chimney-piece. The +street outside is darkening with twilight through the +casements and upper door. There is a sound of +rough-throated singing that comes by and is softened +with distance. It breaks the spell.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +So; it is over ... now. [<i>He looks into the fire.</i>]</p> + +<p class="tb">........</p> + +<p>"<i>Fair, kind, and true." And true!</i>... My golden Friend.<br> +Those two ... together.... He was ill at ease.<br> +But that he should betray me with a kiss!</p> + +<p class="tb">.........</p> + +<p>By this preposterous world ... I am in need.<br> +Shall there be no faith left? Nothing but names?<br> +Then he's a fool who steers his life by such.<br> +Why not the body-comfort of this herd<br> +Of creatures huddled here to keep them warm?—<br> +Trying to drown out with enforcèd laughter<br> +The query of the winds ... unanswered winds<br> +That vex the soul with a perpetual doubt.<br> +What holds me?... Bah, that were a Cause, indeed!<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page315" name="page315"></a>(p. 315)</span> +To prove your soul one truth, by being it,—<br> +Against the foul dishonor of the world!<br> +How else prove aught?...<br> +<span class="add10em">I talk into the air.</span><br> +And at my feet, my honor full of wounds.<br> +Honor? Whose honor? For I knew my sin,<br> +And she ... had none. There's nothing to avenge.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He speaks with more and more passion, too distraught to +notice interruptions. Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>, <i>with a tallow-dip. +He regards</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>with half-open mouth +from the corner; then stands by the casement, leaning +up against it and yawning now and then.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>I had no right: that I could call her mine<br> +So none should steal her from me, and die for't.<br> +There's nothing to avenge ... Brave beggary!<br> +How fit to lodge me in this home of Shows,<br> +With all the ruffian life, the empty mirth,<br> +The gross imposture of humanity,<br> +Strutting in virtues it knows not to wear,<br> +Knave in a stolen garment—all the same—<br> +Until it grows enamored of a life<br> +It was not born to,—falls a-dream, poor cheat,<br> +In the midst of its native shams,—the thieves and bears<br> +And ballad-mongers all!... Of such am I.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Re-enter</i> <span class="smcap">Tobias</span> <i>and one or two</i> <span class="smcap">Taverners</span>. <span class="smcap">Tobias</span> <i>regards</i> +<span class="smcap">The Player</span>, <i>who does not notice anyone,—then +leads off</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>by the ear. Exeunt into taproom.</i> +<span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>goes to the casement, pushes it +wide open, and gazes out at the sky.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>Is there naught else?... I could make shift to bind<br> +My heart up and put on my mail again,<br> +To cheat myself and death with one fight more,<br> +If I could think there were some worldly use<br> +For bitter wisdom.<br> +<span class="add8em">But I'm no general,</span><br> +That my own hand-to-hand with evil days<br> +Should cheer my doubting thousands....<br> +<span class="add12em">I'm no more</span><br> +Than one man lost among a multitude;<br> +And in the end dust swallows them—and me,<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page316" name="page316"></a>(p. 316)</span> +And the good sweat that won our victories.<br> +Who sees? Or seeing, cares? Who follows on?<br> +Then why should my dishonor trouble me,<br> +Or broken faith in him? <i>What is it suffers?<br> +And why?</i> Now that the moon is turned to blood.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He turns towards the door with involuntary longing, and +seems to listen.</i>]</span></p> + +<p>No ... no, he will not come. Well, I have naught<br> +To do but pluck from me my bitter heart,<br> +And live without it.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Re-enter</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>with a tankard and a cup. He sets +them down on a small table; this he pushes towards</i> +<span class="smcap">The Player</span>, <i>who turns at the noise.</i>]</span></p> + +<p class="add10em">So...? Is it for me?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>.<br> +Ay, on the score! I had good sight o' the bear.<br> +Look, here's a sprig was stuck on him with pitch;—</p> + +<p class="add4em">[<i>Rubbing the sprig on his sleeve.</i>]</p> + +<p>I caught it up,—from Lambeth marsh, belike.<br> +Such grow there, and I've seen thee cherish such.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Give us thy posy.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He comes back to the fire and sits in the chair near by.</i> +<span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>gets out the iron lantern from the corner.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>. <span class="add6em">Hey! It wants a light.</span></p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>seems to listen once more, his face turned +towards the door. He lifts his hand as if to hush</i> +<span class="smcap">Dickon</span>, <i>lets it fall, and looks back at the fire.</i> +<span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>regards him with shy curiosity and draws +nearer.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>.<br> +Thou wilt be always minding of the fire ...<br> +Wilt thou not?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add2em">Ay.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>. <span class="add5em">It likes me, too.</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add10em">So?</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>. <span class="add14em">Ay....</span><br> +I would I knew what thou art thinking on<br> +When thou dost mind the fire....</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>. <span class="add8em">Wouldst thou?</span></p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page317" name="page317"></a>(p. 317)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span>. <span class="add14em">Ay.</span></p> + +<p>[<i>Sound of footsteps outside. A group approaches the door.</i>]</p> + +<p>Oh, here he is, come back!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>rising with passionate eagerness</i>].<br> +<span class="add12em">Brave lad—brave lad!</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Dickon</span> [<i>singing</i>].<br> +<i><span class="add2em">Hang out your lanthorns, trim your lights</span><br> +<span class="add2em">To save your days from knavish nights!</span></i></p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He plunges, with his lantern, through the doorway, +stumbling against</i> <span class="smcap">Wat Burrow</span>, <i>who enters, a sorry +figure, the worse for wear.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span> [<i>sourly</i>].<br> +Be the times soft, that you must try to cleave<br> +Way through my ribs as tho' I was the moon?—<br> +And you the man-wi-'the-lanthorn, or his dog?—<br> +You bean!...</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span>. <span class="smcap">Wat</span> <i>shambles in and sees</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span>.]</span></p> + +<p class="add6em">What, you sir, here?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Ay, here, good Wat.</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>While</i> <span class="smcap">Wat</span> <i>crosses to the table and gets himself a chair,</i> +<span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>looks at him as if with a new consciousness +of the surroundings. After a time he sits as +before. Re-enter</i> <span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>and curls up on the floor, +at his feet.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>.<br> +O give me comfort, sir. This cursèd day,—<br> +A wry, damned ... noisome.... Ay, poor Nick, poor Nick!<br> +He's all to mend—Poor Nick! He's sorely maimed,<br> +More than we'd baited him with forty dogs.<br> +'Od's body! Said I not, sir, he would fight?<br> +Never before had he, in leading-chain,<br> +Walked out to take the air and show his parts....<br> +'Went to his noddle like some greenest gull's<br> +That's new come up to town.... The prentices<br> +Squeaking along like Bedlam, he breaks loose<br> +And prances me a hey,—I dancing counter!<br> +Then such a cawing 'mongst the women! Next,<br> +The chain did clatter and enrage him more;—<br> +You would 'a' sworn a bear grew on each link,<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page318" name="page318"></a>(p. 318)</span> +And after each a prentice with a cudgel,—<br> +Leaving him scarce an eye! So, howling all,<br> +We run a pretty pace ... and Nick, poor Nick,<br> +He catches on a useless, stumbling fry<br> +That needed not be born,—and bites into him.<br> +And then ... the Constable ... And now, no show!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +Poor Wat!... Thou wentest scattering misadventure<br> +Like comfits from thy horn of plenty, Wat.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>.<br> +Ay, thank your worship. You be best to comfort.</p> + +<p class="add6em">[<i>He pours a mug of ale.</i>]</p> + +<p>No show to-morrow! Minnow Constable....<br> +I'm a jack-rabbit strung up by my heels<br> +For every knave to pinch as he goes by!<br> +Alas, poor Nick, bear Nick ... oh, think on Nick.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +With all his fortunes darkened for a day,—<br> +And the eye o' his reason, sweet intelligencer,<br> +Under a beggarly patch.... I pledge thee, Nick.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>.<br> +Oh, you have seen hard times, sir, with us all.<br> +Your eyes lack luster, too, this day. What say you?<br> +No jesting.... What? I've heard of marvels there<br> +In the New Country. There would be a knop-hole<br> +For thee and me. There be few Constables<br> +And such unhallowed fry.... An thou wouldst lay<br> +Thy wit to mine—what is't we could not do?<br> +Wilt turn't about?</p> + +<p class="add2em">[<i>Leans towards him in cordial confidence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="add8em">Nay, you there, sirrah boy,</span><br> +Leave us together; as 'tis said in the play,<br> +'Come, leave us, Boy!'</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>does not move. He gives a sigh and leans his +head against</i> <span class="smcap">The Player's</span> <i>knee, his arms around his +legs. He sleeps.</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span> <i>gazes sternly into the +fire, while</i> <span class="smcap">Wat</span> <i>rambles on, growing drowsy.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>.<br> +The cub there snores good counsel. When all's done,<br> +What a bubble is ambition!... When all's done....<br> +What's yet to do?... Why, sleep.... Yet even now<br> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page319" name="page319"></a>(p. 319)</span> +I was on fire to see myself and you<br> +Off for the Colony with Raleigh's men.<br> +I've been beholden to 'ee.... Why, for thee<br> +I could make shift to suffer plays o' Thursday.<br> +Thou'rt the best man among them, o' my word.<br> +There's other trades and crafts and qualities<br> +Could serve ... an thou wouldst lay thy wit to mine.<br> +Us two!... us two!...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span> [<i>apart, to the fire</i>].<br> +"Fair, kind, and true."...</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Wat</span>. <span class="add8em">... Poor Nick!</span></p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>He nods over his ale. There is muffled noise in the taproom. +Someone opens the door a second, letting in a +stave of a song, then slams the door shut.</i> <span class="smcap">The +Player</span>, <i>who has turned, gloomily, starts to rise.</i> +<span class="smcap">Dickon</span> <i>moves in his sleep, sighs heavily, and settles +his cheek against</i> <span class="smcap">The Player's</span> <i>shoes.</i> <span class="smcap">The Player</span> +<i>looks down for a moment. Then he sits again, looking +now at the fire, now at the boy, whose hair he +touches.</i>]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">The Player</span>.<br> +So, heavy-head. You bid me think my thought<br> +Twice over; keep me by, a heavy heart,<br> +As ballast for thy dream. Well, I will watch ...<br> +Like slandered Providence. Nay, I'll not be<br> +The prop to fail thy trust untenderly,<br> +After a troubled day....<br> +<span class="add10em">Nay, rest you here.</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + + + + +<h1><span class="pagenum"><a id="page321" name="page321"></a>(p. 321)</span> THE LITTLE MAN<a id="footnotetag54" name="footnotetag54"></a><a href="#footnote54" title="Go to footnote 54"><span class="smaller">[54]</span></a><br> + +<span class="smaller">By<br> +JOHN GALSWORTHY</span></h1> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page323" name="page323"></a>(p. 323)</span> "Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are violets +that seem redder, and sweeter, than any ever seen—as though +they have sprung up out of the footprints of some old pagan +goddess; but under the April sun, in a Devonshire lane, the +little blue scentless violets capture every bit as much of the +spring." Affection for the West country that was the home +of John Galsworthy's ancestors heightens the glamour of this +enchanting bit of writing from one of his essays. As he himself +has said, the Galsworthys have been in Devonshire as far +back as records go—"since the flood of Saxons at all events." +He was born, though, at Coombe in Surrey in 1867. From +1881 to 1886, he was at Harrow where he did well at work +and games. He was graduated with an honor degree in law +from New College, Oxford, in 1889. Following his father's +example, he took up the law and was called to the bar +(Lincoln's Inn) in 1890. "I read," he says, "in various +chambers, practised almost not at all, and disliked my profession +thoroughly."</p> + +<p>For nearly two years thereafter, Galsworthy traveled, visiting +among other places, Russia, Canada, Australia, New +Zealand, the Fiji Islands, and South Africa. On a sailing-ship +plying between Adelaide and the Cape he met and made a +friend of the novelist, Joseph Conrad, then still a sailor. Galsworthy +was soon to become a writer himself, publishing his first +novel in 1899. Since that date he has written novels, plays, +essays, and verse that have made him famous.<a id="footnotetag55" name="footnotetag55"></a><a href="#footnote55" title="Go to footnote 55"><span class="smaller">[55]</span></a> Through his +writings he has become a great social force. In this respect his +influence resembles that of Charles Dickens. He has made +people who read his books or see his plays acted think about +the justice or injustice of institutions commonly accepted without +a question. The presentation of his play <i>Justice</i> (1909), +moved the Home Secretary of the day, Winston Churchill, to +put into effect several important reforms affecting the English +prison system.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page324" name="page324"></a>(p. 324)</span> <i>The Little Man</i>, no less a socializing agency in its way, was +produced in New York at Maxine Elliott's Theatre in February, +1917, as a curtain raiser to G. K. Chesterton's play, +Magic. The part of the Little Man himself was taken by +O. P. Heggie, one of the most intelligent and distinguished +actors on the English-speaking stage. J. Ranken Towse, reviewing +the performance for the Saturday Magazine of the +<i>New York Evening Post</i>, on February 17, 1917, wrote: +"Another entertainment of notable excellence is that provided +by the double bill at Maxine Elliott's Theatre, consisting of +Galsworthy's <i>The Little Man</i> and Chesterton's <i>Magic</i>. Here +are two plays of diverse character and superior quality, in +which some highly intelligent and artistic acting is done by +Mr. O. P. Heggie. Some sensitive reviewers have found cause +of offense in Mr. Galsworthy's somewhat fanciful American, +but the dramatist has been equally disrespectful in his handling +of Germans, Dutch, and English. The value and significance +of the piece, of course, are to be looked for, not in its broad +humors—which are largely conventional—but in the ethical +and moral lesson and profound social philosophy which they +suggest and illustrate." It is hard to sympathize with the "sensitive +reviewers," though to the native ear, to be sure, the utterances +of the American lack verisimilitude. The author of <i>The +Little Man</i> has even been humorously reproached with using +the speech of Deadwood Dick for his model.</p> + +<p>The play was also given quite recently, during the season of +1920-21, as part of the repertory at the Everyman Theatre in +London. On the programs invariably appears the note which +is prefixed also to this as to every printed version. It explains +carefully that this play was written before the days of the +Great War. This note bespeaks the playwright's perfect detachment +which is, as has been said, "an artistic device, not a +matter of divine indifference." Yet the satire does seem to be +directed, incidentally at least, against certain familiar national +characteristics, for it is the humanity of the Little Man, whose +mixed ancestry is described by the American as being "a bit +streaky," that puts to shame the various types of human arrogance +and indifference with which he is surrounded.</p> + + + + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a id="page325" name="page325"></a>(p. 325)</span> THE LITTLE MAN<a id="footnotetag56" name="footnotetag56"></a><a href="#footnote56" title="Go to footnote 56"><span class="smaller">[56]</span></a></h2> + + +<p class="opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>SCENE I.—Afternoon, on the departure platform of an Austrian +railway station. At several little tables outside the +buffet persons are taking refreshment, served by a pale +young waiter. On a seat against the wall of the buffet a +woman of lowly station is sitting beside two large bundles, +on one of which she has placed her baby, swathed in a +black shawl.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span> [<i>approaching a table whereat sit an English traveler +and his wife</i>]. Zwei Kaffee?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>paying</i>]. Thanks. [<i>To his wife, in an Oxford +voice.</i>] Sugar?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span> [<i>in a Cambridge voice</i>]. One.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American Traveler</span> [<i>with field-glasses and a pocket camera—from +another table</i>]. Waiter, I'd like to have you get my +eggs. I've been sitting here quite a while.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Yes, sare.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German Traveler</span>. Kellner, bezahlen! [<i>His voice is, like +his mustache, stiff and brushed up at the ends. His figure also +is stiff and his hair a little gray; clearly once, if not now, a +colonel.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Komm' gleich! [<i>The baby on the bundle wails. +The mother takes it up to soothe it. A young, red-cheeked +Dutchman at the fourth table stops eating and laughs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. My eggs! Get a wiggle on you!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Yes, sare. [<i>He rapidly recedes. A</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> +<i>in a soft hat is seen to the right of the tables. He stands a +moment looking after the hurrying waiter, then seats himself +at the fifth table.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>looking at his watch</i>]. Ten minutes more.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page326" name="page326"></a>(p. 326)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span>. Bother!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>addressing them</i>]. 'Pears as if they'd a prejudice +against eggs here, anyway. [<i>The English look at him, but +do not speak.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>in creditable English</i>]. In these places man can +get nothing. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> <i>comes flying back with a compote +for the</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span>, <i>who pays.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Kellner, bezahlen!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Eine Krone sechzig. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> <i>pays.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>rising, and taking out his watch—blandly</i>]. See +here! If I don't get my eggs before this watch ticks twenty, +there'll be another waiter in heaven.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span> [<i>flying</i>]. Komm' gleich!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>seeking sympathy</i>]. I'm gettin' kind of mad!</p> + +<p class="add1em"><span class="min1em">[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Englishman</span> <i>halves his newspaper and hands the advertisement +half to his wife. The</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>wails. The</i> <span class="smcap">Mother</span> +<i>rocks it. The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>stops eating and laughs. The</i> +<span class="smcap">German</span> <i>lights a cigarette. The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>sits motionless, +nursing his hat. The</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> <i>comes flying back with the eggs +and places them before the</i> <span class="smcap">American</span>.]</span></p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>putting away his watch</i>]. Good! I don't like +trouble. How much? [<i>He pays and eats. The</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> +<i>stands a moment at the edge of the platform and passes his +hand across his brow. The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>eyes him and speaks +gently.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Herr Ober! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> <i>turns.</i>] Might +I have a glass of beer?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Yes, sare.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Thank you very much. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> <i>goes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>pausing in the deglutition of his eggs—affably</i>]. +Pardon me, sir; I'd like to have you tell me why you called +that little bit of a feller "Herr Ober." Reckon you would +know what that means? Mr. Head Waiter.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Yes, yes.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I smile.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Oughtn't I to call him that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>abruptly</i>]. Nein—Kellner.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Why, yes! Just "waiter." [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Englishwoman</span> +<i>looks round her paper for a second. The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch +Youth</span> <i>stops eating and laughs. The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>gazes from +face to face and nurses his hat.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page327" name="page327"></a>(p. 327)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. I didn't want to hurt his feelings.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Gott!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. In my country we're vurry democratic—but +that's quite a proposition.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>handling coffee-pot, to his wife</i>]. More?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span>. No, thanks.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>abruptly</i>]. These fellows—if you treat them in +this manner, at once they take liberties. You see, you will not +get your beer. [<i>As he speaks the</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> <i>returns, bringing +the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man's</span> <i>beer, then retires.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That 'pears to be one up to democracy. [<i>To +the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>.] I judge you go in for brotherhood?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>startled</i>]. Oh, no! I never—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I take considerable stock in Leo Tolstoi myself. +Grand man—grand-souled apparatus. But I guess you've got +to pinch those waiters some to make 'em skip. [<i>To the</i> +<span class="smcap">English</span>, <i>who have carelessly looked his way for a moment.</i>] +You'll appreciate that, the way he acted about my eggs. [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">English</span> <i>make faint motions with their chins, and avert their +eyes. To the</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span>, <i>who is standing at the door of the +buffet.</i>] Waiter! Flash of beer—jump, now!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Komm' gleich!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Cigarren!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Schön. [<i>He disappears.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>affably—to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>]. Now, if I +don't get that flash of beer quicker'n you got yours, I shall +admire.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>abruptly</i>]. Tolstoi is nothing—nichts! No +good! Ha?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>relishing the approach of argument</i>]. Well, +that is a matter of temperament. Now, I'm all for equality. +See that poor woman there—vurry humble woman—there she +sits among us with her baby. Perhaps you'd like to locate her +somewhere else?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>shrugging</i>]. Tolstoi is sentimentalisch. Nietzsche +is the true philosopher, the only one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Well, that's quite in the prospectus—vurry +stimulating party—old Nietzsch—virgin mind. But give me +Leo! [<i>He turns to the red-cheeked youth.</i>] What do you +opine, sir? I guess by your labels, you'll be Dutch. Do they +read Tolstoi in your country? [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>laughs.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page328" name="page328"></a>(p. 328)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That is a vurry luminous answer.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Tolstoi is nothing. Man should himself express. +He must push—he must be strong.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That is so. In Amurrica we believe in virility; +we like a man to expand—to cultivate his soul. But we believe +in brotherhood too; we're vurry democratic. We draw the line +at niggers; but we aspire, we're vurry high-souled. Social barriers +and distinctions we've not much use for.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span>. Do you feel a draught?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span> [<i>with a shiver of her shoulder toward the</i> +<span class="smcap">American</span>]. I do—rather.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Wait! You are a young people.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That is so; there are no flies on us. [<i>To the</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man</span>, <i>who has been gazing eagerly from face to face.</i>] +Say! I'd like to have you give us your sentiments in relation +to the duty of man. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>fidgets, and is about +to open his mouth.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. For example—is it your opinion that we should +kill off the weak and diseased, and all that can't jump around?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>nodding</i>]. Ja, ja! That is coming.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>looking from face to face</i>]. They might be +me. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>laughs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>reproving him with a look</i>]. That's true humility. +'Tisn't grammar. Now, here's a proposition that +brings it nearer the bone: Would you step out of your way to +help them when it was liable to bring you trouble?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Nein, nein! That is stupid.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>eager but wistful</i>]. I'm afraid not. Of +course one wants to—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Nein, nein! That is stupid! What is the duty?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. There was St. Francis d'Assisi and St. Julien +l'Hospitalier, and—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Vurry lofty dispositions. Guess they died of +them. [<i>He rises.</i>] Shake hands, sir—my name is—[<i>He +hands a card.</i>] I am an ice-machine maker. [<i>He shakes the</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man's</span> <i>hand.</i>] I like your sentiments—I feel kind of +brotherly. [<i>Catching sight of the</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> <i>appearing in the +doorway.</i>] Waiter, where to h—ll is that flash of beer?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Cigarren!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Komm' gleich! [<i>He vanishes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>consulting watch</i>]. Train's late.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page329" name="page329"></a>(p. 329)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span>. Really! Nuisance! [<i>A station</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>, +<i>very square and uniformed, passes and repasses.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>resuming his seat—to the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>]. Now, +we don't have so much of that in Amurrica. Guess we feel +more to trust in human nature.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Ah! ha! you will bresently find there is nothing +in him but self.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>wistfully</i>]. Don't you believe in human +nature?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Vurry stimulating question. That invites remark. +[<i>He looks round for opinions. The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> +<i>laughs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>holding out his half of the paper to his wife</i>]. +Swap! [<i>His wife swaps.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. In human nature I believe so far as I can see +him—no more.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Now that 'pears to me kind o' blasphemy. I'm +vurry idealistic; I believe in heroism. I opine there's not one +of us settin' around here that's not a hero—give him the occasion.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Oh! Do you believe that?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Well! I judge a hero is just a person that'll +help another at the expense of himself. That's a vurry simple +definition. Take that poor woman there. Well, now, she's +a heroine, I guess. She would die for her baby any old time.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Animals will die for their babies. That is +nothing.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Vurry true. I carry it further. I postulate we +would all die for that baby if a locomotive was to trundle up +right here and try to handle it. I'm an idealist. [<i>To the</i> +<span class="smcap">German</span>.] I guess <i>you</i> don't know how good you are. [<i>As +the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> <i>is twisting up the ends of his mustache—to the</i> +<span class="smcap">Englishwoman</span>.] I should like to have you express an +opinion, ma'am. This is a high subject.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span>. I beg your pardon.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. The English are vurry humanitarian; they have +a vurry high sense of duty. So have the Germans, so have the +Amurricans. [<i>To the</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span>.] I judge even in your +little country they have that. This is a vurry civilized epoch. +It is an epoch of equality and high-toned ideals. [<i>To the</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man</span>.] What is your nationality, sir?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page330" name="page330"></a>(p. 330)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. I'm afraid I'm nothing particular. My +father was half-English and half-American, and my mother +half-German and half-Dutch.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. My! That's a bit streaky, any old way. [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>passes again.</i>] Now, I don't believe we've much +use any more for those gentlemen in buttons, not amongst the +civilized peoples. We've grown kind of mild—we don't think +of self as we used to do. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span> <i>has appeared in the +doorway.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>in a voice of thunder</i>]. Cigarren! Donnerwetter!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>shaking his fist at the vanishing</i> <span class="smcap">Waiter</span>]. +That flash of beer!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Waiter</span>. Komm' gleich!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. A little more, and he will join George Washington! +I was about to remark when he intruded: The kingdom +of Christ nowadays is quite a going concern. The Press +is vurry enlightened. We are mighty near to universal brotherhood. +The colonel here [<i>he indicates the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>], he +doesn't know what a lot of stock he holds in that proposition. +He is a man of blood and iron, but give him an opportunity +to be magnanimous, and he'll be right there. Oh, sir! yes. +[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>, <i>with a profound mixture of pleasure and +cynicism, brushes up the ends of his mustache.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. I wonder. One wants to, but somehow—[<i>He +shakes his head.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. You seem kind of skeery about that. You've +had experience maybe. The flesh is weak. I'm an optimist—I +think we're bound to make the devil hum in the near future. +I opine we shall occasion a good deal of trouble to that old +party. There's about to be a holocaust of selfish interests. +We're out for high sacrificial business. The colonel there with +old-man Nietzsch—he won't know himself. There's going to +be a vurry sacred opportunity. [<i>As he speaks, the voice of a</i> +<span class="smcap">Railway Official</span> <i>is heard in the distance calling out in German. +It approaches, and the words become audible.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>startled</i>]. Der Teufel! [<i>He gets up, and seizes +the bag beside him. The</i> <span class="smcap">Station Official</span> <i>has appeared, he +stands for a moment casting his commands at the seated group. +The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>also rises, and takes his coat and hat. +The</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> <i>turns on his heel and retires, still issuing directions.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page331" name="page331"></a>(p. 331)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span>. What does he say?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Our drain has come in, de oder platform; only +one minute we haf. [<i>All have risen in a fluster.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Now, that's vurry provoking. I won't get that +flash of beer. [<i>There is a general scurry to gather coats and +hats and wraps, during which the lowly woman is seen making +desperate attempts to deal with her baby and the two large +bundles. Quite defeated, she suddenly puts all down, wrings +her hands, and cries out: "Herr Jesu! Hilfe!" The flying +procession turn their heads at that strange cry.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. What's that? Help? [<i>He continues to run. +The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>spins round, rushes back, picks up baby and +bundle on which it was seated.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Come along, good woman, come along! +[<i>The woman picks up the other bundle and they run. The</i> +<span class="smcap">Waiter</span>, <i>appearing in the doorway with the bottle of beer, +watches with his tired smile.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2 opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>SCENE II.—A second-class compartment of a corridor carriage, +in motion. In it are seated the</i> <span class="smcap">Englishman</span> <i>and +his wife, opposite each other at the corridor end, she with +her face to the engine, he with his back. Both are somewhat +protected from the rest of the travelers by newspapers. +Next to her sits the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>, <i>and opposite him +sits the</i> <span class="smcap">American</span>; <i>next the</i> <span class="smcap">American</span> <i>in one window +corner is seated the</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span>; <i>the other window +corner is taken by the</i> <span class="smcap">German's</span> bag. <i>The silence is only +broken by the slight rushing noise of the train's progression +and the crackling of the English newspapers.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>turning to the</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span>]. Guess I'd +like that winder raised; it's kind of chilly after that old run +they gave us. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>laughs, and goes through +the motions of raising the window. The</i> <span class="smcap">English</span> <i>regard the +operation with uneasy irritation. The</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> <i>opens his bag, +which reposes on the corner seat next him, and takes out a +book.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. The Germans are great readers. Vurry stimulating +practice. I read most anything myself! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> +<i>holds up the book so that the title may be read.</i>] "Don +Quixote"—fine book. We Amurricans take considerable stock +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page332" name="page332"></a>(p. 332)</span> in old man Quixote. Bit of a wild-cat—but we don't laugh +at him.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. He is dead. Dead as a sheep. A good thing, too.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. In Amurrica we have still quite an amount of +chivalry.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Chivalry is nothing—sentimentalisch. In modern +days—no good. A man must push, he must pull.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. So you say. But I judge your form of chivalry +is sacrifice to the state. We allow more freedom to the individual +soul. Where there's something little and weak, we feel +it kind of noble to give up to it. That way we feel elevated. +[<i>As he speaks there is seen in the corridor doorway the</i> <span class="smcap">Little +Man</span>, <i>with the</i> <span class="smcap">Woman's Baby</span> <i>still on his arm and the bundle +held in the other hand. He peers in anxiously. The</i> <span class="smcap">English</span>, +<i>acutely conscious, try to dissociate themselves from his presence +with their papers. The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>laughs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Ach! So!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Dear me!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Is there room? I can't find a seat.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Why, yes! There's a seat for one.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>depositing bundle outside, and heaving</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>]. +May I?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Come right in! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> <i>sulkily moves +his bag. The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>comes in and seats himself gingerly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Where's the mother?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>ruefully</i>]. Afraid she got left behind. [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>laughs. The</i> <span class="smcap">English</span> <i>unconsciously emerge +from their newspapers.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. My! That would appear to be quite a domestic +incident. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Englishman</span> <i>suddenly utters a profound +"Ha, Ha!" and disappears behind his paper. And that paper +and the one opposite are seen to shake, and little squirls and +squeaks emerge.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. And you haf got her bundle, and her baby. Ha! +[<i>He cackles dryly.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>gravely</i>]. I smile. I guess Providence has +played it pretty low down on you. I judge it's acted real mean. +[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>wails, and the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>jigs it with a sort of +gentle desperation, looking apologetically from face to face. His +wistful glance renews the fire of merriment wherever it alights. +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page333" name="page333"></a>(p. 333)</span> The</i> <span class="smcap">American</span> <i>alone preserves a gravity which seems incapable +of being broken.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Maybe you'd better get off right smart and restore +that baby. There's nothing can act madder than a +mother.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Poor thing; yes! What she must be suffering! +[<i>A gale of laughter shakes the carriage. The</i> <span class="smcap">English</span> +<i>for a moment drop their papers, the better to indulge. The</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>smiles a wintry smile.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>in a lull</i>]. How did it eventuate?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. We got there just as the train was going to +start; and I jumped, thinking I could help her up. But it +moved too quickly, and—and—left her. [<i>The gale of laughter +blows up again.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Guess I'd have thrown the baby out.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. I was afraid the poor little thing might +break. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>wails; the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>heaves it; the gale +of laughter blows.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>gravely</i>]. It's highly entertaining—not for the +baby. What kind of an old baby is it, anyway? [<i>He sniffs.</i>] +I judge it's a bit—niffy.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Afraid I've hardly looked at it yet.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Which end up is it?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Oh! I think the right end. Yes, yes, it is.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Well, that's something. Guess I should hold it +out of winder a bit. Vurry excitable things, babies!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span> [<i>galvanized</i>]. No, no!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>touching her knee</i>]. My dear!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. You are right, ma'am. I opine there's a draught +out there. This baby is precious. We've all of us got stock +in this baby in a manner of speaking. This is a little bit of +universal brotherhood. Is it a woman baby?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. I—I can only see the top of its head.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. You can't always tell from that. It looks +kind of over-wrapped-up. Maybe it had better be unbound.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Nein, nein, nein!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I think you are vurry likely right, colonel. It +might be a pity to unbind that baby. I guess the lady should +be consulted in this matter.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span>. Yes, yes, of course—I—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page334" name="page334"></a>(p. 334)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>touching her</i>]. Let it be! Little beggar +seems all right.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That would seem only known to Providence at +this moment. I judge it might be due to humanity to look at +its face.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>gladly</i>]. It's sucking my finger. There, +there—nice little thing—there!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I would surmise you have created babies in your +leisure moments, sir?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Oh! no—indeed, no.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Dear me! That is a loss. [<i>Addressing himself +to the carriage at large.</i>] I think we may esteem ourselves fortunate +to have this little stranger right here with us; throws +a vurry tender and beautiful light on human nature. Demonstrates +what a hold the little and weak have upon us nowadays. +The colonel here—a man of blood and iron—there he +sits quite ca'm next door to it. [<i>He sniffs.</i>] Now, this baby +is ruther chastening—that is a sign of grace, in the colonel—that +is true heroism.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>faintly</i>]. I—I can see its face a little now. +[<i>All bend forward.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. What sort of a physiognomy has it, anyway?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>still faintly</i>]. I don't see anything but—but +spots.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Oh! Ha! Pfui! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> +<i>laughs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I am told that is not uncommon amongst +babies. Perhaps we could have you inform us, ma'am.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span>. Yes, of course—only—what sort of—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. They seem all over its—[<i>At the slight +recoil of everyone.</i>] I feel sure it's—it's quite a good baby +underneath.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That will be ruther difficult to come at. I'm +just a bit sensitive. I've vurry little use for affections of the +epidermis.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Pfui! [<i>He has edged away as far as he can get, +and is lighting a big cigar. The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>draws his +legs back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>also taking out a cigar</i>]. I guess it would be +well to fumigate this carriage. Does it suffer, do you think?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>peering</i>]. Really, I don't—I'm not sure—I +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page335" name="page335"></a>(p. 335)</span> know so little about babies. I think it would have a nice +expression—if—if it showed.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Is it kind of boiled-looking?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Yes—yes, it is.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>looking gravely round</i>]. I judge this baby has +the measles. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> <i>screws himself spasmodically +against the arm of the</i> <span class="smcap">Englishwoman's</span> <i>seat.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span>. Poor little thing! Shall I—? [<i>She +half-rises.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>touching her</i>]. No, no—Dash it!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I honor your emotion, ma'am. It does credit +to us all. But I sympathize with your husband too. The +measles is a vurry important pestilence in connection with a +grown woman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. It likes my finger awfully. Really, it's +rather a sweet baby.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>sniffing</i>]. Well, that would appear to be quite +a question. About them spots, now? Are they rosy?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. No—o; they're dark, almost black.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. Gott! Typhus! [<i>He bounds up onto the arm +of the</i> <span class="smcap">Englishwoman's</span> <i>seat.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Typhus! That's quite an indisposition! [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>rises suddenly, and bolts out into the corridor. +He is followed by the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>, <i>puffing clouds of smoke. The</i> +<span class="smcap">English</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">American</span> <i>sit a moment longer without speaking. +The</i> <span class="smcap">Englishwoman's</span> <i>face is turned with a curious expression—half-pity, +half-fear—toward the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>. <i>Then +the</i> <span class="smcap">Englishman</span> <i>gets up.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span>. Bit stuffy for you here, dear, isn't it? [<i>He +puts his arm through hers, raises her, and almost pushes her +through the doorway. She goes, still looking back.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>gravely</i>]. There's nothing I admire more'n +courage. Guess I'll go and smoke in the corridor. [<i>As he goes +out the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>looks very wistfully after him. Screwing +up his mouth and nose, he holds the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>away from him +and wavers; then rising, he puts it on the seat opposite and goes +through the motions of letting down the window. Having done +so he looks at the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>, <i>who has begun to wail. Suddenly he +raises his hands and clasps them, like a child praying. Since, +however, the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>does not stop wailing, he hovers over it in +indecision; then, picking it up, sits down again to dandle it, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page336" name="page336"></a>(p. 336)</span> with his face turned toward the open window. Finding that +it still wails, he begins to sing to it in a cracked little voice. It +is charmed at once. While he is singing, the</i> <span class="smcap">American</span> <i>appears +in the corridor. Letting down the passage window, he +stands there in the doorway with the draught blowing his hair +and the smoke of his cigar all about him. The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> +<i>stops singing and shifts the shawl higher, to protect the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby's</span> +<i>head from the draught.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>gravely</i>]. This is the most sublime spectacle I +have ever envisaged. There ought to be a record of this. [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>looks at him, wondering.</i>] We have here a most +stimulating epitome of our marvelous advance toward universal +brotherhood. You are typical, sir, of the sentiments of modern +Christianity. You illustrate the deepest feelings in the heart +of every man. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>rises with the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>and a +movement of approach.</i>] Guess I'm wanted in the dining-car. +[<i>He vanishes.</i>] [The <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>sits down again, but back +to the engine, away from the draught, and looks out of the window, +patiently jogging the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>on his knee.</i>]</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2 opening"><span class="min10pc"><i>SCENE III.—An arrival platform. The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>, <i>with +the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>and the bundle, is standing disconsolate, while +travelers pass and luggage is being carried by. A</i> <span class="smcap">Station +Official</span>, <i>accompanied by a</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>, <i>appears from a +doorway, behind him.</i></span></p> + +<div class="gettys"> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>consulting telegram in his hand</i>]. Das ist der +Herr. [<i>They advance to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Sie haben einen Buben gestohlen?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. I only speak English and American.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Dies ist nicht Ihr Bube? [<i>He touches the</i> +<span class="smcap">Baby</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>shaking his head</i>]. Take care—it's ill. [<i>The +man does not understand.</i>] Ill—the baby—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>shaking his head</i>]. Verstehe nicht. Dis is nod +your baby? No?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>shaking his head violently</i>]. No, it is not. No.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>tapping the telegram</i>]. Gut! You are 'rested. +[<i>He signs to the</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>, <i>who takes the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man's</span> +<i>arm.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Why? I don't want the poor baby.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page337" name="page337"></a>(p. 337)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>lifting the bundle</i>]. Dies ist nicht Ihr Gepäck—pag?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. No.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Gut. You are 'rested.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. I only took it for the poor woman. I'm not +a thief—I'm—I'm—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>shaking head</i>]. Verstehe nicht. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little +Man</span> <i>tries to tear his hair. The disturbed</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>wails.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span> [<i>dandling it as best he can</i>]. There, there—poor, +poor!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Halt still! You are 'rested. It is all right.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Where is the mother?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. She comm by next drain. Das telegram say: +Halt einen Herrn mit schwarzem Buben and schwarzem Gepäck. +'Rest gentleman mit black baby und black—pag. [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>turns up his eyes to heaven.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Komm mit us. [<i>They take the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> +<i>toward the door from which they have come. A voice stops +them.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>speaking from as far away as may be</i>]. Just a +moment! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> <i>stops; the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>also stops +and sits down on a bench against the wall. The</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> +<i>stands stolidly beside him. The</i> <span class="smcap">American</span> <i>approaches a step +or two, beckoning; the</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> <i>goes up to him.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Guess you've got an angel from heaven there! +What's the gentleman in buttons for?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Was ist das?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Is there anybody here that can understand +Amurrican?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Verstehe nicht.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Well, just watch my gestures. I was saying +[<i>he points to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>, then makes gestures of flying], +you have an angel from heaven there. You have there a man +in whom Gawd [<i>he points upward</i>] takes quite an amount of +stock. This is a vurry precious man. You have no call to +arrest him [<i>he makes the gesture of arrest</i>]. No, sir. Providence +has acted pretty mean, loading off that baby on him [<i>he +makes the motion of dandling</i>]. The little man has a heart of +gold. [<i>He points to his heart, and takes out a gold coin.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>thinking he is about to be bribed</i>]. Aber, das ist +<i>zu</i> viel!</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page338" name="page338"></a>(p. 338)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Now, don't rattle me! [<i>Pointing to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little +Man</span>.] Man [<i>pointing to his heart</i>] Herz [<i>pointing to the +coin</i>] von Gold. This is a flower of the field—he don't want +no gentleman in buttons to pluck him up. [<i>A little crowd is +gathering, including the two</i> <span class="smcap">English</span>, <i>the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>, <i>and the</i> +<span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Verstehe absolut nichts. [<i>He taps the telegram.</i>] +Ich muss mein duty do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. But I'm telling you. This is a good man. This +is probably the best man on Gawd's airth.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Das macht nichts—gut or no gut, I muss mein +duty do. [<i>He turns to go toward the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Oh! Vurry well, arrest him; do your duty. +This baby has typhus. [<i>At the word "typhus" the</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> +stops.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>making gestures</i>]. First-class typhus, black +typhus, schwarzen typhus. Now you have it. I'm kind o' +sorry for you and the gentleman in buttons. Do your +duty!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Typhus? Der Bub'—die baby hat typhus?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I'm telling you.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Gott im Himmel!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>spotting the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> <i>in the little throng</i>]. +Here's a gentleman will corroborate me.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>much disturbed, and signing to the</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> +<i>to stand clear</i>]. Typhus! Aber das ist grässlich!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I kind o' thought you'd feel like that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Die Sanitätsmachine! Gleich! [<i>A</i> <span class="smcap">Porter</span> <i>goes +to get it. From either side the broken half-moon of persons +stand gazing at the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>, <i>who sits unhappily dandling +the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>in the center.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>raising his hands</i>]. Was zu thun?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Guess you'd better isolate the baby. [<i>A silence, +during which the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>is heard faintly whistling and +clucking to the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>referring once more to his telegram</i>]. 'Rest +gentleman mit black baby. [<i>Shaking his head.</i>] Wir must de +gentleman hold. [<i>To the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>.] Bitte, mein Herr, +sagen Sie ihm, den Buben zu niedersetzen. [<i>He makes the +gesture of deposit.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span> [<i>to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>]. He say: Put down the +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page339" name="page339"></a>(p. 339)</span> baby. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>shakes his head, and continues to +dandle the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Sie müssen—you must. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> +<i>glowers, in silence.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>in background—muttering</i>]. Good man!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. His spirit ever denies; er will nicht.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>again making his gesture</i>]. Aber er muss! [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>makes a face at him.</i>] Sag' ihm: Instantly put +down baby, and komm' mit us. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>wails.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Little Man</span>. Leave the poor ill baby here alone? Be-be-be-d—d +first!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>jumping onto a trunk—with enthusiasm</i>]. Bully! +[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">English</span> <i>clap their hands; the</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>laughs. +The</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> <i>is muttering, greatly incensed.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. What does that body-snatcher say?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. He say this man use the baby to save himself +from arrest. Very smart—he say.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. I judge you do him an injustice. [<i>Showing off +the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>with a sweep of his arm.</i>] This is a vurry +white man. He's got a black baby, and he won't leave it in the +lurch. Guess we would all act noble, that way, give us the +chance. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>rises, holding out the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>, <i>and +advances a step or two. The half-moon at once gives, increasing +its size; the</i> <span class="smcap">American</span> <i>climbs onto a higher trunk. The</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>retires and again sits down.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>addressing the</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span>]. Guess you'd better +go out of business and wait for the mother.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>stamping his foot</i>]. Die Mutter sall 'rested be +for taking out baby mit typhus. Ha! [<i>To the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>.] +Put ze baby down! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>smiles.</i>] Do you +'ear?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>addressing the</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span>]. Now, see here. +'Pears to me you don't suspicion just how beautiful this is. +Here we have a man giving his life for that old baby that's +got no claim on him. This is not a baby of his own making. +No, sir, this a vurry Christ-like proposition in the gentleman.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Put ze baby down, or ich will gommand someone +it to do.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That will be vurry interesting to watch.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>]. Nehmen Sie den Buben. Dake +it vrom him. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>mutters, but does not.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page340" name="page340"></a>(p. 340)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>to the</i> <span class="smcap">German</span>]. Guess I lost that.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. He say he is not his officer.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. That just tickles me to death.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>looking round</i>]. Vill nobody dake ze Bub'?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishwoman</span> [<i>moving a step—faintly</i>]. Yes—I—</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Englishman</span> [<i>grasping her arm</i>]. By Jove! Will you!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>gathering himself for a great effort to take the</i> +<span class="smcap">Baby</span>, <i>and advancing two steps</i>]. Zen I gommand you—[<i>He +stops and his voice dies away.</i>] Zit dere!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. My! That's wonderful. What a man this is! +What a sublime sense of duty! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>laughs. +The</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> <i>turns on him, but as he does so the</i> <span class="smcap">Mother</span> <i>of +the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span> <i>is seen hurrying.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mother</span>. Ach! Ach! Mei' Bubi! [<i>Her face is illumined; +she is about to rush to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>to the</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>]. Nimm die Frau! [<i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>catches hold of the</i> <span class="smcap">Woman</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>to the frightened</i> <span class="smcap">Woman</span>]. Warum haben Sie +einen Buben mit Typhus mit ausgebracht?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>eagerly, from his perch</i>]. What was that? I +don't want to miss any.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">German</span>. He say: Why did you a baby with typhus with +you bring out?</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Well, that's quite a question. [<i>He takes out +the field-glasses slung around him and adjusts them on the</i> +<span class="smcap">Baby</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mother</span> [<i>bewildered</i>], Mei' Bubi—Typhus—aber Typhus? +[<i>She shakes her head violently.</i>] Nein, nein, nein! Typhus!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Er hat Typhus.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mother</span> [<i>shaking her head</i>]. Nein, nein, nein!</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>looking through his glasses</i>]. Guess she's kind +of right! I judge the typhus is where the baby's slobbered on +the shawl, and it's come off on him. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> +<i>laughs.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>turning on him furiously</i>]. Er hat Typhus.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. Now, that's where you slop over. Come right +here. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> <i>mounts, and looks through the glasses.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>]. Skin out the baby's leg. +If we don't locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me. +[<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>fumbles out the</i> <span class="smcap">Baby's</span> <i>little white foot.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mother</span>. Mei' Bubi! [<i>She tries to break away.</i>]</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page341" name="page341"></a>(p. 341)</span> +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. White as a banana. [<i>To the</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span>—<i>affably.</i>] +Guess you've made kind of a fool of us with your +old typhus.</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span>. Lass die Frau! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>lets her go, +and she rushes to her</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>.]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Mother</span>. Mei' Bubi! [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>, <i>exchanging the warmth +of the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>for the momentary chill of its</i> <span class="smcap">Mother</span>, +<i>wails.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">Official</span> [<i>descending and beckoning to the</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>]. +Sie wollen den Herrn accusiren? [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> <i>takes the</i> +<span class="smcap">Little Man's</span> <i>arm.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span>. What's that? They goin' to pinch him after +all? [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Mother</span>, <i>still hugging her</i> <span class="smcap">Baby</span>, <i>who has stopped +crying, gazes at the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>, <i>who sits dazedly looking up. +Suddenly she drops on her knees, and with her free hand lifts +his booted foot and kisses it.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>waving his hat</i>]. 'Ra! 'Ra! [<i>He descends +swiftly, goes up to the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>, <i>whose arm the</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> +<i>has dropped, and takes his hand.</i>] Brother, I am proud +to know you. This is one of the greatest moments I have ever +experienced. [<i>Displaying the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>to the assembled +company.</i>] I think I sense the situation when I say that we +all esteem it an honor to breathe the rather inferior atmosphere +of this station here along with our little friend. I guess we +shall all go home and treasure the memory of his face as the +whitest thing in our museum of recollections. And perhaps +this good woman will also go home and wash the face of our +little brother here. I am inspired with a new faith in mankind. +We can all be proud of this mutual experience; we have our +share in it; we can kind of feel noble. Ladies and gentlemen, +I wish to present to you a sure-enough saint—only wants a +halo, to be transfigured. [<i>To the</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span>.] Stand +right up. [<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Little Man</span> <i>stands up bewildered. They +come about him. The</i> <span class="smcap">Official</span> <i>bows to him, the</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span> +<i>salutes him. The</i> <span class="smcap">Dutch Youth</span> <i>shakes his head and laughs. +The</i> <span class="smcap">German</span> <i>draws himself up very straight, and bows quickly +twice. The</i> <span class="smcap">Englishman</span> <i>and his wife approach at least two +steps, then, thinking better of it, turn to each other and recede. +The</i> <span class="smcap">Mother</span> <i>kisses his hand. The</i> <span class="smcap">Porter</span> <i>returning with the +Sanitätsmachine, turns it on from behind, and its pinkish +shower, goldened by a ray of sunlight, falls around the</i> <span class="smcap">Little +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page342" name="page342"></a>(p. 342)</span> Man's</span> <i>head, transfiguring it as he stands with eyes upraised to +see whence the portent comes.</i>]</p> + +<p><span class="min1em speaker">American</span> [<i>rushing forward and dropping on his knees</i>]. +Hold on just a minute! Guess I'll take a snap-shot of the +miracle. [<i>He adjusts his pocket camera.</i>] This ought to +look bully!</p> +</div> + +<p class="center">[THE CURTAIN.]</p> + +<h2>Foonotes</h2> +<p><a id="footnote1" name="footnote1"></a><a href="#footnotetag1">[1]</a> See, however, Clayton Hamilton, <i>Studies in Stagecraft</i>, New York, +1914, and B. Roland Lewis, <i>The Technique of the One-Act Play</i>, +Boston, 1918.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote2" name="footnote2"></a><a href="#footnotetag2">[2]</a> Clayton Hamilton, <i>Studies in Stagecraft</i>, New York, 1914, pp. +254-255.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote3" name="footnote3"></a><a href="#footnotetag3">[3]</a> The Elizabethan platform stage survived until then in the shape +of the long "apron," projecting in front of the proscenium. The +characters were constantly stepping out of the frame of the picture; +and while this visual convention maintained itself, there was nothing +inconsistent or jarring in the auditory convention of the soliloquy. +See William Archer, <i>Play-Making</i>, Boston, 1912, pp. 397-405.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote4" name="footnote4"></a><a href="#footnotetag4">[4]</a> Clayton Hamilton, <i>The Non-Commercial Drama</i>. <i>The Bookman</i>, +May, 1915.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote5" name="footnote5"></a><a href="#footnotetag5">[5]</a> Percy MacKaye, <i>The Playhouse and the Play</i>, New York, 1909, +p. 86.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote6" name="footnote6"></a><a href="#footnotetag6">[6]</a> Quoted by Percy MacKaye in <i>The Civic Theatre</i>, New York, +1912, p. 114.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote7" name="footnote7"></a><a href="#footnotetag7">[7]</a> P. P. Howe, <i>The Repertory Theatre</i>, New York, 1911, p. 59.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote8" name="footnote8"></a><a href="#footnotetag8">[8]</a> A. E. F. Horniman, <i>The Manchester Players</i>, <i>Poet Lore</i>, Vol. +XXV, No. 3, p. 212; p. 213.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote9" name="footnote9"></a><a href="#footnotetag9">[9]</a> The kind of co-operation to which he looked forward is beginning. +For instance, the New York Drama League announces a Little Theatre +membership. "Its purpose is to serve the needs of the large and constantly +growing public that is interested in the activities of the semi-professional +and amateur community groups who read or produce +plays. Under this new Membership there will be issued monthly, for +ten issues a Play List of five pages, giving a concise but complete +synopsis of new plays, both one-act and longer plays. It will show +the number of characters required; the kind of audience to which the +play would be likely to appeal; the royalty asked for production +rights; the production necessities and other information of value to +production groups or individuals. One page will be devoted to three +or four standard older plays treated with the same detail of information. +The Little Theatre Supplement ... will continue to be +issued each month, but will hereafter be a feature of the Little Theatre +Membership only. It will contain the programs of the Little Theatres +throughout the country; short accounts of what is going on among the +various groups, and articles on Little Theatre problems, with hints on +new, effective and economical methods of production."</p> + +<p><a id="footnote10" name="footnote10"></a><a href="#footnotetag10">[10]</a> Lady Gregory, <i>Our Irish Theatre</i>, New York, 1913, p. 101.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote11" name="footnote11"></a><a href="#footnotetag11">[11]</a> Robert Edmond Jones, <i>The Future Decorative Art of the Theatre</i>, +<i>Theatre Magazine</i>, Vol. XXV, May, 1917, p. 266.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote12" name="footnote12"></a><a href="#footnotetag12">[12]</a> Robert Edmond Jones himself has suggested the phrasing of these +descriptions.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote13" name="footnote13"></a><a href="#footnotetag13">[13]</a> See p. <a href="#pagexxxiii">xxxiii</a>.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote14" name="footnote14"></a><a href="#footnotetag14">[14]</a> Sheldon Cheney, <i>The Art Theatre</i>, New York, 1917, pp. 167-168.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote15" name="footnote15"></a><a href="#footnotetag15">[15]</a> For a description of modern lighting equipment for a Little Theatre +compare the section on the Theatre in the School in this introduction.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote16" name="footnote16"></a><a href="#footnotetag16">[16]</a> Clayton Hamilton, <i>Seen on the Stage</i>, New York, 1920, p. 239.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote17" name="footnote17"></a><a href="#footnotetag17">[17]</a> Robert Emmons Rogers, President of the Boston Drama League +and Assistant Professor, specializing in modern literature and drama +in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, was born in Haddonfield, +New Jersey, in 1888. He writes that his Anne Hathaway "was +a particularly wild idealization based on Miss Adams as Peter Pan," +and that even at eighteen he knew that his portrait of the girl, who +was to be Shakespeare's wife, was not historically correct. Permission +to perform the play must be secured from the author.</P> + +<p><a id="footnote18" name="footnote18"></a><a href="#footnotetag18">[18]</a> George Pierce Baker, <i>Dramatic Technique</i>, Boston and New York, +1919, p. 47.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote19" name="footnote19"></a><a href="#footnotetag19">[19]</a> B. Roland Lewis, <i>The Technique of the One-Act Play</i>, Boston, +1918, p. 211.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote20" name="footnote20"></a><a href="#footnotetag20">[20]</a> Further interesting information on the reading and the study of +modern plays in the schools may be found in the valuable article by +F. G. Thompkins of the Central High School, Detroit, called <i>The +Play Course in High School</i>, in <i>The English Journal</i> for November, +1920, and in the same issue, in the list of plays produced by St. Louis +High Schools, prepared by Clarence Stratton, Chairman, National +Council Committee on Plays.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote21" name="footnote21"></a><a href="#footnotetag21">[21]</a> There is a comprehensive list of books published by the Public +Library of New York that is an indispensable guide to amateurs +interested in Little Theatres and play production and in matters connected +with lighting, scenery, costumes, and theatre building; it is +W. B. Gamble, <i>The Development of Scenic Art and Stage Machinery</i>, +New York, 1920. Cf. also the articles of Irving Pichel that have +appeared from time to time in <i>The Theatre Arts Magazine</i>. The +three following books are especially valuable for school theatres: +Barrett H. Clark, <i>How to Produce Amateur Plays</i>, Boston, 1917; +Constance D'Arcy Mackay, <i>Costumes and Scenery for Amateurs</i>. <i>A +Practical Working Handbook</i>, New York, 1915 (the illustrations are +especially valuable); and Evelyn Hilliard, Theodora McCormick, +Kate Oglebay, <i>Amateur and Educational Dramatics</i>, New York, 1917.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote22" name="footnote22"></a><a href="#footnotetag22">[22]</a> For the explanation of this and kindred technical terms, see +Arthur Edwin Krows, <i>Play Production in America</i>, New York, 1916.</p> + +<p>Cf. Maurice Browne, <i>The Temple of a Living Art</i>. <i>The Drama</i>, +Chicago, 1913, No. 12, p. 168: "Nor is this just a question of stage +jargon; that man or woman who would establish an Art Theatre +that is an Art Theatre and not a pet rabbit fed by hand, must be +able to design it, to ventilate it, to decorate it, to equip its stage, +to light it (and to handle its lighting himself, or his electricians +will not listen to him), to plan his costumes and scenery, aye, and +at a shift, to make them with his own hand."</p> + +<p><a id="footnote23" name="footnote23"></a><a href="#footnotetag23">[23]</a> Copyright, 1912, by Harper and Brothers. Copyright in Great +Britain. All acting rights both amateur and professional reserved by +the author.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote24" name="footnote24"></a><a href="#footnotetag24">[24]</a> For a bibliography of his works through the year 1913, see Asa +Don Dickinson, <i>Booth Tarkington, a Gentleman from Indiana</i>, +Garden City, no date.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote25" name="footnote25"></a><a href="#footnotetag25">[25]</a> Robert Cortes Holliday, <i>Booth Tarkington</i>, Garden City and +New York, 1918, pp. 155-156; p. 157.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote26" name="footnote26"></a><a href="#footnotetag26">[26]</a> Yeats has commemorated this club in the following lines in his +poem, <i>The Grey Rock</i>:</p> + +<p class="poem10">"Poets with whom I learned my trade,<br> +Companions of the Cheshire Cheese."</p> + +<p><a id="footnote27" name="footnote27"></a><a href="#footnotetag27">[27]</a> Constance D'Arcy Mackay, <i>The Little Theatre in the United +States</i>, New York, 1917, p. 97.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote28" name="footnote28"></a><a href="#footnotetag28">[28]</a> Copyright, Feb. 1, 1913, in the United States by Oliphant Down. +Reprinted by special arrangement with Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Glasgow.</p> + +<p>Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play is +fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States, and no +one is allowed to produce this play without first having obtained permission +of Samuel French, 28 West 38 Street, New York.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote29" name="footnote29"></a><a href="#footnotetag29">[29]</a> Maurice Sand, <i>The History of the Harlequinade</i>, London, 1915, +Vol. I, p. 219.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote30" name="footnote30"></a><a href="#footnotetag30">[30]</a> <i>Mon Ami Pierrot.</i> <i>Songs and Fantasies</i>, compiled by Kendall +Banning, Chicago, 1917. This book presents the Pierrot of modern +poetry and drama.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote31" name="footnote31"></a><a href="#footnotetag31">[31]</a> Copyright, 1912, 1921, by Percy MacKaye. All rights reserved.</p> + +<p class="center">SPECIAL NOTICE</p> + +<p>This play in its printed form is designed for the reading public +only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by copyright, in +the United States, Great Britain, and all countries subscribing to the +Berne Convention. NO PUBLIC OR PRIVATE PERFORMANCE—PROFESSIONAL +OR AMATEUR—MAY BE GIVEN WITHOUT +THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR AND THE +PAYMENT OF ROYALTY. As the courts have also ruled that the +PUBLIC READING of a play, for pay or where tickets are sold, +constitutes a "PERFORMANCE," no such reading may be given +except under conditions above stated.</p> + +<p>Anyone disregarding the author's rights renders himself liable to +prosecution. PERSONS WHO DESIRE PERMISSION TO GIVE +PERFORMANCES OR PUBLIC READINGS OF THIS PLAY +SHOULD COMMUNICATE DIRECT WITH THE AUTHOR, AT +HIS ADDRESS, HARVARD CLUB, 27 WEST 44 STREET, NEW +YORK CITY.</p> + + +<p><a id="footnote32" name="footnote32"></a><a href="#footnotetag32">[32]</a> A list of his works is given in the latest <i>Who's Who in America</i>.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote33" name="footnote33"></a><a href="#footnotetag33">[33]</a> A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of these mounds may +be found in the map of the battle-field annexed to the volume by Capt. +R. K. Beecham, entitled <i>Gettysburg</i>, A. C. McClurg, 1911.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote34" name="footnote34"></a><a href="#footnotetag34">[34]</a> Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play is +fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States, and no +one is allowed to produce this play without first having obtained permission +of Samuel French, 28 West 28 Street, New York.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote35" name="footnote35"></a><a href="#footnotetag35">[35]</a> Copyright, 1918, by Gowans and Gray. All rights reserved. +Reprinted by permission of and by special arrangement with Harold +Brighouse. Also printed in the United States by Leroy Phillips, +Boston. <i>Maid of France</i> is fully protected by copyright. It must +not be performed by either amateurs or professionals, without written +permission. For such permission apply to Samuel French, 28-30 West +38 Street, New York City.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote36" name="footnote36"></a><a href="#footnotetag36">[36]</a> Harold Brighouse, <i>Three Lancashire Plays</i>, London and New +York, 1920. There is a bibliographical note at the end.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote37" name="footnote37"></a><a href="#footnotetag37">[37]</a> Copyright, in United States, 1909, by Augusta Gregory. Reprinted +by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York and London.</p> + +<p>This play has been copyrighted and published simultaneously in the +United States and Great Britain.</p> + +<p>All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages.</p> + +<p>All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are reserved in +the United States, Great Britain, and all countries of the Copyright +Union, by the author. Performances forbidden and right of presentation +reserved.</p> + +<p>Application for the right of performing this play or reading it in +public should be made to Samuel French, 28 West 38 St., New York +City.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote38" name="footnote38"></a><a href="#footnotetag38">[38]</a> Copyright, 1912, 1916, 1917, by Jeannette Marks. The professional +and amateur stage rights of this play are strictly reserved by the +author. Application for permission to produce the play should be +made to the author, who may be addressed in care of the publishers, +Little, Brown and Company, Boston. All rights reserved.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote39" name="footnote39"></a><a href="#footnotetag39">[39]</a> PRONUNCIATION OF WELSH NAMES</p> + +<ul class="none"> +<li>1 <i>ch</i> has, roughly, the same sound as in German or in the Scotch <i>loch</i>.</li> +<li>2 <i>dd</i> = English <i>th</i>, roughly, in brea<i>th</i>e.</li> +<li>3 <i>e</i> has, roughly, the sound of <i>ai</i> in d<i>ai</i>ry.</li> +<li>4 <i>f</i> = English <i>v</i>.</li> +<li>5 <i>ff</i> = English sharp <i>f</i>.</li> +<li>6 <i>ll</i> represents a sound intermediate between <i>the</i> and <i>fl</i>.</li> +<li>7 <i>w</i> as a consonant is pronounced as in English; as a vowel = <i>oo</i>.</li> +<li>8 <i>y</i> is sometimes like <i>u</i> in b<i>u</i>t, but sometimes like <i>ee</i> in gr<i>ee</i>n.</li> +</ul> + +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>: <i>The author will gladly answer questions about pronunciation, +costuming, etc., etc.</i></p> + +<p><a id="footnote40" name="footnote40"></a><a href="#footnotetag40">[40]</a> The <i>a</i>'s are broad throughout, i. e., Kats is pronounced Kaats; +Vavasour is Vavasoor: <i>ou</i> is oo.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote41" name="footnote41"></a><a href="#footnotetag41">[41]</a> Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. Reprinted by special arrangement +with John W. Luce & Company, Boston. Acting rights in the +hands of Samuel French, 28 West 38 Street, New York.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote42" name="footnote42"></a><a href="#footnotetag42">[42]</a> For a list of Synge's other plays, see E. A. Boyd, <i>The Contemporary +Drama of Ireland</i>, Boston, 1917.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote43" name="footnote43"></a><a href="#footnotetag43">[43]</a> B. N. Hedderman, <i>Glimpses of My Life in Aran</i>, Bristol, 1917.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote44" name="footnote44"></a><a href="#footnotetag44">[44]</a> J. B. Yeats, <i>Life in the West of Ireland</i>, Dublin and London, +1912. The color prints and line drawings in this book are very beautiful. +Cf. also J. M. Synge, <i>The Aran Islands</i>. With drawings by +Jack B. Yeats, Dublin and London, 1907.]</p> + +<p><a id="footnote45" name="footnote45"></a><a href="#footnotetag45">[45]</a> Copyright, 1916, by The Sunwise Turn, Inc. All rights reserved. +The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly +reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the +Play should be made to The Neighborhood Playhouse, 466 Grand +Street, New York.</p> + +<p>Any infringement of the author's rights will be punished by the +penalties imposed under the United States Revised Statutes, Title 60, +Chapter 3.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote46" name="footnote46"></a><a href="#footnotetag46">[46]</a> For bibliography see E. A. Boyd, <i>The Contemporary Drama of +Ireland</i>, Boston, 1917.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote47" name="footnote47"></a><a href="#footnotetag47">[47]</a> Clayton Hamilton, <i>Seen on the Stage</i>, New York, 1920, p. 238; +p. 239.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote48" name="footnote48"></a><a href="#footnotetag48">[48]</a> Copyright, 1921, by Stark Young. Acting rights, amateur and +professional, must be secured from the author, care of the New York +Drama League, 7 East 42 Street, New York.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote49" name="footnote49"></a><a href="#footnotetag49">[49]</a> Maurice F. Egan, <i>Everybody's St. Francis</i>, with pictures by M. +Boutet de Monvel, New York, 1912.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote50" name="footnote50"></a><a href="#footnotetag50">[50]</a> Reprinted by special arrangement with Gowans & Gray. Ltd., +Glasgow. The acting rights are reserved.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote51" name="footnote51"></a><a href="#footnotetag51">[51]</a> I am indebted to Miss Italia Conti for the original scenario of +the Masque, and to former Editors of <i>Vanity Fair</i> and <i>The Crown</i> +for permission to reprint the two songs which were published in +their journals.—<span class="smcap">Alix Egerton</span>.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote52" name="footnote52"></a><a href="#footnotetag52">[52]</a> For bibliography, see Jethro Bithell, <i>Life and Writings of Maurice +Maeterlinck</i>, London and New York, 1913.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote53" name="footnote53"></a><a href="#footnotetag53">[53]</a> Copyright, 1917, by Josephine Preston Peabody. This play is fully +protected under the Copyright law of the United States and is subject +to royalty when produced by amateurs or professionals. Applications +for the right to produce <i>Fortune and Men's Eyes</i> should be made to +Samuel French, 28 West 38 Street, New York. All rights reserved.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote54" name="footnote54"></a><a href="#footnotetag54">[54]</a> From <i>The Little Man and Other Satires</i>; copyright, 1915, by +Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers. Acting +rights, professional and amateur, reserved to the author in care of the +publisher.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote55" name="footnote55"></a><a href="#footnotetag55">[55]</a> For a short bibliography, see Sheila Kaye-Smith, <i>John Galsworthy</i>, +London, 1916.</p> + +<p><a id="footnote56" name="footnote56"></a><a href="#footnotetag56">[56]</a> AUTHOR'S NOTE</p> + +<p>Since it is just possible that someone may think <i>The Little Man</i> +has a deep, dark reference to the war, it may be as well to state that +this whimsey was written in October, 1913.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of One-Act Plays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 33907-h.htm or 33907-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/9/0/33907/ + +Produced by Joseph R. Hauser, Christine P. 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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: One-Act Plays + By Modern Authors + +Author: Various + +Editor: Helen Louise Cohen + +Release Date: October 24, 2010 [EBook #33907] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Joseph R. Hauser, Christine P. Travers and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +[Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected, +all other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's +spelling has been maintained.] + + + + + ONE-ACT PLAYS + + BY MODERN AUTHORS + + + EDITED BY + HELEN LOUISE COHEN, Ph.D. + Chairman of the Department of English in the + Washington Irving High School in the + City of New York + + Author of "The Ballade" + + + NEW YORK + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY + HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. + + _All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced + in any form, by mimeograph or any other + means, without permission in writing from the publisher._ + + PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY + QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, INC. + RAHWAY, N. J. + + + + + To + M. S. S. + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + + +Had not both authors and publishers acted with the greatest +generosity, this collection could not have been made. Though the +editor cannot adequately express her sense of obligation, she wishes +at least to record explicitly her indebtedness to Mr. Harold +Brighouse, Lord Dunsany, Mr. John Galsworthy, Lady Gregory, Mr. Percy +MacKaye, Miss Jeannette Marks, Miss Josephine Preston Peabody, +Professor Robert Emmons Rogers, Mr. Booth Tarkington, and Professor +Stark Young. The editor also desires to thank Chatto & Windus, +Duffield & Company, Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Harper & Brothers, Little, +Brown & Company, John W. Luce & Company, G. P. Putnam's Sons, Charles +Scribner's Sons, and The Sunwise Turn, for permissions granted +ungrudgingly. + +Through the courtesy of Mr. T. M. Cleland, director of the Beechwood +Players, the pictures of the Beechwood Theatre appear. Miss Mary W. +Carter, chairman of the Department of English in the High School in +Montclair, New Jersey, contributed the photographs of the Garden +Theatre. Other illustrations appear through the kindness of _Theatre +Arts Magazine_, and of The Neighborhood Playhouse. + +The editor is grateful to Mrs. John W. Alexander, Mr. B. Iden Payne, +and Mrs. T. Bernstein for the privilege of personal conferences on the +subject of the book. To Mr. Robert Edmond Jones, who has allowed three +of his designs to be reproduced and who has read and corrected that +part of the Introduction that deals with The New Art of the Theatre, +the editor takes this opportunity of expressing her warm appreciation. +Finally, the editor wishes to thank her friend, Helen Hopkins Crandell +for her indefatigable work on the proofs of this book. + + + + +PREFACE + + +Perhaps the student who is going to read the plays in this collection +may have felt at some time or other a gap between the "classics" that +he was working over in school and the contemporary literature that he +heard commonly discussed, but he does not know that until recently few +books were studied in the high school that were less than half a +century old. Consciousness of the gap often drove him to trashy +reading. He recognized Addison as respectable but remote, and yet he +had no guide to the good literature which the writers of his own day +were producing and which would be especially interesting to him, +because its ideas and language would be more nearly contemporary with +his own. + +Even though the greatest literature has the quality of universality, +it has been almost invariably my experience that, only as one grows +older, is one quite ready to appreciate this quality. When one is +young, it is easier to enjoy literature written from a point of view +nearer to one's own life and times. Reading good contemporary +literature is likely also to pave the way for a deeper appreciation of +the great masterpieces of all time. + +This is a collection of one-act plays, some of them less than five +years old, chosen both because their appeal seems not to be limited to +the adult audiences for which they were originally written, and +because they may well serve the purpose of introducing the student to +contemporary dramatists of standing. Some of them, it is true, make +use of old stories and traditions, but the treatment is in all cases +modern, if we except the literary fashion that we find in Josephine +Preston Peabody's _Fortune and Men's Eyes_. This, though it is a +one-act play, a modern development, is written more or less in the +Shakespearian convention; but whether we are bookish or not, we can +hardly help having a knowledge of Shakespeare's plays, because, +popular with all kinds of people, they are continually being revived +on the stage, and quoted in conversation. + +The plays in this book, though intended for class-room study, may be +acted as well as read. The general introduction will be found helpful +to groups who produce plays, to those who live in cities and go to the +theatre often, and to those who like to experiment with dramatic +composition. For this book was planned to encourage an understanding +attitude towards the theatre, to deepen the love that is latent in the +majority of us for what is beautiful and uplifting in the drama, and +to make playgoing a less expensive, more regular, and more intelligent +diversion for the generation that is growing up. + + H. L. C. + + Washington Irving High School, + New York, 1 February, 1921. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + INTRODUCTION Page + + The Workmanship of the One-Act Play xiii + + Theatres of To-day + The Commercial Theatre and the Repertory Idea xx + The Little Theatre xxiii + The Irish National Theatre xxvi + + The New Art of the Theatre xxix + + Playmaking xxxiv + + The Theatre in the School l + + ROBERT EMMONS ROGERS + THE BOY WILL xxxviii + + BOOTH TARKINGTON + Introduction 3 + BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN 5 + + ERNEST DOWSON + Introduction 53 + THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE 55 + + OLIPHANT DOWN + Introduction 77 + THE MAKER OF DREAMS 79 + + PERCY MACKAYE + Introduction 97 + GETTYSBURG 99 + + A. A. MILNE + Introduction 113 + WURZEL-FLUMMERY 115 + + HAROLD BRIGHOUSE + Introduction 139 + MAID OF FRANCE 141 + + LADY GREGORY + Introduction 157 + SPREADING THE NEWS 159 + + JEANNETTE MARKS + Introduction 179 + WELSH HONEYMOON 181 + + JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE + Introduction 195 + RIDERS TO THE SEA 198 + + LORD DUNSANY + Introduction 211 + A NIGHT AT AN INN 213 + + STARK YOUNG + Introduction 226 + THE TWILIGHT SAINT 227 + + LADY ALIX EGERTON + Introduction 241 + THE MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS 244 + + MAURICE MAETERLINCK + Introduction 265 + THE INTRUDER 268 + + JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY + Introduction 287 + FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 289 + + JOHN GALSWORTHY + Introduction 323 + THE LITTLE MAN 325 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + Page + + _Twelfth Night_ on the stage of the Theatre du Vieux + Colombier in New York xxiv + + Design for _The Merchant of Venice_ by Robert Edmond Jones xxx + + Design for _Good Gracious Annabelle_ by Robert Edmond Jones xxxii + + Design for _The Seven Princesses_ by Robert Edmond Jones xxxiv + + The Beechwood Theatre. Exterior and Interior lviii + + The Garden Theatre. The original site, and the theatre as it + looks to-day lx + + Setting for _The Maker of Dreams_ at The Neighborhood Playhouse + designed by Aline Bernstein 79 + + Costumes for _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ designed at the + Washington Irving High School. + Plate 1 240 + Plate 2 253 + + Setting for _The Intruder_ designed by Sam Hume 268 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +THE WORKMANSHIP OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY + + +The one-act play is a new form of the drama and more emphatically a +new form of literature. Its possibilities began to attract the +attention of European and American writers in the last decade of the +nineteenth century, those years when so many dramatic traditions +lapsed and so many precedents were established. It is significant that +the oldest play in the present collection is Maeterlinck's _The +Intruder_, published in 1890. + +The history of this new form is of necessity brief. Before its vogue +became general, one-act plays were being presented in vaudeville +houses in this country and were being used as curtain raisers in +London theatres for the purpose of marking time until the late-dining +audiences should arrive. With the exception of the famous Grand +Guignol Theatre in Paris, where the entertainment for an evening might +consist of several one-act plays, all of the hair-raising, +blood-curdling variety, programs composed entirely of one-act plays +were rare. Sir James Matthew Barrie is usually credited with being the +first in England to write one-act plays intended to be grouped in a +single production. A program of this character has been uncommon in +the commercial theatre in America, but three of Barrie's one-act +plays, constituting a single program, have met with enthusiastic +response from American audiences. + +There are two new developments in the history of the theatre that have +encouraged and promoted the writing of one-act plays: the one is the +Repertory Theatre abroad and the other is the Little Theatre movement +on both sides of the Atlantic. The repertory of the Irish Players, for +example, is composed largely of one-act plays, and American Little +Theatres are given over almost exclusively to the one-act play. + +The one-act play is in reality so new a phenomenon, in spite of the +use that has been made of the form by playwrights like Pinero, +Hauptmann, Chekov, Shaw, and others of the first rank, that it is +still generally ignored in books on dramatic workmanship.[1] None the +less, the status of the one-act play is established and a study of the +plays of this length, which are rapidly increasing in number, +discloses certain tendencies and laws which are exemplified in the +form itself. Clayton Hamilton sums up the matter well when he says: +"The one-act play is admirable in itself, as a medium of art. It shows +the same relation to the full-length play as the short-story shows to +the novel. It makes a virtue of economy of means. It aims to produce a +single dramatic effect with the greatest economy of means that is +consistent with the utmost emphasis. The method of the one-act play at +its best is similar to the method employed by Browning in his dramatic +monologues. The author must suggest the entire history of a soul by +seizing it at some crisis of its career and forcing the spectator to +look upon it from an unexpected and suggestive point of view. A +one-act play in exhibiting the present should imply the past and +intimate the future. The author has no leisure for laborious +exposition; but his mere projection of a single situation should sum +up in itself the accumulated results of many antecedent causes.... The +form is complete, concise and self-sustaining; it requires an +extraordinary force of imagination."[2] + + [Footnote 1: See, however, Clayton Hamilton, _Studies in + Stagecraft_, New York, 1914, and B. Roland Lewis, _The + Technique of the One-Act Play_, Boston, 1918.] + + [Footnote 2: Clayton Hamilton, _Studies in Stagecraft_, New + York, 1914, pp. 254-255.] + +To follow for a moment a train of thought suggested by Mr. Hamilton's +timely and appreciative comment on the technique of the one-act play: +All writers on the short-story agree that, to use Poe's phrase, "the +vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of effect" is +indispensable to the successful short-story. This singleness of effect +is an equally important consideration in the structure of the one-act +play. A short-story is not a condensed novel any more than a one-act +play is a condensed full-length play. There is no fixed length for the +one-act play any more than there is for the short-story. The one-act +play must have its "dominant incident" and "dominant character" like +the short-story. The effect of the one-act play, as of the +short-story, is measured by the way it makes its readers and +spectators feel. Neither the short-story nor the one-act play need +necessarily "be founded on one of the passionate _cruces_ of life, +where duty and inclination come nobly to the grapple." One has but to +consider the short-stories of Henry James or the one-act plays of +Galsworthy or of Maeterlinck to be convinced that a _violent_ struggle +is not necessary to the art of either form. + +This point is further illustrated in what Galsworthy himself says in +general about drama in his famous essay, _Some Platitudes Concerning +the Drama_, which should be read in connection with his satirical +comedy, _The Little Man_. In that essay Galsworthy writes: "The plot! +A good plot is that sure edifice which slowly rises out of the +interplay of circumstance on temperament, and temperament on +circumstance, within the enclosing atmosphere of an idea. A human +being is the best plot there is.... Now true dramatic action is what +characters do, at once contrary, as it were, to expectation, and yet +because they have already done other things.... Good dialogue again is +character, marshaled so as continually to stimulate interest or +excitement." This commentary of Galsworthy's on dramatic technique +offers to the student of _The Little Man_ an unusual opportunity to +verify a great critic's theory by a great playwright's practice. It is +indeed the _character_ of the Little Man that is the plot in this +case; the plot may be said to begin when, according to stage +direction, the hapless Baby wails, and to be well launched with the +Little Man's deprecatory, "Herr Ober! Might I have a glass of beer?" +These words distinguish him immediately from his bullying companions +in the buffet. The highest point of interest, like the beginning of +the plot, is to be found in the play of the Little Man's personality, +at the point where he is left alone with the Baby, now a typhus +suspect, and after an instant's wavering, bends all his puny energies +to pacifying its uneasy cry. Again, the end of the plot comes with the +tribute of the bewildered but adoring mother to the ineffably gentle +Little Man. + +But a one-act play that has any pretensions to literature must be +looked upon as a law unto itself and should not be expected to conform +to any set of arbitrary requirements. As a matter of fact, there are +only a very few generalizations that can be made with regard to the +structure or to the classification of the one-act play. Even this book +contains plays that are not susceptible of any hard and fast +classification. _The Intruder_ and _Riders to the Sea_ are indubitably +tragedies, but _Fortune and Men's Eyes_, dealing, as it does, with the +tragic theme of love's disillusionment, belongs not at all with the +plays of Maeterlinck and Synge, shadowed, as they are, by death. And +though the deaths are many and bloody in _A Night at an Inn_, the +unreality of the romance is so strong that there is no such wrenching +of the human sympathies as we associate with tragedy. _The Pierrot of +the Minute_ is superficially a Harlequinade, but Dowson's insistence +on the theme of satiety brings it narrowly within the range of satire. +_Beauty and the Jacobin_ is rich in comedy; so is Lady Gregory's +_Spreading the News_, and in both, the situations change imperceptibly +from comedy to farce and from farce back to comedy. + +The laws of the structure of the one-act play are in the nature of +dramatic art no less flexible. It can be said that in order to secure +that singleness of impression that is as essential to the one-act play +as to the short-story, a single well sustained theme is necessary, a +theme announced in some fashion early in the play. Indeed since the +one-act play is a short dramatic form, it may be said in regard to the +announcing of the theme that, "'Twere well it were done quickly." In +_Spreading the News_, the curtain is barely up before Mrs. Tarpey is +telling the magistrate: "Business, is it? What business would the +people here have but to be minding one another's business?" And at +approximately the same moment in the action of _The Intruder_, the +uncle, foreshadowing the theme of the mysterious coming of death, +says: "When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a +stranger had forced himself into the family circle." + +The single dominant theme for its dramatic expression calls also for a +single situation developing to a single climax. In the case of +_Fortune and Men's Eyes_, it is the ballad-monger, who in crying his +wares, + + "Plays, Play not Fair, + Or how a _gentlewoman's_ heart was took + By a player, that was King in a stage-play," + +gives us in the first few minutes of the play his ironical clue to the +theme. And this theme is worked out in Mary Fytton's shallow intrigue +with William Herbert, which culminates in the shattering of the +Player's dream on that autumn day in South London at "The Bear and the +Angel." + +The single situation exemplifying the theme of _The Intruder_ is found +in the repeatedly expressed premonitions of the blind Grandfather, +stationary in his armchair, whose heightened senses detect the +presence of the Mysterious Stranger. The unity of effect secured in +this play is only rivaled, not surpassed, by the wonderful totality of +impression experienced by the reader of _The Fall of the House of +Usher_. The unity of effect in _The Intruder_ is secured also by +Maeterlinck's description of the setting, which reminds the playgoer +or the reader inevitably of Stevenson's familiar words: "Certain dark +gardens cry aloud for murder; certain old houses demand to be +haunted." + +In general, as has been said, the plot of the one-act play, because of +the time limitations, admits of no distracting incidents. For the same +reason the characterization must be swift and direct. By Bartley +Fallon's first speech in _Spreading the News_, Lady Gregory +characterizes him completely. He needs but say: "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," and the +fundamental part of his character is fixed in the minds of the +audience. From that moment it is just a question of filling in the +picture with pantomime and further dialogue. + +The characterization of the Player in _Fortune and Men's Eyes_ begins +at the moment that he enters the tavern, when Wat, the bear-ward, +calls out: + + "I say, I've played.... There's not one man + Of all the gang--save one.... Ay, there be one + I grant you, now!... He used me in right sort; + A man worth better trades." + +Wat's verdict on the fair-mindedness of Master William Shakespeare of +the Lord Chamberlain's company is borne out by the Player's own, + + "High fortune, man! + Commend me to thy bear." + [_Drinks and passes him the cup._] + +The entrance of the ballad-monger gives Master Will an opening for a +punning jest and, the action continuing, shows him sympathetic to the +strayed lady-in-waiting, tender to the tavern boy, magnanimous to the +false friend and falser love. + +One method of characterization which the author allows herself to use +in this play, no doubt to heighten the Elizabethan illusion, is rare +in the contemporary drama: when this "dark lady of the sonnets" flees +"The Bear and the Angel," the Player breaks forth into the +self-revealing soliloquy, found so frequently in his own plays, and +continuing as a dramatic convention until the last quarter of the +nineteenth century.[3] + + [Footnote 3: The Elizabethan platform stage survived until + then in the shape of the long "apron," projecting in front of + the proscenium. The characters were constantly stepping out + of the frame of the picture; and while this visual convention + maintained itself, there was nothing inconsistent or jarring + in the auditory convention of the soliloquy. See William + Archer, _Play-Making_, Boston, 1912, pp. 397-405.] + +Characterization rests in part on pantomime. In _The Little Man_, the +Dutch Youth is dumb throughout the play, but he is sufficiently +characterized by his foolish demeanor and his recurrent laugh. The +part of the Little Man himself is one long gesture of humility and +dedication. In those one-act plays in which the old characters of the +Harlequinade reappear, like _The Maker of Dreams_ and _The Pierrot of +the Minute_, pantomime transcends dialogue as a method of +characterization. In the plays of the Irish dramatists, Synge, Yeats, +and Lady Gregory, pantomime and dialogue contribute equally to the +characterization, which is of a very high order, since all these +dramatists were close observers of the Irish peasant characters of +their plays. + +Synge, especially, illustrates the following critical theory of +Galsworthy: "The art of writing true dramatic dialogue is an austere +art, denying itself all license, grudging every sentence devoted to +the mere machinery of the play, suppressing all jokes and epigrams +severed from character, relying for fun and pathos on the fun and +tears of life. From start to finish good dialogue is hand-made, like +good lace; clear, of fine texture, furthering with each thread the +harmony and strength of a design to which all must be subordinated." A +study of the dialogue of _Riders to the Sea_ reveals just this harmony +between the dialogue and the inevitability of the plot, the dialogue +and the simplicity of the characters. + +The dialogue in _The Little Man_ is the very idiom one would expect to +issue from the mouth of the German colonel, the Englishman with the +Oxford voice, or the intensely national American, as the case may be. +The characters, though they have type names, are, as Mr. Galsworthy +would probably be the first to explain, highly individualized. The +author does not intend us to think that all Americans are like this +loud-voiced traveler, or all Englishmen like the pharisaical gentleman +who gives his wife the advertisements to read while he secures the +news sheet for himself. + +The function of dialogue is the same both in the long and in the short +play. For, of course, both forms have many things in common. For +instance, as in the full-length play it is necessary for the dramatist +to carry forward the interest from act to act, to provide a "curtain" +that will leave the audience in a state of suspense, so in the one-act +play, the interest must be similarly relayed though the plot is +confined to a single act. In _The Intruder_, every premonition +expressed by the Grandfather grips the audience in such a way that +they await from minute to minute the coming of the mysterious +stranger. The tension is high in _A Night at an Inn_ from the moment +the curtain rises. In _Riders to the Sea_, the beginning of the +suspense coincides with the opening of the play and lasts. "They're +all gone now, and there isn't anything more the sea can do to me," +says Maurya, and the audience experiences a rush of relief and a sense +of release that the last words, "No man at all can be living for ever, +and we must be satisfied," seem only to deepen. + +A one-act play, then, has many structural features in common with the +short-story; its plot must from beginning to end be dominated by a +single theme; its crises may be crises of character as well as +conflicts of will or physical conflicts; it must by a method of +foreshadowing sustain the interest of the audience unflaggingly, but +ultimately relieve their tension; it must achieve swift +characterization by means of pantomime and dialogue; and its dialogue +must achieve its effects by the same methods as the dialogue of longer +plays, but by even greater economy of means. But when all is said and +done, the success of a one-act play is judged not by its conformity to +any set of hard and fast rules, but by its power to interest, +enlighten, and hold an audience. + + +THEATRES OF TO-DAY + +THE COMMERCIAL THEATRE AND THE REPERTORY IDEA + +The term "Commercial Theatre" is rarely used without disparagement. +The critic or the playwright who speaks of the Commercial Theatre +usually does so either for the purpose of reflecting on the cheapness +of the entertainment afforded, or in order to call attention to +spectacular receipts. + +In this country the Commercial Theatre stands for that form of big +business in the theatrical world that produces dividends on the money +invested comparable to those earned by the most prosperous of the +large industries. This system has been, on the whole, a bad thing for +the drama, because managers with their eye on attractions that should +yield a return, let us say, of over ten per cent on the investment, +have been unable to produce the superior play with an appeal to a +definite, though perhaps limited audience, and have had to offer to +the public the kind of play that would draw large audiences over a +long period of time. The "longest run for the safest possible play" is +thus conspicuously associated with the Commercial Theatre. As Clayton +Hamilton says: "The trouble with the prevailing theatre system in +America to-day is not that this system is commercial; for in any +democratic country, it is not unreasonable to expect the public to +defray the cost of the sort of drama that it wishes, and that, +therefore, it deserves. The trouble is, rather, that our theatre +system is devoted almost entirely to big business; and that in +ignoring the small profits of small business it tends to exclude not +only the uncommercial drama, but the non-commercial drama as well."[4] +Here he makes a distinction between an "uncommercial" play, that is, a +play that is a failure with all kinds of audiences, and the +"noncommercial" play, which is capable of holding its own financially +and yielding modest returns. + + [Footnote 4: Clayton Hamilton, _The Non-Commercial Drama_. + _The Bookman_, May, 1915.] + +In the days before the pooling of theatrical interests in this +country there were indeed long runs, but in many of the large +American cities "stock companies," composed of groups of actors and +actresses all of about the same reputation and ability, were +maintained that kept a number of plays, a "repertory," before the +public in the course of a season and gave scope for experiment with +various kinds of plays. But the "star system," which has now become +common, has tended to drive out the "stock company" idea, with the +result that the average company rests on the reputation of the "star" +and dispenses with distinction in the "support." With the decay of the +stock company, the repertory system, in the form in which it did once +exist here in the Commercial Theatre, has also declined. + +Both in Great Britain and in America the repertory system, long +established on the Continent, has been reintroduced in order to combat +the practices of the Commercial Theatre. For the most part the new +repertory theatres have been endowed either by the State or by private +individuals. "Absolute endowment for absolute freedom,"[5] has seemed +to at least one American the only means of delivering the drama from +commercial bondage. This phrase of Percy MacKaye's expresses his +cherished belief that endowed civic theatres, which should encourage +the participation of whole communities in a community form of drama, +are what is needed in a democracy. John Masefield, in the following +lines from the prologue written for the opening of the Liverpool +Repertory Theatre, has found a poetic theme in this idea of an endowed +theatre: + + "Men will not spend, it seems, on that one art + Which is life's inmost soul and passionate heart; + They count the theatre a place for fun, + Where man can laugh at nights when work is done. + + If it were only that, 'twould be worth while + To subsidize a thing which makes men smile; + But it is more; it is that splendid thing, + A place where man's soul shakes triumphant wing; + + A place of art made living, where men may see + What human life is and has seemed to be + To the world's greatest brains.... + + O you who hark + Fan to a flame through England this first spark, + Till in this land there's none so poor of purse + But he may see high deeds and hear high verse, + And feel his folly lashed, and think him great + In this world's tragedy of Life and Fate."[6] + + [Footnote 5: Percy MacKaye, _The Playhouse and the Play_, New + York, 1909, p. 86.] + + [Footnote 6: Quoted by Percy MacKaye in _The Civic Theatre_, + New York, 1912, p. 114.] + +In Great Britain repertory is associated with the interest and +generosity of Miss A. E. F. Horniman, who will be mentioned in +connection with the Irish National Theatre, and through whom, after +some preliminary experiment, the Gaiety Theatre at Manchester was +opened as the first repertory house in England, in the spring of 1908. +Fifty-five different plays were produced in a little over two +years--"twenty-eight new, seventeen revivals of modern English plays, +five modern translations, and five classics."[7] In Miss Horniman's +own words, her interest was in a Civilized Theatre. "A Civilized +Theatre," she has written, "means that a city has something of +cultivation in it, something to make literature grow; a real theatre, +not a mere amusing toy. What we want is the opportunity for our men +and women, our boys and girls to get a chance to see the works of the +greatest dramatists of modern times, as well as the classics, for +their pleasure as well as their cultivation.... Young dramatists +should have a theatre where they can see the ripe works of the masters +and see them well acted at a moderate price. There should be in every +city a theatre where we can see the best drama worthily treated."[8] +Owing to war conditions, the Manchester project has had to be +abandoned, and so, for the most part, have other similar enterprises. +They rarely became self-supporting, but depended on subsidy of one +kind or another, which under new economic conditions is no longer +forthcoming. The Birmingham Repertory Theatre continues, however, +under the direction of John Drinkwater, and has become famous through +its production of his _Abraham Lincoln_. "John Drinkwater, I see, has +recently defined a Repertory Theatre," writes William Archer, in his +latest article on the subject, "as one which 'puts plays into stock +which are good enough to stay there.'" Enlarging this definition, I +should call it a theatre which excluded the long unbroken run; which +presents at least three different programs in each week (though a +popular success may be performed three or even four times a week +throughout a whole season); which can produce plays too good to be +enormously popular; which makes a principle of keeping alive the great +drama of the past, whether recent or remote; which has a company so +large that it can, without overworking its actors, keep three or four +plays ready for instant presentation; which possesses an ample stage +equipped with the latest artistic and labor-saving appliances; and +which offers such comfort in front of the house as to encourage an +intelligent public to make it an habitual place of resort. + + [Footnote 7: P. P. Howe, _The Repertory Theatre_, New York, + 1911, p. 59.] + + [Footnote 8: A. E. F. Horniman, _The Manchester Players_, + _Poet Lore_, Vol. XXV, No. 3, p. 212; p. 213.] + +"That there exists in every great American city an intelligent public +large enough to support one or more such playhouses is to my mind +indisputable. But the theatre might have to be run at a loss for two +or three opening seasons, until it had attracted and educated its +habitual supporters. For even a public of high general intelligence +needs a certain amount of special education in things of the theatre." +This testimony is in a highly optimistic vein. + +A talk with B. Iden Payne, once director of the Manchester Players, +reveals the fact that in England at the present time the repertory +idea is being taken over with more promise of success by the small +groups that represent the Little Theatre movement in that country. The +repertory theatre there did succeed in arousing in the locality in +which, for the time being, it existed an interest in intelligent +plays, but it was not equally successful in confirming a distaste for +unintelligent plays. The study of these experiments will repay +Americans who are interested in seeing the repertory idea fostered +over here by endowment or otherwise. + + +THE LITTLE THEATRE + +The year 1911 saw the beginning in the United States of the Little +Theatre movement, which has grown with phenomenal rapidity and has +spread in all directions. The first Little Theatres in this country +were located in large cities; but in the course of time the idea has +penetrated to small towns and rural communities all over the United +States. Barns, wharves, saloons, and school assembly halls have been +transformed into intimate little playhouses. There were European +precedents for this idea. The Theatre Libre, opened in Paris in 1887 +by Andre Antoine as a protest against the kind of play then in favor, +is generally called the first of this type. In the years from 1887 to +1911 Little Theatres were opened in Russia, in Belgium, in Germany, in +Sweden, in Hungary, in England, in Ireland, and in France. In Europe +these theatres came into being, generally speaking, in order to give +freer play to the new arts of the theatre or for the purpose of +encouraging a more intellectual type of drama than was being produced +in the larger houses. + +There are two conceptions of the Little Theatre current in the United +States. According to one, it is a theatrical organization housed in a +simple building, that makes its productions in the most economical +way, does not pay its actors, does not charge admission, and uses +scenery and properties that are cheaply manufactured at home. + +[Illustration: _Twelfth Night_ on the stage of the Theatre du Vieux +Colombier, New York.] + +The Little Theatre is, however, more commonly conceived of as a +repertory theatre supported by the subscription system, producing its +plays on a small stage in a small hall, selecting for production the +kind of play not likely to be used by the Commercial Theatre, most +frequently the one-act play, and committed to experiments in stage +decoration, lighting, and the other stage arts. The Little Theatre and +the one-act play have developed each other reciprocally, for the +Little Theatre has encouraged the writing of one-act plays in Europe +and in this country. The one-act play is the natural unit of +production in the Little Theatre, both because it requires a less +sustained performance from the actors, who have frequently been +amateurs, and because it has offered in the same evening several +opportunities to the various groups of artists collaborating in the +productions of the Little Theatre. Though the movement has had the +effect of stimulating community spirit and has been the means of +solving grave community problems, the Little Theatre is not, in the +technical sense, a community theatre; in the sense, that is, in which +Percy MacKaye uses the word. It is not, in fact, so portentous an +enterprise, because it does not enlist the participation of every +member of a community. The community theatre is an example of civic +co-operation on a large scale; the Little Theatre, of the same kind +of co-operation on a small scale. + +Notably artistic results have been achieved by such Little Theatres as +The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York, built in 1914 by the Misses +Irene and Alice Lewisohn, in connection with the social settlement +idea, to provide expression for the talents of a community that had +been previously trained in dramatic classes for some years; by the +Chicago Little Theatre, founded in 1911, now no longer in existence, +but for a few years under the direction of Maurice Browne, a disciple +of Gordon Craig's; by the Detroit Theatre of Arts and Crafts, once +under the direction of Mr. Sam Hume, also a follower of Gordon +Craig's; by the Washington Square Players, who during several seasons +in New York gave a remarkable impetus to the writing of one-act plays +in America; by the Provincetown Players, whose first productions were +made on Cape Cod, who later opened a small playhouse in New York, and +who gave the public an opportunity to know the plays of Eugene +O'Neill; by the Portmanteau Theatre of Stuart Walker, that uses but +one setting in its productions, but varies the effect with different +colored lights, and as its name implies, is portable, one of the few +of its kind in the world; by the 47 Workshop Theatre that has arisen +as the result of the course in playwriting given at Harvard University +by Professor George Pierce Baker, and the productions of which have +served to introduce many new writers; and by the Theatre du Vieux +Colombier, that came to New York from Paris in 1917, and remained for +two seasons to illustrate the best French practice. These theatres +also enjoy the distinction of having experimented with repertory. + +The Theatre du Vieux Colombier was organized and is directed by +Jacques Copeau. It is no casual amateur experiment. Its actors are +professionals and its director is a scholar and an artist. In +preparation for the original opening the company went into the country +and established a little colony. "During five hours of each day they +studied repertoire but they did far more. They performed exercises in +physical culture and the dance: they read aloud and acted improvised +dramatic scenes. They worked thus upon their bodies, their voices and +their actions: made them subtle instruments in their command." They +learned that in an artistic production every gesture, every word, +every line, and every color counted. Naturally no group of amateurs or +semi-professionals can approach the results of a company trained as M. +Copeau's is. When he was over here, he was much interested in our +Little Theatres. He said in one of his addresses: "All the _little +theatres_ which now swarm in America, ought to come to an +understanding among themselves and unite, instead of trying to keep +themselves apart and distinctive. The ideas which they possess in +common have not even begun to be put into execution. They must be +incorporated into life."[9] + + [Footnote 9: The kind of co-operation to which he looked + forward is beginning. For instance, the New York Drama League + announces a Little Theatre membership. "Its purpose is to + serve the needs of the large and constantly growing public + that is interested in the activities of the semi-professional + and amateur community groups who read or produce plays. Under + this new Membership there will be issued monthly, for ten + issues a Play List of five pages, giving a concise but + complete synopsis of new plays, both one-act and longer + plays. It will show the number of characters required; the + kind of audience to which the play would be likely to appeal; + the royalty asked for production rights; the production + necessities and other information of value to production + groups or individuals. One page will be devoted to three or + four standard older plays treated with the same detail of + information. The Little Theatre Supplement ... will continue + to be issued each month, but will hereafter be a feature of + the Little Theatre Membership only. It will contain the + programs of the Little Theatres throughout the country; short + accounts of what is going on among the various groups, and + articles on Little Theatre problems, with hints on new, + effective and economical methods of production."] + +The native Little Theatres, much simpler affairs than the Vieux +Colombier, persist. They have made a place for themselves in American +life, among the farms, in the suburbs, in the small towns, and in the +cities. Sometimes, no doubt, they are like the one in Sinclair Lewis's +Gopher Prairie; or they hardly outlast a season. But new ones spring +up to replace those that have gone out of existence, and meanwhile the +ends of wholesome community recreation are being served. + + +THE IRISH NATIONAL THEATRE + +About 1890 began the movement which has since been known as the Celtic +Renaissance, a movement that had for its object the lifting into +literature of the songs, myths, romances, and legends treasured for +countless generations in the hearts of the Irish peasantry. In the +same decade in Great Britain and on the Continent, tendencies were at +work looking to the reform of the drama and its rescue from commercial +formulas. The genesis of the Irish National Theatre, a pioneer in the +field of repertory in Great Britain, and one of the first of the +Little Theatres, is due to both of these influences. + +Its first form was the Irish Literary Theatre, founded in 1899 by +Edward Martyn, the author of _The Heather Field_ and _Maeve_, George +Moore, and William Butler Yeats. The first play produced by this +organization was Yeats's _Countess Cathleen_. This enterprise employed +only English actors, and did not assume to be purely national in +scope. It came to an end in October, 1901. It was in October, 1902, +that in _Samhain_, the organ of the Irish National Theatre, William +Butler Yeats made the following announcement: "The Irish Literary +Theatre has given place to a company of Irish actors." The nucleus of +this new Irish National Theatre was certain companies of amateurs that +W. G. Fay had assembled. These companies were composed of people who +were unable to give full time to their interest in the drama, but who +came from the office or the shop to rehearse at odd moments during the +day and in the evening. The Irish National Theatre really developed +from these amateur companies. It was strictly national in scope. The +advisers, who were to include Synge, Lady Gregory, Padraic Colum, +William Butler Yeats, and others, looked to the Irish National Theatre +to bring the drama back to the people, to whom plays dealing with +society life meant nothing. They intended also that their plays +"should give them [the people] a quite natural pleasure, should either +tell them of their own life, or of that life of poetry where every man +can see his own magic, because there alone does human nature escape +from arbitrary conditions." This program has been carried out with +remarkable success. + +October, 1902, is the date for the beginning of the Irish National +Theatre. At first W. G. Fay, and his brother, Frank Fay, were in +charge of the productions, the former as stage manager. Frank Fay had +charge of training a company, in which the star system was unknown. He +had studied French methods of stage diction and gesture, and the Irish +Players are generally said to show the results of his familiarity with +great French models. In 1913 a school of acting was organized in +order to perpetuate the tradition created by the Fays. + +Among the most famous playwrights who have written for the Irish +National Theatre are Padraic Colum, John Millington Synge, William +Butler Yeats, Lady Gregory, St. John G. Ervine, AE (George W. Russell), +and Lord Dunsany. At one time the theatre sent out, in a circular +addressed to aspiring authors who showed promise, the following +counsel: "A play to be suitable for performance at the Abbey should +contain some criticism of life, founded on the experience or personal +observation of the writer, or some vision of life, of Irish life by +preference, important from its beauty or from some excellence of +style, and this intellectual quality is not more necessary to tragedy +than to the gayest comedy."[10] + + [Footnote 10: Lady Gregory, _Our Irish Theatre_, New York, + 1913, p. 101.] + +In 1904 the Irish National Theatre was housed for the first time in +its own playhouse, the Abbey Theatre. This change was made possible by +the generosity of Miss A. E. F. Horniman, who saw the Irish Players +when they first went to London in 1903. It was she who obtained the +lease of the Mechanics' Institute in Dublin, increased its capacity, +and rebuilt it, giving it rent free to the Players from 1904 to 1909, +in addition to an annual subsidy which she allowed them. In 1910 the +Abbey Theatre was bought from her by public subscription. The next +year, the Irish Players paid their famous visit to the United States. + +The Irish National Dramatic Company was organized as a protest against +current theatrical practices. Its founders purposed to reform the +various arts of the theatre. By encouraging native playwrights they +hoped to do for the drama of Ireland what Ibsen and other writers had +done for the drama in Scandinavian countries, where people go to the +theatre to think as well as to feel. It was not intended in any sense +that these new Irish players were to serve the purpose of propaganda; +truth was not to be compromised in the service of a cause. Acting, +too, was to be improved: redundant gesture was to be suppressed; +repose was to be given its full value; speech was to be made more +important than gesture. Yeats in particular had theories as to the way +in which verse should be spoken on the stage; he advocated a cadenced +chant, monotonous but not sing-song, for the delivery of poetry. The +simplification of costume and setting was also included in their +scheme, for both were to be strictly accessory to the speech and +movement of the characters. + +They have been faithful to their ideals. The performances at the Abbey +Theatre continue, although from time to time certain of the most +eminent actors of the company have withdrawn, some to migrate to +America. Among the plays produced in 1919 and 1920 by the National +Theatre Society at the Abbey Theatre are W. B. Yeats's _The Land of +Heart's Desire_, G. B. Shaw's _Androcles and the Lion_, Lady Gregory's +_The Dragon_, and Lord Dunsany's _The Glittering Gate_. + + +THE NEW ART OF THE THEATRE + +There are certain facts about the artistic transformation that the +theatre is undergoing in the twentieth century with which students of +the drama need to be familiar in order to picture for themselves how +plays can be interpreted by means of design, color, and light. The +transformation is definitely connected with a few famous names. In +Europe two men, Edward Gordon Craig and Max Reinhardt, stand out as +reformers in matters connected with the construction, the lighting, +and the design of stage settings. In this country the artists of the +theatre are, generally speaking, disciples of one or both of these +great Europeans and their colleagues. The new stage artist studies the +characterization and the situations in the play, the production of +which he is directing, and tries to make his setting suggestive of the +physical and emotional atmosphere in which the action of the drama +moves. + +Gordon Craig has written several books and many articles embodying his +ideas on play production. In all his writings he emphasizes the +importance of having one individual with complete authority and +complete knowledge in charge of coordinating and subordinating the +various arts that go to make the production of a play a symmetrical +whole, his theory being that there is no one art that can be called to +the exclusion of all others _the_ Art of the Theatre: not the acting, +not the play, not the setting, not the dance; but that all these +properly harmonized through the personality of the director become the +Art of the Theatre. + +The kind of setting that has become identified in the popular mind +with Gordon Craig is the simple monochrome background composed either +of draperies or of screens. It is unfortunate that this popular idea +should be so limited because, of course, the name of Gordon Craig +should carry with it the suggestion of an infinite variety of ways of +interpreting the play through design. His screens, built to stand +alone, vary in number from one to four and sometimes have as many as +ten leaves. They are either made of solid wood or are wooden frames +covered with canvas. The screens with narrow leaves may be used to +produce curved forms, and screens with broad leaves to enclose large +rectangular spaces. The screens are one form of the setting composed +of adjustable units, which can be adapted in an infinite variety of +ways to the needs of the play. + +The new ideas in European stagecraft began to be popularized in +America in the year 1914-15, when under the auspices of the Stage +Society, Sam Hume, now teaching the arts of the theatre at the +University of California, and Kenneth Macgowan, the dramatic critic, +arranged an exhibition that was shown in New York, Chicago, and other +great centres, of new stage sets designed by Robert Edmond Jones, Sam +Hume, and others who have since become famous. The models displayed on +this occasion brought before the public for the first time the new +method of lighting which, as much as anything else, differentiates the +new theatre art from the old. It introduced the device of a concave +back wall made of plaster, sometimes called by its German name +"horizont," and a lighting equipment that would dye this plaster +horizon with colors that melted into one another like the colors in +the sky; a stage with "dimmers" for every circuit of lights, and +sockets for high-power lamps at any spot from the stage. + +In the same year that the Stage Society showed Robert Edmond Jones's +models, he was given an opportunity to design the settings and +costumes for Granville Barker's production of Anatole France's _The +Man Who Married a Dumb Wife_, which may be said to have advertised the +new practices in America more than any other single production. + +[Illustration: _The Merchant of Venice._ A room in Belmont. Design by +Robert Edmond Jones. A great round window framed in the heavy molding +of Mantegna and the pale clear sky of Northern Italy.] + +Writing of his own work shortly after, Mr. Jones says: "While the +scenery of a play is truly important, it should be so important that +the audience should forget that it is present. There should be +fusion between the play and the scenery. Scenery isn't there to be +looked at, it's really there to be forgotten. The drama is a fire, the +scenery is the air that lifts the fire and makes it bright.... The +audience that is always conscious of the back drop is paying a +doubtful compliment to the painter.... Even costumes should be the +handiwork of the scenic artist. Yes, and if possible, he should build +the very furniture."[11] Robert Edmond Jones has not only designed +settings and costumes for poetic and fantastic forms of drama, but he +has also been called upon to plan the productions of realistic modern +plays. + + [Footnote 11: Robert Edmond Jones, _The Future Decorative Art + of the Theatre_, _Theatre Magazine_, Vol. XXV, May, 1917, p. + 266.] + +Three of his designs introducing three different aspects of his work +have been here reproduced. The model for Maeterlinck's _The Seven +Princesses_ is an example of an attempt to present the essential +significant structure of a setting in the simplest way conceivable and +by so doing to stimulate the imagination of the spectator to create +for itself the imaginative environment of the play. His design for a +room in Belmont for _The Merchant of Venice_ shows a great round +window framed in the heavy molding of Mantegna and the pale, clear sky +of Northern Italy. The scene for _Good Gracious Annabelle_ is a +corridor in an hotel. This scene is a typical example of a more or +less abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily +with the idea of giving as many different exits and entrances as +possible, in order that the action of the drama might be swift and +varied.[12] + + [Footnote 12: Robert Edmond Jones himself has suggested the + phrasing of these descriptions.] + +When Sam Hume was connected with the Detroit Theatre of Arts and +Crafts, he used a symbolic and suggestive method for the setting of +poetic plays the scene of which was laid in no definite locality. In +this theatre he installed a permanent setting, including the following +units: "Four pylons [square pillars], constructed of canvas on wooden +frames, each of the three covered faces measuring two and one-half by +eighteen feet; two canvas flats each three by eighteen feet; two +sections of stairs three feet long, and one section eight feet long, +of uniform eighteen-inch height; three platforms of the same height, +respectively six, eight, and twelve feet long; dark green hangings as +long as the pylons; two folding screens for masking, covered with the +same cloth as that used in the hangings, and as high as the pylons; +and two irregular tree forms in silhouette. + +"The pylons, flats, and stairs, and such added pieces as the arch and +window, were painted in broken color ...[13] so that the surfaces +would take on any desired color under the proper lighting."[14] The +economy of this method is illustrated by the fact that in one season +nineteen plays were given in the Arts and Crafts Theatre at Detroit, +and the settings for eleven of these were merely rearrangements of the +permanent setting. This kind of setting is sometimes called +"plastic"--a term which refers to the fact that the separate units are +in the round, and not flat. The effect secured in settings +representing outdoor scenes was made possible only by the use of a +plaster horizon of the general type described in connection with the +exhibition of the Stage Society. + + [Footnote 13: See p. xxxiii.] + + [Footnote 14: Sheldon Cheney, _The Art Theatre_, New York, + 1917, pp. 167-168.] + +[Illustration: _Good Gracious Annabelle._ A corridor in a hotel. +Design by Robert Edmond Jones. A typical example of a more or less +abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily with +the idea of giving as many different exits and entrances as possible +in order that the action of the drama might be swift and varied.] + +Robert Edmond Jones and Sam Hume are two of an increasingly large +number of artists in America, among whom should be mentioned +Norman-bel Geddes, Maurice Browne, and Lee Simonson, who are +experimenting with design, color, and light. Underlying the work of +all of these is the belief that the whole production, the play, the +acting, the lighting, and the setting, should be unified by some one +dominating mood. In the work of these new artists, there is no place +for the old-fashioned painted back drop, the use of which emphasizes +the disparity between the painted and the actual perspective, though +their backgrounds are by no means necessarily either screens or +draperies. Another new style of background is the skeleton setting, a +permanent structural foundation erected on the stage, which through +the addition of draperies and movable properties, or the variation of +lights, or the manipulation of screens, may serve for all the scenes +of a play. A permanent structure of this sort, representing the Tower +of London, was used by Robert Edmond Jones in a recent production of +_Richard III_ in New York, at the Plymouth Theatre. When Jacques +Copeau conducted the Theatre du Vieux Colombier in New York he had a +permanent structure built on the stage of the Garrick Theatre, that +he used for all the plays he produced; at times the upper half of the +stage was masked, at times the recess back of the two central columns +was used. The aspect of the stage was often completely changed by the +addition of tapestries, stairs, panels, screens, and furniture. + +In the description of the equipment of the Detroit Theatre of Arts and +Crafts, reference has been made to a method of painting the plastic +units in broken color. This is so important a principle that it should +be more generally understood by those who are interested in the +theatre. The principle was put into operation by the Viennese +designer, Joseph Urban. In practice it means that a canvas painted +with red and with green spots upon which a red light is played, throws +up only the red spots blended so as to produce a red surface, and that +the same canvas under a green light shows a green surface; and, if +both kinds of lights are used, then both the green and red spots are +brought out, according to the proportion of the mixture of green and +red in the light. + +Color is being used now not only for decorative purposes, but also +symbolically. The decorative use of color on the stage is, obviously, +like the decorative use of color in the design of textiles, or stained +glass, or posters. The symbolic use of color is less easy to +interpret, but it is plain that in most people's minds red is +connected with excitement and frenzy, and blues and grays, with an +atmosphere of mystery. This is a very bald suggestion of some of the +very subtle things that have been done with color on the modern stage. + +The new methods of stage lighting make possible all kinds of color +combinations and effects. The use of the plaster horizon (or of the +cyclorama, a cheaper substitute, usually a straight semi-circular +curtain enclosing the stage, made of either white or light blue +cloth), combined with high-powered lights set at various angles on the +stage, makes outdoor effects possible, the beauty of which is new to +the theatre.[15] Nowadays footlights are not invariably discarded, but +where they are used they are wired so that groups of them can be +lighted when other sections are dimmed or darkened. When the setting +shows an interior scene with a window, though the scene may be lighted +from all sides, the window seems to be the source of all light. A +good deal of the lighting on the stage is what is known in the +interior decoration of houses as indirect lighting; colored lights are +produced most simply by the interposition between the source of light +and the stage of transparent colored slides, gelatine or glass. + + [Footnote 15: For a description of modern lighting equipment + for a Little Theatre compare the section on the Theatre in + the School in this introduction.] + +In any production that is made under the influence of the new +stagecraft, the costumes, like the setting of the play, are considered +in connection with the resources of lighting. The costumes, whether +historically correct or historically suggestive, whether of a period +or conventionalized, are conceived in their three-fold relation to the +characters of the play, the background, and the scheme of lights, by +the designer or the director under whose general supervision the play +is staged. + +In general, American audiences are hardly conscious of the existence +of these reforms. Here and there, it is true, the manager of a +commercial theatre or an opera house has called in an artist to +supervise his productions and has thus given publicity to the new way +of making the arts of the theatre work together. Certain Little +Theatres, also, have educated their followers in the significance of +the new use of light and design to represent the mood of a play. The +demands that the new method makes on craftsmanship have also commended +it to students in schools and colleges interested in play production. +Both the Little Theatres and the school theatres are doing a real +service when they educate their communities in these new arts, for not +only will this education increase the capacity of these particular +audiences to enjoy the good things of the theatre, but the influence +of these groups is bound in the long run to popularize the new +stagecraft. + + +PLAYMAKING + +Shortly before the death of William Dean Howells, he related the +experience that he had had of being circularized by a correspondence +school that offered to teach him the art of writing fiction in a +phenomenally short time at a ridiculously low rate. In this instance, +there was something wrong with the mailing list, but the fact remains +that in universities successful courses in writing short-stories and +plays are given and the best of these courses actually have turned out +writers who achieve various degrees of success financially and +artistically It is plain that a brief treatise like the present one +makes no such pretensions; it means merely to suggest some of the most +obvious points of departure for students in the drama who wish to +exercise themselves in the composition of the one-act play, much as a +student of poetry will try his hand at a _ballade_ or a sonnet without +taking himself or his metrical exercises too seriously. + +[Illustration: _Courtesy of Theatre Arts Magazine_ + +_The Seven Princesses._ Design by Robert Edmond Jones. An example of +the attempt to present the essential significant structure of a +setting in the simplest way conceivable and by so doing to stimulate +the imagination of the spectator to create for itself the imaginative +environment of the play.] + +In the famous Perse School in Cambridge, England, the boys begin at +the age of twelve to practise playmaking as an aid to the fuller +understanding of Shakespeare's dramatic workmanship, and this work is +developed throughout the rest of the course. The boys, having learned +that Shakespeare himself used stories that he found ready to hand, +discover in their own reading a story that will lend itself to +dramatization. The story is told and retold from every angle. The +class is then divided up into committees to every one of which is +entrusted some part of the dramatization. One little committee busies +itself with the setting, another with the structure, another with the +comic characters, another with the songs that are interspersed and so +on. These committees prepare rough notes to be presented in class. +These notes may propose an outline of successive scenes, present the +part of some principal character, or the "business" (illustrative +action) of some minor part. Lessons of this sort are followed by +composition rehearsals, where the dramatic and literary value of the +proposed plot, characterization, pantomime, and dialogue are tested, +and subjected to the criticism of teacher and boys. In the next +lessons, the teacher brings to bear on the special problems on which +the boys are working all the criticism that his wider range of reading +and experience can suggest. In the light of his suggestions the +various points are debated and the boys then proceed to careful +fashioning, shaping, and writing. A rehearsal of the nearly finished +product is held, followed by a final revision of the text. The work +then goes forward to a public performance given with all due ceremony. +In the higher classes playmaking is taught more especially in +connection with writing and the boys are trained to imitate the style +of various dramatists. Synge was used as a model at one time for, as +one of the masters of the school explained: "The style of Synge is +easy to copy because it is so largely composed of a certain +phraseology. The same words, phrases, and turns of sentence occur +again and again. Here are a few taken at random; the reader will find +them in a context on almost any page of the plays: _It's myself_ -- +_Is it me fight him?_ -- _I'm thinking_ -- _It's a poor_ (_fine, +great, hard_, etc.) _thing_ -- _A little path I have_ -- _Let you +come_ -- _God help us all_ -- _Till Tuesday was a week_ -- _The end of +time_ -- _The dawn of day_ -- _Let on_ -- _Kindly_ -- _Now_, as in +_Walk out now_ -- _Surely_ -- _Maybe_ -- _Itself_ -- _At all_ -- +_Afeard_ -- _Destroyed_ -- _It curse_. Synge is also mighty fond of +the words _ditch_ and _ewe_. And there are certain forms of rhythm +about Synge's prose which are used with equal frequency, and are quick +and easy to catch. So far from this imitation of style being an +artificial method, the fact is that once a boy of sixteen or over has +read a play or two of Synge's, if he has any power of style in him, it +will be all but impossible to stop him writing like Synge for a few +weeks." Learning playwriting from models recalls the method of +Benjamin Franklin and Robert Louis Stevenson who in their youth wrote +slavish imitations of the great masters in order to form their own +prose style. Of course, it is not claimed that this work at the Perse +School makes playwrights, only that it gives the boys a deeper +appreciation of dramatic workmanship and furnishes a new kind of +intellectual game to add to the joy of school life. + +The one-act plays contained in this collection are, as has been +suggested in what has been said about their construction, illustrative +of various kinds of workmanship. Certain of them are excellent models +for those who are experimenting with playwriting. The one-act play, +not nearly so difficult a form as the full-length play, offers +undergraduates in school and college and inexperienced writers +generally unlimited scope for experiment. + +The testimony of Lord Dunsany is to the effect that his play is made +when he has discovered a motive. Asked whether he always began with a +motive, "'Not always,' he said; 'I begin with anything or next to +nothing. Then suddenly, I get started, and go through in a hurry. The +main point is not to interrupt a mood. Writing is an easy thing when +one is going strong and going fast; it becomes a hard thing only when +the onward rush is impeded. Most of my short plays have been written +in a sitting or two.'"[16] This passage is quoted because insight +into the practice of professional writers is always helpful to +amateurs. Dunsany uses "motive," it seems, as a convenient term for +denoting the idea, the character, the incident or the mood that impels +the dramatist to start writing a play. Such material is to be found +everywhere. Many professional writers accumulate vast stores of such +themes against the day when they may have the necessary leisure, +energy, and insight to develop them. + + [Footnote 16: Clayton Hamilton, _Seen on the Stage_, New + York, 1920, p. 239.] + +It has been pointed out that there are only thirty-six possible +dramatic situations in any case, and that no matter how the plot +shapes itself, it is bound to classify itself somehow or other as one +of the inescapable thirty-six. There is comfort also in the suggestion +that Shakespeare drew practically all the dramatic material that he +used so transcendently direct from the familiar and accessible +narrative stores of his day. The young or inexperienced playwright +need have no hesitation, then, in turning to such sources as the Greek +myths for inspiration. Quite recently a highly successful one-act play +of Phillip Moeller's proved that Helen of Troy is as eternally +interesting as she is perennially beautiful. Maurice Baring draws on +the old Greek stories, too, for several of his _Diminutive Dramas_. +The Bible has proved dramatically suggestive to Lord Dunsany and to +Stephen Phillips. The old ballads of _Fair Annie_ and _The Wife of +Usher's Well_ have been found dramatically available. The myths of the +old Norse Gods, used by Richard Wagner for his music dramas, contain +much unmined dramatic gold. John Masefield and Sigurjonsson have +converted Saga material to the uses of the drama. In old English +literature, in _Widsith_, in the _Battle of Brunanburh_, the seeking +dramatist may find. The romances of the Middle Ages, the fairy lore of +all peoples, and the old Hindu animal fables are fertile in suggestion +to the intending dramatist. What a wonderful one-act play, steeped in +the mellow atmosphere of the Renaissance in Italy, might be made out +of Browning's _My Last Duchess!_ At least one new literary precedent +has recently been created by the author who wrote a sequel to _Dombey +and Son_. Certainly many famous novels and plays may be conceived as +calling out for similar treatment at the hands of the experimental +playwright. Famous literary and historic characters offer themselves +as promising dramatic material. When Robert Emmons Rogers, author of +the well-known play, _Behind a Watteau Picture_, was a sophomore at +Harvard, he wrote the following charming little play on Shakespeare +which is reprinted here, with the author's permission, as a pleasing +example of a promising piece of apprentice work:[17] + + [Footnote 17: Robert Emmons Rogers, President of the Boston + Drama League and Assistant Professor, specializing in modern + literature and drama in the Massachusetts Institute of + Technology, was born in Haddonfield, New Jersey, in 1888. He + writes that his Anne Hathaway "was a particularly wild + idealization based on Miss Adams as Peter Pan," and that even + at eighteen he knew that his portrait of the girl, who was to + be Shakespeare's wife, was not historically correct. + Permission to perform the play must be secured from the + author.] + + +THE BOY WILL + +_Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, 1582. The +room is of heavy-beamed dark oak, stained by age and smoke, with a +great, hooded fireplace on the left. At the back is a door with the +upper half thrown back, and two wide windows through whose open +lattices, overgrown with columbine, one can see the fresh country side +in the setting sun. Under them are broad window seats. At the right, a +door and a tall dresser filled with pewter plates and tankards. A +couple of chairs, a stool and a low table stand about. ANNE, a slim +girl of sixteen, is mending the fire. MASTER GEORGE PEELE, a bold and +comely young man, in worn riding dress and spattered boots, sprawls +against the disordered table. GILES, a plump and peevish old rogue in +tapster's cap and apron, stands by the door looking out._ + + +PEELE [_rousing himself_]. Giles! Gi-les! + +GILES [_hurries to him_]. What more, zur? Wilt ha' the pastry or--? + +PEELE. Another quart of sack. + +GILES. Yus, zur! Anne, bist asleep? [_The girl rises slowly._] + +ANNE [_takes the tankard_]. He hath had three a'ready. + +PEELE [_cheerfully_]. And shall have three more so I will. This +player's life of mine is a weary one. + +ANNE [_pertly_]. And a thirsty one, too, methinks. + +GILES [_scandalized_]. Come, wench! Ha' done gawking about, and haste! +[_ANNE goes at right._] 'Er be a forrard gel, zur, though hendy. I be +glad 'er's none o' mine, but my brother's in Shottery. He canna say I +love 'is way o' making wenches so saucy. + +PEELE. A pox on you! The best-spirited maid I ha' seen in +Warwickshire, I say. Forward? Man alive, wouldst have her like your +blowsy wenches here, that lie i' the sun all day? I have seen no one +so comely since I left London. + +GILES [_feebly_]. But 'ere, zur, in Stratford-- + +PEELE [_hotly_]. Stratford? I doubt if God made Stratford! Another day +here and I should die in torment. Your grass lanes, your rubbly +houses, fat burgesses, old women, your young clouter-heads who have no +care for a bravely acted stage-play. [_Bitingly._] "Can any good come +out of Stratford?" + +GILES. Noa, Maister Peele! Others ha' spoke more fairly-- + +PEELE [_impatiently_]. My sack, man! Is the girl a-brewing it? + +GILES. Anne! Anne! (I'll learn she to mess about.) Anne! + +ANNE [_hurries in and serves PEELE_]. I heard you. + +GILES. Then whoi cunst thee not bustle? Be I to lose my loongs over +'ee? + +ANNE [_simply_]. Mistress Shakespeare called me to the butt'ry door. +Will hath not been home all day, and she is fair anxious. She bade me +send him home once I saw him. + +PEELE [_drinking noisily_]. Who is it? [_ANNE is clearing the table._] + +GILES [_shortly_]. Poor John Shakespeare's son Will. + +PEELE. A Stratford lad? A straw-headed beater of clods! + +GILES. Nay, zur. A wild young un, as 'ull do noa honest work, but +dreams the day long, or poaches the graaet woods wi' young loons o' +like stomach. + +ANNE [_indignantly, dropping a dish_]. It's not true! He is no +poacher. + +PEELE [_grinning_]. What a touchy lass! No poacher, eh? + +ANNE. Nay, sir, but the brightest lad in Stratford. He hath learning +beyond the rest of us--and if he likes to wander i' the woods, 'tis +for no ill--he loves the open air--and you should hear the little +songs he makes! + +PEELE. Do all the lads find in you such a defender, or only--? [_She +turns away._] Nay, no offense! I should like to see this Will. + +GILES [_grumpily_]. 'E 'ave noa will to help 'is father in these sorry +times, but ever gawks at stage-plays. 'E 'ull come to noa good end. +[_The player starts up._] + +PEELE. Stage-plays--no good end? Have a care, man! + +GILES. Nay, zur--noa harm, zur! I--I--canna bide longer. [_Backs +out._] + +ANNE [_at the window, wonderingly_]. He should be here. He hath never +lingered till sunset before. [_PEELE comes up behind her._] + +PEELE. Troubled, lass? + +ANNE. Nay, sir, but--but--[_Suddenly_] Listen! + +PEELE [_blankly_]. To what? [_A faint singing without._] + +ANNE [_eagerly_]. Canst hear nothing--a lilt afar off? + +PEELE [_nodding_]. Like a May-day catch? I hear it. + +ANNE. 'Tis Will! Cousin, Will is coming. [_GILES comes back._] + +GILES [_peevishly_]. I canna help it. Byunt 'e later'n common? + +A VOICE. [_The clear, boyish singing is coming very near._] + + When springtime frights the winter cold, 5 + (Hark to the children singing!) + The cowslip turns the fields to gold, + The bird from 's nest is winging-- + +PEELE. Look you! There the boy comes. + +ANNE [_leaning out the window_]. Isn't he coming here? Will! Will! +[_He passes by the window singing the last words_ + + Young hearts are gay, while yet 'tis May, + Hark to the children singing! + +_and leaps in over the lower part of the door, a sturdy, ruddy boy, +with merry face and a mop of brown hair. ANNE greets him with +outstretched hands._] + +ANNE [_reproachfully_]. Will! Thy mother was so anxious! + +WILL. I did na' think. I ha' been in the woods all day and forgot +everything till the sun set. + +ANNE. All the day long? Thou must be weary. + +WILL [_frankly_]. Nay, not very weary--but hungry. + +ANNE. Poor boy. He shall have his supper now. + +GILES [_protesting_]. 'E be allus eating 'ere, and I canna a-bear it. +Let him sup at his own whoam. + +WILL [_shaking his head_]. I dare na go home, for na doubt my +father'll beat me rarely. I'll bide here till he be asleep. [_He +places himself easily in the armchair by the fire._] + +GILES [_going sulkily_]. Thriftless young loon! + +ANNE [_laying the table_]. Hast had a splendid day? + +WILL [_absently_]. Aye. In the great park at Charlecote. There you can +lie on your back in the grass under the high arches of the trees, +where the sun rarely peeps in, and you can listen to the wind in the +trees, and see it shake the blossoms about you, and watch the red deer +and the rabbits and the birds--where everything is lovely and still. +[_His voice trails off into silence. ANNE smiles knowingly._] + +ANNE. Thou'lt be making poetry before long, eh, Will?--Will? [_To +PEELE_] The boy hath not heard a word I spoke. + +PEELE [_coming forward_]. Would he hear me, I wonder! Boy! + +WILL [_starting_]. Sir? [_PEELE looks down on him sternly._] + +PEELE. Dost know thou'rt in my chair? + +WILL [_coolly_]. Thine? Indeed, 'tis very easy. + +PEELE. Hark 'ee! Dost know my name? + +WILL. I canna say I do. + +PEELE [_distinctly_]. Master George Peele. + +WILL. I thank thee, sir. + +PEELE. Player in my Lord Admiral's Company. + +WILL. [_His whole manner changes and he jumps up eagerly._] A player? +Oh--I did not know. Pray, take the seat. + +PEELE [_amused_]. Dost think players are as lords? Most men have other +views. [_Sits. WILL watches him, fascinated._] + +WILL. Nay, but--oh, I love to see stage-plays! Didst not play in +Coventry three days agone, "The History of the Wicked King Richard"? + +PEELE. Aye, aye. Behold in me the tyrant. + +WILL. Thou? Rarely done! I mind me yet how the hump-backed king +frowned and stamped about--thus [_imitating_]. Ha! Ha! 'Twas a brave +play! + +ANNE. Thy supper is ready, Will. + +PEELE [_amused_]. The true player-instinct, on my soul! + +WILL [_flattered_]. Dost truly think so? [_ANNE plucks his sleeve._] + +ANNE. Will, where are thy wits? Supper waits. + +WILL [_apologetically_]. Oh--I--I--did na hear thee. [_He tries to +eat, but his attention is ever distracted by the player's words._] + +PEELE. Is my reckoning ready, girl? + +ANNE. Reckoning now, sir? Wilt thou--? + +PEELE. Yes, yes, I go to-night. To-morrow Warwick, then the long road +to Oxford, playing by the way--and London at last! + +ANNE. And then? [_WILL listens intently._] + +PEELE. Then back to the old Blackfriars, where all the city will flock +to our tragedies and chronicles--a long, merry life of it. + +ANNE [_interested_]. And does the Queen ever come? + +PEELE. Nay, child, we go to her. Last Christmas I played before her at +court, in the great room at Whitehall, before the nobles and +ambassadors and ladies--oh, a gay time--and the Queen said-- + +WILL [_starting up_]. What was the play? + +ANNE. Eat thy supper, Will. + +WILL [_impatiently_]. I want no more. + +PEELE. So my young cockerel is awake again. Will, a boy of thy stamp +is lost here in Stratford. Thou shouldst be in London with us. By cock +and pie, I have a mind to steal thee for the company! [_Rises to pace +the floor._] + +WILL [_breathlessly_]. To play in London? + +ANNE. Nay, Will, he but jests. Thou'rt happier here than traipsing +about wi' the players. [_GILES appears at back._] + +GILES. Nags be ready, zur, at sunset as thee'st bid. Shall I put the +gear on? + +PEELE [_sharply_]. Well fed and groomed? Nay, I will see them myself. +[_GILES vanishes. PEELE turns at the door._] Hark'ee, lass. Thy lad +could do far worse than become a player. Good meat and drink, gold in +'s pouch, favor at court, and true friends. I like the lad's spirit. +[_He goes. ANNE drops into his chair by the fire. Twilight is coming +on rapidly. WILL stands silent at the window looking after the +player._] + +ANNE [_troubled_]. Will, what is it? Thou'rt very strange to-night. + +WILL [_wistfully_]. I--I--Oh, Anne, I want to go to London. I am +a-weary of rusting in Stratford, where I can learn nothing new, save +to grow old, following my father's trade. + +ANNE. But in London? + +WILL [_kindling_]. In London one can learn more marvels in a day than +in a lifetime here; for there the streets are in a bustle all day +long, and the whole world meets in them, soldiers and courtiers and +men of war, from France and Spain and the new lands beyond the sea, +all full of learning and pleasant tales of foreign wars and the +wondrous things in the colonies. My schoolmaster told me of it. You +can stand in St. Paul's and the whole world passes by, mad for +knowledge and adventure. And then the stage-plays--! + +ANNE. Oh, Will, why long for them? + +WILL. Think how splendid they must be when the Queen herself loves to +see 'em. If I were like this player-fellow, and acted with the +Admiral's company! He laughed that he would take me with him--to be a +player and perchance _write_ plays, interludes, and noble tragedies! +Think of it, Anne--to live in London and be one of all the rare +company there, to write brave plays wi' sounding lines for all to +wonder at, and have folk turn on the streets when I passed and +whisper, "That be Will Shakespeare, the play-maker"--to act them even +at court and gain the Queen's own thanks! Anne, London is so great and +splendid! It beckons me wi' all its turmoil of affairs and its noble +hearts ready to love a new comrade. [_Disconsolately_] And I must bide +in Stratford? + +ANNE [_gently_]. Come now, Will. No need to be so feverish. Sit down +by me. What canst thou know of play-making? What canst thou do in +London? + +WILL [_he sits down by the hearth at her feet, looking into the +firelight_]. I'll tell thee, Anne. Thy father and half the village +call me a lazy oaf, that I stray i' the woods some days instead of +helping my father. I canna help it. The fit comes on me, and I must be +alone, out i' the great woods. + +ANNE [_gladly_]. Then thou dost not poach? + +WILL [_hastily_]. No, no--that is--sometimes I am with Hodge and +Diccon and John a' Field, and 'tis hard not to chase the deer. Nay, +look not so grave--I try to do no harm. + +ANNE [_quietly_]. And when thou'rt alone? + +WILL. Then I lie under the trees or wander through the fields, and +make plays to myself, as though I writ them in my mind, and cry the +lines forth to the birds--they sound nobly, too--or make little songs +and sing them i' the sunshine. They are but dreams, I know, but +splendid ones--and the player looked wi' favor on me, and said I might +make a good player, and he would take me with him. + +ANNE. But he only jested. + +WILL. No jest to me! I'll take him at his word and go with him to +London. [_He starts up eagerly._] + +ANNE [_troubled_]. Will, Will! [_PEELE enters at the back._] + +PEELE. Hark 'ee, Giles, I go in half an hour! + +WILL. Master Peele! [_Catches at his arm._] + +PEELE. Well, youngster? + +WILL [_slowly_]. Thou--thou saidst I had a good spirit and would do +well in London--in a stage company. Thou wert in jest, but--I will go +with thee, if I may. + +PEELE [_taken all aback_]. Go with me? + +WILL [_earnestly_]. With the player's company--to London. + +PEELE [_laughing_]. 'S wounds! Thou hast assurance! Dost think to +become a great player at once? + +WILL [_impatiently_]. Oh, I care not for the playing. Let me but be in +London, to see the people there and be near the theatre. I'll be the +players' servant, I'll hold the nobles' horses in the street--I'll do +anything! + +PEELE [_seriously_]. And go with us all over England on hard journeys +to play to ignorant rustics? + +WILL. Anywhere--I'll follow on to the world's end--only take me with +you to London! [_As he speaks GILES and MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE, a kindly +faced woman of middle age, dressed in housewife's cap and gown, appear +at the door._] + +GILES. There 'e be, Mistress Shixpur. + +MISTRESS S. [_as she enters_]. Oh, Will. [_He turns sharply._] + +WILL [_confusedly_]. Mother! I--I--did not know thou wert here. + +MISTRESS S. Why didst not come home--and what dost thou want with this +stranger? + +ANNE. He would go to London with him. + +MISTRESS S. [_aghast_]. To London. My Will? + +WILL [_quietly_]. Thou knowest, mother, what I ha' told thee, things I +told to no other, and now the good time has come that I can see more +of England. + +MISTRESS S. But I canna let thee go. Oh, Anne, I knew the boy was +restless, but I did not think for it so soon. He is only a boy. + +WILL [_coloring_]. In two years I shall be a man--I am a man now in +spirit. I canna stay in Stratford. [_MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE sinks down +in a chair._] + +MISTRESS S. What o' me? And, Will, 'twill break thy father's heart! +[_WILL looks ashamed._] + +WILL. I know, he would not understand. 'Tis hard. He must not know +till I be gone. + +MISTRESS S. [_To PEELE_]. Oh, sir, how could you wish to lead the lad +away? Hath not London enough a'ready? + +PEELE [_who has been listening uncomfortably, faces her gravely_]. I +but played with the lad at first, till I saw how earnest he was; then +I would take him, for I loved his boldness. But, boy, I'll tell thee +fairly, thou'lt do better here. Thou'st seen the brave side of it, the +gay dresses, the good horses, the cheering crowds and the court-favor. +But 'tis dark sometimes, too. The pouches often hang empty when the +people turn away--the lords are as the clouded sun, now smiling, now +cold--and there come the bitter days, when a man has no friends but +the pot-mates of the moment, when every man's hand is against him for +a vagabond and a rascal, when the prison-gates lay ever wide before +him, and the fickle folk, crying after a _new_ favorite, leave the old +to starve. + +ANNE. Will, canst not see? Thou'rt better here-- + +WILL [_bravely_]. I know--all this may wait me--but I must go. + +MISTRESS S. [_alarmed_]. Must go, Will? [_He kneels by her side._] + +WILL. [_tenderly_]. Hush, mother, I'll tell thee. 'Tis not entirely my +longing, for this morning the keeper of old Lucy-- + +GILES. Ha, poaching again, young scamp! + +WILL. Brought me before him--I was na poaching, I'll swear it, not so +much as chasing the deer--but Sir Thomas had no patience, and bade me +clear out, else he would seize me. I--I--dare na stay. + +MISTRESS S. I feared it; thy father forbade thee in the great park. +And now--Oh, Will, Will--I know well how thou'st longed to go from +here--and now thou must--what shall I do, lacking thee? + +PEELE [_frankly_]. Will, if thou must go, thou must. London is greater +than Stratford, and there is much evil there, but thou'rt +true-hearted, and--by my player's honor--I will stand by thee, till +the hangman get me. But we must go soon. 'Tis a dark road to +Warwick--I'll see to the horses. Is it a compact? [_WILL gives him his +hands._] + +WILL [_huskily_]. A compact, sir--to the end. [_PEELE hurries out._] + +GILES. Look at 'e now, breaking 'is mother's heart, and mad wi' joy to +revel in London. 'Tis little 'e recks of she. + +WILL [_hotly_]. Thou liest. [_Bending over her_] Mother, 'tis not +true. I do love thee and father, I love Stratford. I'll never forget +it. But 'tis so little here, and I must get away to gain learning and +do things i' the world, that I may bring home all I get; fame, if God +grant it, money, if I gain it, all to those at home. + +ANNE. Thou'rt over-confident. + +WILL. Aye, because I'm young. God knows there is enough pain in +London, and I'll get my share--but I'm _young_! Mother, thou'rt not +angry? + +MISTRESS S. I knew 'twas coming, and 'tis not so hard. We will always +wait for thee at home, when thou'rt weary. + +GILES [_at the door_]. The horses are waiting. 'Tis dark, Will. + +WILL [_breaking down_]. Mother, mother! + +MISTRESS S. The good God keep thee safe. Kiss me, Will. [_He bends +over her, then stumbles to the door, ANNE following._] + +WILL [_turning_]. Anne--Anne--thou dost not despise me for deserting +Stratford. I _must_ go. + +ANNE. Oh, I know. Thou'lt go to London and forget us all. + +WILL. No, no, thou--I couldn't forget. I'll remember thee, Anne--I'll +put thee in my plays; all my young maids and lovers shall be thee, as +thou'rt now--and I'll bring thee rare gifts when I come home. + +ANNE. I do na want them. Will--I--I--did na mean to be unkind. We were +good friends, and I trust in thee, for the future, that thou'lt be +great. Good-by--and do na forget the little playmate. + +WILL. I will na forget [_kissing her_], and, Anne, be good to my +mother. [_She goes back to MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE, and he stands +watching them in the dusk._] + +PEELE [_at the window_]. Come, come, Will! We must go. + +WILL [_turning slowly_]. I--I'm coming, sir. + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + +All the dramatic motives that have been enumerated so far have been +more or less literary in origin, but "A play may start from almost +anything: a detached thought that flashes through the mind; a theory +of conduct or an act which one firmly believes or wishes only to +examine; a bit of dialogue overheard or imagined; a setting, real or +imagined, which creates emotion in the observer; a perfectly detached +scene, the antecedents and consequences of which are as yet unknown; a +figure glimpsed in a crowd which for some reason arrests the attention +of the dramatist ... a mere incident--heard in idle talk or observed; +a story told only in barest outline or with the utmost detail."[18] + + [Footnote 18: George Pierce Baker, _Dramatic Technique_, + Boston and New York, 1919, p. 47.] + +The great dramatic critic, William Archer, has said that "the only +valid definition of the dramatic is: Any representation of imaginary +personages which is capable of interesting an average audience +assembled in a theater." For the purposes of the definition the Boy +Will of Robert Emmons Rogers's little piece and Drinkwater's Abraham +Lincoln are equally imaginary personages. In the case of the one-act +play the theatre in question is more often than not a Little Theatre +or a school theatre, the representation is more frequently at the +moment by amateur than by professional actors and the audience, being +small and close to the stage, is likely to assume a co-operative +attitude towards the playwright, the actor, and the other immediate +factors in the production. Since the success of a play depends on its +adaptability to the requirements of actor, theatre, and audience, it +is well for inexperienced playwrights to study the conditions under +which one-act plays are likely to be produced. + +One very practical consideration to hold in mind is that the one-act +play has a shorter time in which to focus attention than the +full-length play and so the indispensable preliminary exposition must +be quickly disposed of and an urgent appeal to the emotional interest +of the audience must be made at the beginning. As has been said, every +artistic consideration that calls for singleness of impression in the +short-story is of equal importance in determining the unified +structure of the one-act play. For the reason that a one-act play is +almost never given by itself, if for no other, its effect will be +dissipated if plot, characterization, or atmosphere fails in unity. + +The writer exercising himself in the art of play-making had best begin +with the procedure common to many professional playwrights. This first +step is the drawing up of a scenario, which is an outline showing the +course of the story, identifying the characters, indicating the +setting and atmosphere and explaining the nature of the play; that is, +whether, for example, it is to be a fantasy like _The Pierrot of the +Minute_, or a comedy of manners like _Wurzel-Flummery_. + +Here for instance is such a scenario as might have been drawn up for +_The Boy Will_: + + + THE BOY WILL (Historical fantasy) + Scenario for a one-act play, by + Robert Emmons Rogers + + CHARACTERS + (in order of their appearance) + + MASTER GEORGE PEELE, player of the Admiral's Company. + GILES, a plump and peevish old rogue, a tapster. + ANNE HATHAWAY, at sixteen a slim girl, niece to Giles. + WILL SHAKESPEARE, a sturdy, ruddy boy, Anne's playmate. + MISTRESS SHAKESPEARE, a kindly faced woman of middle age, Will's mother. + + +Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, 1582. (Here +a description of the interior would follow.) + + +Peele is eating and drinking at the inn, waited on by Anne Hathaway. + +Anne, scolded by Giles for her slowness, is commended as comely and +spirited by Peele. + +Peele abuses Stratford as a sleepy hole. + +Anne explains her delay in fetching ale by the fact that Mistress +Shakespeare has been at the back door inquiring for Will who has been +gone all day. + +Giles explains Will to Peele as a young poacher. + +Anne indignantly denies the charge and praises Will as the brightest +boy in Stratford. + +Giles accuses him of gawking at plays and predicts a bad end for the +boy. + +Peele resents the implication. + +Singing a May-day catch, Will enters. Afraid to go home because he has +been wasting his day in Charlecote Park and fears father's scolding. + +Goes off into a golden dream of his day in the woods. + +Peele attracts his attention by announcing his profession. + +Will shows his interest. + +Is too distracted by Peele to eat. + +Peele announces itinerary of his players and kindles Will's +imagination with a mention of the Queen. + +Threatens to carry Will off to London. + +Anne discourages the plan. + +Peele draws glowing pictures of actor's profession. + +Will is all on fire for London in spite of Anne. + +Tells Anne he's tired of being nagged. + +Makes Peele promise to take him to London. + +His mother comes for him and is aghast at the news, but finally +consents to let Will go without his father's knowledge. + +Peele then draws a picture of the actor as vagabond to discourage +Will. + +Anne holds out against his going. + +Will tells how, though he has not been poaching, he has been warned by +Sir Thomas Lucy to clear out. + +His mother sees that he must go. + +Will makes a compact with Peele. + +Promises Anne rare gifts and kissing his mother goes. + + +The scenario drawn up, the next step is to develop the plot. The plot +of a one-act play, to be effective, must be extraordinarily compact. +The accepted laws of plot construction for all artistic narratives are +the same. The climax must be carefully prepared for, as in Synge's +_Riders to the Sea_, and the various devices used for heightening the +suspense should be discovered and applied. + +Characterization is more difficult for the tyro to manage than plot. +Consistency of characterization is attained through discovering in the +beginning a motive that will sufficiently account for the part taken +by the character by means of speech and action, and through constantly +testing the characterization by this motive. Such consistency of +characterization is illustrated to perfection in Tarkington's _Beauty +and the Jacobin_. The writer of the one-act play does not use many +characters. "Examination of several hundred one-act plays has revealed +that the average number of characters to a play is between three and +four."[19] + + [Footnote 19: B. Roland Lewis, _The Technique of the One-Act + Play_, Boston, 1918, p. 211.] + +Facility in writing dialogue is gained like facility in plot +construction and in characterization only by the patient study of the +work of experienced and successful playwrights. Dialogue that is +witty, charming, ironical, or graceful is of dramatic value only as it +is in character. + +A little experience on the stage is a great help. Such experience +teaches the value of skillfully planned exits and entrances for +characters; helps the beginner to distinguish between action that +should be related and action that should be seen; shows him how a +scene must be devised to occupy the time it takes for a character to +appear after he has telephoned that he is coming; and a variety of +other practical considerations. + +Stage directions are likely to be over-elaborated by the +inexperienced. The best stage directions are those that deal only with +matters of setting, lighting and essential pantomime or action. They +should not, in general, be used for characterization. + +But after all there can be no infallible recipes for dramatic writing. +With the successful professional playwright, apprenticeship is often +an unconscious stage. Plays succeed that break all the rules laid down +by critics and professors of dramatic literature, but after all those +rules were, to begin with, based on practices productive of success +under other conditions. In any case some insight into the mechanics of +dramatic art does make the reading of plays more interesting and does +give an added zest to theatre going. + + +THE THEATRE IN THE SCHOOL + +The giving of plays in schools is no new thing. One of the earliest +English comedies, _Ralph Roister Doister_, was written in the middle +of the sixteenth century by Nicholas Udall, a schoolmaster, probably +to be performed at Westminister School at Christmas time. Many +generations of boys in the English public schools have presented the +plays of the Greek and Latin dramatists; and schools and colleges in +this country have also at times given performances of the classic +drama. But until recently Shakespeare and the comedies of Sheridan and +Goldsmith have been the chief dramatic fare both in the classroom and +on the stage in American schools. + +Modern plays are coming, however, to be more generally introduced into +the course of study. The following significant list, prepared by Miss +Anna H. Spaulding, is in use in the senior classes in English in the +Brookline High School, at Brookline, Massachusetts: + + Noah's Flood + Sacrifice of Isaac + Everyman + Everywoman + The Servant in the House + Ralph Roister Doister + Tales of the Mermaid Tavern + Merchant of Venice + Jew of Malta + Tragedy of Shakespeare + Comedy of Shakespeare + The Rivals + The Good Natured Man + She Stoops to Conquer + Caste + The Lady of Lyons + One Closet Drama + The Second Mrs. Tanqueray + One Comedy of Pinero + The Silver King + One Serious Play by Jones + Arms and the Man + Caesar and Cleopatra + John Bull's Other Island + The Doctor's Dilemma + Strife + Justice + The Tragedy of Nan + The Marrying of Ann Leete + Seven Short Plays + The Land of Heart's Desire, or + The Countess Cathleen, or + Cathleen Ni Houlihan + The Shadow of the Glen + Riders to the Sea + The Birthright + The Truth + The Witching Hour, or + As a Man Thinks + The Scarecrow + The Piper + Milestones + The Importance of Being Earnest + +Thirty-five of these plays are distinctly modern. Another list, in use +as part of a course in contemporary literature given in the last half +of the third year at the Washington Irving High School and including +only modern plays, is reprinted below: + + The Blue Bird + The Melting Pot + Milestones + Justice, or + The Silver Box + Pygmalion + The Piper + Prunella + Sherwood + The Land of Heart's Desire + Spreading the News + +These plays are read and studied; that is to say, such topics as +dramatic workmanship, theme, setting, characterization, dialogue, and +diction are taken up in connection with each one and each one is made +the starting point for a new interest in the drama of to-day.[20] + + [Footnote 20: Further interesting information on the reading + and the study of modern plays in the schools may be found in + the valuable article by F. G. Thompkins of the Central High + School, Detroit, called _The Play Course in High School_, in + _The English Journal_ for November, 1920, and in the same + issue, in the list of plays produced by St. Louis High + Schools, prepared by Clarence Stratton, Chairman, National + Council Committee on Plays.] + +In another high school in New York, the Evander Childs, there is a +four years' course of two periods a week in classroom study of the +drama, old and new. All composition work is connected with this +special interest. + +Another kind of work based on contemporary drama was carried on by a +group of first-year students in a certain high school who were much +interested in a program of one-act plays to be presented in the school +theatre. The teacher of English who had charge of this young class +discussed the subject of the theatre audience with them both before +and after the performance. The outcome of this analysis of the +interests of the audience was an outline. These fourteen-year old +girls said that the next time that they went to the theatre they would +keep in mind the following considerations: + + I. In regard to the play: + A. Its title + B. Classification + C. Plot + D. Characterization + E. Dialogue + F. Theme + + II. In regard to the actors: + A. Their intelligence + B. Clearness of speech + C. Ease of manner + D. Facial expression (appropriateness of make-up) + E. Pantomime or action + 1. Posture + 2. Gesture + 3. Repose + F. Costumes + 1. Appropriateness as an index to character + 2. Color and design + 3. Harmony with the setting + + III. In regard to the setting: + A. The lighting + B. Color and design + C. Appropriateness as regards mood of play + D. Suggestiveness + E. Workmanship + +One cannot help feeling that these young people were being effectively +trained to enjoy the best drama in the best way. + +Not only is modern drama being read and studied in the English +classes, but the schools are becoming centres of Little Theatre +movements and leading their communities in pageants and dramatic +festivals. An editorial in _The New York Evening Post_ in 1918 put it +in this way: "As Froude states that in Tudor England there was acting +everywhere from palace to inn-yard and village green, so, the +prediction is made, future historians will record that in our America +there was acting everywhere--in neighborhood theatres, portable +theatres, church clubs, high schools and universities, settlements, +open amphitheatres, and hotel ballrooms." + +One reason that amateur dramatics have taken on a new lease of life in +the schools is because other teachers besides teachers of English have +become interested in the project of giving a play. Students in physics +classes have planned and executed lighting systems for the school +theatre, students in carpentering and manual arts have built the +scenery from designs made in drawing classes, curtains have been +stenciled, costumes made and cloths dyed in domestic art classes, +programs printed by the school printing squad, music furnished by the +school orchestra and dances taught by the physical training +department. In most cases the line coaching and the general direction +of the play have been part of the work in English. + +A concrete example will illustrate this kind of co-operation. Several +years ago the department of English at the Washington Irving High +School gave two plays, _Three Pills in a Bottle_, a product of the 47 +Workshop, by Rachel Lyman Field, and _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_, +by Alice Rostetter. _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_ had grown out of +class-room work. The girls in an industrial course were studying the +origin of the silk industry. A pamphlet stated that the wife of +Hoangti, Si-Ling-Chi, was the first to prepare and weave silk. This +legend offered suggestive dramatic material peculiarly appropriate for +a girls' high school. + +The work of obtaining the setting and the properties was divided +between two committees, each working under the direction of a +chairman. Since fifty dollars had been fixed as the limit of +expenditure for the two plays, the problem was rather a difficult one. +Fortunately, _Three Pills in a Bottle_ calls for a small cast. The +cast of The _Goddess of the Woven Wind_, however, included thirty-four +girls, most of whom had to be orientally clad and equipped. The +teacher who contemplates putting on a rather elaborate costume play in +his or her high school will be interested to learn that the amount was +so exactly fixed and the department so resourceful that fifty-one +dollars and nine cents was the total sum spent on the two plays. Then, +lest anyone think that there had been a miscalculation, let it be +added that this sum included the money spent for hot chocolate to +serve to the casts of the plays, between the afternoon and evening +performances. + +The problem of staging _Three Pills in a Bottle_ was greatly +simplified by the fact that the frontispiece of the play gives a +simple, effective setting not difficult to copy. With the aid of some +amateur carpentering, the regular interior set was easily transformed +to suit the purpose. The problem of color was solved when the chairman +of the committee found a patchwork quilt in the attic, during a visit +to her mother's home; a conference with the janitress of her city +apartment developed the fact that she possessed a freshly scrubbed +wash-tub, which she was willing not only to donate to the cause, but +to have painted green. + +The task of staging _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_ was difficult and +interesting, because it was decidedly a costume play, and because it +was a first production. Some of the difficulties that confronted the +chairman of the committee for that play were amusing. + +For instance, after some perplexed thought on the subject, she tacked +the following list of costumes and properties on the Bulletin Board of +the English office: + +WANTED: + + Mulberry tree + Gardener's spade + Teakwood stool + Chinese necklaces + Large, colorful abacus + Mandarin coats and hats + Sky-blue Chinese bowl + Chinese gong + Bamboo rod + Silk cocoons + +She also advertised the need of these things and many others in all +her classes. Within two weeks nearly everything had either appeared or +been promised, except a Chinese gong with a proper "whang" to it, an +unbreakable sky-blue bowl and the mulberry tree! A teacher in a +neighboring school lent the company a splendid gong, sometimes used in +their orchestra; a student transformed a wooden chopping bowl by means +of clay and tempera into an exquisite piece of pottery, copied from a +priceless bowl on exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. + +The mulberry tree was still an unsolved problem, when Dugald Stuart +Walker, the artist who has produced a number of plays at the +Christadora House in New York, was consulted. He suggested that the +tree be a conventionalized one of flat "drapes" of green and brown +poplin, with cocoons sewn on in a simple border design. + +The staging of the play then became a project for members of a +third-year art class. During their English period they read the play, +recited on the subject of the China of remote dynasties, constructed a +miniature stage, and then, forming committees among themselves, worked +out the practical details. One group purchased the necessary paint, +another painted the vermilion sun. Her neighbor affixed it to a bamboo +rod. To emphasize the Chinese setting, two girls made a frame with a +dragon as head-piece and huge, colorful Chinese medallions to be sewn +on the side drapery. The design for the medallions was obtained from a +Chinese brass plate. Almost every girl in the class took part in the +project. Interest was easily aroused, as a number of girls in this +class took part in the play. + +As for the costumes, for the thirty-four members of the cast, only +eight dollars' worth was hired. The rest were either borrowed or made +by the girls. The most successful one, perhaps, that worn by the +empress, was copied from an Edmund Dulac illustration of the Princess +Badoura. The astrologers' costumes were obtained from photographs of +_The Yellow Jacket_, lent by Mrs. Coburn. To complete the project, the +girls wrote a composition explaining how to organize the staging of a +costume play. + +Meanwhile, the selection and coaching of the two casts was going on. +Competition for the parts was open to the girls of the entire school. +A great many girls were tried out before the two committees made a +choice. In fact, every girl who was recommended by her English teacher +was given an opportunity to read a part. In a number of cases two +girls were assigned for one part and it was not known until almost the +last moment who was to have the role or who was to understudy. +Rehearsals were held at least three times a week, for three weeks, and +a full-dress rehearsal was held two days before the final performance. +It was thought advisable to allow a day to elapse between the last +rehearsal and the real performance, in order to give the girls an +opportunity to rest. + +In coaching the plays, an effort was made to have a girl read the line +properly without having it read to her. The members of the coaching +committee would explain the mood or frame of mind to the speaker; the +girl would then interpret the mood in her reading. + +In addition to the coaching committee, several teachers sat at the +back of the auditorium during rehearsals, to warn the speakers when +they could not be heard. + +The advertising campaign began soon after a choice of plays had been +made. In compliance with the request of the Publicity Committee, one +of the teachers of an art class and a teacher in the English +Department assigned to their pupils the problem of making posters to +advertise the plays. To the painter of the best one a prize was +awarded. + +Announcements of the play were posted by pupils in various parts of +the building. Tiny brochures decorated with Chinese motives were +prepared by students during an English period, and later were +circulated among the faculty, and placed upon office bulletin boards, +and in diaries. In writing these brochures the girls applied the +knowledge they had gained in studying the writing of advertisements. +Two illustrated advertisements made in one class were displayed in +other high schools; a number were sent in an envelope with tickets to +patrons and distinguished friends of the schools. One class wrote +letters to firms of wholesale silk merchants and importers, +advertising _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_, the story of silk. + +In order to increase the sale of tickets and to prepare an +appreciative audience, various subjects were suggested to English +teachers for projects in class work connected with the plays. In many +classes every girl wrote and illustrated a paper on some topic +pertaining to Chinese life, such as customs, costumes, religion, +occupations, silk, China, umbrellas, fireworks, fans, position of +women, objects of art. Oral compositions were devoted to phases of +some of these subjects. In the oral work and in the written +composition, accurate knowledge of authorities consulted was insisted +upon. Chinese proverbs were studied. "A man knows, but a woman knows +better," used by the author in her play, was one of the most popular +ones. Translations, found in the _Literary Digest_, of Chinese poems +of the sixteenth and of the eighteenth century were produced and read +by the girls, many of whom brought to class all the Chinese articles +they could find at home. Incense burners, fans, pitchers, +embroideries, chop sticks, beads, shoes, vases, and even a Chinese +newspaper, found their way to the class-room and were exhibited with +pride. Interest in things Chinese was so great that clippings and +prints continued coming in for almost two weeks after the play had +been presented. Class visits were made to the Chinese exhibit at the +Metropolitan Museum of Art and to importing houses in the +neighborhood. + +The kind of co-operation described has led in some schools to the +establishment of workshops similar to those conducted in connection +with certain university courses in playwriting and dramatics and with +many of the Little Theatres. A paragraph that appeared recently in a +calendar of the New York Drama League explains in a convincing way the +necessity for a workshop in connection with all amateur producing. +"One of the most vital problems that the amateur group has to solve," +says the writer, "is that of securing a proper place for the preparing +of a production. Not all organizations can hold rehearsals, paint +scenery, experiment with lighting on costumes and scenery on the +stage on which they are finally to play. Even where this is possible, +it is costly. Much of the activity is now carried on in the homes of +members so far as rehearsals go; in barns or garages as regards the +painting of scenery and not at all so far as the lighting question is +concerned. More often than not, a few hasty final rehearsals are +relied upon to pull into shape some of the most important elements of +a satisfactory performance. + +"The remedy lies in the acquisition of a workshop. A large room with a +very high ceiling will serve admirably. But you must be able to work +recklessly in it, sawing wood, hammering nails, mussing things up +generally with paint and riddling the walls and ceiling with hooks and +screws to hang lighting apparatus and other properties. An +old-fashioned barn can be converted into an ideal workshop, if +provision is made for proper heating. All the activity should be +concentrated in the workshop and there is no reason why all the +experimentalists cannot be at work at once--the carpenters, the scene +painters, the electricians, the property men, and even the actors with +their director." + +The use of miniature model stages is becoming more and more common in +the schools, the preliminary model serving the workshop, until the +background, lighting, properties, and costumes are completed. It is an +excellent thing for schools to start a collection of models of famous +theatres and notably successful stage-sets. The material for these +exists in illustrated books and magazines and in the mass of +descriptive material in regard to the stage that is now being +published.[21] + + [Footnote 21: There is a comprehensive list of books + published by the Public Library of New York that is an + indispensable guide to amateurs interested in Little Theatres + and play production and in matters connected with lighting, + scenery, costumes, and theatre building; it is W. B. Gamble, + _The Development of Scenic Art and Stage Machinery_, New + York, 1920. Cf. also the articles of Irving Pichel that have + appeared from time to time in _The Theatre Arts Magazine_. + The three following books are especially valuable for school + theatres: Barrett H. Clark, _How to Produce Amateur Plays_, + Boston, 1917; Constance D'Arcy Mackay, _Costumes and Scenery + for Amateurs_. _A Practical Working Handbook_, New York, 1915 + (the illustrations are especially valuable); and Evelyn + Hilliard, Theodora McCormick, Kate Oglebay, _Amateur and + Educational Dramatics_, New York, 1917.] + +[Illustration: Interior of the Beechwood Theatre.] + +[Illustration: Exterior of the Beechwood Theatre.] + +Two school theatres designed especially for the purpose of +fostering in the schools to which they are attached an interest in +the drama are the Garden Theatre of the high school at Montclair, New +Jersey, and the Beechwood Theatre in the private school at +Scarborough-on-Hudson, New York, built by Frank A. Vanderlip. At +Montclair the present high school building was completed in 1914. To +the northeast of the building at that time was a ravine which afforded +a natural amphitheatre. The site was perfect, and a gift from a +public-spirited citizen, Mrs. Henry Lang, made it possible to create +on this spot a very artistic and beautiful place for outdoor +performances, either plays or pageants. + +On the slope nearest the building are semi-circular rows of concrete +seats accommodating about fifteen hundred people. A brook spanned by +two arched bridges separates the audience from the stage. Back of the +turf stage is a graveled stage slightly raised and reached by two +flights of steps. The pergola and trees make a beautiful background. +The house in the rear is a part of the plant and is used for dressing +and make-up. + +The Beechwood Theatre within the school has a proscenium opening of +twenty-seven feet and a stage depth, back to the plaster horizon, of +the same dimensions. There are two complete sets of drapery, one of +coarse ecru linen and one of blue velvet; there is also a stock +drawing-room set of thirty pieces. Back of the stage are ten +dressing-rooms. The lighting arrangements are extraordinarily +complete: the theatre has a standard electrical equipment of +footlights and borders and a switchboard of the best type to which has +recently been added the latest lighting devices, consisting of an +X-ray border, the end section of which is on a separate dimmer, a +thousand-watt centre floodlight, six five-hundred watt-spotlights, +each on separate dimmers, in the false proscenium or tormentor,[22] +and a line of one-thousand-watt floodlights for lighting the plaster +sky. All of this recently added equipment is controlled from a +separate portable switchboard. + + [Footnote 22: For the explanation of this and kindred + technical terms, see Arthur Edwin Krows, _Play Production in + America_, New York, 1916. + + Cf. Maurice Browne, _The Temple of a Living Art_. _The + Drama_, Chicago, 1913, No. 12, p. 168: "Nor is this just a + question of stage jargon; that man or woman who would + establish an Art Theatre that is an Art Theatre and not a pet + rabbit fed by hand, must be able to design it, to ventilate + it, to decorate it, to equip its stage, to light it (and to + handle its lighting himself, or his electricians will not + listen to him), to plan his costumes and scenery, aye, and at + a shift, to make them with his own hand."] + +Though this plant was built primarily for the school, it is used also +by the Beechwood Players, a Little Theatre organization, and by other +community clubs which comprise an orchestra, a chorus, a group +interested in the fine arts, and a poetry circle. Mr. Vanderlip looks +forward to the development of a school of the arts of the theatre from +the nucleus of the Beechwood community clubs. With this idea in mind +he has just built a workshop for the Beechwood Players in a separate +building. It contains power woodworking machines, and rooms for +painting scenery and for the costume department, the latter containing +power sewing machines. + +There is no doubt but that these two schools have unique facilities +for developing an interest in the acted drama. But artistic results +have often been secured in the school theatre with equipment falling +far short of the ideal standards achieved at Montclair and at +Scarborough. Other less fortunate schools are, moreover, at no +particular disadvantage when it comes to the class-room study of the +drama for which this book is primarily planned, this work being the +first step in the direction of a more intelligent attitude toward +modern plays and modern theatres. A class-room reading of modern plays +without any accessories, as Shakespeare is often read from the seats +and the aisles, is one of the most practical methods of speech and +voice improvement. Louis Calvert, the eminent actor, speaking of this +kind of training says: "After all it is one of the simplest things in +the world to learn to speak correctly, to take thought and begin and +end each word properly.... A little attention to one's everyday +conversation will often work wonders. If one schools himself for a +while to speak a little more slowly, and to give each syllable its +due, it is surprising how naturally and rapidly his speech will +clarify. If we take care of the consonants, the vowels will take care +of themselves." + +[Illustration: Ravine where the Garden Theatre was built.] + +[Illustration: The Garden Theatre.] + +At the present time, then, the theatre in the schools means a variety +of things. It means first and foremost, as suggested by the latest +college entrance requirements, the study of modern plays, side by side +with the classics. It means also the improvement of English speech, +through the interpretation and the reading aloud of the text. It means +a study of the new art of the theatre such as the present book +suggests. It means often the presentation of plays before outside +audiences and the consequent strengthening of the ties that should +exist between the school and the community. It may mean the +co-operation of several departments of the school in the production; +and, in this case, it usually results in the establishment of some +kind of a workshop. And finally, in certain favored schools, it means +the erection of model Little Theatres. It seems fair to suppose that +this newly aroused interest in modern drama and in modern methods of +production in the schools will have far-reaching results. + + + + +BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN[23] + +By BOOTH TARKINGTON + + [Footnote 23: Copyright, 1912, by Harper and Brothers. + Copyright in Great Britain. All acting rights both amateur + and professional reserved by the author.] + + +Since the days of Edward Eggleston, Indiana has been accumulating +literary traditions until at the present time it rivals New England in +the variety of its literary associations. Newton Booth Tarkington, +born in Indianapolis in 1869, and continuing to make his home there +still in the old family house on North Pennsylvania Street, is one of +the most distinguished of the Hoosier writers. As a lad of eleven he +began his friendship with James Whitcomb Riley, then a neighbor. "He +acknowledges (shaking his head in reflection at the depth of it) that +the spirit of Riley has exercised over him a strong, if often +unconsciously felt, influence all his life." The delicious stories of +Penrod and of the William Sylvanus Baxter of _Seventeen_ that Booth +Tarkington has told for the unalloyed delight of old and young are +said to reproduce quite accurately the author's recollection of his +own boyhood pranks and associations in the Middle-Western city of his +birth. Tarkington went first to Phillips Exeter Academy and later to +Purdue University at Lafayette, Indiana, before he became a member of +the class of '93 at Princeton. His popularity and his good fellowship +are still cherished memories on the campus. + +It seems that he was infallibly associated in the undergraduate mind +with the singing of _Danny Deever_; so much so, that whenever he +appeared on the steps at Nassau Hall there would be an immediate +demand for his speciality, a demand that often caused him to retire as +inconspicuously as possible from the crowd. These old days are +commemorated in the following verses, a copy of which, framed, hangs +on the walls of the Princeton Club in New York. + +RONDEL + + "The same old Tark--just watch him shy + Like hunted thing, and hide, if let, + Away behind his cigarette, + When 'Danny Deever' is the cry. + + Keep up the call and by and by + We'll make him sing, and find he's yet + The same old Tark. + + No 'Author Leonid' we spy + In him, no cultured ladies' pet: + He just drops in, and so we get + The good old song, and gently guy + The same old Tark--just watch him shy!" + +No biography of Booth Tarkington, no matter how brief, should omit to +mention that he was elected to the Indiana State Legislature and sat +for a time in that body, where he accumulated, no doubt, some data on +the subject of Indiana politics that he may afterwards have put to +literary use. + +He has found the subject for most of his novels and plays[24] in +contemporary American life, which he treats unsentimentally, +spiritedly, and vigorously. _Beauty and the Jacobin_, like his famous +and fascinating tale, _Monsieur Beaucaire_, is exceptional among his +works in deserting the modern American scene for an Eighteenth Century +situation. The story and the play are likely, for this reason, to be +compared. The tone of _Monsieur Beaucaire_ is more urbane, more +whimsical, more romantic than the mood of _Beauty and the Jacobin_ +which "breaks with the pretty, pretty kind of thing. There is a new +quality in the texture of the writing.... The plot here springs +directly from character, and the action of the piece is inevitable. +_Beauty and the Jacobin_ gives evidence of being the first conscious +and determined, as it is the first consistent, effort of the author to +leave the surface and work from the inside of his characters out.... +The whole of the little drama is scintillant with wit, delicate and at +times brilliant and somewhat Shavian, which flashes out poignantly +against the sombreness of its background."[25] + + [Footnote 24: For a bibliography of his works through the + year 1913, see Asa Don Dickinson, _Booth Tarkington, a + Gentleman from Indiana_, Garden City, no date.] + + [Footnote 25: Robert Cortes Holliday, _Booth Tarkington_, + Garden City and New York, 1918, pp. 155-156; p. 157.] + +_Beauty and the Jacobin_ was published in 1912 and has had at least +one performance on the professional stage. On November 12, 1912, it +was played by members of the company then acting in _Fanny's First +Play_, at a matinee at the Comedy Theatre, in New York. It has always +been a favorite with amateurs and quite recently was performed in St. +Louis by one of the dramatic clubs of that city. + + + + +BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN + + +_Our scene is in a rusty lodging-house of the Lower Town, +Boulogne-sur-Mer, and the time, the early twilight of dark November in +northern France. This particular November is dark indeed, for it is +November of the year 1793, Frimaire of the Terror. The garret room +disclosed to us, like the evening lowering outside its one window, and +like the times, is mysterious, obscure, smoked with perplexing +shadows; these flying and staggering to echo the shiftings of a young +man writing at a desk by the light of a candle._ + +_We are just under the eaves here; the dim ceiling slants; and there +are two doors: that in the rear wall is closed; the other, upon our +right, and evidently leading to an inner chamber, we find ajar. The +furniture of this mean apartment is chipped, faded, insecure, yet +still possessed of a haggard elegance; shamed odds and ends, cheaply +acquired by the proprietor of the lodging-house, no doubt at an +auction of the confiscated leavings of some emigrant noble. The single +window, square and mustily curtained, is so small that it cannot be +imagined to admit much light on the brightest of days; however, it +might afford a lodger a limited view of the houses opposite and the +street below. In fact, as our eyes grow accustomed to the obscurity we +discover it serving this very purpose at the present moment, for a +tall woman stands close by in the shadow, peering between the curtains +with the distrustfulness of a picket thrown far out into an enemy's +country. Her coarse blouse and skirt, new and as ill-fitting as sacks, +her shop-woman's bonnet and cheap veil, and her rough shoes are +naively denied by her sensitive, pale hands and the high-bred and +in-bred face, long profoundly marked by loss and fear, and now very +white, very watchful. She is not more than forty, but her hair, +glimpsed beneath the clumsy bonnet, shows much grayer than need be at +that age. This is ANNE DE LASEYNE_. + +_The intent young man at the desk, easily recognizable as her brother, +fair and of a singular physical delicacy, is a finely completed +product of his race; one would pronounce him gentle in each sense of +the word. His costume rivals his sister's in the innocence of its +attempt at disguise: he wears a carefully soiled carter's frock, rough +new gaiters, and a pair of dangerously aristocratic shoes, which are +not too dusty to conceal the fact that they are of excellent make and +lately sported buckles. A tousled cap of rabbit-skin, exhibiting a +tricolor cockade, crowns these anomalies, though not at present his +thin, blond curls, for it has been tossed upon a dressing-table which +stands against the wall to the left. He is younger than MADAME DE +LASEYNE, probably by more than ten years; and, though his features so +strikingly resemble hers, they are free from the permanent impress of +pain which she bears like a mourning-badge upon her own._ + +_He is expending a feverish attention upon his task, but with patently +unsatisfactory results; for he whispers and mutters to himself, bites +the feather of his pen, shakes his head forebodingly, and again and +again crumples a written sheet and throws it upon the floor. Whenever +this happens ANNE DE LASEYNE casts a white glance at him over her +shoulder--his desk is in the center of the room--her anxiety is +visibly increased, and the temptation to speak less and less easily +controlled, until at last she gives way to it. Her voice is low and +hurried._ + + +ANNE. Louis, it is growing dark very fast. + +LOUIS. I had not observed it, my sister. [_He lights a second candle +from the first; then, pen in mouth, scratches at his writing with a +little knife._] + +ANNE. People are still crowding in front of the wine-shop across the +street. + +LOUIS [_smiling with one side of his mouth_]. Naturally. Reading the +list of the proscribed that came at noon. Also waiting, amiable +vultures, for the next bulletin from Paris. It will give the names of +those guillotined day before yesterday. For a good bet: our own names +[_he nods toward the other room_]--yes, hers, too--are all three in +the former. As for the latter--well, they can't get us in that now. + +ANNE [_eagerly_]. Then you are certain that we are safe? + +LOUIS. I am certain only that they cannot murder us day before +yesterday. [_As he bends his head to his writing a woman comes in +languidly through the open door, bearing an armful of garments, among +which one catches the gleam of fine silk, glimpses of lace and rich +furs--a disordered burden which she dumps pell-mell into a large +portmanteau lying open upon a chair near the desk. This new-comer is +of a startling gold-and-ivory beauty; a beauty quite literally +striking, for at the very first glance the whole force of it hits the +beholder like a snowball in the eye; a beauty so obvious, so +completed, so rounded, that it is painful; a beauty to rivet the +unenvious stare of women, but from the full blast of which either king +or man-peasant would stagger away to the confessional. The egregious +luster of it is not breathed upon even by its overspreading of sullen +revolt, as its possessor carelessly arranges the garments in the +portmanteau. She wears a dress all gray, of a coarse texture, but +exquisitely fitted to her; nothing could possibly be plainer, or of a +more revealing simplicity. She might be twenty-two; at least it is +certain that she is not thirty. At her coming, LOUIS looks up with a +sigh of poignant wistfulness, evidently a habit; for as he leans back +to watch her he sighs again. She does not so much as glance at him, +but speaks absently to MADAME DE LASEYNE. Her voice is superb, as it +should be; deep and musical, with a faint, silvery huskiness._] + +ELOISE [_the new-comer_]. Is he still there? + +ANNE. I lost sight of him in the crowd. I think he has gone. If only +he does not come back! + +LOUIS [_with grim conviction_]. He will. + +ANNE. I am trying to hope not. + +ELOISE. I have told you from the first that you overestimate his +importance. Haven't I said it often enough? + +ANNE [_under her breath_]. You have! + +ELOISE [_coldly_]. He will not harm you. + +ANNE [_looking out of the window_]. More people down there; they are +running to the wine-shop. + +LOUIS. Gentle idlers! [_The sound of triumphant shouting comes up from +the street below._] That means that the list of the guillotined has +arrived from Paris. + +ANNE [_shivering_]. They are posting it in the wine-shop window. +[_The shouting increases suddenly to a roar of hilarity, in which the +shrilling of women mingles._] + +LOUIS. Ah! One remarks that the list is a long one. The good people +are well satisfied with it. [_To ELOISE_] My cousin, in this amiable +populace which you champion, do you never scent something of--well, +something of the graveyard scavenger? [_She offers the response of an +unmoved glance in his direction, and slowly goes out by the door at +which she entered. Louis sighs again and returns to his scribbling._] + +ANNE [_nervously_]. Haven't you finished, Louis? + +LOUIS [_indicating the floor strewn with crumpled slips of paper_]. A +dozen. + +ANNE. Not good enough? + +LOUIS [_with a rueful smile_]. I have lived to discover that among all +the disadvantages of being a Peer of France the most dangerous is that +one is so poor a forger. Truly, however, our parents are not to be +blamed for neglecting to have me instructed in this art; evidently +they perceived I had no talent for it. [_Lifting a sheet from the +desk._] Oh, vile! I am not even an amateur. [_He leans back, tapping +the paper thoughtfully with his pen._] Do you suppose the Fates took +all the trouble to make the Revolution simply to teach me that I have +no skill in forgery? Listen. [_He reads what he has written._] +"Committee of Public Safety. In the name of the Republic. To all +Officers, Civil and Military: Permit the Citizen Balsage"--that's +myself, remember--"and the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, his +sister"--that's you, Anne--"and the Citizeness Marie Balsage, his +second sister"--that is Eloise, you understand--"to embark in the +vessel _Jeune Pierrette_ from the port of Boulogne for Barcelona. +Signed: Billaud Varennes. Carnot. Robespierre." Execrable! [_He tears +up the paper, scattering the fragments on the floor._] I am not even +sure it is the proper form. Ah, that Dossonville! + +ANNE. But Dossonville helped us-- + +LOUIS. At a price. Dossonville! An individual of marked attainment, +not only in penmanship, but in the art of plausibility. Before I paid +him he swore that the passports he forged for us would take us not +only out of Paris, but out of the country. + +ANNE. Are you sure we must have a separate permit to embark? + +LOUIS. The captain of the _Jeune Pierrette_ sent one of his sailors to +tell me. There is a new Commissioner from the National Committee, he +said, and a special order was issued this morning. They have an +officer and a file of the National Guard on the quay to see that the +order is obeyed. + +ANNE. But we bought passports in Paris. Why can't we here? + +LOUIS. Send out a street-crier for an accomplished forger? My poor +Anne! We can only hope that the lieutenant on the quay may be drunk +when he examines my dreadful "permit." Pray a great thirst upon him, +my sister! [_He looks at a watch which he draws from beneath his +frock._] Four o'clock. At five the tide in the river is poised at its +highest; then it must run out, and the _Jeune Pierrette_ with it. We +have an hour. I return to my crime. [_He takes a fresh sheet of paper +and begins to write._] + +ANNE [_urgently_]. Hurry, Louis! + +LOUIS. Watch for Master Spy. + +ANNE. I cannot see him. [_There is silence for a time, broken only by +the nervous scratching of Louis's pen._] + +LOUIS [_at work_]. Still you don't see him? + +ANNE. No. The people are dispersing. They seem in a good humor. + +LOUIS. Ah, if they knew--[_He breaks off, examines his latest effort +attentively, and finds it unsatisfactory, as is evinced by the +noiseless whistle of disgust to which his lips form themselves. He +discards the sheet and begins another, speaking rather absently as he +does so._] I suppose I have the distinction to be one of the most +hated men in our country, now that all the decent people have left +it--so many by a road something of the shortest! Yes, these merry +gentlemen below there would be still merrier if they knew they had +within their reach a forfeited "Emigrant." I wonder how long it would +take them to climb the breakneck flights to our door. Lord, there'd be +a race for it! Prize-money, too, I fancy, for the first with his +bludgeon. + +ANNE [_lamentably_]. Louis, Louis! Why didn't you lie safe in England? + +LOUIS [_smiling_]. Anne, Anne! I had to come back for a good sister of +mine. + +ANNE. But I could have escaped alone. + +LOUIS. That is it--"alone"! [_He lowers his voice as he glances toward +the open door._] For she would not have moved at all if I hadn't come +to bully her into it. A fanatic, a fanatic! + +ANNE [_brusquely_]. She is a fool. Therefore be patient with her. + +LOUIS [_warningly_]. Hush. + +ELOISE [_in a loud, careless tone from the other room_]. Oh, I heard +you! What does it matter? [_She returns, carrying a handsome skirt and +bodice of brocade and a woman's long mantle of light-green cloth, +hooded and lined with fur. She drops them into the portmanteau and +closes it._] There! I've finished your packing for you. + +LOUIS [_rising_]. My cousin, I regret that we could not provide +servants for this flight. [_Bowing formally._] I regret that we have +been compelled to ask you to do a share of what is necessary. + +ELOISE [_turning to go out again_]. That all? + +LOUIS [_lifting the portmanteau_]. I fear-- + +ELOISE [_with assumed fatigue_]. Yes, you usually do. What now? + +LOUIS [_flushing painfully_]. The portmanteau is too heavy. [_He +returns to the desk, sits, and busies himself with his writing, +keeping his grieved face from her view._] + +ELOISE. You mean you're too weak to carry it? + +LOUIS. Suppose at the last moment it becomes necessary to hasten +exceedingly-- + +ELOISE. You mean, suppose you had to run, you'd throw away the +portmanteau. [_Contemptuously._] Oh, I don't doubt you'd do it! + +LOUIS [_forcing himself to look up at her cheerfully_]. I dislike to +leave my baggage upon the field, but in case of a rout it might be a +temptation--if it were an impediment. + +ANNE [_peremptorily_]. Don't waste time. Lighten the portmanteau. + +LOUIS. You may take out everything of mine. + +ELOISE. There's nothing of yours in it except your cloak. You don't +suppose-- + +ANNE. Take out that heavy brocade of mine. + +ELOISE. Thank you for not wishing to take out my fur-lined cloak and +freezing me at sea! + +LOUIS [_gently_]. Take out both the cloak and the dress. + +ELOISE [_astounded_]. What! + +LOUIS. You shall have mine. It is as warm, but not so heavy. + +ELOISE [_angrily_]. Oh, I am sick of your eternal packing and +unpacking! I am sick of it! + +ANNE. Watch at the window, then. [_She goes swiftly to the +portmanteau, opens it, tosses out the green mantle and the brocaded +skirt and bodice, and tests the weight of the portmanteau._] I think +it will be light enough now, Louis. + +LOUIS. Do not leave those things in sight. If our landlord should come +in-- + +ANNE. I'll hide them in the bed in the next room. Eloise! [_She points +imperiously to the window. ELOISE goes to it slowly and for a moment +makes a scornful pretense of being on watch there; but as soon as +MADAME DE LASEYNE has left the room she turns, leaning against the +wall and regarding Louis with languid amusement. He continues to +struggle with his ill-omened "permit," but, by and by, becoming aware +of her gaze, glances consciously over his shoulder and meets her +half-veiled eyes. Coloring, he looks away, stares dreamily at nothing, +sighs, and finally writes again, absently, like a man under a spell, +which, indeed, he is. The pen drops from his hand with a faint click +upon the floor. He makes the movement of a person suddenly awakened, +and, holding his last writing near one of the candles, examines it +critically. Then he breaks into low, bitter laughter._] + +ELOISE [_unwillingly curious_]. You find something amusing? + +LOUIS. Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all. + +ELOISE [_indifferently_]. Your mirth must be indefatigable if you can +still laugh at those. + +LOUIS. I agree. I am a history of error. + +ELOISE. You should have made it a vocation; it is your one genius. And +yet--truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne says--I let you hector +me into a sillier mistake than any of yours. + +LOUIS. When? + +ELOISE [_flinging out her arms_]. Oh, when I consented to this absurd +journey, this _tiresome_ journey--with _you_! An "escape"? From +nothing. In "disguise." Which doesn't disguise. + +LOUIS [_his voice taut with the effort for self-command_]. My sister +asked me to be patient with you, Eloise-- + +ELOISE. Because I am a fool, yes. Thanks. [_Shrewishly._] And then, my +worthy young man? [_He rises abruptly, smarting almost beyond +endurance._] + +LOUIS [_breathing deeply_]. Have I not been patient with you? + +ELOISE [_with a flash of energy_]. If _I_ have asked you to be +anything whatever--with me!--pray recall the petition to my memory. + +LOUIS [_beginning to let himself go_]. Patient! Have I ever been +anything but patient with you? Was I not patient with you five years +ago when you first harangued us on your "Rights of Man" and your +monstrous republicanism? Where you got hold of it all I don't know-- + +ELOISE [_kindling_]. Ideas, my friend. Naturally, incomprehensible to +you. Books! Brains! Men! + +LOUIS. "Books! Brains! Men!" Treason, poison, and mobs! Oh, I could +laugh at you then: they were only beginning to kill us, and I was +patient. Was I not patient with you when these Republicans of yours +drove us from our homes, from our country, stole all we had, +assassinated us in dozens, in hundreds, murdered our King? [_He walks +the floor, gesticulating nervously._] When I saw relative after +relative of my own--aye, and of yours, too--dragged to the +abattoir--even poor, harmless, kind Andre de Laseyne, whom they took +simply because he was my brother-in-law--was I not patient? And when I +came back to Paris for you and Anne, and had to lie hid in a stable, +every hour in greater danger because you would not be persuaded to +join us, was I not patient? And when you finally did consent, but +protested every step of the way, pouting and-- + +ELOISE [_stung_]. "Pouting!" + +LOUIS. And when that stranger came posting after us so obvious a spy-- + +ELOISE [_scornfully_]. Pooh! He is nothing. + +LOUIS. Is there a league between here and Paris over which he has not +dogged us? By diligence, on horseback, on foot, turning up at every +posting-house, every roadside inn, the while you laughed at me because +I read death in his face! These two days we have been here, is there +an hour when you could look from that window except to see him +grinning up from the wine-shop door down there? + +ELOISE [_impatiently, but with a somewhat conscious expression_]. I +tell you not to fear him. There is nothing in it. + +LOUIS [_looking at her keenly_]. Be sure I understand why you do not +think him a spy! You believe he has followed us because you-- + +ELOISE. I expected that! Oh, I knew it would come! [_Furiously._] I +never saw the man before in my life! + +LOUIS [_pacing the floor_]. He is unmistakable; his trade is stamped +on him; a hired trailer of your precious "Nation's." + +ELOISE [_haughtily_]. The Nation is the People. You malign because you +fear. The People is sacred! + +LOUIS [_with increasing bitterness_]. Aren't you tired yet of the +Palais Royal platitudes? I have been patient with your Mericourtisms +for so long. Yes, always I was patient. Always there was time; there +was danger, but there was a little time. [_He faces her, his voice +becoming louder, his gestures more vehement._] But now the _Jeune +Pierrette_ sails this hour, and if we are not out of here and on her +deck when she leaves the quay, my head rolls in Samson's basket within +the week, with Anne's and your own to follow! _Now_, I tell you, there +is no more time, and _now_-- + +ELOISE [_suavely_]. Yes? Well? "Now?" [_He checks himself; his lifted +hand falls to his side._] + +LOUIS [_in a gentle voice_]. I am still patient. [_He looks into her +eyes, makes her a low and formal obeisance, and drops dejectedly into +the chair at the desk._] + +ELOISE [_dangerously_]. Is the oration concluded? + +LOUIS. Quite. + +ELOISE [_suddenly volcanic_]. Then "_now_" you'll perhaps be "patient" +enough to explain why I shouldn't leave you instantly. Understand +fully that I have come thus far with you and Anne solely to protect +you in case you were suspected. "_Now_," my little man, you are safe: +you have only to go on board your vessel. Why should I go with you? +Why do you insist on dragging me out of the country? + +LOUIS [_wearily_]. Only to save your life; that is all. + +ELOISE. My life! Tut! My life is safe with the People--my People! +[_She draws herself up magnificently._] The Nation would protect me! +I gave the people my whole fortune when they were starving. After +that, who in France dare lay a finger upon the Citizeness Eloise +d'Anville! + +LOUIS. I have the idea sometimes, my cousin, that perhaps if you had +not given them your property they would have taken it, anyway. +[_Dryly._] They did mine. + +ELOISE [_agitated_]. I do not expect you to comprehend what I +felt--what I feel! [_She lifts her arms longingly._] Oh, for a Man!--a +Man who could understand me! + +LOUIS [_sadly_]. That excludes me! + +ELOISE. Shall I spell it? + +LOUIS. You are right. So far from understanding you, I understand +nothing. The age is too modern for me. I do not understand why this +rabble is permitted to rule France; I do not even understand why it is +permitted to live. + +ELOISE [_with superiority_]. Because you belong to the class that +thought itself made of porcelain and the rest of the world clay. It is +simple: the mud-ball breaks the vase. + +LOUIS. You belong to the same class, even to the same family. + +ELOISE. You are wrong. One circumstance proves me no aristocrat. + +LOUIS. What circumstance? + +ELOISE. That I happened to be born with brains. I can account for it +only by supposing some hushed-up ancestral scandal. [_Brusquely._] Do +you understand that? + +LOUIS. I overlook it. [_He writes again._] + +ELOISE. Quibbling was always a habit of yours. [_Snapping at him +irritably._] Oh, stop that writing! You can't do it, and you don't +need it. You blame the people because they turn on you now, after +you've whipped and beaten and ground them underfoot for centuries and +centuries and-- + +LOUIS. Quite a career for a man of twenty-nine! + +ELOISE. I have said that quibbling was-- + +LOUIS [_despondently_]. Perhaps it is. To return to my other +deficiencies, I do not understand why this spy who followed us from +Paris has not arrested me long before now. I do not understand why you +hate me. I do not understand the world in general. And in particular I +do not understand the art of forgery. [_He throws down his pen._] + +ELOISE. You talk of "patience"! How often have I explained that you +would not need passports of any kind if you would let me throw off my +incognito. If anyone questions you, it will be sufficient if I give my +name. All France knows the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville. Do you suppose +the officer on the quay would dare oppose-- + +LOUIS [_with a gesture of resignation_]. I know you think it. + +ELOISE [_angrily_]. You tempt me not to prove it. But for Anne's +sake-- + +LOUIS. Not for mine. That, at least, I understand. [_He rises._] My +dear cousin, I am going to be very serious-- + +ELOISE. O heaven! [_She flings away from him._] + +LOUIS [_plaintively_]. I shall not make another oration-- + +ELOISE. Make anything you choose. [_Drumming the floor with her +foot._] What does it matter? + +LOUIS. I have a presentiment--I ask you to listen-- + +ELOISE [_in her irritation almost screaming_]. How can I help but +listen? And Anne, too! [_With a short laugh._] You know as well as I +do that when that door is open everything you say in this room is +heard in there. [_She points to the open doorway, where MADAME DE +LASEYNE instantly makes her appearance, and after exchanging one fiery +glance with ELOISE as swiftly withdraws, closing the door behind her +with outraged emphasis._] + +ELOISE [_breaking into a laugh_]. Forward, soldiers! + +LOUIS [_reprovingly_]. Eloise! + +ELOISE. Well, _open_ the door, then, if you want her to hear you make +love to me! [_Coolly._] That's what you're going to do, isn't it? + +LOUIS [_with imperfect self-control_]. I wish to ask you for the last +time-- + +ELOISE [_flouting_]. There are so many last times! + +LOUIS. To ask you if you are sure that you know your own heart. You +cared for me once, and-- + +ELOISE [_as if this were news indeed_]. I did? Who under heaven ever +told you that? + +LOUIS [_flushing_]. You allowed yourself to be betrothed to me, I +believe. + +ELOISE. "Allowed" is the word, precisely. I seem to recall changing +all that the very day I became an orphan--and my own master! +[_Satirically polite._] Pray correct me if my memory errs. How long +ago was it? Six years? Seven? + +LOUIS [_with emotion_]. Eloise, Eloise, you did love me then! We were +happy, both of us, so very happy-- + +ELOISE [_sourly_]. "Both!" My faith! But I must have been a brave +little actress. + +LOUIS. I do not believe it. You loved me. I--[_He hesitates._] + +ELOISE. Do get on with what you have to say. + +LOUIS [_in a low voice_]. I have many forebodings, Eloise, but the +strongest--and for me the saddest--is that this is the last chance you +will ever have to tell--to tell me--[_He falters again._] + +ELOISE [_irritated beyond measure, shouting_]. To tell you what? + +LOUIS [_swallowing_]. That your love for me still lingers. + +ELOISE [_promptly_]. Well, it doesn't. So _that's_ over! + +LOUIS. Not quite yet. I-- + +ELOISE [_dropping into a chair_]. O Death! + +LOUIS [_still gently_]. Listen. I have hope that you and Anne may be +permitted to escape; but as for me, since the first moment I felt the +eyes of that spy from Paris upon me I have had the premonition that I +would be taken back--to the guillotine, Eloise. I am sure that he will +arrest me when I attempt to leave this place to-night. [_With +sorrowful earnestness._] And it is with the certainty in my soul that +this is our last hour together that I ask you if you cannot tell me +that the old love has come back. Is there nothing in your heart for +me? + +ELOISE. Was there anything in _your_ heart for the beggar who stood at +your door in the old days? + +LOUIS. Is there nothing for him who stands at yours now, begging for a +word? + +ELOISE [_frowning_]. I remember you had the name of a disciplinarian +in your regiment. [_She rises to face him._] Did you ever find +anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered tied up and +flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the peasants who starved +in your fields? + +LOUIS [_quietly_]. No; it was too full of you. + +ELOISE. Words! Pretty little words! + +LOUIS. Thoughts. Pretty, because they are of you. All, always of +you--always, my dear. I never really think of anything but you. The +picture of you is always before the eyes of my soul; the very name of +you is forever in my heart. [_With a rueful smile._] And it is on the +tips of my fingers, sometimes when it shouldn't be. See. [_He steps to +the desk and shows her a scribbled sheet._] This is what I laughed at +a while ago. I tried to write, with you near me, and unconsciously I +let your name creep into my very forgery! I wrote it as I wrote it in +the sand when we were children; as I have traced it a thousand times +on coated mirrors--on frosted windows. [_He reads the writing aloud._] +"Permit the Citizen Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie +Balsage, and his second sister, the Citizeness Marie Balsage, and +Eloise d'Anville"--so I wrote!--"to embark upon the vessel _Jeune +Pierrette_--" You see? [_He lets the paper fall upon the desk._] Even +in this danger, that I feel closer and closer with every passing +second, your name came in of itself. I am like that English Mary: if +they will open my heart when I am dead, they shall find, not "Calais," +but "Eloise"! + +ELOISE [_going to the dressing-table_]. Louis, that doesn't interest +me. [_She adds a delicate touch or two to her hair, studying it +thoughtfully in the dressing-table mirror._] + +LOUIS [_somberly_]. I told you long ago-- + +ELOISE [_smiling at her reflection_]. So you did--often! + +LOUIS [_breathing quickly_]. I have nothing new to offer. I +understand. I bore you. + +ELOISE. Louis, to be frank: I don't care what they find in your heart +when they open it. + +LOUIS [_with a hint of sternness_]. Have you never reflected that +there might be something for me to forgive you? + +ELOISE [_glancing at him over her shoulder in frowning surprise_]. +What! + +LOUIS. I wonder sometimes if you have ever found a flaw in your own +character. + +ELOISE [_astounded_]. So! [_Turning sharply upon him._] You are +assuming the right to criticize me, are you? Oho! + +LOUIS [_agitated_]. I state merely--I have said--I think I forgive you +a great deal-- + +ELOISE [_beginning to char_]. You do! You bestow your gracious pardon +upon me, do you? [_Bursting into flame._] Keep your forgiveness to +yourself! When I want it I'll kneel at your feet and beg it of you! +You can _kiss_ me then, for then you will know that "the old love has +come back"! + +LOUIS [_miserably_]. When you kneel-- + +ELOISE. Can you picture it--_Marquis?_ [_She hurls his title at him, +and draws herself up in icy splendor._] I am a woman of the Republic! + +LOUIS. And the Republic has no need of love. + +ELOISE. Its daughter has no need of yours! + +LOUIS. Until you kneel to me. You have spoken. It is ended. [_Turning +from her with a pathetic gesture of farewell and resignation, his +attention is suddenly arrested by something invisible. He stands for a +moment transfixed. When he speaks, it is in an altered tone, light and +at the same time ominous._] My cousin, suffer the final petition of a +bore. Forgive my seriousness; forgive my stupidity, for I believe that +what one hears now means that a number of things are indeed ended. +Myself among them. + +ELOISE [_not comprehending_]. "What one hears?" + +LOUIS [_slowly_]. In the distance. [_Both stand motionless to listen, +and the room is silent. Gradually a muffled, multitudinous sound, at +first very faint, becomes audible._] + +ELOISE. What is it? + +LOUIS [_with pale composure_]. Only a song! [_The distant sound +becomes distinguishable as a singing from many unmusical throats and +pitched in every key, a drum-beat booming underneath; a tumultuous +rumble which grows slowly louder. The door of the inner room opens, +and MADAME DE LASEYNE enters._] + +ANNE [_briskly, as she comes in_]. I have hidden the cloak and the +dress beneath the mattress. Have you-- + +LOUIS [_lifting his hand_]. Listen! [_She halts, startled. The +singing, the drums, and the tumult swell suddenly much louder, as if +the noise-makers had turned a corner._] + +ANNE [_crying out_]. The "Marseillaise"! + +LOUIS. The "Vultures' Chorus"! + +ELOISE [_in a ringing voice_]. The Hymn of Liberty! + +ANNE [_trembling violently_]. It grows louder. + +LOUIS. Nearer! + +ELOISE [_running to the window_]. They are coming this way! + +ANNE [_rushing ahead of her_]. They have turned the corner of the +street. Keep back, Louis! + +ELOISE [_leaning out of the window, enthusiastically_]. _Vive +la_--[_She finishes with an indignant gurgle as ANNE DE LASEYNE, +without comment, claps a prompt hand over her mouth and pushes her +vigorously from the window._] + +ANNE. A mob--carrying torches and dancing. [_Her voice shaking +wildly._] They are following a troop of soldiers. + +LOUIS. The National Guard. + +ANNE. Keep back from the window! A man in a tricolor scarf marching in +front. + +LOUIS. A political, then--an official of their government. + +ANNE. O Virgin, have mercy! [_She turns a stricken face upon her +brother._] It is that-- + +LOUIS [_biting his nails_]. Of course. Our spy. [_He takes a +hesitating step toward the desk; but swings about, goes to the door at +the rear, shoots the bolt back and forth, apparently unable to decide +upon a course of action; finally leaves the door bolted and examines +the hinges. ANNE, meanwhile, has hurried to the desk, and, seizing a +candle there, begins to light others in a candelabrum on the +dressing-table. The noise outside grows to an uproar; the +"Marseillaise" changes to "Ca ira"; and a shaft of the glare from the +torches below shoots through the window and becomes a staggering red +patch on the ceiling._] + +ANNE [_feverishly_]. Lights! Light those candles in the sconce, +Eloise! Light all the candles we have. [_ELOISE, resentful, does not +move._] + +LOUIS. No, no! Put them out! + +ANNE. Oh, fatal! [_She stops him as he rushes to obey his own +command._] If our window is lighted he will believe we have no thought +of leaving, and pass by. [_She hastily lights the candles in a sconce +upon the wall as she speaks; the shabby place is now brightly +illuminated._] + +LOUIS. He will not pass by. [_The external tumult culminates in +riotous yelling, as, with a final roll, the drums cease to beat. +MADAME DE LASEYNE runs again to the window._] + +ELOISE [_sullenly_]. You are disturbing yourselves without reason. +They will not stop here. + +ANNE [_in a sickly whisper_]. They have stopped. + +LOUIS. At the door of this house? [_MADAME DE LASEYNE, leaning against +the wall, is unable to reply, save by a gesture. The noise from the +street dwindles to a confused, expectant murmur. LOUIS takes a pistol +from beneath his blouse, strides to the door, and listens._] + +ANNE [_faintly_]. He is in the house. The soldiers followed him. + +LOUIS. They are on the lower stairs. [_He turns to the two women +humbly._] My sister and my cousin, my poor plans have only made +everything worse for you. I cannot ask you to forgive me. We are +caught. + +ANNE [_vitalized with the energy of desperation_]. Not till the very +last shred of hope is gone. [_She springs to the desk and begins to +tear the discarded sheets into minute fragments._] Is that door +fastened? + +LOUIS. They'll break it down, of course. + +ANNE. Where is our passport from Paris? + +LOUIS. Here. [_He gives it to her._] + +ANNE. Quick! Which of these "permits" is the best? + +LOUIS. They're all hopeless--[_He fumbles among the sheets on the +desk._] + +ANNE. Any of them. We can't stop to select. [_She thrusts the passport +and a haphazard sheet from the desk into the bosom of her dress. An +orderly tramping of heavy shoes and a clinking of metal become audible +as the soldiers ascend the upper flight of stairs._] + +ELOISE. All this is childish. [_Haughtily._] I shall merely announce-- + +ANNE [_uttering a half-choked scream of rage_]. You'll announce +nothing! Out of here, both of you! + +LOUIS. No, no! + +ANNE [_with breathless rapidity, as the noise on the stairs grows +louder_]. Let them break the door in if they will; only let them find +me alone. [_She seizes her brother's arm imploringly as he pauses, +uncertain._] Give me the chance to make them think I am here alone. + +LOUIS. I can't-- + +ANNE [_urging him to the inner door_]. Is there any other possible +hope for us? Is there any other possible way to gain even a little +time? Louis, I want your word of honor not to leave that room unless I +summon you. I must have it! [_Overborne by her intensity, LOUIS nods +despairingly, allowing her to force him toward the other room. The +tramping of the soldiers, much louder and very close, comes to a +sudden stop. There is a sharp word of command, and a dozen muskets +ring on the floor just beyond the outer door._] + +ELOISE [_folding her arms_]. You needn't think I shall consent to hide +myself. I shall tell them-- + +ANNE [_in a surcharged whisper_]. You will not ruin us! [_With furious +determination, as a loud knock falls upon the door._] In there, I tell +you! [_Almost physically she sweeps both ELOISE and LOUIS out of the +room, closes the door upon them, and leans against it, panting. The +knocking is repeated. She braces herself to speak._] + +ANNE [_with a catch in her throat_]. Who is--there? + +A SONOROUS VOICE. French Republic! + +ANNE [_faltering_], It is--it is difficult to hear. What do you-- + +THE VOICE. Open the door. + +ANNE [_more firmly_]. That is impossible. + +THE VOICE. Open the door. + +ANNE. What is your name? + +THE VOICE. Valsin, National Agent. + +ANNE. I do not know you. + +THE VOICE. Open! + +ANNE. I am here alone. I am dressing. I can admit no one. + +THE VOICE. For the last time: open! + +ANNE. No! + +THE VOICE. Break it down. [_A thunder of blows from the butts of +muskets falls upon the door._] + +ANNE [_rushing toward it in a passion of protest_]. No, no, no! You +shall not come in! I tell you I have not finished dressing. If you are +men of honor--Ah! [_She recoils, gasping, as a panel breaks in, the +stock of a musket following it; and then, weakened at rusty bolt and +crazy hinge, the whole door gives way and falls crashing into the +room. The narrow passage thus revealed is crowded with shabbily +uniformed soldiers of the National Guard, under an officer armed with +a saber. As the door falls a man wearing a tricolor scarf strides by +them, and, standing beneath the dismantled lintel, his hands behind +him, sweeps the room with a smiling eye._ + +_This personage is handsomely, almost dandiacally dressed in black; +his ruffle is of lace, his stockings are of silk; the lapels of his +waistcoat, overlapping those of his long coat, exhibit a rich +embroidery of white and crimson. These and other details of elegance, +such as his wearing powder upon his dark hair, indicate either insane +daring or an importance quite overwhelming. A certain easy power in +his unusually brilliant eyes favors the probability that, like +Robespierre, he can wear what he pleases. Undeniably he has +distinction. Equally undeniable is something in his air that is dapper +and impish and lurking. His first glance over the room apparently +affording him acute satisfaction, he steps lightly across the +prostrate door, MADAME DE LASEYNE retreating before him but keeping +herself between him and the inner door. He comes to an unexpected halt +in a dancing-master's posture, removing his huge hat--which displays a +tricolor plume of ostrich feathers--with a wide flourish, an +intentional burlesque of the old-court manner._] + +VALSIN. Permit me. [_He bows elaborately._] Be gracious to a recent +fellow-traveler. I introduce myself. At your service: Valsin, Agent of +the National Committee of Public Safety. [_He faces about sharply._] +Soldiers! [_They stand at attention._] To the street door. I will +conduct the examination alone. My assistant will wait on this floor, +at the top of the stair. Send the people away down below there, +officer. Look to the courtyard. Clear the streets. [_The officer +salutes, gives a word of command, and the soldiers shoulder their +muskets, march off, and are heard clanking down the stairs. VALSIN +tosses his hat upon the desk, and turns smilingly to the trembling but +determined MADAME DE LASEYNE._] + +ANNE [_summoning her indignation_]. How dare you break down my door! +How dare you force your-- + +VALSIN [_suavely_]. My compliments on the celerity with which the +citizeness has completed her toilet. Marvelous. An example to her sex. + +ANNE. You intend robbery, I suppose. + +VALSIN [_with a curt laugh_]. Not precisely. + +ANNE. What, then? + +VALSIN. I have come principally for the returned Emigrant, Louis +Valny-Cherault, formerly called Marquis de Valny-Cherault, formerly of +the former regiment of Valny; also formerly-- + +ANNE [_cutting him off sharply_]. I do not know what you mean by all +these names--and "formerlies"! + +VALSIN. No? [_Persuasively._] Citizeness, pray assert that I did not +encounter you last week on your journey from Paris-- + +ANNE [_hastily_]. It is true I have been to Paris on business; you +may have seen me--I do not know. Is it a crime to return from Paris? + +VALSIN [_in a tone of mock encouragement_]. It will amuse me to hear +you declare that I did not see you traveling in company with Louis +Valny-Cherault. Come! Say it. + +ANNE [_stepping back defensively, closer to the inner door_]. I am +alone, I tell you! I do not know what you mean. If you saw me speaking +with people in the diligence, or at some posting-house, they were only +traveling acquaintances. I did not know them. I am a widow-- + +VALSIN. My condolences. Poor, of course? + +ANNE. Yes. + +VALSIN. And lonely, of course? [_Apologetically._] Loneliness is in +the formula: I suggest it for fear you might forget. + +ANNE [_doggedly_]. I am alone. + +VALSIN. Quite right. + +ANNE [_confusedly_]. I am a widow, I tell you--a widow, living here +quietly with-- + +VALSIN [_taking her up quickly_]. Ah--"with"! Living here alone, and +also "with"--whom? Not your late husband? + +ANNE [_desperately_]. With my niece. + +VALSIN [_affecting great surprise_]. Ah! A niece! And the niece, I +take it, is in your other room yonder? + +ANNE [_huskily_]. Yes. + +VALSIN [_taking a step forward_]. Is she pretty? [_ANNE places her +back against the closed door, facing him grimly. He assumes a tone of +indulgence._] Ah, one must not look: the niece, likewise, has not +completed her toilet. + +ANNE. She is--asleep. + +VALSIN [_glancing toward the dismantled doorway_]. A sound napper! Why +did you not say instead that she was--shaving? [_He advances, +smiling._] + +ANNE [_between her teeth_]. You shall not go in! You cannot see her! +She is-- + +VALSIN [_laughing_]. Allow me to prompt you. She is not only asleep; +she is ill. She is starving. Also, I cannot go in because she is an +orphan. Surely, she is an orphan? A lonely widow and her lonely orphan +niece. Ah, touching--and sweet! + +ANNE [_hotly_]. What authority have you to force your way into my +apartment and insult-- + +VALSIN [_touching his scarf_]. I had the honor to mention the French +Republic. + +ANNE. So! Does the French Republic persecute widows and orphans? + +VALSIN [_gravely_]. No. It is the making of them! + +ANNE [_crying out_]. Ah, horrible! + +VALSIN. I regret that its just severity was the cause of your own +bereavement, Citizeness. When your unfortunate husband, Andre, +formerly known as the Prince de Laseyne-- + +ANNE [_defiantly, though tears have sprung to her eyes_]. I tell you I +do not know what you mean by these titles. My name is Balsage. + +VALSIN. Bravo! The Widow Balsage, living here in calm obscurity with +her niece. Widow Balsage, answer quickly, without stopping to think. +[_Sharply._] How long have you lived here? + +ANNE. Two months. [_Faltering._]--A year! + +VALSIN [_laughing_]. Good. Two months and a year! No visitors? No +strangers? + +ANNE. No. + +VALSIN [_wheeling quickly and picking up LOUIS's cap from the +dressing-table_]. This cap, then, belongs to your niece. + +ANNE [_flustered, advancing toward him as if to take it_]. It was--it +was left here this afternoon by our landlord. + +VALSIN [_musingly_]. That is very, very puzzling. [_He leans against +the dressing-table in a careless attitude, his back to her._] + +ANNE [_cavalierly_]. Why "puzzling"? + +VALSIN. Because I sent him on an errand to Paris this morning. [_She +flinches, but he does not turn to look at her, continuing in a tone of +idle curiosity._] I suppose your own excursion to Paris was quite an +event for you, Widow Balsage. You do not take many journeys? + +ANNE. I am too poor. + +VALSIN. And you have not been contemplating another departure from +Boulogne? + +ANNE. No. + +VALSIN [_still in the same careless attitude, his back toward her and +the closed door_]. Good. It is as I thought: the portmanteau is for +ornament. + +ANNE [_choking_]. It belongs to my niece. She came only an hour ago. +She has not unpacked. + +VALSIN. Naturally. Too ill. + +ANNE. She had traveled all night; she was exhausted. She went to sleep +at once. + +VALSIN. Is she a somnambulist? + +ANNE [_taken aback_]. Why? + +VALSIN [_indifferently_]. She has just opened the door of her room in +order to overhear our conversation. [_Waving his hand to the +dressing-table mirror, in which he had been gazing._] Observe it, +Citizeness Laseyne. + +ANNE [_demoralized_]. I do not--I--[_Stamping her foot._] How often +shall I tell you my name is Balsage! + +VALSIN [_turning to her apologetically_]. My wretched memory. Perhaps +I might remember better if I saw it written: I beg a glance at your +papers. Doubtless you have your certificate of citizenship-- + +ANNE [_trembling_]. I have papers, certainly. + +VALSIN. The sight of them-- + +ANNE. I have my passport; you shall see. [_With wildly shaking hands +she takes from her blouse the passport and the "permit," crumpled +together._] It is in proper form--[_She is nervously replacing the two +papers in her bosom when with a sudden movement he takes them from +her. She cries out incoherently, and attempts to recapture them._] + +VALSIN [_extending his left arm to fend her off_]. Yes, here you have +your passport. And there you have others. [_He points to the littered +floor under the desk._] Many of them! + +ANNE. Old letters! [_She clutches at the papers in his grasp._] + +VALSIN [_easily fending her off_]. Doubtless! [_He shakes the "permit" +open._] Oho! A permission to embark--and signed by three names of the +highest celebrity. Alas, these unfortunate statesmen, Billaud +Varennes, Carnot, and Robespierre! Each has lately suffered an injury +to his right hand. What a misfortune for France! And what a +coincidence! One has not heard the like since we closed the theatres. + +ANNE [_furiously struggling to reach his hand_]. Give me my papers! +Give me-- + +VALSIN [_holding them away from her_]. You see, these unlucky great +men had their names signed for them by somebody else. And I should +judge that this somebody else must have been writing quite +recently--less than half an hour ago, from the freshness of the +ink--and in considerable haste; perhaps suffering considerable anguish +of mind, Widow Balsage! [_MADAME DE LASEYNE, overwhelmed, sinks into a +chair. He comes close to her, his manner changing startlingly._] + +VALSIN [_bending over with sudden menace, his voice loud and harsh_]. +Widow Balsage, if you intend no journey, why have you this forged +permission to embark on the Jeune Pierrette? Widow Balsage, who is the +Citizen Balsage? + +ANNE [_faintly_]. My brother. + +VALSIN [_straightening up_]. Your first truth. [_Resuming his +gaiety._] Of course he is not in that room yonder with your niece. + +ANNE [_brokenly_]. No, no, no; he is not! He is not here. + +VALSIN [_commiseratingly_]. Poor woman! You have not even the pleasure +to perceive how droll you are. + +ANNE. I perceive that I am a fool! [_She dashes the tears from her +eyes and springs to her feet._] I also perceive that you have +denounced us before the authorities here-- + +VALSIN. Pardon. In Boulogne it happens that _I_ am the authority. I +introduce myself for the third time: Valsin, Commissioner of the +National Committee of Public Safety. Tallien was sent to Bordeaux; +Collot to Lyons; I to Boulogne. Citizeness, were all of the august +names on your permit genuine, you could no more leave this port +without my counter-signature than you could take wing and fly over the +Channel! + +ANNE [_with a shrill laugh of triumph_]. You have overreached +yourself! You're an ordinary spy: you followed us from Paris-- + +VALSIN [_gaily_]. Oh, I intended you to notice that! + +ANNE [_unheeding_]. You have claimed to be Commissioner of the highest +power in France. We can prove that you are a common spy. You may go to +the guillotine for that. Take care, Citizen! So! You have denounced +us; we denounce you. I'll have you arrested by your own soldiers. I'll +call them--[_She makes a feint of running to the window. He watches +her coolly, in silence; and she halts, chagrined._] + +VALSIN [_pleasantly_]. I was sure you would not force me to be +premature. Remark it, Citizeness Laseyne: I am enjoying all this. I +have waited a long time for it. + +ANNE [_becoming hysterical_]. I am the Widow Balsage, I tell you! You +do not know us--you followed us from Paris. [_Half sobbing._] You're a +spy--a hanger-on of the police. We will prove-- + +VALSIN [_stepping to the dismantled doorway_]. I left my assistant +within hearing--a species of animal of mine. I may claim that he +belongs to me. A worthy patriot, but skillful, who has had the honor +of a slight acquaintance with you, I believe. [_Calling._] +Dossonville! [_DOSSONVILLE, a large man, flabby of flesh, +loose-mouthed, grizzled, carelessly dressed, makes his appearance in +the doorway. He has a harsh and reckless eye; and, obviously a +flamboyant bully by temperament, his abject, doggish deference to +VALSIN is instantly impressive, more than confirming the latter's +remark that DOSSONVILLE "belongs" to him. DOSSONVILLE, apparently, is +a chattel indeed, body and soul. At sight of him MADAME DE LASEYNE +catches at the desk for support and stands speechless._] + +VALSIN [_easily_]. Dossonville, you may inform the Citizeness Laseyne +what office I have the fortune to hold. + +DOSSONVILLE [_coming in_]. Bright heaven! All the world knows that you +are the representative of the Committee of Public Safety. Commissioner +to Boulogne. + +VALSIN. With what authority? + +DOSSONVILLE. Absolute--unlimited! Naturally. What else would be +useful? + +VALSIN. You recall this woman, Dossonville? + +DOSSONVILLE. She was present when I delivered the passport to the +Emigrant Valny-Cherault, in Paris. + +VALSIN. Did you forge that passport? + +DOSSONVILLE. No. I told the Emigrant I had. Under orders. +[_Grinning._] It was genuine. + +VALSIN. Where did you get it? + +DOSSONVILLE. From you. + +VALSIN [_suavely_]. Sit down, Dossonville. [_The latter, who is +standing by a chair, obeys with a promptness more than military. +VALSIN turns smilingly to MADAME DE LASEYNE._] Dossonville's +instructions, however, did not include a "permit" to sail on the +_Jeune Pierrette_. All of which, I confess, Citizeness, has very much +the appearance of a trap! [_He tosses the two papers upon the desk. +Utterly dismayed, she makes no effort to secure them. He regards her +with quizzical enjoyment._] + +ANNE. Ah--you--[_She fails to speak coherently._] + +VALSIN. Dossonville has done very well. He procured your passport, +brought your "disguises," planned your journey, even gave you +directions how to find these lodgings in Boulogne. Indeed, I +instructed him to omit nothing for your comfort. [_He pauses for a +moment._] If I am a spy, Citizeness Laseyne, at least I trust your +gracious intelligence may not cling to the epithet "ordinary." My +soul! but I appear to myself a most uncommon type of spy--a very +intricate, complete, and unusual spy, in fact. + +ANNE [_to herself, weeping_]. Ah, poor Louis! + +VALSIN [_cheerfully_]. You are beginning to comprehend? That is well. +Your niece's door is still ajar by the discreet width of a finger, so +I assume that the Emigrant also begins to comprehend. Therefore I take +my ease! [_He seats himself in the most comfortable chair in the room, +crossing his legs in a leisurely attitude, and lightly drumming the +tips of his fingers together, the while his peaceful gaze is fixed +upon the ceiling. His tone, as he continues, is casual._] You +understand, my Dossonville, having long ago occupied this very +apartment myself, I am serenely aware that the Emigrant can leave the +other room only by the window; and as this is the fourth floor, and a +proper number of bayonets in the courtyard below are arranged to +receive any person active enough to descend by a rope of bed-clothes, +one is confident that the said Emigrant will remain where he is. Let +us make ourselves comfortable, for it is a delightful hour--an hour I +have long promised myself. I am in a good humor. Let us all be happy. +Citizeness Laseyne, enjoy yourself. Call me some bad names! + +ANNE [_between her teeth_]. If I could find one evil enough! + +VALSIN [_slapping his knee delightedly_]. There it is: the complete +incompetence of your class. You poor aristocrats, you do not even know +how to swear. Your ancestors knew how! They were fighters; they knew +how to swear because they knew how to attack; you poor moderns have no +profanity left in you, because, poisoned by idleness, you have +forgotten even how to resist. And yet you thought yourselves on top, +and so you were--but as foam is on top of the wave. You forgot that +power, like genius, always comes from underneath, because it is +produced only by turmoil. We have had to wring the neck of your +feather-head court, because while the court was the nation the nation +had its pockets picked. You were at the mercy of anybody with a pinch +of brains: adventurers like Mazarin, like Fouquet, like Law, or that +little commoner, the woman Fish, who called herself Pompadour and took +France--France, merely!--from your King, and used it to her own +pleasure. Then, at last, after the swindlers had well plucked you--at +last, unfortunate creatures, the People got you! Citizeness, the +People had starved: be assured they will eat you to the bone--and then +eat the bone! You are helpless because you have learned nothing and +forgotten everything. You have forgotten everything in this world +except how to be fat! + +DOSSONVILLE [_applauding with unction_]. Beautiful! It is beautiful, +all that! A beautiful speech! + +VALSIN. Ass! + +DOSSONVILLE [_meekly_]. Perfectly, perfectly. + +VALSIN [_crossly_]. That wasn't a speech; it was the truth. Citizeness +Laseyne, so far as you are concerned, I am the People. [_He extends +his hand negligently, with open palm._] And I have got you. [_He +clenches his fingers, like a cook's on the neck of a fowl._] Like +that! And I'm going to take you back to Paris, you and the Emigrant. +[_She stands in an attitude eloquent of despair. His glance roves from +her to the door of the other room, which is still slightly ajar; and, +smiling at some fugitive thought, he continues, deliberately._] I take +you: you and your brother--and that rather pretty little person who +traveled with you. [_There is a breathless exclamation from the other +side of the door, which is flung open violently, as ELOISE--flushed, +radiant with anger, and altogether magnificent--sweeps into the room +to confront VALSIN._] + +ELOISE [_slamming the door behind her_]. Leave this Jack-in-Office to +me, Anne! + +DOSSONVILLE [_dazed by the vision_]. Lord! What glory! [_He rises, +bowing profoundly, muttering hoarsely._] Oh, eyes! Oh, hair! Look at +her shape! Her chin! The divine-- + +VALSIN [_getting up and patting him reassuringly on the back_]. The +lady perceives her effect, my Dossonville. It is no novelty. Sit down, +my Dossonville. [_The still murmurous DOSSONVILLE obeys VALSIN turns +to ELOISE, a brilliant light in his eyes._] Let me greet one of the +nieces of Widow Balsage--evidently not the sleepy one, and certainly +not ill. Health so transcendent-- + +ELOISE [_placing her hand upon MADAME DE LASEYNE's shoulder_]. This is +a clown, Anne. You need have no fear of him whatever. His petty +authority does not extend to us. + +VALSIN [_deferentially_]. Will the niece of Widow Balsage explain why +it does not? + +ELOISE [_turning upon him fiercely_]. Because the patriot Citizeness +Eloise d'Anville is here! + +VALSIN [_assuming an air of thoughtfulness_]. Yes, she is here. That +"permit" yonder even mentions her by name. It is curious. I shall have +to go into that. Continue, niece. + +ELOISE [_with supreme haughtiness_]. This lady is under her +protection. + +VALSIN [_growing red_]. Pardon. Under whose protection? + +ELOISE [_sulphurously_]. Under the protection of Eloise d'Anville! +[_This has a frightful effect upon VALSIN; his face becomes contorted; +he clutches at his throat, apparently half strangled, staggers, and +falls choking into the easy-chair he has formerly occupied._] + +VALSIN [_gasping, coughing, incoherent_]. Under the pro--the +protection--[_He explodes into peal after peal of uproarious +laughter._] The protection of--Aha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho! [_He rocks +himself back and forth unappeasably._] + +ELOISE [_with a slight lift of the eyebrows_]. This man is an idiot. + +VALSIN [_during an abatement of his attack_]. Oh, pardon! It +is--too--much--too much for me! You say--these people are-- + +ELOISE [_stamping her foot_]. Under the protection of Eloise +d'Anville, imbecile! You cannot touch them. She wills it! [_At this, +VALSIN shouts as if pleading for mercy, and beats the air with his +hands. He struggles to his feet and, pounding himself upon the chest, +walks to and fro in the effort to control his convulsion._] + +ELOISE [_to ANNE, under cover of the noise he makes_]. I was wrong: he +is not an idiot. + +ANNE [_despairingly_]. He laughs at you. + +ELOISE [_in a quick whisper_]. Out of bluster; because he is afraid. +He is badly frightened. I know just what to do. Go into the other room +with Louis. + +ANNE [_protesting weakly_]. I can't hope-- + +ELOISE [_flashing from a cloud_]. You failed, didn't you? [_MADAME DE +LASEYNE, after a tearful perusal of the stern resourcefulness now +written in the younger woman's eyes, succumbs with a piteous gesture +of assent and goes out forlornly. ELOISE closes the door and stands +with her back to it._] + +VALSIN [_paying no attention to them_]. Eloise d'Anville! [_Still +pacing the room in the struggle to subdue his hilarity._] This young +citizeness speaks of the protection of Eloise d'Anville! [_Leaning +feebly upon DOSSONVILLE's shoulder._] Do you hear, my Dossonville? It +is an ecstasy. Ecstasize, then. Scream, Dossonville! + +DOSSONVILLE [_puzzled, but evidently accustomed to being so, cackles +instantly_]. Perfectly. Ha, ha! The citizeness is not only stirringly +beautiful, she is also-- + +VALSIN. She is also a wit. Susceptible henchman, concentrate your +thoughts upon domesticity. In this presence remember your wife! + +ELOISE [_peremptorily_]. Dismiss that person. I have something to say +to you. + +VALSIN [_wiping his eyes_]. Dossonville, you are not required. We are +going to be sentimental, and heaven knows you are not the moon. In +fact, you are a fat old man. Exit, obesity! Go somewhere and think +about your children. Flit, whale! + +DOSSONVILLE [_rising_]. Perfectly, my chieftain. [_He goes to the +broken door._] + +ELOISE [_tapping the floor with her shoe_]. Out of hearing! + +VALSIN. The floor below. + +DOSSONVILLE. Well understood. Perfectly, perfectly! [_He goes out +through the hallway; disappears, chuckling grossly. There are some +moments of silence within the room, while he is heard clumping down a +flight of stairs; then VALSIN turns to ELOISE with burlesque ardor._] + +VALSIN. "Alone at last!" + +ELOISE [_maintaining her composure_]. Rabbit! + +VALSIN [_dropping into the chair at the desk, with mock dejection_]. +Repulsed at the outset! Ah, Citizeness, there were moments on the +journey from Paris when I thought I detected a certain kindness in +your glances at the lonely stranger. + +ELOISE [_folding her arms_]. You are to withdraw your soldiers, +countersign the "permit," and allow my friends to embark at once. + +VALSIN [_with solemnity_]. Do you give it as an order, Citizeness? + +ELOISE. I do. You will receive suitable political advancement. + +VALSIN [_in a choked voice_]. You mean as a--a reward? + +ELOISE [_haughtily_]. _I_ guarantee that you shall receive it! [_He +looks at her strangely; then, with a low moan, presses his hand to his +side, seeming upon the point of a dangerous seizure._] + +VALSIN [_managing to speak_]. I can only beg you to spare me. You have +me at your mercy. + +ELOISE [_swelling_]. It is well for you that you understand that! + +VALSIN [_shaking his hand ruefully_]. Yes; you see I have a bad liver: +it may become permanently enlarged. Laughter is my great danger. + +ELOISE [_crying out with rage_]. _Oh!_ + +VALSIN [_dolorously_]. I have continually to remind myself that I am +no longer in the first flush of youth. + +ELOISE. Idiot! Do you not know who I am! + +VALSIN. You? Oh yes--[_He checks himself abruptly; looks at her with +brief intensity; turns his eyes away, half closing them in quick +meditation; smiles, as upon some secret pleasantry, and proceeds +briskly._] Oh yes, yes, I know who you are. + +ELOISE [_beginning haughtily_]. Then you-- + +VALSIN [_at once cutting her off_]. As to your name, I do not say. +Names at best are details; and your own is a detail that could hardly +be thought to matter. _What_ you are is obvious: you joined Louis and +his sister in Paris at the barriers, and traveled with them as "Marie +Balsage," a sister. You might save us a little trouble by giving us +your real name; you will probably refuse, and the police will have to +look it up when I take you back to Paris. Frankly, you are of no +importance to us, though of course we'll send you to the Tribunal. No +doubt you are a poor relative of the Valny-Cheraults, or, perhaps, you +may have been a governess in the Laseyne family, or-- + +ELOISE [_under her breath_]. Idiot! Idiot! + +VALSIN [_with subterranean enjoyment, watching her sidelong_]. Or the +good-looking wife of some faithful retainer of the Emigrant's, +perhaps. + +ELOISE [_with a shrill laugh_]. Does the Committee of Public Safety +betray the same intelligence in the appointment of all its agents? +[_Violently._] Imbecile, I-- + +VALSIN [_quickly raising his voice to check her_]. You are of no +importance, I tell you! [_Changing his tone._] Of course I mean +politically. [_With broad gallantry._] Otherwise, I am the first to +admit extreme susceptibility. I saw that you observed it on the +way--at the taverns, in the diligence, at the posting-houses, at-- + +ELOISE [_with serenity_]. Yes. I am accustomed to oglers. + +VALSIN. Alas, I believe you! My unfortunate sex is but too responsive. + +ELOISE [_gasping_]. "Responsive"--Oh! + +VALSIN [_indulgently_]. Let us return to the safer subject. Presently +I shall arrest those people in the other room and, regretfully, you +too. But first I pamper myself; I chat; I have an attractive woman to +listen. In the matter of the arrest, I delay my fire; I do not flash +in the pan, but I lengthen my fuse. Why? For the same reason that when +I was a little boy and had something good to eat, I always first paid +it the compliments of an epicure. I looked at it a long while. I +played with it. Then--I devoured it! I am still like that. And Louis +yonder is good to eat, because I happen not to love him. However, I +should mention that I doubt if he could recall either myself or the +circumstance which annoyed me; some episodes are sometimes so little +to certain people and so significant to certain other people. [_He +smiles, stretching himself luxuriously in his chair._] Behold me, +Citizeness! I am explained. I am indulging my humor: I play with my +cake. Let us see into what curious little figures I can twist it. + +ELOISE. Idiot! + +VALSIN [_pleasantly_]. I have lost count, but I think that is the +sixth idiot you have called me. Aha, it is only history, which one +admires for repeating itself. Good! Let us march. I shall play--[_He +picks up the "permit" from the desk, studies it absently, and looks +whimsically at her over his shoulder, continuing:_] I shall play +with--with all four of you. + +ELOISE [_impulsively_]. Four? + +VALSIN. I am not easy to deceive; there are four of you here. + +ELOISE [_staring_]. So? + +VALSIN. Louis brought you and his sister from Paris: a party of three. +This "permit" which he forged is for four; the original three and the +woman you mentioned a while ago, Eloise d'Anville. Hence she must have +joined you here. The deduction is plain: there are three people in +that room: the Emigrant, his sister, and this Eloise d'Anville. To the +trained mind such reasoning is simple. + +ELOISE [_elated_]. Perfectly! + +VALSIN [_with an air of cunning_]. Nothing escapes me. You see that. + +ELOISE. At first glance! I make you my most profound compliments. Sir, +you are an eagle! + +VALSIN [_smugly_]. Thanks. Now, then, pretty governess, you thought +this d'Anville might be able to help you. What put that in your head? + +ELOISE [_with severity_]. Do you pretend not to know what she is? + +VALSIN. A heroine I have had the misfortune never to encounter. But I +am informed of her character and history. + +ELOISE [_sternly_]. Then you understand that even the Agent of the +National Committee risks his head if he dares touch people she chooses +to protect. + +VALSIN [_extending his hand in plaintive appeal_]. Be generous to my +opacity. How could _she_ protect anybody? + +ELOISE [_with condescension_]. She has earned the gratitude-- + +VALSIN. Of whom? + +ELOISE [_superbly_]. Of the Nation! + +VALSIN [_breaking out again_]. Ha, ha, ha! [_Clutching at his side._] +Pardon, oh, pardon, liver of mine. I must not die; my life is still +useful. + +ELOISE [_persisting stormily_]. Of the People, stupidity! Of the whole +People, dolt! Of France, blockhead! + +VALSIN [_with a violent effort, conquering his hilarity_]. There! I am +saved. Let us be solemn, my child; it is better for my malady. You are +still so young that one can instruct you that individuals are rarely +grateful; "the People," never. What you call "the People" means folk +who are not always sure of their next meal; therefore their great +political and patriotic question is the cost of food. Their heroes +are the champions who are going to make it cheaper; and when these +champions fail them or cease to be useful to them, then they either +forget these poor champions--or eat them. Let us hear what your Eloise +d'Anville has done to earn the reward of being forgotten instead of +eaten. + +ELOISE [_her lips quivering_]. She surrendered her property +voluntarily. She gave up all she owned to the Nation. + +VALSIN [_genially_]. And immediately went to live with her relatives +in great luxury. + +ELOISE [_choking_]. The Republic will protect her. She gave her whole +estate-- + +VALSIN. And the order for its confiscation was already written when +she did it. + +ELOISE [_passionately_]. Ah--_liar!_ + +VALSIN [_smiling_]. I have seen the order. [_She leans against the +wall, breathing heavily. He goes on, smoothly._] Yes, this martyr +"gave" us her property; but one hears that she went to the opera just +the same and wore more jewels than ever, and lived richly upon the +Laseynes and Valny-Cheraults, until _they_ were confiscated. Why, all +the world knows about this woman; and let me tell you, to your credit, +my governess, I think you have a charitable heart: you are the only +person I ever heard speak kindly of her. + +ELOISE [_setting her teeth_]. Venom! + +VALSIN [_observing her slyly_]. It is with difficulty I am restraining +my curiosity to see her--also to hear her!--when she learns of her +proscription by a grateful Republic. + +ELOISE [_with shrill mockery_]. Proscribed? Eloise d'Anville +proscribed? Your inventions should be more plausible, Goodman Spy! I +_knew_ you were lying-- + +VALSIN [_smiling_]. You do not believe-- + +ELOISE [_proudly_]. Eloise d'Anville is a known Girondist. The Gironde +is the real power in France. + +VALSIN [_mildly_]. That party has fallen. + +ELOISE [_with fire_]. Not far! It will revive. + +VALSIN. Pardon, Citizeness, but you are behind the times, and they are +very fast nowadays--the times. The Gironde is dead. + +ELOISE [_ominously_]. It may survive _you_, my friend. Take care! + +VALSIN [_unimpressed_]. The Gironde had a grand facade, and that was +all. It was a party composed of amateurs and orators; and of course +there were some noisy camp-followers and a few comic-opera +vivandieres, such as this d'Anville. In short, the Gironde looked +enormous because it was hollow. It was like a pie that is all crust. +We have tapped the crust--with a knife, Citizeness. There is nothing +left. + +ELOISE [_contemptuously_]. You say so. Nevertheless, the Rolands-- + +VALSIN [_gravely_]. Roland was found in a field yesterday; he had +killed himself. His wife was guillotined the day after you left Paris. +Every one of their political friends is proscribed. + +ELOISE [_shaking as with bitter cold_]. It is a lie! Not Eloise +d'Anville! + +VALSIN [_rising_]. Would you like to see the warrant for her arrest? +[_He takes a packet of documents from his breast pocket, selects one, +and spreads it open before her._] Let me read you her description: +"Eloise d'Anville, aristocrat. Figure, comely. Complexion, blond. +Eyes, dark blue. Nose, straight. Mouth, wide--" + +ELOISE [_in a burst of passion, striking the warrant a violent blow +with her clenched fist_]. Let them dare! [_Beside herself, she strikes +again, tearing the paper from his grasp. She stamps upon it._] Let +them dare, I say! + +VALSIN [_picking up the warrant_]. Dare to say her mouth is wide? + +ELOISE [_cyclonic_]. Dare to arrest her! + +VALSIN. It does seem a pity. [_He folds the warrant slowly and +replaces it in his pocket._] Yes, a great pity. She was the one +amusing thing in all this somberness. She will be missed. The +Revolution will lack its joke. + +ELOISE [_recoiling, her passion exhausted_]. Ah, infamy! [_She turns +from him, covering her face with her hands._] + +VALSIN [_with a soothing gesture_]. Being only her friend, you speak +mildly. The d'Anville herself would call it blasphemy. + +ELOISE [_with difficulty_]. She is--so vain--then? + +VALSIN [_lightly_]. Oh, a type--an actress. + +ELOISE [_her back to him_]. How do you know? You said-- + +VALSIN. That I had not encountered her. [_Glibly._] One knows best the +people one has never seen. Intimacy confuses judgment. I confess to +that amount of hatred for the former Marquis de Valny-Cherault that I +take as great an interest in all that concerns him as if I loved him. +And the little d'Anville concerns him--yes, almost one would say, +consumes him. The unfortunate man is said to be so blindly faithful +that he can speak her name without laughing. + +ELOISE [_stunned_]. Oh! + +VALSIN [_going on, cheerily_]. No one else can do that, Citizeness. +Jacobins, Cordeliers, Hebertists, even the shattered relics of the +Gironde itself, all alike join in the colossal laughter at this +Tricoteuse in Sevres--this Jeanne d'Arc in rice-powder! + +ELOISE [_tragically_]. They laugh--and proclaim her an outlaw! + +VALSIN [_waving his hand carelessly_]. Oh, it is only that we are +sweeping up the last remnants of aristocracy, and she goes with the +rest--into the dust-heap. She should have remained a royalist; the +final spectacle might have had dignity. As it is, she is not of her +own class, not of ours: neither fish nor flesh nor--but yes, perhaps, +after all, she is a fowl. + +ELOISE [_brokenly_]. Alas! Homing--with wounded wing! [_She sinks into +a chair with pathetic grace, her face in her hands._] + +VALSIN [_surreptitiously grinning_]. Not at all what I meant. +[_Brutally._] Peacocks don't fly. + +ELOISE [_regaining her feet at a bound_]. You imitation dandy! You-- + +VALSIN [_with benevolence_]. My dear, your indignation for your friend +is chivalrous. It is admirable; but she is not worth it. You do not +understand her: you have probably seen her so much that you have never +seen her as she is. + +ELOISE [_witheringly_]. But you, august Zeus, having _never_ seen her, +will reveal her to me! + +VALSIN [_smoothly urbane_]. If you have ears. You see, she is not +altogether unique, but of a variety known to men who are wise enough +to make a study of women. + +ELOISE [_snapping out a short, loud laugh in his face_]. Pouff! + +VALSIN [_unruffled_]. I profess myself an apprentice. The science +itself is but in its infancy. Women themselves understand very well +that they are to be classified, and they fear that we shall perceive +it: they do not really wish to be known. Yet it is coming; some day +our cyclopedists will have you sorted, classed, and defined with +precision; but the d'Alembert of the future will not be a woman, +because no woman so disloyal will ever be found. Men have to acquire +loyalty to their sex: yours is an instinct. Citizen governess, I will +give you a reading of the little d'Anville from this unwritten work. +To begin-- + +ELOISE [_feverishly interested, but affecting languor_]. _Must_ you? + +VALSIN. To Eloise d'Anville the most interesting thing about a +rose-bush has always been that Eloise d'Anville could smell it. +Moonlight becomes important when it falls upon her face; sunset is +worthy when she grows rosy in it. To her mind, the universe was set in +motion to be the background for a decoration, and she is the +decoration. She believes that the cathedral was built for the fresco. +And when a dog interests her, it is because he would look well beside +her in a painting. Such dogs have no minds. I refer you to all the +dogs in the portraits of Beauties. + +ELOISE [_not at all displeased; pretending carelessness_]. Ah, you +have heard that she is beautiful? + +VALSIN. Far worse: that she is a Beauty. Let nothing ever tempt _you_, +my dear, into setting up in that line. For you are very +well-appearing, I assure you; and if you had been surrounded with all +the disadvantages of the d'Anville, who knows but that you might have +become as famous a Beauty as she? What makes a Beauty is not the +sumptuous sculpture alone, but a very peculiar arrogance--not in the +least arrogance of mind, my little governess. In this, your d'Anville +emerged from childhood full-panoplied indeed; and the feather-head +court fell headlong at her feet. It was the fated creature's ruin. + +ELOISE [_placidly_]. And it is because of her beauty that you drag her +to the guillotine? + +VALSIN. Bless you, I merely convey her! + +ELOISE. Tell me, logician, was it not her beauty that inspired her to +give her property to the Nation? + +VALSIN. It was. + +ELOISE. What perception! I am faint with admiration. And no doubt it +was her beauty that made her a Republican? + +VALSIN. What else? + +ELOISE. Hail, oracle! [_She releases an arpeggio of satiric +laughter._] + +VALSIN. That laugh is diaphanous. I see you through it, already +convinced. [_She stops laughing immediately._] Ha! we may proceed. +Remark this, governess: a Beauty is the living evidence of man's +immortality; the one plain proof that he has a soul. + +ELOISE. It is not so bad then, after all? + +VALSIN. It is utterly bad. But of all people a Beauty is most +conscious of her duality. Her whole life is based upon her absolute +knowledge that her Self and her body are two. She sacrifices all +things to her beauty because her beauty feeds her Self with a dreadful +food which it has made her unable to live without. + +ELOISE. My little gentleman, you talk like a sentimental waiter. Your +metaphors are all hot from the kitchen. + +VALSIN [_nettled_]. It is natural; unlike your Eloise, I am _really_ +of "the People"--and starved much in my youth. + +ELOISE. But, like her, you are still hungry. + +VALSIN. A Beauty is a species of cannibal priestess, my dear. She will +make burnt-offerings of her father and her mother, her sisters--her +lovers--to her beauty, that it may in turn bring her the food she must +have or perish. + +ELOISE. _Boum!_ [_She snaps her fingers._] And of course she bathes in +the blood of little children? + +VALSIN [_grimly_]. Often. + +ELOISE [_averting her gaze from his_]. This mysterious food-- + +VALSIN. Not at all mysterious. Sensation. There you have it. And that +is why Eloise d'Anville is a renegade. You understand perfectly. + +ELOISE. You are too polite. No. + +VALSIN [_gaily_]. Behold, then! Many women who are not Beauties are +beautiful, but in such women you do not always discover beauty at your +first glance: it is disclosed with a subtle tardiness. It does not +dazzle; it is reluctant; but it grows as you look again and again. You +get a little here, a little there, like glimpses of children hiding in +a garden. It is shy, and sometimes closed in from you altogether, and +then, unexpectedly, this belated loveliness springs into bloom before +your very eyes. It retains the capacity of surprise, the vital element +of charm. But the Beauty lays all waste before her at a stroke: it is +soon over. Thus your Eloise, brought to court, startled Versailles; +the sensation was overwhelming. Then Versailles got used to her, just +as it had to its other prodigies: the fountains were there, the King +was there, the d'Anville was there; and naturally, one had seen them; +saw them every day--one talked of matters less accepted. That was +horrible to Eloise. She had tasted; the appetite, once stirred, was +insatiable. At any cost she must henceforth have always the sensation +of being a sensation. She must be the pivot of a reeling world. So she +went into politics. Ah, Citizeness, there was one man who understood +Beauties--not Homer, who wrote of Helen! Romance is gallant by +profession, and Homer lied like a poet. For the truth about the Trojan +War is that the wise Ulysses made it, not because Paris stole Helen, +but because the Trojans were threatening to bring her back. + +ELOISE [_unwarily_]. Who was the man that understood Beauties? + +VALSIN. Bluebeard. [_He crosses the room to the dressing-table, leans +his back against it in an easy attitude, his elbows resting upon the +top._] + +ELOISE [_slowly, a little tremulously_]. And so Eloise d'Anville +should have her head cut off? + +VALSIN. Well, she thought she was in politics, didn't she? +[_Suavely._] You may be sure she thoroughly enjoyed her hallucination +that she was a great figure in the Revolution--which was cutting off +the heads of so many of her relatives and old friends! Don't waste +your pity, my dear. + +ELOISE [_looking at him fixedly_]. Citizen, you must have thought a +great deal about my unhappy friend. She might be flattered by so +searching an interest. + +VALSIN [_negligently_]. Not interest in her, governess, but in the +Emigrant who cools his heels on the other side of that door, greatly +to my enjoyment, waiting my pleasure to arrest him. The poor wretch is +the one remaining lover of this girl; faithful because he let his +passion for her become a habit; and he will never get over it until he +has had possession. She has made him suffer frightfully, but I shall +never forgive her for not having dealt him the final stroke. It would +have saved me all the bother I have been put to in avenging the injury +he did me. + +ELOISE [_frowning_]. What "final stroke" could she have "dealt" him? + +VALSIN [_with sudden vehement intensity_]. She could have loved him! +[_He strikes the table with his fist._] I see it! I see it! Beauty's +husband! [_Pounding the table with each exclamation, his voice rising +in excitement._] What a vision! This damned, proud, loving Louis, a +pomade bearer! A buttoner! An errand-boy to the perfumer's, to the +chemist's, to the milliner's! A groom of the powder-closet-- + +ELOISE [_snatching at the opportunity_]. How noisy you are! + +VALSIN [_discomfited, apologetically_]. You see, it is only so lately +that we of "the People" have dared even to whisper. Of course, now +that we are free to shout, we overdo it. We let our voices out, we let +our joys out, we let our hates out. We let everything out--except our +prisoners! [_He smiles winningly._] + +ELOISE [_slowly_]. Do you guess what all this bluster--this tirade +upon the wickedness of beauty--makes me think? + +VALSIN. Certainly. Being a woman, you cannot imagine a bitterness +which is not "personal." + +ELOISE [_laughing_]. "Being a woman," I think that the person who has +caused you the greatest suffering in your life must be very +good-looking! + +VALSIN [_calmly_]. Quite right. It was precisely this d'Anville. I +will tell you. [_He sits on the arm of a chair near her, and continues +briskly._] I was not always a politician. Six years ago I was a +soldier in the Valny regiment of cavalry. That was the old army, that +droll army, that royal army; so ridiculous that it was truly majestic. +In the Valny regiment we had some rouge-pots for officers--and for a +colonel, who but our Emigrant yonder! Aha! we suffered in the ranks, +let me tell you, when Eloise had been coy; and one morning it was my +turn. You may have heard that she was betrothed first to Louis and +later to several others? My martyrdom occurred the day after she had +announced to the court her betrothal to the young Duc de Creil, whose +father afterward interfered. Louis put us on drill in a hard rain: he +had the habit of relieving his chagrin like that. My horse fell, and +happened to shower our commander with mud. Louis let out all his rage +upon me: it was an excuse, and, naturally, he disliked mud. But I was +rolling in it, with my horse: I also disliked it--and I was indiscreet +enough to attempt some small reply. That finished my soldiering, +Citizeness. He had me tied to a post before the barracks for the rest +of the day. I remember with remarkable distinctness that the valets +of heaven had neglected to warm the rain for that bath; that it was +February; and that Louis's orders had left me nothing to wear upon my +back except an unfulsome descriptive placard and my modesty. +Altogether it was a disadvantageous position, particularly for the +exchange of repartee with such of my comrades as my youthful +amiability had not endeared; I have seldom seen more cheerful +indifference to bad weather. Inclement skies failed to injure the +spectacle: it was truly the great performance of my career; some +people would not even go home to eat, and peddlers did a good trade in +cakes and wine. In the evening they whipped me conscientiously--my +tailor has never since made me an entirely comfortable coat. Then they +gave me the place of honor at the head of a procession by torchlight +and drummed me out of camp with my placard upon my back. So I adopted +another profession: I had a friend who was a doctor in the stables of +d'Artois; and I knew horses. He made me his assistant. + +ELOISE [_shuddering_]. You are a veterinarian! + +VALSIN [_smiling_]. No; a horse-doctor. It was thus I "retired" from +the army and became a politician. My friend was only a horse-doctor +himself, but his name happened to be Marat. + +ELOISE. Ah, frightful! [_For the first time she begins to feel genuine +alarm._] + +VALSIN. The sequence is simple. If Eloise d'Anville hadn't coquetted +with young Creil I shouldn't be Commissioner here to-day, settling my +account with Louis. I am in his debt for more than the beating: I +should tell you there was a woman in my case, a slender lace-maker +with dark eyes--very pretty eyes. She had furnished me with a rival, a +corporal; and he brought her for a stroll in the rain past our +barracks that day when I was attracting so much unsought attention. +They waited for the afterpiece, enjoyed a pasty and a bottle of +Beaune, and went away laughing cozily together. I did not see my +pretty lace-maker again, not for years--not until a month ago. Her +corporal was still with her, and it was their turn to be undesirably +conspicuous. They were part of a procession passing along the Rue St. +Honore on its way to the Place of the Revolution. They were standing +up in the cart; the lace-maker had grown fat, and she was scolding her +poor corporal bitterly. What a habit that must have been!--they were +not five minutes from the guillotine. I own that a thrill of +gratitude to Louis temporarily softened me toward him, though at the +very moment I was following him through the crowd. At least he saved +me from the lace-maker! + +ELOISE [_shrinking from him_]. You are horrible! + +VALSIN. To my regret you must find me more and more so. + +ELOISE [_panting_]. You _are_ going to take us back to Paris, then? To +the Tribunal--and to the--[_She covers her eyes with her hands._] + +VALSIN [_gravely_]. I can give you no comfort, governess. You are +involved with the Emigrant, and, to be frank, I am going to do as +horrible things to Louis as I can invent--and I am an ingenious man. +[_His manner becomes sinister._] I am near the top. The cinders of +Marat are in the Pantheon, but Robespierre still flames; and he claims +me as his friend. I can do what I will. And I have much in store for +Louis before he shall be so fortunate as to die! + +ELOISE [_faintly_]. And--and Eloise--d'Anville? [_Her hands fall from +her face: he sees large, beautiful tears upon her cheeks._] + +VALSIN [_coldly_]. Yes. [_She is crushed for the moment; then, +recovering herself with a violent effort, lifts her head defiantly and +stands erect, facing him._] + +ELOISE. You take her head because your officer punished you, six years +ago, for a breach of military discipline! + +VALSIN [_in a lighter tone_]. Oh no. I take it, just as she injured +me--incidentally. In truth, Citizeness, it isn't I who take it: I only +arrest her because the government has proscribed her. + +ELOISE. And you've just finished telling me you were preparing +tortures for her! I thought you an intelligent man. Pah! You're only a +gymnast. [_She turns away from him haughtily and moves toward the +door._] + +VALSIN [_touching his scarf of office_]. True. I climb. [_She halts +suddenly, as if startled by this; she stands as she is, her back to +him, for several moments, and does not change her attitude when she +speaks._] + +ELOISE [_slowly_]. You climb alone. + +VALSIN [_with a suspicious glance at her_]. Yes--alone. + +ELOISE [_in a low voice_]. Why didn't you take the lace-maker with +you? You might have been happier. [_Very slowly she turns and comes +toward him, her eyes full upon his: she moves deliberately and with +incomparable grace. He seems to be making an effort to look away, and +failing: he cannot release his eyes from the glorious and starry +glamour that holds them. She comes very close to him, so close that +she almost touches him._] + +ELOISE [_in a half-whisper_]. You might have been happier with--a +friend--to climb with you. + +VALSIN [_demoralized_]. Citizeness--I am--I-- + +ELOISE [_in a voice of velvet_]. Yes, Say it. You are-- + +VALSIN [_desperately_]. I have told you that I am the most susceptible +of men. + +ELOISE [_impulsively putting her hand on his shoulder_]. Is it a +crime? Come, my friend, you are a man who _does_ climb: you will go +over all. You believe in the Revolution because you have used it to +lift you. But other things can help you, too. Don't you need them? + +VALSIN [_understanding perfectly, gasping_]. Need what? [_She draws +her hand from his shoulder, moves back from him slightly, and crosses +her arms upon her bosom with a royal meekness._] + +ELOISE [_grandly_]. Do I seem so useless? + +VALSIN [_in a distracted voice_]. Heaven help me! What do you want? + +ELOISE. Let these people go. [_Hurriedly, leaning near him._] I have +promised to save them: give them their permit to embark, and I--[_She +pauses, flushing beautifully, but does not take her eyes from him._] +I--I do not wish to leave France. My place is in Paris. You will go +into the National Committee. You can be its ruler. You _will_ rule it! +I believe in you! [_Glowing like a rose of fire._] I will go with you. +I will help you! I will marry you! + +VALSIN [_in a fascinated whisper_]. Good Lord! [_He stumbles back from +her, a strange light in his eyes._] + +ELOISE. You are afraid-- + +VALSIN [_with sudden loudness_]. I am! Upon my soul, I am afraid! + +ELOISE [_smiling gloriously upon him_]. Of what, my friend? Tell me of +what? + +VALSIN [_explosively_]. Of myself! I am afraid of myself because I am +a prophet. This is precisely what I foretold to myself you would do! +I knew it, yet I am aghast when it happens--aghast at my own +cleverness! + +ELOISE [_bewildered to blankness_]. What? + +VALSIN [_half hysterical with outrageous vanity_]. I swear I knew it, +and it fits so exactly that I am afraid of myself! _Aha_, Valsin, you +rogue! I should hate to have you on _my_ track! Citizen governess, you +are a wonderful person, but not so wonderful as this devil of a +Valsin! + +ELOISE [_vaguely, in a dead voice_]. I cannot understand what you are +talking about. Do you mean-- + +VALSIN. And what a spell was upon me! I was near calling Dossonville +to preserve me. + +ELOISE [_speaking with a strange naturalness, like a child's_]. You +mean--you don't want me? + +VALSIN. Ah, Heaven help me, I am going to laugh again! Oh, ho, ho! I +am spent! [_He drops into a chair and gives way to another attack of +uproarious hilarity._] Ah, ha, ha, ha! Oh, my liver, ha, ha! No, +Citizeness, I do not want you! Oh, ha, ha, ha! + +ELOISE. _Oh!_ [_She utters a choked scream and rushes at him._] Swine! + +VALSIN [_warding her off with outstretched hands_]. Spare me! Ha, ha, +ha! I am helpless! Ho, ho, ho! Citizeness, it would not be worth your +while to strangle a man who is already dying! + +ELOISE [_beside herself_]. Do you dream that I _meant_ it? + +VALSIN [_feebly_]. Meant to strangle me? + +ELOISE [_frantic_]. To give myself to you! + +VALSIN. In short, to--to marry me! [_He splutters._] + +ELOISE [_furiously_]. It was a ruse-- + +VALSIN [_soothingly_]. Yes, yes, a trick. I saw that all along. + +ELOISE [_even more infuriated_]. For their sake, beast! [_She points +to the other room._] To save _them_! + +VALSIN [_wiping his eyes_]. Of course, of course. [_He rises, stepping +quickly to the side of the chair away from her and watching her +warily._] _I_ knew it was to save them. We'll put it like that. + +ELOISE [_in an anger of exasperation_]. It _was_ that! + +VALSIN. Yes, yes. [_Keeping his distance._] I saw it from the first. +[_Suppressing symptoms of returning mirth._] It was perfectly plain. +You mustn't excite yourself--nothing could have been clearer! [_A +giggle escapes him, and he steps hastily backward as she advances upon +him._] + +ELOISE. Poodle! Valet! Scum of the alleys! Sheep of the prisons! +Jailer! Hangman! Assassin! Brigand! _Horse-doctor!_ [_She hurls the +final epithet at him in a climax of ferocity which wholly exhausts +her; and she sinks into the chair by the desk, with her arms upon the +desk and her burning face hidden in her arms. VALSIN, morbidly +chuckling, in spite of himself, at each of her insults, has retreated +farther and farther, until he stands with his back against the door of +the inner room, his right hand behind him, resting on the latch. As +her furious eyes leave him he silently opens the door, letting it +remain a few inches ajar and keeping his back to it. Then, satisfied +that what he intends to say will be overheard by those within, he +erases all expression from his face, and strides to the dismantled +doorway in the passage._] + +VALSIN [_calling loudly_]. Dossonville! [_He returns, coming down +briskly to ELOISE. His tone is crisp and soldier-like._] Citizeness, I +have had my great hour. I proceed with the arrests. I have given you +four plenty of time to prepare yourselves. Time? Why, the Emigrant +could have changed clothes with one of the women in there a dozen +times if he had hoped to escape in that fashion--as historical +prisoners _have_ won clear, it is related. Fortunately, that is +impossible just now; and he will not dare to attempt it. + +DOSSONVILLE [_appearing in the hallway_]. Present, my chieftain! + +VALSIN [_sharply_]. Attend, Dossonville. The returned Emigrant, +Valny-Cherault, is forfeited; but because I cherish a special +grievance against him, I have decided upon a special punishment for +him. It does not please me that he should have the comfort and +ministrations of loving women on his journey to the Tribunal. No, no; +the presence of his old sweetheart would make even the scaffold sweet +to him. Therefore I shall take him alone. I shall let these women go. + +DOSSONVILLE. What refinement! Admirable! [_ELOISE slowly rises, +staring incredulously at VALSIN._] + +VALSIN [_picking up the "permit" from the desk_]. "Permit the Citizen +Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, and his +second sister, Marie Balsage, and Eloise d'Anville--" Ha! You see, +Dossonville, since one of these three women is here, there are two in +the other room with the Emigrant. They are to come out, leaving him +there. First, however, we shall disarm him. You and I have had +sufficient experience in arresting aristocrats to know that they are +not always so sensible as to give themselves up peaceably, and I +happened to see the outline of a pistol under the Emigrant's frock the +other day in the diligence. We may as well save one of us from a +detestable hole through the body. [_He steps toward the door, speaking +sharply._] Emigrant, you have heard. For your greater chagrin, these +three devoted women are to desert you. Being an aristocrat, you will +pretend to prefer this arrangement. They are to leave at once. Throw +your pistol into this room, and I will agree not to make the arrest +until they are in safety. They can reach your vessel in five minutes. +When they have gone, I give you my word not to open this door for ten. +[_A pistol is immediately thrown out of the door, and falls at +VALSIN's feet. He picks it up, his eyes alight with increasing +excitement._] + +VALSIN [_tossing the pistol to DOSSONVILLE_]. Call the lieutenant. +[_DOSSONVILLE goes to the window, leans out, and beckons. VALSIN +writes hastily at the desk, not sitting down._] "Permit the three +women Balsage to embark without delay upon the _Jeune Pierrette_. +Signed: Valsin." There, Citizeness, is a "permit" which permits. [_He +thrusts the paper into the hand of ELOISE, swings toward the door of +the inner room, and raps loudly upon it._] Come, my feminines! Your +sailors await you--brave, but no judges of millinery. There's a fair +wind for you; and a grand toilet is wasted at sea. Come, charmers; +come! [_The door is half opened, and MADAME DE LASEYNE, white and +trembling violently, enters quickly, shielding as much as she can the +inexpressibly awkward figure of her brother, behind whom she extends +her hand, closing the door sharply. He wears the brocaded skirt which +MADAME DE LASEYNE has taken from the portmanteau, and ELOISE's long +mantle, the lifted hood and MADAME DE LASEYNE's veil shrouding his +head and face._] + +VALSIN [_in a stifled voice_]. At last! At last one beholds the regal +d'Anville! No Amazon-- + +DOSSONVILLE [_aghast_]. It looks like-- + +VALSIN [_shouting_]. It doesn't! [_He bows gallantly to LOUIS._] A +cruel veil, but, oh, what queenly grace! [_LOUIS stumbles in the +skirt. VALSIN falls back, clutching at his side. But ELOISE rushes to +LOUIS and throws herself upon her knees at his feet. She pulls his +head down to hers and kisses him through the veil._] + +VALSIN [_madly_]. Oh, touching devotion! Oh, sisters! Oh, love! Oh, +honey! Oh, petticoats-- + +DOSSONVILLE [_interrupting humbly_]. The lieutenant, Citizen +Commissioner. [_He points to the hallway, where the officer appears, +standing at attention._] + +VALSIN [_wheeling_]. Officer, conduct these three persons to the quay. +Place them on board the _Jeune Pierrette_. The captain will weigh +anchor instantly. [_The officer salutes._] + +ANNE [_hoarsely to LOUIS, who is lifting the weeping ELOISE to her +feet_]. Quick! In the name of-- + +VALSIN. Off with you! [_MADAME DE LASEYNE seizes the portmanteau and +rushes to the broken doorway, half dragging the others with her. They +go out in a tumultuous hurry, followed by the officer. ELOISE sends +one last glance over her shoulder at VALSIN as she disappears, and one +word of concentrated venom:_ "Buffoon!" _In wild spirits he blows a +kiss to her. The fugitives are heard clattering madly down the +stairs._] + +DOSSONVILLE [_excitedly_]. We can take the Emigrant now. [_Going to +the inner door._] Why wait-- + +VALSIN. That room is empty. + +DOSSONVILLE. What! + +VALSIN [_shouting with laughter_]. He's gone! Not bare-backed, but in +petticoats: that's worse! He's gone, I tell you! The other was the +d'Anville. + +DOSSONVILLE. Then you recog-- + +VALSIN. Imbecile, she's as well known as the Louvre! They're off on +their honeymoon! She'll take him now! She will! She will, on the soul +of a prophet! [_He rushes to the window and leans far out, shouting at +the top of his voice:_] _Quits with you, Louis! Quits! Quits!_ [_He +falls back from the window and relapses into a chair, cackling +ecstatically._] + +DOSSONVILLE [_hoarse with astonishment_]. You've let him go! You've +let 'em _all_ go! + +VALSIN [_weak with laughter_]. Well, _you're_ not going to inform. +[_With a sudden reversion to extreme seriousness, he levels a sinister +forefinger at his companion._] And, also, take care of your health, +friend; remember constantly that you have a weak throat, _and don't +you ever mention this to my wife_! These are bad times, my +Dossonville, and neither you nor I will see the end of them. Good +Lord! Can't we have a little fun as we go along? [_A fresh convulsion +seizes him, and he rocks himself pitiably in his chair._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE + +_A DRAMATIC FANTASY IN ONE ACT_ + +By ERNEST DOWSON + +_Performance Free_ + + +Ernest Christopher Dowson, now generally known simply as Ernest +Dowson, was born at the Grove, Belmont Hill, Lee, Kent, August 2, +1867, and died in London thirty-three years later. His schooling, +because of his delicate health, was irregular, and he spent too short +a time at Queen's College, Oxford, to take a degree. He lived abroad +much, but during his sojourns in London in the 'nineties belonged to +the Rhymer's Club[26] that met in an upper room of Johnson's own +"Cheshire Cheese." His death from consumption brought to a close a +life marred by waste and sordid associations. + + [Footnote 26: Yeats has commemorated this club in the + following lines in his poem, _The Grey Rock_: + + "Poets with whom I learned my trade, + Companions of the Cheshire Cheese."] + +_The Pierrot of the Minute_, Ernest Dowson's only dramatic attempt, is +touched like the preceding play with the glamour of the old regime. +Its charming artificiality suggests the pastoral games to which the +ladies and gentlemen of Louis XV's circle may have turned for relief +after the formalities and extravagances of their life at court. + +Dowson's play, written in 1892, is mentioned in one of his letters, +dated October twenty-fourth of that year: "I have been frightfully +busy," he wrote, "having rashly undertaken to make a little Pierrot +play in verse ... which is to be played at Aldershot and afterwards at +the Chelsea Town Hall: the article to be delivered in a fortnight. So +until this period of mental agony is past, I can go nowhere." Anyone +who has ever had to write something that had to be ready on a certain +date will understand the quality of Dowson's emotion in this letter. + +A recent critic who has studied the literary fashions of the group to +which Dowson belonged and found that the members were addicted to the +frequent use of the adjective, white, says: "Ernest Dowson was +dominated by a sense of whiteness.... _The Pierrot of the Minute_ is a +veritable symphony in white. He calls for 'white music' and the Moon +Maiden rides through the skies 'drawn by a team of milk-white +butterflies,' and farther on in the same poem we have a palace of many +rooms: + + "'Within the fairest, clad in purity, + Our mother dwelt immemorially: + Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon-stones on her gown, + The floor she treads with little pearls is sown....'" + +When the play was given in this country at the McCallum Theatre at +Northampton, Massachusetts, it was "staged in black and white, the +garden set having black walls on which fantastic white forms were +stenciled. The bench, the statue, and Pierrot and his lady love were +in white. To have tried to depict a real garden would have crowded the +small stage, so a garden was suggested, and by suggestion caught the +spirit of the piece."[27] + + [Footnote 27: Constance D'Arcy Mackay, _The Little Theatre in + the United States_, New York, 1917, p. 97.] + +Granville Bantock, the English musician, composed _The Pierrot of the +Minute_. _A Comedy Overture to a Dramatic Phantasy by Ernest Dowson_, +which he conducted at the Worcester Festival in 1908. This music in +whole or part may be used in connection with a production of Dowson's +play. + + + + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE + + +CHARACTERS + + A MOON MAIDEN. + PIERROT. + + +_SCENE._--_A glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon. In the center a Doric +temple with steps coming down the stage. On the left a little Cupid on +a pedestal. Twilight._ + +_Enter PIERROT with his hands full of lilies. He is burdened with a +little basket. He stands gazing at the Temple and the Statue._ + + +PIERROT. + + My journey's end! This surely is the glade + Which I was promised: I have well obeyed! + A clue of lilies was I bid to find, + Where the green alleys most obscurely wind; + Where tall oaks darkliest canopy o'erhead, + And moss and violet make the softest bed; + Where the path ends, and leagues behind me lie + The gleaming courts and gardens of Versailles; + The lilies streamed before me, green and white; + I gathered, following: they led me right, + To the bright temple and the sacred grove: + This is, in truth, the very shrine of Love! + +[_He gathers together his flowers and lays them at the foot of Cupid's +statue; then he goes timidly up the first steps of the temple and +stops._] + + It is so solitary, I grow afraid. + Is there no priest here, no devoted maid? + Is there no oracle, no voice to speak, + Interpreting to me the word I seek? + +[_A very gentle music of lutes floats out from the temple. PIERROT +starts back; he shows extreme surprise; then he returns to the +foreground, and crouches down in rapt attention until the music +ceases. His face grows puzzled and petulant._] + + Too soon! too soon! in that enchanting strain, + Days yet unlived, I almost lived again: + It almost taught me that I most would know-- + Why am I here, and why am I Pierrot? + +[_Absently he picks up a lily which has fallen to the ground, and +repeats._] + + Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot? + That music and this silence both affright; + Pierrot can never be a friend of night. + I never felt my solitude before-- + Once safe at home, I will return no more. + Yet the commandment of the scroll was plain; + While the light lingers let me read again. + +[_He takes a scroll from his bosom and reads._] + + "_He loves to-night who never loved before; + Who ever loved, to-night shall love once more._" + _I_ never loved! I know not what love is. + I am so ignorant--but what is this? + +[_Reads._] + + "_Who would adventure to encounter Love + Must rest one night within this hallowed grove. + Cast down thy lilies, which have led thee on, + Before the tender feet of Cupidon._" + Thus much is done, the night remains to me. + Well, Cupidon, be my security! + Here is more writing, but too faint to read. + +[_He puzzles for a moment, then casts the scroll down._] + + Hence, vain old parchment. I have learnt thy rede! + +[_He looks round uneasily, starts at his shadow; then discovers his +basket with glee. He takes out a flask of wine, pours it into a glass, +and drinks._] + + _Courage, mon Ami!_ I shall never miss + Society with such a friend as this. + How merrily the rosy bubbles pass, + Across the amber crystal of the glass. + I had forgotten you. Methinks this quest + Can wake no sweeter echo in my breast. + +[_Looks round at the statue, and starts._] + + Nay, little god! forgive. I did but jest. + +[_He fills another glass, and pours it upon the statue._] + + This libation, Cupid, take, + With the lilies at thy feet; + Cherish Pierrot for their sake, + Send him visions strange and sweet, + While he slumbers at thy feet. + Only love kiss him awake! + _Only love kiss him awake!_ + +[_Slowly falls the darkness, soft music plays, while PIERROT gathers +together fern and foliage into a rough couch at the foot of the steps +which lead to the Temple d'Amour. Then he lies down upon it, having +made his prayer. It is night. He speaks softly._] + + Music, more music, far away and faint: + It is an echo of mine heart's complaint. + Why should I be so musical and sad? + I wonder why I used to be so glad? + In single glee I chased blue butterflies, + Half butterfly myself, but not so wise, + For they were twain, and I was only one. + Ah me! how pitiful to be alone. + My brown birds told me much, but in mine ear + They never whispered this--I learned it here: + The soft wood sounds, the rustlings in the breeze, + Are but the stealthy kisses of the trees. + Each flower and fern in this enchanted wood + Leans to her fellow, and is understood; + The eglantine, in loftier station set, + Stoops down to woo the maidly violet. + In gracile pairs the very lilies grow: + None is companionless except Pierrot. + Music, more music! how its echoes steal + Upon my senses with unlooked for weal. + Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade + Seems mine old joy in rout and masquerade. + Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove, + By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love. + +[_Sleeps._] + +[_There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which a bright +radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple upon the face of +PIERROT. Presently a MOON MAIDEN steps out of the temple; she descends +and stands over the sleeper._] + +THE LADY. + + Who is this mortal + Who ventures to-night + To woo an immortal? + Cold, cold the moon's light, + For sleep at this portal, + Bold lover of night. + Fair is the mortal + In soft, silken white, + Who seeks an immortal. + Ah, lover of night, + Be warned at the portal, + And save thee in flight! + +[_She stoops over him: PIERROT stirs in his sleep._] + +PIERROT [_murmuring_]. + + Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore: + "_He loves to-night who never loved before._" + +THE LADY. + + Unwitting boy! when, be it soon or late, + What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? + What if I warned him! He might yet evade, + Through the long windings of this verdant glade; + Seek his companions in the blither way, + Which, else, must be as lost as yesterday. + So might he still pass some unheeding hours + In the sweet company of birds and flowers. + How fair he is, with red lips formed for joy, + As softly curved as those of Venus' boy. + Methinks his eyes, beneath their silver sheaves, + Rest tranquilly like lilies under leaves. + Arrayed in innocence, what touch of grace + Reveals the scion of a courtly race? + Well, I will warn him, though, I fear, too late-- + What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? + But, see, he stirs, new knowledge fires his brain, + And Cupid's vision bids him wake again. + Dione's Daughter! but how fair he is, + Would it be wrong to rouse him with a kiss? + +[_She stoops down and kisses him, then withdraws into the shadow._] + +PIERROT [_rubbing his eyes_]. + + Celestial messenger! remain, remain; + Or, if a vision, visit me again! + What is this light, and whither am I come + To sleep beneath the stars so far from home? + +[_Rises slowly to his feet._] + + Stay, I remember this is Venus' Grove, + And I am hither come to encounter ---- + +THE LADY [_coming forward, but veiled_]. + Love! + +PIERROT [_in ecstasy, throwing himself at her feet_]. + + Then have I ventured and encountered Love? + +THE LADY. + + Not yet, rash boy! and, if thou wouldst be wise, + Return unknowing; he is safe who flies. + +PIERROT. + + Never, sweet lady, will I leave this place + Until I see the wonder of thy face. + Goddess or Naiad! lady of this Grove, + Made mortal for a night to teach me love, + Unveil thyself, although thy beauty be + Too luminous for my mortality. + +THE LADY [_unveiling_]. + + Then, foolish boy, receive at length thy will: + Now knowest thou the greatness of thine ill. + +PIERROT. + + Now have I lost my heart, and gained my goal. + +THE LADY. + + Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll? + +[_Picks up the parchment._] + +PIERROT. + + I read it all, as on this quest I fared, + Save where it was illegible and hard. + +THE LADY. + + Alack! poor scholar, wast thou never taught + A little knowledge serveth less than naught? + Hadst thou perused ---- but, stay, I will explain + What was the writing which thou didst disdain. + +[_Reads._] + + "_Au Petit Trianon_, at night's full noon, + Mortal, beware the kisses of the moon! + Whoso seeks her she gathers like a flower-- + He gives a life, and only gains an hour." + +PIERROT [_laughing recklessly_]. + + Bear me away to thine enchanted bower, + All of my life I venture for an hour. + +THE LADY. + + Take up thy destiny of short delight; + I am thy lady for a summer's night. + Lift up your viols, maidens of my train, + And work such havoc on this mortal's brain + That for a moment he may touch and know + Immortal things, and be full Pierrot. + White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eglantine! + To stir his tired veins like magic wine. + What visitants across his spirit glance, + Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance? + Watch, and forget all weary things of earth, + All memories and cares, all joy and mirth, + While my dance woos him, light and rhythmical, + And weaves his heart into my coronal. + Music, more music for his soul's delight: + Love is his lady for a summer's night. + +[_PIERROT reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance +finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her +side._] + +PIERROT. + + Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody? + +THE LADY. + + Pan made it long ago in Arcady. + +PIERROT. + + I heard it long ago, I know not where, + As I knew thee, or ever I came here. + But I forget all things--my name and race + All that I ever knew except thy face. + Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me, + That I may tell it like a rosary. + Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees, + How art thou designate--art thou Heart's-Ease? + +THE LADY. + + Waste not the night in idle questioning, + Since Love departs at dawn's awakening. + +PIERROT. + + Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state, + Since thou art lovely and compassionate. + Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre. + +THE LADY. + + I am to each the face of his desire. + +PIERROT. + + I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove, + Who craves a refuge on the breast of love. + +THE LADY. + + What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon? + Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon. + +PIERROT. + + Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car, + Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star-- + Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,-- + Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies, + Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, + Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades; + Mount me beside thee, bear me far away + From the low regions of the solar day; + Over the rainbow, up into the moon, + Where is thy palace and thine opal throne; + There on thy bosom ---- + +THE LADY. + + Too ambitious boy! + I did but promise thee one hour of joy. + This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, + Could hardly be completed in a night. + Hast thou no craving less remote than this? + +PIERROT. + + Would it be impudent to beg a kiss? + +THE LADY. + + I say not that: yet prithee have a care! + Often audacity has proved a snare. + How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow-- + Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot? + +PIERROT. + + As one who faints upon the Libyan plain + Fears the oasis which brings life again! + +THE LADY. + + Where far away green palm trees seem to stand + May be a mirage of the wreathing sand. + +PIERROT. + + Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught, + Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught. + +THE LADY. + + Dost thou persist? + + PIERROT. + I do entreat this boon! + +[_She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant +shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter._] + +THE LADY. + + Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon? + +PIERROT. + + Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell; + Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle! + Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream + Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream: + But with its frost such sweetness did conspire + That all my veins are filled with running fire; + Never I knew that life contained such bliss + As the divine completeness of a kiss. + +THE LADY. + + Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught, + Warning, as usual, has gone for naught. + +PIERROT. + + Had all my schooling been of this soft kind, + To play the truant I were less inclined. + Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce-- + I never knew a task by conning once. + +THE LADY. + + Then come with me! below this pleasant shrine + Of Venus we will presently recline, + Until birds' twitter beckon me away + To my own home, beyond the milky-way. + I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet + Of Love thou knowest but the alphabet. + +PIERROT. + + In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise, + If all its rules be written in thine eyes. + +[_THE LADY sits upon a step of the temple, and PIERROT leans upon his +elbow at her feet, regarding her._] + + Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn + To be thy scholar always, always learn. + Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth, + Fragrant with all the spices of the South; + Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away, + For with it goes the light of all my day. + Let me peruse it, till I know by rote + Each line of it, like music, note by note; + Raise thy long lashes, Lady! smile again: + These studies profit me. + +[_Takes her hand._] + +THE LADY. + Refrain, refrain! + +PIERROT [_with passion_]. + + I am but studious, so do not stir; + Thou art my star, I thine astronomer! + Geometry was founded on thy lip. + +[_Kisses her hand._] + +THE LADY. + + This attitude becomes not scholarship! + Thy zeal I praise; but, prithee, not so fast, + Nor leave the rudiments until the last, + Science applied is good, but 'twere a schism + To study such before the catechism. + Bear thee more modestly, while I submit + Some easy problems to confirm thy wit. + +PIERROT. + + In all humility my mind I pit + Against her problems which would test my wit. + +THE LADY [_questioning him from a little book bound deliciously in +vellum_]. + + What is Love? + Is it a folly, + Is it mirth, or melancholy? + Joys above, + Are there many, or not any? + What is love? + +PIERROT [_answering in a very humble attitude of scholarship_]. + + If you please, + A most sweet folly! + Full of mirth and melancholy: + Both of these! + In its sadness worth all gladness, + If you please! + +THE LADY. + + Prithee where, + Goes Love a-hiding? + Is he long in his abiding + Anywhere? + Can you bind him when you find him; + Prithee, where? + +PIERROT. + + With spring days + Love comes and dallies: + Upon the mountains, through the valleys + Lie Love's ways. + Then he leaves you and deceives you + In spring days. + +THE LADY. + + Thine answers please me: 'tis thy turn to ask. + To meet thy questioning be now my task. + +PIERROT. + + Since I know thee, dear Immortal, + Is my heart become a blossom, + To be worn upon thy bosom. + When thou turn me from this portal, + Whither shall I, hapless mortal, + Seek love out and win again + Heart of me that thou retain? + +THE LADY. + + In and out the woods and valleys, + Circling, soaring like a swallow, + Love shall flee and thou shalt follow: + Though he stops awhile and dallies, + Never shalt thou stay his malice! + Moon-kissed mortals seek in vain + To possess their hearts again! + +PIERROT. + + Tell me, Lady, shall I never + Rid me of this grievous burden? + Follow Love and find his guerdon + In no maiden whatsoever? + Wilt thou hold my heart for ever? + Rather would I thine forget, + In some earthly Pierrette! + +THE LADY. + + Thus thy fate, what'er thy will is! + Moon-struck child, go seek my traces + Vainly in all mortal faces! + In and out among the lilies, + Court each rural Amaryllis: + Seek the signet of Love's hand + In each courtly Corisande! + +PIERROT. + + Now, verily, sweet maid, of school I tire: + These answers are not such as I desire. + +THE LADY. + + Why art thou sad? + +PIERROT. + I dare not tell. + +THE LADY [_caressingly_]. + Come, say! + +PIERROT. + + Is love all schooling, with no time to play? + +THE LADY. + + Though all love's lessons be a holiday, + Yet I will humor thee: what wouldst thou play? + +PIERROT. + + What are the games that small moon-maids enjoy, + Or is their time all spent in staid employ? + +THE LADY. + + Sedate they are, yet games they much enjoy: + They skip with stars, the rainbow is their toy. + +PIERROT. + + That is too hard! + +THE LADY. + For mortal's play. + +PIERROT. + What then? + +THE LADY. + + Teach me some pastime from the world of men. + +PIERROT. + + I have it, maiden. + +THE LADY. + Can it soon be taught? + +PIERROT. + + A single game, I learnt it at the Court. + I sit by thee. + + THE LADY. + But, prithee, not so near. + +PIERROT. + + That is essential, as will soon appear. + Lay here thine hand, which cold night dews anoint, + Washing its white ---- + +THE LADY. + Now is this to the point? + +PIERROT. + + Prithee, forebear! Such is the game's design. + +THE LADY. + + Here is my hand. + +PIERROT. + I cover it with mine. + +THE LADY. + + What must I next? + +[_They play._] + +PIERROT. + Withdraw. + +THE LADY. + It goes too fast. + +[_They continue playing, until PIERROT catches her hand._] + +PIERROT [_laughing_]. + + 'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last. + +[_He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round the stage; +she eludes him._] + +THE LADY. + + Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch + A moon-beam, must use twice as much despatch. + +PIERROT [_sitting down sulkily_]. + + I grow aweary, and my heart is sore. + Thou dost not love me; I will play no more. + +[_He buries his face in his hands. THE LADY stands over him._] + +THE LADY. + + What is this petulance? + +PIERROT. + 'Tis quick to tell-- + Thou hast but mocked me. + +THE LADY. + Nay! I love thee well! + +PIERROT. + + Repeat those words, for still within my breast + A whisper warns me they are said in jest. + +THE LADY. + + I jested not: at daybreak I must go, + Yet loving thee far better than thou know. + +PIERROT. + + Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine, + Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine! + The gods have wedded mortals long ere this. + +THE LADY. + + There was enough betrothal in my kiss. + What need of further oaths? + +PIERROT. + That bound not thee! + +THE LADY. + + Peace! since I tell thee that it may not be. + But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale + With some moon fancy or celestial tale. + +PIERROT. + + Tell me of thee, and that dim, happy place + Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race! + +THE LADY [_seating herself_]. + + Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air + For mortals' breath is too refined and rare; + Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears + Its dome of agate through a myriad years. + A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone, + Each one carved strangely from a precious stone. + Within the fairest, clad in purity, + Our mother dwelleth immemorially: + Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown, + The floor she treads with little pearls is sown; + She sits upon a throne of amethysts, + And orders mortal fortunes as she lists; + I, and my sisters, all around her stand, + And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand. + +PIERROT. + + Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain + With shriveled fingers spun this web of bane! + +THE LADY. + + Theirs and my mother's realm is far apart; + Hers is the lustrous kingdom of the heart, + And dreamers all, and all who sing and love, + Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve. + +PIERROT. + + Me, even me, she hath led into this grove. + +THE LADY. + + Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night, + Often I watched my sisters take their flight + Down heaven's stairway of the clustered stars + To gaze on mortals through their lattice bars; + And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss + Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss. + But all to whom they come, my sisters say, + Forthwith forget all joyance of the day, + Forget their laughter and forget their tears, + And dream away with singing all their years-- + Moon-lovers always! + +[_She sighs._] + +PIERROT. + Why art sad, sweet Moon? + +[_Laughs._] + +THE LADY. + + For this, my story, grant me now a boon. + +PIERROT. + + I am thy servitor. + +THE LADY. + Would, then, I knew + More of the earth, what men and women do. + +PIERROT. + + I will explain. + +THE LADY. + Let brevity attend + Thy wit, for night approaches to its end. + +PIERROT. + + Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me: + That's the first lesson of society. + +THE LADY. + + Society? + +PIERROT. + I mean the very best. + Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest. + I know it not, but am a _petit maitre_ + At rout and festival and _bal champetre_. + But since example be instruction's ease, + Let's play the thing.--Now, Madame, if you please! + +[_He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her +hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air._] + +THE LADY. + + What am I, then? + +PIERROT. + A most divine Marquise! + Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease. + +[_Passes her._] + + Ah, that is better! To complete the plan, + Nothing is necessary save a fan. + +THE LADY. + + Cool is the night, what needs it? + +PIERROT. + Madame, pray + Reflect, it is essential to our play. + +THE LADY [_taking a lily_]. + + Here is my fan! + +PIERROT. + So, use it with intent: + The deadliest arm in beauty's armament! + +THE LADY. + + What do we next? + +PIERROT. + We talk! + +THE LADY. + But what about? + +PIERROT. + + We quiz the company and praise the rout; + Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, + Or what you will, so reputations die. + Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace, + With the red eminence. + +THE LADY. + A pretty face! + +PIERROT. + + For something tarter set thy wits to search-- + "She loves the churchman better than the church." + +THE LADY. + + Her blush is charming; would it were her own! + +PIERROT. + + Madame is merciless! + +THE LADY. + Is that the tone? + +PIERROT. + + The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught. + Madame was evidently bred at Court. + +THE LADY. + + Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age. + +PIERROT. + + I listened much, as best becomes a page. + +THE LADY. + + I like thy Court but little ---- + +PIERROT. + Hush! the Queen! + Bow, but not low--thou knowest what I mean. + +THE LADY. + + Nay, that I know not! + +PIERROT. + Though she wear a crown, + 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown. + +THE LADY. + + Thou art a child: thy malice is a game. + +PIERROT. + + A most sweet pastime--scandal is its name. + +THE LADY. + + Enough, it wearies me. + +PIERROT. + Then, rare Marquise, + Desert the crowd to wander through the trees. + +[_He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When they +pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his knee._] + +THE LADY. + + What wouldst thou now? + +PIERROT. + Ah, prithee, what, save thee! + +THE LADY. + + Was this included in thy comedy? + +PIERROT. + + Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest + I strive to quench the passion in my breast; + In vain thy blandishments would make me play: + Still I desire far more than I can say. + My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous, + Instruct me still, while time remains to us, + Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon-maid, _Marquise_, + So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease, + Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies! + +THE LADY. + + Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies. + +PIERROT. + + Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake. + +[_He entreats her with imploring gestures, she hesitates: then puts +her finger on her lip, hushing him._] + +THE LADY. + + It is too late, for hark! the birds awake. + +PIERROT. + + The birds awake! It is the voice of day! + +THE LADY. + + Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away. + +[_The light changes, it grows daylight: and music imitates the +twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then PIERROT +sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face in his hands._] + +THE LADY [_bending over him_]. + + Music, my maids! His weary senses steep + In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep, + With Mandragore anoint his tired eyes, + That they may open on mere memories, + Then shall a vision seem his lost delight, + With love, his lady for a summer's night. + Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake, + Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake. + I leave thee, sleeper! Yea, I leave thee now, + Yet take my legacy upon thy brow: + Remember me, who was compassionate, + And opened for thee once, the ivory gate. + I come no more, thou shalt not see my face + When I am gone to mine exalted place: + Yet all thy days are mine, dreamer of dreams, + All silvered over with the moon's pale beams: + Go forth and seek in each fair face in vain, + To find the image of thy love again. + All maids are kind to thee, yet never one + Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done. + Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late, + Yet never finds the maid to be his mate. + Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate. + +[_The MOON MAIDEN withdraws: a song is sung from behind: it is full +day._] + + THE MOON MAIDEN'S SONG + + Sleep! Cast thy canopy + Over this sleeper's brain, + Dim grow his memory, + When he awake again. + + Love stays a summer night, + Till lights of morning come; + Then takes her winged flight + Back to her starry home. + + Sleep! Yet thy days are mine; + Love's seal is over thee: + Far though my ways from thine, + Dim though thy memory. + + Love stays a summer night, + Till lights of morning come; + Then takes her winged flight + Back to her starry home. + +[_When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon PIERROT +sleeping._] + + +_EPILOGUE_ + +[_Spoken in the character of PIERROT_] + + _The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs, + A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs, + (Although on no account let any say + That PIERROT finished Mr. Dowson's play_). + + _One night not long ago, at Baden Baden,-- + The birthday of the Duke,--his pleasure garden + Was lighted gaily with_ feu d'artifice, + _With candles, rockets, and a center-piece + Above the conversation house, on high, + Outlined in living fire against the sky, + A glittering_ Pierrot, _radiant, white, + Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight, + Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red, + Whose_ pompons _too were fire, while on his head + He wore a little cap, and I am told + That rockets covered him with showers of gold. + "Take our applause, you well deserve to win it," + They cried: "Bravo! the_ Pierrot _of the minute!" + What with applause and gold, one must confess + That_ Pierrot _had "arrived," achieved success, + When, as it happened, presently, alas! + A terrible disaster came to pass. + His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout, + His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out. + There rose a sullen sound of discontent, + The golden shower of rockets was all spent; + He left off dancing with a sudden jerk, + For he was nothing but a firework. + The garden darkened and the people in it + Cried, "He is dead,--the_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_ + + _With every artist it is even so; + The artist, after all, is a_ Pierrot-- + _A_ Pierrot _of the minute, naif, clever, + But Art is back of him, She lives for ever!_ + + _Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, because + We craved the golden shower of your applause! + Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it, + And cry, "Bravo! The_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_ + + + + +THE MAKER OF DREAMS[28] + +_A FANTASY IN ONE ACT_ + +By OLIPHANT DOWN + + [Footnote 28: Copyright, Feb. 1, 1913, in the United States + by Oliphant Down. Reprinted by special arrangement with + Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Glasgow. + + Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play + is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United + States, and no one is allowed to produce this play without + first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 28 West 38 + Street, New York.] + + +_The Maker of Dreams_ by the late Oliphant Down was first given at the +Royalty Theatre in Glasgow, November 20, 1911. The design for the +setting here reproduced was used when the play was acted in March, +1915, at The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York. The picture does not +show how touches of red here and there in the scene, and the brilliant +blue sky, visible through the quaint windows, enhanced the character +of the black and white of the walls and of the flower pots. The back +wall of the set was mounted on casters and, while Pierrette slept, +moved silently off stage, to disclose to the audience a formal garden +at the back, where a miniature Pierrot and a tiny Pierrette did a +joyous little dance, thus suggesting to the spectators Pierrette's +happy dream. + +Pierrot, the hero of this and of the preceding play, has had an +interesting stage history. To understand him fully we have to go back +to the comedy of masks that had fully developed in Italy by the time +of the Renascence. This comedy was a special kind of play, the +scenario of which only was written, the dialogue being improvised by +the individual players. Each player wore a costume and a mask that +never changed, and these fixed his identity. Most of the parts had a +strong local flavor, the pedant, for example, hailing from Bologna, +the overly shrewd merchant, from Venice. Many of the characters have +become fixed types and reappear under their old names in various forms +of modern drama. Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, Punch and Judy, and +Pierrot are among those who live on in modern drama. There is an +enchanting play by Granville Barker and Dion Clayton Calthrop called +_The Harlequinade_, that describes in a popular way the devious and +uncertain paths traveled by these stock characters down the ages. + +Pierrot's ancestry is not so clearly Italian as the others. Pedrolino, +a mischievous, intriguing buffoon, Pagliaccio, a madcap who wore a +painted hat of white wool and a garment of white linen, whose face was +covered with flour, and who wore a white mask, have both been cited as +types that may have contributed to the figure of Pierrot, whose name +makes its first appearance in Moliere's play, _Don Juan ou le Festin +de Pierre_. Not that this dull servant of Moliere's is in any sense +the counterpart of the Pierrot of our day who is by turns languishing +or vivacious, impish or poetic, but never doltish. From the +seventeenth century, Pierrot, his costume borrowed from the Neapolitan +mask, Pulcinella, became more and more prominent on both the Italian +and the French stage. It was a certain French pantomime actor by the +name of Deburau who died a few years before the middle of the +nineteenth century, who gave Pierrot the prominence that he enjoys +to-day and who dressed the character in the guise that he most often +assumes on the modern stage. "The short woolen tunic, with its great +buttons and its narrow sleeves, that overhung the hands, soon became +an ample calico blouse with wide long sleeves like those of the +Italian Pagliaccio. He suppressed the collar, which cast an upward +shadow from the footlights on to his face, and interfered with the +play of his countenance, and instead of the white skull-cap of his +predecessor, he emphasized the pallor of his face by framing it in a +cap of black velvet."[29] The Pierrot of our fancy[30] comes to us +also through the pictures of Watteau and Pater and the designs of +Aubrey Beardsley. + + [Footnote 29: Maurice Sand, _The History of the + Harlequinade_, London, 1915, Vol. I, p. 219.] + + [Footnote 30: _Mon Ami Pierrot._ _Songs and Fantasies_, + compiled by Kendall Banning, Chicago, 1917. This book + presents the Pierrot of modern poetry and drama.] + +A one-act farce, _The Quod Wrangle_, is the only other published play +of Oliphant Down's. Its plot, as outlined in _The London Times_ of +March 4, 1914, reminds one strongly of O. Henry's _The Cop and the +Anthem_. + +[Illustration: _The Maker of Dreams_ at The Neighborhood Playhouse, +designed by Aline Bernstein.] + + + + +THE MAKER OF DREAMS + + +CHARACTERS + + PIERROT. + PIERRETTE. + THE MANUFACTURER. + + +_Evening. A room in an old cottage, with walls of dark oak, lit only +by the moonlight that peers through the long, low casement-window at +the back, and the glow from the fire that is burning merrily on the +spectator's left. A cobbled street can be seen outside, and a door to +the right of the window opens directly on to it. Opposite the fire is +a kitchen dresser with cups and plates twinkling in the firelight. A +high-backed oak settle, as though afraid of the cold moonlight, has +turned its back on the window and warms its old timbers at the fire. +In the middle of the room stands a table with a red cover; there are +chairs on either side of it. On the hob, a kettle is keeping itself +warm; whilst overhead, on the hood of the chimney-piece, a small lamp +is turned very low._ + +_A figure flits past the window and, with a click of the latch, +PIERRETTE enters. She hangs up her cloak by the door, gives a little +shiver and runs to warm herself for a moment. Then, having turned up +the lamp, she places the kettle on the fire. Crossing the room, she +takes a tablecloth from the dresser and proceeds to lay tea, setting +out crockery for two. Once she goes to the window and, drawing aside +the common red casement-curtains, looks out, but returns to her work, +disappointed. She puts a spoonful of tea into the teapot, and another, +and a third. Something outside attracts her attention; she listens, +her face brightening. A voice is heard singing:_ + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She is caught in a tangle of boughs; + And mellow and musical June + Is saying 'Good-night' to the cows." + +[_The voice draws nearer and a conical white hat goes past the +window. PIERROT enters._] + + +PIERROT [_throwing his hat to PIERRETTE_]. Ugh! How cold it is. My +feet are like ice. + +PIERRETTE. Here are your slippers. I put them down to warm. [_She +kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and commences to slip +off his shoes._] + +PIERROT [_singing:_] + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She will put out her tongue and grimace; + And mellow and musical June + Is pinning the stars in their place." + +Isn't tea ready yet? + +PIERRETTE. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil. + +PIERROT. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I don't believe I +sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold. + +PIERRETTE. Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when he's cold +either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please. + +PIERROT. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own voice. + +PIERRETTE. I believe it is. Now it's singing like a bird. We'll make +the tea with the nightingale's tongue. [_She pours the boiling water +into the teapot._] Come along. + +PIERROT [_looking into the fire_]. I wonder. She had beauty, she had +form, but had she soul? + +PIERRETTE [_cutting bread and butter at the table_]. Come and be +cheerful, instead of grumbling there to the fire. + +PIERROT. I was thinking. + +PIERRETTE. Come and have tea. When you sit by the fire, thoughts only +fly up the chimney. + +PIERROT. The whole world's a chimney-piece. Give people a thing as +worthless as paper, and it catches fire in them and makes a stir; but +real thought, they let it go up with the smoke. + +PIERRETTE. Cheer up, Pierrot. See how thick I've spread the butter. + +PIERROT. You're always cheerful. + +PIERRETTE. I try to be happy. + +PIERROT. Ugh! [_He has moved to the table. There is a short silence, +during which PIERROT sips his tea moodily._] + +PIERRETTE. Tea all right? + +PIERROT. Middling. + +PIERRETTE. Only middling! I'll pour you out some fresh. + +PIERROT. Oh, it's all right! How you do worry a fellow! + +PIERRETTE. Heigh-ho! Shall I chain up that big black dog? + +PIERROT. I say, did you see that girl to-day? + +PIERRETTE. Whereabouts? + +PIERROT. Standing by the horse-trough. With a fine air, and a string +of great beads. + +PIERRETTE. I didn't see her. + +PIERROT. I did, though. And she saw me. Watched me all the time I was +singing, and clapped her hands like anything each time. I wonder if it +is possible for a woman to have a soul as well as such beautiful +coloring. + +PIERRETTE. She was made up! + +PIERROT. I'm sure she was not. And how do you know? You didn't see +her. + +PIERRETTE. Perhaps I _did_ see her. + +PIERROT. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being jealous. +When you and I took on this show business, we arranged to be just +partners and nothing more. If I see anyone I want to marry, I shall +marry 'em. And if you see anyone who wants to marry you, _you_ can +marry 'em. + +PIERRETTE. I'm not jealous! It's absurd! + +PIERROT [_singing abstractedly_]. + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She has scratched her white chin on the gorse; + And mellow and musical June + Is bringing the cuckoo remorse." + +PIERRETTE. Did you see that girl after the show? + +PIERROT. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, I've had enough +tea. I shall go out and try to find her. + +PIERRETTE. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could help me to +darn the socks. + +PIERROT. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed! I hope life has got +something better in it than darning. + +PIERRETTE. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the world over. +First we wear holes in our socks, and then we mend them. The wise ones +are those who make the best of it, and darn as well as they can. + +PIERROT. I say, that gives me an idea for a song. + +PIERRETTE. Out with it, then. + +PIERROT. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is what flashed +through my mind as you spoke: [_He runs up on to the table, using it +as a stage._] + + "Life's a ball of worsted, + Unwind it if you can, + You who oft have boasted + +[_He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over the +false accenting._] + + That you are a man." + +Of course that's only a rough idea. + +PIERRETTE. Are you going to sing it at the show? + +PIERROT [_jumping down from the table_]. You're always so lukewarm. A +man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as a baby. + +PIERRETTE. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside. + +PIERROT. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose. + +PIERRETTE. Just now you said I was always cheerful. + +PIERROT. There you are; girding at me again. + +PIERRETTE. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is dreadfully wet, +and your shoes are awfully thin. + +PIERROT. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to find that +girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman of my dreams? + +PIERRETTE. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal woman? + +PIERROT. Don't _you ever_ picture an ideal man? + +PIERRETTE. No, I try to be practical. + +PIERROT. Women are so unimaginative! They are such pathetic, motherly +things, and when they feel extra motherly they say, "I'm in love." All +that is so sordid and petty. I want a woman I can set on a pedestal, +and just look up at her and love her. + +PIERRETTE [_speaking very fervently_]. + + "Pierrot, don't wait for the moon, + There's a heart chilling cold in her rays; + And mellow and musical June + Will only last thirty short days." + +PIERROT. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, I'm off. [_As +he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in a mocking tone, +"Baby, don't wait for the moon." PIERRETTE listens for a moment to his +voice dying away in the distance. Then she moves to the fire-place, +and begins to stir the fire. As she kneels there, the words of an old +recitation form on her lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again +to an audience of laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals._] + + "There lives a maid in the big, wide world, + By the crowded town and mart, + And people sigh as they pass her by; + They call her Hungry Heart. + + For there trembles that on her red rose lip + That never her tongue can say, + And her eyes are sad, and she is not glad + In the beautiful calm of day. + + Deep down in the waters of pure, clear thought, + The mate of her fancy lies; + Sleeping, the night is made fair by his light + Sweet kiss on her dreaming eyes. + + Though a man was made in the wells of time + Who could set her soul on fire, + Her life unwinds, and she never finds + This love of her heart's desire. + + If you meet this maid of a hopeless love, + Play not a meddler's part. + Silence were best; let her keep in her breast + The dream of her hungry heart." + +[_Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, treble +knock comes on the door; PIERRETTE looks up wonderingly. Again the +knock sounds._] + +PIERRETTE. Come in. [_The door swings slowly open, as though of its +own accord, and without, on the threshold, is seen THE MANUFACTURER, +standing full in the moonlight. He is a curious, though +kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all his years, he does not +appear to be the least infirm. He is the sort of person that children +take to instinctively. He wears a quaintly cut, bottle-green coat, +with silver buttons and large side-pockets, which almost hide his +knee-breeches. His shoes have large buckles and red heels. He is +exceedingly unlike a prosperous manufacturer, and, but for the absence +of a violin, would be mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word +he advances into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door +closes noiselessly behind him._] + +PIERRETTE [_jumping up and moving towards him_]. Oh, I'm so sorry. I +ought to have opened the door when you knocked. + +MANUFACTURER. That's all right. I'm used to opening doors. And yours +opens much more easily than some I come across. Would you believe it, +some people positively nail their doors up, and it's no good knocking. +But there, you're wondering who I am. + +PIERRETTE. I was wondering if you were hungry. + +MANUFACTURER. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, no. I am a small +eater; I might say a very small eater. A smile or a squeeze of the +hand keeps me going admirably. + +PIERRETTE. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at home. + +MANUFACTURER [_moving to the settle_]. Well, I have a habit of making +myself at home everywhere. In fact, most people think you can't make a +_home_ without _me_. May I put my feet on the fender? It's an old +habit of mine. I always do it. + +PIERRETTE. They say round here: + + "Without feet on the fender + Love is but slender." + +MANUFACTURER. Quite right. It is the whole secret of the domestic +fireside. Pierrette, you have been crying. + +PIERRETTE. I believe I have. + +MANUFACTURER. Bless you, I know all about it. It's Pierrot. And so +you're in love with him, and he doesn't care a little bit about you, +eh? What a strange old world it is! And you cry your eyes out over +him. + +PIERRETTE. Oh, no, I don't often cry. But to-night he seemed more +grumpy than usual, and I tried so hard to cheer him up. + +MANUFACTURER. Grumpy, is he? + +PIERRETTE. He doesn't mean it, though. It's the cold weather, and the +show hasn't been paying so well lately. Pierrot wants to write an +article about us for the local paper by way of an advertisement. He +thinks the editor may print it if he gives him free passes for his +family. + +MANUFACTURER. Do you think Pierrot is worth your tears? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, yes! + +MANUFACTURER. You know, tears are not to be wasted. We only have a +certain amount of them given to us just for keeping the heart moist. +And when we've used them all up and haven't any more, the heart dries +up, too. + +PIERRETTE. Pierrot is a splendid fellow. You don't know him as well as +I do. It's true he's always discontented, but it's only because he's +not in love with anyone. You know, love does make a tremendous +difference in a man. + +MANUFACTURER. That's true enough. And has it made a difference in you? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, yes! I put Pierrot's slippers down to warm, and I make +tea for him, and all the time I'm happy because I'm doing something +for him. If I weren't in love, I should find it a drudgery. + +MANUFACTURER. Are you sure it's real love? + +PIERRETTE. Why, yes! + +MANUFACTURER. Every time you think of Pierrot, do you hear the patter +of little bare feet? And every time he speaks, do you feel little +chubby hands on your breast and face? + +PIERRETTE [_fervently_]. Yes! Oh, yes! That's just it! + +MANUFACTURER. You've got it right enough. But why is it that Pierrot +can wake up all this poetry in you? + +PIERRETTE. Because--oh, because he's just Pierrot. + +MANUFACTURER. "Because he's just Pierrot." The same old reason. + +PIERRETTE. Of course, he is a bit dreamy. But that's his soul. I am +sure he could do great things if he tried. And have you noticed his +smile? Isn't it lovely! Sometimes, when he's not looking, I want ever +so much to try it on, just to see how I should look in it. +[_Pensively._] But I wish he'd smile at me a little more often, +instead of at others. + +MANUFACTURER. Ho! So he smiles at others, does he? + +PIERRETTE. Hardly a day goes by but there's some fine lady at the +show. There was one there to-day, a tall girl with red cheeks. He is +gone to look for her now. And it is not their faults. The poor things +can't help being in love with him. [_Proudly._] I believe everyone is +in love with Pierrot. + +MANUFACTURER. But supposing one of these fine ladies were to marry +him? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, they'd never do that. A fine lady would never marry a +poor singer. If Pierrot were to get married, I think I should just ... +fade away.... Oh, but I don't know why I talk to you like this. I feel +as if I had known you for a long, long time. [_THE MANUFACTURER rises +from the settle and moves across to PIERRETTE, who is now folding up +the white table-cloth._] + +MANUFACTURER [_very slowly_]. Perhaps you _have_ known me for a long, +long time. [_His tone is so kindly and impressive that PIERRETTE +forgets the table-cloth and looks up at him. For a moment or two he +smiles back at her as she gazes, spellbound; then he turns away to the +fire again, with the little chuckle that is never far from his lips._] + +PIERRETTE [_taking a small bow from his side-pocket_]. Oh, look at +this. + +MANUFACTURER [_in mock alarm_]. Oh, oh, I didn't mean you to see that. +I'd forgotten it was sticking out of my pocket. I used to do a lot of +archery at one time. I don't get much chance now. [_He takes it and +puts it back in his pocket._] + +PIERROT [_singing in the distance_]. + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + She is drawing the sea in her net; + And mellow and musical June + Is teaching the rose to forget." + +MANUFACTURER [_in a whisper as the voice draws nearer_]. Who is that? + +PIERRETTE. Pierrot. [_Again the conical white hat flashes past the +window and PIERROT enters._] + +PIERROT. I can't find her anywhere. [_Seeing THE MANUFACTURER._] +Hullo! Who are you? + +MANUFACTURER. I am a stranger to you, but Pierrette knew me in a +moment. + +PIERROT. An old flame perhaps? + +MANUFACTURER. True, I am an old flame. I've lighted up the world for a +considerable time. Yet when you say "old," there are many people who +think I'm wonderfully well preserved for my age. How long do you think +I've been trotting about? + +PIERROT [_testily, measuring a length with his hands_]. Oh, about that +long. + +MANUFACTURER. I suppose being funny all day _does_ get on your nerves. + +PIERRETTE. Pierrot, you needn't be rude. + +MANUFACTURER [_anxious to be alone with PIERROT_]. Pierrette, have you +got supper in? + +PIERRETTE. Oh, I must fly! The shops will all be shut. Will you be +here when I come back? + +MANUFACTURER [_bustling her out_]. I can't promise, but I'll try, I'll +try. [_PIERRETTE goes out. There is a silence, during which THE +MANUFACTURER regards PIERROT with amusement._] + +MANUFACTURER. Well, friend Pierrot, so business is not very brisk. + +PIERROT. Brisk! If laughter meant business, it would be brisk enough, +but there's no money. However, I've done one good piece of work +to-day. I've arranged with the editor to put an article in the paper. +That will fetch 'em. [_Singing_]: + + "Please come one day and see our house that's down among the trees, + But do not come at four o'clock for then we count the bees, + And bath the tadpoles and the frogs, who splash the clouds with gold, + And watch the new-cut cucum_bers_ perspiring with the cold." + +That's a song I'm writing. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, if you had all the money in the world you +wouldn't be happy. + +PIERROT. Wouldn't I? Give me all the money in the world and I'll risk +it. To start with, I'd build schools to educate the people up to +high-class things. + +MANUFACTURER. You dream of fame and wealth and empty ideals, and you +miss all the best things there are. You are discontented. Why? Because +you don't know how to be happy. + +PIERROT [_reciting_]: + + "Life's a running brooklet, + Catch the fishes there, + You who wrote a booklet + On a woman's hair." + +[_Explaining._] That's another song I'm writing. It's the second +verse. Things come to me all of a sudden like that. I must run out a +third verse, just to wind it up. + +MANUFACTURER. Why don't you write a song without any end, one that +goes on for ever? + +PIERROT. I say, that's rather silly, isn't it? + +MANUFACTURER. It all depends. For a song of that sort the singer must +be always happy. + +PIERROT. That wants a bit of doing in my line. + +MANUFACTURER. Shall you and I transact a little business? + +PIERROT. By all means. What seats would you like? There are the front +rows covered in velvet, one shilling; wooden benches behind, sixpence; +and, right at the back, the twopenny part. But, of course, you'll have +shilling ones. How many shall we say? + +MANUFACTURER. You don't know who I am. + +PIERROT. That makes no difference. All are welcome, and we thank you +for your courteous attention. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, I am a maker of dreams. + +PIERROT. A what? + +MANUFACTURER. I make all the dreams that float about this musty world. + +PIERROT. I say, you'd better have a rest for a bit. I expect you're a +trifle done up. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't tumble to my +calling. A child or one of the "people" would in a moment. I am a +maker of dreams, little things that glide about into people's hearts +and make them glad. Haven't you often wondered where the swallows go +to in the autumn? They come to my workshop, and tell me who wants a +dream, and what happened to the dreams they took with them in the +spring. + +PIERROT. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that. + +MANUFACTURER. When flowers fade, have you never wondered where their +colors go to, or what becomes of all the butterflies in the winter? +There isn't much winter about my workshop. + +PIERROT. I had never thought of it before. + +MANUFACTURER. It's a kind of lost property office, where every +beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its way. And there +I make my celebrated dream, the dream that is called "love." + +PIERROT. Ho! ho! Now we're talking. + +MANUFACTURER. You don't believe in it? + +PIERROT. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't last. If there +is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is soul, there isn't form. +Oh, I've tried hard enough to believe it, but, after the first wash, +the colors run. + +MANUFACTURER. You only got hold of a substitute. Wait until you see +the genuine article. + +PIERROT. But how is one to tell it? + +MANUFACTURER. There are heaps of signs. As soon as you get the real +thing, your shoulder-blades begin to tingle. That's love's wings +sprouting. And, next, you want to soar up among the stars and sit on +the roof of heaven and sing to the moon. Of course, that's because I +put such a lot of the moon into my dreams. I break bits off until it's +nearly all gone, and then I let it grow big again. It grows very +quickly, as I dare say you've noticed. After a fortnight it is ready +for use once more. + +PIERROT. This is most awfully fascinating. And do the swallows bring +all the dreams? + +MANUFACTURER. Not always; I have other messengers. Every night when +the big clock strikes twelve, a day slips down from the calendar, and +runs away to my workshop in the Land of Long Ago. I give him a touch +of scarlet and a gleam of gold, and say, "Go back, little Yesterday, +and be a memory in the world." But my best dreams I keep for to-day. I +buy babies, and fit them up with a dream, and then send them complete +and carriage paid ... in the usual manner. + +PIERROT. I've been dreaming all my life, but they've always been +dreams I made myself. I suppose I don't mix 'em properly. + +MANUFACTURER. You leave out the very essence of them. You must put in +a little sorrow, just to take away the over-sweetness. I found that +out very soon, so I took a little of the fresh dew that made pearls in +the early morning, and I sprinkled my dreams with the gift of tears. + +PIERROT [_ecstatically_]. The gift of tears! How beautiful! You know, +I should rather like to try a real one. Not one of my own making. + +MANUFACTURER. Well, there are plenty about, if you only look for them. + +PIERROT. That is all very well, but who's going to look about for +stray dreams? + +MANUFACTURER. I once made a dream that would just suit you. I slipped +it inside a baby. That was twenty years ago, and the baby is now a +full-grown woman, with great blue eyes and fair hair. + +PIERROT. It's a lot of use merely telling me about her. + +MANUFACTURER. I'll do more. When I shipped her to the world, I kept +the bill of lading. Here it is. You shall have it. + +PIERROT. Thanks, but what's the good of it? + +MANUFACTURER. Why, the holder of that is able to claim the goods; you +will notice it contains a complete description, too. I promise you, +you're in luck. + +PIERROT. Has she red cheeks and a string of great beads? + +MANUFACTURER. No. + +PIERROT. Ah, then it is not she. Where shall I find her? + +MANUFACTURER. That's for you to discover. All you have to do is to +search. + +PIERROT. I'll start at once. [_He moves as if to go._] + +MANUFACTURER. I shouldn't start out to-night. + +PIERROT. But I want to find her soon. Somebody else may find her +before me. + +MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, there was once a man who wanted to gather +mushrooms. + +PIERROT [_annoyed at the commonplace_]. Mushrooms! + +MANUFACTURER. Fearing people would be up before him, he started out +overnight. Morning came, and he found none, so he returned +disconsolate to his house. As he came through the garden, he found a +great mushroom had grown up in the night by his very door-step. Take +the advice of one who knows, and wait a bit. + +PIERROT. If that's your advice.... But tell me this, do you think I +shall find her? + +MANUFACTURER. I can't say for certain. Would you consider yourself a +fool? + +PIERROT. Ah ... of course ... when you ask me a direct thing like +that, you make it ... er ... rather awkward for me. But, if I may say +so, as man to ma ... I mean as man to ... [_he hesitates_]. + +MANUFACTURER [_waiving the point_]. Yes, yes. + +PIERROT. Well, I flatter myself that ... + +MANUFACTURER. Exactly. And that's your principal danger. Whilst you +are striding along gazing at the stars, you may be treading on a +little glow-worm. Shall I give you a third verse for your song? + + "Life's a woman calling, + Do not stop your ears, + Lest, when night is falling, + Darkness brings you tears." + +[_THE MANUFACTURER'S kindly and impressive tone holds PIERROT as it +had held PIERRETTE some moments before. Whilst the two are looking at +each other, a little red cloak dances past the window, and PIERRETTE +enters with her marketing._] + +PIERRETTE. Oh, I'm so glad you're still here. + +MANUFACTURER. But I must be going now. I am a great traveler. + +PIERRETTE [_standing against the door, so that he cannot pass_]. Oh, +you mustn't go yet. + +MANUFACTURER. Don't make me fly out of the window. I only do that +under very unpleasant circumstances. + +PIERROT [_gaily, with mock eloquence_]. Pierrette, regard our visitor. +You little knew whom you were entertaining. You see before you the +maker of the dreams that slip about the world like little fish among +the rushes of a stream. He has given me the bill of lading of his +great masterpiece, and it only remains for me to find her. [_Dropping +to the commonplace._] I wish I knew where to look. + +MANUFACTURER. Before I go, I will give you this little rhyme: + + "Let every woman keep a school, + For every man is born a fool." + +[_He bows, and goes out quickly and silently._] + +PIERRETTE [_running to the door, and looking out_]. Why, how quickly +he has gone! He's out of sight. + +PIERROT. At last I am about to attain my great ideal. There will be a +grand wedding, and I shall wear my white coat with the silver braid, +and carry a tall gold-topped stick. [_Singing:_] + + "If we play any longer, I fear you will get + Such a cold in the head, for the grass is so wet. + But during the night, Margareta divine, + I will hang the wet grass up to dry on the line." + +Pierrette, I feel that I am about to enter into a man's inheritance, a +woman's love. + +PIERRETTE. I wish you every happiness. + +PIERROT [_singing teasingly:_] + + "We shall meet in our dreams, that's a thing understood; + You dream of the river, I'll dream of the wood. + I am visiting you, if the river it be; + If we meet in the wood, you are visiting me." + +PIERRETTE. We must make lots of money, so that you can give her all +she wants. I'll dance and dance until I fall, and the people will +exclaim, "Why, she has danced herself to death." + +PIERROT. You're right. We must pull the show together. I'll do that +article for the paper at once. [_He takes paper, ink, etc., from the +dresser, and, seating himself at the table, commences to write._] +"There has lately come to this town a company of strolling players, +who give a show that is at once musical and droll. The audience is +enthralled by Pierrot's magnificent singing and dancing, and ... er +... very much entertained by Pierrette's homely dancing. Pierrette is +a charming comedienne of twenty, with ..." what color hair? + +PIERRETTE. Fair, quite fair. + +PIERROT. Funny how one can see a person every day and not know the +color of their hair. "Fair hair and ..." eyes? + +PIERRETTE. Blue, Pierrot. + +PIERROT. "Fair hair and blue eyes." Fair! Blue! Oh, of course it's +nonsense, though. + +PIERRETTE. What's nonsense? + +PIERROT. Something I was thinking. Most girls have fair hair and blue +eyes. + +PIERRETTE. Yes, Pierrot, we can't all be ideals. + +PIERROT. How musical your voice sounds! I can't make it out. Oh, but, +of course, it is all nonsense! [_He takes the bill of lading from his +pocket and reads it._] + +PIERRETTE. What's nonsense?... Pierrot, won't you tell me? + +PIERROT. Pierrette, stand in the light. + +PIERRETTE. Is anything the matter? + +PIERROT. I almost believe that nothing matters. [_Reading and glancing +at her._] "Eyes that say 'I love you'; arms that say 'I want you'; +lips that say 'Why don't you?'" Pierrette, is it possible! I've never +noticed before how beautiful you are. You don't seem a bit the same. I +believe you have lost your real face, and have carved another out of a +rose. + +PIERRETTE. Oh, Pierrot, what is it? + +PIERROT. Love! I've found it at last. Don't you understand it all? + + "I am a fool + Who has learned wisdom in your school." + +To think that I've seen you every day, and never dreamed ... dreamed! +Yes, ah yes, it's one of his beautiful dreams. That is why my heart +seems full of the early morning. + +PIERRETTE. Ah, Pierrot! + +PIERROT. Oh, how my shoulders tingle! I want to soar up, up. Don't you +want to fly up to the roof of heaven and sing among the stars? + +PIERRETTE. I have been sitting on the moon ever so long, waiting for +my lover. Pierrot, let me try on your smile. Give it to me in a kiss. +[_With their hands outstretched behind them, they lean towards each +other, till their lips meet in a long kiss._] + +PIERRETTE [_throwing back her head with a deep sigh of happiness._] +Oh, I am so happy. This might be the end of all things. + +PIERROT. Pierrette, let us sit by the fire and put our feet on the +fender, and live happily ever after. [_They have moved slowly to the +settle. As they sit there, PIERROT sings softly:_] + + "Baby, don't wait for the moon, + The stairs of the sky are so steep; + And mellow and musical June + Is waiting to kiss you to sleep." + +[_The lamp on the hood of the chimney-piece has burned down, leaving +only the red glow from the fire upon their faces, as the curtain +whispers down to hide them._] + + + + +GETTYSBURG[31] + +_A WOOD-SHED COMMENTARY_ + +By PERCY MACKAYE + + [Footnote 31: Copyright, 1912, 1921, by Percy MacKaye. All + rights reserved. + + SPECIAL NOTICE + + This play in its printed form is designed for the reading + public only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by + copyright, in the United States, Great Britain, and all + countries subscribing to the Berne Convention. NO PUBLIC OR + PRIVATE PERFORMANCE--PROFESSIONAL OR AMATEUR--MAY BE GIVEN + WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR AND THE PAYMENT + OF ROYALTY. As the courts have also ruled that the PUBLIC + READING of a play, for pay or where tickets are sold, + constitutes a "PERFORMANCE," no such reading may be given + except under conditions above stated. + + Anyone disregarding the author's rights renders himself + liable to prosecution. PERSONS WHO DESIRE PERMISSION TO GIVE + PERFORMANCES OR PUBLIC READINGS OF THIS PLAY SHOULD + COMMUNICATE DIRECT WITH THE AUTHOR, AT HIS ADDRESS, HARVARD + CLUB, 27 WEST 44 STREET, NEW YORK CITY.] + + +Percy MacKaye was born in New York, March 16, 1875, the son of Steele +MacKaye, a well-known dramatist and theatrical inventor of his day. +"My own early dramatic training," writes the son, "was in the theatre +in relation with my father's work there as dramatist, actor, and +director." In another place he says: "I have not sought to conceal, or +to put aside, the grateful enthusiasm I feel, as a son and comrade of +Steele MacKaye, for those examples of untiring devotion to the theatre +and of constructive achievement in its art, by which his life has been +an inspiration to my own, to follow--however haltingly and through +different means--the trail of his large leadership." Percy MacKaye was +graduated from Harvard in 1897 and later spent a year studying at the +University of Leipzig. After travel abroad, he returned to New York in +1900 and taught there in a private school till 1904. He spent some +time in the next five years lecturing on the Drama of Democracy and +the Civic Theatre at various American universities. In 1904 he joined +the colony of artists and men of letters at Cornish, New Hampshire, +the home of Saint-Gaudens, Maxfield Parrish, Winston Churchill, and +others. Since that date Percy MacKaye has devoted himself wholly to +poetry and the drama, writing community masques, plays of various +kinds, and operas.[32] It is interesting to note that one of the +latest products of his pen, _Washington, the Man Who Made Us, A Ballad +Play_, was translated into French and presented by M. Copeau's +players, at the Theatre du Vieux Colombier, during their second season +in New York, and later acted in English by Walter Hampden, the scene +designs being made by Robert Edmond Jones. In October, 1920, he was +invited to Miami University, Oxford, Ohio, not to teach but to +continue his own creative work, quite untrammeled, filling there the +first fellowship in creative literature ever established in this +country. + + [Footnote 32: A list of his works is given in the latest + _Who's Who in America_.] + +_Yankee Fantasies_, a collection of five one-act plays of which +_Gettysburg_ is one, is the expression of Percy MacKaye's belief that +the American dramatist may find "north of Boston," or, in fact, in +almost any rural neighborhood, material for "quaint and lovely +interpretation of our native environment now ignored." These plays, +published in 1912, testified also to his conviction that the time had +come for the development of the one-act play in this country, not only +because this form is distinctive and capable of expressing what the +full-length play cannot, but also because a receptive audience was +already organized. He found even then that amateurs in schools, +colleges, and elsewhere were clamoring to perform one-act plays, to +see them performed, and to read them. At that date Little Theatres +were just beginning to be, but in the preface to _Yankee Fantasies_, +the author advocated the establishment of Studio Theatres, in essence +experimental, many of which have since come into existence under +different names, wherein playwrights might practice the new craft of +the one-act play as in a workshop. The one-act play may be said to +have arrived in the nine years that have elapsed since _Gettysburg_ +was published. + +The one-act play has shown no tendency, however, to rival the +short-story in the matter of local color. Kentucky, California, Iowa, +Louisiana, to name but a few of the favored states which have served +as rich backgrounds for many finely flavored narratives of American +life, have been neglected as sources of dramatic material. But though +Percy MacKaye may perhaps be matched with Mary Wilkins, there is no +writer who has made notable use in the one-act play of localities, +associated, for example, with the art of George W. Cable, Bret Harte, +James Lane Allen, or Hamlin Garland. One of the paths of glory for the +American dramatist lies undoubtedly in this direction. + + + + +GETTYSBURG + + +CHARACTERS + + LINK TADBOURNE, _ox-yoke maker_. + POLLY, _his grandniece_. + + +_The Place is country New Hampshire, at the present time._ + +_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 stove-wood and +kindlings mixed with small chips on the floor, which is piled deep +with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust._ + +_Not far from this mounded pile, at right center of the scene, stands +a wooden arm-chair, 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 +mustache 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.[33]_ + + [Footnote 33: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of + these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field + annexed to the volume by Capt. R. K. Beecham, entitled + _Gettysburg_, A. C. McClurg, 1911.] + +_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._ + + + 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 further 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 'tis, so 'tis. + Roger, your young man--ha! [_Chuckling._] He come and axed me + was I agoin' 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_]. + School-master, 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 pictur's out, and prayed to them + 'most more 'n the Allmighty. + +[_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 [_points 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._] + + Goda'mighty! + that Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter + than any pancake what you ever cooked, + Polly; and 't wan'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, 'tain'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 jacko'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 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 + ablowin' _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 smoldering 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.--Goda'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-mold'rin' in the grave, + John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave, + John Brown's body lies a-mold'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!" + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +WURZEL-FLUMMERY[34] + +_A COMEDY IN ONE ACT_ + +By A. A. MILNE + + [Footnote 34: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned + that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws + of the United States, and no one is allowed to produce this + play without first having obtained permission of Samuel + French, 28 West 28 Street, New York.] + + +Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882. He was a student at +Westminster School, the library of which is familiar ground to every +reader of Irving's _Sketch Book_. From there he proceeded to Trinity +College, Cambridge. On his graduation, he went into journalism in +London. He was assistant editor of _Punch_ from 1906 to 1914. During +the War he was a lieutenant in the Fourth Royal Warwickshire Regiment. +In the introduction to his volume of _First Plays_, in which +_Wurzel-Flummery_ appears, he gives the following whimsical account of +his career as a dramatist: "These five plays [_The Lucky One_, _The +Boy Comes Home_, _Belinda_, _The Red Feather_, _Wurzel-Flummery_] were +written in the order in which they appear now, during the years 1916 +and 1917. They would hardly have been written had it not been for the +War, although only one of them is concerned with that subject. To his +other responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume. + +"For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but the +recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing is a +luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more expensive +in time and money. When an article is written, the financial reward +(and we may as well live as not) is a matter of certainty. A novelist, +too, even if he is not in 'the front rank'--but I never heard of one +who wasn't--can at least be sure of publication. But when a play is +written, there is no certainty of anything save disillusionment. + +"To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a +depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the morning. +I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I could not +afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the case was +altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was soldiering, and my +spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf; +that was one way of amusing oneself. Another way was--why not?--to +write plays. + +"So we began with _Wurzel-Flummery_. I say 'we,' because another is +mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She +wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out for +a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one could +smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it was to +discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in the next. We +did not estimate the money or publicity which might come from this new +venture; there has never been any serious thought of making money by +my bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when I am trying to play +golf. But secretly, of course, we hoped. It was that which made it so +much more exciting than any other game. + +"Our hopes were realized to the following extent: + +"Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New +Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in +which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of +1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I cut +it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut +thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on +the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination. It appeared, +therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic embarrassed us by saying +that a lesser artist would have written it in three acts, and most of +the other critics annoyed us by saying that a greater artist would +have written it in one act. However, I amused myself some months later +by slaying another character--the office-boy, no less--thereby getting +it down to one act, and was surprised to find that the one-act version +was, after all, the best.... At least, I think it is.... At any rate, +that is the version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am +rather tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to +wonder if anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all. +Possibly the whole thing is an invention." + +_Wurzel-Flummery_ was first produced in this country at the Arts and +Crafts Theatre in Detroit; recently it was acted again by The Players +of St. Louis. + + + + +WURZEL-FLUMMERY + + +CHARACTERS + + ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P. + MARGARET CRAWSHAW (_his wife_). + VIOLA CRAWSHAW (_his daughter_). + RICHARD MERITON, M.P. + DENIS CLIFTON. + + +_SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW's town house. Morning._ + +_It is a June day before the War in the morning-room of ROBERT +CRAWSHAW's town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, +our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender +round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out +at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is +sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to +catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out the +comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the +middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid +knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference, +and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The +rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we +must leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the +sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five, +has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed +suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands +over her eyes._ + + +RICHARD. Three guesses who it is. + +VIOLA [_putting her hands over his_]. The Archbishop of Canterbury. + +RICHARD. No. + +VIOLA. The Archbishop of York. + +RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your +last guess. + +VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P. + +RICHARD. Wonderful! [_He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes +round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the +fireplace._] How did you know? [_He begins to fill a pipe._] + +VIOLA [_smiling_]. Well, it couldn't have been father. + +RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway. +Anything in the paper? + +VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that ---- + +RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out. + +VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print. + +RICHARD. It would be. + +VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick. + +RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear. + +VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as +father. + +RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that +before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference? + +VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other +day. + +RICHARD. No, I don't, really. + +VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equaled by +your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it +doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law. + +RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke +to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it. + +VIOLA. Of course not. + +RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really. + +VIOLA. Then why does he say it? + +RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole +structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say +things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very +good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't +take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it was awfully good of +him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up. +[_Seriously._] I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last +week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"--the girl +I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; and now--oh, why won't +you let me tell your father? I hate it like this. + +VIOLA. Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would, +as they say in novels, show you the door. [_Smiling._] And I want you +this side of the door for a little bit longer. + +RICHARD [_firmly_]. I shall tell him before I go. + +VIOLA [_pleadingly_]. But not till then; that gives us two more days. +You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. +You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates poor +people. + +RICHARD [_viciously_]. Damn money! + +VIOLA [_thoughtfully_]. I think that's what father means by spiritual +instability. + +RICHARD. Viola! [_He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes +to him and_--] Oh, Lord, look out! + +VIOLA [_reaching across to the mantelpiece_]. Matches? + +RICHARD. Thanks very much. [_He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW +comes in. CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed mustache and +whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly +style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him +look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which +he undoubtedly is._] + +CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last? + +RICHARD. Good-morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at +breakfasts? + +CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother? + +VIOLA [_making for the door_]. I don't know, father; do you want her? + +CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her. + +VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [_She goes out. RICHARD picks up "The +Times" and sits down again._] + +CRAWSHAW [_sitting down in a business-like way at his desk_]. Richard, +why don't you get something to do? + +RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast. + +CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--work +in the House. + +RICHARD [_a trifle cool_]. I have something to do. + +CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a +directorship or something in the City. + +RICHARD. I hate the City. + +CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance +to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke. + +RICHARD [_dryly_]. Yes, so Viola was telling me. + +CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing +personal. [_Clearing his throat._] It is justly one of the proudest +boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed +to interfere with his private friendships. + +RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day. + +_Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for +twenty-five years, the last twenty-four years from habit. She is +small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a +dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear._ + +MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all +right. + +RICHARD. Excellent, thank you. + +MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert? + +CRAWSHAW [_obviously uncomfortable_]. +Yes--er--h'r'm--Richard--er--what are your--er--plans? + +RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw? + +MARGARET. Of course not. [_To ROBERT._] Are you, dear? + +CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can +leave Richard here with the paper. + +RICHARD. No, no; I'm going. + +CRAWSHAW [_going to the door with him_]. I have some particular +business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult +you in the matter afterwards. + +RICHARD. Right. [_He goes out._ ] + +CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for you. + +MARGARET [_sitting down_]. Yes, Robert? + +CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. [_He reads it._] "199, +Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that +under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to +the extent of L50,000." + +MARGARET. Robert! + +CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you +should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." + +MARGARET. Robert! + +CRAWSHAW. "I have the honor to be, your obedient servant, Denis +Clifton." [_He folds the letter up and puts it away._] + +MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the +money? + +CRAWSHAW [_calmly_]. I have not the slightest idea, Margaret. +Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis +Clifton to come and see me. + +MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy! + +CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery! + +MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what +about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more +central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so +much more--more Cabinety. + +CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street--I don't +know what _that_ sounds like. + +MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear. They +can't really expect us to change our name to--Wurzley-Fothergill. + +CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery. + +MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk the +solicitor round--this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't matter +to _him_ what we call ourselves. Write him one of your letters, dear. + +CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret. + +MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.--Mr.-- + +CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton. + +MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with the +name of Wurzley-Fothergill-- + +CRAWSHAW. Wurzel--oh, well, never mind. + +MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the +fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too absurd, +when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect you to call +yourself Wurzley-Fothergill. + +CRAWSHAW [_impatiently_]. Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr. Clifton +has left me the money on _condition_ that I change my name. If I don't +take the name, I don't take the money. + +MARGARET. But is that legal? + +CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on +succeeding to some property. + +MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you +changed it to Talbot. + +CRAWSHAW [_to himself_]. Wurzel-Flummery! + +MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it was +very nice of him, but if you didn't know him--Why do you think he did, +dear? + +CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he +had--ah--followed my career, and was--ah--interested in it, and being +a man with no relations, felt that he could--ah--safely leave this +money to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or +the name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the +name--ah--perpetuated, perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the +history of our country, and--ah--made this will accordingly. In a way +it is a kind of--ah--sacred trust. + +MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear? + +CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think +about, my duty to my country. + +MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't +it? + +CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view of +riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is +entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money +thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly as anybody. + +MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we _could_ have that second car +and the house in Curzon Street? + +CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly +invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the +income-tax--and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just +now-- + +MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery +it would count as _earned_ income. + +CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even if +it is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in +recognition of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But +Parliament takes a different view. I do not for a moment say that +fifty thousand pounds would not be welcome. Fifty thousand pounds is +certainly not to be sneezed at-- + +MARGARET. I should think not, indeed! + +CRAWSHAW [_unconsciously rising from his chair_]. And without this +preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this +trust, and I would endeavor, Mr. Speaker--[_He sits down again +suddenly._] I would endeavor, Margaret, to carry it out to the best of +my poor ability. But--Wurzel-Flummery! + +MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used to +the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five years. +It is surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only signed my +name Margaret Debenham once after I was married. + +CRAWSHAW [_kindly_]. The cases are rather different, Margaret. +Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day when +she will change her name, cannot have this feeling for the--ah--honor +of his name, which every man--ah--feels. Such a feeling is naturally +more present in my own case since I have been privileged to make the +name of Crawshaw in some degree--ah--well-known, I might almost say +famous. + +MARGARET [_wistfully_]. I used to be called "the beautiful Miss +Debenham of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of +course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw. + +CRAWSHAW [_getting up and walking over to the fireplace_]. In a way it +would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in politics +to get your name before the public. "Whoever is this man +Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say. + +MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty thousand +pounds is fifty thousand pounds. + +CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it. +But--well, all I say is that a _gentleman_ would have left it without +any conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed his _wish_ +that I should take the name, without going so far as to enforce it. +Then I could have looked at the matter all round in an impartial +spirit. + +MARGARET [_pursuing her thoughts_]. The linen is marked R. M. C. now. +Of course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F. +would do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.? + +CRAWSHAW. What? Oh--yes, there will be a good deal of that to attend +to. [_Going up to her._] I think, Margaret, I had better talk to +Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the money, +but--well, I should like to have his opinion. + +MARGARET [_getting up_]. Do you think he would be very sympathetic, +dear? He makes jokes about serious things--like bishops and +hunting--just as if they weren't at all serious. + +CRAWSHAW. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new--ah--point of +view. I do not hold myself in the least bound to act on anything he +says. I regard him as a constituent, Margaret. + +MARGARET. Then I will send him to you. + +CRAWSHAW [_putting his hands on her shoulders_]. Margaret, what do you +really feel about it? + +MARGARET. Just whatever _you_ feel, Robert. + +CRAWSHAW [_kissing her_]. Thank you, Margaret; you are a good wife to +me. [_She goes out. CRAWSHAW goes to his desk and selects a "Who's +Who" from a little pile of reference-books on it. He walks round to +his chair, sits down in it and begins to turn the pages, murmuring +names beginning with "C" to himself as he gets near the place. When he +finds it, he murmurs "Clifton--that's funny" and closes the book. +Evidently the publishers have failed him._] + +_Enter RICHARD._ + +RICHARD. Well, what's the news? [_He goes to his old seat on the +fender._] Been left a fortune? + +CRAWSHAW [_simply_]. Yes.... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. I never met him +and I know nothing about him. + +RICHARD [_surprised_]. Not really? Well, I congratulate you. [_He +sighs._] To them that hath--But what on earth do you want my advice +about? + +CRAWSHAW. There is a slight condition attached. + +RICHARD. Oho! + +CRAWSHAW. The condition is that with this money--fifty thousand +pounds--I take the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery. + +RICHARD [_jumping up_]. What! + +CRAWSHAW [_sulkily_]. I said it quite distinctly--Wurzel-Flummery. +[_RICHARD in an awed silence walks over to the desk and stands looking +down at the unhappy CRAWSHAW. He throws out his left hand as if +introducing him._] + +RICHARD [_reverently_]. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., one of the +most prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. Oh, you ... oh!... oh, +how too heavenly! [_He goes back to his seat, looks up and catches +CRAWSHAW's eye, and breaks down altogether._] + +CRAWSHAW [_rising with dignity_]. Shall we discuss it seriously, or +shall we leave it? + +RICHARD. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery seriously? +"Mr. Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen words seconded the motion." +... "'Sir,' went on Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"--Oh, poor Robert! + +CRAWSHAW [_sitting down sulkily_]. You seem quite certain that I shall +take the money. + +RICHARD. I am quite certain. + +CRAWSHAW. Would _you_ take it? + +RICHARD [_hesitating_]. Well--I wonder. + +CRAWSHAW. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's in a name?" + +RICHARD. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare--_William_ +Shakespeare--said. [_Dramatically rising._] Who steals my purse with +fifty thousand in it--steals trash. [_In his natural voice._] Trash, +Robert. [_Dramatically again._] But he who filches from me my good +name of Crawshaw [_lightly_] and substitutes the rotten one of +Wurzel-- + +CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery is a very +good old name. I seem to remember some--ah--Hampshire Wurzel-Flummeries. +It is a very laudable spirit on the part of a dying man to wish +to--ah--perpetuate these old English names. It all seems to me quite +natural and straightforward. If I take this money I shall have nothing +to be ashamed of. + +RICHARD. I see.... Look here, may I ask you a few questions? I should +like to know just how you feel about the whole business? + +CRAWSHAW [_complacently folding his hands_]. Go ahead. + +RICHARD. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you and said, "My +poor man, here's five pounds for you," what would you do? Tell him to +go to the devil, I suppose, wouldn't you? + +CRAWSHAW [_humorously_]. In more parliamentary language, perhaps, +Richard. I should tell him I never took money from strangers. + +RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you would +take it? + +CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't. + +RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, _then_ you would? + +CRAWSHAW [_blandly_]. Ah, I thought you were leading up to that. That, +of course, is entirely different. + +RICHARD. Why? + +CRAWSHAW. Well--ah--wouldn't _you_ take ten thousand pounds if it were +left to you by a stranger? + +RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would +seem different. + +CRAWSHAW [_professionally_]. Ha--hum! Well--in the first place, when a +man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be certain +that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot spare. And +in the next place, it is the man's dying wish that you should have the +money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To accept becomes almost +a sacred duty. + +RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it from +him when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently refuse +him a little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter a damn to +him what happens to his money after he's dead, and therefore you can +take it without feeling any gratitude at all. + +CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that. + +RICHARD [_smiling_]. I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert. + +CRAWSHAW. No doubt you can twist it about so that-- + +RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point. +Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your hair +down the middle, shave off your mustache, and wear only one +whisker--if he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike your +appearance, took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and alter +yourself--of course you'd pocket the money and go straight to your +barber's? + +CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive. + +RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left you +five pounds in his will?--well, then twenty pounds?--a hundred +pounds?--a thousand pounds?--fifty thousand pounds?--[_Jumping up +excitedly._] It's only a question of price--fifty thousand pounds, +Robert--a pink tie with purple spots, hair parted across the back, +trousers with a patch in the seat, call myself Wurzel-Flummery--any +old thing you like, you can't insult me--anything you like, gentlemen, +for fifty thousand pounds. [_Lowering his voice._] Only you must leave +it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty--a +sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. [_He sinks back into the sofa and +relights his pipe._] + +CRAWSHAW [_rising with dignity_]. It is evidently useless to prolong +this conversation. + +RICHARD [_waving him down again_]. No, no, Robert; I've finished. I +just took the other side--and I got carried away. I ought to have been +at the Bar. + +CRAWSHAW. You take such extraordinary views of things. You must look +facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern world, and we are modern +people living in it. Take the matter-of-fact view. You may like or +dislike the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery, but you can't get away from +the fact that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed at. + +RICHARD [_wistfully_]. I don't know why people shouldn't sneeze at +money sometimes. I should like to start a society for sneezing at +fifty thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in a small way, of course; +we'd begin by sneezing at five pounds--and work up.... The trouble is +that we're all inoculated in our cradles against that kind of cold. + +CRAWSHAW [_pleasantly_]. You will have your little joke. But you know +as well as I do that it is only a joke. There can be no serious reason +why I should not take this money. And I--ah--gather that you don't +think it will affect my career? + +RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get you into +all the comic papers. + +MARGARET _comes in at this moment, to the relief of CRAWSHAW, who is +not quite certain if he is being flattered or insulted again._ + +MARGARET. Well, have you told him? + +RICHARD [_making way for her on the sofa_]. I have heard the news, +Mrs. Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion that he should have +no difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery as famous as he +has already made that of Crawshaw. At any rate I hope he will. + +MARGARET. How nice of you! + +CRAWSHAW. Well, it's settled then. [_Looking at his watch._] This +solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after all, we can +manage something about--Ah, Viola, did you want your mother? + +_Enter VIOLA._ + +VIOLA. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's Richard, so it +can't be very serious. + +RICHARD. What a reputation! + +CRAWSHAW. Well, it's over now. + +MARGARET. Viola had better know, hadn't she? + +CRAWSHAW. She'll have to know some time, of course. + +VIOLA [_sitting down firmly on the sofa_]. Of course she will. So +you'd better tell her now. I knew there was something exciting going +on this morning. + +CRAWSHAW [_embarrassed_]. Hum--ha--[_To MARGARET._] Perhaps you'd +better tell her, dear. + +MARGARET [_simply and naturally_]. Father has come into some property, +Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. But your father +doesn't think it will matter. + +VIOLA. How thrilling! What is the name, mother? + +MARGARET. Your father says it is--dear me, I shall never remember it. + +CRAWSHAW [_mumbling_]. Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA [_after a pause_]. Dick, _you_ tell me, if nobody else will. + +RICHARD. Robert said it just now. + +VIOLA. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just a--do say it +again, father. + +CRAWSHAW [_sulkily but plainly_]. Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA [_surprised_]. Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel +and like flummery? + +RICHARD. Exactly, I believe. + +VIOLA [_to herself_]. Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery--I mean they'd have +to look at you, wouldn't they? [_Bubbling over._] Oh, Dick, what a +heavenly name! Who had it first? + +RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family--that is so, isn't it, +Robert? + +CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. I said I thought that I remembered--Margaret, +can you find Burke there? [_She finds it, and he buries himself in the +families of the great._] + +MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss +Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand in +front of my glass and tell myself who I am. + +RICHARD. It's all right for _you_. You know you'll change your name +one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before. + +VIOLA [_secretly_]. H'sh! [_She smiles lovingly at him, and then says +aloud._] Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage +has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery ..." and +everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl." + +MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. Have you found it, dear? + +CRAWSHAW [_resentfully_]. This is the 1912 edition. + +MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in by +then. + +VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick, what +fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman throwing +open the door and saying-- + +MAID [_announcing_]. Mr. Denis Clifton. [_There is a little natural +confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in his summer suiting with a +bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW goes towards him and shakes +hands._] + +CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. +[_Looking doubtfully at his clothes._] Er--it is Mr. Denis Clifton, +the solicitor? + +CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. It is. I must apologize for not looking the +part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very +careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me +from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions. + +CRAWSHAW [_bewildered_]. Ah yes, quite so. But you have--ah--full +legal authority to act in this matter? + +CLIFTON. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that. + +CRAWSHAW [_introducing_]. My wife--and daughter. [_CLIFTON bows +gracefully._] My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton. + +CLIFTON [_happily_]. Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a +situation, as we say in the profession. + +RICHARD [_amused by him_]. In the legal profession? + +CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession. [_Turning to MARGARET._] I am a +writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional +secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have +thanked me for submitting my work to them. + +CRAWSHAW [_firmly_]. I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the +solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony +Clifton. + +CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a +solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say +probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the +Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced +the profession of a solicitor--[_Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW._] But you +know what these official embraces are. + +MARGARET. I'm afraid--[_She turns to her husband for assistance._] + +CLIFTON [_to RICHARD_]. Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the +Muses. + +VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely? + +CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it +that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to +produce a play, the case would be different. + +CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor for +as long as you wish. [_He puts his hat down on a chair with the papers +in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily._] Mr. Denis +Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent make-up, +his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into his +hat--[_He does so._] + +MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. I think, perhaps, Viola and I-- + +RICHARD [_making a move too_]. We'll leave you to your business, +Robert. + +CLIFTON [_holding up his hand_]. Just one moment if I may. I have a +letter for you, Mr. Meriton. + +RICHARD [_surprised_]. For me? + +CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity--oh, but I said +that before--he took it round to your rooms this morning, but found +only painters and decorators there. [_He is feeling in his pockets and +now brings the letter out._] I brought it along, hoping that Mr. +Crawshaw--but of course I never expected anything so delightful as +this. [_He hands over the letter with a bow._] + +RICHARD. Thanks. [_He puts it in his pocket._] + +CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? [_To MRS. CRAWSHAW._] One +so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own letters +are read. I think the habit they have on the stage of reading letters +aloud to each other is such a very delightful one. [_RICHARD, with a +smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while CLIFTON is talking._] + +RICHARD. Good Lord! + +VIOLA. Dick, what is it? + +RICHARD [_reading_]. "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the +pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony +Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of L50,000." + +VIOLA. Dick! + +RICHARD. "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should +take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." [_CLIFTON, with his hand on his +heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them._] + +CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. Impossible! Why should he leave any money to +you? + +VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful! + +MARGARET [_mildly_]. I don't remember ever having had a morning quite +like this. + +RICHARD [_angrily_]. Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton? + +CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the +utmost-- + +RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't +even argue about it. [_Tearing the letter into bits._] That's what I +think of your money. [_He stalks indignantly from the room._] + +VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him--[_She +hurries after him._] + +MARGARET [_with dignity_]. Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you. +[_She goes out too._] + +CLIFTON [_looking round the room_]. And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are +alone. + +CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to +explain-- + +CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking +forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning +dressing for it. [_He takes papers from his hat and moves to the +sofa._] Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning. + +CRAWSHAW [_interested, indicating the papers_]. The documents in the +case? + +CLIFTON. Oh dear, no--just something to carry in the hand. It makes +one look more like a solicitor. [_Reading the title._] "Watherston v. +Towser--_in re_ Great Missenden Canal Company." My clerk invents the +titles; it keeps him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is always +coming in. [_Frankly._] You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first real +case, and I only got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My efforts +to introduce a little picturesqueness into the dull formalities of the +law do not meet with that response that one would have expected. + +CRAWSHAW [_looking at his watch_]. Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if +you could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this +money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these +extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged to you. + +CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being entirely +frank with you. It will be a pleasure. + +CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may say +that I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as I am to +accept this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr. Antony Clifton +has seen fit--[_modestly_] one cannot say why--to bequeath to me, yet +the use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be excessively awkward. + +CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. Excessively. + +CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was absolutely +essential that the name should go with the money. + +CLIFTON. Well [_thoughtfully_], you may have the name _without_ the +money if you like. But you must have the name. + +CRAWSHAW [_disappointed_]. Ah! [_Bravely._] Of course, I have nothing +against the name, a good old Hampshire name-- + +CLIFTON [_shocked_]. My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think--you +didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery +before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the +founders of the clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran-- + +CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not a +real name at all? + +CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because--er--_I_ made +it up. + +CRAWSHAW [_outraged_]. And you have the impudence to propose, sir, +that I should take a made-up name? + +CLIFTON [_soothingly_]. Well, all names are made up some time or +other. Somebody had to think of--Adam. + +CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this trifling +with serious subjects. + +CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really.... You see, my Uncle Antony was a +rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to put it in +its proper place. The place he put it in was--er--a little below golf +and a little above classical concerts. If a man said to him, "Would +you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?" he would say--well, +it would depend what he was doing. If he were going to have a round at +Walton Heath-- + +CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way. + +CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find many +to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was nothing, +however contemptible, that a man would not do for money. One day I +suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently foolish name +attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it. He laughed at +the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I said; "leave the +same silly name to two people, two well-known people, rival +politicians, say, men whose own names are already public property. +Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched him. "Denis, my boy, +you've got it," he said. "Upon what vile bodies shall we experiment?" +We decided on you and Mr. Meriton. The next thing was to choose the +name. I started on the wrong lines. I began by suggesting names like +Porker, Tosh, Bugge, Spiffkins--the obvious sort. My uncle-- + +CRAWSHAW [_boiling with indignation_]. How _dare_ you discuss me with +your uncle, sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way whether +I am to be called--ah--Tosh--or-ah--Porker! + +CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't hear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a +humorous name--a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue--a name +expressing a sort of humorous contempt--Wurzel-Flummery! I can see now +the happy ruminating smile which came so often on my Uncle Antony's +face in those latter months. He was thinking of his two +Wurzel-Flummeries. I remember him saying once--it was at the Zoo--what +a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole Cabinet. A +whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummeries; it would have been rather jolly. + +CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if _that_ was the way you and +your uncle used to talk together at the Zoo, his death can only be +described as a merciful intervention of Providence. + +CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere, you +know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was his one +regret that from the necessities of the case he could not live to +enjoy his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it would reach him +wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I fancy, that toward +the end he became interested in spiritualism. + +CRAWSHAW [_rising solemnly_]. Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the +present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of +overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if, as +you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like him to +hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified solicitor at +all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole story of the will +and the ridiculous condition attached to it is just the tomfool joke +of a man who, by his own admission, wastes most of his time writing +unsuccessful farces. And I propose-- + +CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces, +comedies--of a whimsical nature. + +CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole +matter to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir. + +CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr. +Crawshaw? + +CRAWSHAW [_startled_]. What's that? + +CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand pounds? + +CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not refuse +it. + +CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there--and the name. Both +waiting for you. + +CRAWSHAW [_thumping the table_]. Then, sir, I accept them. I feel it +my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the +late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that you +have suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show what I +think of your story by accepting the trust which he has bequeathed to +me. You will arrange further matters with my solicitor. Good-morning, +sir. + +CLIFTON [_to himself as he rises_]. Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass of +water. [_To CRAWSHAW._] Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I express +the parting wish that your future career will add fresh luster to--my +name. [_To himself as he goes out._] Exit Mr. Denis Clifton with +dignity. [_But he has left his papers behind him. CRAWSHAW, walking +indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers and picks them up._] + +CRAWSHAW [_contemptuously_]. "Watherston v. Towser--_in re_ Great +Missenden Canal Company." Bah! [_He tears them up and throws them into +the fire. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated there as +VIOLA, followed by MERITON, comes in._] + +VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told +him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he? + +RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola. + +CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be +awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummeries in the House of +Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In any +case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola. + +VIOLA [_surprised_]. But how can we get married if he doesn't take the +money? + +CRAWSHAW [_hardly understanding_]. Married? What does this mean, +Richard? + +RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told +you before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or two. +Viola and I want to get married. + +CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on? + +RICHARD [_with a smile_]. Not very much, I'm afraid. + +VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty +thousand pounds. + +RICHARD [_sadly_]. Oh, Viola, Viola! + +CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on +matters. + +VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father? + +CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to entrust +my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself that he +throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful objection +to the name which goes with it. + +RICHARD [_in despair_]. You don't understand, Robert. + +CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good enough +for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind asking Viola +to take _your_ name, but you consider it an insult if you are asked to +take _my_ name. + +RICHARD [_miserably to VIOLA_]. Do you want to be Mrs. +Wurzel-Flummery? + +VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling. + +RICHARD [_beaten_]. Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But you'll +never understand. + +CRAWSHAW [_stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out_]. +Come, come, Richard. [_Patting him on the shoulder._] I understand +perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while +ago--it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in +practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice +our ideals for--ah--others. I shall be very proud to have you for a +son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in Parliament +together upholding the honor of the--ah--name. And perhaps now that we +are to be so closely related, you may come to feel some day that your +views could be--ah--more adequately put forward from _my_ side of the +House. + +RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it. + +CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And you +must send that solicitor a line--or perhaps a telephone message would +be better. [_He goes to the door and turns round just as he is going +out._] Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer. +[_Exit._] + +RICHARD [_holding out his hands to VIOLA_]. Come here, Mrs. +Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please, darling. +[_She comes to him._] + +RICHARD [_shaking his head sadly at her_]. I don't know what I've +done, Viola. [_Suddenly._] But you're worth it. [_He kisses her, and +then says in a low voice._] And God help me if I ever stop thinking +so! + +_Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very tactfully +with his back towards them, humming to himself._ + +RICHARD. Hullo! + +CLIFTON [_to himself_]. Now where did I put those papers? [_He hums to +himself again._] Now where--oh, I beg your pardon! I left some papers +behind. + +VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. [_As she goes out, she says to +CLIFTON._] Good-by, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice +letters. + +CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Crawshaw. + +VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds. + +CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Wurzel-Flummery. + +VIOLA [_smiling happily_]. No, not Miss, Mrs. [_She goes out._] + +CLIFTON [_looking in surprise from her to him_]. You don't mean-- + +RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton. + +CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! [_Thoughtfully to himself._] I +wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers. + +RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton! + +CLIFTON. Why poor? + +RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said to +Crawshaw about money before you came. + +CLIFTON [_thoughtfully_]. Oh! was it very--[_Brightening up._] But I +expect Uncle Antony heard. [_After a pause._] Well, I must be getting +on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in +connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company--a most intricate +case, in which my clerk and I--[_He has murmured himself across to the +fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch his +eye. He picks up one of the fragments._] Ah, yes. Well, I shall tell +my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had got quite +fond of that canal. [_He turns to go, but first says to MERITON._] So +you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton? + +RICHARD. Yes. + +CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too? + +RICHARD. Yes. + +CLIFTON [_to himself as he goes out_]. They are both taking it. [_He +stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile._] Good old Uncle +Antony--_he_ knew--_he_ knew! [_MERITON stands watching him as he +goes._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +MAID OF FRANCE[35] + +By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE + + [Footnote 35: Copyright, 1918, by Gowans and Gray. All rights + reserved. Reprinted by permission of and by special + arrangement with Harold Brighouse. Also printed in the United + States by Leroy Phillips, Boston. _Maid of France_ is fully + protected by copyright. It must not be performed by either + amateurs or professionals, without written permission. For + such permission apply to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38 Street, + New York City.] + + +Miss Horniman could hardly have foreseen the development of a +Manchester school of dramatists as the outcome of her experiment with +repertory at the Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, because her purpose was +to produce good plays irrespective of geographical limitations. But +the fact is that the project was a source of real inspiration to a +group of young Lancashire writers among whom may be mentioned Allan +Broome, Stanley Houghton, and Harold Brighouse. There is no plainer +illustration of the relations between the audience and the play, or +between the theatre and the play, or between the actor and the play +than the dramatic activity that followed the establishment of the +Abbey Theatre in Dublin and the setting up of Miss Horniman's +experiment in Manchester. + +Although in this collection, Brighouse is represented by _Maid of +France_, a play with no local Lancashire coloring, first given on July +16, 1917, in London, not Manchester (it was later produced at the +Greenwich Village Theatre in New York, beginning April 18, 1918), he +has up to the present time written seven plays about Lancashire. He +has been particularly successful in one-act drama; _Lonesome Like_, +_The Price of Coal_, and _Spring in Bloomsbury_ have been popular here +and in England. B. Iden Payne, who directed productions at the Gaiety +Theatre for some time, says: "In all Harold Brighouse's plays there is +in the acting more laughter than one would expect from the reading." A +number of Brighouse's plays have been published; in the introduction +to the latest volume,[36] he writes: "In another age than ours +play-books were a favorite, if not the only form of light reading.... +The reader mentally producing a play from the book in his hand looks +through a magic casement at what he gloriously will instead of through +a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a mere human producer." This +playwright's attitude toward the reading of plays, with its appeal to +the imagination, is one justification for a collection like the +present one. + + [Footnote 36: Harold Brighouse, _Three Lancashire Plays_, + London and New York, 1920. There is a bibliographical note at + the end.] + +Brighouse is himself a Manchester man, having been born in Eccles, a +suburb, on July 26, 1882. He was educated at the Manchester Grammar +School. Until 1913 he was engaged in business, carrying on his +literary work at the same time, but in that year he gave himself up +exclusively to writing. Besides plays, he has written fiction and +criticism. During the Great War, he was attached to the Intelligence +Staff of the Air Ministry. + + + + +MAID OF FRANCE + + +CHARACTERS + + JEANNE D'ARC. + BLANCHE, _a flower-girl._ + PAUL, _a French Poilu._ + FRED, _an English Tommy._ + GERALD SOAMES, _an English lieutenant._ + + +_THE SCENE represents one side of a square in a French town on +Christmas Eve, 1916. The buildings shown have suffered from German +shells, except the church in the center which stands immune, +protected, as it were, by the statue of Jeanne d'Arc which stands on a +pedestal, surrounded by steps in front of it. The church is lighted up +within for the midnight mass, but it is its side which presents itself +to one's view, so that the ingoing worshipers are not seen. The statue +is of the Maid in her armor. It is nearly midnight on Christmas Eve +and the lighting, which should not be too realistically obscure, +suggests faint moonlight._ + +_PAUL, a French private in war-worn uniform, stands by the steps, +gazing adoringly at the statue. He is a charmingly simple, credulous +man, in peace a peasant. To him there enters from the right, BLANCHE, +a flower-girl, in a cloak, with a basket of flowers. In face and +figure, BLANCHE must resemble the statue. She is a pert, impudent, +extremely self-possessed saleswoman, burning, however, with the fierce +light of French patriotism which, almost in spite of herself, is apt +to get the better of her. Ready as she is to trade upon PAUL's mystic +reverence for the Maid, familiarity with the statue has not bred +contempt in her. She stops by PAUL, offering her flowers with a +cajoling smile._ + + +BLANCHE. Will you buy a flower, monsieur? + +PAUL. Flower, mademoiselle? You can sell flowers at this hour when it +is nearly midnight? + +BLANCHE. There is moonlight, and I have a smile, monsieur. It is my +smile which sells the flowers. Does not monsieur agree that it is +irresistible? + +PAUL [_uneasily_]. Mademoiselle has charm. + +BLANCHE. And I have charms for you. My flowers. Will you not buy a +flower, monsieur, and I will pin it to your uniform where it will draw +all the ladies' eyes to you when you promenade on the boulevard? + +PAUL. I do not promenade. I stay here. + +BLANCHE. Here in the Square where it is dull and lonely? But on the +boulevards are lights, monsieur, and gaiety, and people promenade +because to-night is Christmas Eve. + +PAUL. Mademoiselle, you're kind. Will you be kind to me and tell me +something? + +BLANCHE. What can I tell? + +PAUL. I am only a peasant and I do not know many things. But you live +in the town and you must know. They say, mademoiselle, they have told +me, that there are miracles on Christmas Eve. + +BLANCHE. Did you believe them? + +PAUL. I did not know. I only hoped. + +BLANCHE. What did you hope? + +PAUL [_very earnestly_]. I have been told that stone can speak on +Christmas Eve. And I want, oh, mademoiselle, I want to hear the +blessed voice of our glorious Maid. + +BLANCHE. Monsieur has sentiment. + +PAUL [_pleadingly_]. You think that she will speak to me? + +BLANCHE [_dropping all banter_]. Monsieur, she speaks in stone to all +of us. She stands erect, serene, like the unconquerable spirit of +France and cries defiance at the Boche. They sent their shells like +hail and ground our homes to powder and made a desolation of our +streets, but they could not touch the statue of the Maid nor the +church she guards. + +PAUL. And she speaks! She speaks! + +BLANCHE. She is the soul of France, monsieur, defying tyranny, +invincible and unafraid. She is a message to each one of us. As the +shells fell all around and could not harm her, so must we stand +unshaken for the France we love. She speaks of freedom and +deliverance. + +PAUL. And she will speak to me? + +BLANCHE [_pityingly as she sees how literally he has taken her_]. +Perhaps. + +PAUL. What must I do, mademoiselle, to hear her voice? + +BLANCHE [_seeing in this too good an opportunity for selling a +flower_]. Will you not buy a flower for the Maid? They come from far +away, from the South where there is always sun, and so they are not +cheap. But, for a franc, you may have one lily of Lorraine to put upon +the statue of the Maid. + +PAUL. A lily of Lorraine! + +BLANCHE [_showing a flower, then taking it back tantalizingly_]. See, +monsieur! How could she refuse to speak to you if you gave her that? + +PAUL. It is the way to make her speak! [_Puts out hand for the flower +and then draws back._ ] But a franc! And I have nothing but one sou. + +BLANCHE. One sou! When flowers are so dear, and have to come so far! +Mon dieu, monsieur, but you have had a thirsty day if a sou is all +that you have left from the wineshops. + +PAUL. I did not spend it there, mademoiselle. I gave it to the church, +this church where is the statue of our Maid. + +BLANCHE [_only half scoffing_]. Monsieur is devout. + +PAUL. Not always, mademoiselle. But I was born at Domremy where she +was born and I have always adored our sainted Maid who died for +France. Perhaps because of that, perhaps without the flower, Jeanne +will speak to me at midnight when they say the statues come to life. + +BLANCHE [_touched_]. Monsieur, I do not know. Perhaps she will. But +see, here is a lily of Lorraine which I give you for the Maid. Put it +upon her statue and perhaps it will awaken her to speech. + +PAUL. Mademoiselle! [_Taking the flower._] How can I thank you? + +BLANCHE. I also am a maid of France, monsieur. You are a soldier and +you fight for France. But I must sell my flowers now. Perhaps, when I +have sold them, I will come again to see if Jeanne has spoken. + +PAUL. You think she will? + +BLANCHE. Monsieur, have faith. All things are possible on Christmas +Eve. [_She moves L. PAUL goes to the statue and puts the lily on its +breast._] + +BLANCHE. Holy Virgin, the lies I've told! What simplicity! But Jeanne +might. She might. [_Exit BLANCHE L. PAUL stands, watching. An English +lieutenant, GERALD SOAMES, enters R., carrying a small wreath of +evergreens. He is awkward and self-conscious and stops short when he +sees PAUL, annoyed in the English way at being found out in an act of +sentiment. By consequence, the little ceremony he had proposed falls +short of the impressiveness he designed for it._] + +GERALD. O Lord, there's a fellow there. Er--[_PAUL salutes._] +Oh--er--c'est ici la statue de Jeanne d'Arc, n'est-ce pas? + +PAUL. Mais oui, monsieur. + +GERALD. And that's about as far as my French will go. I say, you're +not on duty, are you? Vous n'etes pas de garde? + +PAUL. Non, monsieur. + +GERALD. No, of course you're not. Damned silly question to ask. All +the same, I wish he'd take a hint. I say. Lord, I've forgotten the +French for "have a drink." Besides, he couldn't. It's too late. I'll +just do what I came for and go. [_Puts back into pocket the coin he +had taken out._] After all, the fellow's as good a right to be here as +I have. I'll have one more shot. N'avez-vous pas des affaires? + +PAUL. Mais non, monsieur. Pas ce soir. Je suis en conge. + +GERALD. Heaven knows what that means, except that he's a fixture. Oh +well, I don't care if he does see me. He'll not know what to make of +it, anyhow. [_Up to statue._] Jeanne d'Arc, I'm putting this wreath on +your statue. It's an English wreath and it came from England. It's +English holly and English ivy and it's supposed to mean that England's +sorry for the awful things she did to you and I hope you've forgiven +us all. [_He has cap off. Now puts cap on._] I think that's all. +[_Places wreath at statue's feet. Stands erect, salutes, turns._] Hang +that French fellow. I suppose he'll think I'm mad. [_GERALD goes down +steps and off R. PAUL salutes, then goes up steps to look at the +wreath. FRED COLLEDGE, an English private, enters L. Without noticing +PAUL, he sits on the steps and lights a cigarette. In the light of his +match he sees PAUL, gives a little amused laugh and lies back making +himself comfortable, turning up coat-collar, etc. PAUL sees him, and +is shocked. Comes down steps._] + +PAUL. Monsieur! + +FRED. Hullo, cockey. How are you getting on? + +PAUL. Monsieur! This place. These steps. One does not rest upon these +steps. + +FRED. Ho yes, one does. I'm doing it, so I ought to know. + +PAUL. But here, monsieur. Outside the church. + +FRED. That's all right. The better the place the better the seat. It +ain't a feather-bed in the old house at home, but I've sort of lost +the feather-bed 'abit lately. + +PAUL. One should not sit on these steps, monsieur. + +FRED. You must like that tune, old son, the way you stick to it. And, +if you ask me, one should not do a pile of things that one's been +doing over here. Take me, now. By rights, I ought to be eating roast +beef and plum-pudding to-morrow in Every Street. Third turn on the +left below the Mile End Pavilion, but I suppose I'm the same way as +you. Going back on the train at 2 A.M. to eat my Christmas dinner in +the blooming trenches. That's you, ain't it? And it's me, too. So +let's sit down together and do an entente for an hour. Don't talk and +I'll race you to where the dreams come from. [_He pulls PAUL down +genially beside him._] + +PAUL [_sitting_]. I ought not to sit here. + +FRED. Ain't these steps soft enough for you? + +PAUL. Monsieur, you do not understand. I come from Domremy. + +FRED. Do you? I'm Mile End myself. What about it? + +PAUL. But Domremy. + +FRED. Can't say I'm much the wiser. + +PAUL. But here, monsieur. This statue. It is our glorious maid. C'est +Jeanne d'Arc. + +FRED. Ark, eh? Is that old Noah? [_Gets up to look at statue._] + +PAUL [_rising_]. Jeanne d'Arc, monsieur. She-- + +FRED. Oh, it's a lady, is it? Dressed like that for riding, I reckon. +So that's old Noah's wife, is it? Well, the old cock had a bit of +taste. + +PAUL. It is Jeanne d'Arc. You call her--what do you call her?--Joan +of-- + +FRED. Not guilty. I ain't so forward with the ladies. I don't call +them in their Christian names till I've been introduced. + +PAUL. You English call her Joan of Arc. The great Jeanne d'Arc. She-- + +FRED. Wait a bit. Now don't excite me for a moment. I'm thinking. I've +heard that name before. + +PAUL. But yes, monsieur. In history. + +FRED. That's done it. I take you, cockey. I knew it was a way back. +Well, she's nothing in my life. [_Returns to steps and sits._] + +PAUL. She is of my life. I come from Domremy. + +FRED. So you said. + +PAUL. It was her birthplace. + +FRED [_clapping him on the shoulder_]. Cockey, I'm with you now. I +know the feeling. Why, we'd a man born in our street that played +center-forward for the Arsenal. Makes you proud of the place where you +were born. Na pooed now, poor devil. Got his head blown off last +month. He was a sergeant in our lot. 'Ave a woodbine? + +PAUL. Not here, monsieur. + +FRED. Please yourself. Smoke your own. Them black things are no use to +me. It's a rum country yours, old son. Light beer and black tobacco. +But you fight on it all right. Oh yes, you fight all right. 'Ere, 'ave +a piece of chocolate to keep the cold out. My missus sent me that. + +PAUL [_accepting_]. Merci. I hope madame is well. + +FRED. Eh? Who's madame? Oh, you mean old Sally. She's all right. In +bed. That's where she is. And I'm here. But I could do with a bit of a +snooze myself. Come on, let's do a doss together. + +PAUL. A doss? + +FRED. Yus. Wait a bit. I speak French when I'm 'appy. Je vais dormir. +Vous likewise dormir. + +PAUL. I did not come to sleep, monsieur. I came to watch. + +FRED. Watch? What do you want to watch for here? No Germans here. + +PAUL. C'est la nuit de Noel, monsieur. They say the statues come to +life on Christmas Eve, and I am watching here to see if Jeanne will +breathe and move and speak to a piou-piou from Domremy. + +FRED. You know, old son, you could have scared me once with a tale +like that. But not to-day. I've been seeing life lately. If old Nelson +got down off his perch, and I met him walking in Trafalgar Square, +I'd just salute and think no more about it. You can't raise my hair +now. + +PAUL. Then you believe that she will speak? + +FRED. You go to sleep, cockey, and there's no knowing what you'll +hear. Come on, old sport. Je dormir and vous dormir, and we'll be a +blooming dormitory. [_PAUL hesitates, looks at statue, then lies by +FRED._] That's right. Lie close. Two can keep warmer than one. Oh +well, good-night all. Merry Christmas, and to hell with the Kaiser. +[_They sleep. The statue is darkened, and the lay figure of the statue +is replaced by the living JEANNE. Bells chime midnight. As they begin, +JEANNE awakes. With the first chime, light shines dimly on the statue. +By the last chime, the statue is in brilliant light and JEANNE stirs +on the pedestal and bends to the wreath. She lifts it, wondering._] + +JEANNE. The wreath is here. I did not dream it, then. I saw him come +and lay the wreath at my feet. I saw his uniform, and the uniform was +not of France. I saw his face, and it was not a Frenchman's face. I +heard his voice, and the voice was an English voice. I do not +understand. Why should the English bring a wreath to me? I do not want +their wreath. I want no favors from an Englishman. I am Jeanne d'Arc. +I am your enemy, you English, whom I made to bite the dust at Orleans +and vanquished at Patay. It was I who bore the standard into the +cathedral at Rheims when we crowned my Dauphin the anointed King of +France, and English Bedford trembled at my name. Burgundians took me +at Compiegne. Your English money bought me from them, and your English +hatred gave me up to mocking priests to try for sorcery. You called me +"Heretic," "Relapsed," "Apostate," and "Idolater," and burnt me for a +witch in Rouen market-place. And now do you lay a wreath at Jeanne's +feet? And do you think she thanks you? I scorn your wreath. This +wreath an English soldier set at Jeanne's feet. I tear it, and I +trample on it. [_FRED and PAUL have awakened during this speech. Both +are bewildered at first, like men who dream. But as JEANNE is about to +tear the wreath FRED interposes._] + +FRED. I dunno if I'm awake or asleep, but that there wreath, lady--I +say, don't tear it. I don't know nothing about it bar what you've just +said, but if any of our blokes put it there, you can take it from me +it was kindly meant. + +JEANNE. You? Who are you? You're--You're English. + +FRED [_apologetically_]. Yus. I'm English. I don't see that I can help +it, though. I just happen to be English same as a dawg. I'm sorry if +it upsets you, but I'm English all right. And--No. Blimey, I won't +apologize for it. I'm English. I'm English, and proud of it. So there! + +JEANNE. Why are the English here in France? Why do I see so many of +them? + +PAUL. Maid--Jeanne-- + +JEANNE. You! You are not English. You are a soldier of France. + +PAUL. I am of France. + +JEANNE. Then shame to you, soldier of France! Shame on a Frenchman who +can forget his pride of race and make a comrade of an Englishman! + +PAUL. Maid, you do not understand. + +JEANNE. No. I do not understand. I do not understand treachery. I do +not understand baseness, dishonor, and the perfidy of one who has +forgotten he is French. The English are the foes of France, and you +consort with them. You-- + +FRED. 'Ere, 'ere, 'alf a mo'. Steady on, lady. You've got to learn +something. All that stuff you've just been talking about the Battle of +Waterloo. It's a wash-out now. We've cut it out. This 'ere bloke +you're grousing at 'e's a friend of mine, and I'll pipe up for a +friend when 'e's being reprimanded undeserving. + +JEANNE. It is for that I blame a son of France, that he makes friends +with you. + +FRED. Well, it's your mistake. That's the worst of coming out of +history. You're out of date. If I took my great-grandmother on a +motor-bus to a picture-show, she'd have the same sort of fit that +you've got, only it's worse with you. You're further back. And I'll +tell you something. That old French froggy business is dead and gorn. +We've given it up. Time's passed when an Englishman thought he could +lick two Frenchmen with one hand tied behind his back. It's a back +number, lady. Carpentier put the lid on that. You ask Billy Wells. Us +blokes and the French, we're feeding out of one another's hands +to-day. + +JEANNE. I have seen the English and the French together in the +streets. They do not fight. + +FRED. Lord bless you, no. Provost-marshal wouldn't let 'em, if they +wanted a friendly scrap. + +JEANNE. They fraternize. I have seen them walking arm-in-arm. + +FRED. That's natural enough. + +JEANNE. Natural, for French and English! + +FRED. Yes, lady, natural. If you'd seen the Frenchies fighting, same +as I have, you'd want to walk arm-in-arm with them yourself, and be +proud to do it, too. + +PAUL. The English, are our brothers, Maid. + +FRED. Gorlummy, we're more than that. I've known brothers do the dirty +on each other. Us and the French, we're--why, we're _pals_. So that's +all right, lady. Just let me put that wreath back where you got it +from. I'm sure you'll 'urt someone's feelings if you trample on it. +[_He tries to take wreath, she prevents him._] + +JEANNE. When you have shown me why I should accept an English wreath, +perhaps I will. So far I've yet to learn why a soldier of France is +friendly with an Englishman. + +FRED. I can't show you more than this, can I? [_Links arms with +PAUL._] + +JEANNE. That is not reason. + +PAUL [_unlinking his arm_]. Perhaps I can show you reason. I who was +born at Domremy. + +JEANNE. You come from there! My home? + +PAUL. Yes. + +JEANNE. You know St. Remy's church and the Meuse and the beech-tree +where they said the fairies used to dance. The tree. Is it still +there? + +PAUL. I do not know. + +JEANNE. And the fields! The fields where I kept my father's sheep, and +the wolves would not come near when I had charge of them, and the +birds came to me and ate bread from my lap. You know those fields of +Domremy? + +PAUL. I knew them once. + +JEANNE. You knew my church. It still is there? + +PAUL. Who can say? + +JEANNE. Cannot you, who were baptized in it? + +PAUL. Jeanne, the Germans came to Domremy. I do not know if anything +is left. + +JEANNE. The Germans? But the Germans did not count when I lived there. + +FRED. No, and they'll count a sight less before so long. + +PAUL. They came like a thunderstorm, Jeanne. They swept our men away. +They tore up treaties, and they came through Belgium and ravished it, +and took us unawares. They blotted out our frontiers and came on like +the tide till even Paris heard the sound of German guns. And then the +English came, slowly at first, and just a little late, but not too +late, then more and more and all the time more English came. They +swept the Germans from the seas and drove their ships to hide. +Shoulder to shoulder they have fought for France. They hurled the +Germans back from Paris, and when their soldiers fell more came and +more. Their plowmen and their clerks, their great lords and their +scullions, all came to France to fight with us for la patrie. Their +women make munitions and-- + +FRED. Yus. I daresay. Very fine. Only that'll do. We ain't done +nothing to make a song about. + +PAUL. Our children and our children's children will make songs of what +the English did. + +FRED. You let 'em. Leave it to 'em. Way I look at it is this, lady. +There's a big swelled-headed bully, and he gets a little fellow down +and starts kicking 'im. Well, it ain't manners, and we blokes comes +along to teach 'im wot's wot. That's all there is to it. + +PAUL. There's more than I could tell in a hundred years, Jeanne. + +FRED. Then what's the good of trying? + +JEANNE. He tried because he had to make me understand your friendship +and all the noble thought and noble deed that lie behind this little +wreath. [_She raises the wreath._] + +FRED [_interposing_]. Oh, I say now, lady, go easy with that wreath, +won't you? I--I wouldn't trample it if I were you. Battle of +Waterloo's a long time ago. + +JEANNE. Don't be afraid. + +FRED. Gave me a turn to see you pick it up like that. + +JEANNE [_putting it on her head_]. The English wreath is in its right +place now. Here, on the head of Jeanne d'Arc. I'll wear that wreath +forever. Give me your hand, you English soldier. + +FRED. I've not washed since morning, lady. + +JEANNE. Your hand, that fights for France. [_She takes it._] And +yours, soldier of France. + +PAUL. Jeanne! But you--[_Holding back timidly._] + +JEANNE. I am where I would always be--[_she has a hand of +both_]--amongst my fighting men. They have set me on a pedestal and +made a saint of me, but I am better here, between you two, both +soldiers of France. They will not let me fight for France to-day. Save +for this mystic hour on Christmas Eve I am a thing of stone. But +Jeanne lives on. Her spirit fights for France to-day as Jeanne fought +five hundred years ago. And, in this hour when I am granted speech, I +say, "Fight on, fight on for France till France and Belgium are free +and the invader pays the price of treachery. And you, you English who +have come to France, and you in England who are making arms for +France, I, who have hated you, I, whom you burnt, I, Jeanne d'Arc of +Rheims and Orleans, I give you thanks. My people are your people, and +my cause your cause. Vivent! Vivent les Anglais!" [_During this speech +she drops the soldiers' hands. They resume gradually their sleeping +attitudes. JEANNE mounts her pedestal, and gives the last words from +it, then becomes stone again. The light fades to darkness, then +becomes the moonlight of the opening. BLANCHE enters L. She goes to +the steps, looks at the sleeping soldiers, and stands above them. Her +basket is empty but for one flower._] + +PAUL [_stirring and seeing her_]. Jeanne! + +BLANCHE. My name is Blanche, monsieur. + +PAUL. But I--you--[_he rises_]. Mademoiselle, you are very like-- + +BLANCHE. I am the flower-girl whom you saw before you went to sleep, +and I am very like myself, monsieur. + +PAUL. Was I asleep? [_Looks at statue._] Yes. There is Jeanne. + +BLANCHE. Where else should Jeanne be but on her pedestal? + +FRED [_stirring_]. Revelley again before you've hardly closed your +blooming eyes. [_Sits up sharply on seeing BLANCHE._] Hullo! +You're--you're--[_Turns to PAUL._] Why, cockey, it wasn't a yarn. The +statues do walk about in France. There's one of them doing it. + +PAUL. You saw her too? + +FRED. Saw her? Of course I seen her. She's there. Ain't you and me +been talking familiar with her for the last ten minutes? + +PAUL. Yes, with Jeanne. + +FRED. Took my 'and she did, and chanced the dirt. + +BLANCHE. You have been dreaming, monsieur. C'etait une reverie. + +FRED. Who's raving? Well, it may be raving, but we all raved together. +You and me and 'im, and I'll eat my bayonet raw if you didn't stand +there and take us by the hands and tell us you were that there Joan of +Arc what used to tell old Bonaparte what to do when he was in an 'ole. + +BLANCHE. It was not I. There is the statue, monsieur. [_Points to +it._] + +FRED. Where? [_Looks._] Well, that's queer. You're the dead spit and +image of 'er, too. And 'ere, 'ere, cockey! [_Takes PAUL's arm +excitedly._] + +PAUL. Monsieur? + +FRED. Look at the statue. Look at its head. Who put that wreath on it? +Did you climb up there? + +PAUL. No. + +FRED. No. You know you didn't. We saw her put it on herself. + +PAUL. But, monsieur, then you have dreamed the same dream as I. + +FRED. I saw you all right, and you saw me? + +PAUL. I saw you. + +FRED. And we both saw 'er. It's a rum go, cockey, but I told you I'd +given up being surprised. Our lot and yours we're going whacks in +licking the Germans, ain't we? Yus, and now we're going whacks in the +same dream, so that's that and chance it. Ententing again, only extra +cordial. [_Scratches head._] I don't quite see where she comes in, +though, if she ain't the statue. + +BLANCHE. I am a flower-girl, monsieur. + +FRED. Not so many flowers about you, then. + +BLANCHE. I have sold out, all but one flower, monsieur, and I came +back to see if you [_to PAUL_] had got your wish. + +PAUL. Yes, mademoiselle, I had my wish. The saints sent Jeanne to me +in a dream. + +BLANCHE. You happy man, to get your wish! + +PAUL. I am happy, mademoiselle. I have spoken with Jeanne d'Arc. + +FRED. And you and me will be speaking with our sergeants if we don't +buck up and catch that blinking train. Come on, old son, back to the +Big Stink for us. + +BLANCHE. Messieurs return to fight? + +FRED. Lord love you, no. It's only a rumor about the war. We're a +Cook's excursion on a joy-ride seeing the sights of France. [_FRED and +PAUL move R. together._] + +BLANCHE. Monsieur! + +FRED [_stopping_]. Well? + +BLANCHE. I kept one flower back. It is for you--for the brave English +soldier who goes out to fight for France. + +FRED. Don't make me homesick. Reminds me of the flower-pots on my +kitchen window-sill. [_Takes flower and produces chocolate._] 'Ere, +miss, 'ave a bit of chocolate. Made in England, that was. + +BLANCHE. Monsieur will need it for himself. + +FRED. Go on. Take it. I'm all right. It's Christmas Day and extra +rations. [_Kisses her._] + +BLANCHE. Merci, monsieur. Et bonne chance, mes braves, bonne chance. + +FRED. Oh, we'll chance it all right. Merry Christmas, old dear. [_FRED +and PAUL go off together R. BLANCHE watches them go. Lights in the +church go out. Girls enter L. as if coming from Mass, singing a +carol._] + + GIRLS + + Noel! Noel! thy babe that lies + Within the manger, Mother-Maid, + Is King of earth and Paradise, + O guard him well, Noel, Noel + Ye shepherds sing, be not afraid. + + O little hills of France, awake, + For angel hosts are chanting high, + His heart is pierced for our sake, + Noel, Noel, we guard him well, + He liveth though all else shall die. + +[_BLANCHE joins them, singing as they cross._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +SPREADING THE NEWS[37] + +By AUGUSTA GREGORY + + [Footnote 37: Copyright, in United States, 1909, by Augusta + Gregory. Reprinted by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, New + York and London. + + This play has been copyrighted and published simultaneously + in the United States and Great Britain. + + All rights reserved, including that of translation into + foreign languages. + + All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are + reserved in the United States, Great Britain, and all + countries of the Copyright Union, by the author. Performances + forbidden and right of presentation reserved. + + Application for the right of performing this play or + reading it in public should be made to Samuel French, 28 West + 38 St., New York City.] + + +Isabella Augusta Persse, later Lady Gregory, was born at Roxborough, +County Galway, Ireland, in 1859. One who saw her in the early years of +her married life describes her thus: "She was then a young woman, very +earnest, who divided her hair in the middle and wore it smooth on +either side of a broad and handsome brow. Her eyes were always full of +questions. ... In her drawing-room were to be met men of assured +reputation in literature and politics and there was always the best +reading of the times upon her tables." + +Two closely related interests have always divided Lady Gregory's +attention. Her occupation with the Irish Players has been constant, +and she has from the beginning been a director of the Abbey Theatre, +where _Spreading the News_ was first performed on December 27, 1904. +This play was also included in the American repertory of the Players, +whom Lady Gregory accompanied on their visit to the United States in +1911. The spirit that she puts into her work with them is well +illustrated by those lines of Blake which she quoted in a speech made +at a dinner given her by _The Outlook_ when she was in New York. Her +hard work having been commented on, she replied: + + "I will not cease from mental strife + Or let the sword fall from my hand + Till we have built Jerusalem + In--Ireland's--fair and lovely land." + +In her book on _Our Irish Theatre, A Chapter of Autobiography_, she +relates the story of how one day when she assembled the company for +rehearsal in Washington, D. C., she invited them to leave their work +and come with her to Mount Vernon for a holiday and picnic. "I told +them," she writes, "the holiday was not a precedent, for we might go +to a great many countries before finding so great a man to honor." +Washington, it seems, had been a friend of her grandfather's who had +been in America with his regiment. + +Her other great interest has been the folklore of Ireland. She has +been called the Irish Malory, because through her retelling of the +Irish sagas, she has popularized and made accessible the great cycles +of heroic legends. She has employed for the vernacular of these +romances and folk tales what she calls Kiltartan English, Kiltartan +being the village near her home, the dialect of which she has +assimilated and utilized. Lady Gregory has also used her historical +and legendary knowledge for the background of some of her plays. + +It is said that the original impulse that influenced Lady Gregory to +interest herself in these old Irish stories came from Yeats, her +friend and associate in the project of the Irish National Theatre. It +was his suggestion in the first place that led to her writing +_Cuchulain of Muirthemne_. "He could not have been long at Coole," +writes George Moore of Yeats, "before he began to draw her attention +to the beauty of the literature that rises among the hills and bubbles +irresponsibly, and set her going from cabin to cabin taking down +stories, and encouraging her to learn the original language of the +country, so that they might add to the Irish idiom which the peasant +had already translated into English, making in this way a language for +themselves." The influence continues, for her latest book, _Visions +and Beliefs in the West of Ireland_, contains two essays and notes +from the pen of Yeats. + +The literary association of Yeats and Lady Gregory has been a fruitful +one for Ireland. Not only has Yeats encouraged Lady Gregory's +researches into the past, but she has been of the greatest assistance +to him in his work. When he is at Coole, she writes from his +dictation, arranges his manuscript, reads to him and serves him as +literary counselor. + +Lady Gregory's life touches the life of Ireland at many points. In +addition to her literary occupations, she lectures and co-operates +actively with a number of societies that have as their aim social or +political betterment. + + + + +SPREADING THE NEWS + + +CHARACTERS + + BARTLEY FALLON. + MRS. FALLON. + JACK SMITH. + SHAWN EARLY. + TIM CASEY. + JAMES RYAN. + MRS. TARPEY. + MRS. TULLY. + JO 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 Fallon 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 Fallon 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._] Oh, 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. Oh, my poor Jack Smith! + +TIM CASEY. Did Bartley overtake him? + +MRS. TARPEY. Oh, 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 whisky. [_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 Fallon! +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 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 +night time?--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 had 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! +Oh, Bartley, what did you do at all at all? + +BARTLEY. Oh, 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. + +BARTLEY. 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 TOGETHER [_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._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + MUSIC FOR THE SONG IN THE PLAY + + THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE + + Spreading the News. + I thought, my first love, there'd be but one house + be-tween you and me, And I thought + I would find your-self coax-ing + my child on your knee. O-ver 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. + + +AUTHOR'S NOTE + +The idea of this play first came to me as a tragedy. I kept seeing as +in a picture people sitting by the roadside, and a girl passing to the +market, gay and fearless. And then I saw her passing by the same place +at evening, her head hanging, the heads of others turned from her, +because of some sudden story that had risen out of a chance word, and +had snatched away her good name. + +But comedy and not tragedy was wanted at our theatre to put beside the +high poetic work, _The King's Threshold_, _The Shadowy Waters_, _On +Baile's Strand_, _The Well of the Saints_; and I let laughter have its +way with the little play. I was delayed in beginning it for a while, +because I could only think of Bartley Fallon as dull-witted or silly +or ignorant, and the handcuffs seemed too harsh a punishment. But one +day by the seat at Duras a melancholy man who was telling me of the +crosses he had gone through at home said--"But I'm thinking if I went +to America, it's long ago to-day I'd be dead. And it's a great expense +for a poor man to be buried in America." Bartley was born at that +moment, and, far from harshness, I felt I was providing him with a +happy old age in giving him the lasting glory of that great and +crowning day of misfortune. + +It has been acted very often by other companies as well as our own, +and the Boers have done me the honor of translating and pirating it. + + + + +WELSH HONEYMOON[38] + +By JEANNETTE MARKS + + [Footnote 38: Copyright, 1912, 1916, 1917, by Jeannette + Marks. The professional and amateur stage rights of this play + are strictly reserved by the author. Application for + permission to produce the play should be made to the author, + who may be addressed in care of the publishers, Little, Brown + and Company, Boston. All rights reserved.] + + +Jeannette Marks, playwright, poet, essayist, and writer of short +stories, was born in 1875 at Chattanooga, Tennessee. She grew up in +Philadelphia, however, where her father was a member of the faculty of +the University of Pennsylvania. Her education in this country was +supplemented by a sojourn at a school in Dresden. She took her first +degree at Wellesley College in 1900, and her master's degree there in +1903. Her graduate studies were pursued at the Bodleian Library and at +the British Museum. Since 1901 she has taught English literature at +Mount Holyoke. + +The play here reprinted, _Welsh Honeymoon_, was one of the two--the +other was her _The Merry, Merry Cuckoo_--that won the Welsh National +Theatre First Prize for the best Welsh plays in November, 1911, the +year after Josephine Preston Peabody had carried off the palm at +Stratford-on-Avon. + +She writes in her preface to _Three Welsh Plays_, the collection from +which _Welsh Honeymoon_ is drawn: + +"'Poetry' and 'song' are words which convey, better than any other two +words could, the priceless gifts of the Welsh people to the world. +With their love for music, for beauty, for the significance of their +land and its folklore, their inherent romance in the difficult art of +living, they have transformed ugliness into beauty, turned loneliness +into speech, and ever recalled life to its only permanent possessions +in wonder and romance. + +"Curiously enough, the Welsh, rich in poetry and music, have been +almost altogether devoid of plays. But no one who has read those first +Welsh tales in the 'Mabinogion' (c. 1260) could for an instant think +the Cymru devoid of the dramatic instinct. The Welsh way of +interpreting experience is essentially dramatic. _The Dream of Maxen +Wledig_, _The Dream of Rhonabwy_, both from the 'Mabinogion,' are +sharply dramatic, although then and later Welsh literature remained +practically devoid of the play form. Experience dramatized is, too, +that Pilgrim's Progress of Gwalia: 'Y Bardd Cwsg' (1703). + +"Every gift of the Welsh would seem to promise the realization some +day of a great national drama, for they have not only the gift of +poetry and the power to seize the symbol--short cut through +experience--which can, even as the crutch of Ibsen's Little Eyolf, +lift a play into greatness; they have, also, natures profoundly +emotional and yet intellectually critical. They are, humanly speaking, +perfect tools for the achievement of great drama. But it is a drab +journey from those 'Mabinogion' days of wonder, coarse and crude as +they were in many ways, yet intensely vital, through the 'Bardd Cwsg' +to Twm o'r Nant (1739-1810) the so-called 'Welsh Shakespeare,' whose +Interludes might, with sufficient worrying, afford delectation to the +rock-ribbed Puritanism which has stood, as much as any other +oppression, in the way of Gwalia's full development of her genius for +beauty. + +"It was, then, a significant moment when 'The Welsh National Theatre' +came into existence with so powerful a patron as Lord Howard de +Walden, lessee of the Haymarket, and Owen Rhoscomyl (Captain Owen +Vaughan) and other gifted Welsh literati for its sponsors. And it did +not seem an insignificant moment to one person, the playwright of _The +Merry Merry Cuckoo_ and _Welsh Honeymoon_, when she learned through +her friendly agent, Curtis Brown of London, that she had received one +of the Welsh National Theatre's first prizes (1911)." + +Jeannette Marks's interest in Wales is the result of a number of +holidays spent in wandering through its highways and byways. Books of +hers like _Through Welsh Doorways_ and _Gallant Little Wales_ bespeak +an affectionate intimacy with homes and inhabitants. In the last +named, especially, the chapters called "Cambrian Cottages" and "Welsh +Wales" contain material that is highly illuminating in connection with +the interpretation of her plays. Edward Knobloch, the playwright, is +said to have pointed out to the author the dramatic situations +inherent in her short stories and sketches, a suggestion which bore +fruit in _Three Welsh Plays_. + +The first performance of _Welsh Honeymoon_ was given by the American +Drama Society in Boston in February, 1916. It has also been produced +by the Boston Women's City Club, the Vagabond Players in Baltimore, +the Hull House Players in Chicago, and the Prince Street Players in +Rochester. + + + + +WELSH HONEYMOON[39] + + +CHARACTERS + + VAVASOUR JONES. + CATHERINE JONES, _his wife_. + EILIR MORRIS, _nephew of Vavasour Jones_. + MRS. MORGAN, _the baker_. + HOWELL HOWELL, _the milliner_. + + [Footnote 39: PRONUNCIATION OF WELSH NAMES + + 1 _ch_ has, roughly, the same sound as in German or in + the Scotch _loch_. + 2 _dd_ = English _th_, roughly, in brea_th_e. + 3 _e_ has, roughly, the sound of _ai_ in d_ai_ry. + 4 _f_ = English _v_. + 5 _ff_ = English sharp _f_. + 6 _ll_ represents a sound intermediate between _the_ and _fl_. + 7 _w_ as a consonant is pronounced as in English; as a + vowel = _oo_. + 8 _y_ is sometimes like _u_ in b_u_t, but sometimes like _ee_ + in gr_ee_n. + + NOTE: _The author will gladly answer questions about + pronunciation, costuming, etc., etc._] + + +_PLACE._--_Beddgelert, a little village in North Wales._ + +_A Welsh kitchen. At back, in center, a deep ingle, with two hobs and +fire bars fixed between, on either side settles. On the left-hand side +near the fire a church; on the right, in a pile, some peat ready for +use. Above the fireplace is a mantel on which are set some brass +candlesticks, a deep copper cheese bowl, and two pewter plates. Near +the left settle is a three-legged table set with teapot, cups and +saucers for two, a plate of bread and butter, a plate of jam, and a +creamer. At the right and to the right of the door, is a tall, highly +polished, oaken grandfather's clock, with a shining brass face; to the +left of the door is a tridarn. The tridarn dresser is lined with +bright blue paper and filled with luster china. The floor is of beaten +clay, whitewashed around the edges; from the rafters of the peaked +ceiling hang flitches of bacon, hams, and bunches of onions and herbs. +On the hearth is a copper kettle singing gaily; and on either side of +the fireplace are latticed windows opening into the kitchen. Through +the door to the right, when open, may be seen the flagstones and +cottages of a Welsh village street; through latticed windows the +twinkling of many village lights._ + +_It is about half after eleven on Allhallows' Eve in the village of +Beddgelert._ + +_At rise of curtain, the windows of kitchen are closed; the fire is +burning brightly, and two candles are lighted on the mantelpiece. +VAVASOUR JONES, about thirty-five years old, dressed in a striped +vest, a short, heavy blue coat, cut away in front, and with +swallowtails behind, and trimmed with brass buttons, and somewhat +tight trousers down to his boot tops, is standing by the open door at +the right, looking out anxiously on to the glittering, rain-wet +flagstone street and calling after someone._ + + +VAVASOUR[40] [_calling_]. Kats, Kats, mind ye come home soon from +Pally Hughes's! + + [Footnote 40: The _a_'s are broad throughout, i. e., Kats is + pronounced Kaats; Vavasour is Vavasoor: _ou_ is oo.] + +CATHERINE [_from a distance_]. Aye, I'm no wantin' to go, but I must. +Good-by! + +VAVASOUR. Good-by! Kats, ye mind about comin' home? [_There is no +reply, and VAVASOUR looks still further into the rain-wet street. He +calls loudly and desperately._] Kats, Kats darlin', I cannot let you +go without tellin' ye that--Kats, do ye hear? [_There is still no +reply and after one more searching of the street, VAVASOUR closes the +door and sits down on the end of the nearest settle._] + +VAVASOUR. Dear, dear, she's gone, an' I may never see her again, an' +I'm to blame, an' she didn't know whatever that in the night--[_Loud +knocking on the closed door; VAVASOUR jumps and stands irresolute._] +The devil, it can't be comin' for her already? [_The knocking grows +louder._] + +VOICE [_calling_]. Catherine, Vavasour, are ye in? + +VAVASOUR [_opening the door_]. Aye, come in, whoever ye are. [_MRS. +MORGAN, the Baker, dressed in a scarlet whittle and freshly starched +white cap beneath her tall Welsh beaver hat, enters, shaking the rain +from her cloak._] + +MRS. MORGAN. Where's Catherine? + +VAVASOUR. She's gone, Mrs. Morgan. + +MRS. MORGAN. Gone? Are ye no goin'? Not goin' to Pally Hughes's on +Allhallows' Eve? + +VAVASOUR [_shaking his head and looking very white_]. Nay, I'm no +feelin' well. + +MRS. MORGAN. Aye, I see ye're ill? + +VAVASOUR. Well, I'm not ill, but I'm not well. Not well at all, Mrs. +Morgan. + +MRS. MORGAN. We'll miss ye, but I must hurryin' on whatever; I'm late +now. Good-night! + +VAVASOUR [_speaking drearily_]. Good-night! [_He closes the door and +returns to the settle, where he sits down by the pile of peat and +drops his head in his hand. Then he starts up nervously for no +apparent cause and opens one of the lattice windows. With an +exclamation of fear, he slams it to and throws his weight against the +door. Calling and holding hard to the door._] Ye've no cause to come +here! Ye old death's head, get away! [_Outside there is loud pounding +on the door and a voice shouting for admittance. VAVASOUR is obliged +to fall back as the door is gradually forced open, and a head is +thrust in, a white handkerchief tied over it._] + +HOWELL HOWELL [_seeing the terror-stricken face of VAVASOUR_]. Well, +man, what ails ye; did ye think I was a ghost? [_HOWELL HOWELL, the +Milliner, in highlows and a plum-colored coat, a handkerchief on his +hat, enters, stamping off the rain and closing the door. He carefully +wipes off his plum-colored sleeves and speaks indignantly._] Well, +man, are ye crazy, keepin' me out in the rain that way? Where's +Catherine? + +VAVASOUR [_stammering_]. She's at P-p-p-ally Hughes's. + +HOWELL HOWELL. Are ye no goin'? + +VAVASOUR. Nay, Howell Howell, I'm no goin'. + +HOWELL HOWELL. An' dressed in your best? What's the matter? Have ye +been drinkin' whatever? + +VAVASOUR [_wrathfully_]. Drinkin'! I'd better be drinkin' when +neighbors go walkin' round the village on Allhallows' Eve with their +heads done up in white. + +HOWELL HOWELL. Aye, well, I can't be spoilin' the new hat I have, +that I cannot. A finer beaver there has never been in my shop. [_He +takes off the handkerchief, hangs it where the heat of the fire will +dry it a bit, and then, removing the beaver, shows it to VAVASOUR, +turning it this way and that._] + +VAVASOUR [_absent-mindedly_]. Aye, grand, grand, man! + +HOWELL HOWELL. What are ye gazin' at the clock for? + +VAVASOUR [_guiltily_]. I'm no lookin' at anything. + +HOWELL HOWELL. Well, indeed, I must be goin', or I shall be late at +Pally Hughes's. Good-night. + +VAVASOUR. Good-night. [_He closes the door and stands before the +clock, studying it. While he is studying its face the door opens +slowly, and the tumbled, curly head of a lad about eighteen years of +age peers in. The door continues slowly to open. VAVASOUR unconscious +all the while._] 'Tis ten now. Ten, eleven, twelve; that's three hours +left, 'tis; nay, nay, 'tis only two hours left, after all, an' then-- + +EILIR MORRIS [_bounding in and shutting the door behind him with a +bang_]. Boo! Whoo--o--o! + +VAVASOUR [_his face blanched, dropping limply on to the settle_]. The +devil! + +EILIR MORRIS [_troubled_]. Uch, the pity, Uncle! I didn't think, an' +ye're ill! + +VAVASOUR. Tut, tut, 'tis no matter, an' I'm not ill--not ill at all, +but Eilir, lad, ye're kin, an'--could ye promise never to tell? + +EILIR MORRIS [_who thinks his uncle has been drinking, speaks to him +as if he would humor his whim_]. Aye, Uncle, I'm kin, an' I promise. +Tell on. What is it? Are ye sick? + +VAVASOUR [_drearily_]. Uch, lad, I'm not sick! + +EILIR MORRIS. Well, what ails ye? + +VAVASOUR. 'Tis Allhallows' Eve an'-- + +EILIR MORRIS. Aren't ye goin' to Pally Hughes's? + +VAVASOUR [_moaning and rising_]. Ow, the devil, goin' to Pally +Hughes's while 'tis drawin' nearer an' nearer an'--Ow! 'Tis the night +when Catherine must go. + +EILIR MORRIS. When Aunt Kats must go! What do you mean? + +VAVASOUR. She'll be dead to-night at twelve. + +EILIR MORRIS [_bewildered_]. Dead at twelve? But she's at Pally +Hughes's. Does she know it? + +VAVASOUR. No, but I do, an' to think I've been unkind to her! I've +tried this year to make up for it, but 'tis no use, lad; one year'll +never make up for ten of harsh words, whatever. Ow! [_Groaning, +VAVASOUR collapses on to the settle and rocks to and fro, moaning +aloud._] + +EILIR MORRIS [_mystified_]. Well, ye've not been good to her, Uncle, +that's certain; but ye've been different the past year. + +VAVASOUR [_sobbing_]. Aye, but a year'll not do any good, an' she'll +be dyin' at twelve to-night. Ow! I've turned to the scriptures to see +what it says about a man an' his wife, but it'll no do, no do, no do! + +EILIR MORRIS. Have ye been drinkin', Uncle? + +VAVASOUR [_hotly_]. Drinkin'! + +EILIR MORRIS. Well, indeed, no harm, but, Uncle, I cannot understand +why Aunt Kats's goin' an' where. + +VAVASOUR [_rising suddenly from the settle and seizing EILIR by the +coat lapel_]. She's goin' to leave me, lad; 'tis Allhallows' Eve +whatever! An' she'll be dyin' at twelve. Aye, a year ago things were +so bad between us, on Allhallows' Eve I went down to the church porch +shortly before midnight to see whether the spirit of your Aunt Kats +would be called an'-- + +EILIR MORRIS. Uncle, 'twas fair killin' her! + +VAVASOUR. I wanted to see whether she would live the twelve months +out. An' as I was leanin' against the church wall, hopin', aye, lad, +prayin' to see her spirit there, an' know she'd die, I saw somethin' +comin' 'round the corner with white over its head. + +EILIR MORRIS [_wailing_]. Ow--w! + +VAVASOUR. It drew nearer an' nearer, an' when it came in full view of +the church porch, it paused, it whirled around like that, an' sped +away with the shroud flappin' about its feet, an' the rain beatin' +down on its white hood. + +EILIR MORRIS [_wailing again_]. Ow--w! + +VAVASOUR. But there was time to see that it was the spirit of +Catherine, an' I was glad because my wicked prayer had been answered, +an' because with Catherine dyin' the next Allhallows', we'd have to +live together only the year out. + +EILIR MORRIS [_raising his hand_]. Hush, what's that? + +VAVASOUR. 'Tis voices whatever. [_Both listen, EILIR goes to the +window, VAVASOUR to the door. The voices become louder._] + +EILIR MORRIS. They're singin' a song at Pally Hughes's. [_Voices are +audibly singing:_] + + Ni awn adre bawb dan ganu, + Ar hyd y nos; + Saif ein hiaith safo Cymru, + Ar hyd y nos; + Bydded undeb a brawdgarwch + Ini'n gwlwm diogelwch, + Felly canwn er hyfrydwch, + Ar hyd y nos. + + Sweetly sang beside a fountain, + All through the night, + Mona's maiden on that mountain, + All through the night. + When wilt thou, from war returning, + In whose breast true love is burning, + Come and change to joy my mourning, + By day and night? + +VAVASOUR. Aye, they're happy, an' Kats does not know. I went home that +night, lad, thinkin' 'twas the last year we'd have to live together, +an', considerin' as 'twas the last year, I might just as well try to +be decent an' kind. An' when I reached home, Catherine was up waitin' +for me an' spoke so pleasantly, an' we sat down an' had a long +talk--just like the days when we were courtin'. + +EILIR MORRIS. Did she know, Uncle? + +VAVASOUR [_puzzled_]. Nay, how could she know. But she seems +queer,--as if she felt the evil comin'. Well, indeed, each day was +sweeter than the one before, an' we were man an' wife in love an' +kindness at last, but all the while I was thinkin' of that figure by +the churchyard. Lad, lad, ye'll be marryin' before long,--be good to +her, lad, be good to her! [_VAVASOUR lets go the lapels of EILIR's +coat and sinks back on to the settle, half sobbing. Outside the roar +of wind and rain growing louder can be heard._] + +VAVASOUR [_looking at the clock_]. An' here 'tis Allhallows' Eve +again, an' the best year of my life is past, an' she must die in an +hour an' a half. Ow, ow! It has all come from my own evil heart an' +evil wish. Think, lad, prayin' for her callin'; aye, goin' there, +hopin' ye'd see her spirit, an' countin' on her death! + +EILIR MORRIS [_mournfully_]. Aye, Uncle, 'tis bad, an' I've no word to +say to ye for comfort. I recollect well the story Granny used to tell +about Christmas Pryce; 'twas somethin' the same whatever. An' there +was Betty Williams was called a year ago, an' is dead now; an' there +was Silvan Griffith, an' Geffery, his friend, an' Silvan had just time +to dig Geffery's grave an' then his own, too, by its side, an' they +was buried the same day an' hour. + +VAVASOUR [_wailing_]. Ow--w--w! [_At that moment the door is blown +violently open by the wind; both men jump and stare out into the dark +where only the dimmed lights of the rain-swept street are to be seen, +and the very bright windows of Pally Hughes's cottage._] + +EILIR MORRIS. Uch, she'll be taken there! + +VAVASOUR. Aye, an', Eilir, she was loath to go to Pally's, but I could +not tell her the truth. + +EILIR MORRIS. Are ye not goin', Uncle? + +VAVASOUR. Nay, lad, I cannot go. I'm fair crazy. I'll just be stayin' +home, waitin' for them to bring her back. Ow--w--w! + +EILIR MORRIS. Tut, tut, Uncle, I'm sorry. I'll just see for ye what +they're doin'. [_EILIR steps out and is gone for an instant. He comes +back excitedly._] + +VAVASOUR [_shouting after him_]. Can ye see her, lad? + +EILIR MORRIS [_returning_]. Dear, they've a grand display, raisins an' +buns, an' spices an' biscuits-- + +VAVASOUR. But your Aunt Kats? + +EILIR MORRIS. Aye, an' a grand fire, an' a tub with apples in it an'-- + +VAVASOUR. But Catherine? + +EILIR MORRIS. Aye, she was there near the fire, an' just as I turned, +they blew the lights out. + +VAVASOUR. Blew the lights out! Uch, she'll be taken there whatever! + +EILIR MORRIS. They're tellin' stories in the dark. + +VAVASOUR. Go back again an' tell what ye can see of your Aunt Kats, +lad. + +EILIR MORRIS. Aye. + +VAVASOUR [_shouting after him_]. Find where she's sittin', lad--make +certain of that. + +EILIR MORRIS [_running in breathless_]. They're throwin' nuts on the +fire-- + +VAVASOUR. Is she there? + +EILIR MORRIS. I'm thinkin' she is, but old Pally Hughes was just +throwin' a nut on the fire an'-- + +VAVASOUR [_impatiently_]. 'Tis no matter about Pally Hughes whatever, +but your Aunt Kats, did-- + +EILIR MORRIS. There was only the light of the fire; I did not see her, +but I'll go again. + +VAVASOUR. Watch for her nut an' see does it burn brightly. + +EILIR MORRIS [_going out_]. Aye. + +VAVASOUR [_calling after_]. Mind, I'm wantin' to know what she's +doin'. [_He has scarcely spoken the last word when a great commotion +is heard: a door across the street being slammed to violently, and the +sound of running feet. VAVASOUR straightens up, his eyes in terror on +the door, which CATHERINE JONES throws open and bursts through._] + +VAVASOUR [_holding out his arms_]. Catherine, is it really ye! +[_CATHERINE, after a searching glance at him, draws herself up. +VAVASOUR draws himself up, too, and then stoops to pick up some peat +which he puts on the fire, and crosses over to left and sits down on +the settle near the chimney, without having embraced her. CATHERINE's +face is flushed, her eyes wild under the pretty white cap she wears, a +black Welsh beaver above it. She is dressed in a scarlet cloak, under +this a tight bodice and short, full skirt, bright stockings, and clogs +with brass tips. Her apron is of heavy linen, striped; over her breast +a kerchief is crossed, and from the elbows down to the wrist are full +white sleeves stiffly starched._] + +CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, 'twas dull at Pally's--very dull. My nut didn't +burn very brightly, an'--an'--well, indeed, my feet was wet, an' I +feared takin' a cold. + +VAVASOUR. Yiss, yiss, 'tis better for ye here, dearie. [_Then there is +silence between them. CATHERINE still breathes heavily from the +running, and VAVASOUR shuffles his feet. While they are both sitting +there, unable to say a word, the door opens without a sound, and +EILIR's curly head is thrust in. A guttural exclamation from him makes +them start and look towards the door, but he closes it before they can +see him. CATHERINE then takes off her beaver and looks at VAVASOUR. +VAVASOUR opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again._] + +VAVASOUR [_desperately_]. Did ye have a fine time at Pally's? + +CATHERINE. Aye, 'twas gay an' fine an'--an'--yiss, yiss, so 'twas an' +so 'twasn't. + +VAVASOUR [_his eyes seeking the clock_]. A quarter past eleven, uch! +Katy, do ye recall Pastor Evan's sermon, the one he preached last New +Year? + +CATHERINE [_also glancing at the clock_]. Sixteen minutes after +eleven--yiss--yiss-- + +VAVASOUR [_catching CATHERINE's glance at the clock_]. Well, +Catherine, do-- + +CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, I said I did whatever. 'Twas about inheritin' +the grace of life together. + +VAVASOUR. Kats, dear, wasn't he sayin' that love is eternal, an' +that--a man--an'--an'--his wife was lovin' for--for-- + +CATHERINE [_glancing at the clock and meeting VAVASOUR's eyes just +glancing away from the clock_]. Aye, lad, for ever-lastin' life! Uch, +what have I done? + +VAVASOUR [_unheeding and doubling up as if from pain_]. Half after +eleven! Yiss, yiss, dear, didn't he say that the Lord was mindful of +us--of our difficulties, an' our temptations an' our mistakes? + +CATHERINE [_tragically_]. Aye, an' our mistakes. Ow, ow, ow, but a +half hour's left! + +VAVASOUR. Do ye think, dearie, that if a man were to--to--uch!--be +unkind to his wife--an' was sorry an' his wife--his wife dies, that +he'd be--be-- + +CATHERINE [_tenderly_]. Aye, I'm thinkin' so. An', lad dear, do ye +think if anythin' was to happen to ye to-night,--yiss, _this_ +night,--that ye'd take any grudge against me away with ye? + +VAVASOUR [_stiffening_]. Happen to _me_, Catherine? [_VAVASOUR +collapses, groaning. CATHERINE goes to his side on the settle._] + +CATHERINE [_in an agonized voice_]. Uch, dearie, what is it, what is +it, what ails ye? + +VAVASOUR [_slanting an eye at the clock_]. Nothin', nothin' at all. +Ow, the devil, 'tis twenty minutes before twelve whatever! + +CATHERINE. Lad, lad, what is it? + +VAVASOUR. 'Tis nothin', nothin' at all--'tis--ow!--'tis just a little +pain across me. + +CATHERINE [_her face whitening as she steals a look at the clock and +puts her arm around VAVASOUR_]. Vavasour, lad dear, is that the wind +in the chimney? Put your arm about me an' hold fast. + +VAVASOUR [_both hands across his stomach, his eyes on the clock_]. +Ow--ten minutes! + +CATHERINE [_shaking all over_]. Is that a step at the door? + +VAVASOUR [_unheeding_].'Tis goin' to strike now in a minute. + +CATHERINE [_her eyes in horror on the clock_]. Five minutes before +twelve! + +VAVASOUR [_almost crying, his eyes fixed on the clock's face_]. Uch, +the toad, the serpent! + +CATHERINE [_her face in her hands_]. Dear God, he's goin' now! + +VAVASOUR [_covering his eyes_]. Uch, the devil! Uch, the gates of +hell! [_CATHERINE cries out. VAVASOUR groans loudly. The clock is +striking: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, +Eleven, Twelve! The last loud clang vibrates and subsides. Through a +chink in her fingers CATHERINE is peering at VAVASOUR. Through a +similar chink his agonized eyes are peering at her._] + +CATHERINE [_gulping_]. Uch! + +VAVASOUR. The devil! + +CATHERINE [_putting out her hand to touch him_]. Lad, dear! [_They +embrace, they kiss, they dance madly about. Then they do it all over +again. While they are doing this, EILIR opens the door again and +thrusts in his head. He stares open-eyed, open-mouthed at them, and +leans around the side of the door to see what time it is, saying +audibly "five minutes past twelve," grunts his satisfaction, and +closes the door._] + +VAVASOUR [_mad with joy_]. Kats, are ye here, really here? + +CATHERINE [_surprised_]. Am _I_ here? Tut, lad, are _ye_ here? + +VAVASOUR [_shrewdly_]. Yiss, that is are we _both_ here? + +CATHERINE [_perplexed_]. Did ye think I wasn't goin' to be? + +VAVASOUR [_suppressed intelligent joy in his eyes_]. No--o, not that, +only I thought, I thought ye was goin' to--to--faint, Kats. I thought +ye looked like it, Kats. + +CATHERINE [_the happiness on her face vanishing, sinks on to the +nearest settle_]. Uch, I'm a bad, bad woman, aye, Vavasour Jones, a +_bad_ woman! + +VAVASOUR [_puzzled, yet lightly_]. Nay, Kats, nay! + +CATHERINE [_desperately and almost in tears_]. Ye cannot believe what +I must tell ye. Lad, a year ago this night I went to the church porch, +hopin', aye, prayin', ye'd be called, that I'd see your spirit +walkin'. + +VAVASOUR [_starting and recovering himself_]. Catherine, ye did that! + +CATHERINE [_plunging on with her confession_]. Aye, lad, I did, I'd +been so unhappy with the quarrelin' an' hard words. I could think of +nothin' but gettin' rid of them. + +VAVASOUR [_in a tone of condemnation and standing over her_]. That was +bad, very bad indeed! + +CATHERINE. An' then, lad, when I reached the church corner an' saw +your spirit was really there, _really_ called, an' I knew ye'd not +live the year out, I was frightened, but uch! lad, I was glad, I was +indeed. + +VAVASOUR [_looking grave_]. Catherine, 'twas a terrible thing to do! + +CATHERINE [_meekly_]. Yiss, I know it now, but I didn't then. I was +hard-hearted, an' I was weak with longin' to escape from it all. An' +when I ran home I was frightened, but uch! lad, I was glad, too, an' +now it hurts me so to think of it. Can you no comfort me? + +VAVASOUR [_grudgingly, but not touching CATHERINE's outstretched +hand_]. Aye, well, I could, but, Kats, 'twas such a terrible thing to +do! + +CATHERINE. Yiss, yiss, ye'll never be able to forgive me, I'm +thinkin'. An' then when ye came in from the lodge, ye spoke so +pleasantly to me that I was troubled. An' now the year through it has +grown better an' better, an' I could think of nothin' but lovin' ye, +an' wishing' ye to live, an' knowin' I was the cause of your bein' +called. Uch, lad, _can_ ye forgive me? + +VAVASOUR [_slowly_]. Aye, I can, none of us is without sin; but, +Catherine, it was wrong, aye, aye, 'twas a wicked thing for a woman to +do. + +CATHERINE [_still more meekly_]. An' then to-night, lad, I was +expectin' ye to go, knowin' ye couldn't live after twelve, an' ye +sittin' there so innocent an' mournful. An' when the time came, I +wanted to die myself. Uch! + +VAVASOUR [_sitting down beside her and putting an arm about her as he +speaks in a superior tone of voice_]. No matter, dearie, now. It _was_ +wrong in ye, but we're still here, an' it's been a sweet year, yiss, +better nor a honeymoon, an' all the years after we'll make better nor +this. There, there, Kats, let's have a bit of a wassail to celebrate +our Allhallows' honeymoon, shall we? + +CATHERINE [_starting to fetch a bowl_]. Yiss, lad, 'twould be fine, +but, Vavasour, can ye forgive me, think, lad, for hopin', aye, an' +prayin' to see your spirit called, just wishin' that ye'd not live the +year out? + +VAVASOUR [_with condescension_]. Kats, I can, an' I'm not layin' it up +against ye, though 'twas a wicked thing for ye to do--for anyone to +do. Now, darlin', fetch the bowl. + +CATHERINE [_starting for the bowl again but turning on him_]. +Vavasour, how does it happen that the callin' is set aside, an' that +ye're really here? Such a thing has not been in Beddgelert in the +memory of man. + +VAVASOUR [_with dignity_]. I'm not sayin' how it's happened, Kats, but +I'm thinkin' 'tis modern times whatever, an' things have changed--aye, +indeed, 'tis modern times. + +CATHERINE [_sighing contentedly_]. Good! 'Tis lucky 'tis modern times +whatever! + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +RIDERS TO THE SEA[41] + +By JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE + + [Footnote 41: Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. Reprinted by + special arrangement with John W. Luce & Company, Boston. + Acting rights in the hands of Samuel French, 28 West 38 + Street, New York.] + + +"He was of a dark type of Irishman, though not black-haired. Something +in his air gave one the fancy that his face was dark from gravity. +Gravity filled the face and haunted it, as though the man behind were +forever listening to life's case before passing judgment.... When +someone spoke to him he answered with grave Irish courtesy. When the +talk became general he was silent.... His manner was that of a man too +much interested in the life about him to wish to be more than a +spectator. His interest was in life, not in ideas." In these words, +John Masefield gives his first impressions of John Millington Synge, +whom he met at a friend's house, in London, in January, 1903. + +Synge, born April 16, 1871, at Newton Little, near Dublin, and dying +in Dublin, March 24, 1909, belongs to that group of "inheritors of +unfulfilled renown" who died before the prime of life was reached. He +left six plays, notable the _Riders to the Sea_ and _Deirdre of the +Sorrows_, that are among the greatest in our language. He was delicate +from the beginning, and after some education in private schools in +Dublin and Bray, left school when about fourteen and studied with a +tutor. In 1892 he took his B.A. degree from Trinity College, Dublin, +whose rolls contain a number of names famous in English literature. +While at college, he studied music at the Royal Irish Academy of +Music, where he won a scholarship. His first impulse was to make music +his career, and he spent portions of the next four years in Germany, +France, and Italy studying music and traveling. In May, 1898, he first +went to the Aran Islands, later to be the scene of _Riders to the +Sea_. Thereafter in Paris in 1899 he met Yeats, who advised him to go +back to the Aran Islands to renew his contact with the simple folk +there. For the next three years he divided his time between Paris and +Ireland. It was in 1904 that his play, _Riders to the Sea_,[42] was +first produced. He was at Dublin that same year for the opening of the +Abbey Theatre, of which he was one of the advisers. Whenever the Irish +Players visited England, he traveled with them. In 1909 came the +operation that ended his life. + + [Footnote 42: For a list of Synge's other plays, see E. A. + Boyd, _The Contemporary Drama of Ireland_, Boston, 1917.] + +Synge's book, _The Aran Islands_, which is a record of his various +visits to these three islands lying about thirty miles off the coast +of County Galway, is full of material that throws light on the setting +and characterization of _Riders to the Sea_. The central incident in +this play was suggested to Synge while he was sojourning on Inishmaan, +the middle island of the Aran group, by a tale that he heard of a man +whose body had been washed up on a distant coast, and who had been +identified as belonging to the Islands, because of his characteristic +garments. When on Inishmaan, Synge himself lived in just such a +cottage as that which is the background for the tragedy of Maurya's +sons. He wrote of this cottage, "The kitchen itself, where I will +spend most of my time, is full of beauty and distinction. The red +dresses of the women who cluster round the fire on their stools give a +glow of almost Eastern richness, and the walls have been toned by the +surf-smoke to a soft brown that blends with the gray earth-color of +the floor. Many sorts of fishing-tackle, and the nets and oilskins of +the men, are hung up on the walls or among the open rafters." And the +following passage from his _Aran Islands_ is an eloquent description +of the atmosphere there: "A week of smoking fog has passed over and +given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the +island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of +wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves. + +"The slaty limestone has grown black with the water that is dripping +on it, and wherever I turn there is the same gray obsession twining +and wreathing itself among the narrow fields, and the same wail from +the wind that shrieks and whistles in the loose rubble of the walls." + +Mr. Masefield, in his recollections of Synge, reports also the +following conversation between himself and the Irish playwright: Synge +saying, "They [the islanders] asked me to fiddle to them so that they +might dance," and Mr. Masefield asking, "Do you play, then?" and Synge +answering, "I fiddle a little. I try to learn something different for +them every time. The last time I learned to do conjuring tricks. +They'd get tired of me if I didn't bring something new. I'm thinking +of learning the penny whistle before I go again." + +A later visitor[43] to the Aran Islands, Miss B. N. Hedderman, a +district nurse, gives further evidences of the simplicity of those +people from whom the characters of _Riders to the Sea_ were drawn. She +tells of a man who owned a house with two comfortable rooms in it, one +of which he leveled ruthlessly because he had dreamed that it hindered +the passage of the "good people." The illustrations in her little book +showing cottage interiors and peasant costumes will be found useful by +groups who are planning to produce _Riders to the Sea_. But the best +guide to the costumes and social life of the West of Ireland is J. B. +Yeats.[44] + + [Footnote 43: B. N. Hedderman, _Glimpses of My Life in Aran_, + Bristol, 1917.] + + [Footnote 44: J. B. Yeats, _Life in the West of Ireland_, + Dublin and London, 1912. The color prints and line drawings + in this book are very beautiful. Cf. also J. M. Synge, _The + Aran Islands_. With drawings by Jack B. Yeats, Dublin and + London, 1907.] + +The _Drama Calendar_ of December 13, 1920, offers the following +suggestion for a musical setting for the play: "The attention of +Little Theatre directors is called to a musical prelude to Synge's +_Riders to the Sea_, arranged by Henry F. Gilbert from the Symphonic +Prologue, which was played at the Worcester Musical Festival this +fall. This original arrangement of the material is intended to build +the mood which the play sustains, and is simply orchestrated for seven +instruments. Every Little Theatre should be able to gather such an +orchestra. Here is an opportunity to give continuity to a program of +one-acts; music answers a question which is one of the hardest the +director has to solve: how a mood which is to be created and sustained +in the brief space of twenty minutes shall not be too fleeting." + + + + +RIDERS TO THE SEA + +_A PLAY IN ONE ACT_ + +_First performed at the Molesworth Hall, Dublin, February 25, 1904._ + + +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, oil-skins, 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 may be 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? + +NORA. 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 forever. [_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 [_after 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? + +MAURYA [_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 north-east? + +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'ld 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 forever, and we must be satisfied. +[_She kneels down again and the curtain falls slowly._] + + + + +A NIGHT AT AN INN[45] + +_A PLAY IN ONE ACT_ + +By LORD DUNSANY + + [Footnote 45: Copyright, 1916, by The Sunwise Turn, Inc. All + rights reserved. The professional and amateur stage rights on + this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications + for permission to produce the Play should be made to The + Neighborhood Playhouse, 466 Grand Street, New York. + + Any infringement of the author's rights will be punished by + the penalties imposed under the United States Revised + Statutes, Title 60, Chapter 3.] + + +Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, eighteenth baron Dunsany, was born +in 1878, a lord of the British Empire, heir to an ancient barony, +created by Henry VI in the middle of the fifteenth century. He went +from Eton to Sandhurst, the English military college, held a +lieutenancy in a famous regiment, the Coldstream Guards, saw active +service in the South African War and served in the Great War as an +officer in the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. He turned aside from his +career as a soldier in 1906 to stand for West Wiltshire as the +Conservative candidate, but he was defeated. He writes enthusiastically +always of his interest in sport; he has gone to the ends of the earth +to shoot big game. His first book, _The Gods of Pegana_, was published +in 1905. He has since written sketches, fantastic tales, and +plays,[46] and latterly introductions to the poems of Francis +Ledwidge, the Irish peasant poet, who fell in battle in 1917. +Dunsany's early plays were put on at the Abbey Theatre where Yeats +produced _The Glittering Gate_ in 1909. + + [Footnote 46: For bibliography see E. A. Boyd, _The + Contemporary Drama of Ireland_, Boston, 1917.] + +The initial American productions were also made in Little Theatres, +under the auspices of the Stage Society of Philadelphia and at The +Neighborhood Playhouse in New York, where the first performance on any +stage of _A Night at an Inn_ was given on April 22, 1916. It was an +immediate success and aroused great general interest in Dunsany's +other plays. It was remarked at the time that its scene on an English +moor was far from "his own Oriental Never Never Land," and that it +recalled in its substance _The Moonstone_ by Wilkie Collins and _The +Mystery of Cloomber_ by A. Conan Doyle. Dunsany, unlike the other +playwrights associated with the Irish National Theatre, has borrowed +the glamour of the Orient rather than that of Celtic lore, to heighten +his dramatic effects. There is, in fact, much that is Biblical in his +mood and in his diction. + +When, at a later date, Lord Dunsany saw the production of _A Night at +an Inn_ at The Neighborhood Playhouse, the effect of the play +"exceeded his own expectations, and he was surprised to note the +thrill which it communicated to his audience. 'It's a very simple +thing,' he said,--'merely a story of some sailors who have stolen +something and know that they are followed. Possibly it is effective +because nearly everybody, at some time or other, has done something he +was sorry for, has been afraid of retribution, and has felt the hot +breath of a pursuing vengeance on the back of his neck.... _A Night at +an Inn_ was written between tea and dinner in a single sitting. That +was very easy.'"[47] + + [Footnote 47: Clayton Hamilton, _Seen on the Stage_, New + York, 1920, p. 238; p. 239.] + +_A Night at an Inn_ is one of Dunsany's contributions to the revival +of romance in our generation. In an article published ten years ago, +called _Romance and the Modern Stage_, he wrote: "Romance is so +inseparable from life that all we need, to obtain romantic drama, is +for the dramatist to find any age or any country where life is not too +thickly veiled and cloaked with puzzles and conventions, in fact to +find a people that is not in the agonies of self-consciousness. For +myself, I think it is simpler to imagine such a people, as it saves +the trouble of reading to find a romantic age, or the trouble of +making a journey to lands where there is no press.... The kind of +drama that we most need to-day seems to me to be the kind that will +build new worlds for the fancy; for the spirit, as much as the body, +needs sometimes a change of scene." + + + + +A NIGHT AT AN INN + + +CHARACTERS + + A. E. SCOTT-FORTESQUE (The Toff), _a dilapidated gentleman._ + WILLIAM JONES (Bill) } + ALBERT THOMAS } _merchant sailors._ + JACOB SMITH (Sniggers) } + First Priest of Klesh. + Second Priest of Klesh. + Third Priest of Klesh. + Klesh. + + +_The curtain rises on a room in an inn. SNIGGERS and BILL are talking, +THE TOFF is reading a paper. ALBERT sits a little apart._ + + +SNIGGERS. What's his idea, I wonder? + +BILL. I don't know. + +SNIGGERS. And how much longer will he keep us here? + +BILL. We've been here three days. + +SNIGGERS. And 'aven't seen a soul. + +BILL. And a pretty penny it cost us when he rented the pub. + +SNIGGERS. 'Ow long did 'e rent the pub for? + +BILL. You never know with him. + +SNIGGERS. It's lonely enough. + +BILL. 'Ow long did you rent the pub for, Toffy? [_THE TOFF continues +to read a sporting paper; he takes no notice of what is said._] + +SNIGGERS. 'E's _such_ a toff. + +BILL. Yet 'e's clever, no mistake. + +SNIGGERS. Those clever ones are the beggars to make a muddle. Their +plans are clever enough, but they don't work, and then they make a +mess of things much worse than you or me. + +BILL. Ah! + +SNIGGERS. I don't like this place. + +BILL. Why not? + +SNIGGERS. I don't like the looks of it. + +BILL. He's keeping us here because here those niggers can't find us. +The three heathen priests what was looking for us so. But we want to +go and sell our ruby soon. + +ALBERT. There's no sense in it. + +BILL. Why not, Albert? + +ALBERT. Because I gave those black devils the slip in Hull. + +BILL. You give 'em the slip, Albert? + +ALBERT. The slip, all three of them. The fellows with the gold spots +on their foreheads. I had the ruby then and I give them the slip in +Hull. + +BILL. How did you do it, Albert? + +ALBERT. I had the ruby and they were following me.... + +BILL. Who told them you had the ruby? You didn't show it. + +ALBERT. No.... But they kind of know. + +SNIGGERS. They kind of know, Albert? + +ALBERT. Yes, they know if you've got it. Well, they sort of mouched +after me, and I tells a policeman and he says, O, they were only three +poor niggers and they wouldn't hurt me. Ugh! When I thought of what +they did in Malta to poor old Jim. + +BILL. Yes, and to George in Bombay before we started. + +SNIGGERS. Ugh! + +BILL. Why didn't you give 'em in charge? + +ALBERT. What about the ruby, Bill? + +BILL. Ah! + +ALBERT. Well, I did better than that. I walks up and down through +Hull. I walks slow enough. And then I turns a corner and I runs. I +never sees a corner but I turns it. But sometimes I let a corner pass +just to fool them. I twists about like a hare. Then I sits down and +waits. No priests. + +SNIGGERS. What? + +ALBERT. No heathen black devils with gold spots on their face. I give +'em the slip. + +BILL. Well done, Albert! + +SNIGGERS [_after a sigh of content_]. Why didn't you tell us? + +ALBERT. 'Cause 'e won't let you speak. 'E's got 'is plans and 'e +thinks we're silly folk. Things must be done 'is way. And all the time +I've give 'em the slip. Might 'ave 'ad one o' them crooked knives in +him before now but for me who give 'em the slip in Hull. + +BILL. Well done, Albert! Do you hear that, Toffy? Albert has give 'em +the slip. + +THE TOFF. Yes, I hear. + +SNIGGERS. Well, what do you say to that? + +THE TOFF. O.... Well done, Albert! + +ALBERT. And what a' you going to do? + +THE TOFF. Going to wait. + +ALBERT. Don't seem to know what 'e's waiting for. + +SNIGGERS. It's a nasty place. + +ALBERT. It's getting silly, Bill. Our money's gone and we want to sell +the ruby. Let's get on to a town. + +BILL. But 'e won't come. + +ALBERT. Then we'll leave him. + +SNIGGERS. We'll be all right if we keep away from Hull. + +ALBERT. We'll go to London. + +BILL. But 'e must 'ave 'is share. + +SNIGGERS. All right. Only let's go. [_To THE TOFF._] We're going, do +you hear? Give us the ruby. + +THE TOFF. Certainly. [_He gives them a ruby from his waistcoat pocket; +it is the size of a small hen's egg. He goes on reading his paper._] + +ALBERT. Come on, Sniggers. [_Exeunt ALBERT and SNIGGERS._] + +BILL. Good-by, old man. We'll give you your fair share, but there's +nothing to do here--no girls, no halls, and we must sell the ruby. + +THE TOFF. I'm not a fool, Bill. + +BILL. No, no, of course not. Of course you ain't, and you've helped us +a lot. Good-by. You'll say good-by? + +THE TOFF. Oh, yes. Good-by. [_Still reads his paper. Exit BILL. THE +TOFF puts a revolver on the table beside him and goes on with his +papers. After a moment the three men come rushing in again, +frightened._] + +SNIGGERS [_out of breath_]. We've come back, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. So you have. + +ALBERT. Toffy.... How did they get here? + +THE TOFF. They walked, of course. + +ALBERT. But it's eighty miles. + +SNIGGERS. Did you know they were here, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Expected them about now. + +ALBERT. Eighty miles! + +BILL. Toffy, old man ... what are we to do? + +THE TOFF. Ask Albert. + +BILL. If they can do things like this, there's no one can save us but +you, Toffy.... I always knew you were a clever one. We won't be fools +any more. We'll obey you, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. You're brave enough and strong enough. There isn't many that +would steal a ruby eye out of an idol's head, and such an idol as that +was to look at, and on such a night. You're brave enough, Bill. But +you're all three of you fools. Jim would have none of my plans, and +where's Jim? And George. What did they do to him? + +SNIGGERS. Don't, Toffy! + +THE TOFF. Well, then, your strength is no use to you. You want +cleverness; or they'll have you the way they had George and Jim. + +ALL. Ugh! + +THE TOFF. Those black priests would follow you round the world in +circles. Year after year, till they got the idol's eye. And if we died +with it, they'd follow our grandchildren. That fool thinks he can +escape from men like that by running round three streets in the town +of Hull. + +ALBERT. God's truth, _you_ 'aven't escaped them, because they're +_'ere_. + +THE TOFF. So I supposed. + +ALBERT. You _supposed_! + +THE TOFF. Yes, I believe there's no announcement in the Society +papers. But I took this country seat especially to receive them. +There's plenty of room if you dig, it is pleasantly situated, and, +what is more important, it is in a very quiet neighborhood. So I am at +home to them this afternoon. + +BILL. Well, _you're_ a deep one. + +THE TOFF. And remember, you've only my wits between you and death, and +don't put your futile plans against those of an educated gentleman. + +ALBERT. If you're a gentleman, why don't you go about among gentlemen +instead of the likes of us? + +THE TOFF. Because I was too clever for them as I am too clever for +you. + +ALBERT. Too clever for them? + +THE TOFF. I never lost a game of cards in my life. + +BILL. You never lost a game? + +THE TOFF. Not when there was money in it. + +BILL. Well, well! + +THE TOFF. Have a game of poker? + +ALL. No, thanks. + +THE TOFF. Then do as you're told. + +BILL. All right, Toffy. + +SNIGGERS. I saw something just then. Hadn't we better draw the +curtains? + +THE TOFF. No. + +SNIGGERS. What? + +THE TOFF. Don't draw the curtains. + +SNIGGERS. O, all right. + +BILL. But, Toffy, they can see us. One doesn't let the enemy do that. +I don't see why.... + +THE TOFF. No, of course you don't. + +BILL. O, all right, Toffy. [_All begin to pull out revolvers._] + +THE TOFF [_putting his own away_]. No revolvers, please. + +ALBERT. Why not? + +THE TOFF. Because I don't want any noise at my party. We might get +guests that hadn't been invited. _Knives_ are a different matter. +[_All draw knives. THE TOFF signs to them not to draw them yet. TOFFY +has already taken back his ruby._] + +BILL. I think they're coming, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. Not yet. + +ALBERT. When will they come? + +THE TOFF. When I am quite ready to receive them. Not before. + +SNIGGERS. I should like to get this over. + +THE TOFF. Should you? Then we'll have them now. + +SNIGGERS. Now? + +THE TOFF. Yes. Listen to me. You shall do as you see me do. You will +all pretend to go out. I'll show you how. I've got the ruby. When they +see me alone they will come for their idol's eye. + +BILL. How can they tell like this which of us has it? + +THE TOFF. I confess I don't know, but they seem to. + +SNIGGERS. What will you do when they come in? + +THE TOFF. I shall do nothing. + +SNIGGERS. What? + +THE TOFF. They will creep up behind me. Then, my friends, Sniggers and +Bill and Albert, who gave them the slip, will do what they can. + +BILL. All right, Toffy. Trust us. + +THE TOFF. If you're a little slow, you will see enacted the cheerful +spectacle that accompanied the demise of Jim. + +SNIGGERS. Don't, Toffy. We'll be there, all right. + +THE TOFF. Very well. Now watch me. [_He goes past the windows to the +inner door R. He opens it inwards, then under cover of the open door, +he slips down on his knee and closes it, remaining on the inside, +appearing to have gone out. He signs to the others, who understand. +Then he appears to re-enter in the same manner._] + +THE TOFF. Now, I shall sit with my back to the door. You go out one by +one, so far as our friends can make out. Crouch very low to be on the +safe side. They mustn't see you through the window. [_BILL makes his +sham exit._] + +THE TOFF. Remember, no revolvers. The police are, I believe, +proverbially inquisitive. [_The other two follow BILL. All three are +now crouching inside the door R. THE TOFF puts the ruby beside him on +the table. He lights a cigarette. The door at the back opens so slowly +that you can hardly say at what moment it began. THE TOFF picks up his +paper. A native of India wriggles along the floor ever so slowly, +seeking cover from chairs. He moves L. where THE TOFF is. The three +sailors are R. SNIGGERS and ALBERT lean forward. BILL's arm keeps them +back. An arm-chair had better conceal them from the Indian. The black +Priest nears THE TOFF. BILL watches to see if any more are coming. +Then he leaps forward alone--he has taken his boots off--and knifes +the Priest. The Priest tries to shout but BILL's left hand is over his +mouth. THE TOFF continues to read his sporting paper. He never looks +around._] + +BILL [_sotto voce_]. There's only one, Toffy. What shall we do? + +THE TOFF [_without turning his head_]. Only one? + +BILL. Yes. + +THE TOFF. Wait a moment. Let me think. [_Still apparently absorbed in +his paper._] Ah, yes. You go back, Bill. We must attract another +guest.... Now, are you ready? + +BILL. Yes. + +THE TOFF. All right. You shall now see my demise at my Yorkshire +residence. You must receive guests for me. [_He leaps up in full view +of the window, flings up both arms and falls to the floor near the +dead Priest._] Now, be ready. [_His eyes close. There is a long pause. +Again the door opens, very, very slowly. Another priest creeps in. He +has three golden spots upon his forehead. He looks round, then he +creeps up to his companion and turns him over and looks inside of his +clenched hands. Then he looks at the recumbent TOFF. Then he creeps +toward him. BILL slips after him and knifes him like the other with +his left hand over his mouth._] + +BILL [_sotto voce_]. We've only got two, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. Still another. + +BILL. What'll we do? + +THE TOFF [_sitting up_]. Hum. + +BILL. This is the best way, much. + +THE TOFF. Out of the question. Never play the same game twice. + +BILL. Why not, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Doesn't work if you do. + +BILL. Well? + +THE TOFF. I have it, Albert. You will now walk into the room. I showed +you how to do it. + +ALBERT. Yes. + +THE TOFF. Just run over here and have a fight at this window with +these two men. + +ALBERT. But they're ... + +THE TOFF. Yes, they're dead, my perspicuous Albert. But Bill and I are +going to resuscitate them.... Come on. [_BILL picks up a body under +the arms._] + +THE TOFF. That's right, Bill. [_Does the same._] Come and help us, +Sniggers.... [_SNIGGERS comes._] Keep low, keep low. Wave their arms +about, Sniggers. Don't show yourself. Now, Albert, over you go. Our +Albert is slain. Back you get, Bill. Back, Sniggers. Still, Albert. +Mustn't move when he comes. Not a muscle. [_A face appears at the +window and stays for some time. Then the door opens and, looking +craftily round, the third Priest enters. He looks at his companions' +bodies and turns round. He suspects something. He takes up one of the +knives and with a knife in each hand he puts his back to the wall. He +looks to the left and right._] + +THE TOFF. Come on, Bill. [_The Priest rushes to the door. THE TOFF +knifes the last Priest from behind._] + +THE TOFF. A good day's work, my friends. + +BILL. Well done, Toffy. Oh, you are a deep one! + +ALBERT. A deep one if ever there was one. + +SNIGGERS. There ain't any more, Bill, are there? + +THE TOFF. No more in the world, my friend. + +BILL. Aye, that's all there are. There were only three in the temple. +Three priests and their beastly idol. + +ALBERT. What is it worth, Toffy? Is it worth a thousand pounds? + +THE TOFF. It's worth all they've got in the shop. Worth just whatever +we like to ask for it. + +ALBERT. Then we're millionaires now. + +THE TOFF. Yes, and, what is more important, we no longer have any +heirs. + +BILL. We'll have to sell it now. + +ALBERT. That won't be easy. It's a pity it isn't small and we had half +a dozen. Hadn't the idol any other on him? + +BILL. No, he was green jade all over and only had this one eye. He had +it in the middle of his forehead and was a long sight uglier than +anything else in the world. + +SNIGGERS. I'm sure we ought all to be very grateful to Toffy. + +BILL. And, indeed, we ought. + +ALBERT. If it hadn't been for him.... + +BILL. Yes, if it hadn't been for old Toffy.... + +SNIGGERS. He's a deep one. + +THE TOFF. Well, you see I just have a knack of foreseeing things. + +SNIGGERS. I should think you did. + +BILL. Why, I don't suppose anything happens that our Toff doesn't +foresee. Does it, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Well, I don't think it does, Bill. I don't think it often +does. + +BILL. Life is no more than just a game of cards to our old Toff. + +THE TOFF. Well, we've taken these fellows' trick. + +SNIGGERS [_going to window_]. It wouldn't do for anyone to see them. + +THE TOFF. Oh, nobody will come this way. We're all alone on a moor. + +BILL. Where will we put them? + +THE TOFF. Bury them in the cellar, but there's no hurry. + +BILL. And what then, Toffy? + +THE TOFF. Why, then we'll go to London and upset the ruby business. We +have really come through this job very nicely. + +BILL. I think the first thing that we ought to do is to give a little +supper to old Toffy. We'll bury these fellows to-night. + +ALBERT. Yes, let's. + +SNIGGERS. The very thing! + +BILL. And we'll all drink his health. + +ALBERT. Good old Toffy! + +SNIGGERS. He ought to have been a general or a premier. [_They get +bottles from cupboard, etc._] + +THE TOFF. Well, we've earned our bit of a supper. [_They sit down._] + +BILL [_glass in hand_]. Here's to old Toffy, who guessed everything! + +ALBERT and SNIGGERS. Good old Toffy! + +BILL. Toffy, who saved our lives and made our fortunes. + +ALBERT and SNIGGERS. Hear! Hear! + +THE TOFF. And here's to Bill, who saved me twice to-night. + +BILL. Couldn't have done it but for your cleverness, Toffy. + +SNIGGERS. Hear, hear! Hear! Hear! + +ALBERT. He foresees everything. + +BILL. A speech, Toffy. A speech from our general. + +ALL. Yes, a speech. + +SNIGGERS. A speech. + +THE TOFF. Well, get me some water. This whisky's too much for my head, +and I must keep it clear till our friends are safe in the cellar. + +BILL. Water? Yes, of course. Get him some water, Sniggers. + +SNIGGERS. We don't use water here. Where shall I get it? + +BILL. Outside in the garden. [_Exit SNIGGERS._] + +ALBERT. Here's to future! + +BILL. Here's to Albert Thomas, Esquire. + +ALBERT. And William Jones, Esquire. [_Re-enter SNIGGERS, terrified._] + +THE TOFF. Hullo, here's Jacob Smith, Esquire, J. P., alias Sniggers, +back again. + +SNIGGERS. Toffy, I've been thinking about my share in that ruby. I +don't want it, Toffy; I don't want it. + +THE TOFF. Nonsense, Sniggers. Nonsense. + +SNIGGERS. You shall have it, Toffy, you shall have it yourself, only +say Sniggers has no share in this 'ere ruby. Say it, Toffy, say it! + +BILL. Want to turn informer, Sniggers? + +SNIGGERS. No, no. Only I don't want the ruby, Toffy.... + +THE TOFF. No more nonsense, Sniggers. We're all in together in this. +If one hangs, we all hang; but they won't outwit me. Besides, it's not +a hanging affair, they had their knives. + +SNIGGERS. Toffy, Toffy, I always treated you fair, Toffy. I was always +one to say, Give Toffy a chance. Take back my share, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. What's the matter? What are you driving at? + +SNIGGERS. Take it back, Toffy. + +THE TOFF. Answer me, what are you up to? + +SNIGGERS. I don't want my share any more. + +BILL. Have you seen the police? [_ALBERT pulls out his knife._] + +THE TOFF. No, no knives, Albert. + +ALBERT. What then? + +THE TOFF. The honest truth in open court, barring the ruby. We were +attacked. + +SNIGGERS. There's no police. + +THE TOFF. Well, then, what's the matter? + +BILL. Out with it. + +SNIGGERS. I swear to God.... + +ALBERT. Well? + +THE TOFF. Don't interrupt. + +SNIGGERS. I swear I saw something _what I didn't like_. + +THE TOFF. What you didn't like? + +SNIGGERS [_in tears_]. O Toffy, Toffy, take it back. Take my share. +Say you take it. + +THE TOFF. What has he seen? [_Dead silence, only broken by SNIGGERS'S +sobs. Then steps are heard. Enter a hideous idol. It is blind and +gropes its way. It gropes its way to the ruby and picks it up and +screws it into a socket in the forehead. SNIGGERS still weeps softly, +the rest stare in horror. The idol steps out, not groping. Its steps +move off, then stop._] + +THE TOFF. O, great heavens! + +ALBERT [_in a childish, plaintive voice_]. What is it, Toffy? + +BILL. Albert, it is that obscene idol [_in a whisper_] come from +India. + +ALBERT. It is gone. + +BILL. It has taken its eye. + +SNIGGERS. We are saved. + +A VOICE OFF [_with outlandish accent_]. Meestaire William Jones, Able +Seaman. [_THE TOFF has never spoken, never moved. He only gazes +stupidly in horror._] + +BILL. Albert, Albert, what is this? [_He rises and walks out. One moan +is heard. SNIGGERS goes to the window. He falls back sickly._] + +ALBERT [_in a whisper_]. What has happened? + +SNIGGERS. I have seen it. I have seen it. O, I have seen it! [_He +returns to table._] + +THE TOFF [_laying his hand very gently on SNIGGERS's arm, speaking +softly and winningly._] What was it, Sniggers? + +SNIGGERS. I have seen it. + +ALBERT. What? + +SNIGGERS. O! + +VOICE. Meestaire Albert Thomas, Able Seaman. + +ALBERT. Must I go, Toffy? Toffy, must I go? + +SNIGGERS [_clutching him_]. Don't move. + +ALBERT [_going_]. Toffy, Toffy. [_Exit._] + +VOICE. Meestaire Jacob Smith, Able Seaman. + +SNIGGERS. I can't go, Toffy. I can't go. I can't do it. [_He goes._] + +VOICE. Meestaire Arnold Everett Scott-Fortescue, late Esquire, Able +Seaman. + +THE TOFF. I did not foresee it. [_Exit._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE TWILIGHT SAINT[48] + +By STARK YOUNG + + [Footnote 48: Copyright, 1921, by Stark Young. Acting rights, + amateur and professional, must be secured from the author, + care of the New York Drama League, 7 East 42 Street, New + York.] + + +Stark Young, dramatist and critic, the author of _The Twilight Saint_, +was born in Como, Mississippi, on October 11, 1881. He was graduated +from the university of his native state and a year later took his +master's degree at Columbia University. From 1907 to 1915 he taught at +the University of Texas, and from 1915 to 1921 he was professor of +English at Amherst College. His travels have taken him to Greece, and +to Spain, and to Italy where he has lingered, making a special study +of the native drama. + +The text of _The Twilight Saint_ has undergone revision by the author +since its first appearance. It was acted in 1918 with _Madretta_, +another of the author's plays, at the dramatic school of the Carnegie +Institute of Technology in Pittsburgh, under the direction of Thomas +Wood Stevens. The author writes: "The only instruction I should like +to propose is that the actor of St. Francis keep him very simple, not +get him moralizing and long-faced. In Egan's book on St. Francis[49] +there is a picture of the preaching to the birds in which Boutet de +Monvel shows a Tuscan type that is my idea of the man simplified." The +play itself suggests charming by-ways of literature that lead in one +direction perhaps to Hewlett's _Earthwork Out of Tuscany_ and +Josephine Preston Peabody's _The Wolf of Gubbio_, and in another +possibly to the Saint's own _Little Flowers_, and _Canticle to the +Sun_. + + [Footnote 49: Maurice F. Egan, _Everybody's St. Francis_, + with pictures by M. Boutet de Monvel, New York, 1912.] + + + + +THE TWILIGHT SAINT + + +CHARACTERS + + GUIDO, _the husband, a young poet._ + LISETTA, _his wife._ + PIA, _a neighbor woman._ + ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. + + +_In the year 1215 A.D._ + +_A room in GUIDO's house, on a hillside near Bevagna. It is a poor +apartment, clumsily kept. On your left near the front is a bed; on the +floor by the bed lie scattered pages of manuscript. A table littered +with manuscripts and crockery stands against the back wall of the room +to the right. On the right hand wall is a big fireplace with copper +vessels and brass. A bench sits by the fireplace and several stools +about the room. On the stone flags two sheepskins are spread._ + +_Through the open door in the middle of the back wall rises the slope +of a hill, green with spring and starred with flowers. A stream is +visible through the grass and the drowsy sound of the water fills the +air. The late yellow sunlight falls through a window over the bed like +gilding and floods the hill without._ + +_LISETTA lies on the bed, still, her eyes closed. PIA sits on the +ingle bench, halfway in the great fireplace, shelling peas. She is a +little peasant woman with a kerchief on her head and a wrinkled face +as brown as a nut._ + +_GUIDO sits at the table, his face to the wall, his chin on his palm._ + + +PIA. + + Guido, Guido, thou hast not spoke this hour, + Nor read one word nor written aught. Dear Lord, + The lion on the palace at Assisi + Sits not more still in stone! Guido, look thou! + +GUIDO [_turning round without looking at her_]. + + Yes, old Pia, good neighbor. + +PIA. + + Yes, old Pia! Guido, grieve not so much, + Lisetta will be well before the spring + Comes round again. + +GUIDO. + + Yes, Lisetta will be well perhaps. God grant! + +PIA. + + Well, what then? + +GUIDO. + + 'Tis not only of her I think, Pia, here am I + Shut in this house from month to month a nurse; + Here lies she sick, this child, and may not stir; + And I, lacking due means to hire, must serve + The house; while my best self, my soul, my art, + Rust. My soul is scorched with holy thirst, + My temples throb, my veins run fire; but yet, + For all my dim distress and vague desire, + No word, no single song, no verse, has come-- + O Blessed God!--stifled with creature needs, + And with necessity about my throat! + +PIA. + + Thy corner is too hot, the glaring sun + Is yet on the wall. + +GUIDO. + + 'Tis not that sun that maddens me, O Pia! + Can you not see me shrunk? Have you not heard + That other Guido of Perugia + How he is grown? How lately at the feast + That Ugolino, the great cardinal, + Spread at Assisi Easter night, Guido + Read certain of his verses and declaimed + Pages of cursed sonnets to the guests. + +PIA. + + Young Guido of Perugia, thy friend? + +GUIDO. + + Yea. And when he ended, came the Duke + Down from the dais to kiss that Guido's hand + Humbly, and said that poesy was king. + +PIA. + + Madonna, kissed by the Duke! + +GUIDO. + + And I, O God, I might have honor too + Could I but break this prison where I drudge! + +PIA. + + Speak low, her sleep is light. Her road is hard + As well as thine. For all this year, since thou + Didst bring her to Rieto here to us, + Hath she lain on her bed, broken with pain, + This child that is thy wife and loveth thee. + +GUIDO. + + Aye, yes, 'tis true, she loveth me, she loveth me, + And I love her. 'Tis worse--add grief to care, + And Poesy fares worse. + +PIA. + + And she is grown most pale and still of late. + +GUIDO. + + Look, Pia, how she lieth there like death, + That far-off patience on her face. Now, now, + Surely I needs must make a song! And yet + I may not; ashes and floor-sweeping clog + My soul within me! + +PIA. + + Nay, let thy dreams pass. Look thou, how pale! + Dear Lord, how blue her little veins do shine! + +GUIDO. + + Thou art most kind, good neighbor, to come here + Helping our house. And it is very strange + That when we are so kind we cannot know + The heart also. For in my soul I hear + A bell summoning me always-- + +PIA. + + If I should stew in milk the peas, maybe-- + Do you think the child would eat it? + +GUIDO. + + For thy world is not my world, kind old friend. + +PIA. + + Why do you not walk, Guido, for a while, + I have an hour yet. + +GUIDO. + + Then I will go, Pia. But not for long, + I will come back soon enough to my chores, be sure; + Mine is a short tether. + +[_He goes out. LISETTA on the bed opens her eyes._] + +LISETTA. + + Pia. + +PIA. + + Yes, dear child. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, turn my pillow, I am stifled. + +PIA. + + There! Thou hast slept well? + +LISETTA. + + I have not slept. + +PIA. + + Holy Virgin, thou hast not slept! + +LISETTA. + + Pia, think you I did not know? This month + I scarce have slept for thinking on his lot. + I read his fighting soul. Where are his songs, + The great renown that waited him? Down, down, + Struck by the self-same hand that shattered me. + I listen night on night and hear him moan + In his sleep-- + +PIA. + + It is his love for thee, Lisetta. + +LISETTA. + + The padre from the village hemmed and said + That God had sent me and my sickness here + For Guido's cross to bear, his scourge. They thought + I slept-- + +PIA. + + Thou hast dreamed this, he loveth thee, Lisetta. + +LISETTA. + + Yea, loveth me somewhat but glory more. + And I would have it so. O Mother of God, + When wilt thou send me death? O Blessed Mother, + I have lain so still! + +PIA. + + Beware, Lisetta, tempt not God! + +LISETTA. + + Death is the sister of all them that weep, Pia. + +PIA. + + Child, child, try thou to sleep. + +LISETTA. + + For thy sake will I try. + +PIA. + + Aye, sleep now. I will smooth thy bed. + [_PIA begins to draw up the covers smooth. She stops suddenly + to listen._] + Hist! + +LISETTA. + + What, good Pia? + +PIA. + + Footsteps. Look, it is a monk. + +[_FRANCIS OF ASSISI comes to the door._] + +FRANCIS. + + I have not eaten food this day. Hast thou + Somewhat that I may eat? + +PIA. + + Alas, poor brother, sit thee here; there's bread + And cheese and lentils, eat thy store. Poor 'tis, + But given in His name. + +FRANCIS. + + I will eat then and bless thee. + +PIA. + + He taketh but a crust! + +FRANCIS. + + It is enough. He that hath eaten long + The bread of the heart hath little hunger in him. + +PIA. + + Sit thou and rest, poor soul. + +FRANCIS. + + Nay, I must go on. My daughter, child, + Thou sleepest not for all thy lowered lids. + Tears quiver on thy lashes, hast thou pain? + +LISETTA. + + The tears of women even in dreams may fall, + Good brother. Wilt thou not bide? + +FRANCIS. + + I must fare on. + +LISETTA. + + Aye, aye, the world lies open to thy hand, + But unto me this twelvemonth is a death. + The flesh is dead, and dying lies my soul, + Shrunk like a flower in my fevered hand. + +FRANCIS [_he goes over and stands beside the bed_]. + + My dear. + +LISETTA. + + I may not see the stars rise on the hills, + Nor tend the flocks at even, nor rise to do + Aught of the small sweet round of duties owed + To him I love; but lie a burden to him, + Calling on death who heareth not. + +FRANCIS. + + My life hath given me words for thee to hear. + +LISETTA. + + Surely thy life is peace. + +FRANCIS. + + There is a life larger than life, that dwells + Invisible from all; whose lack alone + Is death. There in thy soul the stars may rise, + And at the even the gentle thoughts return + To flock the quiet pastures of the mind; + And in the large heart love is all thou owest + For service unto God and thy Beloved. + +LISETTA. + + Little Brother! + +FRANCIS. + + May you have God's peace, dear friends. Farewell. + +[_He goes out. PIA stands a moment wiping her eyes, then returns to +shelling the peas. There is a silence for a while._] + +PIA. + + Why dost thou look so long upon the door? + +LISETTA. + + Pia, the spring smiles on the tender grass, + Surely the sun is brighter where he stood. + +PIA. + + 'Tis a glaring sun for twilight. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, 'twill be the gentlest of all eves. + Surely God sent the brother for my need, + To give His peace. + +PIA. + + Aye, and my old heart ripens at his words + Like apples in the sun. 'Tis a sweet monk. + +LISETTA. + + Who is he, think you? + +PIA. + + One of the Little Poor Men, by his brown. + They are too thin, these brothers, and do lack + Stomach for life. [_She returns to the peas._] Mark, oh, 'tis merry now + To see the little beggars from their pods + Popping like schoolboys from their shoes in spring! + The season hath been so fine and dry this year + My peas are smaller and must have more work. + Well, well, labor is good, and things made scarce + Are better loved. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, thou art a good woman. + +PIA. + + Child, do not make me cry. 'Tis thy pure heart + Deceives thee. Stubborn I am and full of sloth, + And a wicked old thing. + +LISETTA. + + I would not grieve thee. Pia, 'twas my love + That sees thy goodness better than thyself. + +PIA [_hanging the kettle of peas over the coals_]. + + Lisetta, I see the sky at the chimney top. + +[_PIA begins to sing in her sweet, old, cracked voice, as she stirs +the pot_:] + + _Firefly, firefly, come from the shadows, + Twilight is falling over the meadows, + Burn, little garden lamps, flicker and shimmer, + Shine, little meadow stars, twinkle and glimmer. + Firefly, firefly, shine, shine!_ + +LISETTA. + + Pia. + +PIA. + + Yes. + +LISETTA. + + Pia, come near me here. [_PIA kneels by the bed._] Can you not see + How much I love? If I could only speak + To him or he to me, Guido, my love! + +PIA. + + Surely he is beside thee often. + +LISETTA. + + His hand is near, but not his heart. + +PIA. + + Nay, child, 'tis Guido's way. He speaks but little. + When I speak to him look what he says, + "Yes, good Pia," 'tis not much. + +LISETTA. + + Aye, tell me not. On winter nights I lay + Hearing the tree limbs rattle there like hail, + And from the corner eaves the dropping rain + Like big dogs lapping all about--and he + Spoke not to me. He sat beside his taper + But never a line wrote down. Once I had words, + Bright dreams, that shone through him, the same fire shone + Through both, his songs were mine! + +PIA. + + Yes, thine--rest thee, rest thee! + +LISETTA. + + But more his, Pia, more his! + +PIA. + + Aye, his. Wilt thou not eat the broth? + +LISETTA. + + Not now, good Pia, 'tis not for food I die. + 'Tis not for food. + +PIA. + + Yet thou must eat. + +LISETTA. + + Wilt thou not read one song of these to me? + +PIA. + + Close then thine eyes and rest. + +[_LISETTA closes her eyes. A shepherd's pipe far-off and faint begins +to play; from this on to the end of the play you can hear the +shepherd's pipe. PIA takes up at random a sheet of the manuscripts. +She sighs a great sigh, and begins to mimic LISETTA's voice._] + + THE BALLAD OF THE RUNNING WATER + + O music locked amid the stones, + Beside the--amid the-- + +LISETTA. + + Read on--and thou hast told me day by day + Thou couldst not read. + +PIA. + + I read from hearing thee from day to day + Repeat the verses. + +LISETTA. + + Fie! Give them to me here. + +[_She takes the paper and holds it in her hands on her breast, and +reads without looking at it._] + + _O music locked amid the stones, + My love hath spoken like to thee,_ + + Pia, think you--Pia, do you not hear + The mowers and the reapers in the fields + Singing the evening song, and the twilight pipes? + The twilight is the hour when hearts break! + How many lonely twilights will there be + Ere God will spare me? + +PIA [_kneeling_]. + + Hush, child, hush, darling! + +[_LISETTA turns her face to the window by the bed. PIA strokes her +hand and sings softly:_] + + _Firefly, firefly, come from the shadows--_ + + There!--he is coming now, I hear his steps + Upon the gravel road. Good-night, sweet child, + I'll get me home. + +LISETTA. + Pia, good-night once more. + +[_PIA slips away. GUIDO enters softly. The twilight is gone and the +moon falls through the window over the bed. The hill outside is bright +with moonlight._] + +GUIDO [_softly_]. + + Asleep, Lisetta? + +LISETTA. + + Guido! Ah, I have need of naught, Guido. + Thou needst not leave yet the pleasant air. + +GUIDO. + + Lisetta, my love, I have been long from thee. + +LISETTA. + + Let not that trouble thee, my needs are few, + And Pia is most kind. + +GUIDO. + + So little I may do. + +LISETTA. + + Thou hast already served to weariness. + +[_He kneels beside her bed._] + +GUIDO. + + My love, I have been long from thee, but now + I will not leave thee any more. Oh, God, + Let these kisses tell my heart to her. + +LISETTA. + + Guido, my love, perhaps I dream of thee! + Perhaps God sends a dream to solace me. + +GUIDO. + + Along the stream I went and where it crossed + Bevagna road--where the chestnut grows, thou knowest-- + Lisetta, I saw him. + +LISETTA. + + Yes, yes, I know, whom sawest thou? + +GUIDO. + + The brother, Francis of Assisi. + +LISETTA. + + Guido, sawest thou him? + +GUIDO. + + Aye, him. There had he stopped to rest, being spent; + And round him came the birds, beating their wings + Upon his cloak and lighting on his arm. + I saw him smile on them and heard him speak! + "My brother birds, little brothers, ye should love God + Who gave you your wings and your bright songs and spread + The soft air for you." He stroked their necks + And blessed them. And then I saw his eyes. + "Father," I cried, "speak thou to me, I faint + Beside my way!" + +LISETTA. + + Aye, and he said? Guido, what said he? + +GUIDO. + + "Thou art as one that lieth at the gate + Of Paradise and entereth not. For God + Hath given thee thy soul for its own life, + And not for glory among men." + +LISETTA. + + Guido! + +GUIDO. + + Lisetta, from his kind eyes I drank, and knew + How God had magnified my soul through him, + And sent me peace. And I returned to thee; + For here in thee have I my glory. + +LISETTA. + + Guido, the old spring comes back again. And now + I may speak. Guido, look through my window vines there + Where the stars rise. O Love, I have not slept + For lacking thee. And often have I seen + The moonlight lie like sleep upon the hill, + And in the garden of the sky the moon + Drift like a blown rose, Guido, and yet + I might not speak. + +GUIDO. + + Thou art my saint and shrine! + +LISETTA. + + Now shall my dream become thy song again, + And the long twilight be more sweet, Guido! + +GUIDO. + + I pray thee rest thee now and sleep. Good-night. + My full heart breaks in song; and I will sit + Hearing the blessed saints within my soul, + And will not stir from thee lest thou shouldst wake + When I might not be near to serve thy need. + +[_The shepherd pipe far-off and faint is heard playing._] + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS[50] + +By LADY ALIX EGERTON + + [Footnote 50: Reprinted by special arrangement with Gowans & + Gray. Ltd., Glasgow. The acting rights are reserved.] + +[Illustration: Costumes for _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ designed +at the Washington Irving High School.] + + +Between the Lady Alice Egerton, who acted in the masque of _Comus_, +which Milton composed for presentation before John, earl of +Bridgewater, then President of Wales, and the Lady Alix Egerton, +author of _The Masque of the Two Strangers_, lie three hundred years; +but throughout these centuries the descendants of the first earl of +Bridgewater have cherished consistently the great traditions of +English literature. The family has owned for many generations the +Ellesmere Chaucer and the Bridgewater manuscript of _Comus_, both of +which have recently been edited by the twentieth century Lady Alix +Egerton. + +Her _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ here reprinted was given at the +Washington Irving High School in March, 1921. The designs for the +costumes used in this production are here illustrated. The following +notes will help the reader to reconstruct the costumes from the +pictures: + + I. _The Princess_ + White soft material. + Spangled trimming. + Mantle of blue. + Veil of blue net. + Hennin (head dress) in silver. + + II. _Hope_ + Glass ball. + Lavender under slip. + Veil of rose pink. + + III. _Joy_ + Draping of orange yellow. + Flowers of various colors. + Vermilion scarf. + + IV. _Love_ + Long, full cape of deep purple; cowl falling back. + Cerise costume. + Silver surcoat and helmet. + + V. _Laughter_ + Yellow and black. + Trimming of bells. + + VI. _Poetry_ + Light green with silver; paper design on border. + + VII. _Song_ + Robe dyed in rainbow hues. + Silver wings. + + VIII. _Dance_ + Vermilion. + + IX. _Power_ + Bright blue. + Gems. + Gilt headpiece jeweled. + Mantle and sash of purple. + + X. _Fame_ + Robe of deep green. + Gold border. + Laurel leaves on gold crown. + + XI. _Riches_ + Knight's close-fitting short coat of henna. + (Flannel dyed to represent felt or leather.) + Gold lacings; gold paper design on coat; gold and henna helmet. + + XII. _Service_ + Soft yellow shaded to brown at bottom of skirt and sleeves. + Front panel of dark green forming part of head drapery. + + XIII. _Sorrow_ + Gray. + + XIV. _Herald_ + Dark red and gold. + + + + +_PROLOGUE_ + +[_Enter a JESTER._] + + Good people, of your gentle courtesy, + I pray your patience, now, and list to me. + Before you I will here present to-day + A story told in the medieval way. + Now sad--now merry--here and there a song, + While through it all a meaning runs along. + On this side is the Court of Youth where dwells + A Princess who is held by magic spells. + On that is the vast Otherworld from whence + The great Immortals come for her defense. + Betwixt the greater and the lesser Power, + That duel that goes on from hour to hour + Throughout the ages, I would have you see + Depicted in this passing phantasy. + +[_Music of Masque begins._] + + The players come and I had best away; + I'll come back afterwards and end my say. + + + + +THE MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS[51] + + [Footnote 51: I am indebted to Miss Italia Conti for the + original scenario of the Masque, and to former Editors of + _Vanity Fair_ and _The Crown_ for permission to reprint the + two songs which were published in their journals.--ALIX + EGERTON.] + + +CHARACTERS + + JOY. + LAUGHTER. + SONG. + DANCE. + SERVICE. + POETRY. + HOPE. + JOY. + PRINCESS DOUCE-COEUR. + SORROW. + FAME. + RICHES. + POWER. + LOVE. + + +_JOY and LAUGHTER run in laughing, chase each other round the stage +and pelt each other with flowers._ + + LAUGHTER [_flinging herself on the ground, breathless_]. + Ah, it is good to run and laugh again. + I am so weary of these somber days. + + JOY. + And I of sitting silent in the house. + We used before to have such merry games, + Now Douce-coeur will not even smile. + + LAUGHTER [_mysteriously_]. + She says that she will never laugh again. + + JOY. + And when I called to her to come and play + At hide-and-seek down in the rose-garden, + She said her playing days were over now. + + LAUGHTER. + It seems so strange. Only a while ago + We played at ball across the laurel hedge, + And when the ball fell in the fountain-court + And rolled into the water, floating out + To where the lilies lay half closed in sleep, + 'Twas she who went in barefoot, with her dress + Kilted above her knees, and laughed to feel + The flicking of the golden fishes' tails. + She said her pink toes looked like coral shells, + And splashed the water just to see it shine + Like diamonds in the sun upon my hair. + A while ago she was a child with us. + + JOY [_sighs_]. + Laughter, I like not living at the Court. [_Starting._] + Someone is coming. + +[_They run and hide behind a seat. SONG enters, humming to herself and +twisting flowers into a garland. JOY and LAUGHTER spring out upon her +and catch hold of her hands one on each side._] + + LAUGHTER. Why, 'tis only Song. + For three days now we have not heard thy voice. + + SONG. + No, Douce-coeur says life is too sad for songs. + Yet music is a gift of the high gods + And like the birds I sing or I must die. + + JOY [_coaxingly_]. + Sing us a ballad while we are alone. + Old Service is asleep beside the well + And will not hear thee. + + SONG [_sitting on the seat_]. + Well, what shall I sing? + How would you like "All on an April Day?" + + JOY [_clapping her hands_]. + About the knight who rode to Amiens Town? + + LAUGHTER. + Then will we sing the refrain, Joy and I. + + SONG [_begins very softly, and, forgetting, sings louder to the end_]. + + _A lover rode to Amiens town + (All on an April day); + He looked not up, he looked not down + But fixed his gaze on Amiens town + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _The cuckoo sang above his head + (All on an April day); + The blossoming trees were white and red, + Yet still he never turned his head + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _The dappled grass with daisies strewn + (All on an April day) + Was trodden by his horse's shoon; + He heeded not those daisies strewn + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He wore a ragged surcoat green + (All on an April day) + But no device thereon was seen. + Nor blazon on that surcoat green + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He rode in by the Eastern Gate + (All on an April day); + Though poor and mean was his estate + Kings have gone through that Eastern Gate + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He stood by the Cathedral door + (All on an April day) + And watched of ladies fair a score + Pass in through the Cathedral door + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _A knot of ribbon at his feet + (All on an April day) + And one swift smile, such radiance sweet + Fell with the ribbon at his feet + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _He hid the token in his breast + (All on an April day) + Yet to his lips full oft he prest + The ribbon hidden in his breast + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + + _A lover rode to Amiens town + (All on an April day), + A beggar wore a starry crown + And a King rode out of Amiens town + (Sing hey!--the Lover's Way)._ + +[_After the 4th verse enter DANCE, who dances through the remaining +verses._] + +[_Enter SERVICE hurriedly._] + +SERVICE. How now, what noise is this? Thou knowest, Song, thy voice +may not be heard at all, and ye children too, ye will get sent away. +Sure, that ye will. Here am I sent packing off to seek for the Wise +Woman Poetry. The heralds too are up and down the land with +proclamations. Go in, go in; Douce-coeur is wandering with the Gray +Stranger in the garden, and when she comes, may want your company. + +[_Enter POETRY._] + + POETRY. + I am the mouthpiece of the Eternal Gods, + And in my voice, that down the ages rings, + Men hear the ceaseless heart-beats of the world. + Without me all that has been would have died + And lain forgotten in a silent grave. + The present echoes what I once have sung, + The future holds the secrets I have read. + +SERVICE. Hail, and well met! I was but starting forth to seek thee. +Thou who hast the wisdom of all time mayst help us in our hour of +need; an evil spell has been cast about the Princess, and how it is to +be broken, none of us know. + + POETRY. + Good Service, tell me all; for I presume, + Despite the tender care which through her life + Has shielded Douce-coeur like a ring of steel, + That to her side some foe has won his way + And dimmed the peaceful mirror of her soul. + +SERVICE. Yea, truly, one evening as the sun was setting a woman clad +in long gray robes entered the Palace gates and meeting the Princess +on the terrace walk led her down among the cypresses. They sat long +together in the twilight and ever since Douce-coeur is changed. No +smile curves her lips, the sunlight is gone from her face, and she +goes always with veiled head, and sad unseeing eyes. I heard but now +her companions are to be sent away. Joy, Laughter, Song and Dance, all +to be banished. This is the Gray Woman's doing, but why, no man can +say. + + POETRY. + The stranger in gray robes of whom ye speak + Is Sorrow's self, whose other name is Pain. + She comes, and when she comes none may resist. + Against her none have power to bar their gates. + Ye who have always cherished Douce-coeur + And guarded her from knowledge of the World, + Have left her ignorance a prey to pain. + Thus night has fallen on a tender heart + That never saw the shadows for the sun. + Queen Sorrow, who can hide the stars of heaven, + Has torn the golden veil from top to hem, + And in the outer darkness Douce-coeur stands, + Seeing no rift to tell of light eclipsed, + Knowing no key to all the mystery. + +SERVICE. The King, her father, has sent proclamations forth that whoso +can bring back the smiles to Douce-coeur's lips, the sunshine to her +face, whoso can win her from the Gray Woman's side, on him shall half +the kingdom be bestowed and Douce-coeur's hand in marriage. The +Heralds have gone crying this abroad, and we have word three suitors +are traveling here post-haste. + + POETRY. + I know not who these suitors chance to be + But not by them may Sorrow be cast out. + One only holds a mightier spell than hers, + And I will send my constant messenger + To seek him to the ends of all the Earth. + Come to me, Child, who holdst Eternal Youth. + +[_Enter HOPE._] + + HOPE. Didst call me, Poetry? + + POETRY. Yea, child of my Heart, + Go out into the wilderness for me. + Find me the Stranger in a Pilgrim's garb + Around whose head the song birds pipe their lays, + Beneath whose feet the withered flowers revive. + Say, "In the Court of Youth Queen Sorrow reigns + And shadows lie like night on Douce-coeur's heart." + + HOPE. + In the great Court of Youth, Queen Sorrow reigns + And shadows lie like night on Douce-coeur's heart. + + POETRY. + Bid him come hither. Haste thee on thy way. + +[_Exit HOPE. Trumpet music. Herald heard off. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"_] + +SERVICE. Here comes the Herald! + +[_Enter HERALD repeating "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"_] + +HERALD [_facing audience_]. Know all whom it may concern throughout +this realm, that as One has come and brought darkness on the Land, to +all good people is this Proclamation made. Whoso can drive the Gray +Woman forth, whoso can free the Princess Douce-coeur from her spell, +whoso can bring back the sunshine to the Land, unto him will be given +the half of the kingdom, and the Hand of the Princess Douce-coeur in +marriage. Given on this day of June. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" + +[_Exit HERALD. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" dies away in the distance._] + +[_Music. Enter JOY, LAUGHTER, SONG and DANCE, followed by PRINCESS +DOUCE-COEUR and SORROW._] + + SORROW. + Ye children of the Court, your hour has struck. + Your doom of banishment has been pronounced, + For where I am there can ye never be. + + SONG. + Douce-coeur, I pray thee hear me. Let me sing + One of the old songs that we loved--may be + The memory of those happy days will rise + And lift the weight of sadness from thy face. + + POETRY. + Douce-coeur, I charge thee, listen. All the past + Of Childhood calls thee in the voice of Song. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Sing if thou wilt. Those days were long ago. + + SONG. + _I stood beside the lilac bush + While all its blossoms rained on me, + I watched the white wraith of a moon + Turn to pale gold above the sea._ + + _I held a wand of almond bough + And waved it three times circlewise, + I whispered words of faery lore + With beating heart and close shut eyes._ + + _I oped them on a forest scene + Of summer-land; the open glade + Lay shining like a tourmaline + Set in a ring of duller jade._ + + _I saw three queens with shining crowns + Go riding by on palfreys gray; + I saw three knights that followed close, + And dreams were in their eyes that day._ + + _I saw a minstrel with his harp, + His cloak was green and patched and torn; + I saw a hunter with his bow, + I heard the winding of his horn._ + + _I saw a bush of lavender + With clouds of fluttering butterflies, + Then I looked backward to the earth + And broke my faery spell with sighs._ + + DOUCE-COEUR. + I cannot bear thy music. In my heart + No answering chords respond. The past is dead. + I hear the tears of thousands in thy voice. + When Sorrow speaks--I hear no tones but hers. + + SORROW. + No, thou art mine, Princess. I hold thee fast. + + POETRY. + Douce-coeur, I bid thee raise thy heavy eyes. + Dance is the eldest daughter of my heart. + Born when the rhythm of the stars was voiced, + The past and future meet alike in her. + Let her bring back the sunshine to thy face. + + DANCE. + With flying feet we chased the hours away. + I used to make thee clap thy hands in glee + And thought to go with thee along the years. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + My feet are lead, but dance on if thou wilt, + What can the future hold for me and thee? + +[_As the Dance ends, she cries:_] + + Ah, Sorrow, bid them cease and drive them hence. + Send Joy and Laughter, Song and Dance away. + Call Silence here who is thy foster-child. + I am afraid of all this mocking world + And fain would live alone, alone with thee. + + SORROW. + Go forth, go forth into the wilderness. Here is no room for ye. + Go forth into the void that lies beyond. Here I in majesty + Henceforth shall reign, veiling the sun and stars to all eternity. + Go forth. Let wide-eyed Silence take the place ye occupied before + Where flowers ye scattered he henceforth shall strew ashes upon the floor. + Twilight shall fall upon this Court of Youth now and for evermore. + +[_Exeunt SONG, DANCE, JOY, and LAUGHTER._] + + POETRY. + Douce-coeur, thine eyes are bound. Thou dost but see + With vision warped by her who holds thy hand. + I, who have watched the web of Life unfold + And hold the secrets of a million lives, + Can tell thee from the heights whereon I dwell, + It is not thus that thou wilt help the world. + Thou canst not right the wrong with further wrong. + But now thine ears are dulled; thou wilt not hear + What I might teach thee. + +[_During this speech enter HERALD who speaks to SERVICE. Exit +HERALD._] + +SERVICE. Three suitors, Fame, Riches, and Power are at the gate, +Princess, and claim an audience. They have banished the Gray Woman +from the side of others and seek to do this for thee. With them they +bring charms that have before broken the spells of Sorrow; these are +beyond price but each asks in exchange thy hand in marriage as +promised in the proclamation cried by the heralds. + + DOUCE-COEUR [_turning to SORROW_]. + What must I do? + + SORROW. Bid them approach, my child; + It may be their rich gifts will pleasure thee. + +[_Enter HERALD followed by FAME._] + +HERALD. Fame, Lord of the Marches of the East, salutes thee. + +[_Exit HERALD._] + + FAME. + Fame am I called, Princess. I bring thee this + Crown of Unfading Leaves for which men pray + And toil throughout their lives--unsatisfied. + It shall be thine unsought. Grant me thy hand, + And thou shalt live in glamour of high destiny. + Thy name shall sound in honor through the world; + Thy words shall set the hearts of men aflame. + Let me but place the wreath about thy head, + Thus shalt thou strike this lyre with deathless notes + Which shall, vibrating through the fields of space, + Ring on, and on, nor ever find a goal. + + SORROW. + Deaf are the ears on which thy phrases fall. + With one so young what are thy spells to mine? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + I see thy wreath of leaves, entwined with asps + Whose forked tongues whisper "jealousy and hate." + Thy harp is out of tune with Sorrow's voice. + + POETRY. + She is too tender for thine upward way. + The solitude of those who follow thee + Is not for her. Pass on, my lord, pass on. + +[_Enter HERALD, followed by RICHES._] + +[Illustration: Costumes for _The Masque of the Two Strangers_ designed +at the Washington Irving High School.] + + HERALD. + Riches, Lord of the Marches of the West, salutes thee. + +[_Exit HERALD._] + + RICHES. + My name is Riches, and I offer thee + A store of wealth exhaustless as the sand. + This is the symbol of my opulence, + A casket in whose depths gold never fails. + Grant me thy hand, and thou, Princess, shalt gain + All that the world contains of happiness. + Thy palace shall be built of precious stones, + And thou shalt walk on rose-leaves every day. + Sorrow shall be forgotten in my arms, + Nothing shall be denied thee wealth can buy. + All things--all men yield to the touch of gold. + + SORROW. + Blind are the eyes on which thy visions rise. + My spells have turned thy glories into dust. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + The gold thou offerest me is stained with blood; + Thy precious stones were won with tears and toil; + The sum of all thy wealth could not reflower + The arid wastes that Sorrow has laid bare. + + POETRY. + She is too simple for thy promises; + To one who knows not Sister Poverty + Thy lures, my lord, appear as idle words. + +[_Enter HERALD, followed by POWER._] + + HERALD. + Power, Lord of the Marches North and South, salutes thee. + +[_Exit HERALD._] + + POWER. + My name, Princess, is Power and this my gift. + My brothers brought thee fair renown and gold + With freedom from the spells that Sorrow weaves. + All these I offer thee. If thou accept, + Together we will sway men's destinies, + Together we may rule their hearts--their souls-- + Together turn the very universe. + Our throne shall rise a monument of might, + Its steps shall mount from the green land of earth, + Its canopy shall scrape the stars of Heaven. + + SORROW. + I have set that about her like a net + Thou canst not deal with. Never yet, O Power, + Hast thou been known to cut through cords of fear. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + I would not wield thy scepter for an hour. + The burden of its weight would bear me down. + + POETRY. + She is too young, too gentle for the heights + Where thou wouldst raise her. Be content, my lords; + What ye have done is well, but One alone + Can break the spell, and he is at the gates. + Already Hope returns. He comes, he comes. + +[_Enter HOPE running._] + + HOPE. + The stranger comes; he whom I went to seek. + + FAME. + The Stranger comes whose music fills the world. + + RICHES. + The Stranger comes, whose treasure gilds the world. + + POWER. + The Stranger comes, whose scepter rules the world. + + POETRY [_to SORROW_]. + Now shall thy spell be broken. Dost thou hear + The measured footsteps of approaching Fate? + The one who comes clad in a Pilgrim's garb + Has ever proved thy silent conqueror. + + SORROW. + I yield to him who is the greatest here, + But those who have not met me by the way + Can never know him as he may be known. + They only who have trod the dark abyss + May dare to stand upon the topmost height. + For they whose eyes were blindfold for awhile + Alone can bear that blaze of brilliant light. + Thus have I brought thee more than all thy Court. + Learn from his lips to see the world anew. + I drew that gray veil all about thy head + Thinking perchance to keep thee for my own, + But thou wert made for sunlight, not for gloom. + Thus do I leave thee. Fare thee well, Princess! + +[_Enter LOVE._] + + DOUCE-COEUR [_starts up and tries to hold SORROW back_]. + Ah, stay with me, thou art my only friend! + +[_LOVE and SORROW look at each other, she draws her veil across her +face and exit._] + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Who art thou, Stranger, in a pilgrim's guise + Who comest unattended, unannounced? + + LOVE. + I may not tell thee that. Thou first must learn + Out of thine own heart to recall my name. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Fame, Power, and Riches brought me costly gifts + Which I refused. + + LOVE. I come with empty hands. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Thy coming caused Queen Sorrow to depart; + What right hast thou to drive my friends from me? + + LOVE. + I came to bring thee swift deliverance, + She laid a spell upon thee which in time + Had turned thy heart to unresponsive stone. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + She brought me peace and sure oblivion + Of all this dark and weary world around. + + LOVE. + Art thou so sure, Princess, the world is dark? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + So sure? Have I not heard the children weep? + Is not my heart torn with their piteous cries? + We live, and round us lies their sea of tears, + A mighty sea that could engulf a realm. + + LOVE. + I met a Child outside thy Palace once. + His dress was ragged, but he smiled at me, + And in his hand he held a purple flower. + I knew it for the magic flower of Dream. + I asked him "Art thou happy?" and he said + "I'm mostly hungry; sometimes I am cold; + And there are stones and thorns that hurt my feet, + But while my Flower lives I am quite content. + And I have friends too, in the Palace there; + Laughter and Dance they come and play with me." + I met that Child to-day, Princess. His face + Was white and pinched, and down his baby cheeks + The tears were running, "See, my Flower has died, + And Dance and Laughter have been sent away. + Joy too is gone. Queen Sorrow reigns at Court." + Even the children now can play no more. + He never knew before the world was dark. + Art thou so sure, Princess, the Child was wrong? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Have I not heard bereaved mothers weep? + + LOVE. + There thou dost touch a chord in ignorance. + Thou canst not guess the strength of Motherhood, + The hopes, the joys, the passionate regrets. + She who has borne her child close to her heart + Has lit a star in Heaven that lights her way. + I kneel by them in their Gethsemane + And teach them how to weave immortal wreaths + Out of the sweetest flowers of Memory; + For them the sun still shines behind the clouds, + Art thou so sure the world is wholly dark? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + There echo in my ears the groans of Toil, + Of those who labor on from year to year + Until they sink beneath their weary lot. + + LOVE. + Toil is the destiny of man, Princess, + And none may question the Supreme Decree. + Perchance through toil alone man may redeem + A past that is forgotten. Who can tell? + And there is still some aftermath of joy + In labor well achieved, some dignity + In toil accomplished. If the way is hard + And seeming endless, those who seek for me + Will often find me singing at their side. + Mine is the Brotherhood of Sympathy. + But thou hast banished Song, in silence now + The toilers have to go upon their way. + Art thou so sure, it was all dark before? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + What light is there for those who strive and fail? + + LOVE. + One only fails. He whom some term Success, + He who gives heart and soul and youth and strength + To an unworthy cause. Failure is he + Who sacrifices me before the world, + Who prostitutes the God in him for what + Will turn to dust and ashes in his hand. + 'Tis he alone is outcast though he thinks + Himself the sun of all the universe. + To those, Princess, who striving seem to fail, + It is not failure, for none see the end, + And they who sigh are only those who seek + An earlier consummation than is just; + If they cling fast to me they still behold + The white star-flowers Hope plants about the world. + Who knows to what fair land rough seas may lead? + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Lo! over all I see the cruel hand + Of Death outstretched, certain and pitiless. + + LOVE. + The hand of Death is full of tenderness. + He leads men through that dark mysterious gate-- + That all must pass into another life-- + To other lives that through the cycles bring + The souls of men upward from step to step, + Uniting those for ever who are one. + Death hushes them like children on his breast. + Setting his own smile on their silent lips-- + That tender smile of strange triumphant peace. + Death is my Brother, and I say to thee, + Learn to know me, thou wilt not fear his hand. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Another hand is knocking at my heart + Whose touch I know not, and I feel afraid-- + Afraid to listen. Yet I long to hear. + Stranger, who art thou? Let me see thy face. + + LOVE. + Learn to know me and thou shalt nothing fear. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Who art thou? Let me look into thine eyes. + + LOVE. + Learn to know me and thou wilt find the Light. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + Pilgrim, who art thou? Let me know thy name. + + LOVE. + Dost thou not know me, Douce-coeur? + + DOUCE-COEUR [_slowly_]. + Thou art Love! + + LOVE. + And dost thou know the meaning of my name? + Tell me thou art not fearful any more. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + The darkness that was bound about mine eyes + Is falling from me. In the growing light + The answer to Life's riddle is made clear. + I seem to stand upon a height, caught up + In ecstasy of rapture near the sun. + The day is dawning; far before my eyes + I see the earth spread out there like a map. + Shadow and sunshine traveling on the road + O'ertake each other, mingle--and are one. + + FAME. + O Love, all hail! What is my crown to thine? + Thy music is the song of all the stars + Which rings through every heart attune to thine. + + RICHES. + O Love, all hail! What is my wealth to thine? + Thy treasures are the moons of happiness, + Thy boundless gold the sunshine of the world. + + POWER. + O Love, all hail! Thine is the greater rule, + The force predominating. Thou alone + Art the unvanquished King who conquers all. + + POETRY. + O Love, whose face is sought by all the world, + Bid her go forth out of her Palace gates + Into her kingdom that lies all around, + Teach her what means to use to right the wrong + And ease the burden man has laid on man. + My voice that once could rouse men's sleeping souls + Grows weary, and men often heed me not, + Turning deaf ears that will not hear my words; + 'Tis thou alone canst wind that mystic horn + Which wakes alike the sleeping and the dead. + + DOUCE-COEUR. + O Love, I pray thee call the children back, + I am ashamed to think I drove them forth, + I erred in ignorance. Forgive me, lord. + +[_Enter JOY, LAUGHTER, SONG and DANCE._] + + LOVE. + All ye who came to battle Sorrow's spell, + Be with her now. And ye who hold in fee + Her happy days, go with her through the years. + I all unseen will guide her destiny. + And when, Princess, I come again to thee, + A worshiper will follow in my train. + From other lips than mine thou then shalt learn + The sweetest and the tenderest tale of all. + + MUSIC. + Now let us join with Song. In merry mirth + Draw to a fitting close our Interlude. + + SONG. + Sorrow reigned her little day + Love has driven her far away + Brought the sunshine back to Court + Thus we end in merry sport. + +[_Exeunt ALL._] + + +_EPILOGUE_ + +[_Enter JESTER._] + + The Tale is over and their parts are done, + And Love again has proved the strongest one. + I wonder has it pleased you now to see + The oldest tale told thus in phantasy. + And let your answer be whate'er it may, + Whether your thumbs be up or down to-day + Will hurt not me. I did not write the play. + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE INTRUDER + +By MAURICE MAETERLINCK + + +Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck, to give him his full +baptismal name, was born in Ghent on August 29, 1862. He was sent to +the Jesuit College de Sainte-Barbe, the institution which another +great Belgian, Emile Verhaeren, also attended. In 1885, Maeterlinck +entered the University of Ghent to study law, but his practice of this +profession was confined to a scant year or two. Maeterlinck's chief +interest in his college years seems to have been the modern movement +in Belgian literature. But the frequency of his visits to Paris +increased in the years between 1886 and 1896, and finally in the +latter year he settled there. + +The following word picture supplements the photographs of Maeterlinck +that are so frequently reproduced in our magazines and newspapers: +"Maeterlinck is easily described: a man of about five feet nine in +height, inclined to be stout; silver hair lends distinction to the +large round head and boyish fresh complexion; blue-gray eyes, now +thoughtful, now merry, and an unaffected off-hand manner. The features +are not cut, left rather 'in the rough,' as sculptors say, even the +heavy jaw and chin are drowned in fat; the forehead bulges and the +eyes lose color in the light and seem hard; still, an interesting and +attractive personality." + +Maeterlinck's fame rests on his poetry and his essays no less than on +his plays. _L'Intruse_, _The Intruder_, reprinted here, belongs to the +early years of his activity as a playwright. It was printed in 1890 in +a Belgian periodical, _La Wallonie_, and was acted for the first time +a year later at Paul Fort's Theatre d'Art in Paris, at a performance +given for the benefit of the poet, Paul Verlaine, and the painter, +Paul Gauguin. Maeterlinck, though publishing volumes of essays from +time to time, continues to write for the theatre.[52] In 1908 _The +Blue Bird_, dramatizing the quest for Truth, one of the most popular +of modern plays, was given for the first time in Moscow, to be +followed ten years later by the premiere in New York of a sequel, +_The Betrothal_, similarly dramatizing the search for Beauty. In 1910 +came his translation of _Macbeth_ into French. A year later he was +awarded the Nobel prize for literature. + + [Footnote 52: For bibliography, see Jethro Bithell, _Life and + Writings of Maurice Maeterlinck_, London and New York, 1913.] + +_The Intruder_, the theme of which is the mysterious coming of death, +is an illustration of one of Maeterlinck's pet theories in regard to +the subject matter of the drama. He expresses it in this way in his +famous essay on _The Tragic in Daily Life_: "An old man, seated in his +armchair, waiting patiently with his lamp beside him--submitting with +bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny--motionless as +he is, does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, more universal +life than ... the captain who conquers in battle." To plays based on +this theory has been given the name "static drama." _The Intruder_ +illustrates also Maeterlinck's use of symbols. The Grandfather in the +play is blind, for instance; blind characters in Maeterlinck's plays +are symbols of the spiritual blindness of the human race; the gardener +sharpening his scythe stands for death; the mysterious quenching of +the lamp--it may have gone out because there was no oil in +it--signifies the going out of life. + +The problem in the staging of this play is the "creation of a mood or +atmosphere, rather than the unfolding of an action." One of the +settings used in this country is here reproduced. It was designed for +the Arts & Crafts Theatre of Detroit. Sheldon Cheney, whose +description of Sam Hume's plastic units for the stage of this Little +Theatre is given in the Introduction on page xxxi, has described the +rearrangement of this equipment and the additions that can be made to +it for the production of this play as follows: "For Maeterlinck's _The +Intruder_, which demanded a room in an old chateau, one important +addition was made, a flat with a door. At the left was the arch, then +a pylon and curtain, and then the Gothic window with practicable +casements added. The rest of the back wall was made up of the new +door-piece flanked by curtains, while the third wall consisted of two +pylons and curtains. Stairs and platforms were utilized before the +window and under the arch. A small two-stair unit was added, leading +to the new door. This arrangement afforded exactly that suggestion of +spaciousness and mystery for which the play calls." When the play was +given at the Independent Theatre in London in 1895, it was played +behind a blue gauze curtain. + +On one of Maeterlinck's visits to London, he was taken by Alfred +Sutro, the dramatist, to call on Barrie in his flat at the Adelphi. +Maeterlinck was asked to write his name on the whitewashed wall of +Barrie's studio. He did so and added above the signature: "_Au pere de +Peter Pan, et au grandpere de L'Oiseau Bleu._" + + + + +THE INTRUDER + + +CHARACTERS + + THE THREE DAUGHTERS. + THE GRANDFATHER. + THE FATHER. + THE UNCLE. + THE SERVANT. + + +_A dimly lighted room in an old country-house. A door on the right, a +door on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, +stained-glass windows, in which the color green predominates, and a +glass door opening on to a terrace. A Dutch clock in one corner. A +lamp lighted._ + + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There does not seem to me to be much light here. + +THE FATHER. Shall we go on to the terrace, or stay in this room? + +THE UNCLE. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the +whole week, and the nights are damp and cold. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Still the stars are shining. + +THE UNCLE. Ah! stars--that's nothing. + +THE GRANDFATHER. We had better stay here. One never knows what may +happen. + +THE FATHER. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is +past, and she is saved.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy she is not going on well.... + +THE FATHER. Why do you say that? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I have heard her speak. + +THE FATHER. But the doctors assure us we may be easy.... + +THE UNCLE. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm +us needlessly. + +[Illustration: _Courtesy of Theatre Arts Magazine_ + +Setting for _The Intruder_ composed of plastic units designed by Sam +Hume.] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I don't look at these things as you others do. + +THE UNCLE. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very +well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going +to spoil, without any reason, the first comfortable evening that luck +has thrown in our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to be +easy, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without apprehension. + +THE FATHER. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home +with my family since this terrible confinement. + +THE UNCLE. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a +stranger had forced himself into the family circle. + +THE FATHER. And then you understood, too, that you should count on no +one outside the family. + +THE UNCLE. You are quite right. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why could I not see my poor daughter to-day? + +THE UNCLE. You know quite well--the doctor forbade it. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what to think.... + +THE UNCLE. It is absurd to worry. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the left_]. She cannot hear +us? + +THE FATHER. We shall not talk too loud; besides, the door is very +thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us +if we are making too much noise. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the right_]. He cannot hear +us? + +THE FATHER. No, no. + +THE GRANDFATHER. He is asleep? + +THE FATHER. I suppose so. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Someone had better go and see. + +THE UNCLE. The little one would cause _me_ more anxiety than your +wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely +stirred. He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I think he will be deaf--dumb too, perhaps--the usual +result of a marriage between cousins.... [_A reproving silence._] + +THE FATHER. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has +caused his mother. + +THE UNCLE. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. +He is quite alone in the room? + +THE FATHER. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's +room any longer. + +THE UNCLE. But the nurse is with him? + +THE FATHER. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved +it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father. [_THE THREE SISTERS get up, and go +into the room on the right, hand in hand._] + +THE FATHER. When will your sister come? + +THE UNCLE. I think she will come about nine. + +THE FATHER. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my +wife is so anxious to see her. + +THE UNCLE. She is certain to come. This will be the first time she has +been here? + +THE FATHER. She has never been into the house. + +THE UNCLE. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent. + +THE FATHER. Will she be alone? + +THE UNCLE. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not +allowed to go out alone. + +THE FATHER. But she is the Superior. + +THE UNCLE. The rule is the same for all. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Do you not feel anxious? + +THE UNCLE. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on +that? There is nothing more to fear. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is older than you? + +THE UNCLE. She is the eldest of us all. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish +your sister were here. + +THE UNCLE. She will come; she promised to. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish this evening were over! + +[_THE THREE DAUGHTERS come in again._] + +THE FATHER. He is asleep? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father; very sound. + +THE UNCLE. What shall we do while we are waiting? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Waiting for what? + +THE UNCLE. Waiting for our sister. + +THE FATHER. You see nothing coming, Ursula? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER [_at the window_]. Nothing, father. + +THE FATHER. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue +as far as the cypress wood. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And you do not see anyone? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE UNCLE. What sort of a night is it? + +THE DAUGHTER. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales? + +THE UNCLE. Yes, yes. + +THE DAUGHTER. A little wind is rising in the avenue. + +THE GRANDFATHER. A little wind in the avenue? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes; the trees are trembling a little. + +THE UNCLE. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear the nightingales any longer. + +THE DAUGHTER. I think someone has come into the garden, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it? + +THE DAUGHTER. I do not know; I can see no one. + +THE UNCLE. Because there is no one there. + +THE DAUGHTER. There must be someone in the garden; the nightingales +have suddenly ceased singing. + +THE GRANDFATHER. But I do not hear anyone coming. + +THE DAUGHTER. Someone must be passing by the pond, because the swans +are scared. + +ANOTHER DAUGHTER. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly. + +THE FATHER. You cannot see anyone? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, father. + +THE FATHER. But the pond lies in the moonlight.... + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes; I can see that the swans are scared. + +THE UNCLE. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must +have come in by the little gate. + +THE FATHER. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark. + +THE DAUGHTER. I can see the watch-dog right at the back of his kennel. +The swans are crossing to the other bank!... + +THE UNCLE. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [_He +calls._] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There is no one there. + +THE DAUGHTER. I am sure that someone has come into the garden. You +will see. + +THE UNCLE. But she would answer me! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, +Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. I cannot hear one anywhere. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And yet there is no noise. + +THE FATHER. There is a silence of the grave. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It must be some stranger that scares them, for if it +were one of the family they would not be silent. + +THE UNCLE. How much longer are you going to discuss these +nightingales. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are all the windows open, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. The glass door is open, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the +room. + +THE DAUGHTER. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and +the rose-leaves are falling. + +THE FATHER. Well, shut the door. It is late. + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door. + +THE TWO OTHER DAUGHTERS. We cannot shut the door. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children? + +THE UNCLE. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I +will go and help them. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We cannot manage to shut it quite. + +THE UNCLE. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There +must be something in the way. + +THE FATHER. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the +cellar. + +THE GRANDFATHER. He will make a noise in the house. + +THE DAUGHTER. I will tell him to work quietly. [_Suddenly the sound of +a scythe being sharpened is heard outside._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_with a shudder_]. Oh! + +THE UNCLE. What is that? + +THE DAUGHTER. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot +quite see; he is in the shadow of the house. + +THE FATHER. It is the gardener going to mow. + +THE UNCLE. He mows by night? + +THE FATHER. Is not to-morrow Sunday?--Yes.--I noticed that the grass +was very long round the house. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise +... + +THE DAUGHTER. He is mowing near the house. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Can you see him, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. He stands in the dark. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid he will wake my daughter. + +THE UNCLE. We can scarcely hear him. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It sounds to me as if he were mowing inside the +house. + +THE UNCLE. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger. + +THE FATHER. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this +evening. + +THE UNCLE. It wants filling. + +THE FATHER. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly since the +window was shut. + +THE UNCLE. I fancy the chimney is dirty. + +THE FATHER. It will burn better presently. + +THE DAUGHTER. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three +nights. + +THE FATHER. He has been so much worried. + +THE UNCLE. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to +reason. + +THE FATHER. It is quite excusable at his age. + +THE UNCLE. God knows what we shall be like at his age! + +THE FATHER. He is nearly eighty. + +THE UNCLE. Then he has a right to be strange. + +THE FATHER. He is like all blind people. + +THE UNCLE. They think too much. + +THE FATHER. They have too much time to spare. + +THE UNCLE. They have nothing else to do. + +THE FATHER. And, besides, they have no distractions. + +THE UNCLE. That must be terrible. + +THE FATHER. Apparently one gets used to it. + +THE UNCLE. I cannot imagine it. + +THE FATHER. They are certainly to be pitied. + +THE UNCLE. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come +from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish +midday from midnight, or summer from winter--and always darkness, +darkness! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incurable? + +THE FATHER. Apparently so. + +THE UNCLE. But he is not absolutely blind? + +THE FATHER. He can perceive a strong light. + +THE UNCLE. Let us take care of our poor eyes. + +THE FATHER. He often has strange ideas. + +THE UNCLE. At times he is not at all amusing. + +THE FATHER. He says absolutely everything he thinks. + +THE UNCLE. But he was not always like this? + +THE FATHER. No; once he was as rational as we are; he never said +anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages him a little too +much; she answers all his questions.... + +THE UNCLE. It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken +kindness to him. [_Ten o'clock strikes._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_waking up_]. Am I facing the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Am I facing the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There is nobody at the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; I do not see anyone. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I thought someone was waiting. No one has come? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_to the UNCLE and FATHER_]. And your sister has not +come? + +THE UNCLE. It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of +her. + +THE FATHER. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [_A noise, as of +someone coming into the house._] + +THE UNCLE. She is here! Did you hear? + +THE FATHER. Yes; someone has come in at the basement. + +THE UNCLE. It must be our sister. I recognized her step. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I heard slow footsteps. + +THE FATHER. She came in very quietly. + +THE UNCLE. She knows there is an invalid. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I hear nothing now. + +THE UNCLE. She will come up directly; they will tell her we are here. + +THE FATHER. I am glad she has come. + +THE UNCLE. I was sure she would come this evening. + +THE GRANDFATHER. She is a very long time coming up. + +THE UNCLE. However, it must be she. + +THE FATHER. We are not expecting any other visitors. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear any noise in the basement. + +THE FATHER. I will call the servant. We shall know how things stand. +[_He pulls a bell-rope._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear a noise on the stairs already. + +THE FATHER. It is the servant coming up. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It sounds to me as if she were not alone. + +THE FATHER. She is coming up slowly.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I hear your sister's step! + +THE FATHER. I can only hear the servant. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is your sister! It is your sister! [_There is a +knock at the little door._] + +THE UNCLE. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs. + +THE FATHER. I will go and open myself. [_He partly opens the little +door; THE SERVANT remains outside in the opening._] Where are you? + +THE SERVANT. Here, sir. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is at the door? + +THE UNCLE. I can only see the servant. + +THE FATHER. It is only the servant. [_To THE SERVANT._] Who was that, +that came into the house? + +THE SERVANT. Came into the house? + +THE FATHER. Yes; someone came in just now? + +THE SERVANT. No one came in, sir. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it sighing like that? + +THE UNCLE. It is the servant; she is out of breath. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is she crying? + +THE UNCLE. No; why should she be crying? + +THE FATHER [_to THE SERVANT_]. No one came in just now? + +THE SERVANT. No, sir. + +THE FATHER. But we heard someone open the door! + +THE SERVANT. It was I shutting the door. + +THE FATHER. It was open? + +THE SERVANT. Yes, sir. + +THE FATHER. Why was it open at this time of night? + +THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself. + +THE FATHER. Then who was it that opened it? + +THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. Someone must have gone out after me, +sir.... + +THE FATHER. You must be careful.--Don't push the door; you know what a +noise it makes! + +THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am not touching the door. + +THE FATHER. But you are. You are pushing as if you were trying to get +into the room. + +THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am three yards away from the door. + +THE FATHER. Don't talk so loud.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are they putting out the light? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me it has grown pitch dark all at once. + +THE FATHER [_to THE SERVANT_]. You can go down again now; but do not +make so much noise on the stairs. + +THE SERVANT. I did not make any noise on the stairs. + +THE FATHER. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go down quietly; you +will wake your mistress. And if anyone comes now, say that we are not +at home. + +THE UNCLE. Yes; say that we are not at home. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering_]. You must not say that! + +THE FATHER.... Except to my sister and the doctor. + +THE UNCLE. When will the doctor come? + +THE FATHER. He will not be able to come before midnight. [_He shuts +the door. A clock is heard striking eleven._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. She has come in? + +THE FATHER. Who? + +THE GRANDFATHER. The servant. + +THE FATHER. No, she has gone downstairs. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I thought that she was sitting at the table. + +THE UNCLE. The servant? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Yes. + +THE UNCLE. That would complete one's happiness! + +THE GRANDFATHER. No one has come into the room? + +THE FATHER. No; no one has come in. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And your sister is not here? + +THE UNCLE. Our sister has not come. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You want to deceive me. + +THE UNCLE. Deceive you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God! + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with +you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Something has happened! I am sure my daughter is +worse!... + +THE UNCLE. Are you dreaming? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You do not want to tell me!... I can see quite well +there is something.... + +THE UNCLE. In that case you can see better than we can. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth! + +THE DAUGHTER. But we have told you the truth, grandfather! + +THE GRANDFATHER. You do not speak in your ordinary voice. + +THE FATHER. That is because you frighten her. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your voice is changed too. + +THE FATHER. You are going mad! [_He and THE UNCLE make signs to each +other to signify THE GRANDFATHER has lost his reason._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear quite well that you are afraid. + +THE FATHER. But what should we be afraid of? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why do you want to deceive me? + +THE UNCLE. Who is thinking of deceiving you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why have you put out the light? + +THE UNCLE. But the light has not been put out; there is as much light +as there was before. + +THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that the lamp has gone down. + +THE FATHER. I see as well now as ever. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I have millstones on my eyes! Tell me, girls, what is +going on here! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see! I am +here, all alone, in darkness without end! I do not know who seats +himself beside me! I do not know what is happening a yard from me!... +Why were you talking under your breath just now? + +THE FATHER. No one was talking under his breath. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You did talk in a low voice at the door. + +THE FATHER. You heard all I said. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You brought someone into the room!... + +THE FATHER. But I tell you no one has come in! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it your sister or a priest?--You should not try to +deceive me.--Ursula, who was it that came in? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You must not try to deceive me; I know what I +know.--How many of us are there here? + +THE DAUGHTER. There are six of us round the table, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are all round the table? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Paul? + +THE FATHER. Yes. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Oliver? + +THE UNCLE. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. That's not +alarming, is it? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Genevieve? + +ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Gertrude? + +ANOTHER DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are here, Ursula? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; next to you. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And who is that sitting there? + +THE DAUGHTER. Where do you mean, grandfather?--There is no one. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There, there--in the midst of us! + +THE DAUGHTER. But there is no one, grandfather! + +THE FATHER. We tell you there is no one! + +THE GRANDFATHER. But you cannot see--any of you! + +THE UNCLE. Pshaw! You are joking? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel inclined for joking, I can assure you. + +THE UNCLE. Then believe those who can see. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_undecidedly_]. I thought there was someone.... I +believe I shall not live long.... + +THE UNCLE. Why should we deceive you? What use would there be in that? + +THE FATHER. It would be our duty to tell you the truth.... + +THE UNCLE. What would be the good of deceiving each other? + +THE FATHER. You could not live in error long. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_trying to rise_]. I should like to pierce this +darkness!... + +THE FATHER. Where do you want to go? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Over there.... + +THE FATHER. Don't be so anxious.... + +THE UNCLE. You are strange this evening. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is all of you who seem to me to be strange! + +THE FATHER. Do you want anything?... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! grandfather! What do you want, +grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Give me your little hands, my children. + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why are you all three trembling, girls? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We are scarcely trembling at all, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy you are all three pale. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is late, grandfather, and we are tired. + +THE FATHER. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself would do well +to take a little rest. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I could not sleep to-night! + +THE UNCLE. We will wait for the doctor. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Prepare me for the truth. + +THE UNCLE. But there is no truth! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Then I do not know what there is! + +THE UNCLE. I tell you there is nothing at all! + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could see my poor daughter! + +THE FATHER. But you know quite well it is impossible; she must not be +awaked unnecessarily. + +THE UNCLE. You will see her to-morrow. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There is no sound in her room. + +THE UNCLE. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is a very long time since I saw my daughter!... I +took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her!... I do not +know what has become of her!... I do not know how she is.... I do not +know what her face is like now.... She must have changed these +weeks!... I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my hands.... +There is nothing but the darkness between her and me, and the rest of +you!... I cannot go on living like this ... this is not living.... You +sit there, all of you, looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not +one of you has pity on me!... I do not know what ails me.... No one +tells me what ought to be told me.... And everything is terrifying +when one's dreams dwell upon it.... But why are you not speaking? + +THE UNCLE. What should we say, since you will not believe us? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are afraid of betraying yourselves! + +THE FATHER. Come now, be rational! + +THE GRANDFATHER. You have been hiding something from me for a long +time!... Something has happened in the house.... But I am beginning to +understand now.... You have been deceiving me too long!--You fancy +that I shall never know anything?--There are moments when I am less +blind than you, you know!... Do you think I have not heard you +whispering--for days and days--as if you were in the house of someone +who had been hanged--I dare not say what I know this evening.... But I +shall know the truth!... I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; +but I have known it for a long time, in spite of you!--And now, I feel +that you are all paler than the dead! + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Grandfather! grandfather! What is the matter, +grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is not you that I am speaking of, girls. No, it is +not you that I am speaking of.... I know quite well you would tell me +the truth--if they were not by! ... And besides, I feel sure that +they are deceiving you as well.... You will see, children--you will +see!... Do not I hear you all sobbing? + +THE FATHER. Is my wife really so ill? + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is no good trying to deceive me any longer; it is +too late now, and I know the truth better than you!... + +THE UNCLE. But _we_ are not blind; we are not. + +THE FATHER. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This +misunderstanding must be put an end to.--Would you? + +THE GRANDFATHER [_becoming suddenly undecided_]. No, no, not now--not +yet. + +THE UNCLE. You see, you are not reasonable. + +THE GRANDFATHER. One never knows how much a man has been unable to +express in his life!... Who made that noise? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me to be very unsteady--very! + +THE DAUGHTER. It is the cold wind troubling it.... + +THE UNCLE. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut. + +THE DAUGHTER. I think it is going out. + +THE FATHER. There is no more oil. + +THE DAUGHTER. It has gone right out. + +THE FATHER. We cannot stay like this in the dark. + +THE UNCLE. Why not?--I am quite accustomed to it. + +THE FATHER. There is a light in my wife's room. + +THE UNCLE. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has +been. + +THE FATHER. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from +outside. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it light outside? + +THE FATHER. Lighter than here. + +THE UNCLE. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark. + +THE FATHER. So would I. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of +noise.... + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. That is because we are not talking any more, +grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. But why are you all silent? + +THE UNCLE. What do you want us to talk about?--You are really very +peculiar to-night. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it very dark in this room? + +THE UNCLE. There is not much light. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little. + +THE FATHER. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the +want of air myself. [_The girl opens the window._] + +THE UNCLE. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is the window open? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open. + +THE GRANDFATHER. One would not have thought it was open; there is not +a sound outside. + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound. + +THE FATHER. The silence is extraordinary! + +THE DAUGHTER. One could hear an angel tread! + +THE UNCLE. That is why I do not like the country. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, +Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. It will soon be midnight, grandfather. [_Here THE UNCLE +begins to pace up and down the room._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is that walking round us like that? + +THE UNCLE. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I want to walk about +a little. [_Silence._]--But I am going to sit down again;--I cannot +see where I am going. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I were out of this place! + +THE DAUGHTER. Where would you like to go, grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know where--into another room, no matter +where! no matter where! + +THE FATHER. Where could we go? + +THE UNCLE. It is too late to go anywhere else. [_Silence. They are +sitting, motionless, round the table._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling.--Yes, it +is the leaves falling on the terrace. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Go and shut the window, Ursula. + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. [_She shuts the window, comes back, +and sits down._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am cold. [_Silence. THE THREE SISTERS kiss each +other._] What is that I hear now? + +THE FATHER. It is the three sisters kissing each other. + +THE UNCLE. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. +[_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear now, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands. +[_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. And that?... + +THE DAUGHTER. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps my sisters are +trembling a little?... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid, too, my children. [_Here a ray of +moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws +strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; +at the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of someone rising +in haste._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering with peculiar horror_]. Who is that who +got up? + +THE UNCLE. No one got up! + +THE FATHER. I did not get up! + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Nor I!--Nor I!--Nor I! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Someone got up from the table! + +THE UNCLE. Light the lamp!... [_Cries of terror are suddenly heard +from the child's room, on the right; these cries continue, with +gradations of horror, until the end of the scene._] + +THE FATHER. Listen to the child! + +THE UNCLE. He has never cried before! + +THE FATHER. Let us go and see him! + +THE UNCLE. The light! The light! [_At this moment, quick and heavy +steps are heard in the room on the left.--Then a deathly +silence.--They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens +slowly, the light from it is cast into the room where they are +sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her +black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to +announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment +of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while +THE UNCLE politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls +pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way +round the table in the darkness._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. Where are you going?--Where are you going?--The girls +have left me all alone! + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES[53] + +_A DRAMA IN ONE ACT_ + +By JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY + + [Footnote 53: Copyright, 1917, by Josephine Preston Peabody. + This play is fully protected under the Copyright law of the + United States and is subject to royalty when produced by + amateurs or professionals. Applications for the right to + produce _Fortune and Men's Eyes_ should be made to Samuel + French, 28 West 38 Street, New York. All rights reserved.] + + +Josephine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Lionel S. Marks) was born in New York +on May 30, 1874. She attended the Girls' Latin School in Boston and +later went to Radcliffe College. From 1901 to 1903 she taught English +literature at Wellesley College. Her verse, dramatic and lyric, has +made her an outstanding figure in American letters. + +_Fortune and Men's Eyes_ (1900), the first of her published plays, is +written in blank verse. _Marlowe_, likewise a study of a great +Elizabethan, _The Wings_, the setting of which is early English, _The +Piper_, a new version of the medieval legend made famous by Browning, +and _The Wolf of Gubbio_, dominated by the lovely figure of St. +Francis of Assisi, are also poetic dramas. Her best known play, _The +Piper_, was awarded the first prize in 1910 in the Stratford-on-Avon +competition in which there were three hundred and fifteen contestants. +It was then produced at the Memorial Theatre at Stratford. + +In recent years two playwrights have consulted Shakespeare's sonnets +for dramatic themes; first, Josephine Preston Peabody found in them a +motive for her poetic play, _Fortune and Men's Eyes_, and later George +Bernard Shaw turned them to dramatic account, in his own fashion, in +_The Dark Lady of the Sonnets_. The dramatic situation chosen for +_Fortune and Men's Eyes_ has been read by some Shakespearian scholars +into the familiar dedication of the 1609 edition of the Sonnets, which +runs: "To the only begetter of these ensuing sonnets Mr. W. H. all +happiness and that eternity promised by our ever-living poet wisheth +the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth T. T." The last initials +stand for the name of the publisher, Thomas Thorpe. "Begetter" has +been variously interpreted as inspirer of the Sonnets or as partner in +the commercial enterprise of their publication. "Mr. W. H." has been +more usually identified with William Herbert, earl of Pembroke, though +some have thought that the initials were inverted and referred to +Henry Wriothesly, earl of Southampton, to whom Shakespeare's other +poems were dedicated. If W. H. does refer to the earl of Pembroke, it +is usually held that the "dark lady" is in reality the blond Mistress +Mary Fytton, whose name was coupled with Pembroke's. Whether the +sonnets are in any sense at all autobiographical has also been +endlessly debated. It was admittedly an age when every poet tried his +hand at sonnet sequences and in all these sequences, not excepting +Shakespeare's, there are to be found the same conventional conceits. +But it is generally believed now that the sonnets of Spenser and +Sidney refer to the personal experiences of their authors. It is quite +possible, then, that Shakespeare, too, may have used a literary +convention as a means of personal expression, though it seems +impertinent in any case to question the feeling back of "When in +disgrace with fortune and men's eyes." This brief reference to +conflicting interpretations of the Sonnets shows how material of +dramatic value may lurk even in the purlieus of textual criticism. + +Josephine Preston Peabody herself says: "The play was written after +long worship of the W. S. Sonnets, as a method of introspection, to +satisfy my own curiosity concerning the truth of the sonnet theories. +In spite of recurrent threats, by one actor after another, it has +never yet been produced on the professional stage. But it has been +read and recommended for reading, in various colleges, as a picture of +Elizabethan times, and as an interpretation of the Pembroke-Fytton +aspect of the sonnet story." + + + + +FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES + + _"When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes" ..._ + + Sonnet xxix. + + +CHARACTERS + + WILLIAM HERBERT, _son of the Earl of Pembroke._ + SIMEON DYER, _a Puritan._ + TOBIAS, _host of "The Bear and The Angel."_ + WAT BURROW, _a bear-ward._ + DICKON, _a little boy, son to TOBIAS._ + CHIFFIN, _a ballad-monger._ + A PRENTICE. + + A PLAYER, _master W. S. of the Lord Chamberlain's Company._ + + MISTRESS MARY FYTTON, _a maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth._ + MISTRESS ANNE HUGHES, _also of the Court._ + TAVERNERS AND PRENTICES. + + +_Time represented: An afternoon in the autumn of the year 1599._ + + +_SCENE._--_Interior of "The Bear and the Angel," South London. At +back, the center entrance gives on a short alley-walk which joins the +street beyond at a right angle. To right and left of this doorway, +casements. Down, on the right, a door opening upon the inn-garden; a +second door on the right, up, leading to a tap-room. Opposite this, +left, a door leading into a buttery. Opposite the garden-door, a large +chimney-piece with a smoldering wood-fire. A few seats; a lantern +(unlighted) in a corner. In the foreground, to the right, a long and +narrow table with several mugs of ale upon it, also a lute._ + +_At one end of the table WAT BURROW is finishing his ale and holding +forth to the PRENTICE (who thrums the lute) and a group of taverners, +some smoking. At the further end of the table SIMEON DYER observes +all with grave curiosity. TOBIAS and DICKON draw near. General noise._ + + + PRENTICE [_singing_]. + _What do I give for the Pope and his riches! + I's my ale and my Sunday breeches; + I's an old master, I's a young lass, + And we'll eat green goose, come Martinmas! + Sing Rowdy Dowdy, + Look ye don't crowd me + I's a good club, + --So let me pass!_ + + DICKON. + Again! again! + + PRENTICE. _Sing Rowdy--_ + + WAT [_finishing his beer_]. Swallow it down. + Sling all such froth and follow me to the Bear! + They stay for me, lined up to see us pass + From end to end o' the alley. Ho! You doubt? + From Lambeth to the Bridge! + + TAVERNERS. } {'Tis so; ay. + PRENTICES. } {Come, follow! Come. + + WAT. Greg's stuck his ears + With nosegays, and his chain is wound about + Like any May-pole. What? I tell ye, boys, + Ye have seen no such bear, a Bear o' Bears, + Fit to bite off the prophet, in the show, + With seventy such boys! + [_Pulling DICKON's ear_]. Bears, say you, bears? + Why, Rursus Major, as your scholars tell, + A royal bear, the greatest in his day, + The sport of Alexander, unto Nick-- + Was a ewe-lamb, dyed black; no worse, no worse. + To-morrow come and see him with the dogs; + He'll not give way,--not he! + + DICKON. To-morrow's Thursday! + To-morrow's Thursday! + + PRENTICE. Will ye lead by here? + + TOBIAS. + Ay, that would be a sight. Wat, man, this way! + + WAT. + Ho, would you squinch us? Why, there be a press + O' gentry by this tide to measure Nick + And lay their wagers, at a blink of him, + Against to-morrow! Why, the stairs be full. + To-morrow you shall see the Bridge a-creak, + The river--dry with barges,--London gape, + Gape! While the Borough buzzes like a hive + With all their worships! Sirs, the fame o' Nick + Has so pluckt out the gentry by the sleeve, + 'Tis said the Queen would see him. + + TOBIAS. } {Ay, 'tis grand. + DICKON. } {O-oh, the Queen? + + PRENTICE. + How now? Thou art no man to lead a bear, + Forgetting both his quality and hers! + Drink all; come, drink to her. + + TOBIAS. Ay, now. + + WAT. To her!-- + And harkee, boy, this saying will serve you learn: + "The Queen, her high and glorious majesty!" + + SIMEON [_gravely_]. + Long live the Queen! + + WAT. Maker of golden laws + For baitings! She that cherishes the Borough + And shines upon our pastimes. By the mass! + Thank her for the crowd to-morrow. But for her, + We were a homesick handful of brave souls + That love the royal sport. These mouthing players, + These hookers, would 'a' spoiled us of our beer-- + + PRENTICE. + Lying by to catch the gentry at the stairs,-- + All pressing to Bear Alley-- + + WAT. Run 'em in + At stage-plays and show-fooleries on the way. + Stage-plays, with their tart nonsense and their flags, + Their "Tamerlanes" and "Humors" and what not! + My life on't, there was not a man of us + But fared his Lent, by reason of their fatness, + And on a holiday ate not at all! + + TOBIAS [_solemnly_]. + 'Tis so; 'tis so. + + WAT. But when she heard it told + How lean the sport was grown, she damns stage-plays + O' Thursday. So: Nick gets his turn to growl! + + PRENTICE. + As well as any player. + [_With a dumb show of ranting among the TAVERNERS._] + + WAT. Players?--Hang them! + I know 'em, I. I've been with 'em.... I was + As sweet a gentlewoman in my voice + As any of your finches that sings small. + + TOBIAS. 'Twas high. + +[_Enter THE PLAYER, followed by CHIFFIN, the ballad-monger. He is +abstracted and weary._] + + WAT [_lingering at the table_]. + I say, I've played.... There's not one man + Of all the gang--save one.... Ay, there be one + I grant you, now!... He used me in right sort; + A man worth better trades. + +[_Seeing THE PLAYER._] + + --Lord love you, sir! + Why, this is you indeed. 'Tis a long day, sir, + Since I clapped eyes on you. But even now + Your name was on my tongue as pat as ale! + You see me off. We bait to-morrow, sir; + Will you come see? Nick's fresh, and every soul + As hot to see the fight as 'twere to be-- + Man Daniel, baited with the lions! + + TOBIAS. Sir, + 'Tis high ... 'tis high. + + WAT. We show him in the street + With dogs and all, ay, now, if you will see. + + THE PLAYER. + Why, so I will. A show and I not there? + Bear it out bravely, Wat. High fortune, man! + Commend me to thy bear. + +[_Drinks and passes him the cup._] + + WAT. Lord love you, sir! + 'Twas ever so you gave a man godspeed.... + And yet your spirits flag; you look but palely. + I'll take your kindness, thank ye. + +[_Turning away._] + + In good time! + Come after me and Nick, now. Follow all; + Come boys, come, pack! + +[_Exit WAT, still descanting. Exeunt most of the TAVERNERS, with the +PRENTICE. SIMEON DYER draws near THE PLAYER, regarding him gravely. +CHIFFIN sells ballads to those who go out. DICKON is about to follow +them, when TOBIAS stops him._] + + TOBIAS. + What? Not so fast, you there; + Who gave you holiday? Bide by the inn; + Tend on our gentry. + +[_Exit after the crowd._] + + CHIFFIN. Ballads, gentlemen? + Ballads, new ballads? + + SIMEON [_to THE PLAYER._] + With your pardon, sir, + I am gratified to note your abstinence + From this deplorable fond merriment + Of baiting of a bear. + + THE PLAYER. Your friendship then + Takes pleasure in the heaviness of my legs. + But I am weary I would see the bear. + Nay, rest you happy; malt shall comfort us. + + SIMEON. + You do mistake me. I am-- + + CHIFFIN. Ballad, sir? + "How a Young Spark would Woo a Tanner's Wife, + And She Sings Sweet in Turn." + + SIMEON [_indignantly_]. + Abandoned poet! + + CHIFFIN [_indignantly_]. + I'm no such thing! An honest ballad, sir, + No poetry at all. + + THE PLAYER. + Good, sell thy wares. + + CHIFFIN. + "A Ballad of a Virtuous Country-Maid + Forswears the Follies of the Flaunting Town"-- + And tends her geese all day, and weds a vicar. + + SIMEON. + A godlier tale, in sooth. But speak, my man; + If she be virtuous, and the tale a true one, + Can she not do't in prose? + + THE PLAYER. Beseech her, man. + 'Tis scandal she should use a measure so. + For no more sin than dealing out false measure + Was Dame Sapphira slain. + + SIMEON. You are with me, sir; + Although methinks you do mistake the sense + O' that you have read.... This jigging, jog-trot rime, + This ring-me-round, debaseth mind and matter, + To make the reason giddy-- + + CHIFFIN [_to THE PLAYER_]. + Ballad, sir? + "Hear All!" A fine brave ballad of a Fish + Just caught off Dover; nay, a one-eyed fish, + With teeth in double rows. + + THE PLAYER. Nay, nay, go to. + + CHIFFIN. + "My Fortune's Folly," then; or "The True Tale + Of an Angry Gull;" or "Cherries Like Me Best." + "Black Sheep, or How a Cut-Purse Robbed His Mother;" + "The Prentice and the Dell!"... "Plays Play not Fair," + Or how a _gentlewoman's_ heart was took + By a player that was king in a stage-play.... + "The Merry Salutation," "How a Spark + Would Woo a Tanner's Wife!" "The Direful Fish"-- + Cock's passion, sir! not buy a cleanly ballad + Of the great fish, late ta'en off Dover coast, + Having two heads and teeth in double rows.... + Salt fish catched in fresh water?... + 'Od's my life! + What if or salt or fresh? A prodigy! + A ballad like "Hear All!" And me and mine, + Five children and a wife would bait the devil, + May lap the water out o' Lambeth Marsh + Before he'll buy a ballad. My poor wife, + That lies a-weeping for a tansy-cake! + Body o' me, shall I scent ale again? + + THE PLAYER. + Why, here's persuasion; logic, arguments. + Nay, not the ballad. Read for thine own joy. + I doubt not but it stretches, honest length, + From Maid Lane to the Bridge and so across. + But for thy length of thirst-- + +[_Giving him a coin._] + + That touches near. + + CHIFFIN [_apart_]. + A vagrom player, would not buy a tale + O' the Great Fish with the twy rows o' teeth! + Learn you to read! [_Exit._] + + SIMEON. + Thou seemest, sir, from that I have overheard, + A man, as one should grant, beyond thy calling.... + I would I might assure thee of the way, + To urge thee quit this painted infamy. + There may be time, seeing thou art still young, + To pluck thee from the burning. How are ye 'stroyed, + Ye foolish grasshoppers! Cut off, forgotten, + When moth and rust corrupt your flaunting shows, + The Earth shall have no memory of your name! + + DICKON. + Pray you, what's yours? + + SIMEON. I am called Simeon Dyer. + +[_There is the sudden uproar of a crowd in the distance. It continues +at intervals for some time._] + + } Hey, lads? + PRENTICES. } Some noise beyond: Come, cudgels, come! + } Come on, come on, I'm for it. + +[_Exeunt all but THE PLAYER, SIMEON, and DICKON._] + + SIMEON. + Something untoward, without: or is it rather + The tumult of some uproar incident + To this ... vicinity? + + THE PLAYER. It is an uproar + Most incident to bears. + + DICKON. I would I knew! + + THE PLAYER [_holding him off at arm's length_]. + Hey, boy? We would have tidings of the bear: + Go thou, I'll be thy surety. Mark him well. + Omit no fact; I would have all of it: + What manner o' bear he is,--how bears himself; + Number and pattern of ears, and eyes what hue; + His voice and fashion o' coat. Nay, come not back, + Till thou hast all. Skip, sirrah! + +[_Exit DICKON._] + + SIMEON. Think, fair sir. + Take this new word of mine to be a seed + Of thought in that neglected garden plot, + Thy mind, thy worthier part. But think! + + THE PLAYER. Why, so; + Thou hast some right, friend; now and then it serves. + Sometimes I have thought, and even now sometimes, + ... I think. + + SIMEON [_benevolently_]. Heaven ripen thought unto an harvest! + [_Exit._] + +[THE PLAYER _rises, stretches his arms, and paces the floor, +wearily._] + + THE PLAYER [_alone_]. + Some quiet now.... Why should I thirst for it + As if my thoughts were noble company? + Alone with the one man of all living men + I have least cause to honor.... + I'm no lover, + That seek to be alone!... She is too false-- + At last, to keep a spaniel's loyalty. + I do believe it. And by my own soul, + She shall not have me, what remains of me + That may be beaten back into the ranks. + I will not look upon her.... Bitter Sweet. + This fever that torments me day by day-- + Call it not love--this servitude, this spell + That haunts me like a sick man's fantasy, + With pleading of her eyes, her voice, her eyes-- + It shall not have me. I am too much stained: + But, God or no God, yet I do not live + And have to bear my own soul company, + To have it stoop so low. She looks on Herbert. + Oh, I have seen. But he,--he must withstand. + He knows that I have suffered,--suffer still-- + Although I love her not. Her ways, her ways-- + It is her ways that eat into the heart + With beauty more than Beauty; and her voice + That silvers o'er the meaning of her speech + Like moonshine on black waters. Ah, uncoil!... + He's the sure morning after this dark dream; + Clear daylight and west wind of a lad's love; + With all his golden pride, for my dull hours, + Still climbing sunward! Sink all loves in him! + And cleanse me of this cursed, fell distrust + That marks the pestilence.... + _'Fair, kind, and true.'_ + Lad, lad. How could I turn from friendliness + To worship such false gods?-- + There cannot thrive a greater love than this, + 'Fair, kind, and true.' And yet, if She were true + To me, though false to all things else;--one truth, + So one truth lived--. One truth! O beggared soul + --Foul Lazarus, so starved it can make shift + To feed on crumbs of honor!--Am I this? + +[_Enter ANNE HUGHES. She has been running in evident terror, and +stands against the door looking about her._] + + ANNE. + Are you the inn-keeper? + +[_THE PLAYER turns and bows courteously._] + + Nay, sir, your pardon. + I saw you not... And yet your face, methinks, + But--yes, I'm sure.... + But where's the inn-keeper? + I know not where I am, nor where to go. + + THE PLAYER. + Madam, it is my fortune that I may + Procure you service. [_Going towards the door. The uproar + sounds nearer._] + + ANNE. Nay! what if the bear-- + + THE PLAYER. + The bear? + + ANNE. + The door! The bear is broken loose. + Did you not hear? I scarce could make my way + Through that rank crowd, in search of some safe place. + You smile, sir! But you had not seen the bear,-- + Nor I, this morning. Pray you, hear me out,-- + For surely you are gentler than the place. + I came ... I came by water ... to the Garden, + Alone, ... from bravery, to see the show + And tell of it hereafter at the Court! + There's one of us makes count of all such 'scapes + ('Tis Mistress Fytton). She will ever tell + The sport it is to see the people's games + Among themselves,--to go _incognita_ + And take all as it is not for the Queen, + Gallants and rabble! But by Banbury Cross, + I am of tamer mettle!--All alone, + Among ten thousand noisy watermen; + And then the foul ways leading from the Stair; + And then ... no friends I knew, nay, not a face. + And my dear nose beset, and my pomander + Lost in the rout,--or else a cut-purse had it: + And then the bear breaks loose! Oh, 'tis a day + Full of vexations, nay, and dangers too. + I would I had been slower to outdo + The pranks of Mary Fytton.... You know her, sir? + + THE PLAYER. + If one of my plain calling may be said + To know a maid-of-honor. [_More lightly._] And yet more: + My heart has cause to know the lady's face. + + ANNE [_blankly_]. + Why, so it is.... Is't not a marvel, sir, + The way she hath? Truly, her voice is good.... + And yet,--but oh, she charms; I hear it said. + A winsome gentlewoman, of a wit, too. + We are great fellows; she tells me all she does; + And, sooth, I listen till my ears be like + To grow for wonder. Whence my 'scape, to-day! + Oh, she hath daring for the pastimes here; + I would--change looks with her, to have her spirit! + Indeed, they say she charms Someone, by this. + + THE PLAYER. + Someone.... + + ANNE. Hast heard? + Why sure my Lord of Herbert. + Ay, Pembroke's son. But there I doubt,--I doubt. + He is an eagle will not stoop for less + Than kingly prey. No bird-lime takes him. + + THE PLAYER. Herbert.... + He hath shown many favors to us players. + + ANNE. + Ah, now I have you! + + THE PLAYER. Surely, gracious madam; + My duty; ... what besides? + + ANNE. This face of yours. + 'Twas in some play, belike. [_Apart._] ... I took him for + A man it should advantage me to know! + And he's a proper man enough.... Ay me! + +[_When she speaks to him again it is with encouraging condescension._] + + Surely you've been at Whitehall, Master Player? + + THE PLAYER [_bowing_]. + So. + + ANNE. And how oft? And when? + + THE PLAYER. Last Christmas tide; + And Twelfth Day eve, perchance. Your memory + Freshens a dusty past.... The hubbub's over. + Shall I look forth and find some trusty boy + To attend you to the river? + + ANNE. I thank you, sir. + +[_He goes to the door and steps out into the alley, looking up and +down. The noise in the distance springs up again._] + + [_Apart._] 'Tis not past sufferance. Marry, I could stay + Some moments longer, till the streets be safe. + Sir, sir! + + THE PLAYER [_returning_]. + Command me, madam. + + ANNE. I will wait + A little longer, lest I meet once more + That ruffian mob or any of the dogs. + These sports are better seen from balconies. + + THE PLAYER. + Will you step hither? There's an arbored walk + Sheltered and safe. Should they come by again, + You may see all, an't like you, and be hid. + + ANNE. + A garden there? Come, you shall show it me. + +[_They go out into the garden on the right, leaving the door shut. +Immediately enter, in great haste, MARY FYTTON and WILLIAM HERBERT, +followed by DICKON, who looks about and, seeing no one, goes to +setting things in order._] + + MARY. + Quick, quick!... She must have seen me. Those big eyes, + How could they miss me, peering as she was + For some familiar face? She would have known, + Even before my mask was jostled off + In that wild rabble ... bears and bearish men. + + HERBERT. + Why would you have me bring you? + + MARY. Why? Ah, why! + Sooth, once I had a reason: now 'tis lost,-- + Lost! Lost! Call out the bell-man. + + DICKON [_seriously_]. Shall I so? + + HERBERT. + Nay, nay; that were a merriment indeed, + To cry us through the streets! [_To MARY._] You riddling charm. + + MARY. + A riddle, yet? You almost love me, then. + + HERBERT. + Almost? + + MARY. + Because you cannot understand. + Alas, when all's unriddled, the charm goes. + + HERBERT. + Come, you're not melancholy? + + MARY. Nay, are you? + But should Nan Hughes have seen us, and spoiled all-- + + HERBERT. + How could she so? + + MARY. I know not ... yet I know + If she had met us, she could steal To-day, + Golden To-day. + + HERBERT. A kiss; and so forget her. + + MARY. + Hush, hush,--the tavern-boy there. + [_To DICKON._] Tell me, boy,-- + [_To HERBERT._] Some errand, now; a roc's egg! + Strike thy wit. + + HERBERT. + What is't you miss? Why, so. The lady's lost + A very curious reason, wrought about + With diverse broidery. + + MARY. Nay, 'twas a mask. + + HERBERT. + A mask, arch-wit? Why will you mock yourself + And all your fine deceits? Your mask, your reason, + Your reason with a mask! + + MARY. You are too merry. + [_To DICKON._] A mask it is, and muffler finely wrought + With little amber points all hung like bells. + I lost it as I came, somewhere.... + + HERBERT. Somewhere + Between the Paris Gardens and the Bridge. + + MARY. + Or below Bridge--or haply in the Thames! + + HERBERT. + No matter where, so you do bring it back. + Fly, Mercury! Here's feathers for thy heels. [_Giving coin._] + + MARY [_aside_]. + Weights, weights! [_Exit DICKON._] + +[_HERBERT looks about him, opens the door of the taproom, grows +troubled. She watches him with dissatisfaction, seeming to warm her +feet by the fire meanwhile._] + + HERBERT [_apart_]. + I know this place. We used to come + Together, he and I ... + + MARY [_apart_]. Forgot again. + O the capricious tides, the hateful calms, + And the too eager ship that would be gone + Adventuring against uncertain winds, + For some new, utmost sight of Happy Isles! + Becalmed,--becalmed ... But I will break this calm. + +[_She sees the lute on the table, crosses and takes it up, running her +fingers over the strings very softly. She sits._] + + HERBERT. + Ah, mermaid, is it you? + + MARY. Did you sail far? + + HERBERT. + Not I; no, sooth. [_Crossing to her._] + Mermaid, I would not think. + But you-- + + MARY. + I think not. I remember nothing. + There's nothing in the world but you and me; + All else is dust. Thou shalt not question me; + Or if,--but as a sphinx in woman-shape: + And when thou fail'st at answer, I shall turn, + And rend thy heart and cast thee from the cliff. + +[_She leans her head back against him, and he kisses her._] + + So perish all who guess not what I am!... + Oh, but I know you: you are April-Days. + Nothing is sure, but all is beautiful! + +[_She runs her fingers up the strings, one by one, and listens, +speaking to the lute._] + + Is it not so? Come, answer. Is it true? + Speak, sweeting, since I love thee best of late, + And have forsook my virginals for thee. + _All's beautiful indeed and all unsure?_ + _"Ay"_ ... (Did you hear?) _He's fair and faithless? "Ay."_ + [_Speaking with the lute._] + + HERBERT. + Poor oracle, with only one reply!-- + Wherein 'tis unlike thee. + + MARY. _Can he love aught + So well as his own image in the brook, + Having once seen it?_ + + HERBERT. Ay! + + MARY. The lute saith "_No."_ ... + O dullard! Here were tidings, would you mark. + What said I? _Oracle, can he love aught + So dear as his own image in the brook, + Having once looked_?... No, truly. + [_With sudden abandon._] Nor can I! + + HERBERT. + O leave this game of words, you thousand-tongued. + Sing, sing to me. So shall I be all yours + Forever;--or at least till you be mute!... + I used to wonder he should be thy slave: + I wonder now no more. Your ways are wonders; + You have a charm to make a man forget + His past and yours, and everything but you. + + MARY [_speaking_]. + _"When daisies pied and violets blue + And lady-smocks all silver-white"_-- + How now? + + HERBERT. + "How now?" That song ... thou wilt sing that? + + MARY. + Marry, what mars the song? + + HERBERT. Have you forgot + Who made it? + + MARY. Soft, what idleness! So fine? + So rude? And bid me sing! You get but silence; + Or, if I sing,--beshrew me, it shall be + A dole of song, a little starveling breath + As near to silence as a song can be. + +[_She sings under-breath, fantastically._] + + _Say how many kisses be + Lent and lost twixt you and me? + 'Can I tell when they begun?' + Nay, but this were prodigal: + Let us learn to count withal. + Since no ending is to spending, + Sum our riches, one by one. + 'You shall keep the reckoning, + Count each kiss while I do sing.'_ + + HERBERT. + Oh, not these little wounds. You vex my heart; + Heal it again with singing,--come, sweet, come. + Into the garden! None shall trouble us. + This place has memories and conscience too: + Drown all, my mermaid. Wind them in your hair + And drown them, drown them all. + +[_He swings open the garden-door for her. At the same moment ANNE's +voice is heard approaching._] + + ANNE [_without_]. Some music there? + + HERBERT. + Perdition! Quick--behind me, love. + +[_Swinging the door shut again, and looking through the crack._] + + MARY. + 'Tis she-- + Nan Hughes, 'tis she! How came she here? By heaven, + She crosses us to-day. Nan Hughes lights here + In a Bank tavern! Nay, I'll not be seen. + Sooner or later it must mean the wreck + Of both ... should the Queen know. + + HERBERT. The spite of chance! + She talks with someone in the arbor there + Whose face I see not. Come, here's doors at least. + +[_They cross hastily. MARY opens the door on the left and looks +within._] + + MARY. + Too thick.... I shall be penned. But guard you this + And tell me when they're gone. Stay, stay;--mend all. + If she have seen me,--swear it was not I. + Heaven speed her home, with her new body-guard! + +[_Exit, closing door. HERBERT looks out into the garden._] + + HERBERT. + By all accursed chances,--none but he! + +[_Retires up to stand beside the door, looking out of casement. +Re-enter from the garden, ANNE, followed by THE PLAYER._] + + ANNE. + No, 'twas some magic in my ears, I think. + There's no one here. [_Seeing HERBERT._] + But yes, there's someone here:-- + The inn-keeper. Are you-- + Saint Catherine's bones! + My Lord of Herbert. Sir, you could not look + More opportune. But for this gentleman-- + + HERBERT [_bowing_]. + My friend, this long time since,-- + + ANNE. + Marry, your friend? + + THE PLAYER [_regarding HERBERT searchingly_]. + This long time since. + + ANNE. Nay, is it so, indeed? + [_To HERBERT._] My day's fulfilled of blunders! O sweet sir, + How can I tell you? But I'll tell you all + If you'll but bear me escort from this place + Where none of us belongs. Yours is the first + Familiar face I've seen this afternoon! + + HERBERT [_apart_]. + A sweet assurance. + [_Aloud._] But you seek ... you need + Some rest--some cheer, some--Will you step within? + +[_Indicating tap-room._] + + The tavern is deserted, but-- + + ANNE. Not here! + I've been here quite an hour. Come, citywards, + To Whitehall! I have had enough of bears + To quench my longing till next Whitsuntide. + Down to the river, pray you. + + HERBERT. Sooth, at once? + + ANNE. + At once, at once. + [_To THE PLAYER._] I crave your pardon, sir, + For sundering your friendships. I've heard say + A woman always comes between two men + To their confusion. You shall drink amends + Some other day. I must be safely home. + + THE PLAYER [_reassured by HERBERT's reluctance to go._] + It joys me that your trials have found an end; + And for the rest, I wish you prosperous voyage; + Which needs not, with such halcyon weather toward. + + HERBERT [_apart_]. + It cuts: and yet he knows not. Can it pass? + [_To him._] Let us meet soon. I have--I know not what + To say--nay, no import; but chance has parted + Our several ways too long. To leave you thus, + Without a word-- + + ANNE. You are in haste, my lord! + By the true faith, here are two friends indeed! + Two lovers crossed: and I,--'tis I that bar them. + Pray tarry, sir. I doubt not I may light + Upon some link-boy to attend me home + Or else a drunken prentice with a club, + Or that patched keeper strolling from the Garden + With all his dogs along; or failing them, + A pony with a monkey on his back, + Or, failing that, a bear! Some escort, sure, + Such as the Borough offers! I shall look + Part of a pageant from the Lady Fair, + And boast for three full moons, "Such sights I saw!" + Truly, 'tis new to me: but I doubt not + I shall trick out a mind for strange adventure, + As high as--Mistress Fytton! + + HERBERT. Say no more, + Dear lady! I entreat you pardon me + The lameness of my wit. I'm stark adream; + You lighted here so suddenly, unlooked for + Vision in Bankside.... Let me hasten you, + Now that I see I dream not. It grows late. + + ANNE. + And can you grant me such a length of time? + + HERBERT. + Length? Say Illusion! Time? Alas, 'twill be + Only a poor half-hour [_loudly_], a poor half-hour! + [_Apart._] Did she hear that, I wonder? + + THE PLAYER [_bowing over ANNE's hand_]. Not so, madam; + A little gold of largess, fallen to me + By chance. + + HERBERT [_to him_]. + A word with you-- + [_Apart._] O, I am gagged! + + ANNE [_to THE PLAYER_]. + You go with us, sir? + +[_He moves towards door with them._] + + THE PLAYER. No, I do but play + Your inn-keeper. + + HERBERT [_apart, despairingly_]. + The eagle is gone blind. + +[_Exeunt, leaving doors open. They are seen to go down the walk +together. At the street they pause, THE PLAYER, bowing slowly, then +turning back towards the inn; ANNE holding HERBERT's arm. Within, the +door on the left opens slightly, then MARY appears._] + + MARY. + 'Tis true. My ears caught silence, if no more. + They're gone.... + +[_She comes out of her hiding-place and opens the left-hand casement +to see ANNE disappearing with HERBERT._] + + She takes him with her! He'll return? + Gone, gone, without a word; and I was caged,-- + And deaf as well. O, spite of everything! + She's so unlike.... How long shall I be here + To wait and wonder? He with her--with her! + +[_THE PLAYER, having come slowly back to the door, hears her voice. +MARY darts towards the entrance to look after HERBERT and ANNE. She +sees him and recoils. She falls back step by step, while he stands +holding the door-posts with his hands, impassive._] + + You!... + + THE PLAYER. + Yes.... [_After a pause._] And you. + + MARY. Do you not ask me why + I'm here? + + THE PLAYER. + I am not wont to shun the truth: + But yet I think the reason you could give + Were too uncomely. + + MARY. Nay;-- + + THE PLAYER. If it were truth; + If it were truth! Although that likelihood + Scarce threatens. + + MARY. So. Condemned without a trial. + + THE PLAYER. + O, speak the lie now. Let there be no chance + For my unsightly love, bound head and foot, + Stark, full of wounds and horrible,--to find + Escape from out its charnel-house; to rise + Unwelcome before eyes that had forgot, + And say it died not truly. It should die. + Play no imposture: leave it,--it is dead. + I have been weak in that I tried to pour + The wine through plague-struck veins. It came to life + Over and over, drew sharp breath again + In torture such as't may be to be born, + If a poor babe could tell. Over and over, + I tell you, it has suffered resurrection, + Cheating its pain with hope, only to die + Over and over;--die more deaths than men + The meanest, most forlorn, are made to die + By tyranny or nature.... Now I see all + Clear. And I say, it shall not rise again. + I am as safe from you as I were dead. + I know you. + + MARY. Herbert-- + + THE PLAYER. Do not touch his name. + Leave that; I saw. + + MARY. You saw? Nay, what? + + THE PLAYER. The whole + Clear story. Not at first. While you were hid, + I took some comfort, drop by drop, and minute + By minute. (Dullard!) Yet there was a maze + Of circumstance that showed even then to me + Perplext and strange. You here unravel it. + All's clear: you are the clue. [_Turning away._] + + MARY [_going to the casement_]. + [_Apart._] Caged, caged! + Does he know all? Why were those walls so dense? + [_To him._] Nan Hughes hath seized the time to tune your mind + To some light gossip. Say, how came she here? + + THE PLAYER. + All emulation, thinking to match you + In high adventure:--liked it not, poor lady! + And is gone home, attended. + +[_Re-enter DICKON._] + + DICKON [_to MARY_] They be lost!-- + Thy mask and muffler;--'tis no help to search. + Some hooker would 'a' swallowed 'em, be sure, + As the whale swallows Jonas, in the show. + + MARY. + 'Tis nought: I care not. + + DICKON [_looking at the fire_]. + Hey, it wants a log. + +[_While he mends the fire, humming, THE PLAYER stands taking thought. +MARY speaks apart, going to casement again to look out._] + + MARY [_apart_]. + I will have what he knows. To cast me off:-- + Not thus, not thus. Peace, I can blind him yet, + Or he'll despise me. Nay, I will not be + Thrust out at door like this. I will not go + But by mine own free will. There is no power + Can say what he might do to ruin us, + To win Will Herbert from me,--almost mine, + And I all his, all his--O April-Days!-- + Well, friendship against love? I know who wins. + He is grown dread.... But yet he is a man. + +[_Exit DICKON into tap-room._] + +[_To THE PLAYER, suavely._] Well, headsman? + +[_He does not turn._] + + Mind your office: I am judged. + Guilty, was it not so?... What is to do, + Do quickly.... Do you wait for some reprieve? + Guilty, you said. Nay, do you turn your face + To give me some small leeway of escape? + And yet, I will not go ... + +[_Coming down slowly._] + + Well, headsman?... + You ask not why I came here, Clouded Brow, + Will you not ask me why I stay? No word? + O blind, come lead the blind! For I, I too + Lack sight and every sense to linger here + And make me an intruder where I once + Was welcome, oh most welcome, as I dreamed. + Look on me, then. I do confess, I have + Too often preened my feathers in the sun + And thought to rule a little, by my wit. + I have been spendthrift with men's offerings + To use them like a nosegay,--tear apart, + Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, until + I found the heart all bare, the curious heart + I longed to see for once, and cast away. + And so, at first, with you.... Ah, now I think + You're wise. There's nought so fair, so ... curious. + So precious-rare to find as honesty. + 'Twas all a child's play then, a counting-off + Of petals. Now I know.... But ask me why + I come unheralded, and in a mist + Of circumstance and strangeness. Listen, love; + Well then, dead love, if you will have it so. + I have been cunning, cruel,--what you will: + And yet the days of late have seemed too long + Even for summer! Something called me here. + And so I flung my pride away and came, + A very woman for my foolishness, + To say once more,--to say ... + + THE PLAYER. Nay, I'll not ask. + What lacks? I need no more, you have done well. + 'Tis rare. There is no man I ever saw + But you could school him. Women should be players. + You are sovran in the art: feigning and truth + Are so commingled in you. Sure, to you + Nature's a simpleton hath never seen + Her own face in the well. Is there aught else? + To ask of my poor calling? + + MARY. I deserved it + In other days. Hear how I can be meek. + I am come back, a foot-worn runaway, + Like any braggart boy. Let me sit down + And take Love's horn-book in my hands again + And learn from the beginning;--by the rod, + If you will scourge me, love. Come, come, forgive. + I am not wont to sue: and yet to-day + I am your suppliant, I am your servant, + Your link-boy, ay, your minstrel: ay,--wilt hear? + +[_Takes up the lute, and gives a last look out of the casement._] + + The tumult in the streets is all apart + With the discordant past. The hour that is + Shall be the only thing in all the world. + [_Apart._] I will be safe. He'll not win Herbert from me! + +[_Crossing to him._] + + Will you have music, good my lord? + + THE PLAYER [_catching the lute from her._] Not that. + Not that! By heaven, you shall not.... Nevermore. + + MARY. + So ... But you speak at last. You are, forsooth, + A man: and you shall use me as my due;-- + A woman, not the wind about your ears; + A woman whom you loved. + + THE PLAYER [_half-apart, still holding the lute_]. + Why were you not + That beauty that you seemed?... But had you been, + 'Tis true, you would have had no word for me,-- + No looks of love! + + MARY. The man reproaches me? + + THE PLAYER. + Not I--not I.... Will Herbert, what am I + To lay this broken trust to you,--to you, + Young, free, and tempted: April on his way, + Whom all hands reach for, and this woman here + Had set her heart upon! + + MARY. What fantasy! + Surely he must have been from town of late, + To see the gude-folks! And how fare they, sir? + Reverend yeoman, say, how thrive the sheep? + What did the harvest yield you?--Did you count + The cabbage heads? and find how like ... nay, nay! + But our gude-wife, did she bid in the neighbors + To prove them that her husband was no myth? + Some Puritan preacher, nay, some journeyman, + To make you sup the sweeter with long prayers? + This were a rare conversion, by my soul! + From sonnets unto sermons:--eminent! + + THE PLAYER. + Oh, yes, your scorn bites truly: sermons next. + There is so much to say. But it must be learned, + And I require hard schooling, dream too much + On what I would men were,--but women most. + I need the cudgel of the task-master + To make me con the truth. Yes, blind, you called me, + And 'tis my shame I bandaged mine own eyes + And held them dark. Now, by the grace of God, + Or haply because the devil tries too far, + I tear the blindfold off, and I see all. + I see you as you are; and in your heart + The secret love sprung up for one I loved, + A reckless boy who has trodden on my soul-- + But that's a thing apart, concerns not you. + I know that you will stake your heaven and earth + To fool me,--fool us both. + + MARY [_with idle interest_]. + Why were you not + So stern a long time since? You're not so wise + As I have heard them say. + + THE PLAYER [_standing by the chimney_]. + Wise? Oh, not I. + Who was so witless as to call me wise? + Sure he had never bade me a good-day + And seen me take the cheer.... + I was your fool + Too long.... I am no longer anything. + Speak: what are you? + + MARY [_after a pause_]. + The foolishest of women: + A heart that should have been adventurer + On the high seas; a seeker in new lands, + To dare all and to lose. But I was made + A woman. + Oh, you see!--could you see all. + What if I say ... the truth is not so far, + +[_Watching him._] + + Yet farther than you dream. If I confess ... + He charmed my fancy ... for the moment,--ay + The shine of his fortunes too, the very name + Of Pembroke?... Dear my judge,--ay, clouded brow + And darkened fortune, be not black to me! + I'd try for my escape; the window's wide, + No one forbids, and yet I stay--I stay. + + Oh, I was niggard, once, unkind--I know, + Untrusty: loved, unloved you, day by day: + A little and a little,--why, I knew not, + And more, and wondered why;--then not at all: + Drank up the dew from out your very heart, + Like the extortionate sun, to leave you parched + Till, with as little grace, I flung all back + In gusts of angry rain! I have been cruel. + But the spell works; yea, love, the spell, the spell + Fed by your fasting, by your subtlety + Past all men's knowledge.... There is something rare + About you that I long to flee and cannot:-- + Some mastery ... that's more my will than I. + +[_She laughs softly. He listens, looking straight ahead, not at her, +immobile, but suffering evidently. She watches his face and speaks +with greater intensity. Here she crosses nearer and falls on her +knees._] + + Ah, look: you shall believe, you shall believe. + Will you put by your Music? Was I that? + Your Music,--very Music?... Listen, then, + Turn not so blank a face. Thou hast my love. + I'll tell thee so till thought itself shall tire + And fall a-dreaming like a weary child, ... + Only to dream of you, and in its sleep + To murmur You.... Ah, look at me, love, lord ... + Whom queens would honor. Read these eyes you praised, + That pitied, once,--that sue for pity now. + But look! You shall not turn from me-- + + THE PLAYER. Eyes, eyes!-- + The darkness hides so much. + + MARY. He'll not believe.... + What can I do? What more,--what more, you ... man? + I bruise my heart here, at an iron gate.... + +[_She regards him half gloomily without rising._] + + Yet there is one thing more.... You'll take me, now?-- + My meaning.... You were right. For once I say it. + There is a glory of discovery [_ironically_] + To the black heart ... because it may be known + But once,--but once.... + I wonder men will hide + Their motives all so close. If they could guess,-- + It is so new to feel the open day + Look in on all one's hidings, at the end. + So.... You were right. The first was all a lie: + A lie, and for a purpose.... + Now,--[_she rises and stands off, regarding him abruptly_], + And why, I know not,--but 'tis true, at last, + I do believe ... I love you. + Look at me! + +[_He stands by the fireside against the chimney-piece. She crosses to +him with passionate appeal, holding out her arms. He turns his eyes +and looks at her with a rigid scrutiny. She endures it for a second, +then wavers; makes an effort, unable to look away, to lift her arms +towards his neck; they falter and fall at her side. The two stand +spellbound by mutual recognition. Then she speaks in a low voice._] + + MARY. + Oh, let me go! + +[_She turns her head with an effort,--gathers her cloak about her, +then hastens out as if from some terror._] + +[_THE PLAYER is alone beside the chimney-piece. The street outside is +darkening with twilight through the casements and upper door. There is +a sound of rough-throated singing that comes by and is softened with +distance. It breaks the spell._] + + THE PLAYER. + So; it is over ... now. [_He looks into the fire._] + + "_Fair, kind, and true." And true!_... My golden Friend. + Those two ... together.... He was ill at ease. + But that he should betray me with a kiss! + + By this preposterous world ... I am in need. + Shall there be no faith left? Nothing but names? + Then he's a fool who steers his life by such. + Why not the body-comfort of this herd + Of creatures huddled here to keep them warm?-- + Trying to drown out with enforced laughter + The query of the winds ... unanswered winds + That vex the soul with a perpetual doubt. + What holds me?... Bah, that were a Cause, indeed! + To prove your soul one truth, by being it,-- + Against the foul dishonor of the world! + How else prove aught?... + I talk into the air. + And at my feet, my honor full of wounds. + Honor? Whose honor? For I knew my sin, + And she ... had none. There's nothing to avenge. + +[_He speaks with more and more passion, too distraught to notice +interruptions. Enter DICKON, with a tallow-dip. He regards THE PLAYER +with half-open mouth from the corner; then stands by the casement, +leaning up against it and yawning now and then._] + + I had no right: that I could call her mine + So none should steal her from me, and die for't. + There's nothing to avenge ... Brave beggary! + How fit to lodge me in this home of Shows, + With all the ruffian life, the empty mirth, + The gross imposture of humanity, + Strutting in virtues it knows not to wear, + Knave in a stolen garment--all the same-- + Until it grows enamored of a life + It was not born to,--falls a-dream, poor cheat, + In the midst of its native shams,--the thieves and bears + And ballad-mongers all!... Of such am I. + +[_Re-enter TOBIAS and one or two TAVERNERS. TOBIAS regards THE PLAYER, +who does not notice anyone,--then leads off DICKON by the ear. Exeunt +into taproom. THE PLAYER goes to the casement, pushes it wide open, +and gazes out at the sky._] + + Is there naught else?... I could make shift to bind + My heart up and put on my mail again, + To cheat myself and death with one fight more, + If I could think there were some worldly use + For bitter wisdom. + But I'm no general, + That my own hand-to-hand with evil days + Should cheer my doubting thousands.... + I'm no more + Than one man lost among a multitude; + And in the end dust swallows them--and me, + And the good sweat that won our victories. + Who sees? Or seeing, cares? Who follows on? + Then why should my dishonor trouble me, + Or broken faith in him? _What is it suffers? + And why?_ Now that the moon is turned to blood. + +[_He turns towards the door with involuntary longing, and seems to +listen._] + + No ... no, he will not come. Well, I have naught + To do but pluck from me my bitter heart, + And live without it. + +[_Re-enter DICKON with a tankard and a cup. He sets them down on a +small table; this he pushes towards THE PLAYER, who turns at the +noise._] + + So...? Is it for me? + + DICKON. + Ay, on the score! I had good sight o' the bear. + Look, here's a sprig was stuck on him with pitch;-- + +[_Rubbing the sprig on his sleeve._] + + I caught it up,--from Lambeth marsh, belike. + Such grow there, and I've seen thee cherish such. + + THE PLAYER. + Give us thy posy. + +[_He comes back to the fire and sits in the chair near by. DICKON gets +out the iron lantern from the corner._] + + DICKON. Hey! It wants a light. + +[_THE PLAYER seems to listen once more, his face turned towards the +door. He lifts his hand as if to hush DICKON, lets it fall, and looks +back at the fire. DICKON regards him with shy curiosity and draws +nearer._] + + DICKON. + Thou wilt be always minding of the fire ... + Wilt thou not? + + THE PLAYER. Ay. + + DICKON. It likes me, too. + + THE PLAYER. So? + + DICKON. Ay.... + I would I knew what thou art thinking on + When thou dost mind the fire.... + + THE PLAYER. Wouldst thou? + + DICKON. Ay. + +[_Sound of footsteps outside. A group approaches the door._] + + Oh, here he is, come back! + + THE PLAYER [_rising with passionate eagerness_]. + Brave lad--brave lad! + + DICKON [_singing_]. + _Hang out your lanthorns, trim your lights + To save your days from knavish nights!_ + +[_He plunges, with his lantern, through the doorway, stumbling against +WAT BURROW, who enters, a sorry figure, the worse for wear._] + + WAT [_sourly_]. + Be the times soft, that you must try to cleave + Way through my ribs as tho' I was the moon?-- + And you the man-wi-'the-lanthorn, or his dog?-- + You bean!... + +[_Exit DICKON. WAT shambles in and sees THE PLAYER._] + + What, you sir, here? + + THE PLAYER. + Ay, here, good Wat. + +[_While WAT crosses to the table and gets himself a chair, THE PLAYER +looks at him as if with a new consciousness of the surroundings. After +a time he sits as before. Re-enter DICKON and curls up on the floor, +at his feet._] + + WAT. + O give me comfort, sir. This cursed day,-- + A wry, damned ... noisome.... Ay, poor Nick, poor Nick! + He's all to mend--Poor Nick! He's sorely maimed, + More than we'd baited him with forty dogs. + 'Od's body! Said I not, sir, he would fight? + Never before had he, in leading-chain, + Walked out to take the air and show his parts.... + 'Went to his noddle like some greenest gull's + That's new come up to town.... The prentices + Squeaking along like Bedlam, he breaks loose + And prances me a hey,--I dancing counter! + Then such a cawing 'mongst the women! Next, + The chain did clatter and enrage him more;-- + You would 'a' sworn a bear grew on each link, + And after each a prentice with a cudgel,-- + Leaving him scarce an eye! So, howling all, + We run a pretty pace ... and Nick, poor Nick, + He catches on a useless, stumbling fry + That needed not be born,--and bites into him. + And then ... the Constable ... And now, no show! + + THE PLAYER. + Poor Wat!... Thou wentest scattering misadventure + Like comfits from thy horn of plenty, Wat. + + WAT. + Ay, thank your worship. You be best to comfort. + +[_He pours a mug of ale._] + + No show to-morrow! Minnow Constable.... + I'm a jack-rabbit strung up by my heels + For every knave to pinch as he goes by! + Alas, poor Nick, bear Nick ... oh, think on Nick. + + THE PLAYER. + With all his fortunes darkened for a day,-- + And the eye o' his reason, sweet intelligencer, + Under a beggarly patch.... I pledge thee, Nick. + + WAT. + Oh, you have seen hard times, sir, with us all. + Your eyes lack luster, too, this day. What say you? + No jesting.... What? I've heard of marvels there + In the New Country. There would be a knop-hole + For thee and me. There be few Constables + And such unhallowed fry.... An thou wouldst lay + Thy wit to mine--what is't we could not do? + Wilt turn't about? + +[_Leans towards him in cordial confidence._] + + Nay, you there, sirrah boy, + Leave us together; as 'tis said in the play, + 'Come, leave us, Boy!' + +[_DICKON does not move. He gives a sigh and leans his head against THE +PLAYER's knee, his arms around his legs. He sleeps. THE PLAYER gazes +sternly into the fire, while WAT rambles on, growing drowsy._] + + WAT. + The cub there snores good counsel. When all's done, + What a bubble is ambition!... When all's done.... + What's yet to do?... Why, sleep.... Yet even now + I was on fire to see myself and you + Off for the Colony with Raleigh's men. + I've been beholden to 'ee.... Why, for thee + I could make shift to suffer plays o' Thursday. + Thou'rt the best man among them, o' my word. + There's other trades and crafts and qualities + Could serve ... an thou wouldst lay thy wit to mine. + Us two!... us two!... + + THE PLAYER [_apart, to the fire_]. + "Fair, kind, and true."... + + WAT. ... Poor Nick! + +[_He nods over his ale. There is muffled noise in the taproom. Someone +opens the door a second, letting in a stave of a song, then slams the +door shut. THE PLAYER, who has turned, gloomily, starts to rise. +DICKON moves in his sleep, sighs heavily, and settles his cheek +against THE PLAYER's shoes. THE PLAYER looks down for a moment. Then +he sits again, looking now at the fire, now at the boy, whose hair he +touches._] + + THE PLAYER. + So, heavy-head. You bid me think my thought + Twice over; keep me by, a heavy heart, + As ballast for thy dream. Well, I will watch ... + Like slandered Providence. Nay, I'll not be + The prop to fail thy trust untenderly, + After a troubled day.... + Nay, rest you here. + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + +THE LITTLE MAN[54] + +By JOHN GALSWORTHY + + [Footnote 54: From _The Little Man and Other Satires_; + copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of + the publishers. Acting rights, professional and amateur, + reserved to the author in care of the publisher.] + + +"Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are violets that seem +redder, and sweeter, than any ever seen--as though they have sprung up +out of the footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the April +sun, in a Devonshire lane, the little blue scentless violets capture +every bit as much of the spring." Affection for the West country that +was the home of John Galsworthy's ancestors heightens the glamour of +this enchanting bit of writing from one of his essays. As he himself +has said, the Galsworthys have been in Devonshire as far back as +records go--"since the flood of Saxons at all events." He was born, +though, at Coombe in Surrey in 1867. From 1881 to 1886, he was at +Harrow where he did well at work and games. He was graduated with an +honor degree in law from New College, Oxford, in 1889. Following his +father's example, he took up the law and was called to the bar +(Lincoln's Inn) in 1890. "I read," he says, "in various chambers, +practised almost not at all, and disliked my profession thoroughly." + +For nearly two years thereafter, Galsworthy traveled, visiting among +other places, Russia, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Fiji +Islands, and South Africa. On a sailing-ship plying between Adelaide +and the Cape he met and made a friend of the novelist, Joseph Conrad, +then still a sailor. Galsworthy was soon to become a writer himself, +publishing his first novel in 1899. Since that date he has written +novels, plays, essays, and verse that have made him famous.[55] +Through his writings he has become a great social force. In this +respect his influence resembles that of Charles Dickens. He has made +people who read his books or see his plays acted think about the +justice or injustice of institutions commonly accepted without a +question. The presentation of his play _Justice_ (1909), moved the +Home Secretary of the day, Winston Churchill, to put into effect +several important reforms affecting the English prison system. + + [Footnote 55: For a short bibliography, see Sheila + Kaye-Smith, _John Galsworthy_, London, 1916.] + +_The Little Man_, no less a socializing agency in its way, was +produced in New York at Maxine Elliott's Theatre in February, 1917, as +a curtain raiser to G. K. Chesterton's play, Magic. The part of the +Little Man himself was taken by O. P. Heggie, one of the most +intelligent and distinguished actors on the English-speaking stage. J. +Ranken Towse, reviewing the performance for the Saturday Magazine of +the _New York Evening Post_, on February 17, 1917, wrote: "Another +entertainment of notable excellence is that provided by the double +bill at Maxine Elliott's Theatre, consisting of Galsworthy's _The +Little Man_ and Chesterton's _Magic_. Here are two plays of diverse +character and superior quality, in which some highly intelligent and +artistic acting is done by Mr. O. P. Heggie. Some sensitive reviewers +have found cause of offense in Mr. Galsworthy's somewhat fanciful +American, but the dramatist has been equally disrespectful in his +handling of Germans, Dutch, and English. The value and significance of +the piece, of course, are to be looked for, not in its broad +humors--which are largely conventional--but in the ethical and moral +lesson and profound social philosophy which they suggest and +illustrate." It is hard to sympathize with the "sensitive reviewers," +though to the native ear, to be sure, the utterances of the American +lack verisimilitude. The author of _The Little Man_ has even been +humorously reproached with using the speech of Deadwood Dick for his +model. + +The play was also given quite recently, during the season of 1920-21, +as part of the repertory at the Everyman Theatre in London. On the +programs invariably appears the note which is prefixed also to this as +to every printed version. It explains carefully that this play was +written before the days of the Great War. This note bespeaks the +playwright's perfect detachment which is, as has been said, "an +artistic device, not a matter of divine indifference." Yet the satire +does seem to be directed, incidentally at least, against certain +familiar national characteristics, for it is the humanity of the +Little Man, whose mixed ancestry is described by the American as being +"a bit streaky," that puts to shame the various types of human +arrogance and indifference with which he is surrounded. + + + + +THE LITTLE MAN[56] + + [Footnote 56: AUTHOR'S NOTE + + Since it is just possible that someone may think _The Little + Man_ has a deep, dark reference to the war, it may be as well + to state that this whimsey was written in October, 1913.] + + +_SCENE I.--Afternoon, on the departure platform of an Austrian railway +station. At several little tables outside the buffet persons are +taking refreshment, served by a pale young waiter. On a seat against +the wall of the buffet a woman of lowly station is sitting beside two +large bundles, on one of which she has placed her baby, swathed in a +black shawl._ + + +WAITER [_approaching a table whereat sit an English traveler and his +wife_]. Zwei Kaffee? + +ENGLISHMAN [_paying_]. Thanks. [_To his wife, in an Oxford voice._] +Sugar? + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_in a Cambridge voice_]. One. + +AMERICAN TRAVELER [_with field-glasses and a pocket camera--from +another table_]. Waiter, I'd like to have you get my eggs. I've been +sitting here quite a while. + +WAITER. Yes, sare. + +GERMAN TRAVELER. Kellner, bezahlen! [_His voice is, like his mustache, +stiff and brushed up at the ends. His figure also is stiff and his +hair a little gray; clearly once, if not now, a colonel._] + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! [_The baby on the bundle wails. The mother takes +it up to soothe it. A young, red-cheeked Dutchman at the fourth table +stops eating and laughs._] + +AMERICAN. My eggs! Get a wiggle on you! + +WAITER. Yes, sare. [_He rapidly recedes. A LITTLE MAN in a soft hat is +seen to the right of the tables. He stands a moment looking after the +hurrying waiter, then seats himself at the fifth table._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_looking at his watch_]. Ten minutes more. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Bother! + +AMERICAN [_addressing them_]. 'Pears as if they'd a prejudice against +eggs here, anyway. [_The English look at him, but do not speak._] + +GERMAN [_in creditable English_]. In these places man can get nothing. +[_The WAITER comes flying back with a compote for the DUTCH YOUTH, who +pays._] + +GERMAN. Kellner, bezahlen! + +WAITER. Eine Krone sechzig. [_The GERMAN pays._] + +AMERICAN [_rising, and taking out his watch--blandly_]. See here! If I +don't get my eggs before this watch ticks twenty, there'll be another +waiter in heaven. + +WAITER [_flying_]. Komm' gleich! + +AMERICAN [_seeking sympathy_]. I'm gettin' kind of mad! + +[_The ENGLISHMAN halves his newspaper and hands the advertisement half +to his wife. The BABY wails. The MOTHER rocks it. The DUTCH YOUTH +stops eating and laughs. The GERMAN lights a cigarette. The LITTLE MAN +sits motionless, nursing his hat. The WAITER comes flying back with +the eggs and places them before the AMERICAN._] + +AMERICAN [_putting away his watch_]. Good! I don't like trouble. How +much? [_He pays and eats. The WAITER stands a moment at the edge of +the platform and passes his hand across his brow. The LITTLE MAN eyes +him and speaks gently._] + +LITTLE MAN. Herr Ober! [_The WAITER turns._] Might I have a glass of +beer? + +WAITER. Yes, sare. + +LITTLE MAN. Thank you very much. [_The WAITER goes._] + +AMERICAN [_pausing in the deglutition of his eggs--affably_]. Pardon +me, sir; I'd like to have you tell me why you called that little bit +of a feller "Herr Ober." Reckon you would know what that means? Mr. +Head Waiter. + +LITTLE MAN. Yes, yes. + +AMERICAN. I smile. + +LITTLE MAN. Oughtn't I to call him that? + +GERMAN [_abruptly_]. Nein--Kellner. + +AMERICAN. Why, yes! Just "waiter." [_The ENGLISHWOMAN looks round her +paper for a second. The DUTCH YOUTH stops eating and laughs. The +LITTLE MAN gazes from face to face and nurses his hat._] + +LITTLE MAN. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. + +GERMAN. Gott! + +AMERICAN. In my country we're vurry democratic--but that's quite a +proposition. + +ENGLISHMAN [_handling coffee-pot, to his wife_]. More? + +ENGLISHWOMAN. No, thanks. + +GERMAN [_abruptly_]. These fellows--if you treat them in this manner, +at once they take liberties. You see, you will not get your beer. [_As +he speaks the WAITER returns, bringing the LITTLE MAN's beer, then +retires._] + +AMERICAN. That 'pears to be one up to democracy. [_To the LITTLE +MAN._] I judge you go in for brotherhood? + +LITTLE MAN [_startled_]. Oh, no! I never-- + +AMERICAN. I take considerable stock in Leo Tolstoi myself. Grand +man--grand-souled apparatus. But I guess you've got to pinch those +waiters some to make 'em skip. [_To the ENGLISH, who have carelessly +looked his way for a moment._] You'll appreciate that, the way he +acted about my eggs. [_The ENGLISH make faint motions with their +chins, and avert their eyes. To the WAITER, who is standing at the +door of the buffet._] Waiter! Flash of beer--jump, now! + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! + +GERMAN. Cigarren! + +WAITER. Schoen. [_He disappears._] + +AMERICAN [_affably--to the LITTLE MAN_]. Now, if I don't get that +flash of beer quicker'n you got yours, I shall admire. + +GERMAN [_abruptly_]. Tolstoi is nothing--nichts! No good! Ha? + +AMERICAN [_relishing the approach of argument_]. Well, that is a +matter of temperament. Now, I'm all for equality. See that poor woman +there--vurry humble woman--there she sits among us with her baby. +Perhaps you'd like to locate her somewhere else? + +GERMAN [_shrugging_]. Tolstoi is sentimentalisch. Nietzsche is the +true philosopher, the only one. + +AMERICAN. Well, that's quite in the prospectus--vurry stimulating +party--old Nietzsch--virgin mind. But give me Leo! [_He turns to the +red-cheeked youth._] What do you opine, sir? I guess by your labels, +you'll be Dutch. Do they read Tolstoi in your country? [_The DUTCH +YOUTH laughs._] + +AMERICAN. That is a vurry luminous answer. + +GERMAN. Tolstoi is nothing. Man should himself express. He must +push--he must be strong. + +AMERICAN. That is so. In Amurrica we believe in virility; we like a +man to expand--to cultivate his soul. But we believe in brotherhood +too; we're vurry democratic. We draw the line at niggers; but we +aspire, we're vurry high-souled. Social barriers and distinctions +we've not much use for. + +ENGLISHMAN. Do you feel a draught? + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_with a shiver of her shoulder toward the AMERICAN_]. I +do--rather. + +GERMAN. Wait! You are a young people. + +AMERICAN. That is so; there are no flies on us. [_To the LITTLE MAN, +who has been gazing eagerly from face to face._] Say! I'd like to have +you give us your sentiments in relation to the duty of man. [_The +LITTLE MAN fidgets, and is about to open his mouth._] + +AMERICAN. For example--is it your opinion that we should kill off the +weak and diseased, and all that can't jump around? + +GERMAN [_nodding_]. Ja, ja! That is coming. + +LITTLE MAN [_looking from face to face_]. They might be me. [_The +DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +AMERICAN [_reproving him with a look_]. That's true humility. 'Tisn't +grammar. Now, here's a proposition that brings it nearer the bone: +Would you step out of your way to help them when it was liable to +bring you trouble? + +GERMAN. Nein, nein! That is stupid. + +LITTLE MAN [_eager but wistful_]. I'm afraid not. Of course one wants +to-- + +GERMAN. Nein, nein! That is stupid! What is the duty? + +LITTLE MAN. There was St. Francis d'Assisi and St. Julien +l'Hospitalier, and-- + +AMERICAN. Vurry lofty dispositions. Guess they died of them. [_He +rises._] Shake hands, sir--my name is--[_He hands a card._] I am an +ice-machine maker. [_He shakes the LITTLE MAN's hand._] I like your +sentiments--I feel kind of brotherly. [_Catching sight of the WAITER +appearing in the doorway._] Waiter, where to h--ll is that flash of +beer? + +GERMAN. Cigarren! + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! [_He vanishes._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_consulting watch_]. Train's late. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Really! Nuisance! [_A station POLICEMAN, very square and +uniformed, passes and repasses._] + +AMERICAN [_resuming his seat--to the GERMAN_]. Now, we don't have so +much of that in Amurrica. Guess we feel more to trust in human nature. + +GERMAN. Ah! ha! you will bresently find there is nothing in him but +self. + +LITTLE MAN [_wistfully_]. Don't you believe in human nature? + +AMERICAN. Vurry stimulating question. That invites remark. [_He looks +round for opinions. The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_holding out his half of the paper to his wife_]. Swap! +[_His wife swaps._] + +GERMAN. In human nature I believe so far as I can see him--no more. + +AMERICAN. Now that 'pears to me kind o' blasphemy. I'm vurry +idealistic; I believe in heroism. I opine there's not one of us +settin' around here that's not a hero--give him the occasion. + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! Do you believe that? + +AMERICAN. Well! I judge a hero is just a person that'll help another +at the expense of himself. That's a vurry simple definition. Take that +poor woman there. Well, now, she's a heroine, I guess. She would die +for her baby any old time. + +GERMAN. Animals will die for their babies. That is nothing. + +AMERICAN. Vurry true. I carry it further. I postulate we would all die +for that baby if a locomotive was to trundle up right here and try to +handle it. I'm an idealist. [_To the GERMAN._] I guess _you_ don't +know how good you are. [_As the GERMAN is twisting up the ends of his +mustache--to the ENGLISHWOMAN._] I should like to have you express an +opinion, ma'am. This is a high subject. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. I beg your pardon. + +AMERICAN. The English are vurry humanitarian; they have a vurry high +sense of duty. So have the Germans, so have the Amurricans. [_To the +DUTCH YOUTH._] I judge even in your little country they have that. +This is a vurry civilized epoch. It is an epoch of equality and +high-toned ideals. [_To the LITTLE MAN._] What is your nationality, +sir? + +LITTLE MAN. I'm afraid I'm nothing particular. My father was +half-English and half-American, and my mother half-German and +half-Dutch. + +AMERICAN. My! That's a bit streaky, any old way. [_The POLICEMAN +passes again._] Now, I don't believe we've much use any more for those +gentlemen in buttons, not amongst the civilized peoples. We've grown +kind of mild--we don't think of self as we used to do. [_The WAITER +has appeared in the doorway._] + +GERMAN [_in a voice of thunder_]. Cigarren! Donnerwetter! + +AMERICAN [_shaking his fist at the vanishing WAITER_]. That flash of +beer! + +WAITER. Komm' gleich! + +AMERICAN. A little more, and he will join George Washington! I was +about to remark when he intruded: The kingdom of Christ nowadays is +quite a going concern. The Press is vurry enlightened. We are mighty +near to universal brotherhood. The colonel here [_he indicates the +GERMAN_], he doesn't know what a lot of stock he holds in that +proposition. He is a man of blood and iron, but give him an +opportunity to be magnanimous, and he'll be right there. Oh, sir! yes. +[_The GERMAN, with a profound mixture of pleasure and cynicism, +brushes up the ends of his mustache._] + +LITTLE MAN. I wonder. One wants to, but somehow--[_He shakes his +head._] + +AMERICAN. You seem kind of skeery about that. You've had experience +maybe. The flesh is weak. I'm an optimist--I think we're bound to make +the devil hum in the near future. I opine we shall occasion a good +deal of trouble to that old party. There's about to be a holocaust of +selfish interests. We're out for high sacrificial business. The +colonel there with old-man Nietzsch--he won't know himself. There's +going to be a vurry sacred opportunity. [_As he speaks, the voice of a +RAILWAY OFFICIAL is heard in the distance calling out in German. It +approaches, and the words become audible._] + +GERMAN [_startled_]. Der Teufel! [_He gets up, and seizes the bag +beside him. The STATION OFFICIAL has appeared, he stands for a moment +casting his commands at the seated group. The DUTCH YOUTH also rises, +and takes his coat and hat. The OFFICIAL turns on his heel and +retires, still issuing directions._] + +ENGLISHMAN. What does he say? + +GERMAN. Our drain has come in, de oder platform; only one minute we +haf. [_All have risen in a fluster._] + +AMERICAN. Now, that's vurry provoking. I won't get that flash of beer. +[_There is a general scurry to gather coats and hats and wraps, during +which the lowly woman is seen making desperate attempts to deal with +her baby and the two large bundles. Quite defeated, she suddenly puts +all down, wrings her hands, and cries out: "Herr Jesu! Hilfe!" The +flying procession turn their heads at that strange cry._] + +AMERICAN. What's that? Help? [_He continues to run. The LITTLE MAN +spins round, rushes back, picks up baby and bundle on which it was +seated._] + +LITTLE MAN. Come along, good woman, come along! [_The woman picks up +the other bundle and they run. The WAITER, appearing in the doorway +with the bottle of beer, watches with his tired smile._] + + +_SCENE II.--A second-class compartment of a corridor carriage, in +motion. In it are seated the ENGLISHMAN and his wife, opposite each +other at the corridor end, she with her face to the engine, he with +his back. Both are somewhat protected from the rest of the travelers +by newspapers. Next to her sits the GERMAN, and opposite him sits the +AMERICAN; next the AMERICAN in one window corner is seated the DUTCH +YOUTH; the other window corner is taken by the GERMAN's bag. The +silence is only broken by the slight rushing noise of the train's +progression and the crackling of the English newspapers._ + +AMERICAN [_turning to the DUTCH YOUTH_]. Guess I'd like that winder +raised; it's kind of chilly after that old run they gave us. [_The +DUTCH YOUTH laughs, and goes through the motions of raising the +window. The ENGLISH regard the operation with uneasy irritation. The +GERMAN opens his bag, which reposes on the corner seat next him, and +takes out a book._] + +AMERICAN. The Germans are great readers. Vurry stimulating practice. I +read most anything myself! [_The GERMAN holds up the book so that the +title may be read._] "Don Quixote"--fine book. We Amurricans take +considerable stock in old man Quixote. Bit of a wild-cat--but we +don't laugh at him. + +GERMAN. He is dead. Dead as a sheep. A good thing, too. + +AMERICAN. In Amurrica we have still quite an amount of chivalry. + +GERMAN. Chivalry is nothing--sentimentalisch. In modern days--no good. +A man must push, he must pull. + +AMERICAN. So you say. But I judge your form of chivalry is sacrifice +to the state. We allow more freedom to the individual soul. Where +there's something little and weak, we feel it kind of noble to give up +to it. That way we feel elevated. [_As he speaks there is seen in the +corridor doorway the LITTLE MAN, with the WOMAN'S BABY still on his +arm and the bundle held in the other hand. He peers in anxiously. The +ENGLISH, acutely conscious, try to dissociate themselves from his +presence with their papers. The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +GERMAN. Ach! So! + +AMERICAN. Dear me! + +LITTLE MAN. Is there room? I can't find a seat. + +AMERICAN. Why, yes! There's a seat for one. + +LITTLE MAN [_depositing bundle outside, and heaving BABY_]. May I? + +AMERICAN. Come right in! [_The GERMAN sulkily moves his bag. The +LITTLE MAN comes in and seats himself gingerly._] + +AMERICAN. Where's the mother? + +LITTLE MAN [_ruefully_]. Afraid she got left behind. [_The DUTCH YOUTH +laughs. The ENGLISH unconsciously emerge from their newspapers._] + +AMERICAN. My! That would appear to be quite a domestic incident. [_The +ENGLISHMAN suddenly utters a profound "Ha, Ha!" and disappears behind +his paper. And that paper and the one opposite are seen to shake, and +little squirls and squeaks emerge._] + +GERMAN. And you haf got her bundle, and her baby. Ha! [_He cackles +dryly._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. I smile. I guess Providence has played it pretty +low down on you. I judge it's acted real mean. [_The BABY wails, and +the LITTLE MAN jigs it with a sort of gentle desperation, looking +apologetically from face to face. His wistful glance renews the fire +of merriment wherever it alights. The AMERICAN alone preserves a +gravity which seems incapable of being broken._] + +AMERICAN. Maybe you'd better get off right smart and restore that +baby. There's nothing can act madder than a mother. + +LITTLE MAN. Poor thing; yes! What she must be suffering! [_A gale of +laughter shakes the carriage. The ENGLISH for a moment drop their +papers, the better to indulge. The LITTLE MAN smiles a wintry smile._] + +AMERICAN [_in a lull_]. How did it eventuate? + +LITTLE MAN. We got there just as the train was going to start; and I +jumped, thinking I could help her up. But it moved too quickly, +and--and--left her. [_The gale of laughter blows up again._] + +AMERICAN. Guess I'd have thrown the baby out. + +LITTLE MAN. I was afraid the poor little thing might break. [_The BABY +wails; the LITTLE MAN heaves it; the gale of laughter blows._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. It's highly entertaining--not for the baby. What +kind of an old baby is it, anyway? [_He sniffs._] I judge it's a +bit--niffy. + +LITTLE MAN. Afraid I've hardly looked at it yet. + +AMERICAN. Which end up is it? + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! I think the right end. Yes, yes, it is. + +AMERICAN. Well, that's something. Guess I should hold it out of winder +a bit. Vurry excitable things, babies! + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_galvanized_]. No, no! + +ENGLISHMAN [_touching her knee_]. My dear! + +AMERICAN. You are right, ma'am. I opine there's a draught out there. +This baby is precious. We've all of us got stock in this baby in a +manner of speaking. This is a little bit of universal brotherhood. Is +it a woman baby? + +LITTLE MAN. I--I can only see the top of its head. + +AMERICAN. You can't always tell from that. It looks kind of +over-wrapped-up. Maybe it had better be unbound. + +GERMAN. Nein, nein, nein! + +AMERICAN. I think you are vurry likely right, colonel. It might be a +pity to unbind that baby. I guess the lady should be consulted in this +matter. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Yes, yes, of course--I-- + +ENGLISHMAN [_touching her_]. Let it be! Little beggar seems all right. + +AMERICAN. That would seem only known to Providence at this moment. I +judge it might be due to humanity to look at its face. + +LITTLE MAN [_gladly_]. It's sucking my finger. There, there--nice +little thing--there! + +AMERICAN. I would surmise you have created babies in your leisure +moments, sir? + +LITTLE MAN. Oh! no--indeed, no. + +AMERICAN. Dear me! That is a loss. [_Addressing himself to the +carriage at large._] I think we may esteem ourselves fortunate to have +this little stranger right here with us; throws a vurry tender and +beautiful light on human nature. Demonstrates what a hold the little +and weak have upon us nowadays. The colonel here--a man of blood and +iron--there he sits quite ca'm next door to it. [_He sniffs._] Now, +this baby is ruther chastening--that is a sign of grace, in the +colonel--that is true heroism. + +LITTLE MAN [_faintly_]. I--I can see its face a little now. [_All bend +forward._] + +AMERICAN. What sort of a physiognomy has it, anyway? + +LITTLE MAN [_still faintly_]. I don't see anything but--but spots. + +GERMAN. Oh! Ha! Pfui! [_The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +AMERICAN. I am told that is not uncommon amongst babies. Perhaps we +could have you inform us, ma'am. + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Yes, of course--only--what sort of-- + +LITTLE MAN. They seem all over its--[_At the slight recoil of +everyone._] I feel sure it's--it's quite a good baby underneath. + +AMERICAN. That will be ruther difficult to come at. I'm just a bit +sensitive. I've vurry little use for affections of the epidermis. + +GERMAN. Pfui! [_He has edged away as far as he can get, and is +lighting a big cigar. The DUTCH YOUTH draws his legs back._] + +AMERICAN [_also taking out a cigar_]. I guess it would be well to +fumigate this carriage. Does it suffer, do you think? + +LITTLE MAN [_peering_]. Really, I don't--I'm not sure--I know so +little about babies. I think it would have a nice expression--if--if +it showed. + +AMERICAN. Is it kind of boiled-looking? + +LITTLE MAN. Yes--yes, it is. + +AMERICAN [_looking gravely round_]. I judge this baby has the measles. +[_The GERMAN screws himself spasmodically against the arm of the +ENGLISHWOMAN's seat._] + +ENGLISHWOMAN. Poor little thing! Shall I--? [_She half-rises._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_touching her_]. No, no--Dash it! + +AMERICAN. I honor your emotion, ma'am. It does credit to us all. But I +sympathize with your husband too. The measles is a vurry important +pestilence in connection with a grown woman. + +LITTLE MAN. It likes my finger awfully. Really, it's rather a sweet +baby. + +AMERICAN [_sniffing_]. Well, that would appear to be quite a question. +About them spots, now? Are they rosy? + +LITTLE MAN. No--o; they're dark, almost black. + +GERMAN. Gott! Typhus! [_He bounds up onto the arm of the +ENGLISHWOMAN's seat._] + +AMERICAN. Typhus! That's quite an indisposition! [_The DUTCH YOUTH +rises suddenly, and bolts out into the corridor. He is followed by the +GERMAN, puffing clouds of smoke. The ENGLISH and AMERICAN sit a moment +longer without speaking. The ENGLISHWOMAN's face is turned with a +curious expression--half-pity, half-fear--toward the LITTLE MAN. Then +the ENGLISHMAN gets up._] + +ENGLISHMAN. Bit stuffy for you here, dear, isn't it? [_He puts his arm +through hers, raises her, and almost pushes her through the doorway. +She goes, still looking back._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. There's nothing I admire more'n courage. Guess +I'll go and smoke in the corridor. [_As he goes out the LITTLE MAN +looks very wistfully after him. Screwing up his mouth and nose, he +holds the BABY away from him and wavers; then rising, he puts it on +the seat opposite and goes through the motions of letting down the +window. Having done so he looks at the BABY, who has begun to wail. +Suddenly he raises his hands and clasps them, like a child praying. +Since, however, the BABY does not stop wailing, he hovers over it in +indecision; then, picking it up, sits down again to dandle it, with +his face turned toward the open window. Finding that it still wails, +he begins to sing to it in a cracked little voice. It is charmed at +once. While he is singing, the AMERICAN appears in the corridor. +Letting down the passage window, he stands there in the doorway with +the draught blowing his hair and the smoke of his cigar all about him. +The LITTLE MAN stops singing and shifts the shawl higher, to protect +the BABY's head from the draught._] + +AMERICAN [_gravely_]. This is the most sublime spectacle I have ever +envisaged. There ought to be a record of this. [_The LITTLE MAN looks +at him, wondering._] We have here a most stimulating epitome of our +marvelous advance toward universal brotherhood. You are typical, sir, +of the sentiments of modern Christianity. You illustrate the deepest +feelings in the heart of every man. [_The LITTLE MAN rises with the +BABY and a movement of approach._] Guess I'm wanted in the dining-car. +[_He vanishes._] [_The LITTLE MAN sits down again, but back to the +engine, away from the draught, and looks out of the window, patiently +jogging the BABY on his knee._] + + +_SCENE III.--An arrival platform. The LITTLE MAN, with the BABY and +the bundle, is standing disconsolate, while travelers pass and luggage +is being carried by. A STATION OFFICIAL, accompanied by a POLICEMAN, +appears from a doorway, behind him._ + +OFFICIAL [_consulting telegram in his hand_]. Das ist der Herr. [_They +advance to the LITTLE MAN._] + +OFFICIAL. Sie haben einen Buben gestohlen? + +LITTLE MAN. I only speak English and American. + +OFFICIAL. Dies ist nicht Ihr Bube? [_He touches the BABY._] + +LITTLE MAN [_shaking his head_]. Take care--it's ill. [_The man does +not understand._] Ill--the baby-- + +OFFICIAL [_shaking his head_]. Verstehe nicht. Dis is nod your baby? +No? + +LITTLE MAN [_shaking his head violently_]. No, it is not. No. + +OFFICIAL [_tapping the telegram_]. Gut! You are 'rested. [_He signs to +the POLICEMAN, who takes the LITTLE MAN's arm._] + +LITTLE MAN. Why? I don't want the poor baby. + +OFFICIAL [_lifting the bundle_]. Dies ist nicht Ihr Gepaeck--pag? + +LITTLE MAN. No. + +OFFICIAL. Gut. You are 'rested. + +LITTLE MAN. I only took it for the poor woman. I'm not a +thief--I'm--I'm-- + +OFFICIAL [_shaking head_]. Verstehe nicht. [_The LITTLE MAN tries to +tear his hair. The disturbed BABY wails._] + +LITTLE MAN [_dandling it as best he can_]. There, there--poor, poor! + +OFFICIAL. Halt still! You are 'rested. It is all right. + +LITTLE MAN. Where is the mother? + +OFFICIAL. She comm by next drain. Das telegram say: Halt einen Herrn +mit schwarzem Buben and schwarzem Gepaeck. 'Rest gentleman mit black +baby und black--pag. [_The LITTLE MAN turns up his eyes to heaven._] + +OFFICIAL. Komm mit us. [_They take the LITTLE MAN toward the door from +which they have come. A voice stops them._] + +AMERICAN [_speaking from as far away as may be_]. Just a moment! [_The +OFFICIAL stops; the LITTLE MAN also stops and sits down on a bench +against the wall. The POLICEMAN stands stolidly beside him. The +AMERICAN approaches a step or two, beckoning; the OFFICIAL goes up to +him._] + +AMERICAN. Guess you've got an angel from heaven there! What's the +gentleman in buttons for? + +OFFICIAL. Was ist das? + +AMERICAN. Is there anybody here that can understand Amurrican? + +OFFICIAL. Verstehe nicht. + +AMERICAN. Well, just watch my gestures. I was saying [_he points to +the LITTLE MAN, then makes gestures of flying_], you have an angel +from heaven there. You have there a man in whom Gawd [_he points +upward_] takes quite an amount of stock. This is a vurry precious man. +You have no call to arrest him [_he makes the gesture of arrest_]. No, +sir. Providence has acted pretty mean, loading off that baby on him +[_he makes the motion of dandling_]. The little man has a heart of +gold. [_He points to his heart, and takes out a gold coin._] + +OFFICIAL [_thinking he is about to be bribed_]. Aber, das ist _zu_ +viel! + +AMERICAN. Now, don't rattle me! [_Pointing to the LITTLE MAN._] Man +[_pointing to his heart_] Herz [_pointing to the coin_] von Gold. This +is a flower of the field--he don't want no gentleman in buttons to +pluck him up. [_A little crowd is gathering, including the two +ENGLISH, the GERMAN, and the DUTCH YOUTH._] + +OFFICIAL. Verstehe absolut nichts. [_He taps the telegram._] Ich muss +mein duty do. + +AMERICAN. But I'm telling you. This is a good man. This is probably +the best man on Gawd's airth. + +OFFICIAL. Das macht nichts--gut or no gut, I muss mein duty do. [_He +turns to go toward the LITTLE MAN._] + +AMERICAN. Oh! Vurry well, arrest him; do your duty. This baby has +typhus. [_At the word "typhus" the OFFICIAL stops._] + +AMERICAN [_making gestures_]. First-class typhus, black typhus, +schwarzen typhus. Now you have it. I'm kind o' sorry for you and the +gentleman in buttons. Do your duty! + +OFFICIAL. Typhus? Der Bub'--die baby hat typhus? + +AMERICAN. I'm telling you. + +OFFICIAL. Gott im Himmel! + +AMERICAN [_spotting the GERMAN in the little throng_]. Here's a +gentleman will corroborate me. + +OFFICIAL [_much disturbed, and signing to the POLICEMAN to stand +clear_]. Typhus! Aber das ist graesslich! + +AMERICAN. I kind o' thought you'd feel like that. + +OFFICIAL. Die Sanitaetsmachine! Gleich! [_A PORTER goes to get it. From +either side the broken half-moon of persons stand gazing at the LITTLE +MAN, who sits unhappily dandling the BABY in the center._] + +OFFICIAL [_raising his hands_]. Was zu thun? + +AMERICAN. Guess you'd better isolate the baby. [_A silence, during +which the LITTLE MAN is heard faintly whistling and clucking to the +BABY._] + +OFFICIAL [_referring once more to his telegram_]. 'Rest gentleman mit +black baby. [_Shaking his head._] Wir must de gentleman hold. [_To the +GERMAN._] Bitte, mein Herr, sagen Sie ihm, den Buben zu niedersetzen. +[_He makes the gesture of deposit._] + +GERMAN [_to the LITTLE MAN_]. He say: Put down the baby. [_The LITTLE +MAN shakes his head, and continues to dandle the BABY._] + +OFFICIAL. Sie muessen--you must. [_The LITTLE MAN glowers, in +silence._] + +ENGLISHMAN [_in background--muttering_]. Good man! + +GERMAN. His spirit ever denies; er will nicht. + +OFFICIAL [_again making his gesture_]. Aber er muss! [_The LITTLE MAN +makes a face at him._] Sag' ihm: Instantly put down baby, and komm' +mit us. [_The BABY wails._] + +LITTLE MAN. Leave the poor ill baby here alone? Be-be-be-d--d first! + +AMERICAN [_jumping onto a trunk--with enthusiasm_]. Bully! [_The +ENGLISH clap their hands; the DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The OFFICIAL is +muttering, greatly incensed._] + +AMERICAN. What does that body-snatcher say? + +GERMAN. He say this man use the baby to save himself from arrest. Very +smart--he say. + +AMERICAN. I judge you do him an injustice. [_Showing off the LITTLE +MAN with a sweep of his arm._] This is a vurry white man. He's got a +black baby, and he won't leave it in the lurch. Guess we would all act +noble, that way, give us the chance. [_The LITTLE MAN rises, holding +out the BABY, and advances a step or two. The half-moon at once gives, +increasing its size; the AMERICAN climbs onto a higher trunk. The +LITTLE MAN retires and again sits down._] + +AMERICAN [_addressing the OFFICIAL_]. Guess you'd better go out of +business and wait for the mother. + +OFFICIAL [_stamping his foot_]. Die Mutter sall 'rested be for taking +out baby mit typhus. Ha! [_To the LITTLE MAN._] Put ze baby down! +[_The LITTLE MAN smiles._] Do you 'ear? + +AMERICAN [_addressing the OFFICIAL_]. Now, see here. 'Pears to me you +don't suspicion just how beautiful this is. Here we have a man giving +his life for that old baby that's got no claim on him. This is not a +baby of his own making. No, sir, this a vurry Christ-like proposition +in the gentleman. + +OFFICIAL. Put ze baby down, or ich will gommand someone it to do. + +AMERICAN. That will be vurry interesting to watch. + +OFFICIAL [_to POLICEMAN_]. Nehmen Sie den Buben. Dake it vrom him. +[_The POLICEMAN mutters, but does not._] + +AMERICAN [_to the GERMAN_]. Guess I lost that. + +GERMAN. He say he is not his officer. + +AMERICAN. That just tickles me to death. + +OFFICIAL [_looking round_]. Vill nobody dake ze Bub'? + +ENGLISHWOMAN [_moving a step--faintly_]. Yes--I-- + +ENGLISHMAN [_grasping her arm_]. By Jove! Will you! + +OFFICIAL [_gathering himself for a great effort to take the BABY, and +advancing two steps_]. Zen I gommand you--[_He stops and his voice +dies away._] Zit dere! + +AMERICAN. My! That's wonderful. What a man this is! What a sublime +sense of duty! [_The DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The OFFICIAL turns on him, +but as he does so the MOTHER of the BABY is seen hurrying._] + +MOTHER. Ach! Ach! Mei' Bubi! [_Her face is illumined; she is about to +rush to the LITTLE MAN._] + +OFFICIAL [_to the POLICEMAN_]. Nimm die Frau! [_The POLICEMAN catches +hold of the WOMAN._] + +OFFICIAL [_to the frightened WOMAN_]. Warum haben Sie einen Buben mit +Typhus mit ausgebracht? + +AMERICAN [_eagerly, from his perch_]. What was that? I don't want to +miss any. + +GERMAN. He say: Why did you a baby with typhus with you bring out? + +AMERICAN. Well, that's quite a question. [_He takes out the +field-glasses slung around him and adjusts them on the BABY._] + +MOTHER [_bewildered_], Mei' Bubi--Typhus--aber Typhus? [_She shakes +her head violently._] Nein, nein, nein! Typhus! + +OFFICIAL. Er hat Typhus. + +MOTHER [_shaking her head_]. Nein, nein, nein! + +AMERICAN [_looking through his glasses_]. Guess she's kind of right! I +judge the typhus is where the baby's slobbered on the shawl, and it's +come off on him. [_The DUTCH YOUTH laughs._] + +OFFICIAL [_turning on him furiously_]. Er hat Typhus. + +AMERICAN. Now, that's where you slop over. Come right here. [_The +OFFICIAL mounts, and looks through the glasses._] + +AMERICAN [_to the LITTLE MAN_]. Skin out the baby's leg. If we don't +locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me. [_The LITTLE MAN +fumbles out the BABY's little white foot._] + +MOTHER. Mei' Bubi! [_She tries to break away._] + +AMERICAN. White as a banana. [_To the OFFICIAL--affably._] Guess +you've made kind of a fool of us with your old typhus. + +OFFICIAL. Lass die Frau! [_The POLICEMAN lets her go, and she rushes +to her BABY._] + +MOTHER. Mei' Bubi! [_The BABY, exchanging the warmth of the LITTLE MAN +for the momentary chill of its MOTHER, wails._] + +OFFICIAL [_descending and beckoning to the POLICEMAN_]. Sie wollen den +Herrn accusiren? [_The POLICEMAN takes the LITTLE MAN's arm._] + +AMERICAN. What's that? They goin' to pinch him after all? [_The +MOTHER, still hugging her BABY, who has stopped crying, gazes at the +LITTLE MAN, who sits dazedly looking up. Suddenly she drops on her +knees, and with her free hand lifts his booted foot and kisses it._] + +AMERICAN [_waving his hat_]. 'Ra! 'Ra! [_He descends swiftly, goes up +to the LITTLE MAN, whose arm the POLICEMAN has dropped, and takes his +hand._] Brother, I am proud to know you. This is one of the greatest +moments I have ever experienced. [_Displaying the LITTLE MAN to the +assembled company._] I think I sense the situation when I say that we +all esteem it an honor to breathe the rather inferior atmosphere of +this station here along with our little friend. I guess we shall all +go home and treasure the memory of his face as the whitest thing in +our museum of recollections. And perhaps this good woman will also go +home and wash the face of our little brother here. I am inspired with +a new faith in mankind. We can all be proud of this mutual experience; +we have our share in it; we can kind of feel noble. Ladies and +gentlemen, I wish to present to you a sure-enough saint--only wants a +halo, to be transfigured. [_To the LITTLE MAN._] Stand right up. [_The +LITTLE MAN stands up bewildered. They come about him. The OFFICIAL +bows to him, the POLICEMAN salutes him. The DUTCH YOUTH shakes his +head and laughs. The GERMAN draws himself up very straight, and bows +quickly twice. The ENGLISHMAN and his wife approach at least two +steps, then, thinking better of it, turn to each other and recede. The +MOTHER kisses his hand. The PORTER returning with the Sanitaetsmachine, +turns it on from behind, and its pinkish shower, goldened by a ray of +sunlight, falls around the LITTLE MAN's head, transfiguring it as he +stands with eyes upraised to see whence the portent comes._] + +AMERICAN [_rushing forward and dropping on his knees_]. Hold on just a +minute! Guess I'll take a snap-shot of the miracle. [_He adjusts his +pocket camera._] This ought to look bully! + + +[THE CURTAIN.] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of One-Act Plays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 33907.txt or 33907.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/9/0/33907/ + +Produced by Joseph R. Hauser, Christine P. 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