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The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays

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Title: The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays

Editor: Sterling Andrus Leonard

Contributor: Gordon Bottomley
        Harold Brighouse
        Harold Chapin
        Beulah Marie Dix
        Lord Dunsany
        J. A. Ferguson
        John Galsworthy
        Lady Gregory
        Percy MacKaye
        George Middleton
        Eugene O'Neill
        Winthrop Parkhurst
        Louise Saunders
        J. M. Synge
        W. B. Yeats


        
Release date: August 4, 2005 [eBook #16435]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16435

Credits: Produced by William Boerst, Andre Lapierre and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC BOOK OF MODERN PLAYS ***




Produced by William Boerst, Andre Lapierre and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net







THE ATLANTIC BOOK

OF MODERN PLAYS



Edited with Introduction, Comment
and Annotated Bibliography

by
Sterling Andrus Leonard

_Department of English
The University of Wisconsin and
The Wisconsin High School_



The Atlantic Monthly Press
Boston


_The rights of production of these plays are in every case
reserved by the authors or their representatives. No play can be
given publicly without an individual arrangement. The law does
not, of course, prevent their reading in classrooms or their
production before an audience of a school or invited guests where
no fee is charged; but it is, naturally, more courteous to ask
permission._



1921

The Atlantic Monthly Press

First impression, December, 1921
Second impression, April, 1922
Third impression, October, 1922

_Printed in the United States of America_




CONTENTS


FOREWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS


THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS _Harold Chapin_

SPREADING THE NEWS _Lady Gregory_

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING _Winthrop Parkhurst_

TIDES _George Middleton_

ILE _Eugene O'Neill_

CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _J.A. Ferguson_

THE SUN _John Galsworthy_

THE KNAVE OF HEARTS _Louise Saunders_

FAME AND THE POET _Lord Dunsany_

THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE _Beulah Marie Dix_

GETTYSBURG _Percy Mackaye_

LONESOME-LIKE _Harold Brighouse_

RIDERS TO THE SEA _John Millington Synge_

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE _William Butler Yeats_

RIDING TO LITHEND _Gordon Bottomley_


QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION IN READING THE PLAYS

NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS

ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS AND RELATED BOOKS




FOREWORD


We are at present in the midst of a bewildering quantity of
play-publication and production. The one-act play in particular,
chiefly represented in this volume, appears to be taking the
place of that rather squeezed sponge, the short story, in the
favor of the reading public. Of course, this tendency has its
reaction in schoolrooms. One even hears of high-school classes
which attempt to keep up with the entire output of such dramas in
English readings. If this is not merely an apologue, it is
certainly a horrible example. The bulk of current drama, as of
published matter generally, is not worthy the time of the English
class. Only what is measurably of rank, in truth and fineness,
with the literature which has endured from past times can be
defended for use there. And we have too much that is both well
fitted to young people's keen interest and enjoyment, and
beautifully worthy as well, for time to be wasted upon the third-
and fourth-rate.

Obviously, much of the best in modern play-writing has not been
included in this volume. Because of copyright complications the
works of Mr. Masefield, Mr. Shaw, Mr. Drinkwater, and Sir James
Barrie are not here represented. The plays by these writers that
seem best fitted to use by teachers and pupils in high schools,
together with a large number of other dramas for this purpose,
are listed and annotated at the back of the book. Suggestions as
to desirable inclusions and omissions will be welcomed by the
editor and the publishers.

Following in their own way the lead of the Théâtre Libre in Paris
and the Freie Bühne in Germany, and of the Independent and the
Repertory theatres in Great Britain, numerous "little theatres"
and drama associations in this country are giving impulsion and
direction to the movement for finer drama and more excellent
presentation. The Harvard dramatic societies, the Morningside
Players at Columbia, Mr. Alex Drummond's Community Theatre at the
State Fair in Ithaca, the Little Country Theatre at Fargo, South
Dakota, and similar groups at the University of California and
elsewhere, illustrate the leadership of the colleges. In many
high schools, as at South Bend, Indiana, more or less complete
Little Theatres are active. The Chicago Little Theatre, the
Wisconsin Dramatic Society, the Provincetown Players, the
Neighborhood Playhouse, in New York, and others of that ilk, are
well known and influential. They are extending the tradition of
the best European theatres in their attempts to cultivate
excellent and individual expression in drama. They realize that
plays must be tested by actual performance,--though not
necessarily by the unnatural demands of success in competition
with Broadway revues and farce-melodramas,--and thus developed
toward a genuine artistic embodiment of the vast and varied life,
the manifold and deep idealism of this country.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


For their courteous and generous cooperation the editor is
greatly indebted to the authors and publishers of all the plays
included. He is equally grateful to other dramatists who were
personally as cordial in intention but quite impotent to grant
copyright privileges. In addition, he has received most friendly
and cordial criticism from friends and friendly strangers to whom
he appealed--among others, from Mr. Harold Brighouse; Mr.
Theodore Hinckley, editor of "Drama"; Mr. Clarence Stratton, now
Director of English at Cleveland, and author of a forthcoming
book on the Little Theatre in this country; Mr. Allan Monkhouse,
author of "Mary Broome" and "War Plays"; Professor Allan Abbot,
of Teachers College, Columbia University; Mr. Frank G. Thompkins,
of Central High School, Detroit; Mrs. Mary Austin; Professor Earl
B. Pence, of De Pauw University; Professor Brander Matthews; and
Mrs. Alice Chapin. Indebtedness to many lists is obvious,
particularly to that of the Drama League and the National Council
of Teachers of English, and that of Professor Pence in the
"Illinois Bulletin."

"Ile" is reprinted by special arrangement with the author and
with Boni and Liveright, publishers, New York. "Ile" is reprinted
from the volume "The Moon of The Caribbees" and six other plays
of the sea, which volume is one of the series of plays by Mr.
O'Neill, the series including "Beyond the Horizon," a drama in
four acts, "The Straw," a play in three acts and five scenes,
"Gold," a play in four acts and "Chris" a play in four acts.




INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS


The elder Dumas, who wrote many successful plays, as well as the
famous romances, said that all he needed for constructing a drama
was "four boards, two actors, and a passion." What he meant by
passion has been defined by a later French writer, Ferdinand
Brunetière, as a conflict of wills. The Philosopher of Butterbiggens,
whom you will meet early in this book, points out that "what you
are all the time wanting" is "your own way." When two strong
desires conflict and we wonder which is coming out ahead, we say
that the situation is dramatic. This clash is clearly defined in
any effective play, from the crude melodrama in which the forces
are hero and villain with pistols, to such subtle conflicts,
based on a man's misunderstanding of even his own motives and
purposes, as in Mr. Middleton's "Tides."

In comedy, and even in farce, struggle is clearly present. Here
our sympathy is with people who engage in a not impossible
combat--against rather obvious villains who can be unmasked, or
against such public opinion or popular conventions as can be
overset. The hold of an absurd bit of gossip upon stupid people
is firm enough in "Spreading the News"; but fortunately it must
yield to facts at last. The Queen and the Knave of Hearts are
sufficiently clever, with the aid of the superb cookery of the
Knave's wife, to do away with an ancient and solemnly reverenced
law of Pompdebile's court. So, too, the force of ancient loyalty
and enthusiasm almost works a miracle in the invalid veteran of
"Gettysburg." And we feel sure that the uncanny powers of the
Beggar will be no less successful in overturning the power of the
King in Mr. Parkhurst's play.

Again, in comedies as in mathematics, the problem is often solved
by substitution. The soldier in Mr. Galsworthy's "The Sun" is
able to find a satisfactory and apparently happy ending without
achieving what he originally set out to gain. And the same is
true of Jock in Mr. Brighouse's "Lonesome-Like." Or the play
which does not end as the chief character wishes may still prove
not too serious because, as in "Fame and the Poet," the situation
is merely inconvenient and absurd rather than tragic. Now and
then it is next to impossible to tell whether the ending is
tragic or not; in the "Land of Heart's Desire" we must first
decide whether our sympathies are more with Shawn Bruin and with
Maire's love for him, or with her keen desire to go

  To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams
  Are holding a continual festival.

It is natural for us to desire a happy ending in stories, as we
desire satisfying solutions of the problems in our own lives. And
whenever the forces at work are such as make it true and possible,
naturally this is the best ending for a story or a play. But where
powerful and terrible influences have to be combated, only a poor
dramatist will make use of mere chance, or compel his characters
to do what such people really would not do, to bring about a
factitious "happy ending." With the relentless, mighty arms of
England engaged in hunting the defeated Highlanders after the
Battle of Culloden, a play like "Campbell of Kilmhor," in which we
sympathize with the ill-fated Stewarts, cannot end happily. If
they had yielded under pressure and betrayed their comrades, we
might have pitied them, but we could not admire their action, and
there would have been no strong conclusion. In "Riders to the
Sea," where the characters are compelled by bitter poverty to face
the relentless forces of storm and sea, and in "The Biding to
Lithend," we expect a tragic end almost from the first lines of
the play. We recognize this same dramatic tensity of hopeless
conflict in many stories as well as plays; it is most powerful in
three or four novels by George Eliot, George Meredith, and Thomas
Hardy.

One of the best ways to understand these as real stage plays is
through some sort of dramatization. This does not mean, however,
that they need be produced with elaborate scenery and costumes,
memorizing, and rehearsal; often the best understanding may be
secured by quite informal reading in the class, with perhaps a hat
and cloak and a lath sword or two for properties. With simply a
clear space in the classroom for a stage, you and your
imaginations can give all the performance necessary for realizing
these plays very well indeed. But, of course, you must clearly
understand the lines and the play as a whole before you try to
take a part, so that you can read simply and naturally, as you
think the people in the story probably spoke. Some questions for
discussion in the appendix may help you in talking the plays over
in class or in reading them for yourself before you try to take a
part. You will find it sometimes helps, also, to make a diagram or
a colored sketch of the scene as the author describes it, or even
a small model of the stage for a "dramatic museum" for your
school. If you have not tried this, you do not know how much it
helps in seeing plays of other times, like Shakespeare's or
Molière's; and it is useful also for modern dramas. Such small
stages can be used for puppet theatres as well. "The Knave of
Hearts" is intended as a marionette play, and other
dramas--Maeterlinck's and even Shakespeare's--have been given in
this way with very interesting effects.

If you bring these plays to a performance for others outside your
own class, you will find that the simplest and least pretentious
settings are generally most effective. The Irish players, as Mr.
Yeats tells us, "have made scenery, indeed, but scenery that is
little more than a suggestion--a pattern with recurring boughs and
leaves of gold for a wood, a great green curtain, with a red
stencil upon it to carry the eye upward, for a palace." Mr. John
Merrill of the Francis Parker School describes the quite excellent
results secured with a dark curtain in a semicircle--a
cyclorama--for background, and with colored lights.[1] Such a
staging leaves the attention free to follow the lines, and the
imagination to picture whatever the play suggests as the place of
the action.

[Footnote 1: John Merrill: "Drama and the School," in _Drama_,
November, 1919.]




THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS[1]

Harold Chapin

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Mrs. Alice Chapin.
Permission to present this play must be secured from Samuel
French, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, who controls all
acting rights, etc., in this country.]

CHARACTERS

DAVID PIRNIE LIZZIE, his daughter
JOHN BELL, his son-in-law
ALEXANDER, John's little son

SCENE: JOHN BELL'S _tenement at Butterbiggens. It consists of the
very usual "two rooms, kitchen, and bath," a concealed bed in the
parlor and another in the kitchen enabling him to house his
family--consisting of himself, his wife, his little son, and his
aged father-in-law--therein. The kitchen-and-living-room is a
good-sized square room. The right wall (our right as we look at
it) is occupied by a huge built-in dresser, sink, and coal bunker,
the left wall by a high-manteled, ovened, and boilered fireplace,
the recess on either side of which contains a low painted
cupboard. Over the far cupboard hangs a picture of a ship, but
over the near one is a small square window. The far wall has two
large doors in it, that on the right leading to the lobby, and
that on the left appertaining to the old father-in-law's concealed
bed. The walls are distempered a brickish red. The ceiling once
was white. The floor is covered with bright linoleum and a couple
of rag rugs--one before the fire--a large one--and a smaller one
before the door of the concealed bed._

_A deal table is just to right of centre. A long flexible
gas-bracket depends from the ceiling above it. Another
many-jointed gas-bracket projects from the middle of the high
mantelpiece, its flame turned down towards the stove. There are
wooden chairs at the table, above, below, and to left of it. A
high-backed easy chair is above the fire, a kitchen elbow-chair
below it._

_The kitchen is very tidy. A newspaper newly fallen to the rug
before the fire and another--an evening one--spread flat on the
table are (besides a child's mug and plate, also on the table)
the only things not stowed in their prescribed places. It is
evening--the light beyond the little square window being the gray
dimness of a long Northern twilight which slowly deepens during
the play. When the curtain rises it is still light enough in the
room for a man to read if the print be not too faint and his eyes
be good. The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers through
the gray, showing up with exceptional clearness the deep-lined
face of old DAVID PIRNIE, who is discovered half-risen from his
armchair above the fire, standing on the hearth-rug, his body
bent and his hand on the chair arm. He is a little, feeble old
man with a well-shaped head and weather-beaten face, set off by a
grizzled beard and whiskers, wiry and vigorous, in curious
contrast to the wreath of snowy hair that encircles his head. His
upper lip is shaven. He wears an old suit--the unbuttoned
waistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt. His slippers are
low at the heel and his socks loose at the ankles._

_The old man's eyes are fixed appealingly on those of his
daughter, who stands in the half-open door, her grasp on the
handle, meeting his look squarely--a straight-browed,
black-haired, determined young woman of six or seven and twenty.
Her husband_, JOHN, _seated at the table in his shirt-sleeves with
his head in his hands, reads hard at the paper and tries to look
unconcerned._


DAVID. Aw--but, Lizzie--

LIZZIE (_with splendid firmness_). It's nae use, feyther. I'm no'
gaein' to gie in to the wean. Ye've been tellin' yer stories to
him nicht after nicht for dear knows how long, and he's gettin'
to expect them.

DAVID. Why should he no' expect them?

LIZZIE. It disna do for weans to count on things so. He's layin'
up a sad disappointment for himself yin o' these days.

DAVID. He's gettin' a sad disappointment the noo. Och, come on,
Lizzie. I'm no' gaein' to dee just yet, an' ye can break him off
gradually when I begin to look like to.

LIZZIE. Who's talkin' o' yer deein', feyther?

DAVID. Ye were speakin' o' the disappointment he was layin' up
for himself if he got to count on me--

LIZZIE. I wasna thinkin' o' yer deein', feyther--only--it's no
guid for a bairn--

DAVID. Where's the harm in my giein' him a bit story before he
gangs tae his bed?

LIZZIE. I'm no sayin' there's ony harm in it this yinst, feyther;
but it's no richt to gae on nicht after nicht wi' never a break--

DAVID. Whit wey is it no richt if there's nae harm in it?

LIZZIE. It's giein' in to the wean.

DAVID. Whit wey should ye no' gie in to him if there's nae harm
in it?

LIZZIE (_keeping her patience with difficulty_). Because it gets
him into the habit.

DAVID. But why should he no' get into the habit if there's nae
harm in it?

(_John at the table chuckles. Lizzie gives him a look, but he
meets it not._)

LIZZIE. Really, feyther, ye micht be a wean yerself, ye're that
persistent.

DAVID. No, Lizzie, I'm no' persistent, I'm reasoning wi' ye. Ye
said there was nae harm in my tellin' him a bit story, an' now ye
say I'm not to because it'll get him into the habit; an' what I'm
askin' ye is, where's the harm o' his gettin' into the habit if
there's nae harm in it?

LIZZIE. Oh, aye; ye can be gey clever, twistin' the words in my
mouth, feyther; but richt is richt, an' wrang's wrang, for all
yer cleverness.

DAVID (_earnestly_). I'm no bein' clever ava, Lizzie,--no' the
noo,--I'm just tryin' to make ye see that, if ye admit there's
nae harm in a thing, ye canna say there's ony harm in it, an'
(_pathetically_) I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story
before he gangs to his bed.

JOHN (_aside to her_). Och, wumman--

LIZZIE. T'ts, John; ye'd gie in tae onybody if they were just
persistent enough.

JOHN. He's an auld man.

LIZZIE (_really exasperated_). I ken fine he's an auld man, John,
and ye're a young yin, an' Alexander's gaein' to be anither, an'
I'm a lone wumman among the lot o' ye, but I'm no' gaein' to gie
in to--

JOHN (_bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument_). Efter a',
Lizzie, there's nae harm--

LIZZIE (_almost with a scream of anger_). Och, now you've stairted,
have you? Harm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin' about harm, and I'm
talking about richt an' wrang. You'd see your son grow up a
drunken keelie, an' mebbe a thief an' a murderer, so long as you
could say there was nae harm in it.

DAVID (_expostulating with some cause_). But I cudna say there was
nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's nae
harm--

LIZZIE. Och. (_Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble._)
Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander?

(_Shuts door with a click._)

DAVID (_standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrow
than in anger_). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disna
argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a wee
thing hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chatty
an' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' me
that fond o' women's society.

(_He lowers himself into his chair._)

JOHN. They're all like it.

DAVID (_judiciously_). I wudna go sae far as to say that, John. Ye
see, I've only kent they twa to study carefully--an' it's no fair
to judge the whole sex by just the twa examples, an' it
were--(_Running on_) But it's gey hard, an' I was wantin' to tell
wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht. (_Removes glasses
and blinks his eyes._) Aweel.

JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn--

DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn's
nicht.

JOHN. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last nicht.

DAVID (_bitterly_). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun' it out.

JOHN. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic.

DAVID (_between anger and tears, weakly_). I canna help it. I'm
black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special
fine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richt
an' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women.

JOHN. We has to gie in to them though.

DAVID. Aye. That's why.

(_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again and
settles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spill
from the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends to
throw the light to the old man's advantage._)

DAVID. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him?

JOHN (_erect on hearth-rug_). Who?

DAVID. Wee Alexander.

JOHN. No.

DAVID. Greetin' his heart out.

JOHN. Och, he's no greetin'. Lizzie's wi' him.

DAVID. I ken fine Lizzie's wi' him, but he's greetin' for a' her.
He was wantin' to hear yon story o' the kelpies up to Cross Hill
wi' the tram--(_Breaking his mood impatiently_) Och.

JOHN (_crossing to table and lighting up there_). It's gettin' dark
gey early. We'll shin be haein' tea by the gas.

DAVID (_rustling his paper_). Aye--(_Suddenly_) There never was a
female philosopher, ye ken, John.

JOHN. Was there no'?

DAVID. No. (_Angrily, in a gust_) An'there never will be! (_Then
more calmly_) An' yet there's an' awful lot o' philosophy about
women, John.

JOHN. Aye?

DAVID. Och, aye. They're that unreasonable, an' yet ye canna
reason them down; an' they're that weak, an' yet ye canna make
them gie in tae ye. Of course, ye'll say ye canna reason doon a
stane, or make a clod o' earth gie in tae ye.

JOHN. Will I?

DAVID. Aye. An' ye'll be richt. But then I'll tell ye a stane
will na answer ye back, an' a clod of earth will na try to
withstand ye, so how can ye argue them down?

JOHN (_convinced_). Ye canna.

DAVID. Richt! Ye canna! But a wumman _will_ answer ye back, an'
she _will_ stand against ye, an' _yet_ ye canna argue her down
though ye have strength an' reason on your side an' she's talkin'
naething but blether about richt's richt an' wrang's wrang, an'
sendin' a poor bairn off t' his bed i' the yin room an' leavin'
her auld feyther all alone by the fire in anither an'--ye
ken--Philosophy--

(_He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again. JOHN, intensely
troubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a foot. The wails
of ALEXANDER can be heard muffled by a farther door. JOHN calls
off._)

JOHN. Lizzie.

(_Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a
"Shsh."_)

JOHN. Yer feyther's greetin'.

LIZZIE (_with a touch of exasperation_). Och, I'm no heedin'!
There's another wean in there greetin' too, an' I'm no heedin'
him neither, an' he's greetin' twicet as loud as the auld yin.

JOHN (_shocked_). Ye're heartless, wumman.

LIZZIE (_with patience_). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but there's
too much heart in this family, an' someone's got to use their
heid.

(DAVID _cranes round the side of his chair to catch what they
are saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanly
firmness._)

LIZZIE. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see,
don't ye--

(_A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up. LIZZIE rushes
to silence him._)

LIZZIE. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're murderin' him.

(_The door closes behind her._)

DAVID (_nodding for a space as he revolves the woman's attitude_).
Ye hear that, John?

JOHN. Whit?

DAVID (_with quiet irony_). She's vexed I should be disappointed.
The wumman thinks she's richt! Women always think they're
richt--mebbe it's that that makes them that obstinate. (_With the
ghost of a twinkle_) She's feart o' the neighbors, though.

JOHN (_stolidly_). A' women are feart o' the neighbors.

DAVID (_reverting_). Puir wee man. I telt ye he was greetin', John.
He's disappointed fine. (_Pondering_) D' ye ken whit I'm thinkin',
John?

JOHN. Whit?

DAVID. I'm thinkin' he's too young to get his ain way, an' I'm
too auld, an' it's a fine thocht!

JOHN. Aye?

DAVID. Aye. I never thocht of it before, but that's what it is.
He's no' come to it yet, an' I'm past it. (_Suddenly_) What's the
most important thing in life, John?

(JOHN _opens his mouth--and shuts it again unused._)

DAVID. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye're wantin' a' the
time?

JOHN. Different things.

DAVID (_satisfied_). Aye--different things! But ye want them a', do
ye no'?

JOHN. Aye.

DAVID. If ye had yer ain way ye'd hae them a', eh?

JOHN. I wud that.

DAVID (_triumphant_). Then is that no' what ye want: yer ain way?

JOHN (_enlightened_). Losh!

DAVID (_warming to it_). That's what life is, John--gettin' yer ain
way. First ye're born, an' ye canna dae anything but cry; but
God's given yer mither ears an' ye get yer way by just cryin' for
it. (_Hastily, anticipating criticism_) I ken that's no exactly in
keeping with what I've been saying aboot Alexander--but a
new-born bairnie's an awfu' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets it
past its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettling
to oor poor human understandings. Ye'll notice the weans cease
gettin' their wey by juist greetin' for it as shin as they're old
enough to seek it otherwise.

JOHN. The habit hangs on to them whiles.

DAVID. It does that. (_With a twinkle_) An' mebbe, if God's gi'en
yer neighbors ears an' ye live close, ye'll get yer wey by a
dispensation o' Providence a while longer. But there's things
ye'll hae to do for yerself gin ye want to--an' ye will. Ye'll
want to hold oot yer hand, an' ye will hold oot yer hand; an' ye
'll want to stand up and walk, and ye _will_ stand up and
walk; an' ye'll want to dae as ye please, and ye _will_ dae
as ye please; and then ye are practised an' lernt in the art of
gettin' yer ain way--and ye're a man!

JOHN. Man, feyther--ye're wonderful!

DAVID (_complacently_). I'm a philosopher, John. But it goes on
mebbe.

JOHN. Aye?

David. Aye: mebbe ye think ye'd like to make ither folk mind ye
an' yer way, an' ye try, an' if it comes off ye're a big man an'
mebbe the master o' a vessel wi' three men an' a boy under ye, as
I was, John. (_Dropping into the minor_) An then ye come doon the
hill.

JOHN (_apprehensively_). Doon the hill?

DAVID. Aye--doon to mebbe wantin' to tell a wean a bit story
before he gangs tae his bed, an' ye canna dae even that. An' then
a while more an' ye want to get to yer feet an' walk, and ye
canna; an' a while more an' ye want to lift up yer hand, an' ye
canna--an' in a while more ye're just forgotten an' done wi'.

JOHN. Aw, feyther!

DAVID. Dinna look sae troubled, John. I'm no' afraid to dee when
my time comes. It's these hints that I'm done wi' before I'm dead
that I dinna like.

JOHN. What'n hints?

DAVID. Well--Lizzie an' her richt's richt and wrang's wrang when
I think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs tae
his bed.

JOHN (_gently_). Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther.

DAVID. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I've gied in. I'm a
philosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's done wi'.

JOHN. Aw, feyther!

DAVID (_getting lower and lower_). It's gey interesting,
philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about is
the philosophy of growing old--because that's what we're a' doing,
a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he's
juist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stane
still--unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not a
stane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didna
break up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an'
then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' him
a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.--It's yon losing yer
grip bit by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes a
philosopher, John.

JOHN. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I'd be
better able to follow ye.

(LIZZIE _enters quietly and closes door after her._)

JOHN. Is he asleep?

LIZZIE. No, he's no' asleep, but I've shut both doors, and the
neighbors canna hear him.

JOHN. Aw, Lizzie--

LIZZIE (_sharply_). John--

DAVID. Whit was I tellin' ye, John, about weans gettin' their ain
way if the neighbors had ears an' they lived close? Was I no'
richt?

LIZZIE (_answering for JOHN with some acerbity_). Aye, ye were
richt, feyther, nae doot; but we dinna live that close here, an'
the neighbors canna hear him at the back o' the hoose.

DAVID. Mebbe that's why ye changed Alexander into the parlor an'
gied me the bed in here when it began to get cold---

LIZZIE (_hurt_). Aw, no, feyther; I brought ye in here to be
warmer--

DAVID (_placably_). I believe ye, wumman--(_with a faint
twinkle_)--but it's turned oot luckily, has it no'?

(_DAVID waits for a reply but gets none. LIZZIE fetches needlework
from the dresser drawer and sits above table. DAVID'S face and
voice take on a more thoughtful tone._)

DAVID (_musing_). Puir wee man! If he was in here you'd no' be
letting him greet his heart oot where onybody could hear him. Wud
ye?

LIZZIE (_calmly_). Mebbe I'd no'.

JOHN. Ye ken fine ye'd no', wumman.

LIZZIE. John, thread my needle an' dinna take feyther's part
against me.

JOHN (_surprised_). I'm no'.

LIZZIE. No, I ken ye're no meanin' to, but you men are that
thrang--

(_She is interrupted by a loud squall from_ DAVID, _which he
maintains, eyes shut, chair-arms gripped, and mouth open, for
nearly half a minute, before he cuts it off abruptly and looks at
the startled couple at the table._)

LIZZIE. Mercy, feyther, whit's wrang wi' ye?

DAVID (_collectedly_). There's naethin' wrang wi' me, Lizzie,
except that I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story--

LIZZIE (_firmly but very kindly_). But ye're no' goin' to--

(_She breaks off in alarm as her father opens his mouth
preparatory to another yell, which however he postpones to speak
to_ JOHN.)

DAVID. Ye mind whit I was saying aboot the dispensation o'
Providence to help weans till they could try for theirselves,
John?

JOHN. Aye.

DAVID. Did it no' occur to ye then that there ought to be some
sort of dispensation to look after the auld yins who were past
it?

JOHN. No.

DAVID. Aweel--it didna occur to me at the time--(_and he lets off
another prolonged wail_).

LIZZIE (_going to him_). Shsh! Feyther! The neighbors will hear
ye!!!

DAVID (_desisting as before_). I ken fine; _I'm_ no' at the
back of the hoose. (_Shorter wail._)

LIZZIE (_almost in tears_). They'll be coming to ask.

DAVID. Let them. They'll no'ask _me_. (_Squall._)

LIZZIE. Feyther--ye're no'behaving well. John--

JOHN. Aye?

LIZZIE (_helplessly_). Naething--feyther, stop it. They'll think
ye're clean daft.

DAVID (_ceasing to howl and speaking with gravity_). I ken it fine,
Lizzie; an' it's no easy for a man who has been respeckit an'
lookit up to a' his life to be thought daft at eighty-three; but
the most important thing in life is to get yer ain way. (_Resumes
wailing._)

LIZZIE (_puzzled, to_ JOHN). Whit's that?

JOHN. It's his philosophy that he was talking aboot.

DAVID (_firmly_). An' I'm gaein' to tell wee Alexander yon bit
story, tho' they think me daft for it.

LIZZIE. But it's no' for his ain guid, feyther. I've telt ye so,
but ye wudna listen.

DAVID. I wudna listen, wumman! It was you wudna listen to me when
I axed ye whit harm--(_Chuckles.--Checking himself_) No! I'm no
gaein' to hae that ower again. I've gied up arguing wi' women.
I'm juist gaein' tae greet loud an' sair till wee Alexander's
brought in here to hae his bit story; an' if the neighbors--(_Loud
squall._)

LIZZIE (_aside to_ JOHN). He's fair daft!

JOHN (_aghast_). Ye'd no send him to--

LIZZIE (_reproachfully_). John!

(_A louder squall from the old man._)

LIZZIE (_beating her hands together distractedly_). He'll be
--We'll--He'll--Och!!! (_Resigned and beaten_) John, go and bring
wee Alexander in here.

(JOHN _is off like a shot. The opening of the door of the other
room can be told by the burst of_ ALEXANDER'S _voice. The old man's
wails have stopped the second his daughter capitulated. JOHN
returns with_ ALEXANDER _and bears him to his grandfather's waiting
knee. The boy's tears and howls have ceased and he is smiling
triumphantly. He is of course in his night-shirt and a blanket,
which Grandpa wraps round him, turning toward the fire._)

LIZZIE (_looking on with many nods of the head and smacks of the
lips_). There you are! That's the kind o' boy he is. Greet his
heart oot for a thing an' stop the moment he gets it.

DAVID. Dae ye expect him to gae on after he's got it? Ah, but,
Alexander, ye didna get it yer lane this time; it took the twa o'
us. An' hard work it was for the Auld Yin! Man! (_Playing
hoarse_)

I doot I've enough voice left for a--(_Bursting out very loud
and making the boy laugh._) Aweel! Whit's it gaein' to be--eh?

                        [CURTAIN]




SPREADING THE NEWS[1]

Lady Gregory

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Lady Gregory and
of Messrs. G.P. Putnam's Sons, the publishers of _Seven Short
Plays_ (1909), and other volumes of Lady Gregory's works.
Application for acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28
West 38th Street, New York City.]

CHARACTERS

BARTLEY FALLON
MRS. FALLON
JACK SMIT
SHAWN EARLY
TIM CASEY
JAMES RYAN
MRS. TARPEY
MRS. TULLY
JOE MULDOON, a policeman
A REMOVABLE MAGISTRATE

SCENE: _The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall._ MRS. TARPEY
_sitting at it._ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _enter._


MAGISTRATE. So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and sheep and mud.
No system. What a repulsive sight!

POLICEMAN. That is so, indeed.

MAGISTRATE. I suppose there is a good deal of disorder in this
place?

POLICEMAN. There is.

MAGISTRATE. Common assault?

POLICEMAN. It's common enough.

MAGISTRATE. Agrarian crime, no doubt?

POLICEMAN. That is so.

MAGISTRATE. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing into houses?

POLICEMAN. There was one time, and there might be again.

MAGISTRATE. That is bad. Does it go any farther than that?

POLICEMAN. Far enough, indeed.

MAGISTRATE. Homicide, then! This district has been shamefully
neglected! I will change all that. When I was in the Andaman
Islands, my system never failed. Yes, yes, I will change all
that. What has that woman on her stall?

POLICEMAN. Apples mostly--and sweets.

MAGISTRATE. Just see if there are any unlicensed goods
underneath--spirits or the like. We had evasions of the salt tax
in the Andaman Islands.

POLICEMAN (_sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of apples_). I
see no spirits here--or salt.

MAGISTRATE (_to_ MRS. TARPEY). Do you know this town well, my good
woman?

MRS. TARPEY (_holding out some apples_). A penny the half-dozen,
your honor.

POLICEMAN (_shouting_). The gentleman is asking do you know the
town! He's the new magistrate!

MRS. TARPEY (_rising and ducking_). Do I know the town? I do, to be
sure.

MAGISTRATE (_shouting_). What is its chief business?

MRS, TARPEY. Business, is it? What business would the people here
have but to be minding one another's business?

MAGISTRATE. I mean what trade have they?

MRS. TARPEY. Not a trade. No trade at all but to be talking.

MAGISTRATE. I shall learn nothing here.

(JAMES RYAN _comes in, pipe in mouth. Seeing MAGISTRATE, he
retreats quickly, taking pipe from mouth._)

MAGISTRATE. The smoke from that man's pipe had a greenish look;
he may be growing unlicensed tobacco at home. I wish I had
brought my telescope to this district. Come to the post-office; I
will telegraph for it. I found it very useful in the Andaman
Islands.

(MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _go out left._)

MRS. TARPEY. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my apples this way
and that way. (_Begins arranging them._) Showing off he was to the
new magistrate.

(_Enter_ BARTLEY FALLON _and_ MRS. FALLON.)

BARTLEY. Indeed it's a poor country and a scarce country to be
living in. But I'm thinking if I went to America it's long ago
the day I'd be dead!

MRS. FALLON. So you might, indeed.

(_She puts her basket on a barrel and begins putting parcels in
it, taking them from under her cloak._)

BARTLEY. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be buried in
America.

MRS. FALLON. Never fear, Bartley Fallon, but I'll give you a good
burying the day you'll die.

BARTLEY. Maybe it's yourself will be buried in the graveyard of
Cloonmara before me, Mary Fallon, and I myself that will be dying
unbeknownst some night, and no one a-near me. And the cat itself
may be gone straying through the country, and the mice squealing
over the quilt.

MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of dying. It might be twenty years
you'll be living yet.

BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh_). I'm thinking if I'll be living at the
end of twenty years, it's a very old man I'll be then!

MRS. TARPEY (_turns and sees them_). Good-morrow, Bartley Fallon;
good-morrow, Mrs. Fallon. Well, Bartley, you'll find no cause for
complaining to-day; they are all saying it was a good fair.

BARTLEY (_raising his voice_). It was not a good fair, Mrs. Tarpey.
It was a scattered sort of a fair. If we didn't expect more, we
got less. That's the way with me always: whatever I have to sell
goes down and whatever I have to buy goes up. If there's ever any
misfortune coming to this world, it's on myself it pitches, like
a flock of crows on seed potatoes.

MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of misfortunes, and listen to Jack
Smith that is coming the way, and he singing.

(_Voice of JACK SMITH heard singing_)

  I thought, my first love,
    There'd be but one house between you and me.
  And I thought I would find
    Yourself coaxing my child on your knee.
  Over the tide
    I would leap with the leap of a swan.
  Till I came to the side
    Of the wife of the red-haired man!

(JACK SMITH _comes in; he is a red-haired man, and is carrying a
hayfork._)

MRS. TARPEY. That should be a good song if I had my hearing.

MRS. FALLON (_shouting_). It's "The Red-haired Man's Wife."

MRS. TARPEY. I know it well. That's the song that has a skin on
it!

(_She turns her back to them and goes on arranging her apples._)

MRS. FALLON. Where's herself, Jack Smith?

JACK SMITH. She was delayed with her washing; bleaching the
clothes on the hedge she is, and she daren't leave them, with all
the tinkers that do be passing to the fair. It isn't to the fair
I came myself, but up to the Five-Acre Meadow I'm going, where I
have a contract for the hay. We'll get a share of it into tramps
to-day.

(_He lays down hayfork and lights his pipe._)

BARTLEY. You will not get it into tramps to-day. The rain will be
down on it by evening, and on myself too. It's seldom I ever
started on a journey but the rain would come down on me before
I'd find any place of shelter.

JACK SMITH. If it didn't itself, Bartley, it is my belief you
would carry a leaky pail on your head in place of a hat, the way
you'd not be without some cause of complaining.

(_A voice heard: "Go on, now, go on out o' that. Go on, I say."_)

JACK SMITH. Look at that young mare of Pat Ryan's that is backing
into Shaughnessy's bullocks with the dint of the crowd! Don't be
daunted, Pat, I'll give you a hand with her. (_He goes out,
leaving his hayfork._)

MRS. FALLON. It's time for ourselves to be going home. I have all
I bought put in the basket. Look at there, Jack Smith's hayfork
he left after him! He'll be wanting it. (_Calls_) Jack Smith! Jack
Smith!--He's gone through the crowd; hurry after him, Bartley,
he'll be wanting it.

BARTLEY. I'll do that. This is no safe place to be leaving it.
(_He takes up fork awkwardly and upsets the basket._) Look at that
now! If there is any basket in the fair upset, it must be our own
basket! (_He goes out to right._)

MRS. FALLON. Get out of that! It is your own fault, it is. Talk
of misfortunes and misfortunes will come. Glory be! Look at my
new egg-cups rolling in every part--and my two pound of sugar
with the paper broke--

MRS. TARPEY (_turning from stall_). God help us, Mrs. Fallon, what
happened your basket?

MRS. FALLON. It's himself that knocked it down, bad manners to
him. (_Putting things up_) My grand sugar that's destroyed, and
he'll not drink his tea without it. I had best go back to the
shop for more, much good may it do him!

(_Enter_ TIM CASEY.)

TIM CASEY. Where is Bartley Fallon, Mrs. Fallon? I want a word
with him before he'll leave the fair. I was afraid he might have
gone home by this, for he's a temperate man.

MRS. FALLON. I wish he did go home! It'd be best for me if he
went home straight from the fair green, or if he never came with
me at all! Where is he, is it? He's gone up the road (_jerks
elbow_) following Jack Smith with a hayfork.

(_She goes out to left._)

TIM CASEY. Following Jack Smith with a hayfork! Did ever anyone
hear the like of that. (_Shouts_) Did you hear that news, Mrs.
Tarpey?

MRS. TARPEY. I heard no news at all.

TIM CASEY. Some dispute I suppose it was that rose between Jack
Smith and Bartley Fallon, and it seems Jack made off, and Bartley
is following him with a hayfork!

MRS. TARPEY. Is he now? Well, that was quick work! It's not ten
minutes since the two of them were here, Bartley going home and
Jack going to the Five-Acre Meadow; and I had my apples to settle
up, that Jo Muldoon of the police had scattered, and when I
looked round again Jack Smith was gone, and Bartley Fallon was
gone, and Mrs. Fallon's basket upset, and all in it strewed upon
the ground--the tea here--the two pound of sugar there--the
egg-cups there. Look, now, what a great hardship the deafness
puts upon me, that I didn't hear the commincement of the fight!
Wait till I tell James Ryan that I see below; he is a neighbor of
Bartley's; it would be a pity if he wouldn't hear the news!

(_She goes out. Enter_ SHAWN EARLY _and_ MRS. TULLY.)

TIM CASEY. Listen, Shawn Early! Listen, Mrs. Tully, to the news!
Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon had a falling out, and Jack knocked
Mrs. Fallon's basket into the road, and Bartley made an attack on
him with a hayfork, and away with Jack, and Bartley after him.
Look at the sugar here yet on the road!

SHAWN EARLY. Do you tell me so? Well, that's a queer thing, and
Bartley Fallen so quiet a man!

MRS. TULLY. I wouldn't wonder at all. I would never think well of
a man that would have that sort of a moldering look. It's likely
he has overtaken Jack by this.

(_Enter_ JAMES RYAN _and_ MRS. TARPEY.)

JAMES RYAN. That is great news Mrs. Tarpey was telling me! I
suppose that's what brought the police and the magistrate up this
way. I was wondering to see them in it a while ago.

SHAWN EARLY. The police after them? Bartley Fallen must have
injured Jack so. They wouldn't meddle in a fight that was only
for show!

MRS. TULLY. Why wouldn't he injure him? There was many a man
killed with no more of a weapon than a hayfork.

JAMES RYAN. Wait till I run north as far as Kelly's bar to spread
the news!

(_He goes out._)

TIM CASEY. I'll go tell Jack Smith's first cousin that is
standing there south of the church after selling his lambs.

(_Goes out._)

MRS. TULLY. I'll go telling a few of the neighbors I see beyond
to the west.

(_Goes out._)

SHAWN EARLY. I'll give word of it beyond at the east of the
green.

(_Is going out when MRS. TARPEY seizes hold of him._)

MRS. TARPEY. Stop a minute, Shawn Early, and tell me did you see
red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary, in any place?

SHAWN EARLY. I did. At her own house she was, drying clothes on
the hedge as I passed.

MRS. TARPEY. What did you say she was doing?

SHAWN EARLY (_breaking away_). Laying out a sheet on the hedge.

(_He goes._)

MRS. TARPEY. Laying out a sheet for the dead! The Lord have mercy
on us! Jack Smith dead, and his wife laying out a sheet for his
burying! (_Calls out_) Why didn't you tell me that before, Shawn
Early? Isn't the deafness the great hardship? Half the world
might be dead without me knowing of it or getting word of it at
all! (_She sits down and rocks herself._) O my poor Jack Smith! To
be going to his work so nice and so hearty, and to be left
stretched on the ground in the full light of the day!

(_Enter_ TIM CASEY.)

TIM CASEY. What is it, Mrs. Tarpey? What happened since?

MRS. TARPEY. O my poor Jack Smith!

TIM CASEY. Did Bartley overtake him?

MRS. TARPEY. O the poor man!

TIM CASEY. Is it killed he is?

MRS. TARPEY. Stretched in the Five-Acre Meadow!

TIM CASEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Is that a fact?

MRS. TARPEY. Without the rites of the Church or a ha'porth!

TIM CASEY. Who was telling you?

MRS. TARPEY. And the wife laying out a sheet for his corpse.
(_Sits up and wipes her eyes._) I suppose they'll wake him the same
as another?

(_Enter_ MRS. TULLY, SHAWN EARLY, _and_ JAMES RYAN.)

MRS. TULLY. There is great talk about this work in every quarter
of the fair.

MRS. TARPEY. Ochone! cold and dead. And myself maybe the last he
was speaking to!

JAMES RYAN. The Lord save us! Is it dead he is?

TIM CASEY. Dead surely, and the wife getting provision for the
wake.

SHAWN EARLY. Well, now, hadn't Bartley Fallon great venom in him?

MRS. TULLY. You may be sure he had some cause. Why would he have
made an end of him if he had not? (_To MRS. TARPEY, raising her
voice_) What was it rose the dispute at all, Mrs. Tarpey?

MRS. TARPEY. Not a one of me knows. The last I saw of them, Jack
Smith was standing there, and Bartley Fallon was standing there,
quiet and easy, and he listening to "The Red-haired Man's Wife."

MRS. TULLY. Do you hear that, Tim Casey? Do you hear that, Shawn
Early and James Ryan? Bartley Fallon was here this morning
listening to red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary that was!
Listening to her and whispering with her! It was she started the
fight so!

SHAWN EARLY. She must have followed him from her own house. It is
likely some person roused him.

TIM CASEY. I never knew, before, Bartley Fallon was great with
Jack Smith's wife.

MRS. TULLY. How would you know it? Sure it's not in the streets
they would be calling it. If Mrs. Fallon didn't know of it, and
if I that have the next house to them didn't know of it, and if
Jack Smith himself didn't know of it, it is not likely you would
know of it, Tim Casey.

SHAWN EARLY. Let Bartley Fallon take charge of her from this out
so, and let him provide for her. It is little pity she will get
from any person in this parish.

TIM CASEY. How can he take charge of her? Sure he has a wife of
his own. Sure you don't think he'd turn souper and marry her in a
Protestant church?

JAMES RYAN. It would be easy for him to marry her if he brought
her to America.

SHAWN EARLY. With or without Kitty Keary, believe me, it is for
America he's making at this minute. I saw the new magistrate and
Jo Muldoon of the police going into the post-office as I came
up--there was hurry on them--you may be sure it was to telegraph
they went, the way he'll be stopped in the docks at Queenstown!

MRS. TULLY. It's likely Kitty Keary is gone with him, and not
minding a sheet or a wake at all. The poor man, to be deserted by
his own wife, and the breath hardly gone out yet from his body
that is lying bloody in the field!

(_Enter_ MRS. FALLON.)

MRS. FALLON. What is it the whole of the town is talking about?
And what is it you yourselves are talking about? Is it about my
man Bartley Fallon you are talking? Is it lies about him you are
telling, saying that he went killing Jack Smith? My grief that
ever he came into this place at all!

JAMES RYAN. Be easy now, Mrs. Fallon. Sure there is no one at all
in the whole fair but is sorry for you!

MRS. FALLON. Sorry for me, is it? Why would anyone be sorry for
me? Let you be sorry for yourselves, and that there may be shame
on you forever and at the day of judgment, for the words you are
saying and the lies you are telling to take away the character of
my poor man, and to take the good name off of him, and to drive
him to destruction! That is what you are doing!

SHAWN EARLY. Take comfort now, Mrs. Fallon. The police are not so
smart as they think. Sure he might give them the slip yet, the
same as Lynchehaun.

MRS. TULLY. If they do get him, and if they do put a rope around
his neck, there is no one can say he does not deserve it!

MRS. FALLON. Is that what you are saying, Bridget Tully, and is
that what you think? I tell you it's too much talk you have,
making yourself out to be such a great one, and to be running
down every respectable person! A rope, is it? It isn't much of a
rope was needed to tie up your own furniture the day you came
into Martin Tully's house, and you never bringing as much as a
blanket, or a penny, or a suit of clothes with you, and I myself
bringing seventy pounds and two feather beds. And now you are
stiffer than a woman would have a hundred pounds! It is too much
talk the whole of you have. A rope is it? I tell you the whole of
this town is full of liars and schemers that would hang you up
for half a glass of whiskey (_turning to go_). People they are you
wouldn't believe as much as daylight from, without you'd get up
to have a look at it yourself. Killing Jack Smith indeed! Where
are you at all, Bartley, till I bring you out of this? My nice
quiet little man! My decent comrade! He that is as kind and as
harmless as an innocent beast of the field! He'll be doing no
harm at all if he'll shed the blood of some of you after this
day's work! That much would be no harm at all. (_Calls out_)
Bartley! Bartley Fallen! Where are you? (_Going out_) Did anyone
see Bartley Fallon?

(_All turn to look after her._)

JAMES RYAN. It is hard for her to believe any such a thing, God
help her!

(_Enter BARTLEY FALLON from right, carrying hayfork._)

BARTLEY. It is what I often said to myself, if there is ever any
misfortune coming to this world it is on myself it is sure to
come!

(_All turn round and face him._)

BARTLEY. To be going about with this fork and to find no one to
take it, and no place to leave it down, and I wanting to be gone
out of this--Is that you, Shawn Early?

(_Holds out fork._) It's well I met you. You have no call to be
leaving the fair for a while the way I have, and how can I go
till I'm rid of this fork? Will you take it and keep it until
such time as Jack Smith--

SHAWN EARLY (_backing_). I will not take it, Bartley Fallon, I'm
very thankful to you!

BARTLEY (_turning to apple stall_). Look at it now, Mrs. Tarpey, it
was here I got it; let me thrust it in under the stall. It will
lie there safe enough, and no one will take notice of it until
such time as Jack Smith--

MRS. TARPEY. Take your fork out of that! Is it to put trouble on
me and to destroy me you want? putting it there for the police to
be rooting it out maybe.

(_Thrusts him back._)

BARTLEY. That is a very unneighborly thing for you to do, Mrs.
Tarpey. Hadn't I enough care on me with that fork before this,
running up and down with it like the swinging of a clock, and
afeard to lay it down in any place! I wish I'd never touched it
or meddled with it at all!

JAMES RYAN. It is a pity, indeed, you ever did.

BARTLEY. Will you yourself take it, James Ryan? You were always a
neighborly man.

JAMES RYAN (_backing_). There is many a thing I would do for you,
Bartley Fallon, but I won't do that!

SHAWN EARLY. I tell you there is no man will give you any help or
any encouragement for this day's work. If it was something
agrarian now--

BARTLEY. If no one at all will take it, maybe it's best to give
it up to the police.

TIM CASEY. There'd be a welcome for it with them surely!

(_Laughter._)

MRS. TULLY. And it is to the police Kitty Keary herself will be
brought.

MRS. TARPEY (_rocking to and fro_). I wonder now who will take the
expense of the wake for poor Jack Smith?

BARTLEY. The wake for Jack Smith!

TIM CASEY. Why wouldn't he get a wake as well as another? Would
you begrudge him that much?

BARTLEY. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you?

SHAWN EARLY. The whole town knows of it by this.

BARTLEY. Do they say what way did he die?

JAMES RYAN. You don't know that yourself, I suppose, Bartley
Fallon? You don't know he was followed and that he was laid dead
with the stab of a hayfork?

BARTLEY. The stab of a hayfork!

SHAWN EARLY. You don't know, I suppose, that the body was found
in the Five-Acre Meadow?

BARTLEY. The Five-Acre Meadow!

TIM CASEY. It is likely you don't know that the police are after
the man that did it?

BARTLEY. The man that did it!

MRS. TULLY. You don't know, maybe, that he was made away with for
the sake of Kitty Keary, his wife?

BARTLEY. Kitty Keary, his wife! (_Sits down bewildered._)

MRS. TULLY. And what have you to say now, Bartley Fallon?

BARTLEY (_crossing himself_). I to bring that fork here, and to
find that news before me! It is much if I can ever stir from this
place at all, or reach as far as the road!

TIM CASEY. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and Jo Muldoon
along with him! It's best for us to quit this.

SHAWN EARLY. That is so. It is best not to be mixed in this
business at all.

JAMES RYAN. Bad as he is, I wouldn't like to be an informer
against any man.

(_All hurry away except_ MRS. TARPEY, _who remains behind her stall.
Enter_ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN.)

MAGISTRATE. I knew the district was in a bad state, but I did not
expect to be confronted with a murder at the first fair I came
to.

POLICEMAN. I am sure you did not, indeed.

MAGISTRATE. It was well I had not gone home. I caught a few words
here and there that roused my suspicions.

POLICEMAN. So they would, too.

MAGISTRATE. You heard the same story from everyone you asked?

POLICEMAN. The same story--or if it was not altogether the same,
anyway it was no less than the first story.

MAGISTRATE. What is that man doing? He is sitting alone with a
hayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder was done with a
hayfork!

POLICEMAN (_in a whisper_). That's the very man they say did the
act, Bartley Fallon himself!

MAGISTRATE. He must have found escape difficult--he is trying to
brazen it out. A convict in the Andaman Islands tried the same
game, but he could not escape my system! Stand aside--Don't go
far--Have the handcuffs ready. (_He walks up to BARTLEY, folds his
arms, and stands before him._) Here, my man, do you know anything
of John Smith?

BARTLEY. Of John Smith! Who is he, now?

POLICEMAN. Jack Smith, sir--Red Jack Smith!

MAGISTRATE (_coming a step nearer and tapping him on the
shoulder_). Where is Jack Smith?

BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly_). Where is
he, indeed?

MAGISTRATE. What have you to tell?

BARTLEY. It is where he was this morning, standing in this spot,
singing his share of songs--no, but lighting his pipe--scraping a
match on the sole of his shoe--

MAGISTRATE. I ask you, for the third time, where is he?

BARTLEY. I wouldn't like to say that. It is a great mystery, and
it is hard to say of any man, did he earn hatred or love.

MAGISTRATE. Tell me all you know.

BARTLEY. All that I know--Well, there are the three estates;
there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there is--

MAGISTRATE. Nonsense! This is trifling! Get to the point.

BARTLEY. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so? That is the
teaching of the clergy. Maybe you hold with the old people. It is
what they do be saying, that the shadow goes wandering, and the
soul is tired, and the body is taking a rest--The shadow! (_Starts
up._) I was nearly sure I saw Jack Smith not ten minutes ago at
the corner of the forge, and I lost him again--Was it his ghost I
saw, do you think?

MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Conscience-struck! He will confess all
now!

BARTLEY. His ghost to come before me! It is likely it was on
account of the fork! I to have it and he to have no way to defend
himself the time he met with his death!

MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). I must note down his words. (_Takes out
notebook. To_ BARTLEY) I warn you that your words are being noted.

BARTLEY. If I had ha' run faster in the beginning, this terror
would not be on me at the latter end! Maybe he will cast it up
against me at the day of judgment--I wouldn't wonder at all at
that.

MAGISTRATE (_writing_). At the day of judgment--

BARTLEY. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me--is it coming
after me always by day it will be, and stripping the clothes off
in the nighttime?--I wouldn't wonder at all at that, being as I
am an unfortunate man!

MAGISTRATE (_sternly_). Tell me this truly. What was the motive of
this crime?

BARTLEY. The motive, is it?

MAGISTRATE. Yes, the motive; the cause.

BARTLEY. I'd sooner not say that.

MAGISTRATE. You'd better tell me truly. Was it money?

BARTLEY. Not at all! What did poor Jack Smith ever have in his
pockets unless it might be his hands that would be in them?

MAGISTRATE. Any dispute about land?

BARTLEY (_indignantly_). Not at all! He never was a grabber or
grabbed from anyone!

MAGISTRATE. You will find it better for you if you tell me at
once.

BARTLEY. I tell you I wouldn't for the whole world wish to say
what it was--it is a thing I would not like to be talking about.

MAGISTRATE. There is no use in hiding it. It will be discovered
in the end.

BARTLEY. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly everybody
knows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell no lie; where
would be the use? (_Puts his hand to his mouth and MAGISTRATE
stoops._) Don't be putting the blame on the parish, for such a
thing was never done in the parish before--it was done for the
sake of Kitty Keary, Jack Smith's wife.

MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Put on the handcuffs. We have been
saved some trouble. I knew he would confess if taken in the right
way.

(POLICEMAN _puts on handcuffs._)

BARTLEY. Handcuffs now! Glory be! I always said, if there was
ever any misfortune coming to this place it was on myself it
would fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's no wonder at all in
that.

(_Enter MRS. FALLON, followed by the rest. She is looking back at
them as she speaks._)

MRS. FALLON. Telling lies the whole of the people of this town
are; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot!
Speaking against my poor respectable man! Saying he made an end
of Jack Smith! My decent comrade! There is no better man and no
kinder man in the whole of the five parishes! It's little
annoyance he ever gave to anyone! (_Turns and sees him._) What in
the earthly world do I see before me? Bartley Fallon in charge of
the police! Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, Bartley, what did you do
at all at all?

BAHTLEY. O Mary, there has a great misfortune come upon me! It is
what I always said, that if there is ever any misfortune--

MRS. FALLON. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched I am?

MAGISTRATE. This man has been arrested on a charge of murder.

MRS. FALLON. Whose charge is that? Don't believe them! They are
all liars in this place! Give me back my man!

MAGISTRATE. It is natural you should take his part, but you have
no cause of complaint against your neighbors. He has been
arrested for the murder of John Smith, on his own confession.

MRS. FALLON. The saints of heaven protect us! And what did he
want killing Jack Smith?

MAGISTRATE. It is best you should know all. He did it on account
of a love-affair with the murdered man's wife.

MRS. FALLON (_sitting down_). With Jack Smith's wife! With Kitty
Keary!--Ochone, the traitor!

THE CROWD. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, indeed.

MRS. TULLY. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. Fallon.

BAETLEY. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you--

MRS. FALLON. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any word you'll
say! (_Stops her ears._) Oh, isn't he the treacherous villain?
Ohone go deo!

BARTLEY. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say!

MRS. FALLON. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to the town,
so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like that in his
heart!

BARTLEY. Is it your wits you have lost, or is it I myself that
have lost my wits?

MRS. FALLON. And it's hard I earned you, slaving, slaving--and
you grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and discontented, and
the priest wore out anointing you, with all the times you
threatened to die!

BARTLEY. Let you be quiet till I tell you!

MRS. FALLON. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish. A
thing that was never heard of before!

BARTLEY. Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking?

MRS. FALLON. And if it was for any sort of a fine handsome woman,
but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, that's not
four feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her head unless she
got new ones! May God reward you, Bartley Fallon, for the black
treachery in your heart and the wickedness in your mind, and the
red blood of poor Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand!

(_Voice of JACK SMITH heard singing_)

  The sea shall be dry,
    The earth under mourning and ban!
  Then loud shall he cry
    For the wife of the red-haired man!

BARTLEY. It's Jack Smith's voice--I never knew a ghost to sing
before. It is after myself and the fork he is coming! (_Goes back.
Enter_ JACK SMITH.) Let one of you give him the fork and I will be
clear of him now and for eternity!

MRS. TARPEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Red Jack Smith! The man
that was going to be waked!

JAMES RYAN. Is it back from the grave you are come?

SHAWN EARLY. Is it alive you are, or is it dead you are?

TIM CASEY. Is it yourself at all that's in it?

MRS. TULLY. Is it letting on you were to be dead?

MRS. FALLON. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary, your wife,
from bringing my man away with her to America!

JACK SMITH. It is what I think, the wits are gone astray on the
whole of you. What would my wife want bringing Bartley Fallon to
America?

MRS. FALLON. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you she wants,
Jack Smith, and to bring him away from myself. That's what the
two of them had settled together.

JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that says that! Who is
it says it? (_To_ TIM CASEY) Was it you said it? (_To_ SHAWN EARLY)
Was it you?

ALL TOGETHER (_backing and shaking their heads_). It wasn't I said
it!

JACK SMITH. Tell me the name of any man that said it!

ALL TOGETHEB (_pointing to_ BARTLEY). It was _him_ that said
it!

JACK SMITH. Let me at him till I break his head!

(BARTLEY _backs in terror. Neighbors hold_ JACK SMITH _back._)

JACK SMITH (_trying to free himself_). Let me at him! Isn't he the
pleasant sort of a scarecrow for any woman to be crossing the
ocean with! It's back from the docks of New York he'd be turned
(_trying to rush at him again_), with a lie in his mouth and
treachery in his heart, and another man's wife by his side, and
he passing her off as his own! Let me at him, can't you?

(_Makes another rush, but is held back._)

MAGISTRATE (_pointing to_ JACK SMITH). Policeman, put the handcuffs
on this man. I see it all now. A case of false impersonation, a
conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. There was a case in the
Andaman Islands, a murderer of the Mopsa tribe, a religious
enthusiast--

POLICEMAN. So he might be, too.

MAGISTRATE. We must take both these men to the scene of the
murder. We must confront them with the body of the real Jack
Smith.

JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that will find my dead
body!

MAGISTRATE. I'll call more help from the barracks.

(_Blows POLICEMAN'S whistle._)

BARTLEY. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack Smith are
put together in the one cell for the night, the handcuffs will be
taken off him, and his hands will be free, and murder will be
done that time surely!

MAGISTRATE. Come on!

(_They turn to the right._)

                        [CURTAIN]




THE BEGGAR AND THE KING[1]

Winthrop Parkhurst

[Footnote 1: Reprinted from Drama, No. 33, February, 1919, by
permission of Mr. Parkhurst and the editors of Drama.
Copyrighted, 1918, as a dramatic composition, by Winthrop
Parkhurst. All rights of production reserved by author.]

CHARACTERS

THE KING OF A GREAT COUNTRY
HIS SERVANT
A BEGGAR

_A chamber in the palace overlooks a courtyard. The season is
midsummer. The windows of the palace are open, and from a
distance there comes the sound of a man's voice crying for bread._
THE KING _sits in a golden chair. A golden crown is on his head,
and he holds in his hand a sceptre which is also of gold. A_
SERVANT _stands by his side, fanning him with an enormous fan of
peacock feathers._


THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.

THE KING (_languidly_). Who is that crying in the street for bread?

THE SERVANT (_fanning_). O king, it is a beggar.

THE KING. Why does he cry for bread?

THE SERVANT. O king, he cries for bread in order that he may fill
his belly.

THE KING. I do not like the sound of his voice. It annoys me very
much. Send him away.

THE SERVANT (_bowing_). O king, he _has_ been sent away.

THE KING. If that is so, then why do I hear his voice?

THE SERVANT. O king, he has been sent away many times, yet each
time that he is sent away he returns again, crying louder than he
did before.

THE KING. He is very unwise to annoy me on such a warm day. He
must be punished for his impudence. Use the lash on him.

THE SERVANT. O king, it has been done.

THE KING. Then bring out the spears.

THE SEBVANT. O king, the guards have already bloodied their
swords many times driving him away from the palace gates. But it
is of no avail.

THE KING. Then bind him and gag him if necessary. If need be cut
out his tongue. I do not like the sound of the fellow's voice. It
annoys me very much.

THE SERVANT. O king, thy orders were obeyed even yesterday.

THE KING (_frowning_). No. That cannot be. A beggar cannot cry for
bread who has no tongue.

THE SERVANT. Behold he can--if he has grown another.

THE KING. What! Why, men are not given more than one tongue in a
lifetime. To have more than one tongue is treason.

THE SERVANT. If it is treason to have more than one tongue, O
king, then is this beggar surely guilty of treason.

THE KING (_pompously_). The punishment for treason is death. See to
it that the fellow is slain. And do not fan me so languidly. I am
very warm.

THE SERVANT (_fanning more rapidly_). Behold, O great and
illustrious king, all thy commands were obeyed even yesterday.

THE KING. How! Do not jest with thy king.

THE SERVANT. If I jest, then there is truth in a jest. Even
yesterday, O king, as I have told thee, the beggar which thou now
hearest crying aloud in the street was slain by thy soldiers with
a sword.

THE KING. Do ghosts eat bread? Forsooth, men who have been slain
with a sword do not go about in the streets crying for a piece of
bread.

THE SERVANT. Forsooth, they do if they are fashioned as this
beggar.

THE KING. Why, he is but a man. Surely he cannot have more than
one life in a lifetime.

THE SERVANT. Listen to a tale, O king, which happened yesterday.

THE KING. I am listening.

THE SERVANT. Thy soldiers smote this beggar for crying aloud in
the streets for bread, but his wounds are already healed. They
cut out his tongue, but he immediately grew another. They slew
him, yet he is now alive.

THE KING. Ah! that is a tale which I cannot understand at all.

THE SERVANT. O king, it may be well.

THE KING. I cannot understand what thou sayest, either.

THE SERVANT. O king, that may be well also.

THE KING. Thou art speaking now in riddles. I do not like
riddles. They confuse my brain.

THE SERVANT. Behold, O king, if I speak in riddles it is because
a riddle has come to pass.

(THE BEGGAR'S _voice suddenly cries out loudly._)

THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.

THE KING. Ah! He is crying out again. His voice seems to me
louder than it was before.

THE SERVANT. Hunger is as food to the lungs, O king.

THE KING. His lungs I will wager are well fed. Ha, ha!

THE SERVANT. But alas! his stomach is quite empty.

THE KING. That is not my business.

THE SERVANT. Should I not perhaps fling him a crust from the
window?

THE KING. No! To feed a beggar is always foolish. Every crumb
that is given to a beggar is an evil seed from which springs
another fellow like him.

THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.

THE SERVANT. He seems very hungry, O king.

THE KING. Yes. So I should judge.

THE SERVANT. If thou wilt not let me fling, him a piece of bread
thine ears must pay the debts of thy hand.

THE KING. A king can have no debts.

THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Even so, the noise of this
fellow's begging must annoy thee greatly.

THE KING. It does.

THE SERVANT. Doubtless he craves only a small crust from thy
table and he would be content.

THE KING. Yea, doubtless he craves only to be a king and he would
be very happy indeed.

THE SERVANT. Do not be hard, O king. Thou art ever wise and just.
This fellow is exceedingly hungry. Dost thou not command me to
fling him just one small crust from the window?

THE KING. My commands I have already given thee. See that the
beggar is driven away.

THE SERVANT. But alas! O king, if he is driven away he will
return again even as he did before.

THE KING. Then see to it that he is slain. I cannot be annoyed
with the sound of his voice.

THE SERVANT. But alas! O great and illustrious king, if he is
slain he will come to life again even as he did before.

THE KING. Ah! that is true. But his voice troubles me. I do not
like to hear it.

THE SERVANT. His lungs are fattened with hunger. Of a truth they
are quite strong.

THE KING. Well, propose a remedy to weaken them.

THE SERVANT. A remedy, O king?

(_He stops fanning._)

THE KING. That is what I said. A remedy--and do not stop fanning
me. I am exceedingly warm.

THE SERVANT (_fanning vigorously_). A crust of bread, O king,
dropped from yonder window--forsooth that might prove a remedy.

THE KING (_angrily_). I have said I will not give him a crust of
bread. If I gave him a crust to-day he would be just as hungry
again to-morrow, and my troubles would be as great as before.

THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Thy mind is surely filled with
great learning.

THE KING. Therefore, some other remedy must be found.

THE SERVANT. O king, the words of thy illustrious mouth are as
very meat-balls of wisdom.

THE KING (_musing_). Now let me consider. Thou sayest he does not
suffer pain--

THE SERVANT. Therefore he cannot be tortured.

THE KING. And he will not die--

THE SERVANT. Therefore it is useless to kill him.

THE KING. Now let me consider. I must think of some other way.

THE SERVANT. Perhaps a small crust of bread, O king--

THE KING. Ha! I have it. I have it. I myself will order him to
stop.

THE SERVANT (_horrified_). O king!

THE KING. Send the beggar here.

THE SERVANT. O king!

THE KING. Ha! I rather fancy the fellow will stop his noise when
the king commands him to. Ha, ha, ha!

THE SERVANT. O king, thou wilt not have a beggar brought into thy
royal chamber!

THE KING (_pleased with his idea_). Yea. Go outside and tell this
fellow that the king desires his presence.

THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not
do this thing. Thou wilt surely not soil thy royal eyes by
looking on such a filthy creature. Thou wilt surely not
contaminate thy lips by speaking to a common beggar who cries
aloud in the streets for bread.

THE KING. My ears have been soiled too much already. Therefore go
now and do as I have commanded thee.

THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not--

THE KING (_roaring at him_). I said, Go! (THE SERVANT, _abashed,
goes out._) Forsooth, I fancy the fellow will stop his bawling
when I order him to. Forsooth, I fancy he will be pretty well
frightened when he hears that the king desires his presence. Ha,
ha, ha, ha!

THE SERVANT (_returning_). O king, here is the beggar.

(_A shambling creature hung in filthy rags follows_ THE SERVANT
_slowly into the royal chamber._)

THE KING. Ha! A magnificent sight, to be sure. Art thou the
beggar who has been crying aloud in the streets for bread?

THE BEGGAR (_in a faint voice, after a slight pause_). Art thou the
king?

THE KING. I am the king.

THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). It is not proper for a beggar
to ask a question of a king. Speak only as thou art spoken to.

THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Do thou likewise. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) I
have ordered thee here to speak to thee concerning a very grave
matter. Thou art the beggar, I understand, who often cries aloud
in the streets for bread. Now, the complaint of thy voice annoys
me greatly. Therefore, do not beg any more.

THE BEGGAR (_faintly_). I--I do not understand.

THE KING. I said, do not beg any more.

THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand.

THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). The king has commanded thee
not to beg for bread any more. The noise of thy voice is as
garbage in his ears.

THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Ha! An excellent flower of speech. Pin
it in thy buttonhole. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) Thine ears, I see, are in
need of a bath even more than thy body. I said, _Do not beg any
more._

THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand.

THE KING (_making a trumpet of his hands and shouting_). _DO NOT
BEG ANY MORE._

THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand.

THE KING. Heavens! He is deafer than a stone wall.

THE SERVANT. O king, he cannot be deaf, for he understood me
quite easily when I spoke to him in the street.

THE KING (_to_ THE BEGGAR). Art thou deaf? Canst thou hear what I
am saying to thee now?

THE BEGGAR. Alas! I can hear every word perfectly.

THE KING. Fft! The impudence. Thy tongue shall be cut out for
this.

THE SERVANT. O king, to cut out his tongue is useless, for he
will grow another.

THE KING. No matter. It shall be cut out anyway. (_To_ THE BEGGAR)
I have ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets. What
meanest thou by saying thou dost not understand?

THE BEGGAR. The words of thy mouth I can hear perfectly. But
their noise is only a foolish tinkling in my ears.

THE KING. Fft! Only a--! A lash will tinkle thy hide for thee if
thou dost not cure thy tongue of impudence. I, thy king, have
ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets for bread.
Signify, therefore, that thou wilt obey the orders of thy king by
quickly touching thy forehead thrice to the floor.

THE BEGGAR. That is impossible.

THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). Come. It is not safe to tempt
the patience of the king too long. His patience is truly great,
but he loses it most wondrous quickly.

THE KING. Come, now: I have ordered thee to touch thy forehead to
the floor.

THE SERVANT (_nudging him_). And quickly.

THE BEGGAR. Wherefore should I touch my forehead to the floor?

THE KING. In order to seal thy promise to thy king.

THE BEGGAR. But I have made no promise. Neither have I any king.

THE KING. Ho! He has made no promise. Neither has he any king.
Ha, ha, ha. I have commanded thee not to beg any more, for the
sound of thy voice is grievous unto my ears. Touch thy forehead
now to the floor, as I have commanded thee, and thou shall go
from this palace a free man. Refuse, and thou wilt be sorry
before an hour that thy father ever came within twenty paces of
thy mother.

THE BEGGAR. I have ever lamented that he did. For to be born into
this world a beggar is a more unhappy thing than any that I
know--unless it is to be born a king.

THE KING. Fft! Thy tongue of a truth is too lively for thy
health. Come, now, touch thy forehead thrice to the floor and
promise solemnly that thou wilt never beg in the streets again.
And hurry!

THE SERVANT (_aside_). It is wise to do as thy king commands thee.
His patience is near an end.

THE KING. Do not be afraid to soil the floor with thy forehead. I
will graciously forgive thee for that.

(THE BEGGAR _stands motionless._)

THE SERVANT. I said, it is not wise to keep the king waiting.

(THE BEGGAR _does not move._)

THE KING. Well? (_A pause._) _Well?_ (_In a rage_) _WELL?_

THE BEGGAR. O king, thou hast commanded me not to beg in the
streets for bread, for the noise of my voice offends thee. Now
therefore do I likewise command thee to remove thy crown from thy
forehead and throw it from yonder window into the street. For
when thou hast thrown thy crown into the street, then will I no
longer be obliged to beg.

THE KING. Fft! _Thou_ commandest _me!_ _Thou_, a
beggar from the streets, commandest _me_, a king, to remove
my crown from my forehead and throw it from yonder window into
the street!

THE BEGGAR. That is what I said.

THE KING. Why, dost thou not know I can have thee slain for such
words?

THE BEGGAR. No. Thou canst not have me slain. The spears of thy
soldiers are as straws against my body.

THE KING. Ha! We shall see if they are. We shall see!

THE SERVANT. O king, it is indeed true. It is even as he has told
thee.

THE BEGGAR. I have required thee to remove thy crown from thy
forehead. If so be thou wilt throw it from yonder window into the
street, my voice will cease to annoy thee any more. But if thou
refuse, then thou wilt wish thou hadst never had any crown at
all. For thy days will be filled with a terrible boding and thy
nights will be full of horrors, even as a ship is full of rats.

THE KING. Why, this is insolence. This is treason!

THE BEGGAR. Wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder window?

THE KING. Why, this is high treason!

THE BEGGAR. I ask thee, wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder
window?

THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE KING). Perhaps it were wise to humor
him, O king. After thou hast thrown thy crown away I can go
outside and bring it to thee again.

THE BEGGAR. Well? Well? (_He points to the window._) Well?

THE KING. No! I will not throw my crown from that window--no, nor
from any other window. What! Shall I obey the orders of a beggar?
Never!

THE BEGGAR (_preparing to leave_). Truly, that is spoken like a
king. Thou art a king, so thou wouldst prefer to lose thy head
than that silly circle of gold that so foolishly sits upon it.
But it is well. Thou art a king. Thou couldst not prefer
otherwise. (_He walks calmly toward the door._)

THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Stop him! Seize him! Does he think to
get off so easily with his impudence!

THE BEGGAR (_coolly_). One of thy servants cannot stop me. Neither
can ten thousand of them do me any harm. I am stronger than a
mountain. I am stronger than the sea!

THE KING. Ha! We will see about that, we will see about that. (_To_
THE SERVANT) Hold him, I say. Call the guards. He shall be put in
chains.

THE BEGGAR. My strength is greater than a mountain and my words
are more fearful than a hurricane. This servant of thine cannot
even touch me. With one breath of my mouth I can blow over this
whole palace.

THE KING. Dost thou hear the impudence he is offering me? Why
dost thou not seize him? What is the matter with thee? Why dost
thou not call the guards?

THE BEGGAR. I will not harm thee now. I will only cry aloud in
the streets for bread wherewith to fill my belly. But one day I
will not be so kind to thee. On that day my mouth will be filled
with a rushing wind and my arms will become as strong as steel
rods, and I will blow over this palace, and all the bones in thy
foolish body I will snap between my fingers. I will beat upon a
large drum and thy head will be my drumstick. I will not do these
things now. But one day I will do them. Therefore, when my voice
sounds again in thine ears, begging for bread, remember what I
have told thee. Remember, O king, and be afraid!

(_He walks out. THE SERVANT, struck dumb, stares after him. THE
KING sits in his chair, dazed._)

THE KING (_suddenly collecting his wits_). After him! After him! He
must not be allowed to escape! After him!

THE SERVANT (_faltering_). O king--I cannot seem to move.

THE KING. Quick, then. Call the guards. He must be caught and put
in chains. Quick, I say. Call the guards!

THE SERVANT. O king--I cannot seem to call them.

THE KING. How! Art thou dumb? Ah!

(THE BEGGAR'S _voice is heard outside._)

THE BEGGAR. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.

THE KING. Ah. (_He turns toward the window, half-frightened, and
then, almost instinctively, raises his hands toward his crown,
and seems on the point of tossing it out the window. But with an
oath he replaces it and presses it firmly on his head._) How! Am I
afraid of a beggar!

THE BEGGAR (_continuing outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some
bread.

THE KING (_with terrible anger_). Close that window!

(THE SERVANT _stands stupent, and the voice of THE BEGGAR grows
louder as the curtain falls._)




TIDES[1]

George Middleton

[Footnote 1: Reprinted by permission of the author and of Messrs.
Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume, _Masks
and Other One-Act Plays_ (1920).]

CHARACTERS

WILLIAM WHITE, a famous Internationalist
HILDA, his wife
WALLACE, their son

SCENE: _At the Whites'; spring, 1917. A simply furnished study.
The walls are lined with bookshelves, indicating, by their
improvised quality, that they have been increased as occasion
demanded. On these are stacked, in addition to the books
themselves, many files of papers, magazines, and "reports." The
large work-table, upon which rests a double student lamp and a
telephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows is
opposite, pointing toward a doorway which leads into the
living-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparently
opens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of
its general disorder: it is essentially the workshop of a busy
man of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comes
in through the window, flooding the table._

WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is
about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of
the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority and
strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is
commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained
orator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in private
conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience.
Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his
humble origin._

_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand,_ HILDA WHITE, _his
wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in
appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle
of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband's: her
inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft
voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--the
sort which will endure all for a fixed intention._

_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy
comrades in their life together, and that a deep fundamental bond
has united them in spite of the different social spheres from
which each has sprung._


WHITE (_seeing she has paused_). Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all
of it.

HILDA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how differently he
feels about the war.

WHITE (_with quiet sarcasm_). But it's been so many years since
your respectable brother has honored me even with the slightest
allusion--

HILDA. If you care for what he says--(_continuing to read the
letter_)--"Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don't suppose
your husband considers that an honor; but I do."

WHITE (_interrupting_). And what kind of an American has he been in
times of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his
factory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah,
these smug hypocrites!

HILDA (_reading_). "His violent opposition to America going in has
been disgrace enough--"

WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.

HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) "--been
disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the faint
hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will
persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate
no difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on
board the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." (_She stops
reading._) He's right, dear. There will be nothing more
intolerant than a so-called democracy at war.

WHITE. By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now he
writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will be further
disgraced by her radical husband.

HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness.

WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine
of forgiving my enemies.

HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all
differently.

WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty
years--ever since you married me--"out of your class," as he
called it.

HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear him
no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude seem natural? You
mustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his class
more than you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_
relative.

WHITE. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you
something you may not know. (_Bitterly_) Whenever I've spoken
against privilege and wealth it's been his pudgy, comfortable
face I've shaken my fist at. He's been so damned comfortable all
his life.

HILDA. (_She looks at him in surprise._) Why, Will, you surely
don't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make you out. What's
come over you these last weeks? You've always been above such
personal bitterness; even when you were most condemned and
ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I'd think you had done
something you were ashamed of.

WHITE. What do you mean?

HILDA. Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to
another means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chair
and sits without answering._) I can think of you beaten by outside
things--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can never
think of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and
self-reliant: you've fought so hard for the truth.

WHITE (_tapping letter_). But he thinks he knows the truth, too.

HILDA. He's also an intense nature.

WHITE (_thoughtfully after a pause_). Yet there is _some_
truth in what he says.

HILDA (_smiling_). But you didn't like it--coming from him?

WHITE. It will be different with you and me now that America's
gone in.

HILDA. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always
farthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who
would compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource
of the non-combatant.

(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch._)

WHITE. That's for me.

HILDA. Let me. (_She goes._) It may be Wallace. (_At phone_) Yes:
this is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says to
him_) It must be our boy. (_At phone_) Who? Oh--Mr. William White?
Yes: he'll be here. (_She hangs up receiver._) She'll ring when she
gets the connection through.

WHITE (_turning away_). It takes so long these days.

HILDA. Funny he didn't ask for me.

WHITE. What made you think it was Wallace?

HILDA. I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at
college with all the boys full of war fever.

WHITE. And a father with my record.

HILDA. He should be proud of the example. He has more than other
boys to cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as
the band plays and the flag is waved. He won't be carried away by
it. He'll remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we
now have conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank God every
night our boy is too young for the draft.

WHITE. But when his time comes what will he do?

HILDA (_calmly_). He will do it with courage.

WHITE (_referring to her brother's letter_). Either prison or
acceptance!

HILDA. I would rather have my son in prison than have him do what
he felt was wrong. Wouldn't you?

WHITE (_evasively_). We won't have to face that problem for two
years.

HILDA. And when it comes--if he falters--I'll give him these
notes of that wonderful speech you made at the International
Conference in 1910. (_Picking it up_) I was looking through it only
this morning.

WHITE (_troubled_). Oh, that speech.

HILDA (_glancing through it with enthusiasm_). "All wars are
imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas investments, trade
routes, private control of ammunition factories, secret
diplomacy--"

WHITE. Don't you see that's all dead wood?

HILDA (_not heeding him_). This part gave me new strength when I
thought of Wallace. (_Reading with eloquence_) "War will stop when
young men put Internationalism above Nationality, the law of God
above the dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law of
hate, the law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There
must be no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men of the
world once throw down their arms, let them once refuse to point
their guns at human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world
will melt away and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts
of men!"

WHITE (_taking it from her_). And I made you believe it! What silly
prophets we radicals were. (_He tears it up._) Mere scraps of
paper, dear; scraps of paper, now.

HILDA. But it was the truth; it still is the truth.

WHITE. Hilda, there's something I want to talk over very, very
seriously with you. I've been putting it off.

HILDA. Yes, dear? (_The outer door is heard to bang._) Listen:
wasn't that the front door?

WHITE. Perhaps it's the maid?

HILDA (_a bit nervously_). No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Please
see.

WHITE (_smiling_). Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the Secret
Service.

HILDA. One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimes
feel I am in a foreign country.

(WHITE _goes slowly to the door in back and opens it._ WALLACE,
_their son, with valise in hand, is standing there, as if he had
hesitated to enter._

_He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father's physical
endowment and his mother's spiritual intensity. The essential
note he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent he is under
the pressure of a momentous decision which has brought him
unexpectedly home from college._)

WHITE. Wallace!

WALLACE (_shaking hands_). Hello, Dad!

HILDA. Wallace! My boy!

(WALLACE _drops valise and goes to his mother's arms._)

WALLACE (_with deep feeling_). Mother!

WHITE (_after a pause_). Well, boy; this is unexpected. We were
just talking of you.

WALLACE. Were you?

HILDA. I'm so glad to see you, so glad.

WALLACE. Yes--yes--but--

WHITE. There's nothing the matter?

HILDA. You've had trouble at college?

WALLACE. Not exactly. But I couldn't stand it there. I've
left--for good.

WHITE. I was sure that would happen.

HILDA. Tell us. You know we'll understand.

WALLACE. Dad, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk it over with
mother first.

WHITE. Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand by you
just as she's always stood by me--all these years. (_He kisses
her._) I--I--

(_He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she smiles
up at him._)

We mustn't let this war hurt all we've had together--you and I--

HILDA (_smiling and turning towards her son_). And Wallace.

WHITE. And Wallace. Yes. (WALLACE _looks away guiltily._) Let me
know when the phone comes.

(_He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and then
comes to WALLACE, who has sat down, indicating he is troubled._)

HILDA. They made it hard for you at college?

WALLACE. I don't know how to tell you.

HILDA. I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic speeches, the
billboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventure
offered to youth, the pressure of your friends--all made it hard
for you to be called a slacker.

WALLACE, No, mother. I wasn't afraid of what they could call me.
That was easy.

HILDA (_proudly_). You are your father's son!

WALLACE. Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing, you know
that. And I couldn't forget all you've told me. That's why I've
had to think this out all these months alone; why I've hesitated
longer than most fellows. The only thing I was really afraid of
was being wrong. But now I know I'm right and I'm going clean
through to the limit.

HILDA. As your father said, I 'll stand by you--whatever it
is--if only you feel it's right.

WALLACE. Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what happens? (_She
nods._) I knew you would. (_Taking her hand_) Then, mother, listen.
I've volunteered.

HILDA (_shocked_). Volunteered!

WALLACE. Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night.

HILDA. To-night?

WALLACE. Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind, I couldn't wait to
be drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I didn't want to be made to
go.

HILDA (_hardly grasping it_). But you are too young.

WALLACE. I lied about my age. You and father can stop me if you
tell the truth. That's why I've come back. I want you to promise
you won't tell.

HILDA. _You_ ask me to aid you in what I don't believe?
WALLACE. But you said you'd stick by me if _I_ thought it
was right.

HILDA. But--

WALLACE (_with fervor_). And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was
right for America to go in. I see now we ought to have declared
war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in when
the Lusitania was sunk. But we've been patient. The President
tried to keep us out of it until we _had_ to go in to save
our self-respect. We had to go in to show we were men of honor,
not pussy-cats. We had to go in to show the world the Stars and
Stripes wasn't a dish-rag on which the Germans could dry their
bloody hands!

HILDA (_gazing at him incredulously_). You hate them as much as
that?

WALLACE. Hate? No, mother, no. (_As if questioning himself_) I
really haven't any hate for the German _people_. People are
just people everywhere, I suppose, and they're tricked and fooled
by their rotten government, as the President says.

HILDA. Then why fight them?

WALLACE. Because they're standing back of their government, doing
what it says. And they've got to be licked to show them what kind
of a government they have.

HILDA. At least you have no hate in your heart--that's something.

WALLACE. Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor
devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home fellow here
in America who sits in a comfortable armchair, who applauds
patriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does nothing for his
country but hate and hate--while we fight for him. That's the
fellow I'll hate all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's
why I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day
longer; why I've got to go in; why I'm going to die if I must,
because _everybody_ ought to be willing to die for what he
believes.

HILDA. You are my son, _too_! For I would willingly have
died if it could have kept us out of this war.

WALLACE. Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you wouldn't
respect me if I didn't go through.

HILDA. No. I wouldn't have respected you. But--but--(_She breaks
a bit, then controls herself._) You are quite sure you're doing
what's right?

WALLACE (_tenderly_). Would I have been willing to hurt you like
this?

HILDA (_holding him close to her_). My boy; my boy!

WALLACE. It'll be all right, mother.

HILDA. Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time:
it's only the moments that hurt.

WALLACE (_after a pause_). Then you won't tell my real age, or
interfere?

HILDA. I respect your right to decide your own life.

WALLACE (_joyed_). Mother!

HILDA. I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrifice
for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me to
stand in your way--even with my mother's love. (_He kisses her._)
Do it all as cleanly as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'll
come back to me. (_Half breaking down and taking him in her arms_).
Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. You'll never know how hard
it is for a mother.

WALLACE (_gently_). But other mothers send their boys.

HILDA. Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for.
Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how could they stand
the thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forth
in their own blood? (_There is a pause till she controls herself._)
I'll help you get your things together.

WALLACE. And father?

HILDA. He will be angry.

WALLACE. But you will make him understand?

HILDA. I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn't
understand. Don't ever forget his long fight against all kinds of
Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always
hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism,
are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them
after the war. He's been persecuted so by them--even back in the
days when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished
citizens were dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget all
this, my boy. These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhaps
than for you who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no
flags for us, no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer
in silence for what we believe. And it is only the strongest who
can survive.--Now call your father.

WALLACE (_goes to door_). Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns to
his mother._) I'll be getting my things together. (_There is a
pause._ WHITE _enters._) Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_He
looks from father to mother._) Thanks, little mother.

(_He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father and
mother stand facing each other._)

HILDA. Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly._) He has
lied about his age. He wants us to let him go.

WHITE. Volunteered?

HILDA. Yes; he leaves to-night.

WHITE (_after a pause_). And what have you told him?

HILDA. That he must go.

WHITE. You can say that?

HILDA. It is the way he sees it.

WHITE (_going to her sympathetically_). Hilda.

HILDA (_looking up at him tenderly_). O Will, do you remember when
he was born? (_He soothes her._) And all we nursed him through
afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him about
war. (_With a shrug of her shoulders_) None of it has mattered.

WHITE. War is stronger than all that.

HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him?

WHITE. He fears I will?

HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves you
deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't?

WHITE (_wearily_). Is there any use opposing anybody or anything
these days?

HILDA. We must wait till the storm passes.

WHITE. That's never been my way.

HILDA. No. You've fought all your life. But now we must sit
silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will,
think of it; we are going to have a boy "over there," too.

WHITE. Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been all
wrong? (_She looks at him, as she holds his hand._) What could
these frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt
this tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, after
all, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation
upon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility of
war? May it not become so terrible that men--the workers, I
mean--will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord?
Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than
talk--talk--talk?

HILDA (_touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling_). Here
is your answer to your own question.

WHITE. Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say yourself we
can't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to direct the current
to our own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it?

HILDA. Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who _could_
compromise.

WHITE. But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of compromise?

HILDA. That has been _your_ strength. And it is your
strength I'm relying on now that Wallace--Shall I call him?

WHITE (_significantly_). No; wait.

HILDA (_apprehensive at his turn_). Oh, yes. Before he came you
said there was something--(_The phone rings. They both look at
it._) That's for you.

WHITE (_not moving_). Yes.

HILDA _hardly believing his attititde_). Is--is it private?

WHITE. No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (_He hesitates,
then goes to phone as she stands expectant._) Yes. Yes. Long
Distance? Washington? (_Her lips repeat the word._) Yes. This is
William White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I
appreciate the honor of having you confirm it personally. Senator
Bough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; war makes strange
bedfellows. Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I'll be ready.
Yes. Good-bye.

(_He hangs up the receiver and looks at her._)

HILDA. You, too!

WHITE. I've been trying to tell you these last weeks; but I
couldn't somehow.

HILDA. You were ashamed?

WHITE. No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you.

HILDA. I'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are going to be
part of this war?

WHITE. I'm going to do what I can to help finish it.

HILDA. By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime?

WHITE. No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appointment on this
commission because I'm going to accept facts.

HILDA. Have the facts of war changed, or is it you?

WHITE. Neither has changed; but I'm going to act differently. I'm
going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to help direct the
current.

HILDA. I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, William
White, speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood against
all war!

WHITE. Yes.

HILDA. And now, when the test comes, you are going to lend
yourself to it! You of all men!

WHITE. Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; but
I think I can make you see if you will let me.

HILDA (_poignantly_). If I will let you! Why, Will, I must
understand; I must.

WHITE. Perhaps it will be difficult at first--with your
standards.

HILDA. But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me.
You taught me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showed
her the truth, and she followed you and has followed you gladly
through hard years of struggle and poverty because of those
ideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, don't you see, I
must understand?

WHITE. Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with
circumstance.

HILDA. Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suit
the weather?

WHITE. It's the end we must keep in mind. I haven't changed or
compromised one bit in that. I'm working in changed conditions,
that's all; working with all my heart to do away with all war.

HILDA. By fighting one?

WHITE (_with eloquence_). Yes. Because it is necessary. I've come
to see we can't argue war out of the world with words. We've got
to beat it out of the world. It can't be done with our hands
lifted up in prayer; it can only be done with iron hands crushing
it down. War is the mood of the world. Well, I'm going to fight
in my fashion. And when it is over, I'm going to keep on
fighting; for the next war will be greater than this. It will be
economic revolution. It will be the war of capital and labor. And
I mean to be ready.

HILDA (_listening incredulously_). And to get ready you are willing
to link arms now with Senator Bough--a man you once called the
lackey of Wall Street--a man who has always opposed every
democratic principle.

WHITE. Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning to realize
it can't do without us? Don't you see my appointment is an
acknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world?
Don't you see, with the prestige that will come to me from this
appointment, I will have greater power after the war; power to
bring about the realization of all our dreams; power to
demand--even at the Peace table itself, perhaps--that all wars
must end?

HILDA. Do you actually believe you will have any power with your
_own_ people when you have compromised them for a temporary
expediency?

WHITE (_with a gesture_). The leader must be wiser than the people
who follow.

HILDA. So, contempt for your people is the first thing your new
power has brought you! (_He makes a gesture of denial._) You feel
you are above them--not of them. Do you believe for a moment that
Senator Bough has anything but contempt for you, too?

WHITE (_confidently_). He needs me.

HILDA. Needs you? Don't you understand why he had you appointed
on that committee? He wanted to get you out of the way.

WHITE. Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power?

HILDA. Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a "reformed"
radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the capitals of Europe to
advertise his liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits a
reformed drunkard.

WHITE. And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be stronger
than he is, stronger than any of them.

HILDA. No man is strong unless he does what he feels is right.
No, no, Will; you've convicted yourself with your own eloquence.
You've wanted to do this for some reason. But it isn't the one
you've told me. No; no.

WHITE (_angrily_). You doubt my sincerity?

HILDA. No; only the way you have read yourself.

WHITE. Well, if you think I've tried to make it easy for myself
you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit of
years? Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I've sold out?
Easy to have you misunderstand? (_Goes to her._) Hilda, I'm doing
this for their good. I'm doing it--just as Wallace is--because I
feel it's right.

HILDA. No; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this for the
same reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted
it all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his
eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was
no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe
differently! You can't hush the mind that for twenty years has
thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can't give
yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You
see power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests._) That's
your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--not
what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives with those of
our son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he
wishes to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals
for the ideals of others! (_She turns away._) Oh, Will, that's what
hurts. If you were only like him, I--I could stand it.

WHITE (_quietly, after a pause_). I can't be angry at you--even
when you say such things. You've been too much a part of my life,
and work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't you, dear?
(_He sits beside her and takes her hand._) I knew it would be
difficult to make you understand. Only once have I lacked
courage, and that was when I felt myself being drawn into this
and they offered me the appointment. For then I saw I must tell
you. You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. But when you
asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would understand my
going, too.--Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young;
war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to
accomplish my ideals.

HILDA. Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter
enemies praying to the same God as they kill each other.

WHITE. Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can't.
It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I'll grant all
that. Only, America has gone in. The whole tide was against us,
dear. It is sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki
sweeping everything before it. All my life I've fought against
the current. (_Wearily_) And now that I've gone in, too, my arms
seem less tired. Yes; and except for the pain I've caused you,
I've never in all my life felt so--so happy.

(_Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with tenderness
in her eyes._)

HILDA. Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason
for what you've done.

WHITE (_defensively_). I've given the real reason.

HILDA (_her heart going out to him_). You poor tired man. My dear
one. Forgive me if I made it difficult for you, if I said cruel
words. I ought to have guessed; ought to have seen what life has
done to you. (_He looks up, not understanding her words_). Those
hands of yours first dug a living out of the ground. Then they
built houses and grew strong because you were a workman--a man of
the people. You saw injustice, and all your life you fought
against those who had the power to inflict it: the press; the
comfortable respectables, like my brother; and even those of your
own group who opposed you--you fought them all. And they look at
you as an outsider, an alien in your own country. O Will, I know
how hard it has been for you to be always on the defensive,
against the majority. It is hard to live alone, away from the
herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the
comfort and security they find by being together.

WHITE. Yes--but--

HILDA. Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to be
part of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those who
have fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, to
have the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reason
you're going in. You're tired and worn out with the fight. I
know. I understand now.

WHITE (_earnestly_). If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself.

HILDA. There's been enough killing already. I have to understand
it somehow to accept it at all.

(_He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles. He goes to
a chair and sits down, gazing before him. The music of Over There
is now heard outside in the street, approaching nearer and
nearer. It is a military band. WALLACE excitedly rushes in
dressed in khaki._)

WALLACE. Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street.
(_Sees father._) Dad! Mother has told you?

HILDA (_calmly_). Yes; I've told him.

WALLACE. And you're going to let me go, Dad?

HILDA. Yes.

WALLACE. Oh, thanks, Dad (_grasping his hand_).

I knew mother would make you see. (_Music nearer._) Listen! Isn't
that a great tune? Lifts you up on your feet and carries you over
there. Gee, it just gets into a fellow and makes him want to run
for his gun and charge over the top. (_He goes to balcony._) Look!
They're nearing here; all ready to sail with the morning tide.
They've got their helmets on. You can't see the end of them
coming down the avenue. Oh, thank God, I'm going to be one of
them soon. Thank God! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and the
Stars and Stripes. (_Calls off_) Hurrah! (_To them_) Oh, I wish I had
a flag. Why haven't we got a flag here?--Hurrah!!

(_As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder. HILDA has
gone to WHITE during this, and stands behind him, with her arms
down his arms, as he sits there, gazing before him._)

HILDA (_fervently_). Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does!!

(_The music begins to trail off as WHITE tenderly takes hold of
her hands._)

                        [CURTAIN]




ILE

Eugene O'Neill


SCENE: CAPTAIN KEENEY'S cabin on board the steam whaling ship
Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment, about eight feet
high, with a skylight in the centre looking out on the poop deck.
On the left (_the stern of the ship_) a long bench with rough
cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, a
table. Over the bench, several curtained portholes.

In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain's
sleeping-quarters. To the right of the door a small organ,
looking as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall.

On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped, sideboard. On the
sideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther forward, a doorway
leading to the companion way, and past the officers' quarters to
the main deck.

In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of the
ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are
painted white.

There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes
through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of those
gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence
is unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking up
and down on the poop deck overhead.

It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day
in the year 1895.

At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence.
Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of the
few dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN'S dinner.
He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater,
and a woolen cap with ear-flaps. His manner is sullen and angry.
He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward
at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and
listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes
his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise
from the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table.

BEN enters. He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinched
face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are
chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he
stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping
them against his sides, on the verge of crying.

THE STEWARD (_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_). Oh, 'tis you,
is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye
belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.

BEN. It's c-c-old. (_Trying to control his chattering
teeth--derisively_) Who d' ye think it were--the Old Man?

THE STEWARD. (_He makes a threatening move--BEN shrinks away._)
None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (_More kindly_) Where
was it ye've been all o' the time--the fo'c's'le?

BEN. Yes.

THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkey-shinin'
with the handstand ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a
hurry.

BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (_A trace of awe in his tones--he
glances upward._) He just walks up and down like he didn't notice
nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard.

THE STEWARD (_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_). He's
always starin' at the ice. (_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at
the skylight_) Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin'
us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it
like a fly in molasses!

BEN (_apprehensively_). Ssshh! He'll hear ye.

THE STEWARD (_raging_). Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas,
and damn this stinkin' whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a
fool to ever ship on it! (_Subsiding, as if realizing the
uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep
conviction_) He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the
seas.

BEN (_solemnly_). Aye.

THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this
day. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in
the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin'
low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for
home! (_Bitterly_) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on
land again. (_Excitedly_) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do?
Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last
man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly
to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men
goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le?

BEN (_going over to him--in a half-whisper_). They said if he don't
put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.

THE STEWARD (_with grim satisfaction_). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only
thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's
treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs.

BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water's
far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back
for home, the men says.

THE STEWARD (_bitterly_). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd where
they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water.
All he thinks on is gittin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he
ain't had good luck with the whales. (_Shaking his head_) I think
the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.

BEN (_awed_). D' you really think he's crazy?

THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye hear
ever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (_Pointing
to the door in rear_) Who but a man that's mad would take his
woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a stinkin' whalin'
ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for
nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure
she'll never be the same again.

BEN (_sadly_). She useter be awful nice to me before--(_his eyes
grow wide and frightened_) she got--like she is.

THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have been
hell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard
man--a driver if there ever was one. (_With a grim laugh_) I hope
he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind.
And who could blame her? 'T is a God's wonder we're not a ship
full of crazed people--with the damned ice all the time, and the
quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice.

BEN (_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_). She
don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me's if she didn't
know me.

THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to
him--when she does talk--right enough.

BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then
she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.

THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.

BEN (_tiptoes over to the door and listens_). She's cryin' now.

THE STEWARD (_furiously--shaking his fist_). God send his soul to
hell for the devil he is!

(_There is the noise of someone coming slowly down the
companionway stairs._ THE STEWARD _hurries to his stacked-up
dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top
one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast,
trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ with
a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket_, CAPTAIN
KEENEY _appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin,
removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty,
around five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account of
the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is
massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak
hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick
hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and
blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots._

_He is followed into the cabin by the_ SECOND MATE, _a rangy
six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face._ The MATE _is dressed
about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so._)

KEENEY. (_Comes toward the_ STEWARD--_with a stern look on his
face. The_ STEWARD _is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes
rattles in his trembling hands._ KEENEY _draws back his fist and
the_ STEWARD _shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and_
KEENEY _speaks slowly._) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Is
nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.

THE STEWARD (_stammering_). Y-y-yes, sir.

KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here
gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (_To_ BEN _fiercely_) Get
out o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN _darts past the_
MATE _to the open doorway._) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!

THE STEWARD (_doing so with difficulty_). Yes, sir.

KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in
the Bering Sea at the end of a rope.

THE STEWARD (_tremblingly_). Yes, sir.

(_He hurries out. The_ SECOND MATE _walks slowly over to the_
CAPTAIN.)

MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should
catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to
come below.

KEENEY (_impatiently_). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.

MATE (_unconsciously lowering his voice_). I'm afeard there'll be
trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn
ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two
years they signed up for is up to-day.

KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr.
Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think
I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in the
doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed
in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and
pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands
as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and
unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at
her._)

KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She is
silent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway._)

KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to be
endeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go up
on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.

(_She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the_ MATE
_exchange a significant glance._)

KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day.
There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice.

MRS. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's
nothing to see down here but these walls.

(_She makes a gesture of loathing._)

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of
home.

KEENEY (_a touch of resentment in his voice_). I got it jest for
you.

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I know. (_She turns away from them and walks
slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and
looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._) Ah,
water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after
all these months of ice! (_She turns round to them, her face
transfigured with joy._) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at
it, David.

KEENEY (_frowning_). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day
when the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY (_desperately_). But the sun never shines in this
terrible place.

KEENEY (_a tone of command in his voice_). Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_crumbling before this command--abjectly_). Very well,
David.

(_She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze.
The two men look at her uneasily._)

KEENEY (_sharply_). Annie!

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). Yes, David.

KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's
business.

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

(_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters
shut behind her._)

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any
trouble.

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones.

(_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._)

Got yourn?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed
of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (_Grimly_) I ain't never
been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by
sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I
reckon.

MATE (_hesitatingly_). Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin'
s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in
the hold?

MATE (_hastily_). No, sir--but the grub's gittin' low.

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful
with it; and they's plenty o' water.

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two
years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble
for you in the courts when we git home.

KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they
kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the
ile! (_Glancing sharply at the_ MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned
sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE (_flushing_). Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o'
the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco.

MATE (_slowly_). They wants to git back to their folks an' things,
I s'pose.

KEENEY (_looking at him searchingly_). 'N' you want to turn back,
too. (THE MATE _looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._)
Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (_With
grim sarcasm_) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the
men agin me.

MATE (_indignantly_). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

KEENEY (_with satisfaction_). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom.
You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No
man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I
mean. (_Desperately_) But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't
jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad
luck an' the ice an' all.

KEENEY (_his face clouding--rebukingly but not severely_). That's
my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o'
that. (_A pause._) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could
see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun,
Annie'll perk up. (_Another pause--then he bursts forth_) It ain't
the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom.
But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel
of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days
without a full ship. Ain't that truth?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'--

KEENEY (_scornfully_). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believe
that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't
you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms
and the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney
what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin'
back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (_The thought of
this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on
the marble top of the sideboard._) Hell! I got to git the ile, I
tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad
before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it's
breakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they's
whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone
wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all
hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do git it!

(_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The
two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then_ KEENEY _goes
over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he
were going to enter--then closes the door softly._ JOE, _the
harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face,
enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice
him._)

KEENEY (_turning and seeing him_). Don't be standin' there like a
gawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE (_confusedly_). We want--the men, sir--they want send a
depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY (_furiously_). Tell 'em to go to--(_checks himself and
continues grimly_) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

(_He goes out._)

KEENEY (_with a grim smile_). Here it comes, the trouble you spoke
of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to
crush such things at the start than let them make headway.

MATE (_worriedly_). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We
might need their help.

KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone,
Mr. Slocum.

(_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the
crew crowd into the cabin, led by_ JOE. _All are dressed
alike--sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the_
CAPTAIN, _twirling their fur caps in their hands._)

KEENEY (_after a pause_). Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE (_stepping forward with an air of bravado_). I be.

KEENEY (_eyeing him up and down coldly_). So you be. Then speak
your say and be quick about it.

JOE (_trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoiding
his eyes_). The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY (_icily_). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far's we kin see.

KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.

JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye.

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOB (_after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily
to one another_). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have
eaten worse.

(_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._)

JOE (_encouraged by this support_). We ain'ta-goin' to work no more
'less you puts back fur home.

KEENEY (_fiercely_). You ain't, ain't you?

JOE. No; and the law courts 'll say we was right.

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm
the law on this ship. (_Edging up toward the harpooner._) And every
mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.

(_There are more angry exclamations from the crew._ MRS. KEENEY
_appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes.
None of the men notices her._)

JOE (_with bravado_). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and take the
old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

(_As he turns his head to look at the others_, KEENEY'S _fist
shoots out to the side of his jaw._ JOE _goes down in a heap and
lies there._ MRS. KEENEY _gives a shriek and hides her face in
her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush,
but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers
of_ KEENEY _and the_ MATE.)

KEENEY (_his eyes and voice snapping_). Hold still! (_The men
stand huddled together in a sullen silence._ KEENEY'S _voice is
full of mockery._) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on
this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and
(_he gives_ JOE'S _body a contemptuous kick_) drag him with you.
And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead
as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the
same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (_The men leave in cowed silence,
carrying_ JOE _with them._ KEENEY _turns to the_ MATE _with a
short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._) Best get
up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of
their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now
on. I know 'em.

MATE. Yes, sir.

(_He goes out, right._ KEENEY _hears his wife's hysterical
weeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her
side._)

KEENEY (_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff
tenderness_). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all past
and gone.

MRS. KEENEY (_shrinking away from, him_). Oh, I can't bear it! I
can't bear it any longer!

KEENEY (_gently_). Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_hysterically_). All this horrible brutality, and
these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell
of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence.

(_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her
handkerchief._)

KEENEY (_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a
puzzled frown_). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on
this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I
didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've
been doing these last six years since we were married--waiting,
and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mind
occupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of being
Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great,
wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger
and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they
make you out to be in Homeport. And instead--(_her voice grows
tremulous_) all I find is ice--and cold--and brutality!

(_Her voice breaks._)

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no
ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home
where you've got all your woman's comforts." (_Shaking his head_)
But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You
see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old
Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY (_protestingly_). I done my best to make it as cozy and
comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY _looks around her in wild
scorn._) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin'
it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was
calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Yes, you were very kind, David. I know
that. (_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole
and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth._) I won't stand it--I
can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (_She runs
over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his
arm protectingly over her shoulders._) Take me away from here,
David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship,
I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel
as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain.
I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY (_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face
anxiously_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got
fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you
look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY (_laughing hysterically_). It's the ice and the cold
and the silence--they'd make anyone look strange.

KEENEY (_soothingly_). In a month or two, with good luck, three at
the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her
everything she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to
get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's
cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back.
You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If
you've a heart at all, you've got to turn back.

KEENEY (_harshly_). I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh,
I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other
captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a
full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if
you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY (_his jaw set stubbornly_). It ain't that, Annie. Them
skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what
anyone'd say--but--(_He hesitates, struggling to express his
meaning._) You see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as
skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem
right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o'
Homeport, and--Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (_He glances at
her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her,
not hearing a word he is saying._) Annie! (_She comes to herself
with a start._) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You
ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in
rear_). David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY (_gently_). I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my
meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you
don't. You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY (_impatiently_). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you
think I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). No--I don't know--I can't
understand--(_Intensely_) Oh, I want to be home in the old house
once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice
talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so
long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY (_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her
eyes_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (_not appearing to hear him_). I used to be lonely when
you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous
place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it
was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the
fine free life you must be leading. (_She gives a laugh which is
half a sob._) I used to love the sea then. (_She pauses; then
continues with slow intensity._) But now--I don't ever want to see
the sea again.

KEENEY (_thinking to humor her_). 'Tis no fit place for a woman,
that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a
gesture of pathetic weariness_). How long would it take us to
reach home--if we started now?

KEENEY (_frowning_). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair
luck.

MRS. KEENEY (_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt
smile_). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't
it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David,
wasn't it?

KEENEY (_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved
him--gruffly_). Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY (_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_). My
memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (_A
pause--then she smiles dreamily._) It's June now. The lilacs will
be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the
trellis to the side of the house--they're budding.

(_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to
sob._)

KEENEY (_disturbed_). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore out
cryin' over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY (_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and
clinging to him_). You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY (_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_) Love you? Why
d'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him--fiercely_). But you do, don't you,
David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there
be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him again--still more fiercely_). Then you do
love me. Say it!

KEENEY (_simply_). I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. (_Gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her
sides._ KEENEY _regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across
her eyes and murmurs half to herself._) I sometimes think if we
could only have had a child. (KEENEY _turns away from her, deeply
moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face
her--intensely._) And I've always been a good wife to you,
haven't I, David?

KEENEY (_his voice betraying his emotion_). No man ever had a
better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I,
David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye,
Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Then do this, this once, for my sake, for
God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the
brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel
the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me--day
after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it.
(_Sobbing._) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if
you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me
home!

(_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder.
His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He
holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a
moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens
as he looks at her tear-stained face._)

KEENEY (_dragging out the words with an effort_). I'll do it,
Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_with wild joy--kissing him_). God bless you for that,
David!

(_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the
companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps
on the stairs and the_ SECOND MATE _enters the cabin._)

MATE (_excitedly_). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd, sir.
There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond,
the lookout says.

(KEENEY _straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance._
MRS. KEENEY _looks at the_ MATE _with terrified eyes._)

KEENEY (_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_). A clear
passage? To no'th'rd?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (_his voice suddenly grim with determination_). Then get her
ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY (_appealingly_). David!

KEENEY (_not heeding her_). Will the men turn to willin' or must we
drag 'em out?

MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God
into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. (_With grim determination_)
They's whale t' other side o' this floe and we're going to git
'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

(_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of
scuffing feet from the deck outside and the_ MATE'S _voice shouting
orders._)

KEENEY (_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_). And I was a-goin'
home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY (_imploringly_). David!

KEENEY (_sternly_). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddle
in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I
got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in.
I got to git the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_supplicatingly_). David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY (_ignoring this question--commandingly_). You ain't well. Go
and lay down a mite. (_He starts for the door._) I got to git on
deck.

(_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause.
She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh
hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to
play wildly an old hymn._ KEENEY _reënters from the doorway to the
deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs
her roughly by the shoulder._)

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (_She laughs wildly,
and he starts back from her in alarm._) Annie! What is it? (_She
doesn't answer him._ KEENEY'S _voice trembles._) Don't you know me,
Annie?

(_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that
he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid
expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her,
and she commences softly to play the organ again._)

KEENEY (_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had
difficulty in speaking_). You said--you was agoin' mad--God!

(_A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" A
moment later the_ MATE'S _face appears through the skylight. He
cannot see_ MRS. KEENEY.)

MATE (_in great excitement_). Whales, sir--a whole school of
'em--off the starb'd quarter 'bout five mile away--big ones!

KEENEY (_galvanized into action_). Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (_with grim decision_). I'm a-comin' with ye.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (_Jubilantly_) You'll git the ile now right
enough, sir.

(_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._)

KEENEY (_turning to his wife_). Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git
the ile. (_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He
gives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan._) I know you're
foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--(_anxiously_) be
you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while
longer, Annie--then we'll turn hom'ard. I can't turn back now,
you see that, don't ye? I've got to git the ile. (_In sudden
terror_) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

(_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The_ MATE'S
_face appears again through the skylight._)

MATE. All ready, sir.

(KEENEY _turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway,
where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish,
fighting to control his feelings._)

MATE. Comin', sir?

KEENEY (_his face suddenly grown hard with determination_). Aye.

(_He turns abruptly and goes out._ MRS. KEENEY _does not appear to
notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centred in the
organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little
from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move
faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as
the Curtain falls._)




CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR[1]

J.A. Ferguson

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the publishers,
Messrs. Gowans and Gray, Glasgow.]

CHARACTERS

MARY STEWART
MORAG CAMERON
DUGALD STEWART
CAPTAIN SANDEMAN
ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL
JAMES MACKENZIE

SCENE: _Interior of a lonely cottage on the road from Struan to
Rannoch in North Perthshire._

TIME: _After the Rising of 1745._


MORAG _is restlessly moving backwards and forwards. The old woman
is seated on a low stool beside the peat fire in the centre of
the floor._

_The room is scantily furnished and the women are poorly clad.
MORAG is barefooted. At the back is the door that leads to the
outside. On the left of the door is a small window. On the right
side of the room there is a door that opens into a barn. MORAG
stands for a moment at the window, looking out._


MORAG. It is the wild night outside.

MARY STEWART. Is the snow still coming down?

MORAG. It is that, then--dancing and swirling with the wind too,
and never stopping at all. Aye, and so black I cannot see the
other side of the road.

MARY STEWART. That is good.

(MORAG _moves across the floor and stops irresolutely. She is
restless, expectant._)

MORAG. Will I be putting the light in the window?

MARY STEWART. Why should you be doing that? You have not heard
his call (_turns eagerly_), have you?

MORAG (_with sign of head_). No, but the light in the window would
show him all is well.

MARY STEWART. It would not, then! The light was to be put there
_after_ we had heard the signal.

MORAG. But on a night like this he may have been calling for long
and we never hear him.

MARY STEWART. Do not be so anxious, Morag. Keep to what he says.
Put more peat on the fire now and sit down.

MORAG (_with increasing excitement_). I canna, I canna! There is
that in me that tells me something is going to befall us this
night. Oh, that wind! Hear to it, sobbing round the house as if
it brought some poor lost soul up to the door, and we refusing it
shelter.

MARY STEWART. Do not be fretting yourself like that. Do as I bid
you. Put more peats to the fire.

MORAG (_at the wicker peat-basket_). Never since I.... What was
that?

(_Both listen for a moment._)

MARY STEWART. It was just the wind; it is rising more. A sore
night for them that are out in the heather.

(MORAG _puts peat on the fire without speaking._)

MARY STEWART. Did you notice were there many people going by
to-day?

MORAG. No. After daybreak the redcoats came by from Struan; and
there was no more till nine, when an old man like the Catechist
from Killichonan passed. At four o'clock, just when the dark was
falling, a horseman with a lad holding to the stirrup, and
running fast, went by towards Rannoch.

MARY STEWART. But no more redcoats?

MORAG (_shaking her head_). The road has been as quiet as the
hills, and they as quiet as the grave. Do you think will he come?

MARY STEWART. Is it you think I have the gift, girl, that you ask
me that? All I know is that it is five days since he was here for
meat and drink for himself and for the others--five days and five
nights, mind you; and little enough he took away; and those in
hiding no' used to such sore lying, I'll be thinking. He must try
to get through to-night. But that quietness, with no one to be
seen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag. They must
know something. They must be watching.

(_A sound is heard by both women. They stand listening._)

MARY STEWART. Haste you with the light, Morag.

MORAG. But it came from the back of the house--from the hillside.

MARY STEWART. Do as I tell you. The other side may be watched.

(_A candle is lit and placed in the window. Girl goes hurrying to
the door._)

MARY STEWART. Stop, stop! Would you be opening the door with a
light like that shining from the house? A man would be seen
against it in the doorway for a mile. And who knows what eyes may
be watching? Put out the light now and cover the fire.

(_Room is reduced to semi-darkness, and the door unbarred. Someone
enters._)

MORAG. You are cold, Dugald!

(STEWART, _very exhausted, signs assent._)

MORAG. And wet, oh, wet through and through!

STEWART. Erricht Brig was guarded, well guarded. I had to win
across the water.

(_The old woman has now relit candle and taken away plaid from
fire._)

MARY STEWART. Erricht Brig--then--

STEWART (_nods_). Yes--in a corrie, on the far side of Dearig,
half-way up.

MARY STEWART. Himself is there then?

STEWART. Aye, and Keppoch as well, and another and a greater is
with them.

MARY STEWART. Wheest! (_Glances at_ MORAG.)

STEWART. Mother, is it that you can--

MARY STEWART. Yes, yes, Morag will bring out the food for ye to
carry back. It is under the hay in the barn, well hid. Morag will
bring it.--Go, Morag, and bring it.

(MORAG _enters other room or barn which opens on right._)

STEWART. Mother, I wonder at ye; Morag would never tell--never.

MARY STEWART. Morag is only a lass yet. She has never been tried.
And who knows what she might be made to tell.

STEWART. Well, well, it is no matter, for I was telling you where
I left them, but not where I am to _find_ them.

MARY STEWART. They are not where you said now?

STEWART. No; they left the corrie last night, and I am to find
them (_whispers_) in a quiet part on Rannoch moor.

MARY STEWART. It is as well for a young lass not to be knowing.
Do not tell her.

(_He sits down at table; the old woman ministers to his wants._)

STEWART. A fire is a merry thing on a night like this; and a roof
over the head is a great comfort.

MARY STEWART. Ye'll no' can stop the night?

STEWART. No. I must be many a mile from here before the day
breaks on Ben Dearig.

(MORAG _reënters._)

MORAG. It was hard to get through, Dugald?

STEWART. You may say that. I came down Erricht for three miles,
and then when I reached low country I had to take to walking in
the burns because of the snow that shows a man's steps and tells
who he is to them that can read; and there's plenty can do that
abroad, God knows.

MORAG. But none spied ye?

STEWART. Who can tell? Before dark came, from far up on the
slopes of Dearig I saw soldiers about; and away towards the
Rannoch Moor they were scattered all over the country like black
flies on a white sheet. A wild cat or anything that couldna fly
could never have got through. And men at every brig and ford and
pass! I had to strike away up across the slopes again; and even
so as I turned round the bend beyond Kilrain I ran straight into
a sentry sheltering behind a great rock. But after that it was
easy going.

MORAG. How could that be?

STEWART. Well, you see I took the boots off him, and then I had
no need to mind who might see my steps in the snow.

MORAG. You took the boots off him!

STEWART (_laughing_). I did that same. Does that puzzle your bonny
head? How does a lad take the boots off a redcoat? Find out the
answer, my lass, while I will be finishing my meat.

MORAG. Maybe he was asleep?

STEWART. Asleep! Asleep! Well, well, he sleeps sound enough now,
with the ten toes of him pointed to the sky.

(_The old woman has taken up dirk from table. She puts it down
again._ MORAG _sees the action and pushes dirk away so that it
rolls off the table and drops to the floor. She hides her face in
her hands._)

MARY STEWART. Morag, bring in the kebbuck o' cheese. Now that all
is well and safe it is we that will look after his comfort
to-night. (MORAG _goes into barn._)--I mind well her mother saying
to me--it was one day in the black winter that she died, when the
frost took the land in its grip and the birds fell stiff from the
trees, and the deer came down and put their noses to the door--I
mind well her saying just before she died--

(_Loud knocking at the door._)

A VOICE. In the King's name!

(_Both rise._)

MARY STEWART. The hay in the barn, quick, my son.

(_Knocking continues._)

A VOICE. Open in the King's name!

(STEWART _snatches up such articles as would reveal his presence
and hurries into barn. He overlooks dirk on floor. The old woman
goes towards door._)

MARY STEWART. Who is there? What do you want?

A VOICE. Open, open.

(MARY STEWART _opens door and_ CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _follows_ CAPTAIN
SANDEMAN _into the house. Behind_ KILMHOR _comes a man carrying a
leather wallet_, JAMES MACKENZIE, _his clerk. The rear is brought
up by soldiers carrying arms._)

SANDEMAN. Ha, the bird has flown.

CAMPBELL (_who has struck dirk with his foot and picked it up_).
But the nest is warm; look at this.

SANDEMAN. It seems as if we had disturbed him at supper. Search
the house, men.

MARY STEWART. I'm just a lonely old woman. You have been
misguided. I was getting through my supper.

CAMPBELL (_holding up dirk_). And this was your toothpick, eh? Na!
Na! We ken whaur we are, and wha we want, and by Cruachan, I
think we've got him.

(_Sounds are heard from barn, and soldiers return with MORAG. She
has stayed in hiding from fear, and she still holds the cheese in
her hands._)

SANDEMAN. What have we here?

CAMPBELL. A lass!

MARY STEWART. It's just my dead brother's daughter. She was
getting me the cheese, as you can see.

CAMPBELL. On, men, again: the other turtle doo will no' be far
away. (_Banteringly to the old woman_) Tut, tut, Mistress Stewart,
and do ye have her wait upon ye while your leddyship dines alane!
A grand way to treat your dead brother's daughter; fie, fie, upon
ye!

(_Soldiers reappear with_ STEWART, _whose arms are pinioned._)

CAMPBELL. Did I no' tell ye! And this, Mrs. Stewart, will be your
dead sister's son, I'm thinking; or aiblins your leddyship's
butler! Weel, woman, I'll tell ye this: Pharaoh spared ae butler,
but Erchie Campbell will no' spare anither. Na! na! Pharaoh's
case is no' to be taken as forming ony preceedent. And so if he
doesna answer certain questions we have to speir at him, before
morning he'll hang as high as Haman.

(STEWART _is placed before the table at which_ CAMPBELL _has seated
himself. Two soldiers guard_ STEWART. _Another is behind_ CAMPBELL'S
_chair and another is by the door. The clerk_, MACKENZIE, _is seated
at up corner of table._ SANDEMAN _stands by the fire._)

CAMPBELL (_to STEWART_). Weel, sir, it is within the cognizance of
the law that you have knowledge and information of the place of
harbor and concealment used by certain persons who are in a state
of proscription. Furthermore, it is known that four days ago
certain other proscribed persons did join with these, and that
they are banded together in an endeavor to secure the escape from
these dominions of His Majesty, King George, of certain persons
who by their crimes and treasons lie open to the capital charge.
What say ye?

(STEWART _makes no reply._)

CAMPBELL. Ye admit this then?

(STEWART _as before._)

CAMPBELL. Come, come, my lad. Ye stand in great jeopardy. Great
affairs of state lie behind this which are beyond your simple
understanding. Speak up and it will be the better for ye.

(STEWART _silent as before._)

CAMPBELL. Look you. I'll be frank with you. No harm will befall
you this night--and I wish all in this house to note my words--no
harm will befall you this night if you supply the information
required.

(STEWART _as before._)

CAMPBELL (_with sudden passion_). Sandeman, put your sword to the
carcass o' this muckle ass and see will it louse his tongue.

STEWART. It may be as well then, Mr. Campbell, that I should say
a word to save your breath. It is this: Till you talk Rannoch
Loch to the top of Schiehallion, ye'll no' talk me into a yea or
nay.

CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Say ye so? Noo, I widna be so very sure if I
were you. I've had a lairge experience o' life, and speaking out
of it I would say that only fools and the dead never change their
minds.

STEWART (_quietly too_). Then you'll be adding to your experience
to-night, Mr. Campbell, and you'll have something to put on to
the other side of it.

CAMPBELL (_tapping his snuff-box_). Very possibly, young sir, but
what I would present for your consideration is this: While ye may
be prepared to keep your mouth shut under the condition of a
fool, are ye equally prepared to do so in the condition of a dead
man?

(CAMPBELL _waits expectantly._ STEWART _silent as before._)

CAMPBELL. Tut, tut, now, if it's afraid ye are, my lad, with my
hand on my heart and on my word as a gentleman--

STEWART. Afraid!

(_He spits in contempt towards_ CAMPBELL.)

CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Ye damned stubborn Hieland stot. (_To_
SANDEMAN) Have him taken out. We'll get it another way.

(CAMPBELL _rises._ STEWART _is moved into barn by soldiers._)

CAMPBELL (_walking_). Some puling eediots, Sandeman, would applaud
this contumacy and call it constancy. Constancy! Now, I've had a
lairge experience o' life, and I never saw yet a sensible man
insensible to the touch of yellow metal. If there may be such a
man, it is demonstrable that he is no sensible man. Fideelity!
quotha, it's sheer obstinacy. They just see that ye want
something oot o' them, and they're so damned selfish and thrawn
they winna pairt. And with the natural inabeelity o' their brains
to hold mair than one idea at a time they canna see that in
return you could put something into their palms far more
profitable. (_Sits again at table._) Aweel, bring Mistress Stewart
up.

(_Old woman is placed before him where son had been._)

CAMPBELL (_more ingratiatingly_). Weel noo, Mistress Stewart, good
woman, this is a sair predeecament for ye to be in. I would jist
counsel ye to be candid. Doubtless yer mind is a' in a swirl. Ye
kenna what way to turn. Maybe ye are like the Psalmist and say:
"I lookit this way and that, and there was no man to peety me, or
to have compassion upon my fatherless children." But, see now, ye
would be wrong; and, if ye tell me a' ye ken, I'll stand freends
wi' ye. Put your trust in Erchie Campbell.

MARY STEWART. I trust no Campbell.

CAMPBELL. Weel, weel noo, I'm no' jist that set up wi' them
myself. There's but ae Campbell that I care muckle aboot, after
a'. But, good wife, it's no' the Campbells we're trying the noo;
so as time presses we'll jist "_birze yont_," as they say
themselves. Noo then, speak up.

(MARY STEWART _is silent._)

CAMPBELL (_beginning grimly and passing through astonishment,
expostulation, and a feigned contempt for mother and pity for
son, to a pretence of sadness which, except at the end, makes his
words come haltingly_). Ah! ye also. I suppose ye understand,
woman, how it will go wi' your son? (_To his clerk_) Here's a fine
mother for ye, James! Would you believe it? She kens what would
save her son--the very babe she nursed at her breast; but will
she save him? Na! na! Sir, he may look after himself! A mother, a
mother! Ha! ha!

(CAMPBELL _laughs._ MACKENZIE _titters foolishly._ CAMPBELL _pauses to
watch effect of his words._)

Aye, you would think, James, that she would remember the time
when he was but little and afraid of all the terrors that walk in
darkness, and how he looked up to her as to a tower of safety,
and would run to her with outstretched hands, hiding his face
from his fear, in her gown. The darkness! It is the dark night
and a long journey before him now.

(_He pauses again._)

You would think, James, that she would mind how she happit him
from the cold of winter and sheltered him from the summer heats,
and, when he began to find his footing, how she had an eye on a'
the beasts of the field and on the water and the fire that were
become her enemies--And to what purpose all this care?--tell me
that, my man, to what good, if she is to leave him at the last to
dangle from a tree at the end of a hempen rope--to see his flesh
given to be meat for the fowls of the air--her son, her little
son!

MARY STEWAET. My son is guilty of no crime!

CAMPBELL. Is he no'! Weel, mistress, as ye'll no' take my word
for it, maybe ye'll list to Mr. Mackenzie here. What say ye,
James?

MACKENZIE. He is guilty of aiding and abetting in the concealment
of proscribed persons; likewise with being found in the
possession of arms, contrary to statute, both very heinous
crimes.

CAMPBELL. Very well said, James! Forby, between ourselves, Mrs.
Stewart, the young man in my opeenion is guilty of another crime
(_snuffs_)--he is guilty of the heinous crime of not knowing on
which side his bread is buttered.--Come now--

MARY STEWART. Ye durst not lay a finger on the lad, ye durst not
hang him.

MACKENZIE. And why should the gentleman not hang him if it
pleesure him?

(CAMPBELL _taps snuff-box and takes pinch._)

MARY STEWART (_with intensity_). Campbell of Kilmhor, lay but one
finger on Dugald Stewart and the weight of Ben Cruachan will be
light to the weight that will be laid on your soul. I will lay
the curse of the seven rings upon your life: I will call up the
fires of Ephron, the blue and the green and the gray fires, for
the destruction of your soul: I will curse you in your homestead
and in the wife it shelters and in the children that will never
bear your name. Yea, and ye shall be cursed.

CAMPBELL. (_Startled--betrays agitation--the snuff is spilled from
his trembling hand._) Hoot toot, woman! ye're, ye're--(_Angrily_) Ye
auld beldame, to say such things to me! I'll have ye first
whippet and syne droont for a witch. Damn thae stubborn and
supersteetious cattle! (_To_ SANDEMAN) We should have come in here
before him and listened in the barn, Sandeman!

SANDEMAN. Ah, listen behind the door you mean! Now I never
thought of that!

CAMPBELL. Did ye not! Humph! Well, no doubt there are a good many
things in the universe that yet wait for your thought upon them.
What would be your objections, now?

SANDEMAN. There are two objections, Kilmhor, that you would
understand.

CAMPBELL. Name them.

SANDEMAN. Well, in the first place, we have not wings like crows
to fly--and the footsteps on the snow--Second point--the woman
would have told him we were there.

CAMPBELL. Not if I told her I had power to clap her in Inverness
jail.

MARY STEWART (_in contempt_). Yes, even if ye had told me ye had
power to clap me in hell, Mr. Campbell.

CAMPBELL. Lift me that screeching Jezebel oot o' here; Sandeman,
we'll mak' a quick finish o' this. (_Soldiers take her towards
barn._) No, not there; pitch the old girzie into the snow.

MARY STEWART. Ye'll never find him, Campbell, never, never!

CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Find him! Aye, by God I'll find him, if I
have to keek under every stone on the mountains from the Boar of
Badenoch to the Sow of Athole. (_Old woman and soldiers go
outside._) And now, Captain Sandeman, you an' me must have a word
or two. I noted your objection to listening ahint doors and so
on. Now, I make a' necessary allowances for youth and the grand
and magneeficent ideas commonly held, for a little while, in that
period. I had them myself. But, man, gin ye had trod the floor of
the Parliament Hoose in Edinburry as long as I did, wi' a pair o'
thin hands at the bottom o' toom pockets, ye'd ha'e shed your
fine notions, as I did. Noo, fine pernickety noansense will no'
do in this business--

SANDEMAN. Sir!

CAMPBELL. Softly, softly, Captain Sandeman, and hear till what I
have to say. I have noticed with regret several things in your
remarks and bearing which are displeasing to me. I would say just
one word in your ear; it is this. These things, Sandeman, are not
conducive to advancement in His Majesty's service.

SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, I am a soldier, and if I speak out my mind,
you must pardon me if my words are blunt. I do not like this
work, but I loathe your methods.

CAMPBELL. Mislike the methods you may, but the work ye must do!
Methods are my business. Let me tell you the true position. In ae
word it is no more and no less than this. You and me are baith
here to carry out the proveesions of the Act for the Pacification
of the Highlands. That means the cleaning up of a very big mess,
Sandeman, a very big mess. Now, what is your special office in
this work? I'll tell ye, man; you and your men are just beesoms
in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown. In this district,
I order and ye soop! (_He indicates door of barn._) Now soop,
Captain Sandeman.

SANDEMAN (_in some agitation_). What is your purpose? What are you
after? I would give something to see into your mind.

CAMPBELL. Ne'er fash aboot my mind: what has a soldier to do with
ony mental operations? It's His Grace's orders that concern you.
Oot wi' your man and set him up against the wa'.

SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, it is murder--murder, Kilmhor!

CAMPBELL. Hoots, awa', man, it's a thing o' nae special
significance.

SANDEMAN. I must ask you for a warrant.

CAMPBELL. Quick then: Mackenzie will bring it out to you.

(CLERK _begins writing._ SANDEMAN _and soldiers lead_ STEWART
_outside_, CAMPBELL _sits till they are out._ CLERK _finishes_,
CAMPBELL _signs warrant--and former goes._ CAMPBELL _is alone,
save for_ MORAG CAMERON, _who is sitting huddled up on stool by
fire, and is unnoticed by_ CAMPBELL.)

CAMPBELL (_as one speaking his thoughts aloud_). I've been beaten
for a' that. A strange thing, noo. Beforehand I would ha'e said
naething could be easier. And yet--and yet--there it is!... It
would have been a grand stroke for me.... Cluny--Keppoch--Lochiel,
and maybe ... maybe--Hell! when I think of it! Just a whispered
word--a mere pointed finger would ha'e telled a'. But no! their
visions, their dreams beat me. "You'll be adding to your
experience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and have something to put to
the other side of it," says he; aye, and by God I have added
something to it, and it is a thing I like but little--that a
dream can be stronger than a strong man armed.--Here come I,
Archibald Campbell of Kilmhor, invested with authority as
law-officer of the Crown, bearing in my hand the power of life
and death, fire and the sword, backed up by the visible authority
of armed men, and yet I am powerless before the dreams of an old
woman and a half-grown lad--soldiers and horses and the gallows
and yellow gold are less than the wind blowing in their
faces.--It is a strange thing that: it is a thing I do not
understand.--It is a thing fit to sicken a man against the notion
that there are probabeelities on this earth.--have been beaten
for a' that. Aye, the pair o' them have beat me--though it's a
matter of seconds till one of them be dead.

MORAG (_starting into upright position and staring at him; her
voice is like an echo to his_). Dead!

CAMPBELL (_turning hastily_). What is that!

MORAG. Is he dead?

CAMPBELL (_grimly_). Not yet, but if ye'll look through this window
(_he indicates window_) presently, ye'll see him gotten ready for
death.

(_He begins to collect articles of personal property, hat, etc._)

MORAG. I will tell you.

CAMPBELL (_astounded_). What!

MORAG. I will tell you all you are seeking to know.

CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Good God, and to think, to think I was on the
very act--in the very act of--tell me--tell me at once.

MORAG. You will promise that he will not be hanged?

CAMPBELL. He will not. I swear it.

MORAG. You will give him back to me?

CAMPBELL. I will give him back unhung.

MORAG. Then (CAMPBELL _comes near_), in a corrie half-way up the
far side of Dearig--God save me!

CAMPBELL. Dished after a'. I've clean dished them! Loard, Loard!
once more I can believe in the rationality of Thy world. (_Gathers
up again his cloak, hat, etc._) And to think--to think--I was on
the very act of going away like a beaten dog!

MORAG. He is safe from hanging now?

CAMPBELL (_chuckles and looks out at window before replying, and
is at door when he speaks_). Very near it, very near it. Listen!

(_He holds up his hand--a volley of musketry is heard. KILMHOR
goes out, closing the door behind him. After a short interval of
silence the old woman enters and advances a few steps._)

MARY STEWART. Did you hear, Morag Cameron, did you hear?

(_The girl is sobbing, her head on her arms._)

MARY STEWART. Och! be quiet now; I would be listening till the
last sound of it passes into the great hills and over all the
wide world.--It is fitting for you to be crying, a child that
cannot understand; but water shall never wet eye of mine for
Dugald Stewart. Last night I was but the mother of a lad that
herded sheep on the Athole hills: this morn it is I that am the
mother of a man who is among the great ones of the earth. All
over the land they will be telling of Dugald Stewart. Mothers
will teach their children to be men by him. High will his name be
with the teller of fine tales.--The great men came, they came in
their pride, terrible like the storm they were, and cunning with
words of guile were they. Death was with them.... He was but a
lad, a young lad, with great length of days before him, and the
grandeur of the world. But he put it all from him. "Speak," said
they, "speak, and life and great riches will be for yourself."
But he said no word at all! Loud was the swelling of their wrath!
Let the heart of you rejoice, Morag Cameron, for the snow is red
with his blood. There are things greater than death. Let them
that are children shed the tears.

(_She comes forward and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder._)

MARY STEWART. Let us go and lift him into the house, and not be
leaving him lie out there alone.

                        [CURTAIN]




THE SUN[1]

John Glasworthy


SCENE: A GIRL sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to a
river. A MAN with a silver badge stands beside her clutching the
worn top plank. THE GIRL'S level brows are drawn together; her
eyes see her memories. THE MAN'S eyes see THE GIRL; he has a
dark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; the quiet river flows;
the cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along the hedge
that ends in the stile on the towing-path.

[Footnote 1: From _Scribner's Magazine_, May, 1919.
Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons; included by special
permission of the writer and publishers.]

THE GIRL. God knows what 'e'll say, Jim.

THE MAN. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all.

THE GIRL. He couldn't come before. I'm frightened. 'E was fond o'
me.

THE MAN. And aren't I fond of you? My Gawd!

THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'.

THE MAN (_passionately_). And what about me? Aren't I been in the
fightin'--earned all I could get?

THE GIRL (_touching him_). Ah!

THE MAN. Did you--

(_He cannot speak the words._)

THE GIRL. Not like you, Jim--not like you.

THE MAN. 'Ave a spirit, then.

THE GIRL. I promised 'im.

THE MAN. One man's luck'a another's poison. I've seen it.

THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited. I never thought 'e'd come back
from the fightin'.

THE MAN (_grimly_). Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave.

THE GIRL (_looking back along the tow-path_). What'll 'e be like, I
wonder?

THE MAN (_gripping her shoulder_). Daise, don't you never go back
on me, or I should kill you, and 'im too.

(THE GIRL _looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his._)

THE GIRL. I never could.

THE MAN. Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us.

(THE GIRL _shakes her head._)

THE MAN (_dully_). What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide.

THE GIRL. I'd rather have it off me mind, with him 'ome.

THE MAN (_clenching his hands_). It's temptin' Providence.

THE GIRL. What's the time, Jim?

THE MAN (_glancing at the sun_). 'Alf past four.

THE GIRL (_looking along the towing-path_). 'E said four o'clock.
Jim, you better go.

THE MAN. Not I. _I've_ not got the wind up. I've seen as
much of hell as he has, any day. What like is he?

THE GIRL (_dully_). I dunno, just. I've not seen 'im these three
years. I dunno no more, since I've known you.

THE MAN. Big, or little chap?

THE GIRL. 'Bout your size. Oh! Jim, go along!

THE MAN. No fear! What's a blighter like that to old Fritz's
shells? We didn't shift when they was comin'. If you'll go, I'll
go; not else.

(_Again she shakes her head._)

THE GIRL. Jim, do you love me true? (_For answer_, THE MAN _takes
her avidly in his arms._) I ain't ashamed--I ain't ashamed. If 'e
could see me 'eart.

THE MAN. Daise! If I'd known you out there I never could 'a'
stuck it. They'd 'a' got me for a deserter. That's 'ow I love
you!

THE GIRL. Jim, don't lift your 'and to 'im. Promise!

THE MAN. That's according.

THE GIRL. Promise!

THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable--not
always, I tell you straight--not since I've been through that.

THE GIRL (_with a shiver_). Nor p'r'aps 'e isn't.

THE MAN. Like as not. It takes the lynchpins out, I tell you.

THE GIRL. God 'elp us!

THE MAN (_grimly_). Ah! We said that a bit too often. What we want,
we take, now; there's no one to give it us, and there's no
fear'll stop us; we seen the bottom o' things.

THE GIRL. P'r'aps 'e'll say that too.

THE MAN. Then it'll be 'im or me.

THE GIRL. I'm frightened.

THE MAN (_tenderly_). No, Daise, no! (_He takes out a knife._) The
river's 'andy. One more or less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor me
neither.

THE GIRL (_seizing his hand_). Oh! no! Give it to me, Jim!

THE MAN (_smiling_). No fear! (_He puts it away._) Shan't 'ave no
need for it, like as not. All right, little Daise; you can't be
expected to see things like what we do. What's a life, anyway?
I've seen a thousand taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men on
the wires like flies on a fly-paper; I've been as good as dead
meself an 'undred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'.
'E's safe, if 'e don't get my blood up. If 'e does, nobody's
safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin'
sober.

THE GIRL (_softly_). Jim, you won't go fightin', wi' the sun out
and the birds all callin'?

THE MAN. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' for it. Daise, I
love you. I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love you.

THE GIRL. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin' more than you
in the whole world.

THE MAN. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me close!

(_The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace._ THE
GIRL _starts from his arms and looks behind her along the
towing-path._ THE MAN _draws back against the hedge, fingering his
side, where the knife is hidden. The song comes nearer._)

  I'll be right there to-night
  Where the fields are snowy white;
  Banjos ringin', darkies singin'--
  All the world seems bright.

THE GIRL. It's 'im!

THE MAN. Don't get the wind up, Daise. I'm here!

(_The singing stops. A man's voice says: Christ! It's Daise; it's
little Daise 'erself_! THE GIRL _stands rigid. The figure of a
soldier appears on the other side of the stile. His cap is tucked
into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is lean,
wasted, brown, and laughing._)

SOLDIER. Daise! Daise! Hallo, old pretty girl!

(THE GIRL _does not move, barring the way, as it were._)

THE GIRL. Hallo, Jack! (_Softly_) I got things to tell you.

SOLDIER. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I got things
that'd take me years to tell. 'Ave you missed me, Daise?

THE GIRL. You been so long.

SOLDIER. So I 'ave. My Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in the Army. I
said when I got out of it I'd laugh. Like as the sun itself I
used to think of you, Daise, when the crumps was comin' over, and
the wind was up. D' you remember that last night in the wood?
"Come back, and marry me quick, Jack!" Well, 'ere I am--got me
pass to 'eaven. No more fightin', an' trampin,' no more sleepin"
rough. We can get married now, Daise. We can live soft an' 'appy.
Give us a kiss, old pretty.

THE GIRL (_drawing back_). No.

SOLDIER (_blankly_). Why not?

(THE MAN, _with a swift movement, steps along the hedge to_ THE
GIRL'S _side._)

THE MAN. That's why, soldier.

SOLDIER (_leaping over the stile_). 'Oo are you, Pompey? The sun
don't shine in your inside, do it? 'Oo is 'e, Daise?

THE GIRL. My man.

SOLDIER. Your--man! Lummy! "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a
thief"! Well, soldier? So you've been through it, too. I'm
laughin' this mornin', as luck will 'ave it. Ah! I can see your
knife.

THE MAN (_who has half drawn his knife_). Don't laugh at _me_,
I tell you.

SOLDIER. Not at you, soldier, not at you. (_He looks from one to
the other._) I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you get
it, soldier?

THE MAN (_watchfully_). Through the lung.

SOLDIER. Think o' that! An' I never was touched. Four years an'
never was touched. An' so you've come an' took my girl. Nothin'
doin'! Ha! (_Again he looks from one to the other--then away._)
Well! The world's before me. (_He laughs._) I'll give you Daise for
a lung protector.

THE MAN (_fiercely_). You won't. I've took her.

SOLDIER. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got a laugh
in me you can't put out, black as you are! Good-bye, little Daise!

(THE GIRL _makes a movement toward him._)

THE MAN. Don't touch 'im!

(THE GIRL _stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into tears._)

SOLDIER. Look 'ere, soldier; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a
girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much
o' sorrer. You an' me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our
whack. Shake!

THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er!

SOLDIER. Oh! I thought I did.

THE MAN (_fiercely_). I'll fight you for her.

(_He drops his knife._)

SOLDIER (_slowly_). Soldier, you done your bit, an' I done mine.
It's took us two ways, seemin'ly.

THE GIRL (_pleading_). Jim!

THE MAN (_with clenched fists_). I don't want 'is charity. I only
want what I can take.

SOLDIER. Daise, which of us will you 'ave?

THE GIRL (_covering her face_). Oh! _Him._

SOLDIER. You see, soldier! Drop your 'ands, now. There's nothin'
for it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, soldier!

THE MAN. You blarsted--

(THE GIRL _springs to him and stops his mouth._)

SOLDIER. It's no use, soldier. I can't do it. I said I'd laugh
to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all the
stink of it; I've come through sorrer. Never again! Cheer-o,
mate! The sun's shinin'!

(_He turns away._)

THE GIRL. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me!

SOLDIER (_looking back_). No fear, old pretty girl! Enjoy your
fancy! So long! Gawd bless you both!

(_He sings and goes along the path, and the song_--

  I'll be right there to-night
  Where the fields are snowy white;
  Banjos ringin', darkies singin'--
  All the world seems bright!--

_fades away._)

THE MAN. 'E's mad.

THE GIRL (_looking down the path, with her hands clasped_). The
sun 'as touched 'im, Jim!

                        [CURTAIN]




THE KNAVE OF HEARTS[1]

Louise Saunders

[Footnote 1: This play is fully protected by copyright and may be
used only with the written permission of, and the payment of
royalty to, Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, New Jersey. Included by
permission of the author and Mr. Swartout.]

CHARACTERS

THE MANAGER
BLUE HOSE
YELLOW HOSE
1ST HERALD
2D HERALD
POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS
  (pronounced Pomp-_di_biley)
THE CHANCELLOR
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
URSULA
THE LADY VIOLETTA
SIX LITTLE PAGES


(THE MANAGER _appears before the curtain in doublet and hose. He
carries a cap with a long, red feather._)

THE MANAGER (_bowing deeply_). Ladies and gentlemen, you are about
to hear the truth of an old legend that has persisted wrongly
through the ages, the truth that, until now, has been hid behind
the embroidered curtain of a rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts,
who was no knave but a very hero indeed. The truth, you will
agree with me, gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It is
only the quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem what
they are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue, pines
shadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still waters, the
contemplative mystery of the hills--these things which exist,
absorbed but in their own existence--these are the perfect
chalices of truth.

But we, gentlemen and thrice-honored ladies, flounder about in a
tangled net of prejudice, of intrigue. We are blinded by
conventions, we are crushed by misunderstanding, we are
distracted by violence, we are deceived by hypocrisy, until only
too often villains receive the rewards of nobility and the truly
great-hearted are suspected, distrusted, and maligned.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of justice and also, I
dare to hope, for your approval, I have taken my puppets down
from their dusty shelves. I have polished their faces, brushed
their clothes, and strung them on wires, so that they may enact
for you this history.

(_He parts the curtains, revealing two_ PASTRY COOKS _in flaring
white caps and spotless aprons leaning over in stiff profile,
their wooden spoons, three feet long, pointing rigidly to the
ceiling. They are in one of the kitchens of_ POMPDEBILE THE
EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS. _It is a pleasant kitchen, with a row of
little dormer windows and a huge stove, adorned with the crest of_
POMPDEBILE--_a heart rampant, on a gold shield._)

THE MANAGER. You see here, ladies and gentlemen, two pastry cooks
belonging to the royal household of Pompdebile the Eighth--Blue
Hose and Yellow Hose, by name. At a signal from me they will
spring to action, and as they have been made with astonishing
cleverness, they will bear every semblance of life. Happily,
however, you need have no fear that, should they please you, the
exulting wine of your appreciation may go to their heads--their
heads being but things of wire and wood; and happily, too, as
they are but wood and wire, they will be spared the shame and
humiliation that would otherwise be theirs should they fail to
meet with your approval.

The play, most honored ladies and gentlemen, will now begin.

(_He claps his hands. Instantly the two_ PASTRY COOKS _come to life._
THE MANAGER _bows himself off the stage._)

BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready for this great event?

YELLOW HOSE. Everything. The fire blazing in the stove, the
Pages, dressed in their best, waiting in the pantry with their
various jars full of the finest butter, the sweetest sugar, the
hottest pepper, the richest milk, the--

BLUE HOSE. Yes, yes, no doubt. (_Thoughtfully_) It is a great
responsibility, this that they have put on our shoulders.

YELLOW HOSE. Ah, yes. I have never felt more important.

BLUE HOSE. Nor I more uncomfortable.

YELLOW HOSE. Even on the day, or rather the night, when I awoke
and found myself famous--I refer to the time when I laid before
an astonished world my creation, "Humming birds' hearts souffle,
au vin blanc"--I did not feel more important. It is a pleasing
sensation!

BLUE HOSE. I like it not at all. It makes me dizzy, this eminence
on which they have placed us. The Lady Violetta is slim and fair.
She does not, in my opinion, look like the kind of person who is
capable of making good pastry. I have discovered through long
experience that it is the heaviest women who make the lightest
pastry, and _vice versa._ Well, then, suppose that she does
not pass this examination--suppose that her pastry is lumpy,
white like the skin of a boiled fowl.

YELLOW HOSE. Then, according to the law of the Kingdom of Hearts,
we must condemn it, and the Lady Violetta cannot become the bride
of Pompdebile. Back to her native land she will be sent, riding a
mule.

BLUE HOSE. And she is so pretty, so exquisite! What a law! What
an outrageous law!

YELLOW HOSE. Outrageous law! How dare you! There is nothing so
necessary to the welfare of the nation as our art. Good cooks
make good tempers, don't they? Must not the queen set an example
for the other women to follow? Did not our fathers and our
grandfathers before us judge the dishes of the previous queens of
hearts?

BLUE HOSE. I wish I were mixing the rolls for to-morrow's
breakfast.

YELLOW HOSE. Bah! You are fit for nothing else. The affairs of
state are beyond you.

(_Distant sound of trumpets._)

BLUE HOSE (_nervously_). What's that?

YELLOW HOSE. The King is approaching! The ceremonies are about to
commence!

BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready?

YELLOW HOSE. I told you that everything was ready. Stand still;
you are as white as a stalk of celery.

BLUE HOSE (_counting on his fingers_). Apples, lemons, peaches,
jam--Jam! Did you forget jam?

YELLOW HOSE. Zounds, I did!

BLUE HOSE (_wailing_). We are lost!

YELLOW HOSE. She may not call for it.

(_Both stand very erect and make a desperate effort to appear
calm._)

BLUE HOSE (_very nervous_). Which door? Which door?

YELLOW HOSE. The big one, idiot. Be still!

(_The sound of trumpets increases, and cries of "Make way for the
King." Two_ HERALDS _come in and stand on either side of the door.
The_ KING OF HEARTS _enters, followed by ladies and gentlemen of
the court._ POMPDEBILE _is in full regalia, and very imposing
indeed with his red robe bordered with ermine, his crown and
sceptre. After him comes the_ CHANCELLOR, _an old man with a short,
white beard. The_ KING _strides in a particularly kingly fashion,
pointing his toes in the air at every step, toward his throne,
and sits down. The_ KNAVE _walks behind him slowly. He has a sharp,
pale face._)

POMPDEBILE (_impressively_). Lords and ladies of the court, this is
an important moment in the history of our reign. The Lady
Violetta, whom you love and respect--that is, I mean to say, whom
the ladies love and the lords--er--respect, is about to prove
whether or not she be fitted to hold the exalted position of
Queen of Hearts, according to the law, made a thousand years ago
by Pompdebile the Great, and steadily followed ever since. She
will prepare with her own delicate, white hands a dish of pastry.
This will be judged by the two finest pastry cooks in the land.

(BLUE HOSE _and_ YELLOW HOSE _bow deeply._)

If their verdict be favorable, she shall ride through the streets
of the city on a white palfrey, garlanded with flowers. She will
be crowned, the populace will cheer her, and she will reign by
our side, attending to the domestic affairs of the realm, while
we give our time to weightier matters. This of course you all
understand is a time of great anxiety for the Lady Violetta. She
will appear worried--(_To_ CHANCELLOR) The palfrey is in readiness,
we suppose.

CHANCELLOR. It is, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Garlanded with flowers?

CHANCELLOR. With roses, Your Majesty.

KNAVE (_bowing_). The Lady Violetta prefers violets, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Let there be a few violets put in with the
roses--er--We are ready for the ceremony to commence. We confess
to a slight nervousness unbecoming to one of our station. The
Lady Violetta, though trying at times, we have found--er--shall
we say--er--satisfying?

KNAVE (_bowing_). Intoxicating, Your Majesty?

CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). His Majesty means nothing of the sort.

POMPDEBILE. No, of course not--er--The mule--Is that--did you--?

CHANCELLOR (_in a grieved tone_). This is hardly necessary. Have I
ever neglected or forgotten any of your commands, Your Majesty?

POMPDEBILE. You have, often. However, don't be insulted. It takes
a great deal of our time and it is most uninteresting.

CHANCELLOR (_indignantly_). I resign, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Your thirty-seventh resignation will be accepted
to-morrow. Just now it is our wish to begin at once. The anxiety
that no doubt gathered in the breast of each of the seven
successive Pompdebiles before us seems to have concentrated in
ours. Already the people are clamoring at the gates of the palace
to know the decision. Begin. Let the Pages be summoned.

KNAVE (_bowing_). Beg pardon, Your Majesty; before summoning the
Pages, should not the Lady Violetta be here?

POMPDEBILE. She should, and is, we presume, on the other side of
that door--waiting breathlessly.

(THE KNAVE _quietly opens the door and closes it._)

KNAVE (_bowing_). She is not, Your Majesty, on the other side of
that door waiting breathlessly. In fact, to speak plainly, she is
not on the other side of that door at all.

POMPDEBILE. Can that be true? Where are her ladies?

KNAVE. They are all there, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Summon one of them.

(THE KNAVE _goes out, shutting the door. He returns, following_
URSULA, _who, very much frightened, throws herself at the_ KING'S
_feet._)

POMPDEBILE. Where is your mistress?

URSULA. She has gone, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Gone! Where has she gone?

URSULA. I do not know, Your Majesty. She was with us a while ago,
waiting there, as you commanded.

POMPDEBILE. Yes, and then--speak.

URSULA. Then she started out and forbade us to go with her.

POMPDEBILE. The thought of possible divorce from us was more than
she could bear. Did she say anything before she left?

URSULA (_trembling_). Yes, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. What was it? She may have gone to self-destruction.
What was it?

URSULA. She said--

POMPDEBILE. Speak, woman, speak.

URSULA. She said that Your Majesty--

POMPDEBILE. A farewell message! Go on.

URSULA (_gasping_). That Your Majesty was "pokey" and that she
didn't intend to stay there any longer.

POMPDEBILE (_roaring_). _Pokey!!_

URSULA. Yes, Your Majesty, and she bade me call her when you
came, but we can't find her, Your Majesty.

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _whisper._ URSULA _is in tears._)

CHANCELLOR. This should not be countenanced, Your Majesty. The
word "pokey" cannot be found in the dictionary. It is the most
flagrant disrespect to use a word that is not in the dictionary
in connection with a king.

POMPDEBILE. We are quite aware of that, Chancellor, and although
we may appear calm on the surface, inwardly we are swelling,
_swelling_, with rage and indignation.

KNAVE (_looking out the window_). I see the Lady Violetta in the
garden. (_He goes to the door and holds it open, bowing._) The Lady
Violetta is at the door, Your Majesty.

(_Enter the_ LADY VIOLETTA, _her purple train over her arm. She has
been running._)

VIOLETTA. Am I late? I just remembered and came as fast as I
could. I bumped into a sentry and he fell down. I didn't. That's
strange, isn't it? I suppose it's because he stands in one
position so long he--Why, Pompy dear, what's the matter? Oh, oh!
(_Walking closer_) Your feelings are hurt!

POMPDEBILE. _Don't_ call us Pompy. It doesn't seem to matter
to you whether you are divorced or not.

VIOLETTA (_anxiously_). Is that why your feelings are hurt?

POMPDEBILE. Our feelings are not hurt, not at all.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they are, Pompdebile dear. I know, because
they are connected with your eyebrows. When your feelings go
down, up go your eyebrows, and when your feelings go up, they go
down--always.

POMPDEBILE (_severely_). Where have you been?

VIOLETTA. I, just now?

POMPDEBILE. Just now, when you should have been outside that door
waiting _breathlessly._

VIOLETTA. I was in the garden. Really, Pompy, you couldn't expect
me to stay all day in that ridiculous pantry; and as for being
breathless, it's quite impossible to be it unless one has been
jumping or something.

POMPDEBILE. What were you doing in the garden?

VIOLETTA (_laughing_). Oh, it was too funny. I must tell you. I
found a goat there who had a beard just like the Chancellor's--really
it was quite remarkable, the resemblance--in other ways too. I
took him by the horns and I looked deep into his eyes, and I
said, "Chancellor, if you try to influence Pompy--"

POMPDEBILE (_shouting_). Don't call us Pompy.

VIOLETTA. Excuse me, Pomp--

(_Checking herself._)

KNAVE. And yet I think I remember hearing of an emperor, a great
emperor, named Pompey.

POMPDEBILE. We know him not. Begin at once; the people are
clamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients.

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _open the door, and, single file, six little
boys march in, bearing large jars labeled butter, salt, flour,
pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The_ COOKS _place a table and a large
bowl and a pan in front of the_ LADY VIOLETTA _and give her a
spoon. The six little boys stand three on each side._)

VIOLETTA. Oh, what darling little ingredients. May I have an
apron, please?

(URSULA _puts a silk apron, embroidered with red hearts, on the_
LADY VIOLETTA.)

BLUE HOSE. We were unable to find a little boy to carry the
pepper, My Lady. They all _would_ sneeze in such a disturbing
way.

VIOLETTA. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He hasn't
sneezed once.

YELLOW HOSE. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not a little
boy.

VIOLETTA. Oh! How nice! Perhaps she will help me.

CHANCELLOR (_severely_). You are allowed no help, Lady Violetta.

VIOLETTA. Oh, Chancellor, how cruel of you. (_She takes up the
spoon, bowing._) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of the court, I
propose to make (_impressively_) raspberry tarts.

BLUE HOSE. Heaven be kind to us!

YELLOW HOSE (_suddenly agitated_). Your Majesty, I implore your
forgiveness. There is no raspberry jam in the palace.

POMPDEBILE What! Who is responsible for this carelessness?

BLUE HOSE. I gave the order to the grocer, but it didn't come.
(_Aside_) I knew something like this would happen. I knew it.

VIOLETTA (_untying her apron_). Then, Pompdebile, I'm very
sorry--we shall have to postpone it.

CHANCELLOR. If I may be allowed to suggest, Lady Violetta can
prepare something else.

KNAVE. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect has the
privilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to prepare.

VIOLETTA. Dear Pompdebile, let's give it up. It's such a silly
law! Why should a great splendid ruler like you follow it just
because one of your ancestors, who wasn't half as nice as you
are, or one bit wiser, said to do it? Dearest Pompdebile, please.

POMPDEBILE. We are inclined to think that there may be something
in what the Lady Violetta says.

CHANCELLOR. I can no longer remain silent. It is due to that
brilliant law of Pompdebile the First, justly called the Great,
that all members of our male sex are well fed, and, as a natural
consequence, happy.

KNAVE. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew the
sunlight.

POMPDEBILE. If we made an effort, we could think of a new
law--just as wise. It only requires effort.

CHANCELLOR. But the constitution. We can't touch the
constitution.

POMPDEBILE (_starting up_). We shall destroy the constitution!

CHANCELLOR. The people are clamoring at the gates!

POMPDEBILE. Oh, I forgot them. No, it has been carried too far.
We shall have to go on. Proceed.

VIOLETTA. Without the raspberry jam?

POMPDEBILE (_to_ KNAVE). Go you, and procure some. I will give a
hundred golden guineas for it.

(_The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes forward._)

BOY. Please, Your Majesty, I have some.

POMPDEBILE. You! Where?

BOY. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my cinnamon
jar--I could get it.

(UBSULA _takes it. The boy struggles with his pocket and finally,
triumphantly, pulls out a small jar._)

There!

VIOLETTA. How clever of you! Do you always do that?

BOY. What--eat raspberry jam?

VIOLETTA. No, supply the exact article needed from your pocket.

BOY. I eat it for my lunch. Please give me the hundred guineas.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes--Chancellor--if I may trouble you.

(_Holding out her hand._)

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, this is an outrage! Are you going to
allow this?

POMPDEBILE (_sadly_). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsive
nature!

(_The_ LADY VIOLETTA _receives the money._)

VIOLETTA. Thank you. (_She gives it to the boy._) Now we are ready
to begin. Milk, please. (_The boy who holds the milk jar comes
forward and kneels._) I take some of this milk and beat it well.

YELLOW HOSE (_in a whisper_). _Beat_ it--milk!

VIOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, taking great
care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (_To the
little boy_) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, and
then--one pound of butter. I hope that it is good butter, or the
whole thing will be quite spoiled.

BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have ever
witnessed.

YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it.

VIOLETTA (_stirring_). I find that the butter is _not_ very
good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more
pepper to counteract it. That's better. (_She pours in pepper. The
boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently._) Oh, oh, dear! Lend
him your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE
_silences the boy's sneezes with the_ KNAVE'S _handkerchief._) I
think that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad,
Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smile
nicely--a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now
for a dash of vinegar.

COOKS (_in horror_). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar!

VIOLETTA (_stops stirring_). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do you
like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you,
you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all the
wives how to please all the husbands.

POMPDEBILE. Remember that they are to go in the museum with the
tests of the previous Queens.

VIOLETTA (_thoughtfully_). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under the
circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them too
crumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully.
The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now I
dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice
little boy's raspberry jam--I'm sorry I have to use it all, but
you may lick the spoon--put them in the oven, slam the door. Now,
my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest.

(_She curtsies before the_ KING.)

POMPDEBILE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with which
you performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks.
This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been
suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of
checkers once more. How long a time will it take for your
creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested?

VIOLETTA (_considering_). About twenty minutes, Pompy.

POMPDEBILE (_to_ HERALD). Inform the people. Come, we will retire.
(_To_ KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands.

(_All exit, left, except the_ KNAVE. _He stands in deep thought, his
chin in hand--then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. The
cuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors open
stealthily. Enter_ LADY VIOLETTA _at one door, the_ KNAVE _at the
other, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly and
see each other._)

VIOLETTA (_tearfully_). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything--anything
at all, not even a baked potato.

KNAVE. So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago.

VIOLETTA (_pleadingly_). Don't you think it might just happen that
they turned out all right? (_Whispering_) Take them out of the
oven. Let's look.

KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's
possible that a miracle has occurred.

(_He tries the door of the oven._)

VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief.

KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady.

(_He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out
the pan, which he puts on the table softly._)

VIOLETTA (_with a look of horror_) How queer! They've melted or
something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that
they will be good for anything, Knave?

KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps.

VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful!

KNAVE. It is.

VIOLETTA (_beginning to cry_). I don't want to be banished,
especially on a mule--

KNAVE. Don't cry, My Lady. It's very--upsetting.

VIOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The fêtes that I would
give--under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the
shadows, fêtes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young--like
you and me, Knave--would find the glowing flowers of youth ready
to be gathered in all their dewy freshness!

KNAVE. Ah!

VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty
picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers,
followed by the cheers of the populace--Long

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