diff options
Diffstat (limited to '33907-8.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 33907-8.txt | 17892 |
1 files changed, 17892 insertions, 0 deletions
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. Travers and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |