ENIATIVE BRITISH 
 
 4ND MODERN 
 
 ntrose J. Moses 
 
IP.']! 
 
 /n9i 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNDERGRADUATE UBRARY 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014148435 
 
EEPEESBNTATIVE BRITISH DRAMAS 
 
 VICTORIAN AND MODEEN 
 
BEPRB8ENTATIVE BRITISH DRAMAS 
 
 VICTORIAN AND MODERN 
 
 EDITED, tVITH AN INTRODUCTION TO EACH PLAY 
 
 BY 
 
 MONTROSE J. MOSES 
 
 Ndr^-R^FgMI 
 
 D&MVAD-aJS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 
Copyright, 1918, 
 Bt Little, Brown, and Company. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
TO 
 
 LEWIS FREEMAN MOTT 
 
 WHO HAS DEVOTED SO MANY 
 TEAKS TO AWAKENING IN 
 OTHERS A KEEN APPRECIA- 
 TION OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The story is told of Douglas Jerrold that a friend once came to him and said, 
 "Punch is not as good as it used to be." And Jerrold, with his usual conversa- 
 tional preparedness, replied, "My dear fellow, it never was." 
 
 The same anecdote might be utilized in describing the condition of the English 
 stage during its successive periods. There have always been those who took the 
 darkest view of theatrical conditions ; to them the English stage never has been 
 worth while. There always will be those who are looking for a drama other than 
 that which is being given them. 
 
 But it is true that the English stage never fell upon duller or more arid times 
 than the period between 1800 and the commencement of the so-called "New 
 Drama." One might almost be tempted to say that the last great play written in 
 England was "The School for Scandal"; and probably to this might be added 
 Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer." Artificial though these may be in their 
 depiction of the comedy of manners, they nevertheless give a criticism of life and 
 character which remains universal and which, in its satire, has something x)f the 
 life-commentary characteristic of La Fontaine and Moli§re. There is not a drama 
 written in England between the time of Sheridan or Goldsmith and 1880 that may 
 lay claim to any perennial freshness. 
 
 We might explain the poverty of the British stage, after the freeing of the 
 theatres in 1843, by saying that for a long period it had no real true social basis. 
 The freeing of the theatres did not mean, in any true sense of the word, the free- 
 dom of the theatre. For, no sooner was the' ban lifted on the presentation of 
 Shakespeare in patented houses, than a wildcat competition arose, which resulted 
 in the cheapening of theatrical performances, and in the unthinking exploitation of 
 the French drama. 
 
 What was best in the theatre was kept alive by those actors who took unto 
 themselves the robe of splendour bequeathed them by David Garrick. When one 
 has considered certain historical facts which explain the reasons for the romantic 
 dramas of Sheridan Knowles and Bulwer-Lytton, which give an economic basis 
 for the adaptations from the French, and which set the artistic reasons for the form 
 of drama practised by those dramatists who contented themselves with a pale imi- 
 tation of Shakespeare and Racine, there is created a clear impression of certain 
 well-deflned channels of development in the British theatre of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury. Blot out the personalities of David Garrick, Kean, the Kembles, including 
 Mrs. Siddons, Macready, and Samuel Phelps, and you blot out a very large sec- 
 tion of the British drama. 
 
 The romantic revival in England was a pale imitation of Elizabethan imagery 
 and strength. From the days of Garrick to the time of Irving, the British drama 
 was influenced by the individual actor, rather than by any deep social conscience. 
 
 vii 
 
viii Preface 
 
 And for that reason bombast took the place of literary style, and this bombast 
 succeeded simply because it afforded a diction which a distinctive group of players 
 was able to gild into some semblance of reahty and truth. 
 
 The present book bears the title, "Representative British Dramas: Victorian 
 and Modern." There was a very distinct cleavage between the drama of the early 
 period of the nineteenth century and of the later — a cleavage due to no sudden 
 revolution, but to a gradual realization of the democratic idea in England — a 
 gradual rise in importance of the people, from 1832, when the reform bills began 
 to leave their impress on the mass, and to emphasize conditions of labour and of 
 the working classes. In its actual effect on the Kterature of the time, this social 
 interest resulted in a sentimental attitude which was behind the establishment of 
 Sunday schools in England, and behind the evolution of a certain type of story and 
 of school-book written to appeal to definite strata of society. 
 
 It has been the object of the Editor to select those plays which would emphasize 
 definite characteristics in the development of the British drama of the nineteenth 
 century, beginning with the pseudo-romantic, and passing through the successive 
 periods which would reveal how completely drama was divorced from literature, 
 and how sorely dramatic diction suffered because of its utter lack of literary style. 
 Whatever style the British drama had before the advent of Jones and Pinero and 
 Oscar Wilde was preserved in the poetic dramas of Browning and Tennyson — 
 where style was accounted more than action. This is why the plays by Browning 
 and Tennyson are of value in nineteenth-century drama. They were given on the 
 stage of the time, but they failed of marked success, separate from the successes 
 bestowed upon the individual actors, whose artistic bravery was the reason for 
 their production. 
 
 In the Introductions to all of the plays included in this volume, the Editor has 
 endeavoured to state those principal events in the British drama of the nineteenth 
 century which would point to progressive ideas gaining headway. From the time 
 of Bulwer-Lytton's parliamentary activities in the cause of the theatre, to the 
 present, there have been innumerable workers who have upheld the real freedom of 
 the British stage, who have fought consistently against the cloying limitations of 
 censorship, and who have believed persistently in, and pled continually for, the 
 endowment of the theatre, pointing to what endowment has done for the French 
 stage. There have been those who have battled against the prejudices of the 
 British public, and for freedom of thought and speech on the stage — all of these 
 mile-posts in dramatic progress have been indicated in their proper places. 
 
 There will also be emphasized the burlesque spirit which dominated the Eng- 
 lish stage for so long a while, and which was kept alive largely by members of the 
 editorial staff of Punch. If Punch has been for so many generations the guardian 
 of English humour, that famous weekly has likewise done much to encourage a 
 most light and trivial attitude toward the British stage — the attitude which re- 
 acted on such a writer as Thackeray, who regarded burlesque and pantomime, as 
 well as the extravaganza of make-believe, in the theatre very much as a child would 
 regard them. 
 
 More than once, during the course of the Introductions, it has been empha- 
 sized that another reason for the poverty of the British stage, before the advent of 
 the "New Drama", was the lack of any just copyright law. This lack made it 
 possible for the British theatre managers to have translated freely whatever they 
 liked of current French productions. The native dramatist could find no encour- 
 
Preface ix 
 
 agement for original work, but had to sink Ids talents to the level of a hack trans- 
 lator. There was a great demand for the tried French successes, and thus many 
 a British play cost the manager a mere pittance, but cost the English playwright 
 his artistic soul. 
 
 There is no telling what the history of the British stage might have been, had the 
 censorship, which was bequeathed to it through the beneficent guardianship of Sir 
 Robert Walpole, not persisted through the nineteenth and into the twentieth cen- 
 tury. It was fostered by Victorian purity and smugness, and to its monumentally 
 pernicious credit must be placed the damning truth that it has kept from the 
 British stage, for over a century, any thought reflective of the true attitude of 
 mind and soul of the progressive thinkers in England. It will be emphasized, in 
 the Introductions, in what manner censorship has been evaded, and through what 
 opposition progressive thought has had to advance in order to avoid the cloying 
 hand of an anachronistic public ofQoial, the Reader of Plays. Had it not been for 
 the censor, the British dramatists would probably have been more fearless and 
 more far-reaching in their criticism of hfe. The British drama of intellectual 
 worth has developed in spite of the Reader of Plays, and in defiance of English law. 
 
 Another real concern which, for many years, has agitated the English stage 
 has been the need for an Endowed Theatre. Out of this has grown the actual 
 workings of the Repertory Theatre, and the many agitations for a playhouse re- 
 lieved of the necessity for commercial competition. 
 
 Matthew Arnold raised the cry when, after having seen Sarah Bernhardt in 
 London for the first time, he uttered some thoughts regarding the difference between 
 the drama in England and the drama in Prance. The substance of his plea was — 
 organize the theatre. 
 
 It is this spirit which has actuated Henry Arthur Jones, William Archer, Gran- 
 ville Barker, St. John Hankin, and all those identified with the repertory theatres 
 of England and the Provinces, in their arguments for the governmental recognition 
 of the theatre. 
 
 The Table of Contents will indicate the scope of the present collection. The 
 plays herein have all had their stage production. There has been no attempt to 
 emphasize that species of play represented by George Meredith's "The Sentimen- 
 talists" and Thomas Hardy's "The Dynasts." On the other hand, Umitations of 
 copyright have prevented the inclusion of any play by George Bernard Shaw, 
 James M. Barrie, and Stephen Phillips. This omission takes from the present 
 review of modern drama three important characteristics, — one represented by 
 Shaw as an upholder of the thesis play, another represented by Barrie as the one 
 true exponent of fantasy, and the third represented by PhiUips as a follower of the 
 poetic drama. But the characteristics of these three important figures in current 
 British drama are so well known to the public that whatever this present collection 
 may lack through their absence can be readily supplied by general knowledge. 
 
 It has been thought wise to make a separate group of the Irish plays, which repre- 
 sent such a distinct development. One might argue that if this is to be done, 
 some indication should be given of the richness of such a Welsh play as J. O. 
 Francis's "Change", or of such local characteristics as are to be found in "Bunty 
 PuUs the Strings." The limitations of space, however, preclude any minute lines 
 being drawn. 
 
 The Editor has to thank personally Mr. Henry Arthtir Jones, Mr. John Mase- 
 field. Lady Gregory, Mr. W. B. Yeats, and Mr. Padraic Colum for their ooopera- 
 
X Preface 
 
 tion, and for their courteous granting of permission to use their plays. In addition 
 to which, thanks are due to the publishers of Pinero, Galsworthy, Barker, Hankin, 
 Synge, and Dunsany, for extending the courtesies of copjrright. Acknowledgment 
 has to be made to certain magazines in which a small proportion of the material 
 here used in the Introductions was originally published. Throughout the preparar 
 tion of the entire work, the Editor has had the splendid encouragement and invalu- 
 able assistance of his wife. 
 
 It is significant that such a collection as this should be issued at a time when 
 the Great War is making a cleavage between things that were before August, 1914, 
 and things that are to be. The present volume may, therefore, be said to close an 
 era in the history of the British stage. When the book is opened on a new era, 
 one may expect a drama that has characteristics as distinct from those of the 
 "New Drama", so called, as the difi'erenoes existing between the "New Drama" 
 and the plays of the Tom Robertson period. 
 
 Montrose J. Moses. 
 
 New Yobk, AprU, 1918. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fbeface vii 
 
 1820/^iRCHNiua 1 
 
 James Sheridan Knowles. 
 
 1829. Blaok-Et'd Susan ; or, All in the Downs 49 
 
 Douglas Jerrold. 
 
 '^Sg.j. RICHBLIE0 ; or, The Conspiracy 77 
 
 Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton. 
 
 1841. London Assukance 137 
 
 Dion BoucicauU. 
 
 1843. A Blot isr the 'Scutcheon 181 ^ 
 
 Bobert Browning. 
 
 1863. The Tioket-of-Lbate Man ,217 
 
 Tom Taylor. 
 
 L^67. Castb^^ 269 
 
 T. W. Bobertson. 
 
 1878. H. M. S. PiNAFOKE ; or, The Lass That Loved a Sailor 313 
 
 W. 8. Gilbert. 
 
 1893. Becket 339 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 .^894. The Masquebasbbs 399 
 
 Henry Arthur Jones. 
 
 1895. The Impoetanob of Being Earnest 445 
 
 Oscar Wilde. 
 xi 
 
xii Contents 
 
 /" PAOH 
 
 Arthur Wing Pinero. 
 
 '''^1899. The Gat Lord QnEX 487 
 
 1906. The Silvek Box 649 
 
 John Galsworthy. 
 
 1907. The Cassilis Engagement 589 
 
 St. John Hankin. 
 
 1910. The Madras Hodsb 635 
 
 H. Granville Barker. 
 
 1910. The Tragedy op Pompet the Great 703 
 
 John Masefield. 
 
 « * * 
 
 W. B. Yeats and the Irish School op Playwrights .... 747 
 
 !/ 1902. Cathleen Ni Houlihan 757 
 
 William Butler Yeats. 
 
 j 1908. The Workhouse Ward 771 
 
 Lady Augusta Gregory. 
 
 j 1904. Eiders to the Sea 785 
 
 John M. Synge. 
 
 1910. Thomas Muskerrt 799 
 
 Padraic Golum. 
 
 1913. The Gods of the Mountain 829 
 
 Lord Dunsany. 
 
 General Bibliogkapht 853 
 
 Individual Bibliographies por Plays 857 
 
VIRGINIUS 
 
 {1820) 
 By James Shebidan Knowles 
 
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 (1784-1862) 
 
 Jambs Sheridan Knowles, the cousin of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and the 
 friend of Hazlitt, Lamb, and Coleridge, was born on May 12, 1784. His career 
 as a plajrwright overshadows the fact that he had studied medicine with an idea 
 of following that profession. His experiences as an actor are likewise overshadowed 
 by his friendship with and writing for other actors much greater than he. It was 
 for Kean that he prepared "Leo ; or, The Gipsy" and "Caius Gracchus." It was 
 for Kean, elso, that he first conceived ' ' Virginius ' ' , which play connects his activities 
 with those of John Howard Payne, who had also written a drama on the same sub- 
 ject for the same actor. A long list of plays is to the credit of Knowles, the most 
 significant, other than the ones mentioned, being "The Hunchback" (1832), "The 
 Wife" (1833), and "The Love Chase" (1837). 
 
 Knowles flourished at a time characterized by a special type of acting. He 
 grew up in the atmosphere of critics Uke Hazlitt and Lamb, who were much more 
 interested in a type of comedy celebrated in their dramatic essays, than ra any 
 product of an original nature ; and they were given to the expending of much 
 more attention on the human excellencies of the actor's art. What they found 
 of value in Knowles was what Knowles imitated of the old type of English tragedy 
 or comedy. Charles Lamb wrote the prologue to "The Wife", spoken by Mr. 
 Warde. No one seemed to know that the prologue was written by Mm ; Knowles's 
 acknowledgment in the preface to the play was misleading, for it read as f oUows : 
 
 To my early, my trusty, and my honoiffed friend, Charles Lamb, I owe 
 my thanks for a deUghtful Epilogue composed almost as soon as it was re- 
 quested. To an equally dear friend I am equally indebted for my Prologue. 
 
 The Epilogue was spoken by Miss EUen Tree. 
 
 The esteem in which Knowles was held by his friends is measured by the es- 
 timate of him in WiUiam Hazlitt's "The Spirit of the Age." In this he writes : 
 
 We should not feel that we had discharged om: obligations to truth or 
 friendship, if we were to let this volume go without introducing into it the 
 name of the author of "Virginius." This is the more proper, inasmuch as he 
 is a character by himself, and the only poet now living that is a mere poet. 
 If we were asked what sort of a man Mr. Knowles is, we could only say "he 
 is the writer of ' Virginius.' " His most intimate friends see nothing in him 
 by which they could trace the work to the author. The seeds of dramatic 
 genius are contained and fostered in the warmth of the blood that flows in 
 his veins ; his heart dictates to his head. The most unconscious, the most 
 impretending, the most artless of mortals, he instinctively obeys the impulses 
 of natural feeling, and produces a perfect work of art. He has hardly read 
 
 3 
 
Representative British Dramas 
 
 a poem or a play, or seen anything in the world, but he hears the anxious 
 beatings of his own heart, and makes others feel them by the force of sym- 
 pathy. Ignorant alike of rules, regardless of models, he follows the steps of 
 truth and simplicity; and strength, proportion, and deUcacy are the in- 
 fallible results. By thinking of nothing but his subject, he rivets the atten- 
 tion of the audience to it. All his dialogue tends to action, a'l his situations 
 form classic groups. There is no doubt that " Virginius" i& the best acting 
 tragedy that has been produced on the modern stage. Mr. Knowles himself 
 was a player at one time, and this eiroimastanoe has probably enabled him to 
 judge of the picturesque and dramatic effect of his lines, as we think it might 
 have assisted Shakespeare. There is no impertinent display, no flaunting 
 poetry : the writer immediately conceives how a thought would tell if he had 
 to speak it himself. Mr. Knowles is the first tragic writer of the age; in 
 other respects he is a common man; and divides his time and his affections 
 between his plots and his fishing-tackle, between the Muses' spring, and those 
 mountain streams which sparkle like his own eye, and gush out like his own 
 voice at the sight of an old friend. We have known him almost frona a child, 
 and we must say he appears to us the same boy-poet that he ever was. He 
 has been cradled in song, and rocked in it as in a dream, forgetful of him- 
 self and of the world ! 
 
 It would seem that Knowles, throughout his career, was handicapped by the 
 inadequacy of the copyright law, which robbed him of miuch of his income. He 
 was continually in financial distress. Note the effect the success of "The Himch- 
 back" had upon him when it was produced on April 5, 1832. He says : 
 
 I sank down on my knees and from the bottom of my soul thanked God 
 for His wondrous kindness to me. I was thinking on the bairns at home, 
 and if ever I uttered the prayer of a grateful heart it was in that little chamber. 
 
 Very often, Knowles had to eke out his income by returning to the stage. 
 
 Knowles's " Virginius '' was declined by Kean because of a rumour that a play 
 on the same subject was scheduled for Drury Lane. The drama, however, was 
 produced at the Glasgow Theatre in an indifferent manner, and Macready's friend, 
 Tait, witnessed it. The dramatist and the actor had met at many social functions, 
 and while Maoready reahzed in him much dramatic ability, he recognized in him 
 nothing much of an actor. He writes, after having witnessed Ellen Tree and 
 Charles Kean in "The Wife", in which Knowles played: 
 
 Knowles — was Knowles; raw, energetic, harsh, but with mind and pur- 
 pose, badly and bluntly expressed, that gave interest to his performance; 
 but he is no artist, nor, in my opinion, can he ever be such. 
 
 This was written out of the bitterness of an experience with Knowles which 
 had somewhat cooled their friendship since the days of "Virginius." 
 
 "Virginius" was first produced on May 17, 1820, with Macready in the title r61e. 
 Talfourd says : 
 
 The year 1820 gave Lamb an interest in Macready beyond that which he 
 had derived from the introduction of Lloyd, arising from the power with which 
 he animated the first production of one of bis oldest friends — "Virginius." 
 
James Sheridan Knowles 
 
 At the very beginning of their friendship Lamb had hked Knowles, but had not 
 detected in him any extraordinary dramatic ability. We are told that Lamb's 
 interest in tragedy was over-clouded by the tragedy of Ms own life, and that he 
 was particularly in favour of the paternal scenes in " Virginius ", which were made 
 appeaUng through the great acting of Macready. Late in 1820, Lamb sent to 
 BJiowles some congratulatory verses on "Virginius." It was five years after that 
 Crabb Robinson met Knowles at Lamb's, and records : 
 
 A very Irishman in manners, tho' of the better kind. Seemingly a warm- 
 hearted man. No marks of talent in his conversation, but a bold decisive tone. 
 He spoke of William HazUtt as his friend, and this does not speak for his dis- 
 cretion or moral feeling. 
 
 The friendship between Knowles and Lamb ripened, and the dramatist visited 
 Elia at Enfleld. Lamb's letters contain constant reference to him. 
 Macready's own words are quoted regarding "Virginius" : 
 
 After some hesitation I thought it best to get the business [of reading the 
 MS] over, to do at once what I had engaged to do, and I sat down determinedly 
 to my work. The freshness and simpheity of the dialogue fixed my attention ; 
 I read on and on, and was soon absorbed in the interest of the story and the 
 passion of the scenes, tiU at its close I found myself in such a state of excitement 
 that for a time I was undecided what step to take. Impulse was in the ascend- 
 ant, and, snatching up my pen, I hurriedly wrote, as my agitated feelings 
 prompted, a letter to the author, to me then a perfect stranger. 
 
 I was closing my letter as the postman's bell was sounded up the street, 
 when the thought occurred to me, "What have I written? It may seem wild 
 and extravagant; I had better reconsider it." I tore the letter, and sallying 
 out, hastened directly to my friend Proctor's lodgings, wishing to consult him, 
 and test by his the correctness of my own judgment. He was from home, and 
 I left a card, requesting him to breakfast with me next day, having something 
 very remarkable to show him. After dinner, at a coffee-house, I returned home, 
 and in more collected mood again read over the impassioned scenes, in which 
 Knowles has given heart and life to the characters of the old Roman story. 
 My first impressions were confirmed by a careful re-perusal, and, in sober cer- 
 tainty of its justness, I wrote my opinion of the work to Knowles, pointing out 
 some Uttle oversights, and assuring him of my best exertions to procure its ac- 
 ceptance from the managers, and to obtain the highest payment for it. 
 
 Evidently the letter of Knowles, dated Glasgow, April 20, 1820, was in reply 
 to this communication. It runs as follows : 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 For bare Sir is out of the question — I thank you from the bottom of my 
 heart for the most kind, I must not say flattering, though most flattering, letter 
 that you have written to me. Really I cannot reply to it in any manner that 
 wiU satisfy myself, so I shall only once for all repeat, I thank you ! and feel as 
 if I should never forget the opening of a correspondence with Mr. Macready. 
 You must have a very warm heart. Do not think, I entreat you, that because 
 I express myself imperfectly — very imperfectly — • there is any deficiency 
 where there ought not to be. 
 
Representative British Dramas 
 
 I have but a few minutes, I should say moments, to write. All your sug- 
 gestions I have attended to ; I believe so, and if I have not I fully propose to 
 attend to them, except so far as the word "squeak" is concerned; that word 
 I know not how to lose for want of a fit substitute — the smallest possible 
 sound. Find out a term and make the alteration yourself ; or if you cannot and 
 still wish an alteration, do what you like. I don't care about it, I merely sub- 
 mit the matter to you. Oh, I have forgotten the word "cheer." What shall 
 I do also in the way of finding a substitute for that word? 
 
 I cannot stop to write another line. I am very much your debtor, and truly 
 
 Your grateful humble servant, 
 
 J. S. Knowles. 
 
 Covent Garden promised Knowles £400 for twenty nights, and of this Mac- 
 ready says : 
 
 Not one sixpence was allowed for its [the play's] mis-en-se6ne, and to be cor- 
 rect in my costumes I was obliged to purchase my own dresses. But my heart 
 was in the work, so much so that it would seem my zeal ran the risk of outstrip- 
 ping discretion, for it was made a complaint by Egerton, the Numitorius, that 
 the youngest man in the theatre should take on him to order and direct his 
 elders. 
 
 There was some doubt as to whether or not "Virginius" would pass the censor, 
 but it finally succeeded in going through the Lord Chamberlain's office, with certain 
 passages on tyranny erased from it. These censored passages were cut from the 
 text through the personal suggestion of George IV, who had demanded seeing the 
 script after it had passed the official reader. Knowles sought to print the play 
 immediately because of this. Macready consulted with John Murray, the London 
 publisher, about issuing it. But Murray, whose reader was the Reverend H. 
 Milman, afterwards Dean of St. Paul's, was advised to have nothing to do with 
 the printed play. In consequence, Ridgway, of Piccadilly, issued it, and before 
 many weeks it had passed into several editions. 
 
 Macready, being somewhat of a snob, describes how Knowles, in a condition 
 very much the worse for wear, hunted him out while he, Macready, was at a dinner 
 party, and presented him with a package containing the printed copy of "Vir- 
 ginius ", which had been dedicated to him. Evidently, Macready's rude treatment 
 of Knowles on this evening gave him some remorse, for he sent for the playwright 
 on his return home from the dinner party, and, as he expressed it, "All was made 
 perfectly smooth between us." 
 
 The acting part of "Virginius", given by Macready to John Forster, is now 
 preserved, with a letter from the actor, in the Dyce and Forster Libraries, South 
 Kensington. The letter runs as follows : 
 
 I enclose the part of Virginius as delivered to me (after I read the play at 
 Fawoett's request in his Covent Garden greenroom, April 20) from the Covent 
 Garden copyist, poor old Hill. (You wiU see that even the skill of copying out 
 parts is declined with our deeUning drama !) It has been in use with me above 
 thirty years. You will smile at the Latin memoranda or suggestions to excite 
 my feelings ! These I used to write in Latin, sometimes in Greek, sometimes in 
 Italian, because as at that time I could not command a dressing-room ex- 
 
James Sheridan Knowles 
 
 olusively to myself, I did not choose that any one who might be "chummed" 
 with me should look over, or rather should understand my notes. No fear of 
 any of them penetrating beyond EngUsh ! 
 
 I send you also the identical parchment I used on my first performance of 
 this character, and which I have kept, with a sort of superstitious partiality 
 tin it has become what you see, ever since. It amazes yet pleases me these 
 things have interest in your eyes — - they have none in mine. A deep melan- 
 choly is on me in thinking and feeling that I shall never again excite the sym- 
 pathies of those to whom I feel a sort of absolute affection. 
 
 From this, one will see the sentimental affection bestowed by Maoready on 
 the part. His "Diaries" illustrate a further sentimental affection for the drama- 
 tist who wrote the play. The two men were diametrically opposed as to character, 
 Knowles being freer in his manner than the actor, who never was devoid of self- 
 consciousness. Knowles found himself thrust from an atmosphere of school- 
 teacher into an atmosphere enriched by the very best literary minds of the time. 
 Little did some of his friends reahze, if tradition is true, that much of "Virginius" 
 was written on slates in the schoolroom, where, for thirteen hours a day, Knowles 
 was a slave to the cause of education. William Archer says : 
 
 When we compare ' ' Virginius ' ' with other tragedies of the time — the works 
 of Maturin and Shell, for example, not to mention obscurer names — we can 
 understand the enthusiasm awakened by the frank humanity of its subject 
 and the rhetorical vigor of its style. 
 
 Yet no excellence of dramatic technique, nor any past favours, could ever govern 
 Maoready's temperamental attitude toward his friends. There was no motive 
 mean enough that, at different times, Macready did not impute this motive to 
 Knowles. In his "Diaries ", during 1833, we find record of these ups and downs of 
 friendship from month to month. Now, Macready is saying, "I would not have 
 his genius for his heart." Again he is exclaiming that Knowles, at his "Benefit", 
 pronounced a "eulogistic eulogium on me", an act which certainly was pleasing 
 to the vain player. Later on, Macready is hinting at drunkenness and illicit 
 Uving ; and later stiU, he declares that Knowles was fast becoming envious of the 
 success of Bulwer-Lytton. The entries in his "Diaries ", which refer to the author 
 of "Virginius", show very clearly that whatever financial relations the two had, 
 they played havoc with their opinions of each other at different times. 
 
 Knowles had many sources to turn to in the construction of "Virginius." In 
 Edward Stirling's " Old Drury Lane ", there is mentioned a tragedy by R. P., pub- 
 lished in 1576, in black letter and not divided into acts, 
 
 Wherein [so the title-page reads] is lively expressed a rare example of the 
 vertue of chastity in wishing rather to be slaine at her own Father's hands than 
 to become a victim of the wicked Judge Appius. 
 
 Some commentators beUeve this to have been Knowles's source. But there 
 were dramas dealing with the same subject during the seventeenth century, by 
 Mairet Leclero and Campistron. The reason there were so many plays on the 
 theme of "Virginius" in the eighteenth century was due to the movement for 
 political freedom which, beginning about the middle of the century, inspired drama- 
 tists of all nationalities to use Virgimus as their hero. In 1772, Lessing used the 
 
8 Representative British Dramas 
 
 story in a modern Italian setting. In 1773, Alfleri ; 1760, Miss Brooke, in England ; 
 the same year. La Beaumelle, in France ; 1769, Chabanon ; 1786, Laharpe ; 1827, 
 Guiraud; 1845, La Tour Saint-Ybars, utilized the theme. Students interested 
 in a comparative study of plays will find it profitable to study these texts and note 
 the variations. 
 
 To Knowles's play there was added a Prologue by J. H. Reynolds, and an Epi- 
 logue by the poet, Barry Cornwall. Nowhere is an impression of the poet's liter- 
 ary excellence better summed up than in a contemporary notice given by a re- 
 viewer in the London Magazine for June, 1820, in which, after recalling a play on 
 "Virginius" by Webster, he writes of Knowles's drama in the following terms: 
 
 The merits of "Virginius" consist in (to a certain point) the plot, which is 
 simple without being bald : the diction too is colloquial and highly spirited ; 
 in short, it is the true language of life, which almost all authors of later years 
 have been afraid to ventiu-e on ; — there is no fustian or unnecessary mystifi- 
 cation. . . . It is simple and free from the heavy commonplace of "Douglas", 
 and (though with less poetry and general power) is more dramatic than W. 
 Coleridge's "Remorse" ; it is decidedly better than "Bertram." 
 
 The critic goes on to call attention to the faults in Knowles's tragedy, claiming 
 that the play should have ended with act four ; that the fifth act is marked by 
 verbiage ; and that the whole manuscript is marred by a certain play on words, the 
 dialogue being loosely written and the lines often unbeautiful. 
 
 The reader has ample sources to turn to for a comparative study of the actors 
 who have, at different times, played Virginius, from Macready to Phelps and John 
 McCuUough. 
 
 A change of heart seems to have come over the British drama with the sig- 
 nificant political events which began in 1832. We must regard Knowles, not in 
 the light of having a very great influence on the drama which was to follow, but as 
 having been a distinct product of the conventions of the theatre and of the acting 
 of his time. Nowhere is there a keener or more discerning statement regarding 
 Knowles than in Augustin Filon's "The English Stage ", where that astute French 
 critic writes : 
 
 He [Knowles] promised to return to Truth and Nature, the invariable 
 programme of all attempts at reforming the drama. And, as a matter of 
 fact, Virginius might be accepted in a certain sense as a return to Truth and 
 Nature. It belonged to what we were going to call in France, twenty-five 
 years later, the School of Common Sense. Or, if one prefers to look back instead 
 of forward, one might say that in it the rules of Diderot and Sedaine's Drame 
 Bourgeois seem to have been transferred to Roman tragedy. 
 
 In accordance with the convention of poetic drama, Knowles, in "Virginius", 
 has resorted to alternate use of poetry and prose, his lines often being merely poetry 
 in form only, and very commonplace in thought. No critics seem to disagree re- 
 garding the importance of Macready' s acting as a contributive element in the 
 success of "Virginius." What kept it alive on the British stage for so many years 
 after it was written was the opportunity it offered for the display of that peculiar 
 type of acting characteristic of Kean, the Kembles, Macready, and Samuel Phelps. 
 Yet the emotional value of the play, as a theatrical tour de force, is still holding^ 
 even when read. 
 
VIRGINIUS 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS AS PERFOEMED 
 
 AT THE 
 
 THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN 
 
 By JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, Esq. 
 
 [The text ia that of the London, 1820, edition.] 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 TO WILLIAM MACREADY, ESQ. 
 My Deab Sib, 
 
 What can I do less than dedicate this Tragedy to you ! This is a question 
 which you cannot answer ; but I can — I cannot do less ; and if I could do more,^ I 
 ought, and would. 
 
 I was a perfect stranger to you : You read my play, and at once committed your- 
 self respecting its merits. This, perhaps, is not saying much for your head — but 
 it says a great deal for your heart ; and that is the consideration which, above aU 
 others, makes me feel happy, and proud, in subscribing myself. 
 
 Your grateful Friend and Servant, 
 
 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 London, May 20, 1820. 
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 This Play was written in great haste, and, no doubt, abounds in defects — 
 but it is a question whether it would have been less imperfect, had I taken a year 
 to compose it. It was revolved and executed in about three months, in the midst 
 of very numerous and arduous avocations. To a distinguished individual who 
 suggested to me the idea of writing it, I shall ever feel grateful. 
 
 I owe the public an apology for the last act ; and this is my apology — History 
 gives two accounts of the manner of Appius's death : one, that he committed suicide ; 
 the other, that he was destroyed privately by the Tribunes. Had I selected for my 
 catastrophe the former incident, the character of the tyrant had stood too promi- 
 nent ; by adopting the latter, I should have violated the respect due to a Christian 
 audience. After having excited such an interest for Virginius, it would have been 
 indecent to represent him in the attitude of taking the law into his own hands. 
 I therefore adopted the idea of his destroying Appius in a fit of temporary insanity, 
 which gives the catastrophe the air of a visitation of Providence. 
 
 I am most sensible of the very great degree in which I am indebted to the Ladies 
 and Gentlemen of the Theatre Royal, Covent-Garden ; and I beg them to believe 
 that I feel more than I can very readily express. To forget what I owe to the 
 Theatre where my Play was first performed, would be ungrateful ; and, under any 
 circumstances, to omit the acknowledgment of it would be unprincipled and mean. 
 I take, therefore, this opportunity of thanking, also, the Company of the Glasgow 
 Theatre. 
 
Appius Claudius 
 Spurius Oppius 
 Vibulanus . . 
 Honorius . . 
 Valerius . . 
 Caius Claudius 
 Marcus . . . 
 Dentatus . . 
 Virginius . . 
 Numitorius . 
 Icilius . . . 
 Lucius . . . 
 Publius . . . 
 Decius . . . 
 Sextus . . . 
 Titus . . . 
 Servius . . . 
 Cneius . . . 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 MEN 
 
 Covent Garden, 1820 
 ] f Mr. Abbott 
 
 > Decemvirs < Mr. White 
 
 J I Mr. Jefteries 
 
 1 „ . f Mr. Norris 
 
 > Patricians < 
 
 J iMr. Vedy 
 
 ] „,. , . f Mr. Connor 
 
 > Clients to Appius . . . . < , , 
 
 j I Mr. Claremont 
 
 A Veteran Mr. Terry 
 
 A Centurion Mr. Maoready 
 
 His brother-in-law .... Mr. Egerton 
 In love with Virginia . . . Mr. C. Kemble 
 Brother of Icilius .... Mr. Comer 
 
 1r Mr. Mears 
 Soldiers I Mr. Treby 
 [ Mr. Cruinpton 
 If Mr. Paueit 
 Citizens < Mr. Atkins 
 IMr. King 
 
 Park, 1824 
 Mr. Ryder 
 Mr. Hunt 
 Mr. S. Pearson 
 
 Mr. Lovell 
 Mr. Gallot 
 Mr. Barry 
 Mr. Macready 
 Mr. Gann 
 Mr. Wheatley 
 Mr. Crocker 
 Mr. King 
 Mr. Gourlay 
 Mr. Wilmot 
 Mr. Brydges 
 Mr. Povey 
 Mr. Freeland 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Virginia . . . Daughter of Virginius . . Miss Poote Mrs. Hunt 
 
 Servia .... Her nurse Mrs. Pauoit Miss Cushman 
 
 Female Slave Mrs. Chipp Mrs. Burrows 
 
 Citizens, Male and Female — Soldiers, Lictors, &c. 
 
 Scene, chiefly Rome. 
 [The passages marked with inverted commas are omitted in the representation.] 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 By T. Reynolds, Esq., and spoken by Miss Booth 
 
 [Speaking behind] Nay, Mr. Fawoett, give me leave, I pray. 
 The audience wait, and I must have my way. [Enters] 
 What ! curb a woman's tongue ! — As I'm alive, 
 The wretch would mar our old prerogative ! 
 Ladies, by very dint of pertinacity. 
 Have I preserv'd the glory of loquacity ! 
 
 Oh ! could you gaze, as I am gdzing now. 
 
 And see each man behind, with gathered brow. 
 
 And clench&d hand, (tho' nought my spirit damps) 
 
 Beckoning, with threats, my presence, from the lamps : 
 
 Each, as I broke my way, declared how well 
 
 His art could woo you — to be peaceable ! 
 
 One is well robed — a second greatly shines, 
 
 In the nice balance, of castAron lines ; 
 
 A third can sing — a fourth can touch your tears — 
 
 A fifth — "I'll see no more ! " — -a fifth appears, 
 
 Who hath been once in Italy, and seen Rome ; 
 
 In short — there's quite a hubbub in the Green Room. 
 
 But I — a very woman — careless — light — 
 
 Meet idly to your presence, this fair night ; 
 
 And, craving your sweet pardon, fain would say 
 
 A kind word for the poet, and his play. 
 
 To-night, no idle nondescript lays waste 
 The fairy, and yet placid, bower of taste : 
 No story, piled with dark and cumbrous fate, 
 And words that stagger under their own weight ; 
 But one of silent grandeur — simply said. 
 As tho' it were awaken'd from the dead ! 
 It is a tale — made beautiful by years ; — , 
 Of pure, old, Roman sorrow — old in tears ! 
 And those you shed o'er it in childhood, may 
 Still fall — and fall — for sweet Virginia ! 
 
 Nor doth a crownSd poet of the age. 
 Call the sweet spirits from the historic page ! 
 No old familiar dramatist hath spun 
 This tragic, antique web, to-night — but one, 
 An unknown author, in a sister land. 
 Waits, in young fear, the fiat of your hand. 
 
VIRGINIUS 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene Fibbt. — A Street in Rome. 
 [Enter Sbrvius and Cneitjs] 
 
 SbBVIUS. nnrhr. flP"i°'1 3, lim^'^fT ! 
 CneIUS. Ay, a,n^j MarnfiUliR na.st, 
 
 oTone of the Decemvirs fcff a _sum of 
 
 mm^yRe-EacOeiiJIlum. 
 
 "^Servitjs. A^ Arr^'T" ""f^TtH ""t^ 
 
 Appius! that in the first Deoemvirate 
 
 was a god to the people. 
 
 Cneitjs. Resisted not ! Nay, was 
 most loud in favour of the decree ; but 
 hithe r comes Virginius, w ho interested 
 himself so mueti in U'arSb's affair. He 
 looks a little heated. Is not that Titus 
 he is speaking to ? Stand aside. Master, 
 and listen. 
 
 [Enter Virginius and Titus] 
 
 ViBGiNius— Why did you make him 
 Decemvir, and first Decern vif, tod? 
 
 Titus. We had tried him, and found 
 him honest. 
 
 Virginius. And could you not have 
 remained content ? Why try him again 
 to find him dishonest? Knew ye not 
 he was a Patrician, and of the Claudian 
 fan II y? '■ ~ 
 
 Titus. He laid down the Con- 
 sulate — 
 
 Virginius. Ha! ha! ha! to be 
 elected into the Decemvirate, and he 
 was so ; and he laid down his office of 
 igeoemvir, to be. re-elected.. into the 
 Decemvirate,~and^ he is so ; ay, by 
 Jupiter! and to the exclusion of his 
 late colleagues! Did not Titus Ge- 
 nutius lay down the Consulate? 
 
 Titus. He did. 
 
 Virginius. Was he not next to 
 Appius in the Decemvirate? 
 
 Titus. He was. 
 
 Virginius. Did you not find him 
 honest ? 
 
 Titus. We did find him honest. 
 
 Virginius. As honest as Appius 
 Claudius ? 
 
 Titus, Quite as honest. ' 
 
 Virginius. Quite as honest ! And 
 why not re-elect him Decemvir? Most 
 sapient people ! You re-elect Appius 
 into the Deoemvirate for his honesty, 
 and you thrust Titus out of the Decem- 
 virate — I suppose for his honesty 
 
 hy^ 
 ■STte.!. 
 
 13 
 
 Decemviri 
 
 Servius. I never heard him say so. 
 
 Virginius. But he did say so — 
 say so in my hearing, in the presence 
 of the senators, Valerius and Caius 
 Claudius, and I don't know how many 
 others. 'Twas known to the whole 
 body of the Senate — not that he was 
 sick, but that he said so. Yes ! yes ! 
 he and his colleagues, he said, had done 
 the work of the Republic for a whole 
 year, and it was now but just to grant 
 them a little repose, and appoint others 
 to succeed them. 
 
 Titus. Well, well, we can only say 
 he chang'd his mind. 
 
 Virginius. No, no, we needn't say 
 that neither ; as he had laboured in the 
 Deoemvirate, perhaps he thought he 
 might as well repose m the Decemvirate. 
 
 Titus. I know not what he thought. 
 He is Decemvir, and we made him so, 
 and cannot help ourselves. Pare you 
 well, Virginius. Come, let's to the 
 Forum. 
 
 [Exeunt Titus, Servius, and 
 Cneius] 
 
 Virginius [looking after them and 
 pointing]. 
 
 You cannot help yourselves ! Indeed, 
 you cannot ; 
 
 YoijJiBlpld to-put-your-masters on your 
 backs. 
 
 TheyTiEe their seat, and make you show 
 your paces ; 
 
 They ride you — sweat you — curb you 
 — lash you — and 
 
 You cannot thi:ow them off with all your 
 mettle ! 
 
 But here comes one, whose share in giv- 
 ing you 
 
14 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 To such unsparing riders, touches me 
 More nearly, for that I've an interest 
 In proving him a man of fair and most 
 Erect integrity. Good day, loihus. 
 
 [Enter IciLins] 
 
 IciLitrs. Worthy Virginius ! 'tis an 
 
 esdl day 
 For Rome, that gives her mor^ convinc- 
 ing pfoo?^ 
 The thing she took for hope, is but a 
 
 base ^ 
 
 And wretch ed counterf eit ! Our new 
 
 DeoemviiFi 
 Are any thing but friends to j ustice and 
 Their::eaunfry. 
 
 Virginius. You, Icilius, had a hand 
 In their election. You ap pl ied to me 
 To a id you with r my vo te; in the 
 
 (jomiliia ; 
 I told you then, and tell you now again, 
 I am not pleas' d when a Patrician 
 
 bends 
 His head to a Plebeian's girdle ! Mark 
 
 me! 
 I'd rather he should stand aloof, and 
 
 wear 
 His shoulder high — especially the 
 
 nephew 
 Of Caius Claudius. 
 IciLiTJS. I would have pledg'd my 
 
 life — 
 ViRGiNiTTS. 'Twas a high gage, and 
 
 men have stak'd a higher 
 On grounds as poor as yours — their 
 
 honour, boy ! 
 Icilius, I Jia. vfl heard — it— aH — your 
 
 plans — • 
 Th p imTtorgt.a.Tirlipg M Axaxk-tHm heads of 
 
 the peoi)le — 
 Of whom, Icilius, you are reckon'd one, 
 
 and 
 Worthily — and Appius Claudius — 
 
 all — 
 'Twas every jot disclos'd to me. 
 Icilius. By whom? 
 Virginius. Sicmius_2entatus. 
 Icilius. He disclos'd it to you ! 
 Sicinius Dentatus is a crabbed man. 
 Virginius. Sioinius Dentatus is an 
 
 honest man ! 
 There's not a worthier man in Rome! 
 
 How now? 
 Has he deoeiv'd me? Do you call him 
 
 liar? 
 My friend ! my comrade ! old Sicinius, 
 That has fought in sixscore battles? 
 
 Icilius. Good Virginius, 
 Sicinius Dentatus is my friend — the 
 
 friend 
 
 Of every honest man in Rome — a brave 
 
 man — 
 A most brave man. Except yourself, 
 
 Virginius, 
 I do not know a man I prize above 
 Sicinius Dentatus — yet he's a crabbed 
 
 man. 
 Virginius. Yes, yes ; he is a crabbed 
 
 man. 
 Icilius. A man 
 Who loves too much to wear a jealous 
 
 eye. 
 Virginius. No, not a whit ! — where 
 
 there is double dealing. 
 You are the best judge of your own 
 
 concerns ; 
 Yet, if it please you to communicate 
 With me upon this subject, come and 
 
 see me. 
 I told you, boy, I favour'd not this 
 
 stealing 
 And winding into place. What he de- 
 serves. 
 An honest man dares challenge 'gainst 
 
 the world — 
 But come and see me. Appius Claudius 
 
 chosen 
 Decemvir, and his former colleagues, 
 
 that 
 Were quite as honest as himself, not 
 
 chosen — 
 No, not so much as nam'd by him — 
 
 who nam'd 
 Himself, and his new associates ! Well, 
 
 'tis true, 
 Doj:_flghts with dog, but honesty is not 
 jfA. SUE Jsth^J^iOus- fellow — and e'en 
 
 jdogs, 
 B^.hablt.Qf-EQS.Pa'iiionship, abide 
 In terms of faith and cordiaUty — 
 But come and see me. [A shout] 
 
 Icilius. Appius comes ! 
 The people still throng after him with 
 
 shouts, 
 UnwiUing to believe their Jupiter 
 Has mark'd them for his thunder. Will 
 
 you stay. 
 And see the homage that they render 
 
 him? 
 Virginius. Not I! Stay you; and, 
 
 as you made him, hail him ; 
 And shout, and wave your hand, and cry, 
 
 long live 
 Our first and last Decemvir, Appius 
 
 Claudius ! 
 For he is first, and last, and every one ! 
 Rome owes you much, IciUus — Fare 
 
 you well — 
 I shall be glad to seejsmsijoy house. 
 
 [Exit Virginius] 
 
Virginius 
 
 15 
 
 [Enter Appius CLAtroins, Claudius, 
 SiciNius Dentatus, Lucius, 
 Titus, Sehvitjs, Marcus, and 
 Citizens shouting] 
 
 Titus. Long li va niir firat T)pippi Tinvir ! 
 Long live Appiiis' Claudius ! 
 Most noble Appius ! Appius and the 
 Decemvirate forever ! 
 
 [Citizens shout] 
 
 Appius. My countrymen and fellow 
 citizens, 
 Wewilldeserve.^!»as-favour. 
 
 -TrresT Youhave deserv'd it, 
 And will deserve it. 
 
 Appius. For that end we named 
 Ourself Decemvir. 
 
 Titus. You could not have nam'd a 
 
 better man. 
 Dentatus. For his own purpose. 
 
 [Aside] 
 Appius. Be assur'd, we hold 
 Our power but for your good. Your 
 
 gift it was ; 
 And gifts make surest debtors. Fare 
 
 you weU — 
 And, for your salutations, pardon me. 
 If I repay you only with an echo — 
 Tinn^livB ttm wiii'I.Iij; 11.it.i7.BnR of Rome ! 
 [Exit Appius, &c., the people 
 
 Dentatus. That was a very pretty 
 echo ! — a most soft echo. I never 
 thought your voices were half so sweet ! 
 a most melodious echo ! I'd have you 
 ever after make your music before the 
 Patricians' Palaces; they give most 
 exquisite responses ! — especially that 
 of Appius Claudius ! a most delicate 
 echo! 
 
 Titus. What means Dentatus? 
 
 Sebvius. He's ever carping — noth- 
 ing pleases him. 
 
 Dentatus. Oh ! yes — you please 
 me — please me mightily, I assure you. 
 — You are noble legislators, take most 
 especial care of your own interest, be- 
 stow your votes most wisely, too — on 
 him who has the wit to get you into the 
 humour ; and withal, have most musical 
 voices — most musical — if one may 
 judge by their echo. 
 
 Titus. Why, wiaLguarrel have you 
 wit h our choice? Could we have 
 chosen bettOT? — I say they are ten 
 honest Decemvirs we have chosen. 
 
 Dentatus. I pray you name them 
 me. 
 
 Titus. There's Appius Claudius, 
 first Decemvir. 
 
 Dentatus. Ay, call him the head ; 
 you are right. Appius—Claudius, the 
 head. Go on! 
 
 Titus. And Q uintus Fabiu s Vibu- 
 lanus. 
 
 Dentatus. The body, that eats 
 and drinks while the head thinks. 
 Call him Appius's stomach. Fill him, 
 and keep-him-from cold and'liiafgestion, 
 andJiellL never -give— Appius -the head- 
 ache! Well? — There's excellent com- 
 fort in having a good stomach ! — Well? 
 
 Titus. There's Cornelius, Marcus 
 Servilius, Minucius, and Titus Antonius. 
 
 Dentatus. Arms, legs, and thighs ! 
 
 Titus. And Ma£eixs-Jlab.uleius. 
 
 Dentatus. He'll do for a hand, and, 
 as he's a senator, we'll call him the 
 right hand. We couldn't do less, you 
 Imow, for a senator ! Well ? 
 
 Lucius. At least, you'll say we did 
 well in electing Quintius PetiUus, Caius 
 Duellius, and Spurius Oppius, men of 
 our order ! sound men ! "known sticklers 
 for the people" — at least you'll say 
 we did well in that ! 
 
 Dentatus. And who dares say 
 otherwise? "Well!" one might as 
 well say "ill" as "well." Well is the 
 very skirt of commendation; next 
 neighbour to that mire and gutter, 
 "ill." "Well," indeed! you acted like 
 yourselves ! Nay, e'en yourselves could 
 not have acted better ! Why, had you 
 not elected them — ■ Appius would have 
 gone without his left hand, and each 
 of his two feet. 
 
 Servius. Out ! you are dishonest ! 
 
 Dentatus. Ha ! 
 
 Sehvius. What would content you ? 
 
 Dentatus. A post in a hot battle! 
 Out, you cur! Do you talk to me? 
 
 Citizen [from behind]. Down 
 with_^mT- ho doo a nothing bu t-iasult 
 th e people,^ — 
 
 [The Crowd approach Dentatus, 
 threateningly] 
 
 [Enter IciLius, svddenly] 
 
 IciLitJS. Stand back ! Who'st that 
 s ays, down with ^cinj ua Dnnt.atnoy 
 Down with him ! 'Tis what the enemy 
 could never do ; and shall we do it for 
 them? Who uttered that dishonest 
 word? Who uttered it, I say? Let 
 him answer a fitter, though less worthy 
 mate, Lucius Icilius I 
 
16 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Citizens. Stand back, and hear 
 loilius ! 
 
 IciLius. What ! hav'n't I voted for 
 the Decemvirs, and do I sriarl at his 
 jests? Has he not a right to jest? 
 the good, honest Sicinius Dentatus, 
 that alone, at the head of the veterans, 
 vanquished the (Equi for you. Has 
 he not a right to jest? For shame! 
 get to your houses ! The worthy 
 Dentatus ! Cheer for him, if you are 
 Romans ! Cheer for him before you 
 go ! Cheer for him, I say ! 
 
 [Exeunt Citizens, shouting] 
 
 Dentatus. And now, what thanks 
 do you expeet-fioin me, Icilius? 
 
 IciLius. None. 
 
 Dentatus. By Jupiter, young man, 
 had you,thus_slepped before me in the 
 heat or battle, I would have cloven 
 you down — but I'm_gbUged to you, 
 loiUus — -and- Jiark you! There's a 
 piece of furniture in the house of a 
 friend of mine, that's called Virginius, 
 I think you've set your heart upon — 
 dainty enough — ■ yet not amiss for a 
 young man to covet. Ne'er lose your 
 hopes! He may be brought into the 
 mind to part with it. As to these 
 curs, I question which I value more, 
 their fawnings, or their snarHngs. — I 
 thank you, boy! Do you walk this 
 way? — I am glad of it! Come — 
 'Tis a noble Decemvirate you have 
 chosen for us ! Come ! 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Second. — Virqinius's House. 
 
 [Enter Vikginius and Servia, with some 
 of Virginia's work in her hand] 
 
 Virginius. And is this all you have 
 
 observ'd? I think 
 There's nothing strange in that. An L 
 
 and an I, 
 Twin'd with a V. Three very innocent 
 
 letters 
 To have bred such mischief in thy brain, 
 
 good Servia ! 
 Come, read this riddle to me. 
 
 Servia. You may laugh, 
 Virginius, but I will read the riddle right. 
 The L doth'sta nd fnr Tnitfiia-! ; and the I, 
 leilius ; wmeh, i taKe it, will compose 
 Lu^msllcilius. 
 ""Virginius. So it will, good Servia. 
 
 Servia. Than, fnr tViB V; yliy, that 
 
 is.EiaiiL.£kgiiiia. 
 
 Virginius. And now, what conjura- 
 tion find you here ? 
 
 Servia. What s hould I find but 
 
 love? Tl iQ rnniri'g in Tmro 
 
 And it is with icilius. Look, the wreath 
 Is made of roses, that entwines the 
 
 letters. 
 Virginius. And this is all? 
 Servia. And is it not enough? 
 You'll find this figuring where'er you 
 
 look: 
 There's not a piece of dainty work she 
 
 does — 
 Embroidery, or painting — not a task 
 She finishes, but on the skirt, or border. 
 In needle-work, or pencil, this, her 
 
 secret. 
 The silly wench betrays. 
 
 Virginius. Gof^send h eE-to me — ■ 
 StayJ__B[aveyQii_spQke_t©-fees-of it? 
 Servia. T! Not I, indeed ; I left 
 
 that task to you — 
 Tho' once I asked her what the letters 
 
 meant. 
 She laiigh'd, a.nd ^X W "' scratch a cross 
 
 Had scarce done so, ere her fair visage 
 
 fell, 
 For grief that she had spoiled the 
 
 cyphers — "and 
 "A sigh came out, and then almost a 
 
 tear; 
 "And she did look as piteous on the 
 
 harm 
 ' ' That she had done, as she had done it to 
 "A thing had sense to feel it." Never 
 
 after 
 She let me note her at [the] work again. 
 She had good reason! 
 Virginius. Send her to me, Servia. 
 
 [Exit Servia] 
 
 There's something here, that looks as 
 
 it would bring me 
 Anti cipatio n of my wish. I think 
 I(yiius_loves_ my daughter — nay, I 
 
 Know itl " 
 And such3,man Fd^^aUenge for her 
 
 husbaSd ; — 
 And only waited, ^ tiU her forward 
 
 spring 
 Put on, a little more, the genial likeness 
 Of colouring into summer, ere I sought 
 To nurse a flower, which, blossoming too 
 
 early. 
 Too early often dies; "but if it springs 
 "Spontaneous, and, unlooked for, woos 
 
 our hand 
 
Virginius 
 
 17 
 
 "To tend and cherish, it, the growth is 
 
 healthful ; 
 "And 'twere untimely, as unkind, to 
 
 check it." 
 I'll ascertain it shortly — soft, she 
 
 comes. 
 
 [Enter Vikqinia] 
 
 Virginia. Well, father, what's your 
 
 will? 
 ViKQiNiirs. I wish'd to see you. 
 To ask vou of your tas ks — how they 
 
 '^on — 
 And_sfaaljfflUt:JBasterg„say of you^ 
 
 what last 
 You did. I hope you joflscfiE-nlay- 
 TitajEuant? 
 Virginia. The truant ! No, indeed, 
 
 Virginius. 
 Virginius. I am sure you do not — 
 
 kiss me ! 
 Virginia. Oh ! my father, 
 I am so hapgxjarjien yoij^a ,ki.nd to me ! 
 ViRGiNiTTS. You are so happy when 
 I'm kind to you ! 
 Am I not always kind ? I never spoke 
 An angry word to you in all my life, 
 Virgima! You are happy when I'm 
 
 kind! 
 That's strange; and makes me think 
 
 you have some reason, 
 To fear I may be otherwise than kind — 
 Is't so, my girl? 
 
 Virginia. Indeed, I did not know 
 What I was saying to you ! 
 
 Virginius. Why, that's worse 
 And worse! What! when you said 
 
 your father's kindness 
 Made you so happy, am I to believe 
 You were not thinking of him? 
 Virginia. I — 
 
 [Oreatly confused] 
 
 Virginius. Go, fetch me 
 The latest task yoii did. 
 
 [Exit Virginia] 
 
 It is enough. 
 
 Her artless speech, like crystal, shows 
 
 tbeHiWiig 
 'TwQ^d_iJd.eT. but only covers. 'Tis 
 
 enough ! 
 She loves, and fears her father may 
 
 condemn. 
 
 [Re-enter Virginia with a painting] 
 
 Virginia. Here, Sir. 
 Virginius. What's this? 
 
 Virginia. _ 'Tis TTmneTV histmy 
 Of great Achilles parting from Briseiis. 
 
 Virginius. You have done it well. 
 The colouring is good. 
 The figures well design'd. 'Tis very 
 
 well! — 
 Whose_jface is this you' ve_ .given to 
 T^Shiiles? 
 Virginia. Whose face? 
 Virginius. I've seen this face! 
 Tut ! Tut ! I know it 
 As well as I do my own, yet can't be- 
 think me 
 Whose face it is ! 
 
 Virginia. You mean Achilles' face? 
 Virginius. Did I not say so? 'Tis 
 the very face 
 Of — No! No! Not of him. There's 
 
 too much youth 
 And comeliness ; and too much fire, to 
 
 suit 
 The face of Sicinius Dentatus. 
 
 Virginia. Oh ! 
 You surely never took it for his face ! 
 Virginius. Why, no ; for now I 
 look again, I'd swear 
 You lost the copy ere you drew the head. 
 And, to requite Achilles for the want 
 Of his own face; contriv'd to borrow one 
 Frem-IiUciaiaJcilius. [Enter Dentatub] 
 
 My Dentatus, 
 I am glad to see you ! 
 
 [Virginia retires] 
 Dentatus. 'Tis not for my news, 
 
 then. 
 Virginius. Your news! What 
 
 news? ^ ^- - 
 
 Dentatus. More violence and 
 wrnnp; from these new masters of ours, 
 our noble Decemvirs — these demi- 
 gods of the good people of Rome! 
 No man's property is safe from them. 
 Nay, it appears we hold our wives 
 and daughters but by the tenure of 
 their wiU. Their liking is the law. 
 The senators themselves, scared at 
 their audacious rule, withdraw them- 
 selves to their villas, and leave us to 
 om: fate. Thpca-ace-nimours, also, of 
 ne w 'incursi ons by thft Sahinps 
 
 Virginius. Rome never saw such 
 days. 
 
 Dentatus. And she'll see worse, 
 unless I fail in my reckoning. Is that 
 Virginia? I saw her not before. How 
 
 does the fai^ yiVginia.? Why, she is 
 
 (luite a woman. I was just now wish- 
 ing for a daughter. 
 Virginius. A plague, you mean. 
 Dentatus. I am sure you should 
 
 not say so. 
 Virginia. Indeed he should not; 
 and he does not say so, 
 
18 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Dentatus — not that I am not a plague. 
 But that he does not think me one, for all 
 I do to weary him. I am sm'e, Den- 
 tatus, 
 If to be thought to do well is to do well, 
 There's nothing I do ill ; but it is far 
 From that! for few things do I as I 
 
 ought — 
 Yet (amcythipg_iR wbII d,np,fl wit,h my 
 
 father, 
 Dentatus. 
 
 ViRGiNiTJs [goes to them]. That's well 
 done, is it not, my friend ? [Aside] 
 But if you had a daughter, what would 
 you do with her? 
 Dentatus. I'd sste-her to Julius. 
 I should have been just now torn to 
 pieces, but for his- gQQd_offlces. The 
 gentle citizens, that are driven about 
 by the Decemvirs' Liotors, like a herd 
 of tame oxen, and, with most beast- 
 like docility, only low applauses to 
 them in return, would have done me 
 the kindness to knock my brains out; 
 but the noble loilius bearded them 
 singly, and railed them into temper. 
 Had I a daughter worthy of such a 
 husbandT-Jie_shguld_have such a wife, 
 and a Patrician's dower aldng with her. 
 ViRGiNius. I wish to speak with you, 
 Dentatus. Icilius is a young man 
 whom I honour, but so far only as 
 his conduct gives me warrant. He has 
 had, as thou knowest, a principal hand 
 in helping us to our Decemvirs. It 
 may be that he is what I would gladly 
 think him ; but I must see him clearly, 
 clearly, Dentatus. "If he has acted 
 "with the remotest understanding, 
 "touching the views of these new 
 "tyrants that we are cursed withal, I 
 "disclaim him as my friend! I cast 
 "him off forever!" 
 
 [Exeunt Vibginitts and Dbntattts] 
 
 Virginia. Hjw is it with my heart? 
 I feel as one' 
 That has lost ev6Ey_thing,_and just Ixe- 
 
 fore 
 Had nothing left to wish for ! TJ" will 
 
 Icilius off ! — I never told it yet ; 
 
 Biit take~i5r me, thou gentle air, the 
 
 secret — ■ 
 And ever after breathe more balmy 
 
 sweet — 
 
 Uove Ic ilius ! "Yes, although to thee 
 
 I fear to tell it, that hast neither eye 
 
 ' ' To scan my looks, nor voice to echo me, 
 
 "Nor e'en an o'er-apt ear to catch my 
 
 words ; 
 
 "Yet, sweet invisible confidant, my 
 
 secret 
 "Once being thine — I tell thee, and I 
 
 tell thee 
 "Again — and yet again." I love 
 
 Icilius ! " 
 
 He'll oast leiUus on ! — not if Icilius 
 Approve his honour. That he'U over 
 
 do; 
 He speaks and looks, and moves a thing 
 
 of honour. 
 Or honour never yet spoke — look'd, or 
 
 mov'd, 
 Or was a thing of earth. Oh, come, 
 
 IciEuFj 
 Do but appear, and thou art vindi- 
 cated. 
 
 [Enter Icilius] 
 
 IciLius._ Virginia ! sw eet Virginia I 
 
 sur e rTi eard 
 My name pronoune'd. Was it by thee, 
 
 Virginia ? 
 Thou dost not answer? Then it was 
 
 by thee — • 
 Oh ! wouldst thou tell me why thou 
 
 nam'dst Icilius! 
 Virginia. My fatheris^nqens^with 
 
 thge. Dentatus 
 Has told him of the new Decemvirate, 
 How they abuse their offloe. You, he 
 
 knows. 
 Have Javourfid^ their_election, and he 
 
 fears 
 May have some understanding of their 
 
 plans. "^ 
 
 Icilius. He wrongs me, then ! 
 Virginia. I thank the gods ! 
 Icilius. For me ! 
 Virginia? Do you thank the gods for 
 
 me? 
 Your eye is moist — yet that may be 
 
 for pity^ 
 Your hand doth tremble — that may be 
 
 for fear ; 
 Your cheek is cover' d o'er with blushes ! 
 
 What, 
 Oh, what can that be for? 
 Virginia. Icihus, leave me ! 
 Icilius. Leave thee, Virginia? Oh! 
 
 a word — a word 
 Trembles upon my tongue, which, if it 
 
 match 
 The thought that moves thee now, and 
 
 thou wilt let me 
 Pronounce that word, to speak that 
 
 thought for thee, 
 I'll breathe — though I expire in the 
 
 extacy _ 
 Of uttering it. 
 
Virginius 
 
 19 
 
 Virginia. Icilius, will you leave me ? 
 IciLius. Love ! Love ! Virginia ! 
 
 Love! If I have spoke 
 Thy thought aright, ne'er be it said 
 
 again ! 
 The heart requires more servioe*ralin 
 
 the tongue ; 
 
 Can, at its best, perform. My tongue 
 
 hath serv'd 
 Two hearts — but, lest it should o'er- 
 
 boast itself. 
 Two hearts with but one thought. 
 
 'Virgimal ' 
 Virginia, speak — 
 
 [She covers her face with her hands] 
 
 Oh, I ^aye-loved thee long : 
 
 So muon the more extatie my delight, 
 
 To find thee mine at length ! 
 
 Virginia. My secret's, yours. 
 Keep it, and ho nour it , Icilius. 
 
 [Enter Vikginiub and Dentatus 
 behind] 
 
 Virginius. Icilius here ! 
 
 Virginia. I ask "thee now tojeave 
 
 me- 
 
 Icilius. Leave thee! who leaves a 
 treasure he has coveted 
 So long, and found so newly, ere he 
 
 scans it 
 Again, and o'er again; and asks and 
 
 answers. 
 Repeats and answers, answers and re- 
 peats. 
 The half-mistrustful, half-assur&d ques- 
 tion — 
 And is it mine indeed? 
 
 Virginia. Indeed ! indeed I 
 Now leave me. 
 
 Icilius. I must-seejthy father first, 
 And-las_Hiy_aQ]il_befDi:e-him. 
 Virginia. Not to-night. 
 Icilius. Now worse-than^fivepp dear 
 Virginia ; 
 Ca n I endiLc e-Jua-dnubts ; I'll lay my 
 
 soul 
 Naked before him — win his friendship 
 
 quite. 
 Or lose myself forever ! 
 
 [Going, is met by Virginius] 
 Virginius. Stopr^ciUus ! 
 Thou seest that Jiaoid ? It is a Roman's, 
 
 boy; 
 'Tis sworn to liberty — It is the friend 
 Of honaut— Dost thou think so? 
 
 IciLirs^ Do I think 
 Virginius owns that hand? 
 
 VIRGINIUS. Then you'll believe 
 It has an oath deadly-to-tyranny, 
 
 And is the foe of falseh ood ! By the 
 
 gods. 
 Knew it the lurking place of treason, 
 
 though 
 It were a_ brother's heart, 'twould drag 
 
 the caitiff 
 Forth. Dar'st thou take that hand? 
 Icilius. I dare, Virginius. 
 Virginius. Then take it! Is it 
 
 weak in thy embrace? 
 Returns it not thy gripe? Thou wUt 
 
 not hold 
 Faster by it, than it wiU hold by thee ! 
 I overheard thee say, thou wast resolv'd 
 To win my friendship quite. — Thou 
 
 can'st not win 
 What thou hast won already ! — Yeu^ 
 
 will stay 
 A^ -grqrwfl-li na tn-nigVit.? 
 Dentatus. To be sure he will ! 
 Virginius. An d, hark vou^ Sir : 
 At yo ur conveni ent ti me, appoint a day 
 Ywnrtriends, ahcrkinimen_may_eonl:er 
 
 ■^dih me — ■ 
 There is a bargain I would strike with 
 
 you. 
 Come, to the supper-room. Do you 
 
 wait for me. 
 To lead Virginia in, or will you do it? 
 
 [Icilius goes eagerly to Virginia] 
 Come on, I say ; come on. Your hand, 
 
 Dentatus. [Exeunt] 
 
 end of the first act 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene First. — A Street. 
 [Enter Publius and Sbxtus] 
 
 PuBLius. This wayJ__We_muster at 
 the Fla.Tninian S'ate. " 
 
 Sextus. ShaH — ^w^.— m)l_wait for 
 Dijcius? •*- 
 
 Publius. No ; were he ten times 
 Decius. — The5!:l]i_haste_alceady_begun 
 their. jaaEci.._Cflia.a oa! 
 
 [Enter Numitorius] 
 
 NuMiTORius. Do you belong to the 
 fourth legion? -— 
 
 Publius. We do. 
 
 Numitorius. They are upon their 
 maroji, then. 
 
 PubEiuss- I told you so. — Come on \ 
 come on ! 
 
 [Exeunt Soldiers. J^Mter Lucius] 
 
20 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Lucius. Numitorius, what soldiers 
 were those that just now parted from 
 you? 
 
 NuMiTOKius. Soldiers hastening to 
 overtake the army,' that's no\? upon its 
 march. 
 
 Lucius. 'Tis all confirmed, then; 
 the Sabines are in force upon our 
 borders. 
 
 Numitorius. I pray you tell me 
 something new! Kjiowyou not the 
 Spna.t e has met, and ^HTft T^fffB Trivirs 
 haV BC^e of tm iTnpVijjipt. in apityi of 
 
 slLapposiliaa? 
 
 Lucius. Should they have been op- 
 posed in such a strait as this? 
 
 Numitorius. Aye, should theyj 
 They dared not have armed- a-.singl^e 
 citizen. without the.order-oLthe,Senate ; 
 which, had they not obtained,, the 
 country would -have^be en left naked to 
 the foe, and then they had bein^forced 
 to make room for more popular magis- 
 trates. 
 
 Lucius. Why, were they not op- 
 posed, then? 
 
 Numitorius. Did not I tell you 
 they were opposed? Caius Claudius, 
 Appius^s own uncle, and Tilohorius, that 
 noble senaturropposed them ; and it was 
 like to go against them, but for the 
 brawling insolence of Spurius Oppius, 
 and the effrontery of the head Decemvir, 
 backed by the young Patricians. 
 
 Lucius. So they are empowered to 
 take up arms? 
 
 Numitorius. To_be sure they are ; 
 and they have done 80.-=-^ One body has 
 already. maroh'di._and by.this.time, no 
 doubt, has come to blows with the 
 enemyl The levy "is "still "proceeding. 
 All the Decemvirs, but Appius, take the 
 field. He remains in Rome to keep 
 good order, that is the violator of all 
 order. Why, where have you been, to 
 have felt no movement of so great and 
 wide a stir? YouEjjEgther meets Vir- 
 ginius at his house to-day. — Come with 
 me^tbither, far-y0tirr^now, are bid. — 
 Lucius, there's no huzzaing for your 
 Decemvirs now. — Come on, we have 
 outstaid the hour. [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Second. — Virginius's House. 
 
 [Enter Vieqinius, Icilius, Lucius, and 
 others] 
 
 ViRGiNius._ Wslcoma, TciUus ! Wel- 
 come, friends 1 loiUus, 
 
 I did design to speak with you of feast- 
 
 And merriment, -but—War is-nD.w the 
 
 word; 
 One -that unlovingly keeps time with 
 
 mirth, 
 Unless war's own — whene'er the 
 
 battle's won, 
 And safe carousing, comrades drink to 
 
 victory ! 
 Icilius. VirginLusJ-havftyou ohang'd 
 
 yourjnind? 
 ViRQiNius. My mind? 
 What mind? How now ! Are you that 
 
 boy, Icilius? 
 You set your heart so earnestly upon 
 A dish of poor confections, that to balk 
 
 you 
 Makes you look blank ! I did design to 
 
 Tpgether with,your friends — The times 
 
 are'cEang'd — 
 The march, the tent, the fight Jjecoines 
 
 us now ! 
 Icilius. Virginius ! 
 
 ViRGINIUS. Well ? 
 Icilius. Virginius ! 
 Virginius. How the boy 
 Reiterates my name ! 
 
 Icilius. These^s-nDt a hope 
 I_ha.ve,JtHit is iJieuclifiBt-ot Virgiaius. 
 Virginius. Well, well!— I only 
 
 meant .ta.p.uj;_it off ; 
 We'll have the revel yet ! the board shall 
 
 smoke ! 
 The cup shall sparkle, and the jest shall 
 
 soar 
 And mock us from the roof ! Will that 
 
 content you? 
 Not till the war be done, tho' — Yet, ere 
 
 then, 
 Some tongue, that now needs only wag, 
 
 to make 
 The table ring, may have a tale to teU 
 So petrifying, that it cannot utter it ! 
 I'll make all sure, that you may be my 
 
 guest 
 At any rate — • although you should be 
 
 foro'd 
 To play the host for me, and feast 
 
 yourself. 
 Look here, 
 
 [Shows a parchment to Icilius] 
 How think you? Will it meet the 
 
 charge? 
 Will it not do? We want a witness, 
 
 tho'! 
 I'll bring onef-jsrhom, if you approve, 
 
 I'U sign 
 The bond. .J^U__wait upon you in- 
 stantly. [Exit] 
 
Virginius 
 
 21 
 
 LTTcitrs. How feel you now, Icilius ? 
 Icinus. Like a man 
 Whom the next moment makes, or quite 
 
 tmmakes. 
 With the intensity of exquisite 
 Suspense, my breathing thickens, and 
 
 my heart 
 Beats heavily, and with remittent throb. 
 As like to lose its action. — See ! my 
 
 hope 
 Is bless'd ! I live ! I live ! 
 
 [Enter Vieqinius, conducting Virginia, 
 
 with NtTMITORIUS] 
 
 ViRGiNitrs [holding his daughter's 
 hand]. You are my witnesses. 
 That tl!is_yauiig_crgatijre I present to 
 
 you,— 
 I ,^a_ pronounce — my profita bly 
 ^^i^ish'd; ' — ~ 
 
 AnH Tnnat..daaaivand.lY V>qlnYhfl f^lljlfl ', 
 
 M v daughter, tnil v filial — both in 
 
 word ~" 
 
 And act — yet even more in act than 
 
 word : 
 And — for the man who seeks to win 
 
 her-4ove, — 
 A virgin, from whose Ups a soul as pure 
 Exhales, as ere responded to the blessing 
 Breath'd in a parent's kiss. [Kisses 
 
 her] Icilius ! 
 
 [Iciiiiirs rushes towards ViRGiNitrs, 
 and kneels] 
 Since 
 You are upon your knees, young man, 
 
 lo ok up ; 
 And ]5t7xaU£jiands_to heaven — You 
 
 T^Jje-all 
 TTerfatW ha.s henTi — added unto all 
 A lover would be ! 
 
 Icilius. All that man should be 
 To woman, I wiU be to her ! 
 
 Virginius. The oath 
 Is register'dl Didst thou but know, 
 
 young man, 
 How fondly I have watoh'd her, since the 
 
 day 
 Her mother died, and left me to a charge 
 Of double duty bound — how she hath 
 
 been 
 My ponder' d thought, by day, my 
 
 dream, by night ! 
 My prayer, my vow, "my offering, my 
 
 praise," 
 My sweet companion, pupil, tutor, 
 
 child! — 
 Thou would'st not wonder, that my 
 
 drowning eye. 
 And choking utterance, upbraid my 
 
 tongue, 
 
 That teUsJheashe is tiua§.J.z:T-Xcilius, 
 I do^-feetreth-SOT to -thse^ — ^tet but the 
 
 Be J,dojie^=^ you — shalU e8pousa.._her. 
 Friends, a word ! 
 
 [Virginius and the rest retire] 
 
 Icilius. Virginia ! my Virginia ! I 
 
 am all 
 Dissolv'd — o'erpower'd with the mu- 
 
 niflcenoe 
 Of this auspicious hour — And thou, 
 
 n^r mov'st. 
 Nor lobk'st — nor speak'st — to— bless, 
 
 me jrith.a sign 
 Of sweet according joy! I love thee, 
 
 "iSVCt 
 
 To make thee happy ! If to make thee 
 
 so 
 Be bliss denied to me — lo, I release 
 The gifted hand that I would faster 
 
 hold. 
 Than wretches, bound for death, would 
 
 cling to life — 
 If _t hou would'st take it hack — then 
 
 take_it_ha.ok. 
 Virginia. I take it back — to give 
 
 iyJlfi&j£auU 
 Icilius. Oh, help me to a word will 
 
 speak my bUss, 
 Or I am beggar' d — No ! there is not 
 
 one! 
 There cannot be; for never man had 
 
 bUss 
 Like mine to name. 
 Virginia. "Thou dost but beggar 
 
 me, 
 "Icilius, when thou mak'st thyself a 
 
 bankrupt ; 
 "Placing a value on me far above 
 "My real little worth." — I'd help thee 
 
 to 
 A hundred words; each one of which 
 
 would far 
 O'er-rate thy gain, and yet no single one 
 Rate over high ! 
 
 Icilius. Thou could'st not do it! 
 
 No; 
 Thou could'st not do it! Every term 
 
 of worth 
 Writ down and doubl'd, then the whole 
 
 sum'd up. 
 Would leave with thee a rich remainder 
 
 still ! — 
 Pick from each rarer pattern of thy sex 
 Her rarest charm, till thou hast every 
 
 charm 
 Of soul and body, that can blend in 
 
 woman, 
 I would out-paragon the paragon 
 With thee ! 
 
22 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 " Virginia. And if thou would'st, 
 
 I'd find thee, for 
 "Thy paragon, a mate — if that can be 
 "A mate, which doth transcend the 
 
 thing 'tis ta'en 
 "To match — • would make thy paragon 
 
 look poor, 
 "And I would call that so o'ermatehing 
 
 mate 
 "Icilius. 
 
 "IciLiTjs. No! I will not let thee 
 
 win 
 " On such a theme as this ! 
 
 "Virginia. Nor will I drop 
 " The controversy, that the richer makes 
 
 me, 
 " The more I lose. 
 
 "Icilius. My sweet Virginia, 
 "We do but lose and lose, and win and 
 
 win; 
 "Playing for nothing but to lose and 
 
 win." 
 Then let us stop the game — and thus T 
 
 stop it. [Kisses her] 
 
 [Re-enter Virginius and the others] 
 
 ViRGiNius. Witness, my_ friends, 
 
 that seal ! Obsgcve, it is 
 A living one ! It is Icilius'-«eal ; 
 And stamp'd upon as true and fair a 
 
 bond — 
 Tho' it receive the impress blushingly — 
 As ever signe_t kiss'd ! Are all content? 
 Speak, else! ""She Is thy free afQanc'd 
 
 wife, "~ 
 
 Thou art her free affianc'd husband ! 
 
 Come, 
 We have^o'erdrawn our time — Fare- 
 
 welTT Virgin ia ; 
 fhy fi itn yp hiis d>a, nd for a time must be 
 Bgllona^. To thy tasks agam7~^y 
 
 child ; 
 Be thou the bride of study for a time. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Virginia. My father ! 
 
 ViRGiNius. May the gods protect 
 
 thee. 
 Virginia. My father ! 
 ViBGiNius. Does the blood forsake 
 
 thy cheek? 
 Come to my arms once more ! Remem- 
 ber, girl, 
 The_£rat_a,nd-'f5rBmsst-_dfih$ a Roman 
 
 owes. 
 I s to his cQUj itiaj and it must be paid, 
 Ifnegd^Jaer-with-, his IjPe. — Why, how 
 
 "yoU-hold me ! 
 Icilius, take her from me! Hoa! 
 
 Within ! 
 Within, there! Servia! 
 
 [Enter Servia] 
 
 Look to your child I 
 Come, boy. 
 
 Icilius. FaiOTrell^irginia. 
 Virginius. ~Tak6 h"er in ! 
 Virginia. The gods be with thee, 
 m y. Ici lius ! — Father, 
 Th^e^adiHe-with^jthee-— M^cyoil^ ! 
 Virginius. IsWEarraTbEifEIemight 
 be fought and won 
 In half the time! Now, once for all, 
 
 farewell ; 
 Your sword and buckler, boy! The 
 
 foe ! the foe ! 
 Does he not tread on Roman ground? 
 
 Come on ! 
 Come on, charge on him! drive him 
 back! or die! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Third. — Appius's House. 
 [Enter Appius] 
 
 triumph ; the 
 
 and that 
 
 Appius. It was a 
 
 achievi ng wh icET" 
 O ' erpahtl^_risk was run 
 
 was great. 
 They have made trial of their strength, 
 
 and learn'd 
 Its value from defeat. The Senate 
 
 knows 
 Its masters now ; and the Decemvirate, 
 To make its reign eternal, only wants 
 Its own decree, which little pains will 
 
 win. 
 Ere this, the foe has, for his mad in- 
 vasion. 
 Been paid with chastisement. "Re- 
 
 tir'd within 
 "His proper limits, leisure waits upon 
 
 us 
 "To help us to the recompence, decreed 
 "To our noble daring, who have set our- 
 selves 
 "In such high seats, as at our feet array 
 "The wealth, and power, and dignity of 
 
 Rome 
 "In absolute subjection ! Tyraimy ! 
 "How godlike is thy port ! Thou giv'st, 
 
 and tak'st, 
 "And ask'st no other leave, than what 
 
 thy own 
 "Imperial will accords. — Jove does no 
 
 more!" 
 
 Now, -Claudius — 
 
 [Enter Claudius] 
 
 Claudius. 
 
 feat ! 
 Appius. What_! The_,Deefimvirs fly 1 
 
Virginius 
 
 23 
 
 Claudius. The.saldieps-fi^'t 
 Wi th only h alf a heart. "iaia_other 
 
 half ~ 
 
 ' ' Looks on. and carfts Ti,9t yhioh aiHo 
 
 prflves the winneE^ 
 Appius. Then decimate them. 
 
 Traitors ! Recreants ! 
 Why, we shall have them at our very 
 
 doors ! 
 Have we lost ground, my Claudius? 
 
 CLAUDiUS:''T>rone, except 
 What we've£gtrao]^d in fame. We 
 
 strove fo teacti 
 The enemy their road lay backwards, 
 
 but 
 They would not turn their faces for us. 
 
 Bach 
 Retaiiia.Ma.former line. 
 
 [Enter Mabcus] 
 
 Appius. Whatjaews ? 
 
 Marcus. The fflqui 
 Still press upon us. Rumours are afloat 
 Of new disasters, which the common cry. 
 Be .sure, — still J iultipli es and swells. 
 
 That over-busy, crabbSd veteran. 
 Walks up and down among the people 
 
 maMng 
 Your plans his theme of laughter. 
 
 Naught he stints 
 That may reflect you in an odious light, 
 And lower the Decemvirate. 
 
 Appius. A dungeon 
 Would do good service to him! Once 
 
 within, 
 Strangling were easy! We must stop 
 
 his mouth — 
 " Unwholesoine food — or liquor" — 
 
 - WheEa_was he 
 When laal_yoBheard him? 
 Marcus" Krthe Forum. 
 Appius. So ! 
 He is past sgyvine, igTipnnt. ? Some way 
 To cleaar-4Ee city of him. Come, we'll 
 
 hear him. 
 And answer him, and silence him I 'Tis 
 
 well 
 The dog barks forth his spleen ; it puts 
 
 us on 
 Our guard against his bite. Come, to 
 
 the Forum ! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Fourth. — The Forum. 
 
 (Enter Dkntatus, Titus, Sehvius, and 
 Citizens] 
 
 Titus. What's to be done? 
 Dentatus. We'll be undone — 
 that's to be done.' ~ 
 
 Sebvius. We'U do away with the 
 Decemvirate. 
 
 Dentatus. Y mi'll do awa v with the 
 Decemvir ate ?.^r- The Decemvirate wiU 
 
 dn H.wav with y mi I Ynii'll do away 
 
 with yourselves! Do nothing. — The 
 enemy will do away with both of you. 
 In another mrathi_ a Roman will be a 
 stra^gS^^^«HElome. A~flne pass we are 
 co!ne_tai_Masters ! 
 
 Titus. T3ut something must be 
 done. 
 
 Dentatus. Why, what would you 
 have? You shout and clap your hands, 
 as if it were a victory ^ou heard of ; and 
 yet you cry — Something must be done ! 
 Truly, I Imow not what that something 
 is, unless it be to make you General. 
 How say you. Masters ? 
 
 Servius. We'd follow any man that 
 knew how to lead us ^^and w ould-rid-ug 
 of our foes, and the Decemvirate to- 
 gether. -— — — 
 
 Dentatus. You made these D enem- 
 virsJ — ¥eu are strangely discontented 
 with your own work! And you are 
 overcunning workmen, too. — You put 
 your materials so flrmly together, there's 
 no such thing as taking them asunder! 
 What you build, you build — except it 
 be for your own good. — There you are 
 bunglers at your craft. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I 
 cannot but laugh to think how you 
 toiled, and strained, and sweated, to 
 rear the stones of the building one 
 above another, when I see the sorry 
 faces you make at it ! 
 
 Titus. But tell us the news again. 
 
 Dentatus. Is it so good? Does it 
 so please vou? Then pr ick your ears 
 againj and listen. — -"^e have been 
 beaten again — beaten back on our 
 own soil. Rome has seen its haughty 
 masters fly before chastisement, like 
 slaves — returning cries for blows • — 
 and all this of your Decemvirs, gentle- 
 men. 
 
 1st Citizen. Huzza for it again ! 
 
 [The People shout] 
 
 2d Citizen. Hush ! Appius comes. 
 
 Dentatus. And do you care for 
 that-? You that -werei-just-now, within 
 a strid© of taking bim and his colleagues 
 by the throat? You^lLdoaway with 
 the Decemvirs^ill y ou? Snd let but 
 one of them appear, you dare not, for 
 your life, but keep your spleen within 
 your teeth ! Listen to me, now ! I'll 
 s peak the more for Ap pius — 
 
24 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Enter Appitjs, CLAtTDitrs, and Marcus, 
 preceded by Lictors] 
 
 I say,_to^he eternal infamy of Rome, 
 the foe has-chased hersong^^Ukg^hares, 
 on .their . oacnsoil, •wEOTe~~tEey~shoul(l 
 prey like lions — and so they would, 
 had they not keepers to tame them. 
 
 Appitts. What's that you are sajdng 
 to the people, Sicinius Dentatus ? 
 
 Dentatus. I am regaling them with 
 the news. 
 
 Appius. The news? 
 
 Dentatus. Ay, the news — • the 
 newest j^hat can be had ; and the more 
 novel, beoauseTi&kroked for. Who ever 
 thought to see the eagle in the talons of 
 the kite? 
 
 Appius. It is not well done in you, 
 Dent3Jaia,-to. ch afe a sOTe; — ftTnakes it 
 rankle. If your~sufgery has learned no 
 better, it should keep its hands to itself ! 
 You have very little to do, to busy your- 
 self after this fashion. 
 
 Dentatus. I busy myself as I like, 
 Appius Claudius. 
 
 Appius. I know you do, when you 
 labour to spread disaffection among the 
 people, and-ilfing the Decemvirs into 
 contempt. 
 
 Dentatus. The Decemvirs bring 
 th em^elves_into_c^]ifiSipt. 
 
 Appius^ HaT dareyou say so? 
 
 Dentatus [closer to him]. Dare! I 
 
 have dared cry, LiXiaiLB on!" to a 
 
 cohort pfjieaj^ded-^warriors — Is it thy 
 smooth face should appal me ? Dare ! 
 it never yet flurried me to use my arm 
 
 — Shall I not, think you, be at my 
 ease, when I but wag my tongue? 
 Dare, indeed ! 
 
 [Laughs contemptuously] 
 
 Appius. Your grey hairs should 
 keep company^withJiQiiester-aEeech ! 
 
 Dentatus^ SEalll show you, Ap- 
 pius, the company Jihey- are wont to 
 keep ? Look here ! and here ! [ Un- 
 covering his forehead, and showing scars] 
 These are the vouohereof honest deeds 
 
 — such is the speech with which my 
 grey hairs keep company. I tell you 
 to your teeth, the Decemvirs bring 
 themselves into contempt. 
 
 Appius. What, are they not serving 
 their country at the head of her armies ? 
 
 Dentatus. They'd serve her better 
 in the bodjr of her armies ! I'd name 
 for thee a hundred centurions iVould 
 make better generals. A common sol- 
 dier of a year's active service would 
 take his measures better. Generals ! 
 
 Our generals were wont to teach us 
 how to win battles. — Tactics are 
 changed — Your generals instruct us 
 how to lose theln. 
 
 Appius. D o vqu see my Jicttas.1 
 Dentatus. 'i4iEaa.EB-e twelve of them. 
 Appius. What, if I bid t hem se ize 
 
 thee? ■ ■ ' 
 
 Dentatus. The^^dJaijush-to-do it. 
 Appius. Why now, Dentatus, I be- 
 gin to know you ; 
 I fancied-you a man that lov'd to vent 
 His causeless anger in an under breath. 
 And speak it injlia ear ^- and only then 
 When-Jhere was safety ! Such a one, 
 
 yoirll own. 
 Is dangerous ; and, to be trusted as 
 A friend or foe, unworthy. But I see 
 You rail to faces. — Have you not so 
 
 much 
 Respect for Appius, as jiojakehim by 
 The handXw'hen he confeiies^you have 
 
 some 
 Pretence to quarrel with his colleagues' 
 
 plans. 
 And find fault with himself? Which, 
 
 yet you'll own. 
 May quite as well be kindly done, 
 
 Dentatus, 
 As harshly. — Had you only to myself 
 Declar'd your^discontents, the more you 
 
 had rail'd 
 The more I should have thank'd you. 
 Dentatus. Had I thought ■ — 
 Appius. Ani have you been cam- 
 paigning then so long. 
 And prosperously? and mistrust you, 
 
 Sicinius, 
 That a, young scarless soldier, like my- 
 self. 
 Would listen to your tutoring? See, 
 
 nowr 
 How much you have mistaken me! 
 
 Dentatus, 
 In a word^=^ ' 
 
 erals-? 
 Aiid_5dILsQU ? 
 
 Dentatus. I have all the will, — 
 
 but as ~"" — 
 
 For the ability — 
 
 Appius. Tut ! tut ! Dentatus, 
 You vex me now ! This coyness sits not 
 
 well on you. 
 You know, as well as I, you have as 
 
 much 
 Ability as will. I would not think you 
 A man that lov'd to find fault, but to 
 
 find fault ! 
 Surely, the evil you complain of, you 
 Would lend a hand to remedy ! See, 
 
 now, 
 
Virginius 
 
 25 
 
 'Tis fairly put to you — what say you? 
 
 Dbntatus. Appius ! 
 You may-uso m o a s-yeu-please ! 
 
 Appitrs. And that will be, 
 As you d eserve! I'll send you, as my 
 
 LeyuLe, 
 To the^ jroy. [Shout from the People] 
 Doyou hear your friends, Den- 
 tetus ? 
 A lucky omen, that ! Away ! away ! 
 Apprise your house — prepare for set- 
 ting out. 
 T'1 ] hurry .y .nj.ir c.reHeTitia.ls. — Minutes, 
 
 now, 
 Rate high as hours! Assist my col- 
 leagues with 
 Your counsel ; — if their plans displease 
 
 you, why 
 Correct them ! change them ! utterly 
 
 reject theml 
 And if you meet obstruction — notice 
 
 me, 
 And I wiU push it by. — There now ! 
 
 Your hand ! — 
 Again ! Away ! All the success attend 
 
 you. 
 That Appius wishes you ! 
 
 Dbntattts. Success is from 
 The gods, whose hand soe'er it pleases 
 
 them 
 To send it by. : — I know not what 
 
 ~STtccess , 
 
 'Tis Appius' wish they send ; — but 
 
 this I know, — 
 I am aTSiSldier ; and, as a soldier, I 
 AmJ)ound_to serve. All the success I 
 
 jjsk, ■ ■ 
 
 Ts tF5T -ff-Tiinti ^ftB^qfitifi TTiy ""imtr-r, 
 
 ^£Di»3- {Exit Ddntatus] 
 
 Appius. \Aside\ You have serv'd her 
 
 overlong ! — 
 
 Now for our causes. \A scends Tribunal] 
 
 Clauditts. [To Marcus] Do you see 
 
 the drift of this? 
 Marcus. I cannot guess it. 
 Claudius. Nor I. 
 Appius. [To a Plebeian] Are you the 
 suitor in this'cause? 
 Speak ! 
 
 Plebeian. Noble Appius, if there's 
 law in Rome 
 To right a man most injur'd, to that law 
 Against y on proud Patr ician I appeal. 
 Appius^ ivio rnore""^ that, I say! 
 Because he's rich 
 And great, you call him proud ! 'Tis 
 
 not unlike, 
 Brnvirin ynu'rn poor nind inriiiiHi ynu call 
 
 ^_ymrself 
 InjtJrar^-Hiebbte-ycKff-Btory; and, so 
 l ilease vou. 
 
 me a minute's 
 
 Spare epithets ! 
 Plebeian. Grant 
 pause, 
 I shall begin. 
 
 [Virginia at this moment grasses 
 the Stage with her Nurse, and 
 is met by Numitorius, who 
 holds her in conversation; 
 Appius rivets his eyes upon her] 
 
 Numitorius. You _Jiav«— beard the 
 
 newsf 
 
 Virginia. What news ? dear uncle 1 
 Numitorius. Step 
 Aside with me, IIlLteUjiou. 
 
 [Takes her a little farther from the 
 Tribunal] 
 
 Appius. Can it be 
 A mortal that I look upon ? 
 
 Virginia. They are safe ! 
 I thank_the_gods ! 
 
 Appiusr~Her' eyes look up to heaven, 
 Like something Hnd^'''^ to it — rather 
 
 made 
 To send their glances down, and fill the 
 
 earth 
 With worship and with gratulation — 
 
 What 
 >^ J^^r-m Tiirs np and d^wn my veins; 
 and all throughout me ! 
 Plebeian. Now, most noble Ap- 
 pius ! — 
 Appius. Stop ; 
 Put off the cause, I cannot hear it now ! 
 
 Attend to-ittorrow ! An oppressive 
 
 closeness 
 Allows me not to breathe — Lictors ! 
 
 make clear 
 The gr&ttnd about the Rostrum! 
 
 [Descends and approaches Claud- 
 ius with precipitation] 
 
 Claudius ! Claudius ! — 
 
 Marcus, go you and summon my 
 
 physician 
 To be at h ome before me. [Exit 
 
 Marcus] Ulaudlusl 
 Claudius ! there ! there ! 
 Virginia. You send 
 
 to-night ? 
 Appius. Paint me that 
 
 never saw a smile 
 Till now. My Claudius, is she not a 
 
 Wonder? 
 I know not whether in the state of girl- 
 hood 
 Or womanhood to call her. — 'Twixt the 
 
 two 
 She stands, as that were loth to lose her, 
 
 this 
 
 a messenger 
 
 smile ! I 
 
26 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 To win her most impatient. Tlie yDung 
 . year, 
 
 Trembling an d blu shing ' mids t the striv - 
 ing k isses 
 OP na.rfefT s pj-inp-, ^nrl TTiBfit.i nfr s umm er. 
 
 Her only parall el! 
 
 jSj umitorius. 'Tis well ! 
 
 i«F-wiDrd"ofth 
 
 I'll send 
 BTrrhave you 
 
 Your faj 
 Tlot 
 A message to Ioili«s ? 
 
 Appius. Mark you, Claudius? 
 There is_aJDlush ! — I must possess her. 
 
 Virginia. Tell him 
 I think upon him. — Farewell, Numi- 
 '^^t'ofius ! [Exit with Servia] 
 
 NuMiTOKitrs. Farewell, Virginia. 
 Claudius. Master, will you tell me 
 The namejjLthat young maiden ? 
 
 NuMiTORius. She is called 
 Virginia^ daughtfic-of-Virginius ; 
 A Roman citizen, and a centurion 
 In the army. 
 
 Claudius. Thank you ; she is very 
 like 
 The daughter of a friend of mine. Fare- 
 well. 
 NuMiTOKius. _J^ewell ! {Exit] 
 
 Appius. I iijirn, my Claudius ! brain 
 and heart — There's not 
 A fibre in my body but's on fire ! 
 With what a gait she moves ! Such was 
 
 not Hebe, 
 Or Jupiter had sooner lost his heaven. 
 Than changed his cup-bearer — a step 
 
 like that 
 The rapture glowing clouds might well 
 
 bear up, 
 And never take for human! Find me, 
 
 Claudius, 
 Some way to compass the possession of 
 her. 
 Claudius. 'Tis difftoult. — - Her 
 father's of repute ; 
 The highest of his class. 
 
 Appius. I guessed it ! Friends 
 Are ever friends, except when friends are 
 needed. 
 Claudius. Nay, Appius ! — 
 Appius. If thou can'st not give me 
 hope, 
 Be dumb ! 
 
 Claudius. A female agent may be 
 used 
 With some success. 
 
 Appius. How? How? 
 Claudius. To tamper with 
 That woman that attends her. 
 Appius. Set about it. 
 Claudius. Could she but be in- 
 due' d to help you to 
 
 A single meeting with her. 
 
 Appius. Claudius ! Claudius ! 
 Effect but that ! 
 
 Claudius. I'll instantly about it. 
 Appius. Spare not my gold — nor 
 stop at promises. 
 I will fulfil them fast as thou can'st 
 
 make them. 
 To purchase such a draught of extacy 
 I'd drain a kingdom ! — Set about it, 
 
 Claudius ! 
 Away ! I will not eat, nor drink, nor 
 
 sleep. 
 Until I hear from thee ! 
 
 Claudius. Depend upon me ! 
 Appius. I do, my Claudius, for my 
 life — my life ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally] 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene First. — Appius's House. 
 [Enter Appius] 
 
 Appius. It is not love, if what I've 
 
 felt before 
 And call'd by such a name, be love — a 
 
 thing 
 That took its turn — that I could enter- 
 tain. 
 Put off, or humour — 'tis some other 
 
 thing; 
 Or, if the same, why in some other 
 
 state — 
 Or I am not the same — or it hath 
 
 found 
 Some other part of sensibility 
 More quick, whereon to try its power, 
 
 and there 
 Expends it all! Now, Claudius, your 
 
 success ? 
 
 [Enter Claudius] 
 
 Claudius. Nothiftg would do, yet 
 nothing left undone ! 
 She was not to be purchas'd. 
 Appius. Did she guess — 
 Claudius. She could not. 
 So guarded was my agent ; who de- 
 
 scrib'd you 
 A man of power, of noble family. 
 And regal fortune — one that ask'd not 
 
 what 
 His pleasures cost — no further made 
 disclosure. 
 Appius. And did it nothing move 
 her, Claudius? 
 
Virginius 
 
 27 
 
 Clauditjs. Nothing. 
 The more my agent urg'd, the more the 
 
 shrunk 
 And wither'd hag grew callous ; further 
 
 press'd, 
 And with more urgent importuning, ire 
 And scorn, in imprecations and invec- 
 tives 
 Vented upon the monster (as she call'd 
 
 him) 
 That would pollute her child, compell'd 
 
 my advocate 
 To drop j(he suit she saw was hopeless. 
 
 Appius. Now 
 Had I a friend indeed ! 
 
 CLArDiTjs. Has Appius need 
 To search for such a friend, and Claudius 
 
 by him ? 
 Appius. Friends ever are provision- 
 ally friends — 
 Friends for so* far — Friends just to 
 
 such a point, 
 And then "farewell!" friends with an 
 
 understanding — 
 As should the road be pretty safe — the 
 
 sea 
 Not over-rough, and so on — friends of 
 
 ijs 
 And huts — no friends ! — Oh, could I 
 
 find the man 
 Would be a simple, thorough-going 
 
 friend ! 
 Clauditts. I thought you had one, 
 
 Appius. 
 Appius. So thought Appius, 
 Till Appius thought upon a test of 
 
 friendship. 
 He fears he would not give unto himself. 
 Could he be Appius' friend. 
 
 Claudius. Then Appius has 
 A truer friend than Appius is to Appius. 
 I'U give that test ! 
 Appius. What ! you'd remove her 
 
 father 
 
 And that Icilius whom you told me of? 
 
 Claudius. Count it as done. 
 
 Appius. My Claudius, is it true? 
 
 Can I believe it ? art thou such a friend. 
 
 That, when I look'd for thee to stop and 
 
 leave me, 
 I find thee keeping with me, step by 
 
 step; 
 And even in thy loving eagerness 
 Outstriding me? I do not want thee, 
 
 Claudius, 
 To soil thy hand with their plebeian 
 
 blood. 
 Claudius. What would'st thou, 
 
 then? 
 Appius. I was left guardian to 
 
 thee — 
 
 Claudius. Thou wast. 
 Appius. Amongst the various prop- 
 erty 
 Thy father left, were many female 
 
 Claudius. Well ? 
 
 Appius. It were easy for thee, (were 
 
 it not?) 
 To forge a tale that one of them con- 
 
 fess'd 
 She had sold a female infant (and of 
 
 course 
 Thy slave) unto Virginius' wife, who 
 
 pass'd it 
 Upon Virginius as his daughter, which 
 Supposititious offspring is this same 
 Virginia ? 
 
 Claudius. I conceive you. 
 Appius. To induce 
 The woman to confirm your tale, would 
 
 ask 
 But small persuasion. Is it done? 
 
 Claudius. This hour. 
 I know the school, my Appius, where 
 
 Virginia 
 Pursues her studies ; thither I'U repair 
 And seize her as my slave at once. Do 
 
 thou 
 Repair to thy tribunal, whither, should 
 Her friends molest me in the attempt, 
 
 I'll bring, her. 
 And plead my cause before thee. 
 Appius. Claudius ! Claudius ! 
 How shall I pay thee? Oh, thou noble 
 
 friend ! 
 Power, fortune, life, whate'er belongs to 
 
 Appius, 
 Reckon as thine ! Away, away, my 
 
 Claudius ! [Exeunt severally] 
 
 Scene Second. — A Street in Rome. 
 
 {Enter Lucius, meeting Titus, Servius, 
 and Cneius] 
 
 Lucius. WeU, Masters, any news of 
 Sicinius Dentatus from the camp, how 
 he was received by the Decemvirs? 
 
 Titus. He was received well by the 
 Decemvirs. 
 
 Cneius. It wasn't then for the love 
 they bear him. 
 
 Titus. But they expect he'll help 
 them to return the cuffs they have 
 gotten from the enemy. 
 
 Sebvius. Do you wish for a vic- 
 tory? 
 
 Lucius. Yes, if Dentatus wins it. 
 'Tis to our credit, Masters — He's one 
 of us. 
 
28 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Sbrvius. And is not Spurius Oppius 
 one of us ? 
 
 LtrciTTs. He is ; but he is in league 
 ■with the Patricians — "that is, the 
 patrician Decemvirs." He is but half 
 a Plebeian, and that is the worse half. 
 — "The better half he threw away when 
 he became half a Patrician." I never 
 lik'd your half-and-half gentry; they 
 generally combine the bad of both 
 kinds, without the good of either. 
 
 Seevitis. Well, we shaU have news 
 presently. Icilius, our late tribune, has 
 just arrived with despatches from the 
 camp. I met him passing through the 
 Forum., and asked him what news he 
 brought? He answered, none; but 
 added, we might look for news of 
 another kind than what we had been 
 lately aocustom.ed to hear. 
 
 [A shriek without] 
 
 Cnbius. What's that? 
 
 TlTUS. Look yonder. Masters ! 
 See! 
 
 Sbevius. 'Tis Appius's client, drag- 
 ging a young woman along with him. 
 
 TiTtrs. Let us stand by each other. 
 Masters, and prevent him. 
 
 [Enter Claudius, dragging along Vir- 
 ginia, followed by Sebvia, and others] 
 
 Sbhvia. Help! help! help! 
 Lucius. Let go your hold I 
 Claudius. Stand by I 
 She is my slave! 
 
 Sbrvia. His slave! Helpl help! 
 His slave ? — ■ 
 He looks more like a slave than she! 
 
 Good Masters ! 
 Protect the daughter of Virginius ! 
 Lucius. Release the maid. 
 Titus. Forbear this violence. 
 Claudius. I call for the assistance 
 of the laws ; 
 She is my slave. 
 
 Sbrvia. She is my daughter. Mas- 
 ters, 
 My foster-daughter; and her mother 
 
 was 
 A free-born woman — and her father is 
 A citizen, a Roman — good Virginius, 
 As I said before — Virginius, the Cen- 
 turion, 
 Whom all of you must know. — Help ! 
 
 help ! I say. 
 You see she cannot speak to help herself ; 
 Speak for her. Masters — ■ help her, if 
 you're men ! 
 Titus. Let go your hold. 
 Claudius. Obstruct me at your 
 peril. 
 
 Lucius. We'll make you, if you will 
 
 not. 
 Claudius. Let me pass. 
 Servius. Let go your hold, once 
 
 more. 
 Claudius. Good Masters! pa- 
 tience ! — ■ 
 Hear me, I say — She is my slave — I 
 
 wish not 
 To use this violence, my friends ; but 
 
 may not 
 A master seize upon his slave ? — ■ Make 
 
 Or such of you as are dissatisfied. 
 Repair with me to the Decemvir. — 
 
 Come, 
 I only want my right. 
 
 Titus'. Come on, then! 
 
 Sbrvius. Ay, 
 To the Decemvir ! 
 
 Sbrvia. Run, run for Numitorius — 
 alarm our neighbours ! — Call out 
 Icilius' s friends ! — I shall go mad ! 
 Help! help! help! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Third. — The Forum. 
 [Enter Appius, preceded hy Lictors] 
 
 Appius. Will he succeed ? — Will he 
 
 attempt it? — Will he 
 Go through with it ? — [Looks out] No 
 
 sign — I almost wish 
 He had not undertaken it ; yet wish 
 More than I wish for life, he may ac- 
 complish 
 What he has undertaken. Oh ! the 
 
 pause 
 That precedes action ! It is vacancy 
 That o'erweighs action's substance. 
 
 What I fear 
 Is, that his courage can't withstand her 
 
 tears; 
 That wiU be sure to try and succour 
 
 her. 
 Pointing, as 'twere, to every charm, and 
 
 pleading 
 With melting eloquence. I hear a sound 
 As of approaching clamour — and the 
 
 rush 
 Of distant feet — He comes ! I must 
 
 prepare 
 For his reception. 
 
 [Ascends the Tribunal] 
 
 [Claudius enters, still holding Vir- 
 ginia, followed by Sbrvia, Women, 
 and Citizens] 
 
 Claudius. Do not press upon me; 
 Here's the Decemvir — he wiU satisfy 
 you, 
 
Virginius 
 
 29 
 
 Whether a master has a right or not 
 To seize his slave when he finds her. 
 
 Servia. She is no slave 
 Of thine ! She never was a slave ! 
 
 Thou slave! 
 To call her by that name — Ay ! 
 
 threaten me! 
 She is a free-born maid, and not a slave, 
 Or never was a free-born maid in Rome ! 
 Oh ! you shall dearly answer for it ! 
 
 Appitjs. Peace ! 
 What quarrel's this? Speak, those who 
 
 are aggriev'd. 
 
 [Enter NrMiTOBius] 
 
 NuMiTOBius. Where is Virginia? 
 
 Wherefore do you hold 
 That maiden's hand? 
 
 Clatjditts. Who asks the question? 
 NiJMiTOBius. I! Her uncle Numi- 
 
 torius ! 
 Olatjdius. Numitorius, you think 
 
 yourself her uncle — ■ Numitorius, 
 No blood of yours flows in her veins, to 
 
 give you 
 The title you would claim. Most noble 
 
 Appius ! 
 If you sit here for justice — as I think 
 You do, attend not to the clamour of 
 This man, who calls himself this damsel's 
 
 uncle. 
 She is my property — ■ was born beneath 
 My father's roof, whose slave her mother 
 
 was. 
 Who (as I can establish past dispute) 
 Sold her an infant to Virginius' wife. 
 Who never had a child, and heavily 
 Revolv'd her barrenness. My slave I 
 
 have found 
 And seiz'd — as who that finds his own 
 
 (no matter 
 How long so ever miss'd) should fear to 
 
 take it? 
 If they oppose my claim, they may pro- 
 duce 
 Their counter-proofs, and bring the 
 
 cause to trial! 
 But till they prove mine own is not mine 
 
 own — 
 (An undertaking somewhat perilous) 
 Mine own I shall retain — yet giving 
 
 them. 
 Should they demand it, what security 
 They please, for re-producing her. 
 
 Appitjs. Why, that 
 Would be but reasonable. 
 
 Numitorius. Reasonable ! 
 Claudius ! — 
 
 [With much vehemence — recollects 
 himself] 
 
 He's but a mask upon the face 
 
 Of some more jjowerful contriver. — ■ 
 
 [Aside] Appius, 
 My niece's father is from Rome, thou 
 
 know'st, 
 Serving his country. Is it not unjust, 
 In the absence of a citizen, to suffer 
 His right to his own child to be dis- 
 puted? 
 Grant us a day to fetch Virginius, 
 That he himself may answer this most 
 
 foul 
 And novel suit — Meanwhile to me 
 
 belongs 
 The custody of the maid — her uncle's 
 
 house 
 Can better answer for her honour than 
 The house of Claudius. 'Tis the law of 
 
 Rome, 
 Before a final sentence, the defendant 
 In his possession is not to sustain 
 Disturbance from the plaintiff. 
 Titus. A just law. 
 Sbrvius. And a most reasonable de- 
 mand. 
 All the Citizens. Ay ! Ay ! Ky ! 
 Appius. Silence, you Citizens ; will 
 you restrain 
 Your tonnes, and give your magistrate 
 
 permission 
 To speak? The law is just — most 
 
 reasonable — 
 I fram'd that law myself — I wiR protect 
 That law ! 
 
 "Titus. Most noble Appius ! 
 "Sbrvius. A most just decree ! 
 "All T^E Citizens. Ay! Ay! 
 "Appius. Will you be silent? Will 
 you please to wait 
 "For my decree, you most untractable 
 "And boisterous citizens! I do repeat 
 
 it," 
 I framed that law myseU, and will pro- 
 tect it. 
 But are you, Numitorius, here de- 
 fendant? 
 That title, none but the reputed father 
 Of the young woman has a right to — 
 
 How 
 Can I commit to thee what may appear 
 The plaintiff's property ; and, if not his, 
 StiU IS not thine ? I'U give thee till to- 
 morrow 
 Ere I pass a final judgment — But the 
 
 girl 
 Remains with Claudius, who shall bind 
 
 hiinseU 
 In such security as you require. 
 To re-produce her at the claim of him 
 Who calls her daughter. This is my 
 decree. 
 
30 
 
 Representative BritisK Dramas 
 
 NuMiTORitFS. A foul decree. — 
 
 Shame ! shame ! 
 Servitts. Aye, a most foul decree. 
 Cneitjs. a villainous decree. 
 Servius. Most villainous. 
 Servia. Good Citizens, what do you 
 with our weapons, 
 When you should use your own ? Your 
 
 hands ! — ■ your hands ! — ■ 
 He shall not take her from us. 
 Gather round her. 
 
 And if he touch her, be it to his cost ; 
 And if ye see him touch her, never more 
 Expect from us your titles — never more 
 Be husbands, brothers, lovers, at our 
 
 mouths. 
 Or any thing that doth imply the name 
 Of men — except such men as men 
 should blush for. 
 Appius. Command your wives and 
 daughters. Citizens, 
 They quit the Forum. 
 
 Servia. They shall not command us, 
 That care not to protect us. 
 
 Appius. Take the girl, 
 If she is yours. 
 
 Claudius. Stand by. 
 
 Virginia. Oh, help me! help me! 
 
 [Enter IciLius] 
 
 IciLius. Virginia's voice ! Virginia ! 
 [Rushes to her] 
 Virginia. Oh, Icilius ! 
 
 [Falls fainting in his arms] 
 TciLius. Take her, good Numitorius. 
 Appius. You had better 
 Withdraw, Icilius ; the affair is judged. 
 Claudius. I claim my slave. 
 Icilius. Stand back, thou double 
 slave ! 
 Touch her, and I will tear thee, limb 
 
 from limb, 
 Before thy master's face. — She is my 
 
 wife. 
 My life, my heart, my heart's blood. — ■ 
 
 Touch her 
 With but a look — 
 
 Appius. My Lictors, there, advance ! 
 See that Icilius quits the Forum. — 
 
 Claudius, 
 Secure your slave. 
 
 Icilius. Lictors, a moment pause, 
 For your own sakes. Do not mistake 
 
 these arms ; 
 Think not the strength of any common 
 
 man 
 Is that they feel. They serve a charmSd 
 
 frame, 
 The which a power pervades, that ten 
 
 times trebles 
 The natural energy of each single nerve, 
 
 To sweep you down as reeds. 
 Appius. Obey my orders ! 
 Icilius. Appius ! before I quit the 
 
 Forum, let me 
 Address a word to you. 
 Appius. Be brief, then ! 
 Icilius. Is't not enough you have 
 
 depriv'd us, Appius, 
 Of the two strongest bulwarks to our 
 
 liberties. 
 Our tribunes, and our privilege of appeal 
 To the assembly of the people? Can- 
 not 
 The honour of the Roman maids be 
 
 safe? 
 Thou know'st this virgin is betroth'd to 
 
 me. 
 Wife of my hope — Thou shalt not cross 
 
 my hope. 
 And I retain my life — attempt it 
 
 not! — 
 I stand among my feUow-citizens, 
 His fellow-soldiers hem Virginius round, 
 Both men and gods are on our side ; but 
 
 grant 
 I stood alone, with nought but virtuous 
 
 love 
 To hearten me — ■ alone would I defeat 
 The execution of thy infamous 
 Decree ! I'U quit the Forum now, but 
 
 not 
 Alone — my love ! — my wife ! my free- 
 born maid — ■ 
 The virgin standard of my pride and 
 
 manhood, 
 "Of peerless motto! — rich, and fresh, 
 
 and shining, 
 "And of device most rare and 
 
 glorious" — 
 I'll bear ofl safe with me — unstain'd — 
 
 untouch' d ! 
 Appius. Your duty, Lictors ! — 
 
 Claudius, look to your right. 
 Icilius. True citizens ! 
 Titus. Down with the traitor! 
 Servius. Down with him — s 
 
 him! 
 
 [The Lictors and Claudius are 
 driven back; Claudius takes 
 refuge at Appius' s feet, who has 
 descended, and throws up his 
 arms as a signal to both parties 
 to desist — whereupon the people 
 retire a little] 
 
 Appius. So, friends ! we thank yovi 
 that you don't deprive us 
 
 Of every thing; but leave your magis- 
 trates, 
 
 At least their persons, sacred — their 
 decrees, 
 
Virginius 
 
 31 
 
 It seems, you value as you value straws, 
 And in like manner break them. 
 
 Wherefore stop. 
 When you have gone so far? You 
 
 might, methinks, 
 As well have kill'd my client at my feet, 
 As threaten him with death before my 
 
 face! 
 Rise, Claudius ! I perceive Icilius' 
 
 aim; — 
 He labours to restore the tribuneship 
 By means of a sedition. We'll not give 
 
 him 
 The least pretence of quarrel. We shall 
 
 wait 
 Virginius's arrival till to-morrow. 
 His friends take care to notice him — ■ 
 
 The camp's 
 But four hours' journey from the city. 
 
 TiU 
 To-morrow, then, let me prevail with 
 
 you 
 To yield up something of your right, and 
 
 let 
 The girl remain at liberty. 
 
 CiiAOTius. If they ' 
 Produce security for her appearance, 
 I am content. 
 
 TiTrs. I'll be your security. 
 Servius. And I. 
 
 Citizens. We'U all be your security. 
 [They hold up their hands] 
 Icilius. My friends. 
 And fellow-citizens, I thank you ; but 
 Reserve your kindness for to-morrow, 
 
 friends. 
 If Claudius still persist — To-day, I 
 
 hope. 
 He will remain content with my security, 
 And that of Numitorius, for the maid's 
 Appearance. 
 
 Appitrs. See she do appear ! — and 
 
 come 
 Prepar'd to pay the laws more reverence. 
 As I shall surely see that they receive 
 
 it. 
 
 [Exeunt Appiits, Olauditts, and 
 
 LiCTORS] 
 
 IciLitrs. Look up ! look up ! my 
 sweet Virginia, 
 Look up ! look up ! you will see none but 
 
 friends. 
 Oh, that such eyes should e'er meet other 
 prospects ! 
 Virginia. Icilius ! Uncle ! lead me 
 home ! Icilius, 
 You did not think to take a slave to 
 wife! — 
 Icilius. I thought, and think to wed 
 a free-born maid ; 
 
 And thou, and thou alone, art she, 
 
 Virginia ! 
 Virginia. I feel as I were so ■ — ^ I do 
 
 not think 
 I am his slave! Virginius not my 
 
 father I 
 Virginius, my dear father, not my 
 
 father ! 
 It cannot be; my life must come from 
 
 him; 
 For, make him not my father, it wiU 
 
 go 
 From me. — I could not hve, an he were 
 
 not 
 My father. 
 
 Icilius. Dear Virginia, calm thy 
 
 thoughts — 
 But who shall warn Virginius? 
 
 NuMiTOHiuB. I've ta'en care 
 Of that ; no sooner heard I of this claim, 
 'Than I despatch' d thy brother Lucius, 
 Together with my son, to bring Vir- 
 ginius, 
 With all the speed they could; and 
 
 caution' d them 
 (As he is something over quick of 
 
 temper, 
 And might snatch justice, rather than 
 
 sue for it,) 
 To evade communication of the cause, 
 And merely say his presence was re- 
 quired. 
 Till we should have him with us. 
 
 Come, Virginia; 
 Thy uncle's house shall guard thee, tiU 
 
 thou find' St 
 Within thy father's arms a citadel. 
 Whence Claudius cannot take thee. 
 
 Icilius. He shall take 
 A thousand Uves first. 
 
 Titus. Ay, ten thousand Uves. 
 Icilius. Hear you, Virginia ! Do 
 
 you hear your friends? 
 Virginia. Let him take my life first, 
 
 I am content 
 To be his slave then — if I am his slave. 
 Icilius. Thou art_ a free-born 
 
 Roman maid, Virginia ; 
 All Rome doth know thee so, Virginia — 
 All Rome will see thee so. 
 Citizens. We will ! we wiU ! 
 Icilius. You'll meet us here to- 
 morrow ? 
 Citizens. All! all! 
 Icilius. Cease not to clamour 'gainst 
 
 this outrage. Tell it 
 In every corner of the city ; and 
 Let no man call himself a son of Rome, 
 Who stands aloof when tyranny assails 
 Her fairest daughter. Come, Virginia, 
 'Tis not a private, but a common wrong ; 
 
32 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 'Tis every father's, lover's, freeman's 
 
 cause ; 
 To-morrow! fellow citizens, to-morrow! 
 Citizens. To-morrow ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally] 
 
 Scene Fourth. — The Camp. 
 
 [Enter S. Oppius and Q. P. Vibtjlanus] 
 
 Oppitrs. Has he set out? 
 ViBiTLANus. He has, my Oppius, 
 And never to return! His guard's in- 
 structed 
 To take good care of him. There's not a 
 
 man 
 But's ten times sold to us, and of our 
 
 wishes 
 Fully possess'd. Dentatus will no more 
 Obstruct us in our plans. He did not 
 
 like 
 The site of our encampment. He will 
 
 find 
 At least the air of it was wholesome. 
 
 Oppitts. What 
 Report are they instructed to bring 
 
 back? 
 Vibtjlanus. They fell into an am- 
 bush. — He was slain. 
 Oppius. But should the truth, by 
 
 any means, come out. 
 ViBULANUS. Imprison them, and 
 
 secretly despatch them, 
 Or ope the dungeon doors, and let 
 
 them 'scape. 
 Oppius. I should prefer the latter 
 
 method. 
 ViBULANUS. Well, 
 That be our choice. But when it is 
 
 determined 
 To spill blood otherwise than as it may 
 Be spill'd, to hesitate about some drops 
 Is weakness, may be fatal. — Come, my 
 
 friend, 
 Let us be seen about the camp, and 
 
 ready. 
 With most admiring ear, to catch the 
 
 tidings, 
 Will be the wonder of all ears but ours. 
 Here's one anticipates us ! 
 
 [Enter Marcus] 
 
 Well, your news? 
 
 Marcus. Dentatus is no more! but 
 he has dearly sold his life. The matter 
 has been reported as you directed. By 
 few it is received with credence — by 
 many with doubt ; while some bold 
 spirits stop not at muttering, but 
 loudly speak suspicion of foul play. A 
 
 party that we met, a mile beyond the 
 lines, no sooner heard our story, than 
 they set off to bring the body to the 
 camp. Others have followed them. 
 Pabius, we have your gage for safety. 
 ViBULANUS. You have. — Come, let 
 
 us show ourselves. — Guilt hides. 
 And we must wear the port of innocence. 
 That more than half way meets accusal. 
 
 — Come. [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Fifth. — A Mountainous Pass. 
 — ■ The body of Dentatus discovered 
 on a bier. — Soldiers mourning over it. 
 Trumpets] 
 
 [Enter Virginius and Soldiers] 
 
 ViRGiNius. Where is Dentatus? 
 Where is the gallant soldier? 
 Ah, Comrade ! Comrade ! warm ! yet 
 
 warm ! So lately 
 Gone, when I would have given the 
 
 world, only 
 To say farewell to thee, or even get 
 A parting look! O gallant, gallant 
 
 soldier, 
 The god of war might sure have spar'd 
 
 a head 
 Grown grey in serving him ! My brave 
 
 old comrade ! 
 The father of the field ! Thy silver locks 
 Other anointing should receive, than 
 
 what 
 Their masters' blood could furnish ! 
 1st Soldier. There has been treach- 
 ery here ! 
 Virginius. What ! 
 1st Soldier. The slain are all our own. 
 None of the bodies are stripp'd — These 
 are aU Romans. There is not the slight- 
 est trace of an enemy's retreat — And 
 now I remember, they made a sudden 
 halt when we came in sight of them at 
 the foot of the mountain. — ^ Mark'd 
 you not, too, with what confused haste 
 they told their story, directed us, and 
 hurried on to the camp ? 
 
 Virginius. Revenge ! The Decem- 
 virs ! Aye, the Decemvirs ! 
 For every drop of blood thou shalt have 
 
 ten, 
 Dentatus ! 
 
 Lucius. What, hoa ! Virginius ! 
 
 Virginius ! 
 Virginius. Here ! here ! 
 
 [Enter Lucius] 
 
 Lucius. 'Tis well you're found, Vir- 
 ginius! 
 
Virginius/ 
 
 33 
 
 ViEGiNiTJs. What makes you from 
 
 the city ? Look ! 
 My Lucius, what a sight you've come to 
 
 witness. 
 My brave old comrade ! Honest 
 
 Sicinius ! 
 "Sioinius Dentatus, that true son of 
 
 Rome, 
 "On whose white locks the mother 
 
 look'd more proudly 
 "Than on the raven ones of her youngest 
 
 and 
 "Most hopeful sons, is nothing now but 
 
 this, 
 "The sign and token of himself!" 
 
 Look, comrades. 
 Here are the foes have slain him ! Not 
 
 a trace 
 Of any other — not a body stripp'd — 
 Our father has been murdered — We'll 
 
 revenge him 
 Like sons ! Take up the body ! Bear 
 
 it to 
 The camp ; and as you move your 
 
 solemn march. 
 Be dumb — or if you speak, be it but a 
 
 word; 
 And be that word — Revenge ! 
 
 [The Soldiers hear off the body. — 
 ViEGiNitrs, following, is stopped 
 hy Lucius] 
 
 Lucius. Virginius ! 
 Virginius. I did not mind thee, 
 Lucius ! 
 Uncommon things make common things 
 
 forgot. 
 Hast thou a message for me, Lucius? 
 
 Well! 
 I'U stay and hear it — but be brief ; my 
 
 heart 
 Follows my poor Dentatus. 
 
 Lucius. You are wanted 
 In Rome. 
 Virginius. On what account? 
 Lucius. On your arrival 
 You'll learn. j 
 
 Virginius. How! is it something 
 can't be told 
 At once ? Speak out, boy ! Ha ! your 
 
 looks are loaded 
 With matter — Is't so heavy that your 
 
 tongue 
 Cannot unburden them? Your brother 
 
 left 
 The camp on duty yesterday — hath 
 
 ought 
 Happen'd to him? Did he arrive in 
 
 safety ? 
 Is he safe? Is he well? 
 Lucius. He is both safe and well. 
 
 Virginius. What then? What 
 then ? Tell me the matter, Lucius. 
 
 Lucius. I have said 
 It shall be told you. 
 
 Virginius. Shall ! I stay not for 
 That shall ; unless it be so close at hand, 
 It stop me not a moment. — 'Tis too long 
 A coming. Fare you well, my Lucius. 
 
 Lucius. Stay, 
 Virginius. — Hear me, then, with pa- 
 tience. 
 
 Virginius. Well, 
 I am patient. 
 
 Lucius. Your Virginia — 
 
 Virginius. Stop, my Lucius, 
 I am cold in every member of my 
 
 frame ! 
 If 'tis prophetic, Lucius, of thy news ; 
 Give me such token as her tomb would, 
 
 Lucius — 
 I'll bear it better. — Silence. 
 
 Lucius. You are still — 
 
 Virginius. I thank thee, Jupiter! 
 I am still a father ! 
 
 Lucius. You are, Virginius, yet — 
 
 Virginius. What, is she sick? 
 
 Lucius. No. 
 
 Virginius. Neither dead nor sick? 
 All well? No harm? 
 Nothing amiss ? Each guarded quarter 
 
 That fear may lay him down and sleep 
 
 and yet 
 This sounding the alarm ! I swear 
 
 thou tell'st 
 A story strangely. — Out with't I I 
 
 have patience 
 For any thing, since my Virginia lives, 
 And lives in health ! 
 
 Lucius. You are requir'd in Rome, 
 To answer a most novel suit. 
 Virginius. Whose suit? 
 Lucius. The suit of Caius Claudius. 
 Virginius. Claudi.us ! 
 Lucius. Him that's client 
 To Appius Claudius, the Decemvir. 
 
 Virginius. What ! 
 That pander ! Ha I Virginia ! you ap- 
 pear 
 To couple them. What makes my fair 
 
 Virginia 
 In company with Claudius? Inno- 
 cence 
 Beside lasciviousness ! His suit! 
 
 What suit? — 
 Answer me quickly! — Quickly! lest 
 
 suspense, 
 Beyond what patience can endure, coerc 
 
 ing. 
 Drive reason from his seat ! 
 
 Lucius. He has claim' d Virginia. 
 
34 
 
 Representaiive British Dramas 
 
 ViRGiNius. Claim'd her! Claim'd 
 
 her! 
 On what pretence? 
 
 Ltroius. He says she is the child 
 Of a slave of his, who sold her to thy 
 
 wife. 
 ViEGiNius. Go on, you see I'm calm. 
 Lucius. He seiz'd her in 
 The school, and dragg'd her to the 
 
 Porum, where 
 Appius was giving judgment. 
 
 Virgin lus. Dragged her to 
 The Forum! Well? — I told you, 
 
 Lucius, 
 I would be patient. 
 
 Lucius. Numitorius there con- 
 fronted him I 
 ViRGiNiTJs. Did he not strike him 
 
 dead? 
 True, true, I know it was in presence of 
 The Decemvir — • Oh ! had I confronted 
 
 him ! 
 Well ! well ! The issue — Well ! — O'er- 
 
 leap all else. 
 And light upon the issue ! Where is she ? 
 Lucius. I was despatoh'd to fetch 
 
 thee, ere I could learn. 
 ViHGiNius. The claim of Claudius — 
 
 Appius's client — Ha ! 
 I see the master cloud — this ragged one. 
 That lowers before, moves only in sub- 
 servience 
 To the ascendant of the other — Jove 
 With its own mischief, break it, and 
 
 disperse it. 
 And that be all the ruin ! Patience ! 
 
 Prudence ! 
 Nay, prudence, but no patience. — 
 
 Come ! a slave, 
 Dragg'd through the streets in open 
 
 day I my child ! 
 My daughter ! my fair daughter, in the 
 
 eyes 
 Of Rome ! Oh ! I.'ll be patient. Come ! 
 
 The essence 
 Of my best blood in the free common ear 
 Condemn'd as vile ! Oh ! I'U be patient. 
 
 Come, 
 Oh, they shall wonder. — I will be so 
 
 patient ! [Exeunt] 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT 
 
 ACT IV 
 Scene First. — Numitoeius's House. 
 
 [Virginia discovered, supported by 
 Sehvia] 
 
 Virginia. Is he not yet arriv'd? 
 WiU he not come? 
 
 Sbrvia. He surely will. 
 
 Virginia. He surely wiU! More 
 
 surely 
 He had arriv'd already, had he known 
 How he is wanted — "They have miss'd 
 
 him, Servia ! 
 "Don't tell me, but I know they have, 
 
 or surely 
 "We had not now been looking for 
 
 him." Where's 
 My uncle ? 
 
 Servia. Finding you had fallen 
 
 asleep 
 After such watching, he went forth to 
 
 hear 
 If there were any tidings of Viiginius. 
 He's here. 
 
 [Enter Numitorius. — Virginia looks 
 at him inquisitively, for some time] 
 
 Virginia. Not come ! not come ! I 
 
 am sure of it ! 
 He will not come ! Do you not think 
 
 he'll come? 
 Will not my father come ? What think 
 
 you, uncle? 
 Speak to me, speak — Oh, give me any 
 
 words, 
 Rather than what looks utter. 
 Numitorius. Be compos'd ! 
 I hope he'U come ! 
 
 Virginia. A little while ago 
 You were sure of it — from certainty to 
 
 hope 
 Is a poor step ; you hope he'U come — 
 
 One hope, 
 One little hope to face a thousand 
 
 fears ! 
 "Do you not know he'll come? Oh, 
 
 uncle, wherefore 
 "Do you not know he'll come? Had I 
 
 been you, 
 "I had made sure of it. 
 
 "Numitorius. All has been done 
 "That could be done. 
 
 Virginia. "Poor all that does so 
 
 little I 
 ' ' One would imagine little needs be done 
 "To bring a father to the succour of 
 "His child!" 'Tis near the time! 
 Numitorius. It is indeed ! 
 Virginia. Must I go forth with you ? 
 
 Must I again 
 Be dragg'd along by Claudius as his 
 
 slave. 
 And none again to succour me ? Icilius ! 
 loilius ! Does your true betroth&d wife 
 Call on you, and you hear not? My 
 
 Icilius ! 
 Am I to be your wife or Claudius' slave ? 
 Where — where are :you, Icilius ? 
 
Virginius 
 
 35 
 
 [Enter Icilitjs] 
 
 IciLius. My Virginia ! 
 What's to be done, my friend? 'tis 
 almost tim.e. 
 
 [To NUMITOEIUS] 
 
 Virginia. I hear what you are say- 
 ing — it is time — 
 "Oh, who could have believed it, that 
 
 Icilius 
 "Should ever say 'twas time to yield me 
 
 to 
 "Another's claim." — And will you give 
 
 me up? 
 Can you devise no means to keep me 
 
 from him? 
 Could we not fly? 
 
 [Icilitjs looks earnestly at Numi- 
 TOHiTTS, who fixes his eyes stead- 
 fastly on the ground; Icilitjs 
 droops his head] 
 
 1 see ! — Your pledge 
 
 Must be redeem'd, although it cost you 
 
 your 
 Virginia. 
 
 YiRQiNi-nB [mthoui]. Is she here?' 
 
 Virginia. Ah ! 
 
 [Shrieks and rushes into her father's 
 arms, who enters at the moment] 
 
 Virginius. My child ! my child ! 
 Virginia. I am ! I feel I am ! I know 
 
 I am! 
 My father ! my dear father ! "I de- 
 
 spair'd 
 "Of seeing you!" You're come! and 
 
 come in time. 
 And, oh ! how much the more in time, 
 
 when hope 
 Had given you up. "Oh! welcome, 
 
 welcome foot, 
 "Whose wishSd step is heard when least 
 
 expected!" 
 Virginius. Brother ! Icilius ! thank 
 
 you ! thank you — All 
 Has been oommunioated to me. Ay ! 
 And would they take thee from me? 
 
 Let them try it ! 
 You've ta'en yotir measures well — I 
 
 scarce could pass 
 Along, so was I cheok'd by loving hands 
 Ready to serve me. Hands with hearts 
 
 in them ! 
 So thou art Claudius' slave? And if 
 
 thou art, 
 I'm surely not thy father! Blister'd 
 
 villain ! 
 You have warn'd our neighbours, have 
 
 you not, to attend 
 As witnesses ? To be sure you have. A 
 
 fool 
 
 To ask the question ! Dragg'd along 
 
 the streets, too ! 
 'Twas very kind in him to go himself 
 And fetch thee — such an honour should 
 
 not pass 
 Without acknowledgment. I shall re- 
 turn it 
 In fuU ! In full ! 
 NuMiTOEius. Pray you be prudent, 
 
 brother. 
 Virginia. Dear father, be advis'd — 
 
 Will you not, father? 
 Virginius. I never saw you look so 
 like your mother 
 In all my life ! 
 Virginia. You'U be advis'd, dear 
 
 father? 
 Virginius. It was her soul — her 
 sotiL-that-play a just then 
 About the features of her chi ld, and lit 
 ' them ' ' 
 
 Into th e likeness of her own . WTipn firs t. ^ 
 S ^ plac'd tJiee lil rny 3.1711 s — r rapnllAnt 
 
 It 
 As_a, thing o£ 
 
 .ahe_s.aid. 
 That it had been 
 
 It was the mother of a race of men. 
 And paid her for thee with a kiss. Her 
 
 hps 
 Are cold now — coijld they but be 
 
 warm'd again, 
 How they would clamour for thee ! 
 
 Virginia. My dear father, 
 You do not answer me ! Will you not 
 be advis'd? 
 Virginius. I will not take him by 
 the throat and strangle him ! 
 But I could do it ! I could do it ! Fear 
 
 not: 
 I will not strike while any head I love 
 Is in the way. It is not now a time 
 To tell thee — but, would'st thou be- 
 lieve it ! — honest 
 Sicinius Dentatus has been murder'd by 
 them. 
 Icilius. Murder'd ! 
 NuMiTOHius. Dentatus murder'd I 
 Virginia. Oh ! how much 
 Have we to fear. 
 
 Virginius. We have the less to fear. 
 I spread the news at every step — A fire 
 Is kindled, that will blaze at but a 
 
 breath 
 Into the fiercest flame ! 
 
 NuMiTOBius. 'Tis time. Let's haste 
 To the Forum. 
 
 Virginius. Let the Forum wait for 
 us ! 
 Put on no show of fear, when villainy 
 
Representative British Dramas 
 
 Tould wrestle with you ! It can keep 
 
 its feet 
 
 'Oaly with cowards! I shall walk along 
 Slowly and calmly, with my daughter 
 
 thus 
 In my hand : though with another kind 
 
 of gripe 
 Than that which Claudius gave her. 
 
 Well, I say, 
 I'll walk along thus, in the eyes of Rome. 
 Go you before, and what appeal soe'er 
 You please, make you to rouse up 
 
 friends. For me, 
 I shall be mute — my eloquence is 
 
 here — 
 Her tears — • her youth — her innocence 
 
 — her beauty. 
 If orators like these can't move the 
 
 heart, , 
 
 Tongues surely may be dumb. 
 IciLius. A thousand hearts 
 Have spoke already in her cause ! 
 
 ViRGiNius. Come on ! 
 Fear not ! it is your father's grasp you 
 
 fed. 
 Oh, he'll be strong as never man was, 
 
 that 
 Will take thee from it. Come, Vir- 
 ginia; 
 We trust our cause to Rome and to the 
 
 gods ! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Second. — The Forum. 
 
 [Enter Appius and Lictors] 
 
 Appius. See you keep back the 
 people ! Use your fasces 
 
 With firmer hands, or hearts. Your 
 hands are firm 
 
 Enough, would but your hearts perform 
 their office, 
 
 "And leave your hands at liberty, not 
 
 "Upon them with unseemly fears and 
 clamours !" 
 
 Look to it! "Time! hadst thou the 
 theme that I have 
 
 "For speed, thou would'st not move 
 this cripple's gait : 
 
 "But there's no urging thee, and thou 
 wast ever 
 
 "Dull fellow traveller to young Im- 
 patience, 
 
 "Dragging him back upon the road he 
 pants 
 
 "To run, but cannot find without thee." 
 
 [Enter Marcus] 
 Well? 
 
 Marcus. News has arriv'd, that 
 speaks as if Dentatus 
 
 Was murder'd by the order of your 
 
 colleagues ! 
 There's not a face I meet but lowers with 
 
 it: 
 The streets are fiU'd with thronging 
 
 groups, that, as 
 You pass,, grow silent, and look sullen 
 
 round on you. 
 Then fall again to converse. 
 Appius. 'Tis ill tim'd. 
 Marcus. What say you, Appius ? 
 Appius. Murder's iU tim'd, I say. 
 Happen when 'twiU ; but now is most ill 
 
 tim'd. 
 When Rome is in a ferment, on account 
 Of Claudius, and this girl he calls his 
 
 slave ; 
 "For come when evil will, or how it will, 
 "All's laid to oiir account!" Look out 
 
 and see 
 If Claudius be approaching yet. 
 
 [Exit Marcus] 
 "My wish, 
 "Like an of&cious friend, comes out of 
 
 time 
 "To tell me of success. I had rather far 
 ".It had miscarried — they run liigh 
 
 enough ; 
 "They wanted not this squall on squall 
 
 to raise them 
 "Above their present swell — the waves 
 
 run high 
 "Enough, through which we steer: — 
 
 but such a haven, 
 "If won, can never be too dearly won!" 
 Marcus [entering]. Claudius is here ! 
 
 [Enter Claudius] 
 
 Appius. Well, Claudius, are the 
 forces 
 At hand? 
 
 Claudius. They are, and timely, 
 too ; the people 
 Are in unwonted ferment. 
 Appius. I have heard 
 Word has arriv'd of old Dentatus' death ; 
 Which, as I hear, and wonder not to hear 
 
 it. 
 The mutinous citizens lay to our ac- 
 count. 
 Claudius. That's bad enough; 
 
 yet — 
 Appius. Ha! what's worse? 
 Claudius. 'Tis best 
 At once to speak what you must learn at 
 
 last, 
 Yet last of all would learn. 
 Appius. Virginius ! 
 Claudius. Yes ! 
 He has arriv'd in Rorae. 
 
Virginius 
 
 37 
 
 Mahcus. They are coming, Appius. 
 Claudius. Fly, Marcus, hurry down 
 the forces ! [Exit Marcus] Ap- 
 pius, 
 Be not o'erwhelm'd ! 
 
 Appius. There's something awes me 
 at 
 The thought of looking on her father ! 
 
 Claudius. Look 
 Upon her, my Appius ! Fix your gaze 
 
 upon 
 The treasures of her beauty, nor avert it 
 Till they are thine. Haste ! Your tri- 
 bunal ! Haste ! 
 
 [Appius ascends the Tribunal 
 Enter Numitorius, Icilius, 
 Lucius, Virginius leading his 
 Daughter, Sbevia, and. Citi- 
 zens. — A dead silence prevails] 
 
 ViRGiNlus. Does no one speak? I 
 
 am defendant here. 
 Is silence my opponent ? Fit opponent 
 To plead a cause too foul for speech! 
 
 What brow 
 Shameless, gives front to this most 
 
 valiant cause, 
 That tries its prowess 'gainst the honour 
 
 of 
 A girl ; yet lacks the wit to know, that 
 
 they 
 Who cast off shame, should likewise cast 
 
 off fear — 
 "And on the verge o' the combat wants 
 
 the nerve 
 "To stammer forth the signal?" 
 
 Appius. You had better, 
 Virginius, wear another kind of carriage ; 
 This is not of the fashion that wiU serve 
 
 you. 
 Virginius. The fashion, Appius ! 
 
 Appius Claudius, tell me 
 The fashion it becomes a man to speak 
 
 in. 
 Whose property in his own child — the 
 
 offspring 
 Of his own body, near to him as is 
 His hand, his arm — ■ yea, nearer — 
 
 closer far. 
 Knit to his heart — I say, who has his 
 
 property 
 In such a thing, the very self of himself, 
 Disputed: and I'll speak so, Appius 
 
 Claudius ; 
 I'll speak so — Pray you, tutor me ! 
 
 Appius. Stand forth, 
 Claudius ! If you lay claim to any 
 
 interest 
 In the question now before us, speak! 
 
 If not, 
 Bring on some other cause. 
 
 Claudius. Most noble Appius — 
 
 Virginius. And are you the man 
 
 That claims my daughter for his slave ? 
 
 — Look at me, 
 And I will give her to thee. 
 
 Claudius. She is mine, then : 
 Do I not look at you? 
 
 Virginius. Your eye does, truly, 
 But not your soul. — I see it through 
 
 your eye, 
 Shifting and shrinking — turning every 
 
 way 
 To shun me. "You surprise me, that 
 
 your eye, 
 "So long the bully of its master, knows 
 
 not 
 "To put a proper face upon a lie, 
 "But gives the port of impudence to 
 
 falsehood, 
 "When it woiild pass it off for truth." 
 
 Your soul 
 Dares as soon show its face to me ! — 
 
 Go on, 
 I had forgot ; the fashion of my speech 
 May not please Appius Claudius. 
 
 Claudius. I demand 
 Protection of the Decemvir ! 
 Appius. You shall have it. 
 Virginius. Doubtless ! 
 Appius. Keep back the people, Lio- 
 tors ! What's 
 Your plea? You say the girl's your 
 
 slave — Produce 
 Your proofs. 
 
 Claudius. My proof is here, which, 
 if they can. 
 Let them confront. The mother of the 
 girl — 
 [Virginius, stepping forwaird to speak, 
 
 is withheld by Numitorius] 
 Numitorius. Hold, brother ! Hear 
 them out, or suffer me 
 To speak. 
 
 Virginius. Man, I must speak, or 
 else go mad I 
 And if I do go mad, what then will hold 
 
 me 
 From speaking? "Were't not better, 
 
 brother, think you, 
 "To speak and not go mad, than to go 
 
 mad, 
 "And then to speak?" She was thy 
 
 sister, too ! 
 Well, well, speak thou. — I'D. try, and 
 
 if I can. 
 Be silent. [Retires] 
 
 Numitorius. Will she swear she is 
 
 her child? 
 Virginius [starting forward]. To be 
 sure she will — a most wise question 
 that! 
 
38 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Is she not his slave ? Will his toDgue lie 
 
 for him — • 
 Or his hand steal — or the finger of his 
 
 hand 
 Beckon, or point, or shut, or open for 
 
 him? 
 To ask him if she'll swear ! — Will she 
 
 walk or run. 
 Sing, dance, or wag her head ; do any 
 
 thing 
 That is most easy done ? She'll as soon 
 
 swear ! 
 What mockery it is to have one's life 
 In jeopardy by such a bare-fao'd trick ! 
 Is it to be endur'd ? I do protest 
 Against her oath ! 
 
 Appitjs. No law in Rome, Virginius, 
 Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her 
 
 child, 
 The evidence is good, unless confronted 
 By better evidence. Look you to that, 
 Virginius. I shall take the woman's 
 
 oath. 
 Virginia. loilius ! 
 IciLius. Fear not, love ; a thousand 
 
 oaths 
 Will answer her. 
 
 Appiits. [To the Slave]. You swear 
 
 the girl's your child. 
 And that you sold her to Virginius' wife. 
 Who pass'd her for her own — Is that 
 
 your oath? 
 Slave [coming round to the front of the 
 
 Tribunal]. It is my oath. 
 Appitjs. Your answer now, Vir- 
 ginius. 
 Virginius. Here it is ! 
 
 [Brings Virginia forward] 
 
 Is this the daughter of a slave ? I know 
 
 'Tis not with men, as shrubs and trees, 
 that by 
 
 The shoot you know the rank and order 
 of 
 
 The stem. Yet who from such a stem 
 would look 
 
 For such a shoot? My witnesses are 
 these — 
 
 The relatives and friends of Numitoria, 
 
 Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sus- 
 tain 
 
 The burden which a mother bears, nor 
 feels 
 
 The weight, with longing for the sight 
 of it. 
 
 Here are the ears that Hsten'd to her 
 sighs 
 
 In nature's hour of labour, which sub- 
 sides 
 
 In the embrace of joy — the hands, that 
 when 
 
 The day first look'd upon the infant's 
 
 face. 
 And never look'd so pleased, help'd 
 
 them up to it. 
 And bless' d her for a blessing — Here, 
 
 the eyes 
 That saw her lying at the generous 
 And sympathetic fount, that at her cry 
 Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl 
 To cherish her enameU'd veins. The lie 
 Is most unfruitful, then, that takes the 
 
 flower — • 
 The very flower our bed connubial 
 
 grew — 
 To prove its barrenness ! Speak for me, 
 
 friends ; 
 Have I not spoke the truth? 
 
 Women and Citizens. You have, 
 
 Virginius. 
 
 Appiits. Silence ! keep silence there. 
 
 — • No more of that ! 
 
 You're very ready for a tumult. Citizens. 
 
 [Troops appear behind] 
 
 Lictors, make way to let these troops 
 
 advance ! 
 We have had a taste of your forbear- 
 ance, masters, 
 And wish not for another. 
 
 Virginius. Troops in the Forum ! 
 Appitrs. Virginius, have you spoken ? 
 Virginius. If you have heard me, 
 I have ; if not, I'll speak again. 
 
 Appitrs. You need not, 
 Virginius ; I have evidence to give. 
 Which, should you speak a hundred 
 
 times again, 
 Would make your pleading vain. 
 
 Virginius. Your hand, Virginia ! 
 Stand close to me. [Aside] 
 
 Appius. My conscience will not let 
 me 
 Be silent. 'Tis notorious to you aU, 
 That Claudius' father, at his death, 
 
 declar'd me 
 The guardian of his son — This cheat 
 
 has long 
 Been known to me. I know the girl is 
 
 not 
 Virginius' daughter. 
 
 Virginius. Join your friends, Icilius, 
 And leave Virginia to my care. [Aside] 
 
 "Appius. The justice 
 "I should have done my client, unre- 
 
 quir'd, 
 "Now cited by him, how shall I re- 
 fuse?" 
 Virginius. Don't tremble, girl! 
 don't tremble. [Aside] 
 
 .'^ppius. Virginius, 
 I feel for you ; but, though you were my 
 father, 
 
Virginius 
 
 39 
 
 The majesty of justice should be 
 
 saored — 
 Claudius must take Virginia home with 
 
 him! 
 ViBGiNiUS. And if he must, I should 
 
 advise him, Appius, 
 To take her home in time, before his 
 
 guardian 
 Complete the violation, which his eyes 
 Already have begun. [Turning to Citi- 
 zens] Friends ! fellow citizens ! 
 Look not on Claudius — Look on your 
 
 Decemvir ! 
 He is the master claims Virginia ! 
 The tongues that told him she was not 
 
 my child 
 Are these — the costly charms he cannot 
 
 purchase. 
 Except by making her the slave of 
 
 Claudius, 
 His cUent, his purveyor, that caters for 
 His pleasures — markets for him — 
 
 picks, and scents. 
 And tastes, that he may banquet — 
 
 serves him up 
 His sensual feast, and is not now 
 
 asham'd, 
 In the open, common street, before your 
 
 eyes — 
 Frighting your daughters' and your 
 
 matrons' cheeks 
 With blushes they ne'er thought to meet 
 
 — to help him 
 To the honour of a Roman maid ! my 
 
 child! 
 Who now cUngs to me, as you see, as if 
 This second Tarquin had already coil'd 
 His arms around her. Look upon her, 
 
 Romans ! 
 Befriend her ! succour her ! see her not 
 
 polluted 
 Before her father's eyes ! — He is but one ! 
 Tear her from Appius and his Lictors, 
 
 - while 
 She is unstain'd — Your hands I your 
 
 hands ! your hands ! 
 Citizens. They are yours, Virginius. 
 Appius. Keep the people back — 
 Support my Lictors, soldiers ! Seize the 
 
 girl. 
 And drive the people back. 
 
 IciLius. Down with the slaves ! 
 
 [The people make a show of resist- 
 ance, but, upon the advancing 
 of the SoLDlEBS, retreat, and leave 
 Icii^ius, Virginius and his 
 Daughter, &c., in the hands of 
 Appius and his party] 
 
 Deserted ! — Cowards ! Traitors ! " Let 
 me free 
 
 "But for a moment ! I rehed on you ; 
 
 "Had I relied upon myself alone 
 
 " I had kept them stOl at bay ! I kneel 
 
 to you — • 
 " Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only 
 "To rush upon your swords!" 
 
 Virginius.' Icilius, peace ! 
 You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left 
 Alone by our friends, surrounded by our 
 
 enemies, 
 Nerveless and helpless. 
 Appius. Away with him I 
 Icilius. Virginia! Tyrant! My 
 
 Virginia ! 
 Appius. Away with him ! 
 
 [Icilius is borne off] 
 Separate them, Lictors ! 
 Virginius. Let them forbear awhile, 
 
 I pray you, Appius ; 
 It is not very easy. Though her arms 
 Are tender, yet the hold is strong, by 
 
 which 
 She grasps me, Appius. Forcing them 
 
 will hurt them, 
 They'll soon unclasp themselves. Wait 
 
 but a little — 
 You know you're sure of her ! 
 Appiijs. I have not time 
 To idle with thee, give her to my Lictors. 
 Virginius. Appius, I pray you, 
 
 wait ! If she's not 
 My child, she hath been like a child to 
 
 me 
 For fifteen years. If I am not her father 
 I have been like a father to her, Appius, 
 For even such a time. " They that have 
 
 liv'd 
 "So long a time together, in so near 
 "And dear society, may be allow'd 
 "A little time for parting." Let me 
 
 take 
 The maid aside, I pray you, and confer 
 A moment with her nurse ; perhaps 
 
 she'll give me 
 Some token, will unloose a tie, so twin'd 
 And knotted round my heart, that if you 
 
 break it 
 My heart breaks with it. 
 
 Appius. Have your wish. Be brief ! 
 Lictors, look to them. 
 
 Virginia. Do you go from me ! 
 Do you leave ! Father ! Father I 
 
 Virginius. No, my child ; 
 No, my Virginia — come along with me. 
 Virginia. Will you not leave me? 
 
 Win you take me with you? 
 Will you take me home again? Oh, 
 
 bless you, bless you ! 
 My father ! my dear father ! Art thou 
 
 not 
 My father? 
 
40 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [ViRGiNitrs, perfectly at a loss 
 what to do, looks anxiously 
 around the Forum ; at length his 
 eye falls on a butcher's stall, with 
 a knife upon it] 
 ViRGiNius. This way, my child — 
 No, no ! I am not going 
 To leave thee, my Virginia ! I'll not 
 leave, thee. 
 Appitts. "Keep back the people, 
 soldiers! Let them not 
 "Approach Virginius ! Keep the people 
 back!" 
 
 [ViRGiNitrs secures the knife] 
 Well, have you done? 
 
 ViRGiNitrs. Short time for converse, 
 Appius ; 
 But I have. 
 
 Appius. I hope you are satisfied. 
 Virginius. I am — • 
 I am — that she is my daughter ! 
 Appius. Take her, Lictors ! 
 
 [Virginia shrieks and falls half 
 
 dead upon her father's shoulder] 
 
 Virginius. Another moment, pray 
 
 you. Bear with me 
 
 A little — • 'Tis my last embrace. 
 
 'Twou't try 
 Your patience beyond bearing, if you're 
 
 a man! 
 Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it 
 Long ! My dear child ! My dear Vir- 
 ginia ! [Kissing her] 
 There is one only way to save thine 
 
 honour — 
 'Tis this ! — 
 
 [iSta&s her and draws out the knife. 
 IciLiTTS breaks from the soldiers 
 that held him, and catches her] 
 Lo ! Appius ! with this innocent blood, 
 I do devote thee to th' infernal gods ! 
 Make way there ! 
 
 Appius. Stop him ! Seize him ! 
 Virginius. If they dare 
 To tempt the desperate weapon that is 
 
 madden' d 
 With drinking my daughter's blood, 
 
 why, let them : Thus 
 It rushes in amongst them. Way there ! 
 Way ! [Exit through the Soldiers] 
 
 "[Enter Honorius and Valerius] 
 
 "HoNORius. What tumult's this? — 
 
 "The fair Virginia 
 
 "Kill'd by her father's hand, to save her 
 
 from 
 "The lust of Appius Claudius? Most 
 
 foul cause, 
 "That makes so dark a deed look fair ! 
 
 "Appius. Remove 
 "The body, Lictors. 
 
 "IciLius. At the peril of 
 ' Their lives ! Death is abroad, at work, 
 
 and most 
 ' In earnest when with such a feat as this 
 ' He opens his exploits ! 
 "Appius. Obey me, slaves ! 
 "Honorius. Defend the body, free- 
 men. There's a spark 
 'Remaining stiU, which, though not 
 
 strong enough 
 ' To light it up with its own beauteous 
 
 life, 
 ' May yet rekindle liberty, and save 
 ' Expiring Rome ! 
 "Citizens. It shall not be removed ! 
 "Appius. Seize it, I say! 
 "Valerius. Back, slaves! Give 
 place to freemen ! 
 
 " [A tumult ensues ; the people de- 
 "prive the Lictors of their 
 "fasces, and drive them, with 
 "the Soldiers, with Appius 
 "Claudius, &c., off the Stage, 
 " then return shouting] 
 
 "IciLius. Ay, shout, and shout: a 
 
 far more glorious cause 
 ' CaU'd for your voices, and you had not 
 
 then 
 ' The breath to whisper. How that ear 
 
 had thank' d you, 
 ' Had you as tender been of the jewel of 
 'Its precious sense, as of the empty 
 
 casket ! 
 ' ' Honorius. A litter, Citizens, to lift 
 
 the body, 
 ' And bear it through the streets ; a 
 
 spectacle 
 'Will fill all eyes with tears, all hearts 
 
 with fire ! 
 "IciLius. No hand but mine shall 
 
 touch it : I will be 
 ' Its living bier. 
 
 "Honorius. Icilius, listen to me ! 
 ' Thou art not now thyseU, and knowest 
 
 not 
 ' There is a sweeter strain than that of 
 
 ^ef — 
 ' Revenge, that drowns it. Suffer us to 
 
 bear 
 ' Thy bride along the streets ; a second, 
 
 but 
 'Unstain'd Luoretia, buying, with her 
 
 blood, 
 ' The life of Rome and freedom ! 
 
 "Icilius. Rome and freedom ! 
 ' There is your ransom ! such a costly 
 
 one — 
 ' Oh, you are dear, to be so dearly won I 
 
 "[Exeunt]" 
 end of the poitbth act 
 
Virginius 
 
 41 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene First. — A Street. 
 [Enter Appius] 
 
 Appius. I do abjtire all further 
 league with them: 
 
 They have most basely yielded up their 
 pow'r, 
 
 "And compromis'd their glory. Had 
 they died 
 
 " In their high seats, they had Uv'd demi- 
 gods; 
 
 "But now they live to die Uke basest 
 men!" 
 
 Power gone, life follows ! Well ! 'tis 
 well we know 
 
 The worst! The worst? — -The worst 
 is yet to come, 
 
 And if I err not, hither speeds a mes- 
 senger 
 
 Whose heel it treads upon. 
 
 [Enter Vibulanus, hastily, and other De- 
 cemvirs, with Mabcus] 
 
 Vibulanus. Honorius and Valerius 
 are elected 
 To the Consulate. — Virginius is made 
 Tribune — 
 "Appius. No doubt they'd fill their 
 offices, when ours 
 "Were laid so poorly down. — You have 
 acted wisely ! 
 "Vibulanus. Who could resist Vir- 
 ginius, raving at 
 "The head of the revolted troops, with 
 
 all 
 ' ' The commons up in arms ? Waste not 
 
 dear time ! 
 "Look to your safety, Appius. 'Tis 
 
 , resolv'd 
 "To cite you instantly before the 
 Consuls. 
 "Appius. Look to my safety, say 
 you ? You would bid 
 "A man that's tumbling from a preci- 
 pice 
 "A hundred fathoms high, and midway 
 
 down, 
 "Look to his safety! What has he to 
 
 snatch at? 
 "Air ! — E'en so much have I. 
 
 "Vibulanus. Withdraw awhile 
 ' ' From Rome. We shall recall you with 
 
 applause 
 "And honours. 
 "Appius. Yes! you saw me on the 
 brink — 
 
 "Beheld it giving way beneath my 
 
 feet — 
 "And saw me tottering o'er the hideous 
 
 leap, 
 "Whose sight sent round the brain with 
 
 madd'ning whirl, 
 "With but a twig to stay me, which you 
 
 cut, 
 "Because it was your friend that hung 
 
 byit — 
 "Most kindly. 
 
 "Vibulanus. Nay," employ the 
 
 present time 
 In looking to your safety — "that se- 
 
 cur'd, 
 "Reproach us as you will." 
 
 Appius. I am in your hands. 
 Lead me which way you please. 
 IciLius [without]. Hold ! Stand ! 
 
 [Enter Icilius, with Numitorius and 
 
 LiCTOES] 
 
 Did I not tell you 'twas the "tyrant? 
 
 Look, 
 Was I not right? I felt that he was 
 
 present, 
 Ere mine eye told it me. — You are our 
 
 prisoner. 
 Appius. Your prisoner ! On what 
 
 pretence, Icilius? 
 Icilius. Inquire of your audacious 
 
 deeds, "that laid 
 "Your country's liberties prostrate." 
 
 Not to speak 
 Of any private wrong — but to reply 
 Touching a private wrong — inquire of 
 
 poor 
 Virginius, tottering between despair 
 And madness, as he seeks the home, 
 
 where once 
 He found a daughter ! 
 
 Appius. I demand due time 
 To make up my defence. 
 
 Icilius. Demand due time ! 
 Appius ! — Assign the cause why you 
 
 denied 
 A Roman maid, of free condition, 
 Her liberty provisionally, while 
 Her plea remain'd unjudg'd. No 
 
 answer, Appius? 
 Lictors, lay hold upon him — to prison 
 
 with him ! 
 Look to him well. To prison with the 
 
 tjrrant ! 
 
 [Exeunt Appius and Lictors on 
 one side, Icilius and Numi- 
 torius on the other] 
 
 Vibulanus. Let all his friends, that 
 their own safety prize. 
 
42 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Solicit straight for his enlargement; 
 
 doff 
 Their marks of station, and to the vulgar 
 
 eye 
 Dis&niise it with the garb of mourning : 
 
 'twill 
 Conciliate the crowd. — We know them 
 
 well: 
 But humour them, they are water soon 
 
 as fire ! [Exeunt severally] 
 
 Scene Second. — ViRGiNitrs's Howe 
 [Enter'hvcivs and Servia] 
 
 Lucius. Is he not yet come home ? 
 
 Servia. Not since her death. 
 I dread his coming home, good Lucius. 
 
 Lucius. A step ! 'Tis Numitorius 
 and Virginius. 
 
 Servia. Gods ! how he looks ! — ■ 
 See, Lucius, how he looks ! 
 
 [Enter Virginius, attended by Numi- 
 torius and others] 
 
 Virginius. 'Tis ease ! 'tis ease ! I 
 
 am content ! 'Tis peace, 
 'Tis anything that is most soft and 
 
 quiet. 
 And after such a dream ! — I want my 
 
 daughter ; 
 Send me my daughter ! 
 
 Numitorius. Yes, his reason's gone. 
 Scarce had he come in sight of his once 
 
 sweet 
 And happy home, ere with a cry he 
 
 fell 
 As one struck dead. — ■ When to himself 
 
 he came, 
 We found him as you see. How is it, 
 
 brother ? 
 Virginius. How should it bo but 
 
 well? Our cause is good. 
 Think you Rome wiU stand by, and see 
 
 a man 
 Robb'd of his child? We are bad 
 
 enough, but yet 
 They should not so mistake us. "We 
 
 are slaves, 
 "But not yet monsters." — Call my 
 
 daughter to me. 
 What keeps her thus? I never stept 
 
 within 
 The threshold yet, without her meeting 
 
 me 
 With a kiss. She's very long a-oomine. 
 
 Call her! 
 Numitorius. Icilius comes ! See, 
 
 my Icilius, see! 
 
 [Enter Icilius] 
 
 Virginius. Come, come, make 
 ready. Brother, you and he 
 Go on before : I'U bring her after you. 
 Icilius. Ha ! 
 
 Numitorius. My Icilius, what a 
 sight is there ! 
 Virginius' reason is a wreck, so stripp'd 
 And broken by wave and wind, you 
 
 scarce 
 Would know it was the gallant bark you 
 
 saw 
 Riding so late in safety ! 
 
 Icilius [taking Vikginius's hand]. 
 Father ! Father ! 
 That art no more a father ! 
 
 Virginius. Ha ! what wet 
 Is this upon my hand ? A tear, boy ! Fie, 
 For shame ! Is that the weapon you 
 
 would guard 
 Your bride with? First essay what 
 steel can do ! 
 Numitorius. Not a tear has bless'd 
 his eye since her death. 
 "No wonder. 
 "The fever of his brain, that now burns 
 
 out, 
 "Has drunk the source of sorrow's 
 torrents dry. 
 "Icilius. You would- not have it 
 otherwise? 'Twas fit 
 "The bolt, that struck the sole remain- 
 ing branch, 
 "And blasted it, should set the trunk 
 on fire !" 
 Numitorius. If we could make him 
 
 weep — 
 Icilius. I have that will make him, 
 If aught will do it. 'Tis her urn. 
 
 _ 'Twas that 
 Which first drew tears from me. I'll 
 
 fetch it. But 
 I cannot think you wise, to wake a man 
 Who's at the mercy of a tempest. 
 
 Better 
 You suffer him to sleep it through. 
 
 [Exit Icilius] 
 Virginius. Gather your friends to- 
 gether : tell them of 
 Dentatus' murder. Screw the chord of 
 
 rage 
 To the topmost pitch. Mine own is not 
 mine own ! [LaugAs] 
 
 That's strange enough. Why does he 
 
 not dispute 
 My right to my own flesh, and teU my 
 
 heart 
 Its blood is not its own ? He might as 
 well. [Laughsl 
 
 But I want my child. 
 
Virginius 
 
 43 
 
 [Enter Lucitjs] 
 
 Ltjcios. Justice will be defeated ! 
 Virginius. Who says that? 
 He lies in the face of the gods ! She is 
 
 immutable, 
 Immaculate, and immortal! And 
 
 though aU 
 The guilty globe should blaze, she wiU 
 
 spring up 
 Through the fire, and soar above the 
 
 crackling pile. 
 With not a downy feather rufled by 
 Its fierceness ! 
 NuMiTOKiTTS. He is not himself! 
 
 What new 
 Oppression comes to teU us to our teeth, 
 We only mock'd ourselves to think the 
 
 days 
 Of thraldom past? 
 
 Lucius. The friends of Appius 
 Beset the people with solicitations. 
 The fickle crowd, that change with every 
 
 change, 
 Begin to doubt and soften; "doubtless 
 
 that the stones, 
 "They wont to vent their griefs to, turn 
 
 to flesh, 
 "Touch'd by their own calamity." 
 Each moment 
 That's lost, a friend is lost. Appear 
 
 among 
 Your friends, or lose them ! 
 
 NuMiTOBius. Lucius, you 
 Remain, and watch Virginius. 
 
 [Exit, followed by all but Lucius 
 and Servia] 
 
 Virginius. You remember. 
 Don't you, nurse? 
 Sbbvia. What, Virginius? 
 Virginius. That she nurs'd 
 The obUd herself. "Inquire among 
 
 your gossips, 
 "Which of them saw it ; and, with such 
 
 of them 
 "As can avouch the fact, without delay, 
 " Repair to the Forum." Will she come 
 
 or not ? 
 I'U call myself ! — She will not dare I — 
 
 Oh, when 
 Did my Virginia dare — Virginia ! 
 Is it a voice, or nothing, answers me? 
 I hear a sound so fine — there's nothing 
 
 lives 
 'Twixt it and silence. "Such a slender 
 
 one 
 "I've heard, when I have talk'd with 
 
 her in f ancj' ! 
 "A phantom sound!" Aha! She is 
 
 not here! 
 
 They told me she was here : they have 
 
 deceiv'd me ; 
 And Appius was not made to give her up. 
 But keeps her, and effects his wicked 
 
 purpose. 
 While I stand talking here, and ask you 
 
 if 
 My daughter is my daughter ! Though 
 
 a legion 
 Sentried that brothel, which he calls his 
 
 palace, 
 I'd tear her from him ! 
 
 Lucius.' Hold, Virginius ! Stay ! 
 Appius is now in prison. 
 
 Virginius. With my daughter ! 
 He has secur'd her there ! Ha ! has he 
 
 so? 
 Gay office for a dungeon ! Hold me not. 
 Or I will dash you down, and spoil you 
 
 for 
 My keeper. My Virginia, struggle with 
 
 him! 
 Appal him with thy shrieks ; ne'er 
 
 faint, ne'er faint ! 
 I am coming to thee! I am coming to 
 
 thee! 
 
 [Bushes out, followed by 
 
 Lucius Servia, and others] 
 
 Scene Third. — A Dungeon. 
 [Appius discovered] 
 
 Appius. From the palace to the 
 
 dungeon is a road 
 Trod oft, not oft retrod. What hope 
 
 have I 
 To pace it back again? I know of 
 
 none. 
 I am as one that's dead! "The 
 
 dungeon, that 
 "Encloses fallen greatness, may as well 
 "Be called its tomb." I am as much 
 
 the carcass 
 Of myself, as if the string were taken 
 
 from 
 My neck. Their hands long for the 
 
 office. Oh, 
 'Tis worth the half of a Plebeian's life 
 To get his greasy fingers on the throat 
 Of a Patrician! But I'U balk them. 
 
 Come! 
 Appius shall have an executioner 
 No less illustrious than himself. 
 
 [He is on the point of swallowing 
 poison, when Vibulanus enters] 
 
 Who's there? 
 
 Vibulanus. Your friend ! 
 Appius. My Vibulanus ! 
 
44 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 ViBULANUs. Appius, what 
 Was that you hid in such confusion as 
 I enter'd? 
 Appitts. 'Tis a draught for life, 
 
 which, swallow'd. 
 She relishes so richly, that she cares not 
 If she ne'er drink again ! Here's health 
 
 to you ! 
 ViBULANUS. Not out of such a cup 
 
 as that, my Appius. 
 "Despair, that bids you drink it, as the 
 
 cure 
 "Of oanker'd life, but lies to you, and 
 
 turns 
 "Your eyes from hope, that even now 
 
 stands ready 
 "With outstretch'd arms, to rush to 
 
 your embrace." 
 Your friends are busy for you with your 
 
 foes — ■ 
 Your foes become your friends. Wher- 
 e'er a frown 
 Appears against you, nothing's spar'd to 
 
 make 
 The wearer doff it, and put up a smile 
 In its stead. "Your colleague Oppius 
 
 is in prison. 
 "Your client, too. Their harm's your 
 
 safety : it 
 "Distracts the appetite o' the dogs. 
 
 They drop 
 "The morsel they took up before, as 
 
 soon 
 " Asa new one's thrown to them." 
 
 Appius. "Thou giv'st me life 
 Indeed ! 
 
 ViBULANUS. That I may give thee 
 
 life indeed, 
 I'll waste no longer time with thee ; 
 
 "for that 
 "Already taken to assure thee of 
 "Thy fast reviving fortunes, cheats 
 
 them of 
 "The aid should help to re-establish 
 
 them." 
 Farewell, my Appius ! If my absence 
 
 takes 
 A friend from thee, it leaves one with 
 
 thee — Hope ! [Exit] 
 
 Appius. And I will clasp it to me ! 
 
 Never friend 
 Made sweeter promises. But snatch me 
 
 from 
 Beneath the feet of the vile herd, that's 
 
 now 
 Broke loose and roams at large, I'll 
 
 show them who 
 They'd trample on. "Hope! Hope! 
 
 They say of thee, 
 "Thou art a friend that promises, but 
 
 cares not 
 
 "To keep his word. This once keep 
 
 thine with Appius, 
 "And he will give thee out so true a 
 
 tongue, 
 "Thy word is bond enough!" — At 
 
 liberty ! 
 Again at liberty ! Oh, give me power 
 As weU, for every minute of my thraldom 
 I'll pick a victim from the common herd 
 Shall groan his Ufe in bondage. "Lib- 
 erty! 
 "'Tis triumph, power, dominion, every 
 
 thing!" 
 Are ye not open yet, ye servile gates ? 
 Let fall your chains, and push your bolts 
 
 aside ! 
 It is your past and future lord commands 
 
 you! 
 ViKGiNius [rushing in]. Give me my 
 
 daughter ! 
 Appius. Ha ! 
 
 ViRGiNius. My child ! my daughter ! 
 My daughter ! my Virginia ! Give her 
 
 me! 
 Appius. Thy daughter ! 
 ViRGiNiTJS. Ay ! Deny that she is 
 
 mine, 
 And I will strangle thee, unless the he 
 Should choke thee first. 
 Appius. Thy daughter ! 
 ViBGiNius. Play not with me ! 
 Provoke me not ! Equivocate, and lo ! 
 Thou sport'st with fire. I am wild, dis- 
 tracted, mad ! 
 I am all a flame — a flame ! I tell thee 
 
 once 
 For all, I want my child, and I will have 
 
 her; 
 So give her to me. 
 
 Appius. Caged with a madman! 
 
 Hoa! 
 Without, there ! 
 ViRGiNius. Not a step thou stirr'st 
 
 from hence. 
 Till I have found my child. "Attempt 
 
 that noise 
 "Again, and I wiU stop the vent, that 
 
 not 
 "A squeak shall pass it. There are 
 
 plugs for you, 
 "Will keep it air-tight. [Shows his 
 
 fingers] " Please you, give me back 
 My daughter. 
 
 Appius. In truth she is not here, 
 
 Virginius ; 
 Or I would give her to thee. 
 
 Virginius. Would ? Ay, should ! 
 Tho' would were would not. Do you 
 
 say, indeed, 
 She is not here ? You nothing know of 
 
 her? 
 
Virginius 
 
 45 
 
 Appitrs. Nothing, Virginius ! good 
 
 Virginius, nothing. 
 Virginius. How if I thrust my hand 
 
 into your breast. 
 And tore your heart out, and confronted 
 
 it 
 With your tongue? I'd like it. Shall 
 
 we try it? Fool! 
 Are not the rufB.ans leagued? The one 
 
 would swear 
 To the tale o' the other. 
 
 Appius. By the gods, Virginius, 
 Your daughter is not in my keeping. 
 
 Virginius. Well, 
 Then I must seek her elsewhere. I did 
 
 dream 
 That I had murder'd her — You lie ! 
 
 'twas but 
 A dream — She isn't here, you say — 
 
 Well! weU! 
 Then I must go and seek her elsewhere 
 
 — Yet 
 She's not at home — and where else 
 
 should I seek her, 
 But there or here ? Here ! here ! here ! 
 
 Yes, I say. 
 But there or here — I tell you I must 
 
 find her — 
 She must be here, or what do you here? 
 
 What, 
 But such a wonder of rich beauty could 
 Deck out a dungeon, so as to despoil 
 A palace of its tenant? Art thou not 
 The tyrant Appius ? — Did'st thou not 
 
 decree 
 My daughter to be Claudius' slave, who 
 
 gave her 
 To Ms master? Have you not seour'd 
 
 her here 
 To compass her dishonour, ere her father 
 Arrives to claim her? 
 Appius. No. 
 
 Virginius. Do you tell me so? 
 Vile tyrant! Think you, shall I not 
 
 believe 
 My own eyes before your tongue? 
 
 Why, there she is ! 
 There at your back — her locks dis- 
 
 hevell'd, and 
 Her vestment torn ! Her cheeks all 
 
 faded with 
 Her pouring tears, "as flowers with too 
 
 much rain!" 
 Her form no longer kept and treasur'd 
 
 up, 
 "By her maiden-pride, like a rich casket, 
 
 cast 
 "Aside, neglected, and forgot, because 
 "The richer gem was shSn'd in it is 
 
 lost!" 
 Villain ! is this a sight to show a father ? 
 
 And have I not a weapon to requite 
 
 thee? [Searches about his clothes] 
 Ha ! here are ten ! 
 
 Appius. Keep down your hands ! 
 
 Help! help! 
 Virginius. No other look but that ! 
 
 Look on ! look on ! 
 It turns my very flesh to steel — Brave 
 
 girl! 
 Keep thine eye flx'd — let it not twink 
 
 — Look on ! [Exeunt, struggling] 
 
 [Enter Numitokius, Icilius, Lucius, 
 Guard, and Soldier, bearing Vir- 
 ginia's Urn] 
 
 Numitorius. Not here ! 
 Lucius. Is this the dungeon ? — 
 Appius is not herp. 
 Nor yet Virginius. You have sure 
 mistaken. 
 Guard. This is the dungeon — Here 
 
 Virginius entered. 
 Numitorius. Yet is not here ! 
 Hush ! The abode of death 
 Is just as silent. Gods ! should the 
 
 tyrant take 
 The father's life, in satisfaction for 
 The deed that robb'd him of the daugh- 
 ter's charms — 
 Hush ! hark ! A groan ! There's some- 
 thing stirs. 
 Lucius. 'Tis this way ! 
 Numitorius. Come on! Protect 
 him, gods, or pardon me, 
 If with my own hand I revenge his 
 death. [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Fourth. — Another Dungeon. — 
 Virginius discovered on one knee,with 
 Appius lying dead before him. 
 
 [Enter Numitorius, Icilius, with the 
 Urn of Virginia, and Lucius] 
 
 Numitorius. What's here? Vir- 
 ginius ! with the tyrant prostrate 
 and dead! 
 
 Lucius. His senses are benumb'd ; 
 there is no adit to his mind, by which 
 our words can reach it. Help to raise 
 him : the motion may recall perception. 
 
 Numitorius. His . eye is not so 
 deathlike flx'd : it moves a Kttle. 
 
 Lucius. Speak to him, Numitorius ; 
 he knows your voice the best. 
 
 Numitorius. Virginius ! 
 
 Lucius. I think he hears you ; speak 
 again. 
 
 Numitorius. Virginius ! 
 
 Virginius. Ah ! 
 
46 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Luciirs. That sigh has burst the 
 spell which held him. 
 
 NuMiTORius. Virginius ! my dear 
 brother ! 
 
 ViHGiNius. Lighter ! lighter ! My 
 heart is ten times lighter ! What a 
 load it has heaved off! Where is he? 
 I thought I had done it. 
 
 NuMiTOKius. Virginius ! 
 
 ViEGiNitrs. Well, who are you? 
 What do you want? I'U answer what 
 I've done. 
 
 NuMiTORiTTS. Do you not know me, 
 brother? Speak, loilius, try if he 
 knows you. 
 
 IciLiirs. Virginius ! 
 
 NuMiTOEius. Virginius ! 
 
 Virginius. That voice — that voice 
 — I know that voice I 
 
 It minds me of a voice was coupled with 
 
 it. 
 And made such music, once to hear it 
 
 was 
 Enough to make it ever after be 
 Remembered! [Icilitjs places the Urn 
 
 in his hand] What's this? 
 Icilitjs. Virginia ! 
 
 [Virginius looks alternately at 
 IciLius and the Urn — looks at 
 NuMiTORius and Lucius — 
 seems particularly struck by his 
 mourning' — looks at the Urn 
 again — bursts into a passion 
 of tears, and exclaims, "Vir- 
 
 gima 
 
 Falls on IciLius's 
 
 neck. Curtain drops] 
 
 END OF THE FIFTH ACT 
 
Virginius 47 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 Written by Barry Cornwall, Esq., and spoken by Miss Brunton 
 
 Leaving the common path, which many tread, 
 
 We will not wake with jokes our poet's dead ; 
 
 Nor shame the young creations of his pen. 
 
 By bidding all, who've perish'd, be again. 
 
 The pale Virginia, in her bloody shroud. 
 
 Lies like a shrinSd saint. — Oh ! then, aloud 
 
 Shall we break scurril jests, and bid depart 
 
 Those thoughts of her, which fill and teach the heart? 
 
 No moral now we offer, squar'd in form, 
 
 But Pity, Uke the sun-light, bright and warm. 
 
 Comes mix'd with showers ; and, fading, leaves behind 
 
 A beauty and a blossom on the mind. 
 
 We do not strain to show that "thus it grows." 
 
 And "hence we learn" what every body knows: 
 
 But, casting idle dogmas (words) aside, 
 
 We paint a villain in his purple pride ; 
 
 And, tearing down a pow'r that grew too bold. 
 
 Show ^ merely what was done in days of old. 
 
 Leaving this image on the soul, we go 
 
 Unto our gentler story, touch'd with woe ; 
 
 (With woe that wantons not, nor wears away 
 
 The heart) and love too perfect for decay. 
 
 But whatsoe'er we do, we will not shame 
 
 Your better feeling, with an idle game 
 
 Of grin and mimicry (a loathsome task) ; 
 
 Or strip the great Muse of her mighty mask, 
 
 And hoot her from her throne of tears and sighs, 
 
 Until, from foUy and base jest, she dies. 
 
 No ; let her life be long, her reign supreme — 
 
 If but a dream, it is a glorious dream. 
 
 Dwell, then, upon our tale ; and bear along 
 With you, deep thoughts — of love — of bitter wrong — 
 Of freedom — of sad pity — and lust of pow'r. 
 The tale is fitted for an after hour. 
 
BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; OR, "ALL IN THE DOWNS" 
 
 (1829) 
 By Douglas Jehhold 
 
DOUGLAS JERROLD 
 (1803-1857) 
 
 DoTTGiiAS Jerkold's talents were so many-sided, he was so closely associated 
 with that school of wit which flourished at the editorial table 'of Punch, that it is 
 hard to separate him from that group, and to estimate him solely as a dramatist. 
 He watched the theatre, as his associates watched it ; he attempted various forms 
 of drama, passing from "Black-ey'd Susan" and "The Rent Day" to "Thomas 
 a Beeket" with an ease which characterized all the early Victorian plasrwrights. 
 His two best-known dramas reflect Jerrold's ability to estimate popular taste, on 
 the one hand, and to take advantage of historical interest, on the other. The suc- 
 cess of "Black-ey'd Susan", for instance, was largely due to the pride with which 
 England regarded her navy after the exploits of Nelson. "The Rent Day" Utilized 
 the reform spirit which was dominating Parliament, and which resulted in the 
 removal of laws and customs which had held the lower classes of England in bond- 
 age. In other words, Jerrold was impelled toward the new spirit, just as Robertson 
 was attracted to the breaking down of social barriers in "Caste", by the legislation 
 of the time. Added to which, his traditions were of the theatre, his father, Samuel 
 Jerrold, having been an actor, and he, as a small boy, having learned to read and 
 write from members of his father's company. 
 
 Jerrold's life history is pecuUarly one of association with the keenest Uterary 
 minds of the time. He was the friend of Thackeray, of Dickens, of Tom Taylor, 
 Leech, Teniuel, and Mark Lemon. He was loved by them and, in turn, he was dis- 
 liked by them. For his tongue was sharp, and his wit was often cruel. It is said 
 that Thackeray who, though famed for his quick satire, was of the most sensitive 
 temperament, was Wont to tear the wrapper from his weekly copy of Punch with 
 fear as to "what Master Jerrold was sajring about him now." 
 
 In early hfe Jerrold was a sailor. He shipped at a time when conditions were at 
 their worst (1813). In 1815, he was on His Majesty's Brig, Ernest, as a midship- 
 man, transporting troops before the battle of Waterloo. During this while, his 
 interest in the theatre was evidenced by the fact that he has left somewhere an 
 early and vivid impression of the acting of Edmund Kean. It is said that he or- 
 ganized theatricals on board ship, developing a passion for amateur theatricals which 
 was later to be satisfied when he joined with Tenniel, Dickens, and Mark Ijemon 
 in their amateur ventures. This probably inspired Jerrold to play-writing. He 
 was only eighteen years old when his first piece for the stage was produced, on April 
 30, 1821. It was called "More Frightened Than Hurt", having previously borne 
 the title of "The DuelUsts." 
 
 In the words of Blanchard Jerrold, it must be remembered that : 
 
 This was the time when Scott was in the ascendancy, Shelley was talking 
 radicalism, Charles Lamb was middle-aged, Wordsworth ^and Coleridge at 
 T^ork, Byron in debt, Cobbett politically strong, Keats struggling for his own. 
 
 51 
 
52 Representative British Dramas 
 
 One can see, therefore, that Douglas Jerrold lived when there was beginning 
 to be a distinct cleavage between old forces and the new. His influences were the 
 same as those which shaped Thackeray and Dickens. The events of his early life 
 point to the reasons why he was interested in the nautical drama. By 1827, he had 
 received an initial apprenticeship in the writing of dramas, by doing hack work 
 for Da'S'idge, of the Coburg Theatre, at £5 a week. It was at this time that Ellis- 
 ton, the admired actor of Charles Lamb, leaving Drury Lane Theatre as manager, 
 took over the Surrey, and to him Jerrold offered the manuscript of "Black-ey'd 
 Susan ; or. All in the Downs", which was immediately accepted, and produced on 
 Whit Monday, June 8, 1829, when the author was only twenty-six. 
 
 It brought a foftune to ElUston and to T. P. Cooke, who created the part of 
 William, but it brought a bare pittance to the author, in accordance with the 
 custom of the day. It was described as a domestic drama, and was characterized 
 by prodigality of scenes and by quietness and simpUcity of situation. The pathos 
 of the piece also was of the kind which, however stereotyped and artificial in its 
 quality, would retain the power to appeal to the sentimental in all audiences. In 
 other words, as Clement Scott said, many years after : 
 
 The human contrasts used by Jerrold in this play, the lights and shadows of 
 joy and sorrow, the domestic struggles and passions are of such character as 
 never can lose their power. 
 
 On the first night the play was not a great success. This was attributed to the 
 fact that it was a hot evening, and the audience was noisy in consequence. Blan- 
 chard Jerrold says : 
 
 Now and then, in a lull, the seeds of wit intrusted by the author to the 
 gardener (Mr. Buekstone) ; were loudly appreciated ; but the early scenes of 
 Susan's "heart-rending woe" could not appease the clamour. By and by 
 came the clever denouement when, just previously to the execution, the Cap- 
 tain enters with a document proving William to have been discharged when 
 he committed the offence. The attentive few applauded so loudly as to silence 
 the noisy audience. They Ustened, and caught up the capitally-managed 
 incident. The effect was startling and electrical. The whole audience leaped 
 with joy, and rushed into frantic enthusiasm. 
 
 Success led T. P. Cooke to reach out for a monopoly of nautical characters, so 
 tremendous was his personal triumph. It hkewise tempted Jerrold to try his hand 
 at writing another play dealing with the navy, and called "Mutiny at the Nore." 
 It was played in 1830. By this time Jerrold had reached an independent position 
 where, instead of doing hack work, he could make his own terms. 
 
 However much Charles Dickens may have travestied "Black-ey'd Susan", 
 he was one of those to feel the power of William in the hands of Oooke, to whom he 
 wrote: 
 
 It was so fresh and vigorous, so manly and gallant, that I felt as if it splashed 
 against my theatre-heated face along with the spray of the breezy sea. 
 
 The stage history of the "Black-ey'd Susan" is fully given in W. Davenport 
 Adams's "A Dictionary of the Drama." 
 
 The play has been burlesqued a number of times, once by Sims and Pettit, and 
 another time by Burnand, as Adams notes. The most flagrant example of rewriting 
 
Douglas Jerrold 53 
 
 took place when Mr. and Mrs. Kendal appeared in a desecration called "William 
 and Susan", and prepared by the dramatist, W. G. Wills. This was given during 
 the regime of the Kendals and Hare at the St. James's Theatre — a regime ushered 
 in by Tennyson's " The Falcon " in the fall of 1879. 
 
 Button Cook, reviewing this revival, which was given in October, 1880, wrote : 
 
 Wills . . . has, in fact, totally sunk and destroyed two out of Douglas 
 Jerrold 's three acts. 
 
 This was done, so it was stated, with the consent of Douglas Jerrold' s son, 
 even though the son may not have known how distorted Wills would make his 
 father's comedy. 
 
 After all, [writes Cook] Jerrold's "Black-ey'd Susan", if a little old- 
 fashioned, is not such a very obsolete work. It is a picture — somewhat 
 crudely coloured, it may be — of a past epoch ; it is constructed after a strag- 
 gling fashion, and includes many of those changes of scene — those sudden 
 meetings and partings of "flats" — which modern stage-managers deprecate 
 and eschew. But Jerrold never wrote coarsely or vulgarly : he was essentially 
 an author of refinement ; and there is nothing in any of his plays that need to 
 be judged wounding to the susceptibilities even of Miss Podsnap and her class. 
 
 All this while, Jerrold was winning a reputation for himself by his writing in 
 other directions, but for a time his dramatic ventures occupied most of his energies. 
 He wrote for the AlhencEum, the Morning Herald, the Monthly Magazine, and also 
 for the famous Blackwood's. When some of his writings were gathered in three 
 volumes, called "Men of Character", and published in 1838, they carried illustra- 
 tions by Thackeray. 
 
 Punch was established in 1841, and, in issue Number 2, Douglas Jerrold made his 
 first contribution, September 13, 1841. Thereafter, he was continually identified 
 with this representative weekly, writing for it "Punch's Letters to his Son", "Mrs. 
 Caudle's Curtain Lectures", and other famous series. Not content with writing 
 for these magazines, he was connected with pubhshing ventures of his own. In 
 1843, he contributed to The Illuminated Magazine, in 1845 to The Douglas Jerrold 
 Magazine, and in 1845 to the Douglas Jerrold Weekly Newspaper. He was very 
 prolific, writing continually and lengthily. Up to the time of his death, he edited 
 Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper, preparing the chief leaders. On June 8, 1857, Douglas 
 Jerrold died, and was buried at Norwood Cemetery, — Charles Dickens, Thackeray, 
 Monckton Milnes, and John Forster being among his pallbearers. 
 
 Leigh Hunt once said of Jerrold that even though his wit may have had the sting 
 of the bee, his heart possessed the sweetness of honey ; and the testimony of his 
 friends was of the kindUest sort. Like his contemporaries, he came in for a great 
 deal of censure from Macready, the actor, for whom he wrote several pieces. 
 Macready's over-seriousness regarding his own position never allowed him, for a 
 moment, to enjoy any of the pleasantries perpetrated by Jerrold. We find him in 
 his "Diary", on September 6, 1842, resenting a reference to himself in Punch, 
 
 by a set of low-mannered, ignorant, and ill-conditioned men, who rejoice in 
 the miserable Jerrold as their captain ; they abuse all they envy. 
 
 To such an extent did Macready's sensitiveness prejudice him that, even when he 
 attended private theatricals conducted by Lemon and Dickens, he could see 
 
54 Representative British Dramas 
 
 nothing in Jerrold's poor attempts, however much he might consider the farce be- 
 tween the other actors "broad and laughable." Yet he was continually dining with 
 Jerrold, in company with Dickens, Forster, Lemon and Leech, and often found 
 himself much chagrined over the unwisdom of his prejudices. For instance, at one 
 meeting, he was introduced to A Beckett, and in his entry, October 13, 1846, he 
 said: 
 
 I remember when I detested the name of this Mr. X Beckett, whom I did 
 not know, because he wrote, or was said to have written, disparagingly of me 
 in the Figaro! I hke him, knowing him, very much. 
 
 His impressions of a dinner, given by Jerrold at Putney Heath, show how hasty 
 he was, moved by the temper of the moment. For instance, he considered Leigh 
 Hunt 
 
 particularly disagreeable. Disputative and tedious — affecting great benev- 
 olence and arguing most malevolently. He is a good-tempered coxcomb — 
 but coxcomb heart and soul — not meaning harm to any, but a coxcomb. 
 
 The proHfic Jerrold is nowhere better seen than in the delightful history of 
 Punch, written by Spielmann, wherein it is estimated that the editors of Punch con- 
 tributed to the Victorian stage no less than five hundred plays. In other words, 
 all of the burlesques and travesties that found their way on the stage of the time 
 were reflective of the burlesque and travesty spirits in Punch's cartoons, reflective of 
 passing events. 
 
 Spielmann writes regarding Jerrold's association with the English comio 
 weekly : 
 
 No man ever gained so much from the paper in which he worked. He 
 simply froKcked in its pages, that fitted his talent as accurately as his genius 
 suited the times in which he Uved. It is doubtful whether he would make the 
 same mark in it were he alive to-day ; he would have to seek another publicar 
 tion and another public, or else adopt an utter change of tone. But in those 
 hvely times, when, obeying the summons addressed to him in Boulogne, he 
 sent his first political paper — beginning characteristically with the introduc- 
 tion of Peel, in time for the second number — he gave his powers full play. 
 And his sparkle was the brighter for its setting and its surroundings. His wit 
 was for the most part caustic and saturnine, and in no other journal could it 
 have so completely identified itself with the ensemble of tone. Without 
 Punch, Jerrold would certainly not have been so distinguished a man ; yet 
 he somewhere says in one of his works, with a touch of ingratitude : "If you'd 
 , pass for somebody you must sneer at a play, but idolize Punch" — as though 
 this were the height of priggishness. He was a keen judge of things, and 
 might have held that view ; but it was hardly for him, of all men, to pubhsh it. 
 
 Even toward the end of his life, when rheumatic pains made it an effort for him 
 to write, Jerrold maintained his same jocose manner. 
 
 As we have intimated, at the time of his death, his friends described him with 
 loving touches of appreciation. Somewhere Dickens writes : 
 
 He was one of the gentlest and most affectionate of men. I remember very 
 well that when I first saw him, In about the year 1835, when I went into his 
 
Douglas Jerrold 55 
 
 sick room in Thistle Grove, Brompton, and found him propped up in a great 
 chair, bright-eyed, and quick, and eager in spirit, but very lame in body, he 
 gave me an impression of tenderness. ... In the company of children and 
 young people he was particularly happy. ... He never was so gay, so sweet- 
 tempered, so pleasing, and so pleased as then. Among my own children I 
 have observed this many and many a time. 
 
 So much of a valued friend was Dickens to Jerrold that the latter could not 
 bear any very long estrangement. A misunderstanding arising between them 
 once, it is recorded that Jerrold met Dickens at a Club dining-room : 
 
 "For God's sake, let us be friends again!" exclaimed Jerrold. "A life's 
 not long enough for this." 
 
 Another impression of Jerrold tempers the satirical portrait given by so many. 
 Edmund Yates, the actor, has written : 
 
 I had often been in his company, and had heard him flash forth the biting 
 epigram and quick repartee for which, in our day, he has had no rival. A 
 small, delicately-formed bent man, with long grey hair combed back from his 
 forehead, with grey eyes deep set under penthouse brows, and a way, just as 
 the inspiration seized him, of dangling a double eyeglass, which hung round 
 his neck by a broad black ribbon : a kindly man for all his bitter tongue . . . 
 soft and easy with women and children. 
 
 It was this lovableness of the man which made so many run to the rescue of his 
 family, who, at his death, were left in straitened circumstances. Wilkie Collins, 
 Forster, Thackeray, — all of them tried to see what they could do to raise money 
 in his memory. Thackeray, at the request of Dickens, gave his lecture, "Week-day 
 Preachers"; Forster wanted a revival of "The Rent Day" and "Blaek-ey'd 
 Susan." The plans developed and were put through with success. 
 
 Jerrold's loss was a genuine grief to every one. No better illustration of the way 
 in which friendship persisted, in spite of constant aggravation, can be found than 
 in the association of Thackeray and Douglas Jerrold, who were members of the 
 same clubs, who dined at the same supper-rooms, and who had respect for each 
 other, even though it is supposed that Jerrold never could quite understand Thack- 
 eray. Unfortunately, none of that wit for which he was famous crept into "Blaok- 
 ey'd Susan", which is niore illustrative of the gentleness and domesticity of Jerrold 
 than of his humorous point-of-vlew regarding the weaknesses of the age in which 
 he lived. 
 
BLACK-EY'D SUSAN; 
 
 OR, 
 
 "ALL IN THE DOWNS" 
 A NAUTICAL AND DOMESTIC DRAMA — IN TWO ACTS 
 
 Bt DOUGLAS JERROLD 
 
 [London Lacy edition followed.] 
 
CASTS OF "BLACK-EY'D SUSAN" AT FIRST PRODUCTIONS 
 IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA 
 
 Royal Surrey, London, Tremont, Boston, 1838 
 Jvne 8, 1829 
 
 William Mr. T. P. Cooke Mr. T. Cline 
 
 Capt. Crossteee Mr. Forrester Mr. J. E. Miirdock 
 
 Rakeb Mr. Warwick Mr. P. C. Cunningliam 
 
 Hatchet Mr. Yardley Mr. W. H. Curtis 
 
 DoGGKASs Mr. Dibdin Pitt Mr. W. F. Johnson 
 
 Admiral Mr. Gough Mr. J. G. Gilbert 
 
 Jacob Twig Mr. Rogers Mr. D. Whiting 
 
 Gnatbrain Mr. Buokstone Mr. G. H. Andrews 
 
 Blue Peter Mr. Williamson — '■ 
 
 Seaweed ' Mr. Asbury Mr. B. L. Benson 
 
 Quid . Mr. Lee Mr. Powell 
 
 Lieut. Pike Mr. Hicks Mr. Seaver 
 
 Yarn Mr. Dowsing 
 
 Ploughshare Mr. Webb 
 
 Black-ey'd Susan Miss Scott Mrs. G. H. Barrett 
 
 Dolly Mayplower Mrs. Vale Miss A. Fisher 
 
 Sailors, Midshipmen, Officers, etc. 
 The Music throughout this Piece is chiefly Selections from Dibdin's Naval Airs. 
 
BLACK-ET'D SUSAN 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene Fibst. — A View of the 
 Country. 
 
 {Enter Doggrass and Gnatbhain] 
 
 DoGGHASS. Tut ! if you are inclined 
 to preach, here is a mile-stone — I'll 
 leave you in its company. 
 
 GrNATBRAiN. Ay, it's all Very well 
 — very well ; but you have broken poor 
 Susan's heart, and as for William — 
 
 Doggrass. What of him? 
 
 Gnatbbain. The sharks of him, for 
 what you care. Didn't you make him 
 turn a sailor, and leave his young 
 wife, the little, delicate black-ey'd 
 Susan, that pretty piece of soft-speak- 
 ing womanhood, your niece? Now 
 say, haven't you qualms? On a 
 winter's night, now, when the snow is 
 drifting at your door, what do you do ? 
 
 Doggrass. Shut it. 
 
 Gnatbrain. And what, when you 
 hear the wind blowing at your chimney 
 corner ? 
 
 Doggrass. Get closer to it. 
 
 Gnatbrain. What, when in your 
 bed, you turn up one side at the thun- 
 der? 
 
 Doggrass. Turn round on the other. 
 Will you go on with your catechism ? 
 
 Gnatbrain. No, I'd rather go and 
 talk to the echoes. A fair day to you, 
 Master Doggrass ! If your conscience — 
 
 Doggrass. Conscience ! Phoo ! my 
 conscience sleeps well enough. 
 
 Gnatbrain. Sleeps ! Don't wake it 
 then — it might alarm you. 
 
 Doggrass. One word with you, — 
 no more of your advice : I go about like 
 a surly bull, and you a gadfly buzzing 
 around me. From this moment throw 
 off the part of counsellor. 
 
 Gnatbrain. But don't you see? — 
 
 Doggrass. Don't you see these 
 trees growing about us ? 
 
 Gnatbrain. Very well. 
 
 Doggrass. If a cudgel was cut from 
 them for every knave who busies him- 
 
 59 
 
 self in the business of others — don't 
 you think it would mightily open the 
 prospect ? 
 
 Gnatbrain. Perhaps it might : and 
 don't you think that if every hard- 
 hearted, gelflsh rascal that destroys the 
 happiness of others, were strung up to 
 the boughs before they were cut for 
 cudgels, don't you think that instead 
 of opening the prospect, it would 
 mightily darken it ? 
 
 Doggrass. I have given you warn- 
 ing — take heed ! take heed ! and with 
 this counsel, I give you a good day. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Gnatbrain. Ay, it's the only thing 
 good you can give ; and that only good, 
 because it's not your own. That rascal 
 has no more heart than a bagpipe ! 
 One could sooner make Dover Cliffs 
 dance a reel to a penny whistle, than 
 move him with words of pity or dis- 
 tress. No matter, let the old dog bark ; 
 his teeth wiU not last forever — and I 
 yet hope to see the day when poor 
 black-ey'd Susan, and the jovial sailor, 
 WiUiam, may defy the surly cur that 
 now divides them. [Exil\ 
 
 [Enter Raker and Hatchet] 
 
 Raker. A plague on him ! — if I 
 thought he meant us foul play, — 
 
 Hatchet. Not he — twas a mis- 
 take. 
 
 Raker. Aye, a mistake that nearly 
 threw us into the hands of the Philis- 
 tines. But I know why you have ever 
 a good word for this same Doggrass. 
 
 Hatchet. Know ! you taiow as 
 much as the weathercock that answers 
 every wind, yet cannot tell the point 
 from which it blows. And what do 
 you know? 
 
 Raker. I know that Mrs. Susan, 
 Doggrass's niece, has two black eyes. 
 
 Hatchet. Umph ! your knowledge 
 proves that, though a fool, you are not 
 yet bUnd. 
 
60 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Raker. Civil words. Master 
 Hatchet. 
 
 Hatchet. What ! be you as dumb 
 as the figure-head of the Starling; as 
 soft and as yielding as teazed oakum — 
 let my little finger be your helin, and 
 see you answer it. Who am I? 
 
 Rakeb. Tom Hatchet, the smuggler 
 of Deal ; Captain of the Redbreast, and 
 trading partner with old Doggrass. 
 
 Hatchet. Thank'ee: now I'll tell 
 you what you are — Bill Raker, first 
 mate of the Redbreast, as great a rogue 
 as ever died at the fore-yard, and con- 
 sequently — 
 
 Rakee. The best person to go on 
 your errands. 
 
 Hatchet. Just so ; see you do them 
 well. Now, bear up, whilst I pour a 
 broadside of intelUgenee into you. I'm 
 going to be married. 
 
 Rakeb. You generally are at every 
 port you put into. 
 
 H.4.TCHET. Belay your jokes. To 
 whom do you think? — you can't guess? 
 
 Raker. No. It isn't to the last 
 port-admiral's widow? Perhaps to big 
 Betsy, the bumboat woman. 
 
 Hatchet. No, you albatross, — to 
 Susan — blaek-ey'd Susan. 
 
 Rakeb. Steady there — steady ! — 
 I'm no younker. The lass is married 
 already. 
 
 Hatchet. Aye, she had a husband. 
 [Significantly] 
 
 Rakeb. What ! — why no ! 
 
 Hatchet. How blows the wind now 
 — what do you stare at ? He's dead. 
 
 Raker. William dead ! Then there's 
 not so fine, so noble, so taut-rigged a 
 fellow in His Majesty's navy. Poor 
 lad — poor lad ! 
 
 Hatchet. Turning whimperer? 
 
 Raker. Why not? Such news 
 would make a mermaid cry in the middle 
 of her singing. 
 
 Hatchet. Avast with your salt 
 water ! William is not dead : what 
 think you now? 
 
 Rakeb. That there is one more brave 
 fellow in the world and one more liar. 
 
 Hatchet. Ha ! — 
 
 Raker. Slack your fore-sheet, Cap- 
 tain Hatchet ; if you must spin such 
 galley yarns, let it be to the marines, 
 or the landlady of the Ship ; but see 
 that you don't again bring tears into 
 an old sailor's eyes, and laugh at him 
 for hoisting and answering pendant to 
 signals of distress. You marry Susan? 
 Now belay, belay the joke. 
 
 Hatchet. Listen to my story : it 
 shall be short — short as a marlin- 
 spike. I must marry Susan : she knows 
 not you — you must swear that you 
 were her husband's shipmate — that 
 you saw him drowned. Susan now lives 
 with old Dame Hatle.y — she has no 
 other home ; and if she refuse, Doggrass 
 will seize for long arrears of rent, on the 
 old woman's goods, and turn Susan 
 adrift ; then the girl has no chance 
 left but to marry. Is it not a good 
 scheme ? 
 
 Rakeb. Had the devil been purser, 
 he could not have made a better. 
 
 Hatchet. I'm going now to Dog- 
 grass, to see further about it ; mean- 
 time, do you think of the part you are 
 to play, and I'll think how I can best 
 reward you. [Exit] 
 
 Rakeb. I must certainly look a 
 scoundrel. There must be an invita- 
 tion in my figure-head to all sorts of 
 wickedness, else Captain Hatchet could 
 never have offered such dirty work to 
 an old sailor. I must look a villain, 
 and that's the truth. Well, there is 
 no help for an ugly countenance; but 
 if my face be ill-favoured, I'U take care 
 to keep my heart of the right colour: 
 like the Dolphin tap, if I hang out a 
 badly-painted sign-post, I'll see and 
 keep good cheer within. [Exit] 
 
 Scene Second. — Dame Hatlbt's Cot- 
 tage. Susan is heard without, sing- 
 ing a verse of "Black-ey'd Susan." 
 
 [Enter Susan] 
 
 Susan. Twelve long, tedious months 
 have passed, and no, no tidings of 
 William. Shame upon the unkind 
 hearts that parted us — that sent my 
 dear husband to dare the perils of the 
 ocean, and made me a pining, miserable 
 creature ! Oh, the pangs, the dreadful 
 pangs that tear the sailor's wife, as, 
 wakeful on her tear-wet pillow, she 
 lists and trembles at the roaring sea ! 
 
 [Enter Gnatbbain, at the cottage door] 
 
 Gnatbrain. There she is, like a 
 caged nightingale, singing her heart 
 out against her prison-bars — for this 
 cottage is little better than a gaol to 
 her. Susan ! 
 
 Susan. Gnatbrain ! 
 
 Gnatbrain. In faith, Susan, if sor- 
 row makes such sweet music, may I 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 61 
 
 never turn skylark, but always remain 
 a goose. 
 
 Susan. Have you seen my uncle ? 
 
 Gnatbrain. Oh, yes ! 
 
 Susan. Will he show any kindness ? 
 
 Gnatbhain. I cannot tell. Did you 
 ever see gooseberries grow upon a 
 cabbage-stump? You have flowers 
 from an aloe-tree, if you wait a hundred 
 years. 
 
 Susan. He has threatened to dis- 
 tress the good dame. 
 
 Gnatbhain. Ay, for the rent. Oh, 
 Susan, I would I were your landlord ! 
 I should think myself well paid if you 
 would allow me every quarter-day to 
 put my ear to the key-hole, and listen 
 to one of your prettiest ditties. Why, 
 for such payment, were I your landlord, 
 I'd find you in board, washing, and 
 lodging, and the use of a gig on Sun- 
 days. I wish I ^- But la ! what's the 
 use of my wishing? I'm nobody but 
 half gardener, half waterman — a kind 
 of alligator, that gets his brealdast from 
 the shore, and his dinner from the sea 
 — a — [DoGGBASs passes loindow] 
 
 Susan. Oh, begone! I see Mr. 
 Doggrass ; if he find you here — 
 
 Gnatbhain. He must not ; here's a 
 cupboard — I'm afraid there's plenty 
 of room in it. 
 
 Susan. No, no, I would not for the 
 world — there is no occasion — meet 
 him. 
 
 Gnatbhain. Not I, for quiet's sake. 
 We never meet but, hke gunpowder 
 and fire, there is an explosion. This 
 wiU do. [Goes into the closet] 
 
 [Enter Doggrass] 
 
 DoGGBASS. Now, Susan, you know 
 my business — I say, you know my 
 business. I come for money. 
 
 Susan. I have none, sir. 
 
 Doggrass. A pretty answer, truly. 
 Are people to let their houses to beggars ? 
 
 Susan. Beggars ! Sir, I am your 
 brother's orphan child. 
 
 Doggrass. I am sorry for it. I 
 wish he were alive to pay for you. And 
 where is your husband ? . 
 
 Susan. Do you ask where he is? 
 I am poor, sir — poor and unprotected ; 
 do not, as you have children of your 
 own, do not insult me. [PTeeps] 
 
 Doggrass. Ay, this is to let houses 
 to women ; if the tax-gatherers were to 
 be paid with crying, why, nobody would 
 roar more lustily than myself ; let a man 
 ask for his rent, and you pull out your 
 
 pocket-handkerchief. Where's Dame 
 Hatley? 
 
 Susan. In the next rooin — ill, very 
 ill. 
 
 Doggrass. An excuse to avoid me; 
 she shall not. [Going] 
 
 Susan. You will not enter! 
 
 Doggrass. Who shall stop me? 
 
 Susan. If heaven give me power, I ! 
 Uncle, the old woman is sick — I fear 
 dangerouslj'. Her spirit, weakened by 
 late misfortune, flickers, like a dying 
 Ught. Your sudden appearance might 
 make all dark. Uncle — landlord! would 
 you have murder on your soul? 
 
 Doggrass. Murder? 
 
 Susan. Yes ; though such may not 
 be the common word, hearts are daily 
 crushed, spirits broken — whilst he who 
 slays, destroys in safety. 
 
 Doggrass. Can Dame Hatley pay 
 me the money ? 
 
 Susan. No. 
 
 Doggrass. Then she shall to prison. 
 
 Susan. She will die there. 
 
 Doggpass. Well? 
 
 Susan. Would you make the old 
 woman close her eyes in a gaol? 
 
 Doggrass. I have no time to hear 
 sentiment. Mrs. Hatley has no money 
 — you have none. Well, though she 
 doesn't merit lenity of me, I'U not be 
 harsh with her. 
 
 Susan. I thought you could not. 
 
 Doggrass. I'll just take whatever 
 may be in the house, and put up with 
 the rest of the loss. 
 
 [Enter Dolly Mayflower] 
 
 Dolly. So, Mr. Doggrass, this is 
 how you behave to unfortunate folks — 
 coming and selling them up, and turn- 
 ing them out. Is this your feeling for 
 the poor ? 
 
 Doggrass. Feeling! I pay the 
 rates. What business have you here? 
 Go to your spinning. 
 
 Dolly. Spinning ! if it were to spin 
 a certain wicked old man a halter, I'd 
 never work faster. Ugh ! I alwaya 
 thought you very ugly, but now you 
 look hideous. 
 
 Susan. Peace, good Dolly. 
 
 Dolly. Peace ! Oh, you are too 
 quiet — too gentle ! Take example by 
 me : I only wish he'd come to sell me 
 up, that's all. [Doggrass goes to door] 
 Oh, I know who you are looking after — 
 your man, Jacob Twig; he hops after 
 you on your dirty work, like a tomtit 
 after a jackdaw — I saw him leering in 
 
62 
 
 Revresentative British Dramas 
 
 at the door. I wish my dear Gnat- 
 brain was here. Oh, Susan, I wish he 
 was here; he's one of the best, most 
 constant of lovers — he'd befriend you 
 for my sake. 
 
 DoGGBASs [goes to the door]. Jacob ! 
 
 [Enter Jacob Twig. He has a memo- 
 randum book in his hand, a pen in 
 his ear, and an ink-bottle in th& 
 buttonhole of his coat.] 
 
 You know your business. 
 
 Jacob. What, here, master ? What, 
 at old Dame Hatley's? 
 
 DoLi.Y. To be sure, good Jacob ; 
 if your master had a tree, and but one 
 squirrel lived in it, he'd take its nuts, 
 sooner than allow it lodging gratis. 
 
 StrsAN. Uncle, have compassion — 
 wait but another week — a day. 
 
 DoQGRASs. Not an hour — a minute. 
 Jacob, do your duty. Now begin ; put 
 down everything you see in the cottage. 
 
 Jacob. Master, hadn't you better 
 wait a little? Perhaps the Dame can 
 find friends. [Doggeass is imperative] 
 Well, here goes : I'll first begin with the 
 cupboard. 
 
 Stjsan [stopping him]. No, let me 
 entreat you do not. Come this way, if 
 you are still determined. 
 
 Doggrass. Eh ! why that way ? why 
 not with the cupboard ? I suspect — 
 
 Jacob. And now, so do I. 
 
 Dolly. You suspect ! I dare say, 
 suspicion is all your brain can manage. 
 What should you suspect — a thing 
 that never had a thought deeper than 
 a mug of ale? You suspect Susan! 
 Why, we shall have the crows suspect- 
 ing the hlies. 
 
 .Jacob. You say so, do you? Now, 
 I'll show you my consequence. I'U put 
 everything down, master, and begin 
 with the cupboard. Ah ! it's fast : I'U 
 have it open — and I'll put the first 
 thing down. 
 
 [Pulls open the door, when Gnat- 
 brain knocks Jacob down with 
 rolling-pin, and stands in atti- 
 tude. — Susan in corner. — 
 Dolly in surprise. — Dog- 
 grass exulting] 
 
 Gnatbeain. No, I'll put the first 
 thing down. 
 
 Dolly. Gnatbrain ! Oh, Susan, 
 Susan ! 
 
 Doggeass. Oh, oh ! we shall have 
 the crows suspecting the lilies ! Pretty 
 flower ! how it hangs its head ! Go on 
 
 with your duty, Jacob ; put down every- 
 thing in the house. 
 
 Gnatbrain. Do, Jacob ; and begin 
 with "one broken head" — then, one 
 stony-hearted landlord — one innocent 
 young woman — ditto, jealous — one 
 man tolerably honest — and one some- 
 what damaged. 
 
 Jacob. I'll have you up before 
 justices — you have broken my crown. 
 
 Gnatbrain. Broken your crown! 
 Jacob, Jacob, it was cracked before I 
 
 Jacob. How do you know that ? 
 
 Gnatbeain. By the ring of it, 
 Jacob — by the ring : I never heard 
 such, a bit of Brummagem in my life. 
 
 DoGGEA.ss [to Susan]. Well, Susan, 
 it is sometimes convenient, is it not, 
 for a husband to be at sea ? 
 
 Susan. Sir, scorn has no word, — 
 contempt no voice to speak my loath- 
 ing of your insinuations. Take, sir, all 
 that is here; satisfy your avarice; but 
 dare not indulge your malice at the 
 cost of one who has now nothing left 
 her in her misery but the sweet con- 
 sciousness of virtue. [Exit] 
 
 Doggrass. The way with all women 
 when they are found out, is it not, Mrs. 
 Dolly? 
 
 Dolly. I can't tell, sir ; I never was 
 found out. 
 
 Doggrass. Ay, you are lueky. 
 
 Dolly. Yes — we don't meet often. 
 But as for you, Mr. Gnatbrain — 
 
 Gnatbeain. ^Now, no insinuations. 
 I wish I could remember what Susan 
 said about virtue : it would apply to 
 my ease admirably. Nothing like a 
 sentiment to stop accusation — one 
 may apply it to a bleeding reputation, 
 as barbers do cobwebs to a wound. 
 
 Doggeass. Jacob, do you stay here 
 — see that nothing of the least value 
 leaves the house. 
 
 Gnatbeain. In that case, Jacob, 
 you may let your master go out. 
 
 Doggrass. Some day, my friend, I 
 shall be a match for you. [Exit] 
 
 Gnatbrain. Perhaps so, but one of 
 us must change greatly to make us 
 pairs. [Gnatbrain then pursues Jacob 
 into corner] Jacob, I never look upon 
 your little carcase, but it puts me in 
 mind of a pocket edition of the Newgate 
 Calendar — a neat Old Bailey duodec- 
 imo. You are a most villanous-looking 
 rascal — an epitome of a noted high- 
 wayman. 
 
 Jacob. What ! 
 
 Gnatbrain. True as the light. 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 63 
 
 You have a most Tyburnlike physiog- 
 nomy: there's Turpin in the curl of 
 your upper lip — Jack Sheppard in the 
 under one — your nose is Jerry Aber- 
 shaw himself — Duval and Barrington 
 are your eyes — and as for your chin, 
 why Sixteen-String Jack lives again in 
 it. [Gnatbbain goes to window, affect- 
 ing to see what is passing outside] Eh ! 
 well done — excellent ! there's all the 
 neighbours getting the furniture out the 
 garden window. 
 
 Jacob. Is there? It's against the 
 law. I'm his Majesty's officer, and 
 I'll be among them in a whistle. 
 
 [Jacob rushes off ; Gnatbrainiji- 
 stantly bolts door] 
 
 Gnatbbain. A bailiif, like a snow- 
 storm, is always best on the outside. 
 Now DoUy, sweet Dolly Mayflower, 
 won't you look at me? Won't you be 
 the stimmer cabbage of my heart, and 
 let me cultivate you? 
 
 Dolly. Don't talk to me, sir ! — 
 the cupboard, sir — the cupboard. 
 
 Gnatbbain. Hear my defence. On 
 my word, I had not the least idea that 
 you would have found me, or the cup- 
 board is the last place I should have 
 gone into. 
 
 Dolly. It's no matter; there's Mr. 
 James Rattlin, boatswain's mate of the 
 Bellerophon — 
 
 Gnatbbain. What! you wouldn't 
 marry a sailor? 
 
 Dolly. And why not? 
 
 Gnatbbain. Your natural timidity 
 wouldn't allow you. 
 
 Dolly. My timidity? 
 
 Gnatbbain. Yes; you wouldn't like 
 to be left alone o'nights. Your husband 
 would be at sea for six months out of the 
 twelve; there would be a wintry pros- 
 pect for you. 
 
 Dolly. But he would be at home 
 the other six months — and there's 
 summer, sir. 
 
 Gnatbbain. True, but when you 
 can have summer all the year round, 
 don't you think it more to your ad- 
 vantage? 
 
 Dolly. No — for, if it always shone, 
 we should never really enjoy fine 
 weather. 
 
 Gnatbbain. Oh, my dear, when we 
 are married, we'll get up a thunder- 
 storm or two, depend upon it. But 
 come, Dolly, your heart is too good, 
 your head too clear, to nourish idle 
 suspicion. Let us go and see poor 
 
 Susan. There is real calamity enough 
 in our every-day paths; we need not 
 add to it by our idle follies. [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Thibd. — A View of the Country. 
 [Enter Hatchet] 
 
 Hatchet. Doggrass has made the 
 seizure by this time. Now I'll step in, 
 pay the money, and thus buy the grati- 
 tude of Susan, before I tell her the story 
 of her husband's death. 
 
 [Enter Jacob, running] 
 
 skiff. 
 
 Bring up there, my young 
 Whither bound? 
 
 Jacob. I'm in a hurry. 
 
 Hatchet. Bring up, I say, or I'll 
 spoil your figurehead. 
 
 [Lifting his cudgel] 
 
 Jacob. Do you know who I am? 
 
 Hatchet. No ; what are you, my 
 young flying-flsh ? 
 
 Jacob. I'm a bailiff — aren't you 
 frigh);ened? I serve Mr. Doggrass. 
 
 Hatchet. The very craft I was sail- 
 ing after. You have been to Susan's — 
 Black-ey'd Susan's, as she's called ? 
 
 Jacob. How do you know that? 
 
 Hatchet. You have made a seizure 
 there? 
 
 Jacob. Right again. 
 
 Hatchet. Have secured everything ? 
 
 Jacob. Wrong. I had made as 
 pretty a piece of business of it as any 
 of my craft — a very pretty stroke of 
 handiwork ; but somehow or the other — 
 
 Hatchet. You frighten me. No- 
 body paid the money, I hope? 
 
 Jacob. Oh, don't be alarmed at 
 that ; no, but somehow or the other, 
 quite by a mistake, when I thought I 
 was in possession, I found myself on the 
 wrong side of the house. And, here 
 comes Susan. 
 
 I [Enter Susan] 
 
 Jacob. Aren't you ashamed of 
 yourself, Mrs. Susan, to make one to 
 cozen so innocent a little bailiff as my- 
 self — aren't you a.shamed of yourself ? 
 
 Hatchet [throwing Jacob over to left] 
 Stand o' one side! What, in trouble, 
 my pretty Susan? What, have the 
 land-sharks got aboard of the cottage? 
 Come, cheer up. 
 
 Susan. What, do you indeed pity 
 me ? This is kind, and, from a stranger, 
 unexpected. 
 
64 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Hatchet. Not such a stranger as 
 you may think. 
 
 Susan. No. 
 
 Hatchet. No, I know your hus- 
 band — sailed with him. 
 
 Susan. You did ! Oh, tell me every- 
 thing ! 
 
 Hatchet. All in good time. [To 
 Jacob] What do you want here — 
 sticking like a barnacle to a ship's 
 copper ? 
 
 [Strikes Jacob with cudgel] 
 
 Jacob. Want ! Oh, here comes my 
 master — he'll tell you what I want. 
 I'U leave you with him — he'll answer 
 all questions. 
 
 [Exit, but returns, and strikes Hatchet 
 with book, and runs off] 
 
 [Enter Doggrass] 
 
 DoGGBASs. So, madam, you must 
 show contempt to a king's officer — 
 put a servant of the law out of doors ! 
 
 Hatchet. Steady there ! none of 
 your overhauling. What do you want 
 with the young woman ? 
 
 DoGGBASs. What's that to you? 
 
 Susan. Oh, pray don't quarrel on 
 my account — do not, I entreat you ! 
 
 Hatchet [aside]. I'll swagger a little. 
 Quarrel, my dear — I'd flght yard-arm 
 to yard-arm for you — go on a boarding 
 party, cut out, row under a battery, or 
 fight in a rocket-boat ; anything for the 
 pretty black-ey'd Susan. 
 
 DoGGBASs. Well, as you'll do all 
 this, perhaps you'U pay the money she 
 owes. 
 
 Hatchet. That will I, though it 
 were the last shot in my locker. 
 
 Susan. No, no, there is no occasion ; 
 I would not have it for the world. 
 
 DoGGBASs. You wouldn't ? I would 
 
 — but don't be afraid — he'll talk, but 
 he'll be long ere he pays twelve pounds 
 seventeen and sixpence for you, black- 
 ey'd and pretty as you are. 
 
 Hatchet. See how little you know 
 of a sailor ; there's thirteen pounds — 
 I'm not rhuch of an accountant, but it 
 strikes me that that will pay your Uttle 
 bill, and just leave a dirty two-and- 
 sixpence for young Jibboom, the bailiff. 
 
 Susan. Oh, my good, kind friend — 
 this generosity — my thanks, my 
 prayers ! 
 
 Hatchet. Not a word, not a word 
 
 — good-bye. 
 
 Susan. Yet, do not leave me ; you 
 said you knew my husband — had a 
 tale to tell of him. 
 
 Hatchet. Yes, but not now; to- 
 morrow. If I have done anything to 
 oblige you, let me ask the delay. Be- 
 sides, then I will bring one with me who 
 can teU you more of William than my- 
 self ; meantime, farewell. [Aside] She's 
 softened. A woman is like seahng-wax 
 — only melt her, and she will take what 
 form you please. I've bought her heart 
 with the chink, and to-morrow will 
 secure it. [Exit] 
 
 Susan. Wait till to-morrow ! Alas ! 
 there is no remedy but patience; yet, 
 spite of myself, I feel forebodings which 
 I know 'tis weakness to indulge. 
 
 DoGGBASS. I suppose, Mrs. Susan, 
 as the case at present stands, neither 
 you nor the old dame will now think of 
 leaving the cottage? 
 
 Susan. Indeed, landlord, we shall. 
 
 DoGGBASS. Landlord ! why not 
 uncle ? it is a much better word. 
 
 Susan. It might have been, but 
 your unkindness has taught me to 
 forget it. 
 
 DoGGRAS.s. Now, hear reason [she 
 turns from him]. Well, to be sure, a 
 plain-spoken man can't expect it from 
 one of your sex, so I'll leave you. 
 You'll think again about the cottage? 
 it has a pretty situation, and as for 
 the rent, why, as one may say, it's a 
 mere nothing. [Exit] 
 
 Susan. Cruel man ! Oh, William ! 
 when, when will you return to your 
 almost heartbroken Susan? Winds, 
 blow prosperously, be tranquil, seas, 
 and bring my husband to my longing 
 eyes. [Exit] 
 
 Scene Fourth. — -A View of the Downs. 
 — The fleet at anchor. 
 
 [Enter Jacob Twig] 
 
 Jacob. After all, I don't much like 
 this trade of bailiff. I've a great mind 
 to give it up, go back to my native 
 Dover again, and turn ploughman. 
 [Three cheers] Holloa! the boats are 
 putting off from the ships. Deal will 
 be crowded again ; there will be no 
 getting a sweetheart for these six 
 months. [Music. — Three cheers] 
 
 [Enter Seaweed, Blue Peteb, Sailoes, 
 and William] 
 
 William. Huzza! huzza! my noble 
 fellows, my heart jumps like a dolphin 
 — my head turns round like a capstern ; 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 65 
 
 I feel as if I were driving before the gale 
 of pleasure for the haven of joy. 
 
 Seaweed. But I say, William, 
 there's nobody here to meet us. 
 
 William. Why, no! that is, you 
 see, because we dropped anchor afore 
 the poor things had turned out of their 
 hammocks. Ah ! if my Susan knew 
 who was here, she'd soon lash and carry, 
 roused up by the whistle of that young 
 boatswain's mate, Cupid, piping in her 
 heart. Holloa! what craft is this? 
 Cutter, ahoy ! — what ship ? 
 
 Jacob [taking of his hat]. My name 
 is Jacob 'Twig. 
 
 William. You needn't bring to, 
 under bare poles — cover your truck, 
 and up with your answering pendant. 
 Come, clear your signal halyards, and 
 hoist away. What service? 
 
 Jacob. I'm in the law. 
 
 William. Umph ! belongs to the 
 rocket boats. May my pockets be 
 scuttled, if I didn't think so ! 'Tis 
 Beelzebub's ship, the Law*! she's neither 
 privateer, bomb-ship, nor letter-o-mark ; 
 she's built of green timber, maimed 
 with lob-lolly boys and marines ; pro- 
 visioned with mouldy biscuit and bilge- 
 water, and fires nothing but red-hot 
 shot : there's no grappling with or board- 
 ing her. She always sails best in a 
 storm, and founders in fair weather. 
 I'd sooner be sent adrift in the North 
 Sea, in a butter cask, with a 'bacco-box 
 for my store-room, than sail in that 
 devil's craft, the Law. My young 
 grampus, I should like to have the mast- 
 heading of you in a stiff north-wester. 
 [Threatening him] 
 
 Seaweed. Avast there, messmate ! 
 don't rake the cock-boat fore and aft. 
 
 Jacob [corner]. Don't cook the rake- 
 boat fore and aft. [Frightened] 
 
 William. Why, yes, I know it's 
 throwing awaj' powder and shot to 
 sink cockle-shells with forty-two- 
 pounders. But warn't it the lawyers 
 that turned me and Susan out of our 
 stowage? Why, I'd as soon had met 
 one of Mother Carey's Chickens, as — 
 eh ! [Looking out] There's a fleet bear- 
 ing down. 
 
 Peter. A fleet ? — Ay, and as smart 
 as a seventy-four on the King's birth- 
 day. 
 
 William. A little more to larboard, 
 messmate. [William throws Jacob to 
 his right, the sailors pass him from one 
 to the other till he is off] There's my 
 Susan ! Now pipe all hands for a royal 
 
 salute; there shfe is, schooner-rigged. 
 I'd swear to her canvas from a whole 
 fleet. Now she makes more sail ! — 
 outs with her studding-booms — mounts 
 her royals, moon-rakers and sky- 
 scrapers ; now she lies to it ! — now ! — 
 now ! — eh ? May I be put on six- 
 water grog for a lubber. 
 
 Pbtee. What's thematter? 
 
 William. 'Tisn't she — 'tisn't my 
 craft. 
 
 [Music. — Enter women, who wel- 
 come all the sailors. — Every 
 one, except William, is met by 
 a female. — He looks anxiously 
 at every one. — All go off except 
 William] 
 
 What ! and am T left alone in the 
 doctor's list, whilst all the crew are 
 engaging! I know I look as lubberly 
 as a Chinese junk under a Jewry 
 mast. I'm afraid to throw out a signal 
 — my heart knocks against my tim- 
 bers, like a jolly-boat in a breeze, 
 alongside a seventy-four. Damn it, I 
 feel as if half of me was wintering in the 
 Baltic, and the other half stationed in 
 Jamaica. 
 
 [Enter Plouqhshabe. — Music] 
 
 It's no use, I must ask for despatches. 
 Damn it, there can be no black seal to 
 them ! Messmate ! 
 
 Ploughshare. Now, friend. 
 
 [Comes down] 
 
 William. Give us your grappling- 
 iron 1 Mayhap you don't know me! 
 
 Ploughshare. No. 
 
 William. WeU, that's hard to a 
 sailor, come to his native place. We 
 have ploughed many an acre together 
 in Farmer Sparrow's ground. 
 
 Ploughshare. What — William ! 
 William that married Susan ! 
 
 William. Avast there ! hang it — 
 that name, spoke by another, has 
 brought the salt water up ; 1 can feel 
 one tear standing in either eye like a 
 marine at each gangway : but come, let's 
 send them below. [Wipes his eyes] 
 Now, don't pay away your line till I 
 pipe. I have been three years at sea; 
 all that time I have heard but once 
 from Susan — she has been to me a 
 main-stay in all weathers. I have been 
 piped up, — roused from my hammock, 
 dreaming of her, — for the cold, black 
 middle watch ; I have walked the deck, 
 the surf beating in my face, but Susan 
 w;as at my side, and I did not feel it. 
 
66 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I have been reefing on the yards, in cold 
 and darkness, when I eould hardly see 
 the hand of my next messmate ; — but 
 Susan's eyes were on me, and there was 
 light. I have heard the boatswain pipe 
 to quarters ; — a voice in my heart 
 whispered "Susan", and I strode like a 
 Uon. The first broadside was given; 
 
 — shipmates, whose words were hardly 
 off their Hps, lay torn and mangled 
 about me ; — their groans were in my 
 ears, and their blood hot on my face; 
 
 — I whispered "Susan !" it was a word 
 that seemed to turn the balls aside, and 
 keep me safe. When land was cried 
 from the mast-head, I seized the glass 
 
 — my shipmates saw the cliffs of Eng- 
 land — I, I could see but Susan ! I 
 leap upon the beach ; my shipmates 
 find hands to grasp and hps to press — 
 I find not Susan's. 
 
 Ploughshare. Believe me — 
 
 William. Avast there ! if you must 
 hoist the black flag — gently. Is she 
 yet in commission ? — Does she live? 
 
 PLOTTGnsHARE. She does. 
 
 William. Thank heaven ! I'll go 
 to church next Sunday, and you shall 
 have a can of grog — eh ! but your 
 figurehead changes hke a dying dolphin ; 
 she lives, but perhaps hove down in the 
 port of sickness. No? what then, eh? 
 
 — avast! not dead — not sick — yet 
 
 — why, there's a galley-fire hghted up 
 in my lieart — there's not an R in her 
 name? 
 
 Ploughshare. What do you mean? 
 
 William. Mean ! grape and canis- 
 ter ! She's not run, — not shown false 
 colours ? 
 
 Ploughshare. No, no. 
 
 William. I deserve a round dozen 
 for the question. Damn it, none of 
 your small arms ; but open all your 
 ports and give fire. 
 
 Ploughshare. Susan is well — is 
 constant; but has been made to feel 
 that poverty is too often punished for 
 crime. 
 
 William. What, short of ammuni- 
 tion to keep off the land-sharks? But 
 her uncle ? 
 
 Ploughshare. He has treated her 
 very unkindly. 
 
 WilijIAm. I see it ! damn it, I'll 
 overhaul him — I'll bring him on his 
 beam-ends. Heave a-head, shipmate ! 
 
 — Now for my dear Susan, and no 
 quarters for her uncle. 
 
 [Music. — Exeunt Ploughshare 
 and William] 
 
 [Enter Captain Crosstree] 
 Crosstree. In faith that's the 
 prettiest little vessel I ever saw in a 
 long cruise. I threw out signals to her, 
 but she wouldn't answer. Here comes 
 the fellow that passed me whilst I was 
 talking to her. 
 
 [Enter Gnatbrain] 
 
 Shipmate, there is a dollar for you. 
 
 Gnatbhain. Truly, sir, I would we 
 had been messmates, you might then 
 have made it ten shillings. 
 
 Crosstree. You passed me a few 
 minutes since, wheir I was in company 
 with a petticoat. 
 
 Gnatbrain. Ay; it's no use, Cap- 
 tain ; she's a tight little craft, and as 
 faithful to all that is good as your ship 
 to her hehn. 
 
 Crosstree. What is her name? — 
 Who is she? 
 
 Gnatbrain. We simply call her 
 Susan • — Black-ey'd Susan. She is the 
 wife of a sailor. 
 
 Crosstree. Ay, what, fond of the 
 blue-jackets? 
 
 Gnatbrain. Yes, so fond of the 
 jacket, that she'll never look at your 
 long coat. Good-day, Captain. [Exit] 
 
 Crosstree. The wife of a sailor! 
 wife of a common seaman ! why, she's 
 fit for an admiral. I know it's wrong, 
 but I will see her — and come what 
 may, I must, and will possess her. [Exit] 
 
 Scene Fifth. — Interior of Susan's 
 Cottage. — Same as Scene Second. 
 
 [Enter William at door] 
 
 William. Well, here I am at last! 
 I've come fifteen knots an hour, yet I 
 felt as if I were driving astern all the 
 time. So, this is poor Susan's berth 
 — not aboard — out on liberty, and 
 not come to the beach? 
 
 Susan [without]. Oh, say not so, 
 for mercy's sake ! 
 
 William. FA ! that's she ; — ha ! 
 and with two strange-rigged craft in 
 convoy ; T'U tack a bit, and — damn it, 
 if there's foul play ! chain-shot and bar- 
 shot ! I'll rake 'em fore and aft. 
 
 [Retires] 
 
 [Enter Susan, Hatchet, and Raker. 
 — Slow imisic] 
 
 [Aside] What, hanging out signals 
 of distress? 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 67 
 
 Susan. Oh, these are heavy tidings 
 indeed ! 
 
 Hatchet. Don't take on so, pretty 
 Susan! If William is dead, there are 
 husbands enough for so pretty a face 
 as yours. 
 
 William. Dead! may I never 
 splice the inainbraoe, if that swab 
 don't want to get into my hammock. 
 [Hatchet approaches nearer to Susan] 
 Now, he's rowing alongside her with 
 muffled oars, to cut her cable ! — I'll 
 tomahawk his rigging for him. 
 
 Susan. But is there no hope? 
 
 Hatchet. Hope! none. I teU you, 
 Susan, this honest fellow was William's 
 messmate ; he saw him go down ; — you 
 didn't rightly hear him when he first 
 told the story — tell it again, Tom. 
 [Rakek suddenly indicates his unwill- 
 ingness] Poor fellow! he was William's 
 friend, and the story hurts him. I'll 
 tell it you. You see, the ship had got 
 upon the rocks, and it came on to blow 
 great guns; her timbers opened, and 
 she broke her back ; — all her masts were 
 overboard, and orders were given to 
 take to the boats. William was in the 
 jolly-boat : — well, she hadn't got the 
 length of a boarding-pike from the 
 wreck, when she shipped a sea, and 
 down she went. William, and twelve 
 other brave fellows, were in the water ; 
 
 — his shipmate here threw out a rope ; 
 
 — it was too late ; William sunk, and 
 was never seen more. His shipmate 
 turned round and saw — [During his 
 speech, Raker has moved into the corner 
 of the stage, his back to Hatchet, as if 
 unwilling to hear the story. — William, 
 hy the conclusion of this speech, has 
 placed himself between Hatchet and 
 Susan] Damnation ! 
 
 Susan [shrieking and throwing herself 
 into William's arms]. William ! 
 
 William. Damn it, I'm running 
 over at the scuppers, or, you lubbers, 
 I'd been aboard of you before this. 
 What ! hang out false signals to the 
 petticoat ? — May you both have the 
 yellow flag over you, and go up in the 
 smoke of the fore-castle. Bring-to a 
 minute, and I'll be yard-arm and yaxd- 
 arm with you. What, Susan, Susan ! 
 See, you swabs, how you've brought 
 the white flag into her pretty figure- 
 head. fSusAN revives; he relinquishes 
 his hold of her] Now, then, I'U make 
 junk of one of you. 
 
 Susan. William! William! for 
 heaven's sake ! — 
 
 William. Just one little bout, Susan, 
 to see how I'd make small biscuit of 
 'em. You won't fight? Then take 
 that to the paymaster, and ask him for 
 the change. [Strikes Hatchet] 
 
 Hatchet. Struck! then here's one 
 of us for old Davy ! 
 
 [Music. — Runs at William with 
 a drawn cutlass, who catches his 
 right arm; they struggle round. 
 William throws him off, and 
 stands over him. Hatchet on 
 his knee; same time Lieuten- 
 ant Pike appears inside of 
 door. — Two Marines appear 
 at window. — Tableau] 
 
 Pike. Smugglers, surrender ! or you 
 have not a moment's Ufe. 
 
 [Hatchet and Raker, startled by 
 the appearance of Pike's party, 
 recoil] 
 
 William. Smugglers ! I thought 
 they were not man-of-war's-men ; true 
 blue never piloted a woman on a quick- 
 sand. 
 
 Pike [takes belt from Hatchet]. 
 Here, William, wear this as a trophy of 
 your victory. 
 
 William. Thank ye, your honour, 
 I'U ship it. 
 
 Pike. Come, my lads, as you have 
 cheated the King long enough, you shall 
 now serve him — the fleet wants hands, 
 and you shall aboaxd. 
 
 William. If they are drafted aboard 
 of us, all I wish is that I was boatswain's 
 mate, for their sake! Oh, wouldn't I 
 start 'em ! 
 
 [Music. — Exeunt Pike, Hatchet, 
 Raker. — The Marines follow] 
 
 Now, Susan [embraces her], may I be 
 lashed here until death gives the last 
 whistle. 
 
 Susan. Oh, William I I never 
 thought we should meet again. 
 
 William. Not meet ! Why, we shall 
 never part again. The Captain has 
 promised to write to the Admiralty for 
 my discharge. I saved his life in the 
 Basque Roads. But I say, Sue, why 
 wasn't you on the beach? 
 
 Susan. I knew not of your arrival. 
 
 William. Why, a sailor's wife, 
 Susan, ought to know her husband's 
 craft, if he sailed in a washing-tub, from 
 a whole fleet. But how is this, Sue? — 
 how is this ? Poverty aboard ? — and 
 then your uncle — ■ 
 
68 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Enter Dog grass] 
 
 DoGGBASs [advances]. Now, Mrs. 
 Susan, I am determined — 
 
 [Sees William] 
 
 William. The very griffin I was talk- 
 ing of. Now, what are you staring at ? 
 What are you opening your mouth for 
 like the main hold of a seventy-four? 
 I should like to send you to sea in a 
 leaky gun-boat, and keep you at the 
 pumps for a six months' cruise. 
 
 DoGGRASs. What ! William ! 
 
 [In a fawning tone, offering his 
 hand] 
 
 William. Avast, there ! don't think 
 to pome under my lee in that fashion. 
 Aren't you a neat gorgon of an uncle 
 now, to cut the painter of a pretty 
 pinnace like this, and send her drifting 
 down the tide of poverty, without 
 baUast, provisions, or compass? May 
 you live a life of ban-yan days, and be 
 put six upon four for't ! 
 
 DoGGRASs. But you mistake, 
 William — 
 
 William. No palaver! tell it to the 
 marines. What, tacking and double 
 tacking ! Come to what you want to 
 say at once. If you want to get into 
 the top, go up the futtook shrouds like 
 a man — - don't creep through lubber's 
 hole. What have you got to say ? 
 
 DooGRASs. Don't — you have put 
 my heart into my mouth. 
 
 WiLi-iAM. Have I? I couldn't put 
 a blacker morsel there ! Just come 
 alongside here. [Pulls him by neckcloth] 
 I am not much of a scholar, and don't 
 understand fine words. Your heart is 
 as hard as a ring-bolt — to coil it up at 
 
 once, you are a d d rascal ! If you 
 
 come here after your friends, you'U 
 find 'em in the cock-pit of one of the 
 fleet. You have missed the rattlin this 
 time, but brought yourself up by the 
 shrouds. Now, take my advice, — 
 strike your false colours, or I wouldn't 
 give a dead marine for the chance of 
 your neck. [Doggrass hurries off] 
 That fellow would sit still at his grog, 
 at the cry of "A man overboard!" 
 Oh, Susan, when I look at your eyes, you 
 put me in mind of a frigate, with marines 
 firing from the tops ! Come along. Sue : 
 first to fire a salute to old Dame Hatley, 
 then to my shipmates. To-day we'U 
 pitch care overboard, without putting 
 a buoy over him — call for the fiddles 
 — start the rum cask — tipple the grog 
 • — and pipe all hands to jnischief . 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Sixth. — A View near Deal. — 
 Public House. — Table with bottles 
 and cups at back, — forms and stools 
 for sailors, &c. — Loud laughing as 
 scene opens. — Peter, Seaweed, 
 Gnatbrain, Dollj, Sailors, Rus- 
 tics, Men, and Women discovered 
 drinking. 
 
 Seaweeb. Belay that galley yam, 
 Peter, belay ! 
 
 Gnatbrain. Oh, let him go on — 
 he lies like a purser at reckoning day. 
 
 Seaweed. Where's William, I won- 
 der? He promised to meet us. I sup- 
 pose he's with his Susan now. 
 
 Peter. And where can he be better, 
 do you think? But suppose, just to 
 pass the time away, I give you the song 
 that was made by Tom Splinter, upon 
 Susan's parting with William in the 
 Downs? 
 
 All. Ay, the song — the song ! 
 
 Seaweed. Come, pipe up, my boy! 
 Poor Tom Splinter ! he was cut in half 
 by a bar-shot from the Frenchman. 
 WeU, every ball's commissioned. The 
 song — the song ! 
 
 Peter. Here goes ; but I know I 
 can't sing it now. 
 
 Seaweed. Can't sing ! bless you, 
 whenever we want to catch a mermaid, 
 we only make him chant a stave, and 
 we've twenty round the ship in the 
 letting go of an anchor. 
 
 [Song — Blue Peter] 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd. 
 The streamers waving on the wind. 
 
 When blaok-ey'd Susan came on board — 
 Oh ! where shall I my true lore find ? 
 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 
 
 Does my sweet William sail among your 
 crew? 
 
 William, who high upon the yard, 
 Rock'd with the billows to and fro ; 
 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard, 
 He sigh'd and cast his eyes below. 
 
 The cord .slides swiftly through his glowing 
 hands, 
 
 And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 
 No longer must she stay on board ; 
 
 They kiss'd ; she sighed ; he hung his head. 
 
 Her less'ning boat unwilling rows to land ; 
 
 Adieu ! she cries, and waves her lily hand. 
 
 Peter. Halloo ! who have we here? 
 Man the yards, jny boys — here comee 
 the Captain- 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 69 
 
 [Enter Captain Oeossteee. — Sailors 
 
 take off their hats. — Lasses curtsy] 
 
 Ceosstheb. I am sorry, my fine 
 fellows, to interrupt your festivities, 
 but you must aboard to-night. 
 
 All. To-night, your honour? 
 
 Ceosstbee. Yes ! it is yet uncer- 
 tain, that we may not be ordered to 
 set sail to-morrow. 
 
 Petee. Set sail to-morrow ! why the 
 lords of the Admiralty will break the 
 women's hearts, your honour. 
 
 Cbossteee. Where is William? 
 
 Petee. He's with Susan, yoiir 
 honour; pretty black-ey'd Susan, as 
 she is called. 
 
 Cbossteee. With black-ey'd Susan ! 
 How is that ? 
 
 Petee. How, your honour? why 
 they are spliced together for Ufe. 
 
 Cbossteee. Married ! I never 
 heard of this ! 
 
 Peteb. No? why your honour, I 
 thought it was as well known as the 
 union-jack. They were spUced before 
 we went upon the last station. Not 
 know it, your honour? why, many a 
 time has the middle-watch sung the 
 parting of William and Susan. 
 
 Cbossteee [aside]. Married! I 
 had rather forfeited all chance of being 
 an admiral. Well, my lads, you hear 
 my advice; so make the best of your 
 time, for to-morrow you may be sailing 
 for blue water again. 
 
 [Sailobs bow, go up — Cbossteee 
 exits in house] 
 
 Petee. Them lords of the Admiralty 
 know no more about pleasures of liberty, 
 plenty of grog, and dancing with the 
 lasses, than I knows about 'stronomy. 
 Here comes WilUam. 
 
 [Music. — Enter William and Susan. 
 — They cheer him] 
 
 William. Here's my shipmates, 
 Susan ! Look at her, my hearties — 
 I wouldn't give up the command of this 
 craft, no — not to be made Lord High 
 Admiral. 
 
 Gnatbeain [brings Dolly down]. 
 Here's my craft. I wouldn't give up 
 the command of this 'ere craft to be 
 made Lord High Gardener on. 
 
 William. What, honest Gnatbrain, 
 — Susan has told me about you — give 
 us a grapple ! [Shakes hands very forci- 
 bly. — Gnatbbain writhes under it] 
 What are you looking for ? 
 
 Gnatbeain. Looking for my fingers. 
 
 William [takes out box]. Here, 
 take a bit from St. Domingo Billy. 
 
 Gnatbeain. Prom what? 
 
 [Sailobs gather round William] 
 
 William. Prom St. Domingo Billy ! 
 I see you are taken back — steering in 
 a fog; well, I'U just put on my top- 
 hghts to direct your course. 
 
 Gnatbeain. Now, I'm a bit of a 
 sailor — but none of your hard words. 
 
 William. Hiird words ! no, I always 
 speak good English. You don't think 
 I'm hke Lieutenant Lavender, of the 
 lily-white schooner. 
 
 Gnatbeain. But about St. Domingo 
 Billy. 
 
 William. It's lucky for you, that 
 you've been good to Susan, or I shouldn't 
 spin you these yarns. You see it was 
 when the fleet was lying off St. Domingo, 
 in the West Indies, the crew liked new 
 rum and dancing with the niggers. 
 Well, the Admiral (a good old fellow, 
 and one as didn't like flogging) wouldn't 
 give the men Uberty ; some of 'em, how- 
 somever, would swim ashore at night, 
 and come off in the morning. Now, 
 you see, to hinder this, the Admiral 
 and the Captains put St. Domingo 
 Billy on the ship's books, and served 
 him out his mess every morning. 
 
 Gnatbeain. Who was St. Domingo 
 BiUy? 
 
 William. Why, a shark, as long as 
 the Captain's gig. This shark, or 
 Billy — for that's what the sailors 
 called him — used to swim round the 
 fleet, and go from ship to ship, for his 
 biscuit and raw junk, just hke a Chris- 
 tian. 
 
 Gnatbeain. Well, but your 'bacco- 
 box, what about that? 
 
 William. Steady ! — I'm coming to 
 it. Well, one morning, about eight 
 bells, there was a black bumboat woman 
 aboard, with a Uttle piccaninny, not 
 much longer than my hand. Well, she 
 sat just in the gangway, — and there 
 was Baiy alongside, with his three decks 
 of grinders, ready for what might come. 
 Well, afore you could say about-ship, 
 the little black baby jumped out of its 
 mother's grappling, and feU into Billy's 
 jaws. The black woman gave a shriek 
 that would have spUt the boatswain's 
 whistle! Tom Gunnell saw how the 
 wind was : he was as fine a seaman as 
 ever stept — stood six feet two, and 
 could sit upon his pig-taU. Well, he 
 snatched up a knife, overboard he 
 jumps, and dives under Billy, and in a 
 
70 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 minute the sea was as red as a marine ; 
 all the crew hung like a swarm of bees 
 upon the shrouds, and when Tom came 
 up, all over blood with the little baby in 
 his hand, and the shark turned over dead 
 upon its side — my eyes ! such a cheer 
 — it might have been heard at Green- 
 wich. 
 
 Dolly. Oh, no, WiUiam, not quite 
 so far ! 
 
 Gnatbbain. Oh, y^s, you might ; 
 that is, if the wind had blown that way 
 very strong. 
 
 William. We had 'em aboard, cut 
 up Billy, and what do you think we 
 found in him? all the watches and' 
 'baeoo-boxes as had been lost for the 
 last ten years — an Admiral's cocked 
 hat, and three pilot's telescopes. This 
 is one on 'em ! [Showing box] 
 
 Gnatbrain. What ! one of the tele- 
 scopes ? 
 
 William. No, of the boxes, you 
 lubber ! 
 
 Gnatbbain. Well, friend WiUiam, 
 that's a tolerable yarn. 
 
 William. True, true as the Nore 
 Light. But come, my hearties, we are 
 not by the galley fire — let's have a 
 dance. 
 
 Omnbs. Ay, a dance ! — a dance ! 
 
 [Dance — end of which, Quid 
 enters] 
 
 Quid. Now, lads, all hands on board. 
 
 William. On board. Master Quid! 
 why, you are not in earnest? 
 
 Quid. Indeed, but I am : there's the 
 first lieutenant waiting on the beach for 
 all the liberty men. 
 
 [Sailobs and Lasses retire and 
 converse together, bidding each 
 other farewell] 
 
 Susan. Oh, William, must you leave 
 me so early? 
 
 William. Why, duty, you know, 
 Susan, must be obeyed. [Aside] 
 Cruise about here a little while — I'll 
 down to the lieutenant and ax him for 
 leave tiU to-morrow. Well, come along, 
 shipmates ; if so be that blue Peter 
 must fly at the fore, why it's no use 
 putting a black face on the matter. 
 
 [Music. — William, Sailghs, 
 and GiBLS, exeunt] 
 
 Gnatbbain. This it is, you see, 
 pretty Susan, to be married to a sailor. 
 Now, don't you think it would be much 
 better if WOliam had a little cot, with 
 
 six feet square for the cultivation of 
 potatoes, than the forecastle for the 
 rearing of laurels? To be obliged to 
 leave you now ! 
 
 Susan. Yes, but I trust he will be 
 enabled to return ; nay, there are hopes 
 that he will gain his discharge; and 
 then, with his prize-money, — 
 
 Gnatbbain. Ay, I see, go into the 
 mercantile line — take a shop for marine 
 stores. But, come along, Susan, the 
 evening is closing in — I'll see you to 
 your cottage. 
 
 Susan. I thank you, good Gnat- 
 brain, but I would, for a time, be alone. 
 
 Gnatbbain. Ah, I see, melancholy 
 and fond of moonlight. Well, poor 
 thing, it's not to be wondered at. I 
 was melancholy when I was first in love, 
 but now I contrive to keep a light heart, 
 though it is struck with an arrow. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Susan. I hope he wiU return — 
 surely, his officer will not be so unkind 
 as to refuse him. 
 
 [Enter Captain Cbossteee, from Inn, 
 intoxicated] 
 
 Crosstbee [singing]. "Cease, rude 
 Boreas." — Confound that fellow's 
 wine ! — or mischief on that little rogue's 
 black eyes, for one or the other of them 
 has made sad havoc here. 
 
 Susan [aside]. The stranger officer 
 that accosted me. 
 
 Cbosstbee. Well, now for the boat. 
 [Sees Susan] May I never see salt 
 water again, if this is not the very wench. 
 My dear ! my love ! come here ! 
 
 Susan. Intoxicated, too! I will 
 hence. [Going] 
 
 Cbosstbee [staying her]. Stop ! 
 why, what are you fluttering about? 
 Don't you know I've found out a 
 secret? — ha, ha ! I'm your husband's 
 Captain. 
 
 Susan. I'm glad of it, sir. 
 
 Cbosstbee. Are you so? well, that 
 sounds well. 
 
 Susan. For I think you wiU give 
 my husband leave of absence, or, if 
 that is impossible, allow me to go on 
 board his ship. 
 
 Cbosstbee. Go on board — that 
 you shaU ! You shall go in the Captain's 
 gig — you shall live in the Captain's 
 cabin. 
 
 Susan. Sir ! 
 
 Cbosstbee. Would it not be a shame 
 for such a beautiful, black-ey'd, tender 
 little angel as yourself to visit between 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 71 
 
 decks? Come, think of it. As for 
 William, he's a fine fellow, certainly, but 
 you can forget him. 
 
 Susan. Sir, let me go ! 
 
 Cbosstrbb. Forget him and live 
 for me. By heavens, I love you, and 
 must have you ! 
 
 Susan. If you are a gentleman, if 
 you are a sailor, you will not insult a 
 defenceless woman. 
 
 Ceossthee. My dear, I have visited 
 too many seaports not to understand 
 all this. I know I may be wrong, but 
 passion hurries me — • the wine fires me 
 — your eyes dart lightning into me, 
 and you shall be mine ! [Seizes Susan] 
 
 Susan. Let me go ! in meroy ! — 
 William, William ! 
 
 Crosstbbe. Your cries are vain! 
 resistance useless ! 
 
 Susan. Monster ! WiUiam, William ! 
 
 [Music. — She breaks away from 
 him, and runs off; he follows 
 and drags her back, and, as he 
 throws her round, she shrieks] 
 
 [Enter William, with drawn cutlass, 
 Sailors and Girl's] 
 
 William. Susan! and attacked by 
 the buccaneers ! Die ! 
 
 [Strikes Crosstreb with cutlass, 
 who staggers and is caught by 
 Sbawbbd. — Susan rushes up 
 to William] 
 
 Omnes. The Captain! 
 
 [Slow music. — Tableau, and 
 
 END OP ACT first 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene First. — A Street in Deal. 
 
 [Enter Gnatbrain. — Distant gun heard 
 without] 
 
 Gnatbrain. Oh, dear! the Court 
 Martial is ordered : the Captains, with 
 the Admiral at their head, are assem- 
 bling on board the ship, and there goes 
 the signal gun for the commencement 
 of the proceedings. Poor WiUiam ! 
 
 [Enter Doggrass] 
 
 DoGGRASs. Poor William I aye, if 
 pity would save him, his neck would be 
 insured. Didn't he attempt to MU his 
 Captain? 
 
 Gnatbrain. True; he deserves 
 hanging for that. You would have 
 doubtless gone a different way to work. 
 William out down his oflSoer in defence 
 of his wife — now you, like a good, 
 prudent man, would have thrust your 
 hands into your pockets, and looked on. 
 
 Doggrass. None of your sneering, 
 sirrah. William — hanging is too good 
 for him ! 
 
 Gnatbrain. You know best what 
 hanging is good for — but I know this, 
 — if aH the rascals who, under the 
 semblance of a snug respectability, sow 
 the world with dissensions and deceit, 
 were fitted with a halter, rope would 
 double its price, and the executioner 
 set up his carriage. 
 
 Doggrass. Have you any meaning 
 in this? 
 
 Gnatbrain. No — ■ none: you can 
 couple my meaning with your honesty. 
 
 Doggrass. When will your tongue 
 change its pertness ? 
 
 Gnatbrain. When your heart 
 changes its colour. 
 
 Doggrass. My heart ! I have noth- 
 ing to reproach myself with; I feel 
 strong in — 
 
 Gnatbrain. Yes, you must be 
 strong, there's no doubting that — 
 else you'd never be able to carry that 
 lump of marble in your bosom — that's 
 a load would break the back of any 
 porter. 
 
 Doggrass. I tell you what, my 
 friend, I had some thoughts — 
 
 Gnatbrain. Stop ! I'U tell you 
 what I had only just now — a dream. 
 
 Doggrass. A dream? 
 
 Gnatbrain. Aye ; I dreamt that a 
 young lamb was set upon by a wolf, 
 when, strange to say, a lion leapt upon 
 it, and tore it piecemeal; at this mo- 
 ment a band of hunters came up, and 
 secured the noble brute : they were 
 about to kill the lion, their gims were 
 pointed, their swords drawn, when a 
 thing, at first no bigger than my hand, 
 appeared in _ the sl^ — it came closer, 
 and I saw it was a huge vulture ; it 
 went wheeling round and round the 
 victim lion, and appeared to anticipate 
 the feast of blood — and with a red 
 and glaring eye, and grasping talons, 
 seemed to demand the carcass, ere 
 the lion yet was dead. 
 
 Doggrass. And this was a dream? 
 
 Gnatbrain. Yes, a day-dream. 
 
 Doggrass. And what, since you 
 will talk, say you to the vidture ? 
 
72 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Gnatbrain. Nothing ; but I looked 
 at it — and with a loathing, left it. 
 
 [Exit, looking significantly at 
 
 DOGGRASS] 
 
 DoGGRAss. I shall never sleep 
 quietly until I lay that rascal by the 
 heels. Confusion take him ! I'm 
 ashamed to say I am almost afraid of 
 him. 
 
 [Enter Jacob Twig] 
 
 Now, Jacob, how fares Captain 
 Crosstree ? 
 
 Jacob. Better ; it is thought he wiU 
 recover. 
 
 DoQGRASs. Another disappointment ; 
 yet, by the rules of the service, William 
 must die. Here, Jacob, I've something 
 for you to — 
 
 Jacob. I've something for you, sir. 
 [Gives him money] 
 
 DoGGRAss. Why, what's this? 
 
 Jacob. Three guineas, two shillings, 
 and sixpence half -penny! That's just, 
 sir, what I've received of you since I've 
 been in your employ. 
 
 DoGGKASs. Well, and what of that? 
 
 Jacob. I don't feel comfortable 
 with it, sir ; I'd thank you to take it. 
 
 DoGGRASs. Take it ! Are you mad ? 
 
 Jacob. No, sir — I have been ; I 
 have been wicked, and I now think — 
 and I wish you would think so too — ■ 
 that all wickedness is madness. 
 
 DoGGRAss. How is all this brought 
 about ? 
 
 Jacob. A short tale, sir ; it's all with 
 the Captain. 
 
 Doggrass. The Captain ! 
 
 Jacob. Yes ; I was in the public- 
 house- when the Captain was brought 
 in with that gash in his shoulder ; I 
 stood beside his bed ; it was steeped in 
 blood — the doctor shook his head — 
 the parson came and prayed ; and 
 when I looked on the Captain's blue 
 hps and pale face, I thought what poor 
 creatures we are ; then something 
 whispered in my heart, "Jacob, thou 
 hast been a mischief-making, wicked 
 lad — and suppose, Jacob, thou wert, 
 at a moment's notice, to take the Cap- 
 tain's place!" I heard this — ^ heard 
 it as plain as my own voice — and my 
 hair moved, and I felt as if I'd been 
 dipped in a river, and I fell like a stone 
 on my knees — when I got up again, 
 I was quite another lad. 
 
 Doggrass. Ha, ha I 
 
 Jacob. That's not a laugh ; don't 
 deceive yourself, it sounds to my ears 
 
 like the croak of a frog, or the hoot of 
 an owl. 
 
 Doggrass. Fool ! 
 
 Jacob. I ran as hard as I could run to 
 Farmer Arable — told him what a ras- 
 cal I was, and begged he'd hire me 
 — he did, and gave me half-ar-year's 
 wages in advance, that I might return 
 the money you had paid me — there it 
 is. 
 
 Doggrass. Idiot ! take the money. 
 
 Jacob. Every coin of it is a cocka- 
 trice's egg — it can bring forth nought 
 but miscmef . 
 
 Doggrass. Take it, or I'U throw it 
 into the sea. 
 
 Jacob. Don't, for coming from your 
 hand, it would poison aU the fishes. 
 
 Doggrass. You will be a fool, then? 
 
 Jacob. Yes ; one of your fools. Mas- 
 ter Doggrass — I wiU be honest. [Exit] 
 
 Doggrass. All falling from me; no 
 matter. I'U wait to see William dis- 
 posed of ; then, since the people here 
 seem leagued against me, sell off my 
 stock, and travel. The postman 
 brought this packet [producing one] to 
 my house, directed to Captain Cross- 
 tree. What can it contain? No mat- 
 ter — it is a virtue on the right side to 
 be over-cautious ; so go you into my 
 pocket, until William is settled for. 
 [Distant gun heard vnthout] The Court 
 is opened — now to watch its progress. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Scene Second. — The State Cabin. — 
 The Court Martial. — Three guns 
 on each side of the cabin. — Music. 
 
 [The Admiral sits at the head of 
 the table, a union-jack flying over 
 his chair; six Captains sit on each 
 side of the table. William, the 
 Mastee-at-Arms, and Marine 
 Ofeicer. a Marine at each side, 
 and one behind. A Midshipman 
 is in attendance] 
 
 Admiral. Prisoner, as your ship is 
 ordered for instant service, and it has 
 been thought expedient that your ship- 
 mates should be witnesses of whatever 
 punishment the Court may award you, 
 if found guilty of the crime wherewith 
 you are charged, it will be sufficient to 
 receive the depositions of the witnesses, 
 without calling for the attendance of 
 Captain Crosstree, whom it is yet im- 
 possible to remove from shore. One of 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 73 
 
 the witnesses, I am sorry to say, is your 
 wife ; however, out of mercy to your 
 peculiar situation, we have not sum- 
 moned her to attend. 
 
 William. Bless you, your honours, 
 bless you ! My wife, Susan, standing 
 here before me, speaking words that 
 would send me to the fore-yard — it 
 had been too much for an old sailor. I 
 thank your honours ! If I must work 
 for the dead reckoning, I wouldn't 
 have it in sight of my wife. 
 
 Admiral. Prisoner, you are charged 
 with an attempt to slay Robert Cross- 
 tree, Captain of his Majesty's Navy, 
 and your superior officer. Answer, are 
 you guilty, or not g^ulty? 
 
 William. I want, your honour, to 
 steer well between the questions. If 
 it be asked, whether I wished to kill the 
 Captain, I could, if I'd a mind to brag, 
 show that I loved him — loved him next 
 to my own Susan ! All's one for that. 
 I am not guilty of an attempt to kill the 
 Captain ; but, if it be guilt to strike in 
 defence of a sailor's own sheet-anchor, 
 his wife, why I say guilty, your honour ; 
 I say it, and think I've no cause to hang 
 out the red at my fore. 
 
 Admiral. You i>lead guilty — let 
 me, as one of your judges, advise you 
 to reconsider the plea. At least take 
 the chances which the hearing of your 
 case may allow. 
 
 William. I leave that chance to 
 your own hearts, your honours ; if they 
 have not a good word for poor Will, 
 why, it is below the honesty of a sailor 
 to go upon the half tack of a lawyer. 
 
 Admiral. You wiU not retract the 
 plea? 
 
 William. I'm fixed ; anchored to it, 
 fore an' aft, with chain cable. 
 
 Admiral. Does no one of your ship- 
 mates attend to speak to your char- 
 acter? Have you no one? 
 
 William. No one, your honour? 
 I didn't think to ask them — ■ but let 
 the word be passed, and may I never go 
 aloft, if, from the boatswain to the black 
 cook, there's one that could spin a yarti 
 to condemn me. 
 
 Admiral. Pass the word forward for 
 witnesses. 
 
 Midshipman. Witnesses for the 
 prisoner. 
 
 [Enter Quid . — Bows to Court] 
 
 Admiral. What are you ? 
 Quid. Boatswain, your honour. 
 
 Admiral. What know you of the 
 prisoner ? 
 
 Quid. Know, your honour? — ^ the 
 trimmest sailor as ever handled rope; 
 the first on his watch, the last to leave 
 the deck ; one as never belonged to the 
 after-guard. He has the cleanest top, 
 and the whitest hammock. Prom reef- 
 ing a main-topsail to stowing a netting, 
 give me taut Will afore any able seaman 
 in his Majesty's fleet. 
 
 Admiral. But what know you of his 
 moral character ? 
 
 Quid. His moral character, your 
 honour? Why, he plays upon the 
 fiddle like an angel ! 
 
 Admiral. Are there any other wit- 
 nesses? [Exit Quid] 
 
 [Enter Seaweed] 
 
 What do you know of the prisoner? 
 
 Seaweed. Nothing but good, your 
 honour. 
 
 Admiral. He was never known to 
 disobey command? 
 
 Seaweed. Never but once, your 
 honours, and that was when he gave 
 me half of his grog when I was upon 
 the black list. 
 
 Admiral. What else do youl know? 
 
 Seaweed. Why this. I know, your 
 honour, if William goes aloft, there's 
 sartin promotion for him. 
 
 Admiral. Have you nothing else to 
 show? Did he ever do any great 
 benevolent action? 
 
 Seaweed. Yes, he twice saved the 
 Captain's hfe, and once ducked a Jew 
 slopseUer. 
 
 [Admiral motions witnesses to 
 retire. Exit Seaweed] 
 
 Admiral. Are there any more wit- 
 nesses ? 
 
 William. Yom- honours, I feel as if 
 I were in irons, or seized to the grating, 
 to stand here and listen, — like the land- 
 lord's daughter of the Nelson, — to 
 nothing but yarns about service and 
 character. My actions, your honoiu-s, 
 are kept in the log-book aloft. If, when 
 that's overhauled, I'm not found a trim 
 seaman, why it's only throwing salt to 
 the fishes to patter here. 
 
 Admiral. Remove the prisoner. 
 
 [Exeunt Master-at-Ahms, with 
 William, Marines, and Mid- 
 shipman] 
 
 Gentlemen, nothing more remains for 
 us than to consider the justice of our 
 
74 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 verdict. Although the case of the un- 
 fortunate man admits of many pallia- 
 tives, still, for the upholding of a neces- 
 sary discipUne, any commiseration would 
 afford a dangerous precedent, and I fear, 
 cannot be indulged. Gentlemen, are 
 you all determined on your verdict? 
 Guilty, or not guilty ? — Guilty ? [After 
 a pause, the Captains bow assent] It 
 remains then for me to pass the sentence 
 of the law? [Captains bow] Bring 
 back the prisoner. 
 
 [Reenter William and Master-at- 
 arms] 
 
 Admiral. Prisoner — after a patient 
 and impartial investigation of your case, 
 this Court has unanimously pronounced 
 you — Guilty. [Pause] If you have 
 anything to say in arrest of judgment, 
 
 — now is your time to speak. 
 William. In a moment, your 
 
 honours. — Damn it, my top-lights are 
 rather misty ! Your honours, I had 
 been three years at sea, and had never 
 looked upon or heard from my wife 
 
 — as sweet a httle craft as was ever 
 launched. I had come ashore, and I 
 was as lively as a petrel in a storm. I 
 found Susan — that's my wife, your 
 honours — all her gilt taken by the 
 land-sharks ; but yet all taut, with a 
 face as red and rosy as the King's head 
 on the side of a fire-bucket. Well, 
 your honours, when we were as merry 
 as a ship's crew on a pay-day, there 
 comes an order to go aboard. I left 
 Susan, and went with the rest of the 
 hberty-men to ax leave of the first- 
 Ueutenant. I hadn't been gone the 
 turning of an hour-glass, when I heard 
 Susan giving signals of distress; I out 
 with my cutlass, made all sail, and 
 came up to my craft. I found her 
 battling with a pirate. I never looked 
 at his figure-head, never stopped — 
 would any of your honours ? Long live 
 you and your wives, say 1 ! Would any 
 of your honours have rowed alongside 
 as if you'd been going aboard a royal 
 yacht ? No, you wouldn't ; for the gilt 
 swabs on the shoulders can't alter the 
 heart that swells beneath ; you would 
 have done as I did; and what did I? 
 why, L cut him down like a piece of old 
 junk. Had he been the first lord of the 
 Admiralty, I had done it ! 
 
 [Overcome with emotion] 
 
 Admiral. Prisoner, we keenly feel 
 
 for your situation; yet you, as a good 
 
 sailor, must know that the course of 
 justice cannot be evaded. 
 
 William. Your honours, let me be 
 no bar to it ; I do not talk for my life. 
 Death! why, if I 'scaped it here, — the 
 next capful of wind might blow me 
 from the yard-arm. All I would strive 
 for, is to show I had no malice; all I 
 wish whilst you pass sentence, is your 
 pity; that, your honours, whilst it is 
 your duty to condemn the sailor, may, 
 as having wives you honour and chil- 
 dren you love, respect the husband. 
 
 Admiral. Have you anything fur- 
 ther to advance ? 
 
 William. All my cable is run out. 
 I'm brought to. 
 
 Admiral [all the Captains rise]. 
 Prisoner ! it is now my most painful 
 duty to pass the sentence of the Court 
 upon you. The Court commiserates 
 your situation ; and, in consideration 
 of your services, will see that every care 
 is taken of your wife when deprived of 
 your protection. 
 
 William. Poor Susan ! 
 
 Admiral. Prisoner ! your case falls 
 under the twenty-second Article of 
 War. [Read.<s] "If any man in, or 
 belonging to the Fleet, shall draw, or 
 offer to draw, or lift up his hand against 
 his superior officer, he shall suffer death." 
 [Putting on his hat] The sentence of the 
 Court is, that you be hanged at the 
 fore-yard-arm of this, his Majesty's 
 ship, at the hour of ten o'clock. Heaven 
 pardon your sins, and have mercy on 
 your soul ! This Court is now dissolved. 
 [Music. — Admiral and Cap- 
 tains come forward. — Ad- 
 miral shakes hands with 
 William, who, overcome, kneels. 
 — After a momentary struggle, 
 he rises, collects himself, and is 
 escorted from the cabin in the 
 same way that he entered. — 
 The scene closes. — Gun fires] 
 
 Scene Third. — The Gun-room of 
 William's Ship. Tomahawks 
 crossed, and fire-buckets in a row. — 
 Music. 
 
 [Enter Lieutenant Pike, two Marines, 
 William, Master-at-Arms, fol- 
 lowed by Quid and Seaweed] 
 
 Pike. Now, William, what cheer? 
 
 William. Water-logged, your 
 honour — my heart's sprung a-leak 
 — I'm three feet water in the hold. 
 
Black-Ey'd Susan 
 
 75 
 
 piKE. Come, summon all your 
 firmness. 
 
 William. I will, your honour; but 
 just then I couldn't help thinking that 
 when I used to keep the middle watoh 
 with you, I never thought it would 
 oome to this. 
 
 Pike. But you are a brave fellow, 
 William, and fear not death. 
 
 William. Death ! No — since I 
 first trod the King's oak, he has been 
 about me. I have slept near him, 
 watched near him — he has looked 
 upon my face, and saw I shrunk not. 
 In a storm I have heeded him not — 
 in the fury of the battle I thought not 
 of him. Had I been mowed down by 
 ball or cutlass, my shipmates, as they 
 had thrown me to the sharks, would 
 have given me a pa,rting look of friend- 
 ship, and over their grog have said I did 
 my duty. This, your honour, would not 
 have been death, but lying-up in or- 
 dinary. But to be swayed up like a 
 wet jib, to dry — the whole fleet — nay, 
 the folks of Deal, people that knew me, 
 used to pat me on the head when a boy, 
 
 — all these looking at me ! Oh, thank 
 heaven, my mother's dead ! 
 
 Pike. Come, William. [Shakes his 
 head] There, think no more after 
 that fashion. Are there any of your 
 shipmates, on whom you would wish 
 to bestow something ? 
 
 William. Thankee, your honour. 
 Lieutenant — I know you won't despise 
 the gift because it comes from one who 
 walked the forecastle — here's my box 
 
 — keep it for poor Will's sake — ^you 
 and I, your honour, have laid yard-arm 
 and yard-arm with many a foe — let us 
 hope we shall come gunwale to gunwale 
 in another eUmate. [Gives him box. — 
 To Marine Oppiceb] Your honour's 
 hand — blue Peter's flying — the vessel 
 of life has her anchor a-trip, and must 
 soon get under way for the ocean of 
 eternity. Your honour Will have to 
 march me to the launching place. You 
 won't give a ship a bad name because 
 she went awkwardly off the stocks. 
 Take this, your honour. [Opens watch] 
 This paper was cut by Susan's fingers 
 before we left the Downs ; take it, your 
 honour, I can't look at it. Master 
 Quid, take this for my sake. [Gives 
 chain and seals, among which is a bullet] 
 You see that bullet — preserve that 
 more than the gold. That ball was 
 received by Harry Trunnion in defence 
 of me. I was disarmed, and the enemy 
 
 was about to fire, when Harry threw 
 himself before me, and received that 
 bullet in his breast. I took it flattened 
 from his dead body — have worn it 
 about me — it has served to remind me 
 that Harry suffered for my sake, and 
 that it was my duty, when chance might 
 serve, to do the like for another. 
 
 Pike. And now, William, have you 
 any request to make ? 
 
 W'lLLiAM. Lieutenant, you see this 
 locket. [Points to locket at his 'neck] It 
 is Susan's hair. When I'm in dock, 
 don't let it be touched : I know you 
 won't. You have been most kind to 
 me. Lieutenant, and if those who go 
 aloft may know what passes on the 
 high_ sea, I shall yet look down upon 
 you in the middle-watch, and bless you. 
 Now, one word more. How fares the 
 Captain? 
 
 Pike-. Very iU. So ill that he has 
 been removed from the command, and 
 the first lieutenant acts until the new 
 Captain arrives. 
 
 William. His case, then, is desper- 
 ate. Well, if he goes out of commission, 
 I can't tremble to meet him. I bear 
 no malice, your honour — I loved the 
 Captain. ■ 
 
 Pike. You have nothing to ask? 
 
 William. Nothing, your honour. 
 Susan and some friends will shortly 
 be on board. AU I want is, that I may 
 ask for strength to see my wife — my 
 poor, young, heart-broken wife, for the 
 last time, and then die like a seam.an and 
 a man. [Music. — Lieutenant Pike, 
 Quid, Seaweed, and Mahinbs, exeunt] 
 I am soon to see poor Susan ! I should 
 hke, first, to beat all my feelings to 
 quarters, that they may stand well to 
 tlieir guns, in this their last engagement. 
 I'll try and sing that song, which I have 
 many a time sung in the mid-watch — 
 that song which has often placed my 
 heart, though a thousand mfles at sea, 
 at my once happy home. [William 
 sings a verse of "Black-Ey'd Susan"] 
 My heart is splitting! [Susan shrieks 
 without — rushes in, and throws herself 
 into William's arms] 
 
 Oh, Susan! Well, my poor wench, 
 how fares it ? 
 
 Susan. Oh, William! and I have 
 watched, prayed for your return — 
 smiled in the face of poverty, stopped 
 my ears to the reproaches of the selfish, 
 the worse pity of the thoughtless — and 
 all, all for this ! 
 
 William. Ay, Sue, it's hard! but 
 
76 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 that's all over — to grieve is useless. 
 Susan, I might have died disgraced — 
 have left you the widow of a bad, black- 
 hearted man. I know 'twill not be so 
 
 — and in this, whilst you remain be- 
 hind me, there is at least some comfort. 
 I died in a good cause ; I died in defence 
 of the virtue of a wife — her tears will 
 fall like spring rain on the grass that 
 covers me. 
 
 Strs.4.N. Talk not so — your grave ! 
 I feel it is a place where my heart must 
 throw down its heavy load of Ufe. 
 
 William. Come, Susan, shake off 
 your tears. There, now, smile a bit 
 
 — we'U not talk again of graves. 
 Think, Susan, that I am a-going on a 
 long foreign station — think so. Now, 
 what would you ask? — have you 
 nothing, nothing to say? 
 
 StrsAN. Nothing ! Oh, when at 
 home, hoping, yet trembling for this 
 meeting, thoughts crowded on me ; I 
 felt as if I could have talked to you for 
 days — stopping for want of power, 
 not words. Now, the terrible time ia 
 come — now I am almost tongue-tied 
 
 — my heart swells to my throat — I 
 can but look and weep. [Gun fires] 
 That gun ! Oh, WiUiam ! husband ! is 
 it so near ? You speak not — tremble ! 
 
 William. Susan, be calm. If you 
 love your husband, do not send him on 
 the deck a white-faced coward. Be 
 still, my poor girl, I have something to 
 say — until you are calm, I will not utter 
 it ; now, Susan — 
 
 Susan. I am cold, motionless as ice. 
 
 William. Susan 1 you know the old 
 aspen that grows near to the church 
 porch. You and I, when children, 
 almost before we could speak plainly, 
 have sat and watched and wondered at 
 its shaking leaves. I grew up, and 
 that tree seemed to me a friend that 
 loved me, yet had not the tongue to tell 
 me so. Beneath its boughs our little 
 arms have been looked together — be- 
 neath its boughs I took the last kiss of 
 your white lips, when hard fortune made 
 me turn sailor. I out from that tree 
 this branch. [Produces it] Many a 
 summer's day aboard, I've lain in the 
 top and looked at these few leaves, until 
 I saw green meadows in the salt sea, 
 and heard the bleating of the sheep. 
 When I am dead, Susan, let me be laid 
 under that tree — let me — 
 
 [Gun fires. — Svn an falls. — Slow 
 Music. — Lieutenant Pike 
 and Seaweed enter. — 
 William gives Sttsan in charge 
 of Seaweed, takes his hand- 
 kerchief off, ties it around her 
 neck, kisses her, and she is 
 carried off. — Lieutenant 
 Pike and William exeunt] 
 
 Scene Fourth. — The Forecastle of ike 
 Ship. — Procession along the star- 
 board gangway. — Masteb-at- 
 Abms, with a drawn sword under 
 his arm, point next to the prisoner. 
 
 — William, without his neckcloth. 
 
 — Marines, Oppicee op Marines, 
 Admiral, Captain, Lieutenants, 
 and Midshipmen. — A Sailor 
 standing at one of the forecastle guns, 
 with the lock-string in his hand. — 
 A platform extends from the cat- 
 head to the fore rigging. — Music. 
 
 Master- at-Arms. Prisoner, are you 
 prepared ? 
 William. Bless you ! bless you aU — 
 
 [Mounts the platform. Captain 
 Crosstree rushes on from 
 gangway] 
 
 Crosstree. Hold ! hold ! 
 
 Admiral. Captain Crosstree — re- 
 tire, sir, retire. 
 
 Crosstree. Never ! If the prisoner 
 be executed, he is a murdered man. 
 I alone am the culprit — 'twas I who 
 would have dishonoured him. 
 
 Admiral. This cannot plead here — 
 he stnick a superior of&cer. 
 
 Crosstree. No. 
 
 Omnes. No ? 
 
 Crosstree. He saved my life; I 
 had written for his discharge — villainy 
 has kept back the document — 'tis here, 
 dated back. When William struck me 
 he was not the King's sailor — I was not 
 his offieer. 
 
 Admiral [taking the paper. — 
 Music]. He is free ! 
 
 [The Seamen give three cheers. — 
 William leaps from the plaV- 
 form. — Susan is brought on by 
 Captain Crosstree] 
 
RICHELIEU; OR, THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 (1839) 
 By Sib Edward Bulwee-Lytton 
 
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON 
 (1803-1873) 
 
 Bulwer-Lytton represents all that is false, shallow, and insincere in the history 
 of the early nineteenth century English drama. Both as a novelist and as a play- 
 wright, he measures up to the reputation of a dandy which his social position encour- 
 aged. Critics never took Bulwer-Lytton seriously ; the very insincerity with which 
 he intermittently assumed interest in the current topics of the day, marked him as 
 a dilettante. Knowing certain characteristics in the actor, Macready, it is easily 
 understandable why he should turn to Bulwer for those theatrical effects and those 
 humanly impossible pieces which were the rage of the English theatre of the '30's 
 and '40's. 
 
 Bulwer's name is identified with the freeing of the English theatre which took 
 place by Act of Parliament in 1832, when the power of the "patent" theatres was 
 broken, and the sway of Macready was shaken by the rampant democracy which 
 seized the theatre as soon as Parliament had passed the acts which Bulwer-Lytton 
 championed. Let us recall that Macready had made a pathetic appeal to Brown- 
 ing. "Write me a play," he said, "and, keep me from going to America." One 
 may take this as the first incentive toward play-writing given to the poet. The 
 insincerity of Macready himself, his vain striving to be identified with the briUiant 
 minds of his period, the jealousies and vanities reflected in his management, are not 
 unkin to the fopperies of Bulwer-Lytton, who was continually courting the social 
 life of his day, and pretending that he was a deep, penetrative student of his con- 
 temporaries. 
 
 Macready's association with Bulwer brought forth no deep results. The 
 theatrical pieces which Bulwer began writing in 1837 were reflective of all that was 
 worst in the school of Victor Hugo and Alexander Dumas, pbre. No critic takes 
 any effort of his seriously, not even his historical treatment, which was riddled 
 with excesses and distortions. But the stage often gives the lie to the most just 
 critical estimate of a man. False as brass may be Bulwer's "The Lady of Lyons", 
 his "Richelieu", and his "Money", but none the less have they held the English 
 stage for nearly a century because of their theatricahsm. They are externally effec- 
 tive, though their psychology never holds. They are dependent on romantic situa- 
 tions that defy logical explanation, and they are replete with those whisperings, 
 those "asides", those jugghngs with important documents, those excesses of emo- 
 tional change from saintliness to villainy, which the London public of Bulwer's day 
 deceived itself into believing were probable and possible. 
 
 The story is told that Bulwer's first play, "Duchess de la Valli&re", was offered 
 to the manager, Bunn, in 1836, on condition that it should be accepted without 
 being read. That was the self-importance of him, and Bunn treated him with a 
 prompt refusal. It was given at Cbvent Garden with Farren, Miss Faucit, and 
 Macready in the cast. After this, Macready produced Browning's "Strafford", 
 
 79 
 
80 Representative British Dramas 
 
 and when he himself undertook the management of Covent Garden, it was his last 
 stab at trying to overcome the effective work of the Select Committee on Dra- 
 matic Literature which, in 1832, had released the monopoly from the "patent" the- 
 atres. It must be recalled that Macready's repertory from 1823-1837 included such 
 characters as Cains Gracchus, William Tell, Virginius, Rob Roy, Ion. These, apart 
 from his Shakespearean rdles, are reflective of the measure which he would adopt 
 as a manager. Spectacular romance, as Archer says in his "Life of Macready", 
 with sombre castles and shadowy halls, was the order of the day. In one respect 
 he kept up the traditions of a distinctive line of actors. His Shakespearean produc- 
 tions aimed at rich and detailed garniture. 
 
 It was after his production of "King Lear" that Macready produced "The 
 Lady of Lyons", a play by Bulwer, announced on the programme as anonymous, 
 and written by him during 1838, in a httle over two weeks. A preface to the first 
 edition of the printed play made confession that the plot was based on a tale en- 
 titled "The Bellows Mender." The piece met with immediate success, and has, 
 strange to say, been a drawing card for many generations, even attracting such an 
 artist as Henry Irving, who produced it, with all his care and imaginative forceful- 
 ness, on April 17, 1879. 
 
 Bulwer had been approached by the actor in the early summer of 1838, and a 
 letter, dated September, 1838, shows that he has been giving serious consideration 
 to Macready's request for him to write a play. The communication runs as 
 follows : 
 
 My dear Macready, 
 
 I have thought of a subject. The story fuU of incident and interest. It 
 is to this effect. In the time of Louis XIII. The Chevalier de Marillac is 
 the wittiest and bravest gentleman, celebrated for his extravagant valour and 
 his enthusiasm for enjoyment; but in his most mirthful moments a dark 
 cloud comes over him at one name — the name of Richelieu. He confides 
 to his friend Cinq Mars the reason, viz., he had once entered into a conspiracy 
 against Richelieu: Richelieu discovered and sent for him. "Chevalier de 
 Marillac," said he, "I do not desire to shed your blood on the scaffold, but you 
 must die. Here is a command on the frontier; fall in battle." He went to 
 the post, but met glory, and not death. Richelieu, reviewing the troops, 
 found him still living, and said, ' ' Remember, the sword is over your head. I 
 take your parole to appear before me once a quarter. You can still find death. 
 I wiU give you time for it." Hence his extravagant valour ; hence his desire to 
 make the most of life. While making this confidence to Cinq Mars, he is 
 sent for by Richelieu. He goes as to death. Richelieu receives him sternly, 
 reminds him of his long delay, upbraids him for his profligate life, etc. Marillac 
 answers with mingled wit and nobleness; and at last, instead of sentencing 
 him to death, Richelieu tells him that he has qualities that make him wish to 
 attach him to himself, and that he will marry him to a girl with a great dowry, 
 and give him high office at Court. He must marry directly. MariUae goes 
 out enchanted. 
 
 Now, Richelieu's motive is this : Louis XIII. has fallen in love with this girl, 
 Louise de la Porte, and wishes to make her his mistress. All the King's mis- 
 tresses have hitherto opposed Richelieu. He is resolved that the King shall 
 have no more. He wiU hav^ no rival with the King. He therefore resolves to 
 
' Edward Bulwer-Lytton 81 
 
 marry her to Marillac, whose life is in his power, whom he can hold in 
 command, whom he believes to be too noble to suffer the adulterous connec- 
 tion. 
 
 Marillac is then introduced, just married, with high appointments and 
 large dowry, the girl beautiful, when, on his wedding-day, Cinq Mars tells him 
 that the King loves his wife. His rage and despair — conceives himself duped. 
 Scene with the girl, in which he recoils from her. Suddenly three knocks at 
 the door. He is sent for by the King, and despatched to a distance ; the bride, 
 not wived, is summoned to Court. 
 
 MariUac, all pride and wrath, and casting all upon Richelieu, agrees to con- 
 spire against the Cardinal's life. The fortress where RicheUeu lodges is garri- 
 soned with the friends of the conspirators. Just as he has agreed, he received 
 an anonymous letter teUing him that his wife is at Chantilly ; that she will sleep 
 in the chamber of the Montmorencies ; that Louis means to enter the room 
 that night ; that if he wishes to guard his honour, he can enter the palace 
 by a secret passage which opens in a picture of Hugo de Montmorenci, the 
 last duke, who had been beheaded by Louis (an act for which the King always 
 felt remorse). This Montmorenci had been the most intimate friend of Maril- 
 lac, and had left him his armour as a present. A thought strikes Marillac, 
 and he goes off the stage. 
 
 Louise alone in this vast room — the picture of Montmorenci in complete 
 armour — a bed at the end. She eompla,ins of her husband's want of love, and 
 laments her hard fate — dismisses her women. The King enters and locks 
 the doors ; after suppUcation and resistance on her part, he advances to 
 seize her, when from Montmorenoi's picture comes a cry of "Hold!" and 
 the form descends from the panel and interposes. The King, horror-stricken 
 and superstitious, flies ; Louise faints. The form is Marillac. While she is still 
 insensible, the clock strikes ; it is the hour he is to meet the conspirators. He 
 summons her women, and leaves her. 
 
 Richelieu alone at night when Marillac enters to him, tells him his life is in his 
 power, upbraids him for his disgrace, etc. RicheUeu informs him that he has 
 married him to Louise to prevent her dishonour, that he had sent the anony- 
 mous letter, etc., and converts Marillac into gratitude. But what is to be 
 done ? The conspirators have filled the fortress. They (Richelieu and Maril- 
 lac) retire into another room, and presently the conspirators enter the one they 
 have left, and MariUac joins them and teUs them the Cardinal is dead, that he 
 wiU see to the funeral, etc., and they bad better go at once and announce it to 
 the King, and that there are no marks of violence, that it seems Uke a fit (being 
 suffocation). 
 
 Scene in the Streets of Paris. 
 
 The King, who had always feared and hated RicheUeu, hears the news, 
 and is at first rejoiced, the courtiers deUghted, Paris in a jubilee. But suddenly 
 comes news of commotion, riot ; messengers announce the defeat of the armies ; 
 the Spaniards have crossed the frontiers, his general, De Feuguieres, is slain ; 
 hubbub and uproar without, with cries of "Hurrah ! the old Cardinal is dead," 
 etc., when there is a counter-cry of "The Cardinal, the Cardinal !" and a band 
 of soldiers appear, foUowed by RicheUeu himself in complete armour. At this 
 sight, the confusion, the amaze, etc., the mob changes humours, and there 
 is a cry of "Long Uve the great Cardinal !" 
 
82 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Scene, the King's chamber. 
 
 The King, enraged at the trick played on him, and at his having committed 
 himself to joy at the Cardinal's death, hears that De MarUlao had announced 
 the false report, orders him to the Bastile, tells the Count de Charost to forbid 
 Richelieu the Louvre, and declares henceforth he will reign alone. Joy of the 
 anti-Cardinalists, when the great doors are thrown open, and Richelieu, pale, 
 suffering, sick, in his Cardinal's robes, leaning on his pages, enters and calls on 
 Charost (the very man who is to forbid his entrance) to give him his arm, which 
 Charost tremblingly does before the eyes of the King ! Richelieu and the . 
 King alone. Richelieu says he has come to tender his resignation, the King 
 accepts it, and Richelieu summons six secretaries groaning beneath sacks of 
 public papers, all demanding immediate attention. Richelieu retires to a dis- 
 tance, and appears almost dying. The King desperately betakes himself to the 
 papers, his perplexity, bewilderment, and horror at the dangers round him. 
 At last he summons the Cardinal to his side and implores him to resume 
 the office. The Cardinal, with great seeming reluctance, says he only wiU 
 on one condition, — complete power over foes and friends ; Louis must never 
 again interfere with public business. He then makes him sign various papers, 
 and when all is done the old man throws off the dying state, rises with Uon-like 
 energy : "Prance is again France — to the Frontiers. / lead the armies," etc., 
 (a splendid burst). Louis, half enfeebled, half ashamed, retires. Richelieu, 
 alone, gives various papers to the secretaries, and summons Marillac and his 
 wife. He asks her if she has been happy, she says "No," thinking her husband 
 hates her ; puts the same question to Marillac, who, thinking she wishes to be 
 separated, says the same. He then tells them as the marriage has not been 
 fulfilled they can be divorced. They wofully agree, when turning to MariUae 
 he shows him the King's order that he should go to the Bastile, and then adds 
 that in favour of his service in saving his (Richelieu's) life, he has the power to 
 soften his sentence, but he must lose his offices at Court and go into exile. 
 On hearing this Louise turns round — her love breaks out — she will go with 
 him into banishment, and the reconciliation is complete. Richelieu, regard- 
 ing them, then adds: "Your sentence remains the same — we banish you 
 still — Ambassador to Austria." 
 
 An entry in Macready's diary for November 15, 1838, records the fact that hf 
 had read the greater part of Bulwer' s ' ' Richelieu ' ' , which, ' ' though excellent in parts 
 is deficient in the important point of continuity of interest." During the day 
 he continued his reading, and feared the play would not do because it could not bf 
 made effective. Bulwer had sent the manuscript to the manager with a note 
 saying : 
 
 Acts one and three may require a little shortening, but you are a master 
 at that. The rest average the length of the acts in "The Lady of Lyons." 
 I hope the story is clear. The domestic interest is not so strong as in "The 
 Lady", but I think the acting of Richelieu's part may counterbalance this de- 
 fect. For the rest I say of this, as of "The Lady", if at all hazardous or un- 
 certain, it must not be acted, and I must try again. 
 
 Evidently, Bulwer did not at first send Macready the complete manuscript, foi 
 an entry on November 21 in the actor's diary states that Bulwer called, bringing 
 with him the completed "Richelieu", and continues: 
 
Edward Bulwer-Lytton 83 
 
 I begin to be deadened to the interest of its story ; it seems to be occasionally 
 lengthy. I fear it has not the clinging interest of his present successful play, 
 but hope and trust are good supporters. 
 
 Maoready pondered a long time over the possibiUties of the play, and, on Novem- 
 ber 25, began reading and punctuating and cutting it. His work had reached a 
 certain point during the day, when he decided to read it to Bulwer and Forster, 
 who was the friend of Dickens. But he was disappointed in the effect produced, 
 and he confessed that when he had reached the fifth act, Forster was sound asleep. 
 The situation was one which cut deep into the vanity of Bulwer, who left, Macready 
 says, very much hurt. Between that time and December 16 the play was evi- 
 dently rewritten, and Maoready found it greatly improved, but not quite to that 
 point where it meant success. Notwithstanding his doubts, he invited a party of 
 friends, among them Browning and Blanehard, to a reading of the play on Decem- 
 ber 16. Pencil and paper were given to each person present, and they were asked 
 to write their criticisms without interrupting the reading by conversation. The 
 consensus of opinion was that the manuscript was a good one, and Macready, very 
 generously, forwarded these communications to the author. Bulwer replied with 
 certain misgivings : 
 
 The result is encouraging. But at the risk of seeming over fearful, I must 
 add also that it is not decisive. . . . Browning's short line of "The play's the 
 thing" is a laconism that may mean much or little. Besides he wants experi- 
 ence. Were I myself certain of the dramatic strength of the play (as I was in 
 the case of " The Lady of Lyons " ) , I would atoneedeoideonthe experiment from 
 the opinions you have collected. But I own I am doubtful, though hopeful, of 
 the degree of dramatic strength in it ; and I remain just as irresolute now 
 as I was before. I fancy that the effect on the stage of particular scenes can- 
 not be conveyed by reading. Thus in the fifth act the grouping of all the 
 characters around Richelieu, the effect of his sudden recovery, etc. No read- 
 ing, I think, can accurately gauge the probable effect of this. And in the 
 fourth act the clinging of Julie to Richelieu, the protection he gives her, etc., 
 will have, I imagine, the physical effect of making the audience forget whether 
 he is her father or not. There they are before you, flesh and blood, the old man 
 and the young bride involved in the same fate, and creating the sympathy of a 
 domestic relation. More than all my dependence on the stage, is my reliance 
 on the acting of Richelieu himself, the embodiment of the portraiture, the 
 look, the gesture, the personation, which reading cannot give. But still I may 
 certainly overrate all this. For if the play do fail in interest, the character 
 may reward the actor, but not suffice to carry off the play, especially as he is 
 not always on the stage. On the whole, therefore, I am unable to give a 
 casting vote; and I leave it to you with this assurance, that if it be with- 
 drawn you shall have another play by the end of February. 
 
 All through these preliminary negotiations, Bulwer was never confident of his 
 own ability. What he aimed at was not a literary production but a popular success, 
 and he was not even willing to have faith in his own powers. At one time he 
 wrote to Macready: 
 
 I begin to despair of the play and of myself. Unless, therefore, upon 
 consideration, you see clearly what at present seems doubtful, the triumphant 
 
84 Representative British Dramas 
 
 effect of the portraiture and action of Richelieu himself, you had better return 
 me the play ; and if I can form myself in a new school of art, and unlearn all 
 that tact and thought have hitherto taught me, I will attempt another. But 
 for this year you must do without me. 
 
 Macready did not let the matter drop, however. He was too confident of his 
 own ability to raise the play to the point of success, and he began making sug- 
 gestions which were combated at every turn by Bulwer. Macready declares, how- 
 ever, that 
 
 When I developed the object of the whole plan of alterations, he was in 
 ecstasies. I never saw him so excited, several times exclaiming he was "en- 
 chanted" with the plan, and observed in high spirits, "What a fellow you 
 are!" 
 
 Bulwer had not reckoned without his host. Even as he liked to be flattered, 
 so in turn he knew when to flatter ; and it is not surprising to find Macready ex- 
 claiming, after Bulwer had left him one day, — "What a fine man he is !" 
 
 Sober judgment, however, made Macready change his point of view about the 
 manuscript. He wrote a hasty note to Bulwer, claiming, so MoUoy records- — 
 "that his play would have been valuable from any other person, but that it would 
 not serve his interest, whether in reference to his literary fame, his station, or his 
 political position." 
 
 To which Bulwer instantly replied : 
 
 I fully appreciate the manly and generous friendship you express so well, 
 and have only one way to answer it. I had intended to turn to some other 
 work already before me. But I will now lay all by, and neither think of, nor 
 labour at anything else, until something or other be done to realize our common 
 object. Send me back "Richelieu"; and if you think it possible, either by 
 alterations or by throwing the latter acts overboard altogether, to produce 
 such situations as may be triumphant, we will try again. The historical char- 
 acter of Richelieu is not to be replaced, and is therefore worth preserving. 
 But if neither of us can think of such situations, we must lay his Eminence on 
 the shelf and try something else. 
 
 It was in this spirit that "Richelieu" was rewritten, and brought to the judg- 
 ment of Browning and Blanchard. 
 
 But there was another supreme test to which the play was put, through the 
 proposal of Bulwer. MoUoy records the following : 
 
 Do you recoUect [he asks Macready] that passage in The Confessions, 
 when Rousseau, haunted by vague fear that he was destined to be damned, 
 resolved to convince himself one way or the other ; and taking up a stone shied 
 it at a tree? If the stone hit, he was to be saved ; if it missed, he was to be 
 damned. Luckily it hit the tree, and Rousseau walked away with his mind 
 perfectly at ease. Let us follow this notable example. Our tree shall be 
 in the greenroom. You shall shy at the actors. If it hit the mark, well and 
 good. If not, we shall know our fate. To speak literally, I accept your pro- 
 posal to abide by the issue of a reading to the actors ; though I remember that 
 jury anticipated great things from "La Vallifere ", and I think they generally 
 
Edward Bulwer-Lytton 85 
 
 judge according as they like their parts. The general tone of your friendly 
 and generous letter induces me, indeed, to release you at once from the respon- 
 sibility of the decision, and to say boldly that I am prepared to have the 
 play acted. It can therefore be read with that impression to the greenroom, 
 and if it does not take there, why it will not be too late to retreat. If it 
 does, I can only say Make ready! Present! Fire! All I could doubt was 
 the theatrical interest of the story. Your account reassured me on that point, 
 and therefore you will have fair play for your own art and genius in the pre- 
 dominant character. 
 
 The beginning of the new year brought the finished manuscript of "Richelieu" 
 from Bulwer, and, by January 5, Macready was pleased to find that the play excited 
 the actors "in a very extraordinary manner", when he came to read the script to 
 his company. 
 
 On the ninth of the month he had decided to produce the play without any 
 further delay, and, as was his custom, started work on the punctuation. By 
 February 20, he was deep in a consideration of the character of Richelieu, whom he 
 confesses Bulwer had made particularly diffloult, because of inconsistency. He 
 writes: 
 
 . Bulwer has made him resort to low jest, which outrages one's notions of 
 the ideal of Cardinal Richelieu, with all his vanity and suppleness and craft. 
 
 The actor evidently placed himself under the tutelage of Bulwer, for the latter 
 sent him a hst of books to read on the Cardinal's character. The deeper he got into 
 the work, the more discouraged he became, until he finally reached the conclusion 
 that in order to give reality to the character of Richelieu, he must fabricate much 
 of his interpretation. As the month of February progressed, the work of rehearsals 
 became more and more arduous. Bulwer called his attention, during the course 
 of the preparations, to the following : 
 
 I know not if you conceive Richelieu's illness (Act V.) as I do ? I do not 
 mean it for a show illness. He is really ill, though he may exaggerate a little. 
 When they are going to tear France from him, they do really tug at his heart- 
 strings. He is really near fainting at the prospect of his experiment with the 
 secretaries : and it is the mind invigorating the body, it is the might of France 
 passing into him, which effects the cure. If there be delusion, it is aU sublimed 
 and exalted by the high-hearted truth at the bottom of it. 
 
 WilUam Archer has recorded that, when the play was first conceived by Bulwer, 
 the part of De Mauprat was designed for Macready. 
 
 The piece was presented, for the first time, at the Theatre Roy?,l, Covent 
 Garden, on Thursday, March 7, 1839. 
 
 Macready notes the event in his diary record for March 8, 1839. He writes : 
 
 Saw the papers. The Morning Chronicle was as usual most kind and eulo- 
 gistic ; the Times, although trying to damn with faint praise, admitting much 
 more than I expected, and enough to give to i±s readers, who know its baseness, 
 the assurance of success. Went to the theatre, where I out the play with the 
 performers, and expressed myself much obliged by their zeal and industry. 
 When we had separated, Bulwer came and altered all that we had suranged — 
 annoying and disconcerting me very nluch. I struggled for the omission of 
 
86 Representative British Dramas 
 
 several passages, but he was triumphant, and therefore no longer so docile as I 
 had heretofore found him. 
 
 A first-night impression of the play is contained in Westland Marston's "Oui 
 Recent Actors." 
 
 On March 13, one notes a change of heart in Maoready, due to the annoyance 
 of the dramatist : 
 
 Two long notes from Bulwer — • with more last words — and a lengthy 
 criticism on some points of my performance, in which he wishes me to substitute 
 coarse and vulgar attempt at low farcical point in one instance, and melodra- 
 matic rant in another for the more delicate shadings of character that I endeavour 
 to give. I have long had surmises about Bulwer's taste from several things in 
 the comedy of "La Valliere" — in the original of "The Lady of Lyons" and in 
 the original copy of this play. I am sure that his taste is not to be depended 
 
 The letter referred to runs as follows : 
 
 March 13, 1839. 
 My dear Macready, 
 
 I saw a good deal of the play last night, which went off better than on 
 Monday. The restitution of the second scene. Act III, was quite right. I 
 wish time could allow a little of the comic part, Act II. It is missed, and has 
 been complained of to me in many quarters. But, perhaps, at all events it is 
 too late to re-alter, even if time could be spared. 
 
 I wish to say I was much more struck by your acting in the three last acts 
 to-night than even heretofore, and so, I think, was the House generally. 
 Forgive me if I say that the more you come out from subdued dryness into 
 power (which you did to-night) the more brilUant your success will be, and the 
 more you will realize the Cardinal — ' ' colbre et orgueilleux dont chaque pensee 
 avait tout le chaleur d'une passion." De Vigny was wrong in thinking him so 
 sec; there was plenty of animal spirits in him. In the grave part of your 
 performance I see only one sentence in which I could wish another conception. 
 It is the end of the act — where you say "away with him." Now you speak 
 "away with him" with contemptuous sport, like a man brushing away a trifle! 
 The audiences, however, are prepared for something much more vehement — 
 and the thought of your conception is almost too subtle for the gigantic 
 audiences you have — but I think it would be more like the Cardinal, who is 
 accustomed to come and feast over the execution of his foes, to throw more of 
 the deadly force of malignant and exulting vindictiveness into the words — 
 something more to correspond with his laugh in baffling the murderers at the 
 castle. I would have him release the devil of his rage upon his victim. I 
 would make him follow with eyes that threaten savage victory the retreating 
 form of Baradas — in fact, here I would have the effect that of power, the 
 closing power of the speech. In the comic part (you must pardon my pre- 
 sumption in this) I must still fancy that greater breadth of humour — more 
 of what the French call malice — would illustrate the character more vividly, 
 and be infinitely more effective. I fancy the Cardinal with a Chuckle — "le 
 rire presque gai, mais toujoxu-s insultant" — which is ascribed to him. Thus, 
 in "Colonel and Nobleman, my bashful Huguet, that can never be" — if it 
 
Edward Bulwer-Lytton 87 
 
 could be said with a more jovial laugh, and then with a pointed slyness (no 
 pause, but fronting the audience) and almost a wink of the eye to Joseph, 
 " We'U promise," etc., — this, I think, would be more effective. So after he has 
 told Huguet he may be noble, why not let him ^exchange a broad, humorous 
 glance with Joseph, whom he passes at the moment, as much as to say, "There 
 now, isn't that cleverly done?" In "Joseph, Bishop Joseph," I think it will 
 be much more effective if you don't repeat Joseph twice — - but make the point 
 more sudden and hearty, "Ah Joseph — ■ Bishop Joseph," and absolutely touch 
 his ribs with the forefinger ; there should, I am sure, be no pause and no reitera- 
 tion between Joseph iyid Bishop Joseph. Now I have said eno' to make you 
 think me the most pretiummg dog you have ever seen thrusting his paw into 
 other people's paniers 1 But, mon cher, you have been as frank with me — so 
 tit for tat. 
 
 May I further beg you to Implobb Miss Faucit to say, "I love and I am 
 a woman" ; and with as much majestic swelling as she can ; to-night she «ays, 
 "I love hul I am a woman," which is nonsense, and she whined it into the bar- 
 gain. 
 
 Think as leniently as you can of my suggestions. 
 
 Yrs. ever, 
 
 E. L. B. 
 H. of C. 
 
 Tuesday night. 
 
 The next day Bulwer was proposing the subject for another play to Macready. 
 
 One of the most interesting tasks in dramatic history is to follow the variations 
 in interpretation of a part as recorded in different theatrical annals. It is an easy 
 matter for the theatrical student to assemble the dramatic criticisms which record 
 the impressions of the acting of Macready, Phelps, Irving, and Edwin Booth in the 
 r61e of Richelieu. It is a part essentially theatrical — one of the same proportions 
 as Shakespeare's Cardinal Wolsey and Tennyson's Becket, but one that is more de- 
 pendent than either of the other two on the imaginative fire poured into it by the 
 actor. For the mould of "Richelieu", as shaped by Bulwer, is a very flimsy con- 
 trivance, made up of trite philosophies and violent situations. The melodramatic 
 temper of the piece and the false poetic dialogue did not add to its dignity, although 
 one can imagine the theatrical effectiveness of the "curse of Rome" speech, and of 
 the insincere sentiments regarding the Cardinal's love of Prance. Bulwer has here 
 juggled with plot and intrigue, and has so distorted history that one can scarcely 
 take the play as a true historical drama. It is only when Richelieu is assumed by 
 some actor of high imaginative power, like Irving, or of big emotional scope like 
 Booth, that the part rises above its shallowness and empty verbosity. Yet, even 
 in the reading, the effectiveness of the scenes strikes one quite as much as the lack 
 of logic' 
 
 1 Dutton Cook refers to Thackeray's review of " Richelieu " in Fraser's Magazine, in which 
 the play ia spoken of aa filled with " diaagreeable buatle and petty complication of intrigue." 
 
CUJU^aJ2. 
 
 '^i--C-CL>w« 
 
 i 
 
 ^W- 
 
 
 
RICHELIEU; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 By E. BULWER-LYTTON 
 
 [From the first American Edition.] 
 
MARQUIS OF LANDSDOWNE, K.G., 
 &c., &c- 
 
 THIS DRAMA 
 
 IS INSCRIBED IN TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE TALENTS WHICH COMMAND 
 
 AND 
 
 THE QUALITIES WHICH ENDEAR 
 
 RESPECT 
 
 London, Mabch 5th, 1839. 
 
 PEEFACE TO RICHELIEU 
 
 The administration of Cardinal Richelieu, whom (despite all his darker quali- 
 ties) Voltaire and History justly consider the true architect of the French monarchy, 
 and the great parent of French civilization, is characterized by features aUke tragic 
 and comic. A weak king — an ambitious favourite ; a despicable conspiracy against 
 the minister, nearly always associated with a dangerous treason against the State : 
 these, with little variety of names and dates, constitute the eventful cycle through 
 which, with a dazzling ease and an arrogant confidence, the great luminary fulfilled 
 its destinies. Blent together, in startling contrast, we see the grandest achieve- 
 ments and the pettiest agents ; — the spy — the mistress — the capuchin ; — the 
 destruction of feudalism ; — the humiliation of Austria ; the dismemberment of 
 Spain. 
 
 Rioheheu himself is still what he was in his own day — a man of two characters. 
 If, on the one hand, he is justly represented as inflexible and vindictive, crafty and 
 unscrupulous ; so, on the other, it cannot be denied that he was placed in times in 
 which the long impunity of every license required stern examples — that he was 
 beset by perils and intrigues, which gave a certain excuse to the subtlest inventions 
 of self-defence — that his ambition was inseparably connected with a passionate 
 love for the glory of his country — and that, if he was her dictator, he was not less 
 her benefactor. It has been fairly remarked by the most impartial historians, that 
 he was no less generous to merit than severe to crime — that, in the various de- 
 partments of the State, the Army, and the Church, he selected and distinguished the 
 ablest aspirants — that the wars which he conducted were, for the most part, es- 
 sential to the preservation of France, and Europe itself, from the formidable en- 
 croachments of the Austrian House — that, in spite of those wars, the people were 
 
 90 
 
Preface to Richelieu 
 
 91 
 
 not oppressed with exorbitant imposts — and that he left the kingdom he had 
 governed in a more flourishing and vigorous state than at any former period of the 
 French history, or at the decease of Louis XIV. 
 
 The cabals formed against this great statesman were not carried on by the pa- 
 triotism of public virtue, or the emulation of equal talent : they were but Court 
 struggles, in which the most worthless agents had recourse to the most desperate 
 means. In each, as I have before observed, we see combined the twofold attempt 
 to murder the minister and to betray the country. Such, then, are the agents, and 
 such the designs, with which truth, in the Drama as in History, requires us to.contrast 
 the celebrated Cardinal ; — not disguising his foibles or his vices, but not unjust to 
 the grander qualities (especially the love of country), by which they were often 
 dignified, and, at times, redeemed. 
 
 The historical drama is the concentration of historical events. In the attempt 
 to place upon the stage the picture of an era, that license with dates and details, 
 which Poetry permits, and which the highest authorities in the Drama of France 
 herself have sanctioned, has been, though not unsparingly, indulged. The con- 
 spiracy of the Due de Bouillon is, f 6r instance, amalgamated with the denouement of 
 "The Day of Dupes " ; and circumstances connected with the treason of Cinq Mars 
 (whose brilliant youth and gloomy catastrophe tend to subvert poetic and historic 
 justice by seducing us to forget his base ingratitude and his perfidious apostasy) 
 are identified with the fate of the earlier favourite Baradas, whose sudden rise and 
 as sudden fall passed into a proverb. I ought to add, that the noble romance of 
 Cinq Mars suggested one of the scenes in the fifth act ; and that for the conception 
 of some portion of the intrigue connected with De Mauprai and Julie, I am, with 
 great alterations of incident, and considerable if not entire reconstruction of char- 
 acter, indebted to an early and admirable novel by the author of " Piociola." 
 
 London, Maroh, 1839. 
 
 NOTE 
 
 The length of the Play necessarily requires curtailments on the Stage — the 
 passages thus omitted are those inserted with inverted commas. Many of tie 
 passages thus left out, however immaterial to the audience, must obviously be such 
 as the reader would be least inclined to dispense with — viz., those which, without 
 being absolutely essential to the business of the Stage, contain either the subtler 
 strokes of character, or the more poetical embellishments of description. A more 
 important consequence of these suppressions is, that Richelieu himself is left too 
 often and too unrelievedly to positions which place him in an amiable Ught, without 
 that shadowing forth of his more sinister motives and his fiercer qualities which is 
 attempted in the written play. Thus, the character takes a degree of credit due 
 only to the situation. To judge the Author's conception of Richelieu fairly, and to 
 estimate how far it is consistent with historical portraiture, the play must be read. 
 
 
CAST OF RICHELIEU AS FIRST PRESENTED AT THEATRE 
 ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN 
 
 Lotris, j'HB Thirteenth Mr. Elton 
 
 Gaston, Duke op Orleans . brother to Louis XIII . . Mr. Diddear 
 
 B ARAB AS favourite of the King, first 
 
 gentleman of the Chamber, 
 
 Premier, Ecuyer, etc. . . Mr. Warde 
 
 Cardinal Richelieu Mr. Macready 
 
 The Chevalier de Mauprat Mr. Anderson 
 
 The Sieur de Beringhen . in attendance on the King,^ 
 
 one of the Conspirators . Mr. Vining 
 Joseph o Capuchin, Richelieu's con- 
 fidant Mr. Phelps 
 
 Huguet an officer of Richelieu's house- 
 hold guard — a spy . . Mr. George Bennett 
 
 FRAN501S first Page to Richelieu . . Mr. Henry Howe 
 
 First Courtier Mr. Roberts 
 
 Captain of the Archers Mr. Matthews 
 
 Clermont Mr. Tilbury 
 
 „ „ f Mr. Yarnold 
 
 Secretaries op State -[ 
 
 LMr. Payne 
 
 Governor op the Bastile Mr. Waldron 
 
 Gaoler Mr. AylifPe 
 
 Courtiers, Pages, Conspirators, Officers, Soldiers, etc. 
 
 Ju<LiE DE Mortemar ... an Orphan, Ward to Riche- 
 lieu • . Miss Helen Paucit 
 
 Marion de Lormb .... Mistress to Orleans, but in 
 
 Richelieu's pay . . . Miss Charles 
 
 1 Properly speaking, the King's First Valet de Chambre, a post of great importance at 
 that time. 
 
RICHELIEU 
 
 ACT I 
 First Day 
 
 Scene First. — A room in the house 
 of Marion de Lorme ; — a table 
 towards the front of the stage {with 
 wine, fruits, etc.), at which are 
 seated Baradas, four Courtiers, 
 splendidly dressed in the costume of 
 1641-42 ; — the Duke of Orleans 
 reclining on a large fauteuil; — 
 Marion de Lorme, standing at the 
 back of his chair, offers him a gob- 
 let, and then retires. At another 
 table, De Bbrinqhen, De Mauprat, 
 playing at dice; oi^er Courtiers, 0/ 
 inferior rank to those at the table of the 
 Duke, looking on. 
 
 Orleans [drinking]. Here's to our 
 
 entOTprise ! — 
 BaraBas [oZaraciraoai Marion]. Hush, 
 
 Sir! — 
 OnhEA-Ns. [aside]. lJa^Couii.t, 
 You may trust her; iErdoatS-jQii-jne ; 
 
 "no Eouse 
 So safe as Marion^s. "At our statelier 
 
 Homes 
 "The very walls do play the eaves- 
 dropper. 
 "There's not a sunbeam creeping o'er 
 
 tjur floors 
 "But seems a glance from that malig- 
 nant eye 
 "Which reigns o'er France; our fatal 
 
 greatness lives 
 "In the shArp glare of one relentless day. 
 "But Richeheu's self forgets to fear the 
 
 sword 
 "The mirtle hides ; and Marion's silken 
 
 robe 
 " Casts its kind charity o'er fiercer sins 
 "Than those which haunt the rosy path 
 
 between 
 "The lip and eye of beauty^ilhr no 
 
 house 
 "So safe as Marion's." 
 
 Baradas. StUl, we have a secret, 
 And oil and water — woman_aadv a 
 
 secret — 
 
 Are hosttlepfbperties. 
 
 93 
 
 Orleans. WeU — Marion, see 
 How the play prospers yonder. 
 
 [Marion goes to the next table, 
 
 looks on for a few moments, 
 
 then Exit] 
 
 Baradas [producing a parchment]. I 
 
 have now 
 
 All the conditions drawnj__itoidy needs 
 
 (Wheretajs^ joined the schedule of our 
 
 treaty 
 With the.CQjintr.nii.ker- tha RiaheUeu. of 
 
 the Esourial,) 
 Bouillon will join h is army with the 
 '^ Spaniar d, 
 MarcE~ on to Pa ris, — there , dethron e 
 
 ~ttie'Kingj_ ~^ 
 
 You mU."~15e Regent; I, and ye, my 
 
 Enrds; " 
 
 Form'^the ne w Council. So much for 
 
 "the eorg" 
 Of our great scheme. 
 
 Orleans. But Richelieu is an Argus : 
 One of his hundred eyes will light upon 
 
 us. 
 And then — good-bye to hfe. 
 
 Baradas. To gain the prize 
 We must destroy the Argus : — ay, my 
 
 Lords, 
 The scroll the core, but blood must fill 
 
 the veins 
 Of our design ; — while this despatched 
 
 to BoidUon, 
 Richelieu despatched to Heaven ! — 
 
 The last my charge. 
 M eet her e to-inorrow night. You, Sir, 
 
 In honour and in hope, meanwhile select 
 Some trusty loiave -to-beaiE_tllfi_Ssrollto 
 
 Rffllinhn.,- 
 Midst Richelieu's foes I'll find some 
 
 desperate hand 
 To strike for vengeance, while we stride 
 
 to power. 
 Orleans. So be it ; — • to-morrow, 
 
 m idnig ht. — 
 
 ~^ Come, my Lords. 
 
94 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Exeunt Orleans, and the Cour- 
 TiERS in his train. Those at 
 the other table rise, salute 
 Orleans, and re-seat them- 
 selves] 
 
 De Bbbinghbn. Double the stakes. 
 De Matjprat. Done. 
 De Beringhen. Bravo; faith it 
 shames me 
 To bleed a purse already in extremis. 
 De Matjprat. Nay, as you've had 
 the patient to yourself 
 So long, no other doctor should despatch 
 it. 
 
 [De Matjprat throws and loses] 
 Omnes. Lost ! Ha, ha, — poor De 
 
 Mauprat ! 
 De Beringhen. One throw more? 
 De Mauprat. Nq^J—aBi— Ijankrupt 
 [pushing gold] There goes all — ■ 
 except 
 My honour and my sword. [They rise] 
 De Beringhen. Long cloaks and 
 honour 
 Went out of vogue together, when -tfe 
 
 found 
 We got on much more rapidly without 
 
 them; 
 The sword, indeed, is never out of 
 
 fashion, — 
 The Devil has care of that. 
 
 First Gamester. A:S"r- tat§, the 
 sword 
 To Cardinal Richelieu — he gives gold 
 
 for steel," 
 When worn by_bra^men. 
 De Matjprat! RiohelieTii 
 De Beringhen. [To Baradas] At 
 that name 
 He jsha nges colour , 3^^"'' ^^ " ""th ar lip. 
 Ev'h ia-Iiis , brigh xesti noments whi sper 
 
 ' ' Rich^iuT' 
 And you cloud all his sunshine. 
 BARADAS."1~have"InarPd it. 
 And I will learn the wherefore. 
 
 De Matjprat. The Egyptian 
 Dissolved her richest jewel in a draught : 
 Would I could so melt time and all its 
 
 treasures, 
 And drain it thus. [Drinking] 
 
 De Beringhen. Come, gentlemen, 
 what say ye, 
 A walk on the Parade ? 
 "OUirars:: — T^y^-oomB, De Mauprat. 
 De Mauprat. Pardon me ; we shall 
 
 meet again, ere nightfall. 
 Baradas. I'll stay and comfort 
 
 Mauprat. n — _ 
 De Beringhen. Comfort ! ^-"^Jien 
 We gallant fellows have run out a friend 
 
 and 
 
 Life and gold 
 - open, then, 
 
 There's nothing left — except to run 
 
 him through ! 
 There's the last act of friendship. 
 
 De Mauprat. Let me keep 
 That favour in reserve ; in all beside 
 Your most obedient servant. 
 
 [Exeunt De Beringhen, etc., 
 Manent Db Mauprat 
 Baradas] 
 
 Baradas. You have lost — 
 Yet are not sad. 
 
 De Mauprat. Sad ! 
 
 have wings 
 And must fly one day 
 
 their cages 
 And- wish them merry. 
 Baradas. You're a strange 
 
 enigma : — ~- 
 
 Fiery in war — and yet to glory luke- 
 warm; 
 All mirth in action — in repose all 
 
 gloom — 
 These are extremes in which the un- 
 conscious heart 
 Betrays the fever of deep-flx'd disease. 
 Confide in me! our young days roll'd 
 
 together 
 In the same river, glassing the same 
 
 stars 
 That snule i' the heaven of hope ; — 
 
 ahke we made 
 Bright-winged steeds of our unform'd 
 
 chimeras, 
 Spurring the fancies upward to the air, 
 Wherein we shaped fair castles from 
 
 the cloud. 
 Fortune of late^has .sevM^djis».anjdJed 
 Me^~the-rank-of- Courti « ^ C o iii^ t, and 
 
 Favourite — 
 You to the titles of the wildest gallant 
 And bravest knight in France ; — are 
 
 you content ? 
 No ; — trust in me — some gloomy 
 
 secret — 
 Db Mauprat. Ay : — 
 A secret that doth haunt me, as, of old, 
 Men were possess'd of fiends ? Where'er 
 
 I turn. 
 The grave yawns dark before me! I 
 
 will trust you ; — 
 Hating the Cardinal, and beguiled by 
 
 Orleans, 
 You know I join'd the Languedoo re- 
 volt — 
 Was captured — sent to the BastUe — 
 
 Baradas. But shared 
 The general pardon, which the Duke of 
 
 Orleans 
 Won for himself and all in the revolt, 
 Who but obey'd his orders. 
 
Richelieu 
 
 95 
 
 Db Maupeat. Note the phrase ; — 
 " Obey'd his orders." Well, .wheii on my 
 
 way " 
 
 To^oin the Dukejii-Languedoc, I (then 
 The down upon my lip — less man than 
 
 boy) 
 Leading young valours — reckless as 
 
 myself, 
 Seized on the town of Paviaux, and 
 
 displaced 
 The Royal banners for the Rebel. 
 
 Orleans, 
 (Never too daring) when I reach'd the 
 
 camp, 
 Blamed me for acting — mark — vnih- 
 
 ' — oWfna-ei'ders-: 
 
 Upon-this" quibble RioheUeu j;azed my 
 
 ,^- name 
 Out of the.ge neral pardo p. 
 
 Babadas. Yet released you 
 Prom the Bastile — 
 De Matjphat. To call me to his 
 presence. 
 And thus address me; — "YQU-have 
 
 seized a town ' 
 
 Of Ptanoe, without the -orders' of your 
 
 leader, 
 And for this treason, but one sentence 
 — Death." 
 Baead'as. Death ! 
 De Mauphat. " I have pity on your 
 youth and birth. 
 Nor wish to glut the headsman ; — 
 
 join your troop. 
 Now on the march against the Span- 
 iards ; — -change 
 The trait or's scaffold fo r the_Sflldiec^s- 
 ~ graveT^^ 
 Your HBmory stainless — they who 
 
 shared your crime 
 Exil'd^r^dead, — your king shall never 
 
 "Igani it." 
 
 Babadas. tender pity ! — O most 
 charming prospect ! 
 Blown into atoms by a bomb, or driU'd 
 Into a cullender by gunshot ! — Well ? — 
 De Maupbat. You have heard if I 
 fought bravely. — Death became 
 Desired as Daphne by the eager Day- 
 god. 
 Like him I chaVd_-the-^iymph — to 
 grasp jhejaurel ! 
 
 BX.BADAS. Poor PeUow ! 
 D_E Mauprat. When the Cardinal 
 Review'd the troops — his eye met 
 
 mine ; — he frown'd, 
 Summon'd me forth — "How's this?" 
 
 quothhei_liyoHr-have shunn'd 
 Th&e^w^d — liieg are the a xe ! — 'twill 
 i fin oneday !" 
 
 He left me thus — we were recalled to 
 
 Paris, 
 And!— you know all ! 
 Babadas. And, knowing this, why 
 
 halt you, 
 ■Spell'd by the rattlesnake, — while in 
 
 the breasts 
 Of your iirm friends beat hearts, that 
 
 vow the death 
 Of your grim tyrant ? — ■ wake ! — Be 
 
 one xif us ; ' 
 
 The time invites — the King detests the 
 
 Cardinal, 
 Dares^not disgrace, — ■ but groans to be 
 
 deliver'd 
 Of that too great a subject — joiii your 
 
 friends, 
 Pree'Pranee and save yourself. 
 
 De MAtrpRAT. •<HushI,_^ JRiehelieu 
 
 bears 
 A charmed . Jif e i -^-ta_alL. who ha ve 
 
 braved his power. 
 One xjommon enji-s-- the blo&k. 
 
 Babadas. Nay, if he Uve, 
 The block your doom ! 
 
 De Maupbat. Better the victim, 
 
 Gcunt,.^ •"" — 
 
 Tha & the a ssassin — Prance requires a 
 
 JiiaJffi1ieu7-~~- 
 But does not need a Mauprat. Truce to 
 
 this ; — 
 All time one midnight, where my 
 
 thoughts are spectres. 
 What to me fame ? — What love ? — 
 Babadas. Yet dost thou love not ? 
 De Maupbat. Love? — • I am 
 
 young — 
 Babadas. An d Julie fair! [Aside] It 
 
 is so, ^: " 
 
 Upon the margin of the grave — his 
 
 hand 
 Would pluck the rose that I would 
 
 win and wear ! 
 ' ' [Aloud] Thou lovest — 
 
 "De Maupbat. Who, lonely in the 
 
 midnight tent, 
 "Gazed on the watch-fires in the sleep- 
 less air, 
 "Nor chose one star amidst the cluster- 
 ing hosts 
 "To bless it in the name of some fair 
 
 face 
 "Set in his spirit, as the star in Heaven? 
 "Por our divine Affections, like the 
 
 Spheres, 
 "Move ever, ever musical. 
 "Babadas. You speak 
 "As one who fed on poetry. 
 
 "De Maupbat. — Why, man, 
 ' ' The — thoughts — of—lovecs- stir with 
 
 t>oetry~- 
 
96 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 'As leaves with summer mnd. — -The 
 
 heart that loves 
 'Dwells in an Eden, hearing angellutes, 
 'As Eve in the First Garden. Hadst 
 
 thou seen 
 'My Julie, and not felt it henceforth. 
 
 dull 
 'To Uve in the common world — and 
 
 talk in words 
 'That clothe the feelings of the frigid 
 
 herd? — 
 ' Upon the perfumed pillow of her lips — 
 'As on his native bed of roses flush'd 
 'With Paphian skies — Love smiling 
 
 sleeps : — Her voice 
 'The blest interpreter of thoughts as 
 
 pure 
 'As virgin weUs where Dian takes 
 
 delight, 
 ' Or Fairies dip their changelings ! — 
 
 In the maze 
 ' Of her harmonious beauties — Mod- 
 estly 
 ' (Like some severer Grace that leads 
 
 the choir 
 ' Of her sweet sisters) every airy motion 
 'Attunes to such chaste charm, that 
 
 Passion holds 
 ' His burning breath, and will not with 
 
 a sigh 
 ' Dissolve the spell that binds him ! — 
 
 Oh those eyes 
 ' That woo the earth — shadowing 
 
 more soul than lurks 
 ' Under the hds of Psyche ! — Go ! — 
 
 thy lip 
 'Curls at the purfled phrases of a 
 
 lover — 
 'Love thQU^_and^_J;hyLlove be deep as 
 
 minej^^ _^ 
 
 'Thou wilt-not Taugh^t poets. 
 
 "Babadas [aside]. With each word 
 'Thou wak'st a jealous demon in my 
 
 heart, 
 ' And my hand clutches at my hUt — " 
 De Mattprat [gaily]. No more ! — ■ 
 I love ! — Your breast holds both my 
 
 secrets ; — Never 
 Unbury either ! — Come, while yet we 
 
 may. 
 We'll bask us in the noon of rosy life : — 
 Lounge through the -gardensT-^^ flaunt 
 
 it in the taverns, — 
 Laugh, — game, — ■ drink, — feast ; — 
 
 If so confine my days. 
 Faith, I'll enclose the nights. — Pshaw ! 
 
 not so grave ; 
 I'm a true Frenchman ! — Vive la baga- 
 telle ! 
 [As they are going out enter Htjgubt 
 and four Abquebusiers] 
 
 Hugttbt. Messire De Mauprat, — 
 I arrest you ! — -Follow 
 
 To the Lord Cardinal. 
 
 De Maupbat. You see, my friend, 
 
 I'm out of- my suspense — The tiger's 
 play'd 
 
 Long " enough with his prey. — Fare- 
 well ! — Hereafter 
 
 Say, when men name me,^" Adrian de 
 Mauprat 
 
 Lived without hope, and perished with- 
 out fear I" 
 
 [Exeunt De Mattpbat, Httquet, 
 etc.] 
 Babadas. Farewell ! — I trust for- 
 ever ! I design'd thee 
 
 For Richelieu's murdere r — but, as well 
 his martyr! 
 
 In cmiaEbod you the stronger — and 
 I cursed you ; 
 
 In youth the fairer — and I cursed you 
 stiU; 
 
 And now my rival ! While . the name 
 of.JuJie_ 
 
 Hung^SSTlhy .Jips^^ I smiled ^- for 
 then I saw 
 
 In my mind's eye, the cold and grinning 
 Death 
 
 Hang o'er thy head the paU ! — ■ Am- 
 bition, Love, 
 
 Ye twin-born stars of daring destinies, 
 
 Sit in my house of Life ! — By the King's 
 aid 
 
 LffiUL-be-Juliels-hHsband — in despite 
 
 Of my Lord Cardinal — By the King's 
 aid 
 
 I will be minister of Fra nce — spite 
 
 Of my Lord— ©ardfiiai p= and then — 
 what then? 
 
 The King loves Julie — feeble prince — 
 false master — 
 
 [Producing and gazing on the 
 parchment] 
 
 Then, by the aid of Bouillon and the 
 Spaniard, 
 
 I will dethrone the King ; and all — ha ! 
 — ha! — 
 
 AJl, in despite of my Lord Cardinal. 
 
 [E.xit] 
 
 Scene Second. — A room in the Palais 
 Cardinal, the walls hung with arras. 
 A large screen in one corner. A 
 table covered with books, papers, &c. 
 A rude clock in a recess. Busts, 
 statues, bookcases, weapons of dif- 
 ferent periods, and banners sus- 
 pended over Richelieu's chair. 
 [Richelieu and Joseph] 
 
Richelieu 
 
 97 
 
 Richelieu. And so .you -think this 
 new- conspiracy' 
 The,fiEa£tiest- trap yet laid-for_the-X)ld 
 
 fox? — 
 Fox ! — Well, I like the nickname I 
 
 What did Plutarch 
 Say of the Greek Lysander? 
 Joseph. I forget. 
 
 RiCHBLiEiT. That where the lion's 
 skin feU short, he eked it 
 'Out with the fox's. A great states- 
 man, Joseph, 
 That same Lysander? 
 Joseph. Orleans heads the traitors. 
 Richelieu. A very wooden head 
 
 then! Well? 
 Joseph. The favourite, 
 Count Baradas — 
 
 Richelieu. A weed of hasty growth, 
 First gentleman of the chamber, — 
 
 titles, lands. 
 And the King's ear ! — it cost me six 
 
 long winters 
 To mount as high, as in six little moons 
 This painted hzard — But I hold the 
 
 ladder, "^ 
 And when I shake — he falls! What 
 more? 
 Joseph. A scheme 
 To make your orphan-ward an in- 
 
 ~§HTiOBirt"— ■ "~~ 
 
 Tg.aid.yojtir foes. You p laced her with 
 
 We Queen, _ — ' 
 
 One_ofjEEeroyal chamber, — as a watch 
 I' MTenemy's qiiaurEefs — -^ ' 
 
 Richelieu. And the silly child 
 Visits me daily, — calls me -"-Father," 
 
 — prays 
 Kind heaven to bless me — And for all 
 
 the rest. 
 As well have placed a doll about the 
 
 Queen ! 
 She does not heed who frowns — who 
 
 smQes ; with whom 
 The King confers in whispers; notes 
 
 not when 
 Men who last week were foes, are found 
 
 in corners 
 Mysteriously affectionate ; words spoken 
 Within closed doors she never hears ; — ■ 
 
 by chance 
 Taking the air at keyholes — Senseless 
 
 puppet ! 
 No ears — nor eyes ! — and yet she 
 
 says — "She loves me ! " 
 Go on — ^ 
 Joseph. Your ward 
 
 the_King. 
 Richelieu. Out on you ! 
 Have I not, one by one, from such fair 
 shoots 
 
 eharm'd 
 
 Pluck'd the insidious ivy of his love? 
 And shall it creep around my blossom- 
 ing tree 
 Where irmocent thoughts, like happy 
 
 birds, make music 
 That spirits in Heaven might hear? 
 
 They're sinful too. 
 Those passionate surfeits of the rampant 
 
 flesh, 
 The Church condemns them; and to 
 
 us, my Joseph, 
 The props and pillars of the Church, 
 
 most hurtfid. 
 The King is weak — whoever the King 
 
 loves 
 Must rule the King; the lady loves 
 
 another. 
 The other rules the lady — thus we're 
 
 ^atEea" 
 Of our own proper sway — The King 
 
 must have 
 No Goddess but the State : — the 
 
 State — That's Richelieu ! 
 Joseph. This not the worst ; — ■ 
 
 Louis, in all decorous. 
 And deeming you her least compliant 
 
 guardian, _ 
 Would veil his suit by marriage with 
 
 his minion, ' ' 
 
 Your pfosperous foe, -CDimLBacadas. 
 
 Richelieu.' Ha! ha! 
 I.havg_a.ii»th,et-bridg_|oE_Baa»das ! 
 tT^BPH. You, my lord ? 
 Richelieu. Ay — more faithful 
 
 than the love 
 Of fickle woman : — • when the head lies 
 
 lowliest, 
 Clasping him fondest ; — Sorrow never 
 
 knew 
 So sure a soother, — ■ and her bed is 
 
 stainless ! 
 Joseph [aside]. If of the grave 
 
 he speaks I do not wonder 
 That priests are bachelors ! 
 
 [Enter Francois] 
 
 Francois. Mademoiselle De Morte- 
 
 mar. 
 Richelieu. Most oppprttme- — ad- 
 mit her. [Exit Francois] 
 In my closet 
 
 You!IL-fin.d- a- rosary, Joseph; ere you 
 tell 
 
 Three hundred beads, I'll summon you. 
 — Stay, Joseph ; 
 
 I did omit an Ave in my matins, — 
 
 A grievous fault ; — atone it for me, 
 Josaph; 
 
 There is a scourge within ; I am weak, 
 you strong. 
 
 It were but charity to take my sin 
 
98 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 On such broad shoulders. Exercise is 
 healthful. 
 Joseph. I ! guilty of such criminal 
 presumption 
 
 As to mistake myself for you. — No, 
 never ! 
 
 Think it not. — [Aside] Troth, a pleas- 
 ant invitation ! [Exit Joseph] 
 
 [Enter Julie Db Mobtemab] 
 
 Richelieu. That's _my sweet Julie ! 
 why^^upon this face 
 Blushes such daybreak, one might 
 
 swear the Morning ^ 
 Were come to visit Tithon. 
 
 Julie [placing herseff at his feet]. Are 
 you gracious ? 
 MayJ say "Father?" 
 
 Richelieu. Now and ever ! 
 Julie. Father ! 
 A sweet word to an orphan. 
 
 Richelieu. No ; not orphan 
 WhUe Richelieu lives ; thy father loved 
 me well ; ' 
 
 had flattergrs, (now. 
 
 My friend, ere 
 I'm'gre'at, 
 
 other phrase, I'm friendless) — he 
 died young 
 
 years, not service, and bequeathed 
 thee to me ; 
 And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to 
 
 buy 
 Thy mate amidst the mightiest. Droop- 
 
 In 
 In 
 
 ing? 
 
 - sighs ? 
 
 Ajt .thpu not happy at the Court? 
 Julie. Not ofteiit" "'"" """ 
 Richelieu [aside]. Can she love 
 Baradas ? — Ah ! at thy heart 
 There's what can smile and sigh, blush 
 
 and grow pale. 
 All in a breath ! — Thou art admired — 
 
 art ybun^ ; 
 Does not his Majesty commend thy 
 
 beauty 
 
 Ask thee to sing to him? and swear 
 
 such sounds 
 Had smooth'd the brows of Saul ? — 
 
 Julie. He's very ^iresome, 
 Our worthy Kiflg. 
 
 Richelieu. Pie; kings are never 
 tiresome, "^ — 
 
 Save to their ministers. — What courtly 
 
 gallants ~- 
 Charm ladies most? De Sourdiac, 
 
 Long^ueville, or 
 The favourite Baradas ? 
 
 Julie. A smileless man — 
 I fear, and shun him. 
 Richelieu. Yet he courts thee? 
 Julie. Then 
 
 He is more tiresome thanJhis_MaieBty- 
 
 Richelieu. Right, girl>-shun Ba- 
 radas. — Yet of these flo:wers 
 
 Of France, not one, in whose more 
 honied breath 
 
 Thy heart hears Summer whisper? 
 
 [Enter Huguet] 
 
 Huguet. The Chevalier 
 De Mauprat waits below. 
 
 Julie [starting up]. I2g_J^JaiiBia!t ! 
 Richelieu. " Hem! 
 
 He has been tiresome, too. — Anon. 
 
 [Exit Huguet] 
 Julie. What doth he ? — 
 I mean — ^ I — Does your Eminence — 
 
 that is — 
 Know^you Me^ire de Mauprat? 
 " Richelieu. i^eU ! — and you — 
 Has he address'.d you often? 
 
 Julie. Often ! No, — 
 Nine times ; — nay, ten ! — the last 
 
 time, by the lattice 
 Of the great— staircase. [In a melan- 
 choly tone] The Court sees him 
 rarely. 
 Richelieu. A bold and forward 
 
 royster ? 
 Julie. He? — gaj^jaodest, 
 GLentlfi^and- sad-iiie*lHBks. 
 
 Richelieu. Wears ggld_and-azure? 
 Julie. No; sable. 
 Richelieu. So you note his ooloiu's, 
 Julie? 
 Shame^on. you, cMd^ lookjbftier. By 
 
 " the mass 
 I have business with this modest gentle- 
 man. 
 Julie. You're angry with pqor^ Julie. 
 
 There's no cause. 
 Richelieu. No cause — ■ you hate 
 
 my foes ? 
 Julie. I do ! 
 
 Richelieu. Hate Mauprat ! 
 Julie. Not Mauprat. Noi_ 
 
 Adrien^ father? 
 RiciiELiiu. Adrien! 
 Familiar ! — Go, child ; no, — not 
 way ; — wait 
 
 In the t.apiRSt.ry p.hp.TnhBr ; I will 
 
 you -=■§57^ I 
 
 Julie. His brows are knit; 
 dare not call him father ! 
 But I must speak — Your Eminence — 
 Richelieu [sternly]. Well ! girl ! 
 Julie. Nay 
 Smile on me -r- one smile more ; there, 
 
 — now-4im-happy: — '" 
 
 Do not ranlr De Mauprat with your 
 
 ~ foes=r--he-iajipt, 
 I know he is jiot, ie loves France too 
 "weUr ., 
 
 _not 
 
 that 
 join 
 I 
 
Richelieu 
 
 99 
 
 RicHELiETT. Not rank De Mauprat 
 with my^ foes ? So be it. 
 
 I'll blot him feomJiliaUist- , 
 JuLiBT That s my own rather. 
 
 [Exit Jttlie] 
 Richelieu [ringing a small bell on 
 the table]. Huguet ! 
 
 [Enter Huguet] 
 
 De Mau prat strug^ ed jiot, nor mur- 
 -mur'tf? 
 Huguet. No ; proud and passive. 
 Richelieu. Bid him enter. — Hold : 
 Look that hehide no weapon. Humph, 
 
 despair 
 Makes victims sometimes victors. When 
 
 he has enter'd, 
 Glide round unseen ; — place thyself 
 
 yonder [pointiug. (la_iie —screen] ; 
 
 wajich -Mm ; 
 If he^ow violence — (let me see thy 
 
 carbine; 
 So, a good weapon) — if he play the 
 
 lion. 
 Why — the dog's death. 
 Huguet. I never miss my mark. 
 
 [Exit Huguet; Richelieu seats 
 himself at the table, and slowly 
 arranges the papers before him. 
 Enter De Mauprat, preceded 
 by Huguet, who then retires 
 behind the screen] 
 
 Richelieu. Approach, Sir. — Can 
 you call to mind ^^e_taur. 
 Now _threfi_#eaES— siaee,-- when— in this 
 
 rooTn, methinks. 
 Your presence honour'd me? 
 
 De Mauprat. It-i&rm7"tord, 
 One.xif jny most — 
 
 Richelieu [drily]. Delightful rec- 
 ollections. 
 De Mauprat [aside]. St. Denis! 
 doth he make a jest of axe 
 And headsman ? 
 
 Richelieu [sternly]. I did then 
 accord you 
 4jagS2-illJ*^tuited — you stiU live ? 
 "DeMauprat. To meet death face 
 
 to face at last. 
 " RlCHSMH-ur— Tour words 
 "Are bold. 
 " De Mauprat. My deeds have not 
 
 beUed them. 
 " Richelieu. Deeds ! 
 "0 miserable delusion of man's pride ! 
 "Deeds! cities saok'd, fields ravaged, 
 
 hearths profaned, 
 "Men butcher' d ! In your hour of doom 
 behold 
 
 "The deeds you boast of! From rank 
 
 showers of blood, 
 "And the red light of blazing roofs, you 
 
 build 
 "The Rainbow Glory, and to shudder- 
 ing Conscience 
 "Cry, — Lo, the Bridge to Heaven? 
 "DeMauprat. If war be sinful, 
 "Your hand the gauntlet cast. 
 "Richelieu. It was so. Sir. 
 "Note the distinction: — I weigh' d 
 
 well the cause 
 " Which made the standard holy ; raised 
 
 the war 
 "But to secure the peace. France bled 
 
 — I groan'd ; 
 "But look'd beyond; and, in the vista, 
 
 saw 
 "France saved, and I exulted. You — 
 
 but you 
 "Were but the tool of slaughter — 
 
 knowing nought, 
 "Foreseeing nought, nought hoping, 
 
 nought lamenting, 
 "And for nought fit, — save cutting 
 
 throats for hire. 
 "Deeds, marry, deeds! 
 "De Mauprat. If yojiJKfijJld^ign 
 to""speak 
 "Thus to your armies ere they march 
 
 to -battle, 
 "Perchance your Eminence might have 
 
 the pain 
 "Of the throat-cutting to yourself. 
 " Richelieu [aside]. He has wit, 
 "This Mauprat — [Aloud] Let it pass; 
 
 there is against you 
 ' ' What^MU- flan -less excuse. ' ' Messire 
 
 de Mauprat 
 Doom'd to sure death, how hast thou 
 
 since consumed 
 The time allotted thee for serious 
 
 thought 
 And solemn penitence? 
 
 De Mauprat [embarrassed]. The 
 
 time, my Lord ? 
 Richelieu. Is not the question 
 plain? I'U answer for thee : 
 Thou hast sought nor priest nor shrine ; 
 
 no sackcloth chafed 
 Thy delicate flesh. The rosary and 
 
 the death's-head 
 Have not, with pious meditation, purged 
 Earth from the carnal gaze. What thou 
 
 hast not done 
 Brief told ; what done, a volume ! 
 
 Wild debauch. 
 Turbulent riot : — for the morn the 
 
 dice-box — 
 Noon olaim'd the duel — and the night 
 the. wassail : 
 
100 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 These, your most holy, pure preparatives 
 For death and judgment. Do I wrong 
 
 you, Su-? 
 Db Matjprat. I was not always 
 
 thus : — if chang'd my nature 
 Blame that which changed my late. — 
 
 Alas, my Lord, 
 "ThsrerTs-a brotherhood which calm- 
 eyed Reason, 
 "Can wot not of betwixt Despair and 
 
 Mirth. 
 "My birth-place mid the ^nnes of sunny 
 
 Provence, 
 '■ Perchance the stream that sparkles 
 
 in my veins, 
 "Came from that wine of passionate 
 
 life which, erst, 
 "Glow'd in the wild heart of the Trou- 
 badour : 
 "And danger, which makes steadier 
 
 colirage wary, 
 "But fevers me "with an insane delight ; 
 "As one of old who on the mountain- 
 crags 
 "Caught madness from a Msenad's 
 
 haunting eyes. 
 "Were you, my Lord, — whose path 
 
 imperial power, 
 "And the grave cares of reverent 
 
 wisdoin guard 
 "From all that tempts to folly meaner 
 
 men, — " 
 Were you accursed with that which 
 
 you inflicted 
 By bed and board, dogg'd by one 
 
 ghastly spectre — " 
 The while within you youth beat high, 
 
 and life 
 Grew lovelier from the neighbouring 
 
 frown of death — 
 The heart no bud, nor fruit — save in 
 
 those seeds 
 Most worthless, which spring up, bloom, 
 
 bear, and wither 
 In the same hour — Were this your 
 
 fate, perchance 
 You wouM have err'd like me ! 
 
 RiCHELiETj. I might, like you. 
 Have been a brawler and a reveller ; — 
 
 not. 
 Like you trickster and a thieL — 
 
 Db Matjpkat [advancing threaten- 
 ingly]. Lord Cardinal ! — 
 Unsay those words ! 
 
 [EKgtjet deliberately raises his 
 carbine] 
 RiCHELiETj [waving his hand]. Not 
 
 quite.ao- quick, Jriend^Huguet ; 
 Messu-e de Mauprat is a patient man. 
 And he can wait ! -^ 
 You have outrun your fortune ; — 
 
 I blame you not, that you would be a 
 
 beggar — 
 Each to his taste ! — But I do charge 
 
 you. Sir, 
 That, being beggar'd, you would coin 
 
 false monies 
 Out of that crucible, called Debt. — 
 
 To live 
 On means not yours — be brave in 
 
 silks and laces. 
 Gallant in— steeds — splendid in ban- 
 quets ; — aU 
 Not yours — ungiven — unherited — 
 
 unpaid for ; — 
 This is to be a trickster ; and to fllch 
 Men's art and labour, which to them is 
 
 wealth. 
 Life, daily bread — quitting all scores 
 
 with — ' ' Friend, —^ 
 You're troublesome ! " — Why this, for- 
 give me, 
 
 Is what — when done with a less dainty 
 
 grace — 
 Plain folks call "Theft!" You owe 
 
 eight thaugand_gfalQles, 
 Minus one crown, two hards ! — 
 
 De Maufrat [astSe^. The old con- 
 juror 1 — 
 'Sdeath, he'U inform me next how many 
 
 cups 
 I drank at dinner ! — • 
 
 Richelieu. This is scandalous. 
 Shaming your Jbirth_aad_J)lood. — I 
 
 teU you^Sir, 
 That you inusT pay your debts . — ■ 
 
 De MAtrPHST: With all ihy heart, 
 My Lord. — Where ■ -shati — i—bwiow, 
 
 theni-thfi^ money ? 
 Richelieu [aside and laughing]. A 
 
 humorous dare-devil ! — The very 
 
 man 
 To suit my purpose ■ ^— readyj __frank, 
 
 a53rbdl(i" ! [Ilising and earnestly] 
 Adrien de Mauprat, men have called 
 
 me cruel ; — 
 I am nQt;_-^- I am just ! — I found 
 
 France rent asiinder, — ^" — ~ 
 The rich men despots, and the poor 
 
 banditti ; — 
 Sloth in the mart, and schism within 
 
 the temple ; 
 Brawls festering to Rebellion; and 
 
 weak Laws 
 Rotting away with rust in antique 
 
 sheaths. — 
 I have re-created France ; and, from the 
 
 Of the old feudal and dec repit car case. 
 CiviUzatioii on Iier luminous wings 
 Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove! What 
 was my art? 
 
Richelieu 
 
 101 
 
 Genius, some say — some, Fortune, — 
 Witchcraft, some. 
 
 Not.jai.1=iJIl3'-8H-WftS'«fTrHTTt'E'!"' 'FoTCe 
 
 andJiaud . 
 Misnam,e._it.. crueltx-:^ you shall eon- 
 
 ' ~ fute them ! 
 My champion You ! ^You laet^ me as 
 
 your foe, """^ 
 
 DeparrETy friend. — You shall not die. 
 
 — • feaitce fl'eeds you.. '" 
 You shall. wipe o& aU stains — be rich, 
 
 be honour'd, 
 Be great — • 
 
 [De Mattpbat falls on his knee, 
 Richelieu raises him] 
 I ask, Sir, in reiturii,..Jihi&.haiid, 
 To gift it- with a bride, whose dower 
 
 shall match. 
 Yet nat.exceed, -hgiE-baa-nty. 
 De Mauphat. I, my Lord, 
 
 [hesitating] 
 I have no wish to marry. 
 
 Richelieu. Surely, Sir, 
 
 To die were worse. \ 
 
 DeMaupbat. Scarcely; the poorest 
 coward \ 
 
 Must die, — but Isaowingly to march 
 
 to marriage • — '■ 
 My Lord, Jt asks the courage of a Hon ! 
 RlUHELiEur TraitcHi^thou triflest 
 with me ! — I knowoZn 
 Thou hast dared to love my ward — 
 my charge. 
 De Maupbat. As rivers 
 May love the sunlight — basking in 
 
 the beams, 
 And hurrying on ! — 
 
 Richelieu. Thou hast told her of 
 
 thy love? 
 De Maupbat. My. L(Qrd,_if I had 
 dared to.lQvfi,ajnatid, 
 L awliest inFrance, I w ould ngt_so have 
 
 wrong''3~JlEr : ~~ " 
 
 As bid her hnk rich life and virgin 
 
 hope-—" 
 With one, the deathman's gripe might, 
 
 from her side 
 Pluck at the nuptial altar. 
 
 Richelieu. I beUeve thee ; 
 Y et since she knows no t r>f tliy 1mro, 
 
 rfi BOunce h er ; 
 Take Ufe and fortune with another ! — 
 
 ■^SHent? 
 
 De Maupbat. Your fate has been 
 
 one triumph. — You know not 
 How bless'd a thing it was in my dark 
 
 hour 
 To nurse the one sweet thought you 
 
 bid me banish. 
 Love hath no need of words ; — nor 
 
 less within 
 
 That holiest temple — the heaven- 
 
 builded soul — 
 Breathes- the recorded vow — Base 
 
 knight, — false lover 
 Were he, who barter'd all, that 
 
 brighten'd grief 
 Or sanctified despair, for life and gold. 
 Revoke your niercy ; —-.I prefer the 
 
 fate 
 I ladkM for ! 
 Richelieu. IIugueLL.To _ the tap- 
 estry chamber 
 
 Conduct- your prisoner. — ■ 
 
 [To Maupbat] Yo u will t here behold 
 The executioner : — your doom be pri- 
 vate — 
 AndJIeaKen_haX£JBiercy_an_j£au ! 
 De Maupbat. When I'm dead. 
 Tell her,, I loved h^. 
 
 Richelieu. Keep such follies, Sir, 
 For fitter ears ; — go — 
 
 De Maupbat. Does.he niQck^me? 
 [Exeunt De Maupbat and 
 Huguet] 
 Richelieu. Joseph, 
 Come forth. 
 
 [Enter Joseph] 
 Methinks your _ehsek _Iiath lost, its 
 
 rubies; • 
 
 I fear you have been too lavish^ of the 
 
 The scorge is heavy. 
 
 Joseph. Pray you, change the sub- 
 ject. 
 Richelieu. You good men are so 
 modest ! — Well, to business ! 
 Go instantly — deeds — notaries ! bid 
 
 my stewards 
 Arrange my house by the Luxembourg 
 
 — my_ house 
 No_ more ! — a bridal present to my 
 
 ward, ' ' — — "■ — — -' 
 
 Who weds to-morrow. 
 
 Joseph. Weds, -with whom? 
 Richelieu. De Mauprat. 
 Joseph. Penniless husband ! 
 Richelieu. Bah! the mate for 
 beauty 
 Should be a man, and not a money- 
 chest ! 
 When her brave sire lay on his bed of 
 
 death, 
 I vow'd to be a father to his Julie ; — 
 And so he died — the smile upon his 
 ^Jf Ups ! — 
 
 ■ * And when I spared the life of her young 
 lover, 
 MetEought I , saw that smile again ! 
 
 "WlSrdse, ""■ 
 Look ybxi; in aU the Court — who else 
 ^ so well. 
 
102 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Brave, or supplant the favourite ; — 
 
 balk the King — 
 Baffle their schemes? — -I have tried 
 
 him : — He has honour 
 And courage ; — qualities that eagle 
 
 plume 
 Men's souls — and fit them for the 
 
 fiercest sun, 
 Which ever melted the weak waxen 
 
 minds 
 That flutter in the beams of gaudy 
 
 Power ! 
 Besides, he has taste, this Mauprat : — 
 
 When my play 
 Was acted to dull tiers of lifeless gapers. 
 Who had no soul for poetry, I saw him 
 Applaud in the proper places ; trust 
 
 me, Joseph, 
 He is a man of an uncommon promise ! 
 Joseph. And yet your foe. 
 RiCHELiETJ. Have I not foes enow ? — 
 Great men gain doubly when they make 
 
 foes friends. 
 Remember imy grand maxims : ^=^-First, 
 
 employ 
 tnbr 
 
 All metnbds_to conciliate. 
 JssBtH. Faihng these ? 
 RicHELiBtr [fiercely]. All means to 
 crush ; as with the opening, and 
 The clenching of this little hand, I will 
 Crush the small venom of these sting- 
 ing courtiers. 
 So, so we've baffled Baradas. 
 
 Joseph. And when 
 Check the conspiracy ? 
 
 RicHELiBU. Check, check? Full 
 way to it. 
 Let it bud,, ripen, flaunt i' the day, and 
 
 burst 
 To fruit, — the Dead Sea's fruit of 
 
 ■ ashes ; ashes 
 Which I wiU scatter to the winds. 
 Go, Joseph ; 
 
 When you return, I have a feast for you : 
 "The last -greatact of my great play; 
 
 the verses 
 Methinks are fine, — ah, very fine. — 
 
 You write 
 Verses ! — [aside] such verses ! — You 
 have wit, discernment. 
 Joseph, [aside]. Worse than the 
 scourge ! Strange that so great a 
 statesman 
 Should be so bad a poet. 
 
 Richelieu. What dost say? 
 Joseph. That it is strange so great 
 a statesman should 
 Be so sublime a poet. 
 
 Richelieu. Ah, you rogue ; 
 Laws die. Books never. Of my min- 
 istry 
 
 I am not vain; but of my muse, I 
 
 own it. 
 Come, you shall hear the verses now. 
 
 [Takes up a MS.] 
 Joseph. My Lord, 
 The deeds, the notaries ! 
 
 Richelieu. True, I pity you ; 
 But business first, then pleasure. 
 
 [Exit Joseph] 
 [Seats himself, and reading] 
 Ah sublime ! 
 
 [Enter Db Mauprat and Julie] 
 
 De Mauprat. Oh, speak, my Lord 
 
 — I dare not think you mock me. 
 And yet — 
 
 Richelieu. Hush, hush — this line 
 
 must be considered ! 
 Julie. Are we not both your chil- 
 dren? 
 Richelieu. What a couplet ! 
 How now ! Oh, sir — you live ! — 
 
 De Mauprat. Why, no, methinks, 
 Elysium is not Uf e ! 
 
 Julie. He smiles ! — you smile. 
 My father! From my heart for ever, 
 
 now, 
 I'll blot the name of orphan ! 
 
 Richelieu. Rise, my children. 
 For ye are mine — mine both ; — and 
 
 in your sweet 
 And young delight — your love — (life's 
 
 first-born glory) 
 My own lost youth breathes musical ! 
 
 De Mauprat. I'll seek 
 Temple and priest henceforward ; — 
 
 were it but 
 To learn Heaven's choicest blessings. 
 
 Richelieu. Thou shalt seek 
 Temple and priest right soon; the 
 
 morrow's sun 
 Shall see across these barren thresholds 
 
 pass 
 The fairest bride in Paris. Go, my 
 
 children : 
 Even I loved once. — Be lovers while 
 
 ye may. 
 How is it with you. Sir? You bear it 
 
 bravely ; 
 You know, it asks the courage of a 
 lion. 
 
 [Exeunt De Mauprat and 
 Julie] 
 Oh, godlike Power! Woe, Raptiire, 
 ^■k. Penury, Wealth, — - 
 t ^Marriage and Death, for one infirm 
 old man 
 Through a great empire to dispense — 
 
 withhold — 
 As the will whispers ! And shaU things 
 
 — like motes 
 
 f 
 
Richelieu 
 
 103 
 
 That live in my daylight — laekies of 
 
 court wages, 
 Dwarf'd starvelings — manikins, upon 
 
 whose shoulders 
 The burthen of a province were a load 
 More heavy than the globe on Atlas — 
 
 cast 
 Lots for my robes and sceptre ? France, 
 
 I love thee ! 
 All Earth shall never pluck thee from 
 
 my heart ! 
 My mistress France — my wedded 
 
 wife — sweet France, 
 Who shall proclaim divorce for thee 
 
 and me ! [Exit Richelieu] 
 
 END or ACT I 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Second Day 
 
 Scene First. — A splendid Apartment 
 in Mauprat's new House. Case- 
 ments opening to the Gardens, be- 
 yond which the domes of the Luxem- 
 bourg Palace. 
 
 [Enter Baradas] 
 
 Babadas. Mauprat's new home : — 
 too splendid for a soldier ! 
 
 But o'er his floors — the while I stalk 
 — methinks 
 
 My shadow spreads gigantic to the 
 gloom 
 
 The old rude towers of the Bastile cast 
 far 
 
 Along the smoothness of the jocund day. 
 
 Well, thou hast 'soaped the fierce caprice 
 of RioheUeij ; 
 
 But art thou farther from the heads- 
 man, fool? 
 
 Thy secret I have whisper'd to the 
 
 Kiiigj^:::___ 
 
 Thy maaTiagemakes the King thy foe. 
 
 Thou stand'st 
 On the abyss — and in the pool below 
 I see a ghastly, headless phantom 
 
 mirror'd : 
 Thy likeness ere the nlarriage moon 
 
 hath waned. 
 Meanwhile — meanwhile — ha, ha — if 
 
 thou art wedded 
 Thou art not wived. 
 
 [Enter Mauprat, splendidly dressed] 
 
 Db Maupbat. Was ever fate like 
 mine? 
 So blest, and yet so wretched ! 
 Baradas. Joyrde^Iauprat ! 
 
 Why, what a brow, man, for your 
 wedding-day ! 
 
 De Mauprat. Jest not. — Dis- 
 traction ! 
 
 Baradas. What, your wife a shrew 
 Already ? Courage, man — the com- 
 mon lot ! 
 
 De Maupbat. Oh, that she were less 
 lovely, or less loved ! 
 
 Baradas. Riddles again ! 
 
 De Mauprat. You know what 
 chanced between 
 The Cardinal and myself. 
 
 Babadas. This morning brought 
 Your letter — a strange account ! I 
 
 laugh' d 
 And wept at once for gladness. 
 
 De Mauprat. We were wed 
 At noon — the rite performed, came 
 
 hither — scarce 
 Arrived, when — 
 
 Baradas. Well? — 
 
 De Mauprat. Wide flew the doors, 
 
 and lo; ~— — — ^ 
 
 Messire de Beringhen, and this epistle ! 
 
 Babadas. 'Tis the King's hand ! — 
 the royal seal ! 
 
 De Maupbat. Read — read ! 
 
 Babadas [reading]. "Whereas, 
 
 Adrien de Mauprat, Colonel and Cheva- 
 lier in our armies, being already guilty 
 of h^lr^Sasian^_by~thff-sei«&re-of_pur 
 towSrorFaviaux, has presumed, without 
 our knowledge, consent, or sanction, to 
 connect himself by marriage with Julie 
 de Mortemar, a wealthy orphan at- 
 tached to the person of Her Majesty, 
 without our jmowled ge or consent — 
 We do hOTeby" proclaift and declare the 
 said marriage contrary to law. On 
 penalty of desrthr^Adriea-de Mauprat 
 will not communicate with the said 
 Julie de Mortemar by word or letter, 
 save in the presence of our faithful 
 servant, the Sieur de Beringhen, and 
 then with such respect and decorum as 
 are due to a Demoiselle attached to the 
 Court of France, until such time as it 
 may suit our royal pleasure to confer 
 with the Holy Church on the formal 
 annulment of the marriage, and with 
 Dur Council on th'e punishment to be 
 awarded to Messire de Mauprat, who 
 is cautioned fpr his own sake to preserve 
 silence as to our injunction, more es- 
 pecially to Mademoiselle de Mortemar. 
 Given under our hand and seal at the 
 Louvre. Louis." [Returning the letter]. 
 Amazement ! — Did not Richelieu say, 
 
 the King 
 Knew not your crime ? 
 
104 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 De Mattpbat. He said so. 
 Baradas. Poor de Mauprat ! 
 See you the snare, the vengeance worse 
 
 than death, 
 Of which you are the victim? 
 De Maupeat. Ha ! 
 Baradas [aside]. It works ! 
 
 [Julie and De Beringhen in the 
 Gardens] 
 You have not sought the Cardinal yet, 
 to — 
 De Mauprat. No ! 
 Scarce yet my sense awaken'd from the 
 
 shock ; 
 Now I will seek him. 
 
 Baradas. Hold — beware ! Stir not 
 Till we confer again. 
 
 De Mauprat. Speak out, man ! 
 Baradas. Hush ! 
 Your wife ! — De Beringhen ! — Be on 
 
 your guard. 
 Obey the royal orders to the letter. 
 I'll look around your palace. By my 
 
 troth, 
 A princely mansion ! 
 
 De Mauprat. Stay — 
 Baradas. So new a bridegroom 
 Can want no visitors. — Your Servant, 
 
 Madam. 
 Oh, happy pair — oh, charming picture ! 
 [Exit through a side door] 
 Julie. Adrien, 
 You left us suddenly — are you not 
 well? 
 De Mauprat. Oh, very well — 
 
 that is — • extremely iU. 
 Julie. IU, Adrien? 
 
 [Taking his hand] 
 De Mauprat. Not when I see 
 thee. 
 
 [He is about to lift her hand to 
 his lips, when De Beringhen 
 coughs, and pulls his mantle. 
 De Mauprat drops the hand, 
 and walks away] 
 
 Julie. Alas ! 
 Should he not4ove-nie? 
 
 De Beringhen [aside]. Have a care, 
 I must 
 Report each word, each gesture to his 
 
 )e Mauprat. Sir, if you were not 
 in his Majesty's service. 
 You'd be the most officious, impudent, 
 Damn'd busy-body ever interfering 
 In a man's famUy affairs. 
 
 De Beringhen. But as 
 I do belong. Sir, to his Majesty — 
 De Mauprat. You're lucky ! — 
 StiU, were we a story higher, 
 
 'Twere prudent not to go too near the 
 window. 
 Julie. Adrien, what have I done? 
 Say, am I changed 
 Since yesterday ? — or was it but for 
 
 wealth. 
 Ambition, life — that — that — you 
 swore you loved me? 
 De Mauprat. I shall go mad! I 
 
 do, indeed I do — 
 De Beringhen [aside]. Not love 
 her ! that were highly disrespectful. 
 Julie. You do — what, Adrien? 
 De Mauprat. Oh ! I do, indeed — 
 I do think, that this weather is delight- 
 ful! 
 A charming day I the sky is so serene ! 
 And what a prospect ! — [To De Ber- 
 inghen] Oh ! you Popinjay ! 
 Julie. He jests at me ! — he mocks 
 me ! — yet I love him. 
 And every look becomes the lips we 
 
 love! 
 Perhaps I am too grave ? — You laugh 
 
 at Julie ; 
 If laughter please you, welcome be the 
 
 music! 
 Only say, Adrien, that you love me. 
 
 Dti'M.A.vPUA.T [kissing her hand]. Ay; 
 With my whole hffartI_love you ! — • 
 
 Now, Sir, go. 
 And tell that to his Majesty! Who- 
 ever 
 Heard of its being a state-offence to kiss 
 The hand of one's own wife? 
 
 Julie. He says he loves me, 
 And starts away, as if to say "I love 
 
 you " 
 Meant something very dreadful. — 
 
 Come, sit by me, — 
 I place your chair ! — fle on your 
 gallantry ! 
 
 [They sit down; as he pushes his 
 
 chair back, she draws hers 
 
 nearer] 
 
 Why must this strange Messire 
 
 de Beringhen 
 
 Be always here? He never takes a 
 
 hint. 
 Do you not wish him gone ? 
 
 De Mauprat. Upon my soul 
 I do, my Julie ! — Send him for your 
 
 bouquet, - — " 
 
 Your glove, your — anything — 
 Julie. Messire de Beringhen, 
 I dropp'd my glove in the gardens by 
 
 the fountain. 
 Or the alcove,^Dr_-:z^ay_-:— no, by the 
 
 statue 
 Of Cupid ; may I ask you to — 
 De Beringhen. To send for it? 
 
Richelieu 
 
 105 
 
 Certainly. [Ringing a bell on the table] 
 
 Andrfi, Pierre, (you rascals, how 
 Do ye call them?) 
 
 [Enter Servants] 
 Ah — Madame has dropp'd her glove 
 In the gardens, by the fountain, or the 
 
 alcove ; 
 Or — stay — no, by the statue — eh ? 
 
 — of Cupid. 
 Bring it. 
 De Mattpbat. Did ever now one 
 pair of shoulders 
 Carry such waggon-loads of impudence 
 Into a gentleman's drawing-room? 
 
 Dear Julie, 
 I'm busy — letters — visitors — the 
 
 devil! 
 I do beseech you leave me — I say — 
 leave me. 
 Julie [weeping]. You are unkind. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 [As she goes out, Mattpeat drops 
 
 on one knee, and kisses the 
 
 hem of her mantle, unseen by 
 
 her] 
 
 De Behinqhen. Ten miUions of 
 
 apologies — 
 De Maupbat. I'll not take one of 
 them. I have, as yet. 
 Withstood, aU things — - my heart — 
 
 myiove — ■ my rights. 
 But Julie's tears ! — When is this farce 
 
 to end-? 
 
 'De Bebinghen. Oh! when you 
 
 please. His Majesty requests me. 
 
 As soon as you infringe his gracious 
 
 orders, 
 To introduce you to the Governor 
 Of the Bastile. I should have had that 
 
 honour 
 Before, but, gad, my foible is good 
 
 nature. 
 One can't be hard upon a friend's in- 
 firmities. 
 De Maupbat. I know the King can 
 send me to the scaffold. 
 Dark prospect ! — but I'm used to it ; 
 
 and if 
 The Church and Council, by this hour 
 
 to-morrow, 
 One way or other settle not the matter, 
 I will — 
 De Bebinghen. What, my dear Sir? 
 De Maupbat. Show you the door. 
 My dear, dear Sir; talk as I please, 
 
 with whom 
 I please, in my own house, dear Sir, 
 
 until 
 His Majesty shall condescend to find 
 A stouter gentleman than you, dear Sir, 
 
 To take me out: and now you under- 
 stand me. 
 
 My dear, most dear ^- Oh, damnably 
 dear Sir I 
 De Bebinghen. What ! almost in a 
 passion ! you will cool 
 
 Upon reflection. Well, since Madame's 
 absent, 
 
 I'll take a small refreshment. Now, 
 don't stir ; 
 
 Be careful; — how's your burgundy? 
 
 — I'll taste it — 
 
 Finish it all before I leave. Nay, 
 No form ; — you see I inake myself at 
 home. [Exit De Bebinghen] 
 
 De Maupbat [going to the door, through 
 which Baradas had passed]. Bara- 
 das ! Count ! 
 
 [Enter Baradas] 
 
 You spoke of snares — ■ of vengeance 
 Sharper than death — be plainer. 
 
 Bahadas. What so clear ? 
 Richelieu has but two passions — 
 De Maupbat. Richelieu^t 
 Baradas. Yes ! 
 Am |}ition and reven ge — in you both 
 
 blended. 
 First for ambition — JuUe is his ward, 
 Innocent — docile — pUant to his will — 
 He placed her at the Court — foresaw 
 
 the rest — 
 The King loves JuUe ! 
 
 De Mauprat. Merciful Heaven! 
 
 The King ! 
 BARASAsr"^nch Cupids lend new 
 plumes to Richeheu's wings : 
 But the Court etiquette must give such 
 
 Cupids 
 The ved of Hymen — (Hymen but in 
 
 name). 
 He looked abroad — found you his foe ; 
 
 — thus served 
 
 Ambition — ^by the grandeur of his 
 
 ward. 
 And vengeance — by dishonour to his 
 
 foe! 
 De Maupbat. Prove this. 
 Baeadas. You have the proof — 
 
 The royal Letter : — 
 Your strange exemption from the 
 
 general pardon, 
 Known but to me and RicheUeu ; can 
 
 you doubt 
 Your friend to acquit your foe? The 
 
 truth is glaring — ■ 
 Richelieu alone could tell the princely 
 
 lover 
 The tale which sells your life, — or 
 
 buys your honoiu* ! 
 
106 
 
 Representative British D'ramas 
 
 De Matjpbat. I see it all! Mock 
 
 pardon — hurried nuptials ! 
 False bounty ! — all ! — the serpent of 
 
 that smile ! 
 Oh ! it stings home ! 
 
 Baradas. You yet shall crush his 
 
 malice ; 
 Our plans are sure : — Orleans is at our 
 
 head; 
 We meet to-night ; join us, and with us 
 
 triumph. 
 Db Mattprat. To-night? — Oh 
 
 Heaven ! — my marriage night ! — 
 
 Revenge ! 
 "Baradas. What class of men, 
 
 whose white Ups do not curse 
 "The grim, insatiate, universal tsrant? 
 "We, noble-born — -where are our an- 
 tique rights — 
 "Our feudal seignories — our castled 
 
 strength, 
 "That did divide us from the base 
 
 Plebeians 
 "And made our swords our law — 
 
 where are they ? — trod 
 "To dust — and o'er the graves of our 
 
 dead power 
 " Scaffolds are monuments — the Kingly 
 
 House 
 "Shorn of its beams — -the Royal Sun 
 
 of Prance 
 "'Clips'd by this blood-red comet. 
 
 Where we turn, 
 "Nothing but Richelieu! — Armies — 
 
 Church — State — Laws 
 "But mirrors that do multiply his 
 
 beams. 
 "He sees all — acts ah. — Argus and 
 
 BriarsBUS — 
 "Spy at our boards — and death' s-man 
 
 at our hearths, 
 "Under the venom of one laidley night- 
 shade, 
 "Wither the lilies of all France. 
 
 "De Mauprat [impatiently]. But 
 
 Juhe — " 
 Baradas [unheeding him}. As yet 
 
 the Fiend that serves hath saved 
 
 his power 
 From every snare ; and in the epitaphs 
 Of many victims dwells a warning moral 
 That preaches caution. Were I not 
 
 assured 
 That what before was hope is ripen'd 
 
 now 
 Into most certain safety, trust me, 
 
 Mauprat, 
 I still could hush my hate and mark my 
 
 wrongs. 
 And say "Be patient !" — iVoi/;, the 
 
 King himself 
 
 Smiles kindly when I tell him that his 
 
 peers 
 Will rid him of his Priest. You knit 
 
 your brows, 
 Noble impatience ! — Pass we to our 
 
 scheme ! 
 'Tis Richelieu's wont, each morn, within 
 
 his chapel, 
 (Hypocrite worship ended) to dispense 
 Alms to the Mendicant friars, — in that 
 
 guise 
 A band (yourself the leader) shall sur- 
 round 
 And seize the despot. 
 
 De Mauprat. But the King? but 
 
 Julie? 
 Baradas. The King, infirm in health, 
 
 in mind more feeble. 
 Is but the plaything of a Minister's will. 
 Were Richelieu dead — • his power were 
 
 mine ; and Louis 
 Soon shall forget his passion and your 
 
 crime. 
 But whither now? 
 
 Db Mauprat. I know not ; I scarce 
 
 hear thee ; 
 A little while for thought anon I'll 
 
 join thee ; 
 But now, all air seems tainted, and I 
 
 loathe 
 The face of man I 
 
 [Exit De Mauprat, through, the 
 Gardens] 
 Baradas. Start from the chase, my 
 
 prey. 
 But as thou speed' St the hell-hounds of 
 
 Revenge 
 Pant in thy track and dog thee down. 
 
 [Enter De Bbrinqhbn, his mouth fvU, 
 a napkin in his hand] 
 
 De Beringhen. ChevaUer, 
 Your cook's a miracle — what, my 
 
 Host gone ? 
 Faith, Count, my office is a post of 
 
 danger — 
 A fiery fellow, Mauprat ! — touch and 
 
 go, — 
 Match and saltpetre, — pr-r-r-r ! 
 
 Baradas. You 
 Will be released ere long. The King 
 
 resolves 
 To call the bride to Court this day. 
 De Beringhen. Poor Mauprat ! 
 Yet, since you love the lady why so 
 
 careless 
 Of the King's suit ! 
 Baradas. Because the lady's vir- 
 tuous. 
 And the King timid. Ere he win the 
 
 suit 
 
Richelieu 
 
 107 
 
 the bride will 
 
 He'll lose the crown, 
 
 be a widow — 
 And I — the Richelieu of the Regent 
 
 Orieans. 
 Db Bemnghen. Is Louis still so 
 
 chafed against the Fox, 
 For snatching yon fair dainty from the 
 
 Lion? 
 Bahadas. So chafed that Richelieu 
 
 totters. Yes, the King 
 Is half conspirator against the Cardinal. 
 Enough of this. I've found the man 
 
 we wanted, — 
 The man to head the hands that mur- 
 der Richelieu — 
 The man, whose name the synonym for 
 
 daring. 
 Db Beeinghbn. He must mean me ! 
 
 No, Count, I am — I own, 
 A valiant dog — but stiU — 
 
 Babadas. Whom can I mean 
 But Mauprat ? -^_MaEkr to-night we 
 
 meet at Marion'sr 
 There shall w^'Sign : — thence send this 
 
 soroU [shoiuing it] to Bouillon. 
 You're in that secret [affectionately] one 
 
 of our new Council. 
 De Beringhen. But to admit the 
 
 Spaniard — Prance's foe — 
 Into the ieart of Prance, — dethrone 
 
 the King, — 
 It looks like treason, and I smell the 
 
 headsman. 
 Baeadas. Oh, Sir, too late to falter : 
 
 when we meet 
 We must arrange 
 
 coarser scheme, 
 For Richelieu's death. 
 
 Mauprat 
 Must nothing learn. 
 
 vengeance. 
 And he would start from treason. — 
 
 We must post him 
 Without the door at Marion's — as a 
 
 sentry. 
 [Aside] — So, when his head is on the 
 
 block — his tongue — 
 Cannot betray our more august designs ! 
 De Behinqhen. I'U meet you, if 
 
 the Kin g ca n spare me. — [Aside] 
 
 I anito o old a go aae-ttt-plav with foxes, 
 I'll rffost at home. Meanwhile in the 
 
 next roota 
 
 There's a delicious pS,t4, let's discuss it. 
 Babadas. Pshaw ! a man flll'd with 
 a sublime ambition 
 Has no time to discuss your pfttSs. 
 
 De Bebinghbn. Pshaw ! 
 .And a man flll'd with as sublime a 
 
 pate 
 
 the separate — 
 
 Of this despatch 
 
 He only bites at 
 
 Has no time to discuss ambition. — Gad, 
 I have the best of it ! 
 
 [Enter Julie hastily with first CotrBTiEB] 
 
 Julie. [To Coubtier] A summons, 
 Sir, 
 To^tend_the Louvre? — On this day, 
 too? 
 CouETiEB. Madame, 
 The royal carriage waits below. — 
 
 Messire [to De Beeinghbn], 
 You will return with us. 
 
 Julie. What can this mean? — 
 Where is my husband ? 
 
 Baeadas. He has left the house 
 Perhaps tiU nightfall -^ so_ia.,bade me 
 
 "-teltyou. --'•— 
 Alas, were I the Lord of such fair 
 treasure — 
 Julie [impatiently]. Till nightfall? 
 — Strange — my heart misgives 
 me! 
 CouBTiEE. Madame, 
 My orders wlU not brook delay. 
 
 Julie. [To Babadas] You'll see 
 him — 
 And you will tell him ! 
 
 Baeadas. Prom the flowers of Hybla 
 Never more gladly did the bee bear 
 
 honey, 
 Than I take sweetness from those 
 
 rosiest lips, 
 Though to the hive of others ! 
 
 CouETiEE. [To De Beeinghbn] 
 
 Come, Messire. 
 De Beeinghbn [hesitating]. One mo- 
 ment, just to — 
 CouBTiBE. Come, Sir. 
 Db Beeinghbn. I shall not 
 Discuss the pat^ after all. 'Bcod, 
 I'm puzzled now. I don't know who's 
 the best of it ! 
 
 [Exeunt Julie, De Bebinghbn, 
 and Couetiee] 
 Baeadas. Now wiU this Are his 
 fever into madness ! 
 AU is made clear ! Mauprat must mur- 
 der Richeheu — 
 Die for that crime ; — I shall console 
 
 his Julie — 
 This wiU reach Bouillon ! — from the 
 
 wrecks of Prance 
 I shall carve, out — who knows — per- 
 chance a throne ! 
 All in despite of my Lord Cardinal. 
 
 [Enter De Maupeat from the Gardens] 
 De Mauphat. Speak ! can it be ? — 
 
 Methought, that from the terrace 
 I saw the carriage of the King — and 
 
 JuUe! 
 
108 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 No, — no, — my frenzy peoples the 
 
 void air 
 With its own phantoms ! 
 
 Baradas. Nay, too true. Alas! 
 Was ever lightning swifter or more 
 
 blasting. 
 Than Richelieu's forked guile? 
 
 De Matjpbat. I'U to the Louvre — 
 Baradas. And lose all hope ! — The 
 
 Louvre ! — the sure gate 
 To the Bastile ! 
 
 Db Maupbat. The King — 
 Baradas. Is but the wax, 
 Which Richelieu stamps ! Break the 
 
 malignant seal 
 And I will rase the print ! Come, man, 
 
 take heart ! 
 Her virtue well could brave a sterner 
 
 trial 
 Than a few hours of cold imperious 
 
 courtship. 
 Were Richelieu dust — no danger ! 
 
 De Mauprat. Ghastly Vengeance! 
 To thee and thine august and solemn 
 
 sister 
 The unrelenting Death ! I dedicate 
 The blood of Armand -Richelieu. When 
 
 Dishonour 
 Reaches our hearths Law dies, and 
 
 Murther takes 
 The angel shape of Justice ! 
 Baradas. Bravely said ! 
 At midnight, — Marion's ! — Nay, I 
 
 cannot leave thee 
 To thoughts that — 
 
 Db Mauprat. Speak not to me I — 
 
 I am yours ! — 
 But speak not ! There's a voice within 
 
 my soul. 
 Whose cry could drown the thunder ! — • 
 
 Oh, if men 
 Will play dark sorcery with the heart 
 
 of man. 
 Let them, who raise the spell, beware the 
 
 Fiend ! [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Second. — A room in the Palais 
 Cardinal {as in the First Act). 
 
 [RiCHBLiEtr and Joseph. Pran- 
 gois, writing at a table] 
 
 Joseph. Yes, — Huguet, taking his 
 
 accustom'd round, — • 
 Disguised as some plain burgher, — 
 
 heard these ruflers 
 Quoting your name : — he Usten'd, — 
 
 ' ' Pshaw ! " said one. 
 "We are to seize the Cardinal in his 
 
 palace 
 
 To-morrow!" — "How?" the other 
 
 ask'd — "You'll hear 
 The whole design to-night; the Duke 
 
 of Orleans 
 And Baradas have got the map of 
 
 action 
 At their fingers' end." — "So, be it," 
 
 quoth the other, 
 "I will be there, — Marion de Lorme's 
 
 — at midnight!" 
 
 Richelieu. I have them, man, I 
 
 have them ! 
 Joseph. So they say 
 Of you, my Lord ; — beUeve me, that 
 
 their plans 
 Are mightier than you deem. You 
 
 must employ 
 Means no less vast to meet them. 
 
 Richelieu. Bah ! in poUcy 
 We foil gigantic danger, not by giants. 
 But dwarfs. — The statues of our stately 
 
 fortune 
 Are sculptured by the chisel — not the 
 
 axe! 
 Ah, were I younger — by the knightly 
 
 heart 
 That beats beneath these priestly robes, 
 
 I would 
 Have pastime with these cutthroats! 
 
 Yea — as when. 
 Lured to the ambush of the expecting 
 
 foe, — • 
 I clove my pathway through the plumSd 
 
 sea! 
 Reach me yon falchion, Francois, — 
 
 not that bauble 
 For carpet-warriors — yonder — such a 
 
 blade 
 As old Charles Martel might have 
 
 wielded, when 
 He drove the Saracen from France. 
 
 [Francois brings him one of the 
 long two-handed swords worn in 
 the middle ages] 
 
 With this 
 I, at Rochelle, -did hand to hand engage 
 The stalwart Englisher — no mongrels, 
 
 boy. 
 Those island mastiffs — mark the notch 
 
 — a deep one — 
 
 His casque made here, — I shore him 
 
 to the waist ! 
 A toy — a feather — then ! [Tries to 
 
 meld, and lets it fall] You see a 
 
 child could 
 Slay Richeheu now. 
 
 Francois [his hand on his hilt]. But 
 
 now, at your command 
 Are other weapons, my good Lord. 
 Richelieu [who has seated himself as 
 
 to write, lifts the pen]. True, "This! 
 
Richelieu 
 
 109 
 
 Beneath the rule of men entirely great 
 The pen is mightier than the sword. 
 
 Behold 
 The arch-enchanter's wand ! — itself a 
 
 nothing ! 
 But taking sorcery from the master 
 
 hand 
 To paralyse the Csesars — and to strike 
 The loud earth breathless ! — Take 
 
 away the sword ; 
 States can be saved without it ! 
 
 [Looking on the clock] 'Tis the hour ! 
 Retire, sir. [Exit FHAN901S] 
 
 [A Knock — A door concealed in 
 the arras, opens cautiously] 
 
 [Enter Marion De Lokme] 
 
 Joseph [amazed]. Marion de Lorme ! 
 Richelieu. Hist ! — Joseph, 
 Keep guard. 
 
 [Joseph retires to the principal 
 entrance] 
 My faithful Marion ! 
 
 Marion. Good my Lord, 
 They meet to-night in my poor house. 
 
 The Duke 
 Of Orleans heads them. 
 Richelieu. Yes ; go on. 
 Marion. His Highness 
 Much question'd if I knew some brave, 
 
 discreet. 
 And vigilant man, whose tongue could 
 
 keep a secret. 
 And who had those twin qualities for 
 
 service. 
 The love of gold, the hate of Richelieu. 
 Richelieu. You — 
 Marion. Made answer, "Yes, my 
 brother ; — bold and trusty : 
 Whose faith, my faith could pledge;" 
 
 — the Duke then bade me 
 Have him equipp'd and arm'd — well 
 
 mounted — ready 
 This night to part for Italy. 
 
 Richelieu. Aha ! — 
 Has Bouillon too turn'd traitor? — 
 
 So methought ! 
 What part of Italy? 
 
 Marion. The Piedmont frontier, 
 Where Bouillon lies encamp'd. 
 
 Richelieu. Now there is danger ! 
 Great danger! If he tamper with the 
 
 Spaniard, 
 And Louis list not to my council, as. 
 Without sure proof he will not, France 
 
 is lost. 
 What more ? 
 Marion. Dark hints of some design 
 to seize 
 Your person in your palace. Nothing' 
 clear — 
 
 His Highness trembled wMle he spoke 
 
 — the words 
 Did choke each other. 
 
 Richelieu. So ! — Who is the 
 brother 
 You recommended to the Duke? 
 Marion. Whoever 
 Your Eminence may father ! 
 Richelieu. Darling Marion ! 
 
 [Goes to the table, arid returns with 
 a large hag 0/ gold] 
 There — pshaw — a trifle ! What an 
 
 eye you have ! 
 And what a smile, child ! — ■ [Kisses her] 
 
 — Ah ! you fair perdition — 
 'Tis well I'm old ! 
 
 Marion [aside and seriously]. What 
 
 a great man he is ! 
 Richelieu. You are sure they meet ? 
 
 — the hour? 
 Marion. At midnight. 
 Richelieu. And 
 
 You will engage to give the Duke's 
 
 despatch 
 To whom I send? 
 
 Marion. Aye, marry ! 
 
 Richelieu [aside]. Huguet? No; 
 He wiU be wanted elsewhere. Joseph? 
 
 — zealous. 
 
 But too well known — too much the 
 elder brother I 
 
 Mauprat? — alas, it is his wedding-day ! 
 
 Francois ? — the Man of Men ! — un- 
 noted — young. 
 
 Ambitious — [Goes to the door] Franjois ! 
 
 [Enter Francois] 
 FoUow this fair lady : 
 (Find him the suiting garments, 
 
 Marion;) take 
 My fleetest steed; arm thyself to the 
 
 teeth ; 
 A packet will be given you, with orders. 
 No matter what! The instant that 
 
 your hand 
 Closes upon it, clutch it, like your 
 
 honour. 
 Which Death alone can steal, or ravish : 
 
 set 
 Spurs to your steed — be breathless, 
 
 till you stand 
 Again before me. Stay, Sir ! — You 
 
 wiU find me 
 Two short leagues hence — at Ruelle, 
 
 in my castle. 
 Young man, be blithe! for — note me 
 
 — from the hour 
 
 I grasp that packet, think your gniar- 
 
 dian star 
 Rains fortune on you ! 
 Francois. If I fail — 
 
no 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 RiCHELiBTj. Fail — fail ? 
 In the lexicon of youth, which Fate 
 
 reserves 
 For a bright manhood, there is no such 
 
 word 
 As — fail ! — (You wiU instruct him 
 
 further, Marion) 
 Follow her — but at distance ; — speak 
 
 not to her, 
 Till you are housed — Farewell, boy ! 
 
 Never say 
 "Fail" again. 
 
 Francois. I will not ! 
 Richelieu [■patting his locks]. There's 
 my young hero ! — 
 
 [Exeunt FRAN501S and Marion] 
 So they would seize my person in this 
 palace ? 
 I cannot guess their scheme : — but my 
 
 retinue 
 Is here too large ! A single traitor could 
 Strike impotent the faith of thousands ; 
 
 — Joseph, 
 Art sure of Huguet ? — Think — we 
 hang'd his father? 
 Joseph. But you have bought the 
 
 son ; — heap'd favours on him ! 
 Richelieu. Trash ! — favours past — 
 that's nothing ; in his hours 
 Of confidence with you, has he named 
 
 the favours 
 To come he counts on? 
 
 Joseph. Yes : — a Colonel's rank, 
 And Letters of Nobility. 
 
 Richelieu. What, Huguet ! — 
 
 [Here Huguet enters, as to ad- 
 dress the Cardinal, who does 
 not perceive him] 
 Huguet. My own name, soft — 
 [Glides behind the screen] 
 Richelieu. Colonel and Nobleman ! 
 My bashful Huguet — that can never 
 
 be! — 
 We have him not the less — we'll 
 
 promise it ! 
 And see the King withholds! — Ah, 
 
 Kings are oft 
 A great convenience to a minister ! 
 No wrong to Huguet either ! — Mor- 
 alists 
 Say, Hope is sweeter than Possession! 
 
 Yes — 
 We'll count on Huguet ! Favours past 
 
 do gorge 
 Our dogs ; leave service drowsy — dull 
 
 the scent. 
 Slacken the speed ; — favours to come, 
 
 my Joseph, 
 Produce a lusty, hungry gratitude, 
 A ravenous zeal, that of the commonest 
 
 Would make a Cerberus. — You are 
 
 right, this treason 
 Assumes a fearful aspect ; — but onoe 
 
 crush'd. 
 Its very ashes shaE manure the soil 
 Of power : and ripen such full sheaves of 
 
 greatness. 
 That all the summer of my fate shall 
 
 seem 
 Fruitless beside the autumn ! 
 
 [Huguet holds up his hand 
 menacingly, and cree'ps out] 
 Joseph. The saints grant it ! 
 Richelieu [solemnly]. Yes — for 
 
 sweet France, Heaven grant it! 
 
 — O my country. 
 For thee — thee only — though men 
 
 deem it not — 
 Are toil and terror my familiars ! — I 
 Have made thee great and fair — upon 
 
 thy brows 
 Wreath' d the old Roman laurel ; — at 
 
 thy feet 
 Bow'd nations down. — No pulse in 
 
 my ambition 
 Whose beatings were not measured 
 
 from thy heart ! 
 "In the old times before us, patriots 
 
 lived 
 "And died for liberty — 
 
 "Joseph. As you would Jive 
 "And die for despotry — 
 
 "Richelieu. False monk, not so, 
 "But for the purple and the power 
 
 wherein 
 ' ' State clothes herself. — I love my native 
 
 land 
 "Not as Venetian, Bnglisher; or Swiss, 
 "But as a Noble and a Priest of France; 
 "'All things for France' — lo, my 
 
 eternal maxim ! 
 "The vital axle of the restless wheels 
 "That bear me on! With her, I have 
 
 entwined 
 "My passions and my fate — my crimes, 
 
 my virtues — 
 "Hated and loved, and schemed, and 
 
 shed men's blood, 
 "As the calm crafts of Tuscan agea 
 
 teach 
 "Those who would make their coimtry 
 
 great. Beyond 
 "The map of France, my heart can 
 
 travel not, 
 "But flUs that limit to its farthest verge; 
 "And while I live — Richelieu and 
 
 France are one." 
 We Priests, to whom the Church for- 
 bids in youth 
 'The plighted one — to manhood's toil 
 
 denies 
 
Richelieu 
 
 111 
 
 The soother helpmate — from our 
 
 wither' d age 
 Shuts the sweet blossoms of the second 
 
 spring 
 That smiles in the name of Father — 
 
 We are yet 
 Not holier than Humanity and must 
 Fulfil Humanity's condition — Love ! 
 Debarr'd the Actual, we but breathe a 
 
 life 
 To the chill Marble of the Ideal — 
 
 Thus, 
 In thy unseen and abstract Majesty, 
 My France — my Country, I have 
 
 bodied forth 
 A thing to love. What are these robes 
 
 of state, 
 This pomp, this palace? perishable 
 
 baubles ! 
 In this world two things only are im- 
 mortal : 
 Fame and a People ! 
 
 [Enter HtTGtrET] 
 
 HuGTTET. My Lord Cardinal, 
 Your Eminence bade me seek you at 
 this hour. 
 RiCHBLiEtr- Did I ? — True, Huguet. 
 — So — you overheard 
 Strange talk amongst these gallants? 
 
 Snares and traps 
 For RioheUeu ? — WeU — we'll balk 
 
 them ; let me think, — 
 The men-at-arms you head — how 
 many? 
 HuGTjET. Twenty, 
 My Lord. 
 
 RiCHELiETT. All trusty? 
 HtTGUET. Yes, for ordinary 
 Occasions — if for great ones, I would 
 
 change 
 Three-fourths at least I 
 Richelieu. Ay, what are great 
 
 occasions ? 
 Huguet. Great bribes ! 
 Richelieu. [To Joseph] Good lack, 
 he knows some paragons 
 Superior to great bribes ! 
 
 Huguet. True Gentlemen 
 Who have transgress' d the Laws — and 
 
 value Uf e 
 And lack not gold; your Eminence 
 
 alone 
 Can grant them pardon. Ergo you can 
 trust them ! 
 Richelieu. Logic ! — So be it — 
 let this honest twenty 
 Be arm'd and mounted. — [Aside] So 
 
 they meet at midnight, 
 The attempt on me to-morrow. Ho ! 
 we'U strike 
 
 'Twixt wind and water. — [Aloud] Does 
 
 it need much time 
 To find these ornaments to Human 
 
 Nature ? 
 Huguet. My Lord — the trustiest 
 
 of them are not birds 
 That love the daylight. — I do know a 
 
 haunt 
 Where they meet nightly. 
 
 Richelieu. Ere the dawn be grey, 
 All could be arm'd, assembled, and at 
 
 Ruelle 
 In my own hall ? 
 
 Huguet. By one hour after mid- 
 night. 
 Richelieu. The castle's strong. 
 
 You know its outlets, Huguet? 
 Would twenty men, well posted, keep 
 
 such guard 
 That no one step (and Murther's step 
 
 is stealthy) 
 Could gUde within — unseen? 
 
 Huguet. A triple wall, 
 A drawbridge and portcullis — twenty 
 
 men — 
 Under my lead, a month might hold 
 
 that castle 
 Against a host. 
 
 Richelieu. They do not strike till 
 
 morning. 
 Yet I wiU shift the quarter — Bid the 
 
 grooms 
 Prepare the litter — I wiU to Ruelle 
 While daylight last — and one hour 
 
 after midnight 
 You and your twenty saints shall seek 
 
 me thither ! 
 You're made to rise ! — You are. Sir — 
 
 Byes of lynx. 
 Ears of the stag, a footfall like the snow ; 
 You are a valiant fellow ; — yea, a 
 
 _ trusty. 
 Religious, exemplary, incorrupt. 
 And precious jewel of a fellow, Huguet ! 
 If I live long enough — ay, mark my 
 
 words — 
 If I live long enough, you'U be a 
 
 Colonel, — 
 Noble, perhaps ! — One hour, Sir, after 
 
 midnight. 
 Huguet. You leave me dumb with 
 
 gratitude, my lord ; 
 I'U pick the trustiest [aside] Marion's 
 
 house can furnish ! [Exit Huguet] 
 Richelieu. How like a spider shall 
 
 I sit in my hole. 
 And watch the meshes tremble. 
 
 Joseph. But, my Lord, 
 Were it not wiser stiU to man the palace, 
 And seize the traitors in the act? 
 Richelieu. No; Louis, 
 
112 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Long chafed against me — Julie stolen 
 
 from him. 
 Will rouse Mm more. — ■ He'U say I 
 
 hatoh'd the treason, 
 Or scout my charge — He half desires 
 
 my death : 
 But the despatch to BouiUon, some dark 
 
 scheme 
 Against his crown — there is our 
 
 weapon, Joseph! 
 With that aU safe — without it, all is 
 
 peril ! 
 Meanwhile to my old castle ; you to 
 
 Court, 
 Diving with careless eyes into men's 
 
 hearts — 
 As ghostly churchmen should do ! See 
 
 the King, 
 Bid him pursue that sage and holy 
 
 treatise. 
 Wherein 'tis set forth how a Premier 
 
 should 
 Be chosen from the Priesthood — how 
 
 the Bang 
 Should never Usten to a single charge 
 Against his servant, nor conceal one 
 
 whisper 
 That the rank envies of a Court distill 
 Into his ear — to fester the fair name 
 Of my — I mean Ms Minister ! — • Oh ! 
 
 Joseph, 
 A most convincing treatise. 
 Good ! all favours, 
 If Frangois be but bold, and Huguet 
 
 honest. — 
 Huguet — I half suspect — he bow'd 
 
 too low — 
 'Tis not Ms way. 
 
 Joseph. TMs is the curse, my Lord, 
 Of your Mgh state ; — suspicion of all 
 
 men. 
 Richelieu [sadly]. True ; — true ; — 
 
 my leeches bribed to poisoners ; — 
 
 pages 
 To strangle me in sleep. — My very 
 
 King 
 (TMs brain the unresting loom, from 
 
 wMch was woven 
 The purple of Ms greatness) leagued 
 
 against me. 
 Old — cMldless — friendless — broken 
 
 — all forsake — 
 All — all — but — 
 Joseph. What? 
 
 Richelieu. The indomitable heart 
 Of Armand Richelieu ! 
 Joseph. Nought beside? 
 RiCHELiEtr. Why, JuUe, 
 My own foster-child, forgive me ! — yes ; 
 This mormng, sMmng through their 
 
 happy tears, 
 
 Thy soft eyes bless 'd mel and thy 
 
 Lord, — in danger 
 He would forsake me not. 
 Joseph. And Joseph — 
 Richelieu [after a pause]. You — 
 Yes, I believe you — yes — for all 
 
 men fear you — 
 And the world loves you not. — And I, 
 
 friend Joseph, 
 I am the only man who could, my 
 
 Joseph, 
 Make you a Bishop — Come, we'U go 
 
 to dinner. 
 And talk the wMle of methods to ad- 
 vance 
 Our Mother Church — Ah, Joseph — 
 
 Bishop Joseph! [Exeunt] 
 
 END OF ACT II 
 
 ACT III 
 Seconb Day (Midmght) 
 
 Scene First. — Richelieu's Castle at 
 Ruelle. — A Gothic chamber. — • 
 Moonlight at the window, occasion- 
 ally obscured. 
 
 Richelieu [reading], "In silence, 
 and at mght, the Conscience feels 
 
 That life should soar to nobler ends 
 than Power." 
 
 So sayest thou, sage and sober moraUst ! 
 
 But wert thou tried? Sublime Phi- 
 losophy, 
 
 Thou art the Patriarch's ladder, reach- 
 ing heaven. 
 
 And bright with beek'ning angels — 
 but, alas ! 
 
 We see thee, like the Patriarch, but in 
 dreams, 
 
 By the first step — dull-slumbering on 
 the earth. 
 
 I am not happy ! — with the Titan's 
 lust, 
 
 I woo'd a goddess, and I clasp a cloud. 
 
 When I am dust, my name shall, like 
 a star, 
 
 SMne tMough wan space, a glory — 
 and a prophet 
 
 Whereby pale seers shall from their 
 aery towers 
 
 Con all the ominous signs, bemgn or 
 evil. 
 
 That make the potent astrologue of 
 kings. 
 
 But shall the Future judge me by the 
 ends 
 
 That I have wrought — or by the 
 dubious means 
 
Richelieu 
 
 113 
 
 Through which the stream of my re- 
 nown hath run 
 
 Into the many-voiced unfathomed 
 Time? 
 
 Foul in its bed lie weeds — and heaps 
 of slime, 
 
 And with its waves — when sparkling 
 in the sun, 
 
 Oft times the secret rivulets that swell 
 
 Its might of waters — blend the hues 
 of blood. 
 
 Yet are my sins not those of Circttm- 
 
 STANCE, 
 
 That aU-pervading atmosphere wherein 
 Our spirits like the unsteady lizard, 
 
 take 
 The tints that colour, and the food that 
 
 nurtures ? 
 Oh! ye, whose hour-glass shifts its 
 
 tranquil sands 
 In the unvex'd sUenee of a student's 
 
 cell; 
 Ye, whose untempted hearts have never 
 
 toss'd 
 Upon the dark and stormy tides where 
 
 life 
 Gives battle to the elements, — and 
 
 man 
 Wrestles with man for some slight 
 
 plank, whose weight 
 Will bear but one — while round the 
 
 desperate wretch 
 The hungry billows roar — and the 
 
 fierce Fate, 
 Like some huge monster, dim-seen 
 
 through the surf. 
 Waits him who drops ; — ye safe and 
 
 fojmal men, 
 Who write the deeds, and with un- 
 
 feverish hand 
 Weigh in nice scales the motives of the 
 
 Great, 
 Ye cannot know wbat ye have never 
 
 tried ! 
 History preserves only the fleshless 
 
 bones 
 Of what we are — and by the mocking 
 
 skull 
 The would-be wise pretend to guess the 
 
 features ! 
 Without the roundness and the glow 
 
 of life 
 How hideous is the skeleton ! Without 
 The colourings and humanities that 
 
 clothe 
 Our errors, the anatomists of schools 
 Can make our memory hideous ! 
 
 I have wrought 
 Great uses out of evil tools — and they 
 In the time to come may bask beneath 
 
 the light 
 
 Which I have stolen from the angry 
 
 gods. 
 And warn their sons against the glorious 
 
 theft. 
 Forgetful of the darkness which it broke. 
 I have shed blood — but I have had no 
 
 foes 
 Save those the State had — if my wrath 
 
 was deadly, 
 'Tis that I felt my country in my 
 
 veins. 
 And smote her sons as Brutus smote his 
 
 own. 
 And yet I am not happy — blanch'd 
 
 and sear'd 
 Before my time — breathing an air of 
 
 hate. 
 And seeing daggers in the eyes of men. 
 And wasting powers that shake the 
 
 thrones of earth 
 In contest with the insects — bearding 
 
 kings 
 And braved by laokies — murder at 
 
 my bed ; 
 And lone amidst the multitudinous 
 
 web, 
 With the dread Three — that are the 
 
 fates who hold 
 The woof and shears — the Monk, the 
 
 Spy, the Headsman. 
 And this is Power ! Alas ! I am not 
 
 happy. [After a pause] 
 
 And yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds 
 Its rising roots not up : but never yet 
 Did one least barrier by a ripple vex 
 My onward tide, unswept in sport 
 
 away. 
 Am I so ruthless then that I do hate 
 Them who hate me ? Tush, tush ! I 
 
 do not hate ; 
 Nay, I forgive. The Statesman writes 
 
 the doom. 
 But the_ Priest sends the blessing. I 
 
 forgive them. 
 But I destroy ; forgiveness is my own, 
 Destruction is the State's ! For private 
 
 life. 
 Scripture the guide — ■ for public, 
 
 Machiavel. 
 Would Fortune serve me if the Heaven 
 
 were wroth? 
 For chance makes half my greatness. 
 
 I was born 
 Beneath the aspect of a bright-eyed 
 
 star. 
 And my triumphant adamant of soul 
 Is but the fix'd persuasion of success. 
 Ah ! — here ! — that spasm ! — Again ! 
 
 How Life and Death 
 Do wrestle for me momently! And 
 
 yet 
 
114 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The King looks pale. I shall outlive 
 
 the King ! 
 And then, thou insolent Austrian — 
 
 who didst gibe 
 At the ungainly, gaunt, and daring 
 
 lover. 
 Sleeking thy looks to silken Bucking- 
 ham, — 
 Thou shalt — no matter ! I have out- 
 lived love. 
 ! beautiful — all golden — gentle 
 
 Youth ! 
 Making thy palace in the careless front 
 And hopeful eye of man — ere yet the 
 
 soul 
 Hath lost the memories which (so 
 
 Plato dream'd) 
 Breath'd glory from the earlier star it 
 
 dwelt in — ■ 
 O ! for one gale from thine exulting 
 
 morning, 
 Stirring amidst the roses, where of old 
 Love shook the dew-drops from his 
 
 glancing hair ! 
 Could I recall the past — or had not set 
 The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt 
 
 soul 
 In one slight bark upon the shoreless 
 
 sea; 
 The yoked steer, after his day of toil, 
 Forgets the goad and rests — to me 
 
 ahke 
 Or day or night — Ambition has no rest ! 
 Shall I resign — who can resign himself ? 
 For custom is ourself ; — as drink and 
 
 food 
 Become our bone and flesh — the ah- 
 
 ments 
 Nurturing our nobler part, the mind — 
 
 thoughts, dreams. 
 Passions, and aims, in the revolving 
 
 cycle 
 Of the great alchemy — at length are 
 
 made 
 Our mind itself; and yet the sweets of 
 
 leisure — 
 An honour'd home — far from these 
 
 base intrigues — 
 An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights 
 
 of wisdom. 
 
 [Taking up the book] 
 Speak to me, moralist! I will heed 
 
 thy counsel. 
 Were it not best — 
 
 [Enter Francois, hastily and in part 
 disguised] 
 
 [flinging away the book] 
 Philosophy, thou Uest ! 
 Quick — the despatch! — Power — 
 Empire ! Boy — the packet ! 
 
 Francois. Kill me, my Lord. 
 RicHELiEir. They knew thee — they 
 suspected — 
 They gave it not — 
 FRANf ois. He gave it — he — the 
 Count 
 De Baradas — with his own hand he 
 gave it ! 
 RicHELiEtr. Baradas ! Joy ! out 
 
 with it ! 
 FRANgois. Listen, 
 And then dismiss me to the headsman. 
 
 Richelieu. Ha ! 
 Go on. 
 Francois. They led me to a ieham- 
 ber — There 
 Orleans and Baradas — and some half- 
 score 
 Whom I knew not — were met — 
 Richelieu. Not more ! 
 FRAN901S. But from 
 The adjoining chamber broke the din 
 
 of voices. 
 The clattering tread of armed men; — 
 
 at times 
 A shriller cry, that yeU'd out, "Death 
 to RicheUeu!" 
 Richelieu. Speak not of me: thy 
 country is in danger ! 
 The adjoining room. — So, so — a 
 
 separate treason ! 
 The one thy ruin, France ! — the 
 
 meaner crime, 
 Left to their tools, my murder ! 
 
 Francois. Baradas 
 Questioned me close — demurr'd — un- 
 til, at last, 
 O'erruled by Orleans, — gave the packet 
 
 — told me 
 That life and death were in the scroll — 
 this gold — 
 Richelieu. Gold is no proof — 
 Francois. And Orleans promised 
 thousands, 
 When Bouillon's trumpets in the streets 
 
 of. Paris 
 Rang out shrill answer ; hastening from 
 
 the house. 
 My footstep in the stirrup, Marion 
 
 stole 
 Across the threshhold, whispering "Lose 
 
 no moment 
 Ere Richelieu have the packet: tell 
 
 him too — 
 Murder is in the winds of Night; and 
 
 Orleans 
 Swears, ere the dawn the Cardinal shall 
 
 be clay." 
 She said, and trembling fl«d within; 
 
 when, lo ! 
 A hand of iron griped me ; thro' the dark 
 
Richelieu 
 
 115 
 
 Gleam' d the dim shadow of an armed 
 
 man : 
 Ere I could draw — the prize was 
 
 wrested from me, 
 And a hoarse voice gasp'd — "Spy, I 
 
 spare thee, for 
 This steel is virgin to thy Lord!" — 
 
 with that 
 He vanish'd. — Scared and trembling 
 
 for thy safety, 
 I mounted, fled, and, kneeling at thy feet, 
 Implore thee to acquit my faith — but 
 
 not. 
 Like him, to spare my life. 
 
 Richelieu. Who spake of life f 
 I bade thee grasp that treasure as thine 
 
 honour — 
 A jewel worth whole hecatombs of lives ! 
 Begone — redeem thine honour — back 
 
 to Marion — 
 Or Baradas or Orleans — track the 
 
 robber — 
 Regain the packet — or crawl on to 
 
 Age — 
 Age and grey hairs hke mine — and 
 
 know, thou hast lost 
 That which had made thee great and 
 
 saved thjr country. 
 See me not till thou'st bought the right 
 
 to seek me. 
 Away ! — Nay, cheer thee — thou hast 
 
 not fail'd yet — 
 There's no such word as "fail !" 
 
 Francois. Bless you, my Lord, 
 For that one smile ! I'U wear it on my 
 
 heart 
 To hght me back to triumph. [Exit] 
 
 Richelieu. The poor youth ! 
 An elder had ask'd life! I love the 
 
 young ! 
 For as great men live not in their own 
 
 time 
 But the next race, — so in the young, 
 
 my soul 
 Makes many RioheUeus. He will win 
 
 it yet. 
 Frangois! He's gone. My murder! 
 
 Marion's warning ! 
 This bravo's threat! for the mor- 
 row's dawn ! — 
 I'U set my spies to work — I'U make aU 
 
 space 
 (As does the sun) an Universal Eye — 
 Huguet shaU track — Joseph confess — 
 
 ha! ha! 
 Strange, while I laugh'd I shudder'd, 
 
 and ev'n now 
 Thro' the chiU air the beating of my 
 
 heart 
 Sounds like a death-watch by a sick 
 
 man's piUow ; 
 
 If Huguet could deceive me — hoofs 
 
 without — 
 The gates unclose — steps near and 
 
 nearer ! 
 
 [Enter Julie] 
 Julie. Cardinal I 
 My father ! [FalU at his feet] 
 
 Richelieu. JuUe at this hour ! — 
 
 and tears ! 
 What aUs thee? 
 
 Julie. I am safe ; I am with thee ! — 
 Richelieu. Safe ! why in all the 
 
 storms of this wild world 
 What wind would mar the violet? 
 
 Julie. That man — ■ 
 Why did I love him? — cUnging to a 
 
 breast 
 That knows no shelter? 
 
 Listen — late at noon — 
 The marriage-day — ev'n then no more 
 
 a lover — 
 He left me coldly, — weU, — I sought 
 
 my chamber 
 To weep and wonder — but to hope 
 
 and dream. 
 Sudden a mandate from the King — to 
 
 attend 
 Forthwith his pleasure at the Louvre. 
 
 Richelieu. Ha ! — 
 You did obey the summons ; and the 
 
 King 
 Reproaeh'd your hasty nuptials. — 
 
 Julie. Were that aU ! 
 He frown'd and chid ; — proclaim'd the 
 
 bond unlawful : 
 Bade me not quit my chamber in the 
 
 palace. 
 And there at night — alone — this 
 
 night — aU stUl — 
 He sought my presence — dared — thou 
 
 read'st the heart, 
 Read mine ! — I cannot speak it ! 
 
 Richelieu. He a king, — 
 You — ■ woman ; weU, you yielded ! 
 
 Julie. Cardinal — 
 Dare you say "yielded"? — Humbled 
 
 and abash'd. 
 He from the chamber crept — this 
 
 mighty Louis ; 
 Crept like a baffled felon ! — jdelded ! 
 
 Ah! 
 More royalty in woman's honest heart 
 Than dwells within the crownSd majesty 
 And sceptred anger of a hundred kings ! 
 Yielded ! — Heavens ! — sdelded ! 
 Richelieu. To my breast, — close 
 
 — close ! 
 The world would never need a RicheUeu, 
 
 if 
 Men — bearded, mailed men — the 
 
 Lords of Earth — 
 
116 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Resisted flattery, falsehood, avarice, 
 
 pride, 
 As this poor child with the dove's ih- 
 
 nocent soorn 
 Her sex's tempters, Vanity and 
 
 Power ! — 
 He left you — well ! 
 
 Julie. Then came a sharper trial ! 
 At the King's suit the Count de Baradas 
 Sought me to soothe, to fawn, to 
 
 flatter, while 
 On his smooth lip insult appear' d more 
 
 hateful 
 For the false mask of pity : letting fall 
 Dark hints of treachery, with a world 
 
 of sighs 
 That heaven had granted to so base a 
 
 Lord 
 The heart whose coldest friendship 
 
 were to him 
 What Mexico to misers ! Stung at last 
 By my disdain, the dim and glimmer- 
 ing sense 
 Of his cloak'd words broke into bolder 
 
 light. 
 And Then — ah, then, my haughty 
 
 spirit faU'd me ! 
 Then I was weak — wept — oh ! such 
 
 bitter tears ! 
 For (turn thy face aside, and let me 
 
 whisper 
 The horror to thine ear) then did I 
 
 learn 
 That he — that Adrien — that my 
 
 husband — knew 
 The King's polluting suit, and deemed 
 
 it honour ! 
 Then all the terrible and loathsome 
 
 truth 
 Glared on me ; — coldness — wayTvard- 
 
 ness — reserve — 
 Mystery of looks — ■ words — all un- 
 
 raveU'd, — and 
 I saw the impostor, where I had loved 
 
 the God ! — 
 Richelieu. I think thou wrong'st 
 
 thy husband — but proceed. 
 Julie. Did you say " wrong' d" 
 
 him? — Cardinal, my father. 
 Did you say "wrong'd"? Prove it, 
 
 and life shall grow 
 One prayer for thy reward and his for- 
 giveness. 
 Richelieu. Let me know all. 
 Julie. To the despair he caused 
 The courtier left me; but amid the 
 
 chaos 
 Darted one guiding ray — to 'scape — 
 
 to fly — 
 Reach Adrien, learn the worst — 'twas 
 
 then near midnight ; 
 
 Trembling I left my chamber — sought 
 
 the Queen — 
 Fell at her feet — reveal'd the unholy 
 
 peril — 
 Implored her to aid to flee our joint 
 
 disgrace. 
 Moved, she embraced and soothed me; 
 
 nay, preserved ; 
 Her word sufflced to unlock the palace- 
 
 gates : 
 I hasten'd home — but home was deso- 
 late, — 
 No Adrien there ! Fearing the worst, 
 
 I fled 
 To thee, directed hither. As my wheels 
 Paused at thy gates — the clang of , 
 
 arms behind — 
 The ring of hoofs — 
 RicHELiEtr. 'Twas but my guards, 
 
 fair trembler. 
 (So Huguet keeps his word, my omens 
 
 wrong'd him.) 
 Julie. Oh, in one hour what years 
 
 of anguish crowd ! 
 Richelieu. Nay, there's no danger 
 
 now. Thou need'st rest. 
 Come thou shalt lodge beside me. 
 
 Tush ! be cheer'd. 
 My rosiest Amazon — thou wrong'st 
 
 thy Theseus. 
 All will be well — yes, yet all well. 
 
 [Exeunt through a side door] 
 
 Scene Second. — The moonlight ob- 
 scured at the casement. 
 
 [Enter Huguet. De Mauprat, in com- 
 plete armour, his vizor down] 
 
 Huguet. Not here ! 
 
 De Mauehat. Oh, I will find Mm, 
 
 fear not. Hence, and guard 
 The galleries where the menials sleep — 
 
 plant sentries 
 At every outlet. Chance should throw 
 
 no shadow 
 Between the vengeance and the victim ! 
 
 Go! 
 Ere yon brief vapour that obscures the 
 
 moon. 
 As doth our deed pale conscience, pass 
 
 away, 
 The mighty shall be ashes. 
 Huguet. WiU you not 
 A second arm? 
 
 De Mauprat. To slay one weak 
 
 old man? 
 Away ! No lesser wrongs than mine 
 
 can make 
 This murder lawful. — ■ Hence ! 
 
Richelieu 
 
 117 
 
 HuGUBT. A short farewell ! [Exit] 
 
 [Re-enter Richelieu, not perceiving Db 
 Maupkat] 
 
 Richelieu. How heavy is the air! 
 
 the vestal lamp 
 Of the sad moon, weary with vigil, dies 
 In. the stiU temple of the solemn heaven ! 
 The very darkness lends itself to fear — 
 To treason — ■ 
 De Mauprat. And to death ! 
 Richelieu. My omens lied not ! 
 What art thou, wretch? 
 De Maupkat. Thy doomsman ! 
 Richelieu. Ho, my guards ! 
 Huguet ! Montbrassil ! Vermont ! 
 
 De Maupkat. Ay, thy spirits 
 Forsake thee, wizard; thy bold men 
 
 of mail 
 Are my confederates. Stir not ! but one 
 
 step. 
 And know the next — thy grave ! 
 Richelieu. Thou liest, knave ! 
 I am old, infirm — most feeble — but 
 
 thou liest ! 
 Armand de Richelieu dies not by the 
 
 hand 
 or man — • the stars have said it — and 
 
 the voice 
 Of my own prophet and oracular soul 
 Confirms the shining Sibyls ! Call them 
 
 all — 
 Thy brother butchers! Earth has no 
 
 such fiend — 
 No ! as one parricide of his father-land, 
 Who dares in Richelieu murder France ! 
 
 De Maupkat. Thy stars 
 Deceive thee. Cardinal; thy soul of 
 
 wiles 
 May against kings and armaments avail, 
 And mock the embattled world; but 
 
 powerless now 
 Against the sword of one resolved man. 
 Upon whose forehead thou hast written 
 
 shame ! 
 Richelieu. I breathe; — he is not 
 
 a hireling. Have I wronged thee? 
 Beware surmise -^ suspicion — lies ! 
 
 I am 
 Too great for men to speak the truth 
 
 of me! 
 Db Maupkat. Thy acts are thy 
 
 accusers, Cardinal. 
 In his hot youth, a soldier, urged to 
 
 crime 
 Against the State, placed in your hands 
 
 his life ; — 
 You did not strike the blow, — but, 
 
 o'er his head, 
 Upon the gossamer thread of your 
 
 caprice, 
 
 Hovered the axe. — His the brave 
 
 spirit's heU, 
 The twilight terror of suspense ; — 
 
 your death 
 Had set him free. — He ptrrposed not, 
 
 nor prayed it. 
 One day you summoned — mocked 
 
 him with smooth pardon — 
 Showered wealth upon him — bade an 
 
 Angel's face 
 Ttirn earth to paradise — 
 Richelieu. Well ! 
 De Maupkat. Was this mercy ? 
 A Cffisar's generous vengeance? — Car- 
 dinal, no ! 
 Judas, not Csesar, was the model ! You 
 Saved him from death for shame; re- 
 served to grow 
 The scorn of hving men — to his dead 
 
 sires 
 Leprous reproach — scoff of the age to 
 
 come — 
 A kind convenience — a Sir Pandams 
 To his own bride, and the august 
 
 adulterer ! 
 Then did the first great law of human 
 
 hearts, 
 Which with the patriot's, not the rebel's 
 
 name 
 Crowned the first Brutus, when the 
 
 Tarquin fell. 
 Make Misery royal — raise this des- 
 perate wretch 
 Into thy destiny! Expect no mercy! 
 Behold De Mauprat ! [Lifts his visor] 
 Richelieu. To thy knees, and crawl 
 For pardon; or, I tell thee, thou shalt 
 
 live 
 For such remorse, that, did I hate thee, I 
 Would bid thee strike, that I might be 
 
 avenged ! 
 It was to save my Julie from the King, 
 That in thy valour I forgave thy 
 
 crime ; — 
 It was, when thou — the rash and 
 
 ready tool — 
 Yea of that shame thou loath'st — 
 
 did'st leave thy hearth 
 To the polluter — in these arms thy bride 
 Found the protecting shelter thine 
 
 withheld. [Goes to the side door] 
 
 Julip de Mauprat — Julie ! 
 
 [Enter Julie] 
 
 Lo, my witness ! 
 
 De Maupkat. What marvel's this? 
 I dream. My Julie — thou ! 
 This, thy belovSd hand? 
 
 Julie. Henceforth all bond 
 Between us twain is broken. Were it 
 not 
 
118 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 For this old man, I might, in truth, 
 
 have lost 
 The right — now mine — to scorn thee ! 
 RiCHELiBTj. So, you hear her ! 
 De MAtrpRAT. Thou with some 
 
 slander hast her sense infected ! 
 Julie. No, Sir; he did excuse thee 
 
 in despite 
 Of all that wears the face of truth. Thy 
 
 friend — ■ 
 Thy confidant — familiar — Baradas — • 
 HimseU revealed thy baseness. 
 Db Maitpeat. Baseness ! 
 Richelieu. Ay ; 
 That thou didst court dishonour. 
 
 De Maupbat. Baradas ! 
 Where is thy thunder. Heaven? — • 
 
 Duped ! — snared ! — undone ! 
 Thou — thou could 'st not believe him ! 
 
 Thou dost love me ! 
 Love cannot feed on falsehood ! 
 
 Julie [aside]. Love him ! Ah ! 
 Be stiU, my heart ! Love you I did : — 
 
 how fondly. 
 Woman — if women were my listeners 
 
 now — 
 Alone coidd tell ! — For ever fled my 
 
 dream. 
 Farewell — all's over ! 
 
 Richelieu. Nay, my daughter, these 
 Are but the blinding mists of day-break 
 
 love 
 Sprung from its very Ught, and heralding 
 A noon of happy summer. — Take her 
 
 hand 
 And speak the truth, with which your 
 
 heart runs over — 
 That this Count Judas — this In- 
 carnate Falsehood — 
 Never lied more, than when he told 
 
 thy Julie 
 That Adrien loved her not — except, 
 
 indeed. 
 When he told Adrien, Julie could betray 
 
 him. 
 Julie [emhradng De Mauprat]. You 
 
 love me, then ! you love me ! — 
 
 and they wrong'd you ! 
 De Mauprat. Ah, could'st thou 
 
 doubt it ? 
 Richelieu. Why, the very mole 
 Less blind than thou ! Baradas loves 
 
 thy wife ; — 
 Had hoped her hand — aspired- to be 
 
 that cloak 
 To the King's wiU, which to thy blunt- 
 
 ness seems 
 The Centaur's poisonous robe — hopes 
 
 even now 
 To make thy corpse his footstool to 
 
 thy bed 1 
 
 Where was thy wit, man? Ho, these 
 
 schemes are glass ! 
 The very sun shines through them. 
 
 De Mauprat. O, my Lord, 
 Can you forgive me ? 
 
 Richelieu. Ay, and save you ! 
 De Mauprat Save ! — • 
 Terrible word ! — ■ O, save thyself ; these 
 
 halls 
 Swarm with thy foes ; already for thy 
 
 blood 
 Pants thirsty murder ! 
 Julie. Murder ! 
 Richelieu. Hush ! put by 
 The woman. Hush { a shriek — a cry — 
 
 — a breath 
 Too loud, would startle from its horrent 
 
 pause 
 The swooping Death ! Go to the door, 
 
 and listen ! 
 Now for escape ! 
 
 Db Maupbat. None, — none! 
 Their blades shall pass 
 This heart to thine. 
 
 Richelieu [drily}. An honourable 
 outwork, 
 But much too near the citadel. I think 
 That I can trust you now [slowly, and 
 
 gazing on him] — yes ; 
 I can trust you. 
 
 How many of my troop league with 
 ' you? 
 De Mauprat. All ! — 
 We are your troop ! 
 
 Richelieu. And Huguet ? — • 
 De Mauprat. Is our captain. 
 Richelieu. A retributive Power! 
 This comes of spies 
 All? then the lion's skin too short to- 
 night, — 
 Now for the fox's ! — 
 
 Julie. A hoarse gathering mur- 
 mur ! — 
 Hurrying and heavy footsteps I — 
 Richelieu. Ha, the posterns? 
 Db Mauprat. No egress where no 
 
 sentry ! 
 Richelieu. Follow me — 
 I have it ! to my chamber — quick ! 
 Come, Julie ! 
 Hush ! Mauprat, come ! 
 
 [Murmur at a distance "Death 
 to the Cardinal! "] 
 
 Bloodhounds, I laugh at ye ! ha ! ha ! 
 we win 
 Baffle them yet ! Ha I ha ! 
 
 [Exeunt Julie, Mauprat, Riche- 
 lieu] 
 Huguet [loithout]. This way — this 
 way! 
 
Richelieu 
 
 119 
 
 Scene Third. — Enter Huquet, and 
 the Conspirators. 
 
 HuGUET. De Mauprat's hand is 
 never slow in battle ; — 
 Strange, if it falter now ! Ha ! gone ! 
 
 First Conspirator. Perchance 
 The fox had crept to rest I and to his 
 
 lair 
 Death, the dark hunter, tracks him. 
 
 [Enter Mattprat, throwing open the 
 doors of the recess, in which a bed, 
 whereon Richelieu lies extended] 
 
 De Maupbat. Live the King ! 
 Richelieu is dead ! 
 HuGtTET [advancing towards the recess; 
 Maitprat following, his hand on 
 his dagger]. Are his eyes open? 
 De Mauprat. Ay. 
 As if in life ! 
 HuQtiET [turning back]. I wiU not 
 look on him. 
 You have been long. i 
 
 De Mauprat. I watched Mm tiU 
 he slept. 
 Heed me. No trace of blood reveals 
 
 the deed ; — 
 Strangled in sleep. His health hath 
 
 long been broken — 
 Found breathless in his bed. So runs 
 
 our tale, 
 Remember ! Back to Paris — Orleans 
 
 gives 
 Ten thousand crowns, and Baradas a 
 
 lordship, 
 To him who first gluts vengeance with 
 
 the news 
 That Richelieu is in Heaven! Quick, 
 
 that all France 
 May share your joy. 
 Huquet. And you ? 
 De Mauprat. WiU stay to crush 
 Eager suspicion — to forbid sharp 
 
 eyes 
 To dwell too closely on the clay; pre- 
 pare 
 The rites, and place him on his bier — 
 
 this my task. 
 I leave to you, Sirs, the more grateful 
 
 lot 
 Of wealth and honours. Hence ! 
 HuGUET. I shall be noble ! 
 De Mauprat. Away ! 
 First Conspirator. Five thousand 
 
 crowns ! 
 Omnes. To horse ! to horse ! 
 
 [Exeunt Conspirators] 
 
 Scene Fourth. — Still night. — A room 
 in the house of Count de Baradas, 
 lighted, &c. 
 
 [Orleans and De Bebinqhen] 
 
 De Bbringhen. I understand. 
 
 Mauprat kept guard without : 
 Knows nought of the despatch — but 
 
 heads the troop 
 Whom the poor Cardinal fancies his 
 
 protectors. 
 Save us from such protection ! 
 
 Orleans. Yet if Huguet, 
 By whose advice and proffers we re- 
 nounced 
 Our earlier scheme, should still be 
 
 Richelieu's minion. 
 And play us false — 
 
 De Bebinqhen. The fox must then 
 
 devour 
 The geese he gripes, I'm out of it, thank 
 
 Heaven ! 
 And you must swear you smelt the 
 
 trick, but seem'd 
 To approve the deed to render up the 
 
 doers. 
 
 \Ente!r Baradas] 
 
 Baradas. Julie is fled — the King, 
 whom now I left 
 To a most thorny piUow, vows revenge 
 On her — on Mauprat — and on Riche- 
 lieu ! Well ; 
 We loyal men anticipate his wish 
 Upon the last — and as for Mauprat — 
 [Showing a writ] 
 De Berinqhen. Hum ! 
 They say the devU invented printing! 
 
 Faith, 
 He has some hand in writing parch- 
 ment — eh, Count ? 
 What mischief now? 
 
 Baradas. The King at Julie's flight 
 Enraged will brook no rival in a sub- 
 ject — 
 So on this old offence — the affair of 
 
 Faviaux — 
 Ere Mauprat can tell tales of us, we 
 
 build 
 His bridge between the dungeon and 
 the grave. 
 Orleans. Well ; if our courier can 
 but reach the army. 
 The cards are ours ! and yet I own, 
 
 I tremble. 
 Our names are in the scroll — discovery, 
 death ! 
 Baradas. Success, a crown ! 
 De Berinqhen [apart to Baradas]. 
 Our future regent is 
 No hero. 
 
120 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Babadas. [To Beringhen] But Ms 
 rank makes others valiant ; 
 
 And on Ms cowardice I mount to power. 
 
 Were Orleans Regent — what were Baia- 
 das? 
 
 Oh ! by the way — I had forgot, your 
 Highness, 
 
 Friend Huguet wMsper'd me, "Beware 
 of Marion : 
 
 I've seen her lurking near the Cardinal's 
 palace." 
 
 Upon that Mnt — I've found her lodg- 
 ings elsewhere. 
 Orleans. You wrong her. Count : — • 
 
 Poor Marion ! she adores me. 
 Baradas [apologetically]. Forgive 
 me, but — 
 
 [Enter Page] 
 
 Page. My Lord, a rude, strange 
 soldier, 
 BreatMess with haste, demands an 
 audience. 
 Baradas. So ! 
 The Archers ! 
 
 Page. In the ante-room, my Lord, 
 As you desired. 
 
 Baradas. 'Tis weU, admit the 
 soldier. [Exit Page] 
 
 Huguet ! I bade Mm seek me here ! 
 
 [Enter HtrauET] 
 
 Huguet. My Lords, 
 The deed is done. Now Count, fulfil 
 
 your word, 
 And make me noble ! 
 
 Baradas. Richelieu dead? — ■ Eirt 
 sure ? 
 How died he? 
 
 Huguet. Strangled ia Ms sleep : — 
 no blood. 
 No tell-tale violence. 
 
 Baradas. Strangled ? monstrous vil- 
 lain ! 
 Reward for murder ! Ho, there ! 
 
 [Stamping] 
 
 [Enter Captain with five Archers] 
 
 Huguet. No, thou durst not ! 
 Baradas. Seize on the ruffian — 
 bind Mm — gag Mm ! OflE 
 To the Bastile ! 
 
 Huguet. Your word — your 
 
 plighted faith ! 
 Baradas. Insolent liar ! — ho, 
 
 away! 
 Huguet. Nay, Count ; 
 I have that about me, which — 
 Baradas. Away with him ! 
 
 [Exeunt Huguet and Archers] 
 
 Now, then, all's safe ; Huguet must die 
 
 in prison, 
 So Mauprat : — coax or force the meaner 
 
 crew 
 To fly the country. Ha, ha! thus, 
 
 your Highness, 
 Great men make use of little men. 
 
 De Beringhen. My Lords, 
 Since our suspense is ended — you'll 
 
 excuse me ; 
 'Tis late, and, entre nous, I have not 
 
 supp'd yet ! 
 I'm one of the new Council now, re- 
 member ; 
 I feel the public stirring here already ; 
 A very craving monster. An revoir ! 
 [Exit De Beringhen] 
 Orleans. No fear, now RicheUeu'a 
 
 dead. 
 Baradas. And could he come 
 To hfe again, he could not keep life's 
 
 life — 
 His power — nor save De Mauprat from 
 
 the scaffold, — 
 Nor Julie from these arms — nor Paris 
 
 from 
 The Spamard — nor your Highness 
 
 from the tMone ! 
 All ours ! all ours ! in spite of my Lord 
 
 Cardinal ! 
 
 [Enter Page] 
 
 Page. A gentleman, my Lord, of 
 better mien 
 Than he who last — 
 
 Baradas. WeU, he may enter. 
 
 [Exit Page] 
 Orleans. Who 
 Can this be? 
 
 Baradas. One of the conspirators: 
 Mauprat Mmself, perhaps. 
 
 [Enter FRANgois] 
 FRANgois. My Lord — 
 Baradas. Ha, traitor! 
 In Paris still? 
 
 Francois. The packet — the de- 
 spatch — 
 Some knave play'd spy without, and 
 
 reft it from me, 
 Ere I could draw my sword. 
 
 Baradas. Play'd spy without ! 
 Did he wear armour? 
 FRANgois. Ay, from head to heel. 
 Orleans. One of our band. Oh, 
 
 heavens ! 
 Baradas. Could it be Mauprat? 
 Kept guard at the door — knew natight 
 
 of the despatch — 
 How He ? — and yet, who other ? 
 Francois. Ha, De Mauprat ! 
 
Richelieu 
 
 121 
 
 The night was dark — his visor closed. 
 
 Baradas. 'Twas he ! 
 How could he guess ? — 'sdeath ! if he 
 
 should betray us. 
 His hate to Richelieu dies with Riche- 
 lieu — and 
 He was not great enough for treason. 
 
 Hence ! 
 Find Mauprat — beg, steal, filch, or 
 
 force it back. 
 Or, as I live, the halter — 
 
 Fkancois. By the morrow 
 I will regain it, [aside] and redeem my 
 
 honour ! [Exit Francois] 
 
 Orleans. Oh ! we are lost — 
 Baradas. Not so ! But cause on 
 
 cause 
 For Mauprat' s seizure — silence — 
 
 death ! Take courage. 
 Orleans. Should it once reach the 
 
 King, the Cardinal's arm 
 Could smite us from, the grave. 
 Baradas. Sir, think it not ! 
 I hold De Mauprat in my grasp. To- 
 morrow 
 And France is ours ! Thou dark and 
 
 fallen Angel, 
 Whose name on earth's Ambition — 
 
 thou that mak'st 
 Thy throne on treasons, stratagems, 
 
 and murder — 
 And with thy fierce and blood-red smile 
 
 canst quench 
 The guiding stars of solemn empire — - 
 
 hear us — 
 (For we are thine) — and light us to 
 
 the goal ! [Exeunt] 
 
 END OP act III 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Third Dat 
 
 Scene First. — The Gardens of the 
 Louvre. 
 
 [Orleans, Baradas, De Beringhen, 
 Courtiers, &c.] 
 
 Orleans. How does my brother 
 
 bear the Cardinal's death? 
 Baradas. With grief, when think- 
 ing of the toils of State ; 
 
 With joy, when thinking on the eyes 
 of Julie : — 
 
 At times he sighs, "Who now shall 
 govern France?" 
 
 Anon exclaims — "Who now shall baffle 
 Louis?" 
 
 [Enter Lotris and other Courtiers. They 
 uncover] 
 Orleans. Now my Liege, now, I 
 
 can embrace a brother. 
 Louis. Dear Gaston, yes. I do be- 
 lieve you love me ; — 
 RicheUeu denied it — sever'd us too 
 
 long. 
 A great man, Gaston ! Who shall 
 
 govern France? 
 Baradas. Yourself, my Liege. That 
 
 swart and potent star 
 EcUpsed your royal orb. He serv'd 
 
 the country, 
 But did he serve, or seek to sway the 
 
 King? 
 Louis. You're right — he was an 
 
 able poUtician, 
 That's all. — Between ourselves. Count, 
 
 I suspect 
 The largeness of his learning — specially 
 In falcons — a poor huntsman, too ! 
 
 Baradas. Ha — ■ ha ! 
 Your Majesty remembers — 
 
 Louis. Ay, the blunder 
 Between the greffier and the souillard 
 
 when — 
 
 [Checks and crosses himself] 
 Alas ! poor sinners that we are ! we 
 
 laugh 
 While this great man — a priest, a 
 
 cardinal, 
 A faithful servant — out upon us ! 
 
 Baradas. Sire, 
 If my brow wear no cloud, 'tis that the 
 
 Cardinal 
 No longer shades the King. 
 
 Louis [looking up at the skies]. Oh, 
 
 Baradas ! 
 Am I not to be pitied ? — what a day 
 For — 
 
 Baradas. Sorrow? — No, Sire ! 
 Louis. Bah ! for hunting, man, 
 And RicheUeu's dead ; 'twould be an 
 
 indecorum 
 TiU he is buried [Yawns] — life is very 
 
 tedious. 
 I made a madrigal on hfe last week : 
 You do not sing. Count? Pity; you 
 
 should learn. 
 Poor Rioheheu had no ear — yet a great 
 
 man. 
 Ah! what a weary weight devolves 
 
 upon me ! 
 These endless wars — these thankless 
 
 ParUaments — 
 The snares in which he tangled States 
 
 and Kings, 
 Like the old fisher of the fable, Proteus, 
 Netting great Neptune's wariest tribes, 
 
 and changing 
 
122 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Into all shapes when Craft pursued him- 
 self: 
 
 Oh, a great man ! 
 Bahadas. Your royal mother said 
 so, 
 
 And died in exile. 
 
 Loris [sadly]. True : I loved my 
 
 mother ! 
 Baradas. The Cardinal dies. Yet 
 day revives the earth ; 
 
 The rivers run not back. In truth, 
 my Ldege, 
 
 Did your high orb on others shine as 
 him. 
 
 Why, things as duU in their own selves 
 as I am 
 
 Would glow as brightly with the bor- 
 rowed beam. 
 Louis. Ahem ! He was too stern. 
 Orleans. A very Nero. 
 Baradas. His power was Uke the 
 Capitol of old — 
 
 Built on a human skull. 
 LoTjis. And, had he lived, 
 
 I know another head, my Baradas, 
 
 That would have propp'd the pile : I've 
 seen him eye thee 
 
 With a most hungry fancy. 
 
 Baradas [anxiously]. Sire, I knew 
 
 You would protect me. 
 
 Louis. Did you so : of course ! 
 
 And yet he had a way with him — a 
 something 
 
 That always — But no matter, he is 
 dead. 
 
 And, after all, men called his King 
 "The Just ", 
 
 And so I am. Dear Count, this silliest 
 JuUe, 
 
 I know not why, she takes my fancy. 
 Many 
 
 As fair, and certainly more kind ; but 
 . yet 
 
 It is so. Count, I am no lustful Tar- 
 quin. 
 
 And do abhor the bold and frontless 
 vices 
 
 Which the Chm-oh justly censures : 
 yet 'tis sad 
 
 On rainy days to drag out weary hours. 
 
 Deaf to the music of a woman's voice — 
 
 Blind to the sunshine of a woman's eyes. 
 
 It is no sin in kings to seek amusement ; 
 
 And that is all I seek. I miss her 
 much. 
 
 She has a silver laugh — a rare per- 
 fection. 
 Baradas. Richelieu was most dis- 
 loyal in that marriage. 
 Louis [querulously]. He knew that 
 Julie pleased me — • a clear proof 
 
 He never loved me ! 
 
 Baradas. Oh, most clear! — But 
 now 
 No bar between the lady and your will ! 
 This writ makes aU secure : a week or 
 
 two 
 In the Bastile wiU sober Mauprat's love, 
 And leave him eager to dissolve a hymen 
 That brings him such a home. 
 Louis. See to it. Count ; 
 
 [Exit Baradas] 
 I'll summon Julie back. A word with 
 you. 
 
 [Takes aside First Courtier and 
 Db Beringhen, and passes, 
 conversing with them, through 
 the gardens] 
 
 [Enter Francois] 
 
 Francois. All search, as yet, in 
 
 vain for Mauprat ! Not 
 At home since yesternoon — a soldier 
 
 told me 
 He saw him pass this way with hasty 
 
 strides ; 
 Should he meet Baradas — they'd rend 
 
 it from him — 
 And then — benignant Fortune smiles 
 
 upon me — 
 I am thy son ! — if thou desert'st me 
 
 now. 
 Come Death and snatch me from dis- 
 grace. But, no. 
 There's a great Spirit ever in the air 
 That from prolific and far-spreading 
 
 wings 
 Scatters the seeds of honour — yea, 
 
 the walls 
 And moats of castled forts — the barren 
 
 seas — 
 The cell wherein the pale-eyed student 
 
 holds 
 Talk with melodious science — all are 
 
 sown 
 With everlasting honours, if our souls 
 WiU toil for fame as boors for bread — 
 
 [Enter Maupeat] 
 
 Mauprat. Oh, let me — 
 Let me but meet him foot to foot — ' 
 
 I'll dig 
 The Judas from his heart ; — albeit the 
 
 King 
 Should o'er him cast the purple ! 
 
 Francois. Mauprat ! hold : — 
 Where is the — 
 
 Mauprat. Well! What would'st 
 
 thou? 
 FRANfois. The despatch ! 
 The packet. — Look on me — I serve 
 the Cardinal — 
 
Richelieu 
 
 123 
 
 You know me. Did you not keep guard 
 
 last night 
 By Marion's house ? 
 Maupeat. I did : — no matter 
 now! — 
 They told me, he was here ! — 
 
 Feansois. joy ! quick — quick — 
 The packet thou didst wrest from me ? 
 
 Matjpeat. The packet ? — 
 What, art thou he I deem'd the Car- 
 dinal's spy 
 (Dupe that I was) — and overhearing 
 Marion — 
 FEANgois. The same — restore it ! 
 
 haste ! 
 Mattpbat. I have it not : 
 Methought it but reveal' d our scheme 
 
 to BioheUeu, 
 And, as we mounted, gave it to — 
 
 [Enter Bahadas] 
 
 Stand back ! 
 Now, villain ! now — I have thee ! 
 [To Francois] — Hence, Sir, Draw ! 
 Feanco'is. Art mad? — the King's 
 at hand ! leave him to Richelieu ! 
 Speak — the despatch — to whom — 
 Mattpkat [dashing him aside, and 
 rushing to Baeadas]. 
 Thou triple slanderer ! 
 I'U set my heel upon thy crest ! 
 
 [A few passes] 
 Feansois. Fly — fly ! 
 The King ! — 
 
 [Enier at one side Louis, Oelbans, De 
 
 BeEINGHEN, COUETIEES, etc. At 
 
 the other, the Guaeds hastily] 
 
 LoTTis. Swords drawn — before our 
 very palace ! , 
 Have our laws died with Richelieu ? 
 
 Baeadas. Pardon, Sire, — 
 My crime but self-defence. [Aside to 
 King] It is De Mauprat ! 
 LoiTis. Dare he thus brave us? 
 
 [Baeadas goes to the Gtjahd and 
 gives the writ] 
 Maupeat. Sire, in the Cardinal's 
 
 name — 
 Baeadas. Seize him — disarm — to 
 the Bastile ! 
 
 [De Maupeat seized, struggles 
 with the GtJARD. — FEANSOia 
 restlessly endeavouring to pacify 
 and speak to him — when the 
 gates open] 
 
 [Enter Richelieu and Joseph, followed 
 by arquebusiers] 
 
 Baeadas. The Dead 
 Return'd to life ! 
 
 Louis. What a mock death! this 
 tops 
 The Infinite of Insult. 
 Maupeat [breaking from Guards]. 
 Priest and Hero ! 
 For you are both — protect the truth ! - — 
 Richelieu. What's this ? 
 
 [Taking the writ from the Guard] 
 De Beeinghen. Fact in Philosophy. 
 Foxes have got 
 Nine lives as well as cats ! 
 
 Baeadas. Be firm, my Liege. 
 Louis. I have assumed the sceptre 
 
 ■ — I will wield it ! 
 Joseph. The tide runs counter — 
 there'll be shipwreck somewhere. 
 [Baradas and Oelbans 
 
 close to the King — - whispering 
 and prompting him when Riche- 
 lieu speaks] 
 Richelieu. High treason. — Fa- 
 viaux ! still that stale pretence ! 
 My Liege, bad men (ay. Count, most 
 
 knavish men !) 
 Abuse your royal goodness. For this 
 
 soldier, 
 France hath none braver, and his 
 
 youth's hot foUy, 
 Misled (by whom your Highness may 
 
 conjecture !), 
 Is long since cancell'd by a loyal man- 
 hood. 
 I, Sire, have pardoned him. 
 Louis. And we do give 
 Your pardon to the winds. Sir, do 
 your duty ! 
 Richelieu. What, Sire ? you do not 
 know — Oh, pardon me — 
 You know not yet, that this brave, 
 
 honest heart 
 Stood between mine- and murder! — 
 
 Sire, for my sake — 
 For your old servant's sake — undo 
 
 this wrong. 
 See, let me rend the sentence. 
 
 Louis. At your peril ! 
 This is too much : — • Again, Sir, do 
 your duty ! 
 Richelieu. Speak not, but go: — 
 I woidd not see young Valour 
 So humbled as grey Service ! 
 
 De Mauprat. Fare you well ! 
 Save Julie and console her. 
 Francois [aside to Maupeat]. The 
 despatch ! 
 Your fate, foes, Ufe, hang on a word! 
 to whom ? 
 De Mauprat. To Huguet. 
 Feanjois. Hush ! — keep council ! 
 silence — hope ! 
 
 [Exeunt Maupeat and Guard] 
 
124 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Bakadas [aside to Fbancois]. Has 
 
 he the packet? 
 Francois. He will not reveal — 
 [Aside] Work, brain! beat, heart! 
 " There's no such word as fail." 
 
 [Exit Feancois] 
 Richelieu [fiercely]. Room, my 
 Lords, room ! — the Minister of 
 France 
 Can need no intercession with the King. 
 [They fall back] 
 Louis. What means this false re- 
 port of death. Lord Cardinal? 
 Richelieu. Are you then anger'd, 
 
 Sire, that I live still? 
 Louis. No ; but such artifice — ■ 
 Richelieu. Not mine : — look else- 
 where ! 
 Louis — my castle swarm' d with the 
 assassins. 
 Baradas [advancing]. We have 
 punish'd them already. 
 
 Huguet now 
 In the Bastile. Oh ! my Lord, we were 
 
 prompt 
 To avenge you, we were. 
 
 Richelieu. We? Ha! ha! you 
 hear. 
 My Liege ! What page, man, in the 
 
 last court grammar 
 Made you a plural? Count, you have 
 
 seized the hireling : — 
 Sire, shall I name the master? 
 
 Louis. Tush ! my Lord, 
 The old contrivance : — ■ ever does your 
 
 wit 
 Invent assassins, — that ambition may 
 Slay rivals — 
 
 Richelieu. Rivals, Sire ! in what ? 
 Service to France ? I have none ! 
 
 Lives the man 
 Whom Europe, paled before your glory, 
 
 deems 
 Rival to Armand RioheUeu ? 
 
 Louis. What so haughty ! 
 Remember, he who made, can unmake. 
 
 Richelieu. Never ! 
 Never ! Your anger can recall your 
 
 trust, 
 Annul my office, spoil me of my lands. 
 Rifle my coffers, — ■ but my name — ■ 
 
 my deeds, 
 Axe royal in a land beyond your sceptre ! 
 Pass sentence on me, if you will ; from 
 
 kings, 
 Lo, I appeal to Time! "Be just, my 
 
 Liege — • 
 "I found your kingdom rent with 
 
 heresies 
 "And bristling with rebellion; lawless 
 nobles 
 
 "And breadless serfs; England foment- 
 ing discord ; 
 
 "Austria — ^ her clutch on your domin- 
 ion; Spain 
 
 "Forging the prodigal gold of either 
 Ind 
 
 "To armed thunderbolts. The Arts 
 lay dead, 
 
 "Trade rotted in your marts, your 
 Armies mutinous, 
 
 ' ' Your Treasury bankrupt. Would you 
 now revoke 
 
 "Your trust, so be it! and I leave you, 
 sole 
 
 "Supremest Monarch of the mightiest 
 realm 
 
 "From Ganges to the Icebergs : — Look 
 without, 
 
 "No foe not humbled! Look within; 
 the Arts 
 
 "Quit for your schools — their old 
 Hesperides 
 
 "The golden Italy! while through the 
 veins 
 
 "Of your vast empire flows in strength- 
 ening tides 
 
 "Trade, the calm health of nations! 
 
 Sire, I know 
 
 "Your smoother courtiers please you 
 best — nor measure 
 
 "Myself with them — yet sometimes 1 
 would doubt 
 
 "If Statesmen rock'd and dandled into 
 power 
 
 "Could leave such legacies to kings!" 
 [Louis appears irresolvie] 
 Baradas [passing him, whispers]. But 
 Julie, 
 
 Shall I not summon her to Court ? 
 Louis [motions to Baradas and turns 
 haughtilytotheCAnBiifiAij]. Enough! 
 
 Your Eminence must excuse a longer 
 audience. 
 
 To your own palace : — For our con- 
 ference, this 
 
 Nor place — nor season. 
 
 Richelieu. Good my Liege, for Jus- 
 tice 
 
 All place a temple, and all season, 
 summer ! 
 
 Do you deny me justice ? Saints of 
 Heaven ! 
 
 He turns from me ! Do you deny me 
 justice ? 
 
 For flfteen years, while in these hands 
 dwelt Empire, 
 
 The humblest craftsman — the obscur- 
 est vassal — 
 
 The very leper shrinking from the sun, 
 
 Tho' loathed by Charity, might ask for 
 justice ! — 
 
Richelieu 
 
 125 
 
 Not with the fawning tone and crawl- 
 ing mien 
 Of some I see around you — Counts 
 
 and Princes — 
 KneeUng for favours; but, erect and 
 
 loud, 
 As men who ask man's rights 1 my Liege, 
 
 my Louis, 
 Do you refuse me justice — audience 
 
 even — • 
 In the pale presence of the baffled 
 
 Murder ? 
 Louis. Lord Cardinal — one by one 
 
 you have sever'd from me 
 The bonds of human love. AJl near 
 
 and dear 
 Mark'd out for vengeance — exile or 
 
 the scaffold. 
 You find me now amidst my trustiest 
 
 friends. 
 My closest kindred ; — you would tear 
 
 them from me ; 
 They murder you forsooth, since me 
 
 they love. 
 Eno' of plots and treasons for one 
 
 reign ! 
 Home ! Home ! And sleep away these 
 
 phantoms ! 
 Richelieu. Sire ! 
 I — patience. Heaven ! sweet Heaven ! 
 
 — Sire, from the foot 
 Of that Great Throne, these hands have 
 
 raised aloft 
 On an Olympus, looking down on mor- 
 tals 
 And worshipp'd by their awe — before 
 
 the foot 
 Of that high throne — spurn you the 
 
 grey-hair'd man. 
 Who gave you empire — and now sues 
 
 for safety? 
 Louis. No : — when we see your 
 
 Eminence in truth 
 At the foot of the throne — we'll listen 
 
 to you. [Exit Louis] 
 
 Orleans. Saved ! 
 Bahadas. For this deep thanks to 
 
 Juhe and to Mauprat. 
 Richelieu. My Lord de Baradas, 
 
 I pray your pardon — 
 You are to be my successor ! your 
 
 hand, Sir! 
 BaeadaS [aside]. What can this 
 
 mean? 
 Richelieu, It trembles, see! it 
 
 trembles ! 
 The hand that holds the destinies of 
 
 nations 
 Ought to shake less! poor Baradas! 
 
 poor France ! 
 Bakadas. Insolent — [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Second. 
 
 Richelieu. Joseph — Did you hear 
 
 the King? 
 Joseph. I did, — -there's danger! 
 
 Had you been less haughty — 
 RiCHfcLiEU. And suffer'd slaves to 
 chuckle — "see the Cardinal — 
 How meek his Eminence is to-day. " I 
 
 tell thee 
 This is a strife in which the loftiest look 
 Is the most subtle armour ^ — 
 Joseph. But — 
 Richelieu. No time 
 For ifs and buts. I wiU accuse these 
 
 traitors ! 
 Francois shall witness that De Baradas 
 Gave him the secret missive for De 
 
 Bouillon, 
 And told him life and death were in the 
 
 scroll. 
 I will — I wiU — 
 
 Joseph. Tush ! Francois is your 
 creature ; 
 So they wiU say and laugh at you ! — 
 
 your witness 
 Must he that same Despatch. 
 Richelieu. Away to Marion ! 
 Joseph. I have been there — she 
 is seized — removed — impris- 
 oned — 
 By the Count's orders. 
 
 Richelieu. Goddess of bright 
 dreams. 
 My Country — shalt thou lose me 
 
 now, when most 
 Thou need'st thy worshipper? My 
 
 native land ! 
 Let me but ward this dagger from thy 
 
 heart. 
 And die — but on thy bosom. 
 
 [Enter Julie] 
 
 Julie. Heaven ! I thank thee ! 
 It cannot be, or this all-powerful man 
 Would not stand idly thus. 
 
 Richelieu. What dost thou here? 
 Home! 
 
 Julie. Home ! is Adrien there 1 — 
 
 you're dumb — yet strive 
 For words ; I see them trembling on 
 
 your lip, 
 But choked by pity. It was truth — 
 
 all truth ! 
 Seized — - the BastUe — and in your 
 
 presence too ! 
 Cardinal, where is Adrien? Think — 
 
 he saved 
 Your life : — your name is infamy, if 
 
 wrong 
 
126 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Should come to his ! 
 
 Richelieu. Be sooth'd, child. 
 Julie. Child no more ; 
 I love, and I am woman! Hope and 
 
 suffer — • 
 Love, suffering, hope, — what else does 
 
 make the strength 
 And majesty of woman? Where is 
 
 Adrien? 
 Richelieu. [To Joseph] Your youth 
 
 was never young — you never loved ; 
 Speak to her — 
 
 Joseph. Nay, take heed — the 
 
 King's command, 
 'Tis true — I mean — the — 
 Julie. [To Richelieu] Let thine 
 
 eyes meet mine ; 
 Answer me but one word — I am a 
 
 wife — • 
 I ask thee for my home — my Fate — • 
 
 my All ! 
 Where is my husband ? 
 
 Richelieu. You are Richelieu's 
 
 ward, 
 A soldier's bride: they who insist on 
 
 truth 
 Must out-face fear ; you ask me for 
 
 your husband ! 
 There — where the clouds of heaven 
 
 look darkest, o'er 
 The domes of the Bastile ! 
 
 Julie. I thank you, father, 
 You see I do not shudder. Heaven 
 
 forgive you 
 The sin of this desertion ! 
 
 Richelieu [detaining her]. Whither 
 
 would'st thou? 
 Julie. Stay me not. Fie ; I should 
 
 be there already. 
 I am thy ward, and haply he may 
 
 think 
 Thou'st taught me also to forsake the 
 
 wretched ! 
 Richelieu. I've fill'd those cells ■ — ■ 
 
 with many — traitors all. 
 Had they wives too? Thy memories, 
 
 Power, are solemn ! 
 Poor sufferer ! think' st thou that yon 
 
 gates of woe 
 Unbar to love? Alas! if love once 
 
 enter, 
 'Tis for the last farewell ; between those 
 
 walls 
 And the mute grave — the blessed 
 
 household sounds 
 Only heard once — while hungering at 
 
 the door, 
 The headsman whets the axe. 
 
 Julie. O, mercy, mercy ! 
 Save him, restore him, father! Art 
 
 thou not 
 
 The Cardinal-King? — the Lord of 
 life and death — 
 
 Beneath whose light as deeps beneath 
 the moon. 
 
 The solemn tides of Empire ebb and 
 flow? — 
 
 Art thou not Richelieu? 
 
 Richelieu. Yesterday I was ! — 
 
 To-day a very weak old man! To- 
 morrow, 
 
 I know not what ! 
 Julie. Do you conceive his mean- 
 ing? 
 
 Alas ! I cannot. But, methinks, my 
 senses 
 
 Are duUer than they were ! 
 Joseph. The King is chafed 
 
 Against his servant. Lady, while we 
 
 The lackey of the ante-room is not 
 More powerless than the Minister of 
 
 France. 
 "Richelieu. And yet the air ia 
 
 still ; Heaven wears no cloud ; 
 "From Nature's silent orbit starts no 
 
 portent 
 "To warn the unconscious world; 
 
 albeit, this night 
 "May with a morrow teem which, in 
 
 my fall, 
 "Would carry earthquake to remotest 
 
 lands, 
 "And change the Christian globe. 
 
 What would'st thou, woman? 
 "Thy fate and his, with mine, for good 
 
 or Ul, 
 "Are woven threads. In my vast sum 
 
 of life, 
 "Millions such units merge." 
 
 [Enter First Couktier] 
 
 First Courtier. Madame de Mau- 
 prat! 
 Pardon, your Eminence — even now I 
 
 This lady's home — commanded by 
 
 the King 
 To pray her presence. 
 
 Julie [clinging to Richelieu]. Think 
 
 of my dead father ! — 
 Think, how, an infant, clinging to your 
 
 knees. 
 And looking to your eyes, the wrinkled 
 
 care 
 Fled from your brow before the smile 
 
 of childhood, 
 Fresh from the dews of heaven ! Think 
 
 of this. 
 And take me to your breast. 
 
 Richelieu. "To those who sent 
 
 you! — 
 
Richelieu 
 
 127 
 
 And say, you found the virtue they 
 
 would slay 
 Here — coueh'd upon this heart, as at 
 
 an altar, 
 And sheltered by the wings of sacred 
 
 Rome! 
 Be gone ! 
 First Coubtibe. My Lord, I am 
 
 yoiu" friend and servant — 
 Misjudge me not; but never yet was 
 
 Louis 
 So roused against you : — shall I take 
 
 this answer ? — 
 It were to be your foe. 
 
 RiCHELiETT. All time my foe 
 If I a Priest could cast this holy Sorrow 
 Forth from her last Asylum ! 
 First Coithtiee. He is lost ! [Exit] 
 Richelieu. God help thee, child ! 
 
 — she hears not ! Look upon her ! 
 The storm that rends the oak, uproots 
 
 the flower. 
 Her father loved me so ! and in that age 
 When friends are brothers ! She has 
 
 been to me 
 Soother, nurse, plaything, daughter. 
 
 Are these tears ? 
 Oh ! shame, shame ! — dotage ! 
 
 Joseph. Tears are not for eyes 
 That rather need the lightning, which 
 
 can pierce 
 Through barred gates and triple walls, 
 
 to smite 
 Crime, where it cowers in secret ! The 
 
 Despatch ! 
 Set every spy to work; the morrow's 
 
 sun 
 Must see that written treason in your 
 
 hands, . 
 Or rise upon your ruin. 
 
 Richelieu. Ay — and close 
 Upon my corpse! I am not made to 
 
 Uve — • 
 Friends, glory. Prance, all reft from 
 
 me ; — my star 
 Like some vain hohday mimicry of fire. 
 Piercing imperial heaven, and falling 
 
 down 
 Rayless and blacken'd to the dust — 
 
 a thirjf 
 For all men's feet to trample! Yea! 
 
 to-morrow 
 Triumph or death ! Look up, child ! — 
 
 Lead us, Joseph. 
 
 [As they are going out] 
 
 [Enter Bahadas and Db Beeinghen] 
 
 Baeadas. My Lord, the King can- 
 not believe your Eminence 
 So far forgets your duty, and his great- 
 ness, 
 
 As to resist his mandate I Pray you. 
 
 Madam, 
 Obey the King — no cause for fear ! 
 Julie. My father ! 
 Richelieu. She shall not stir ! 
 Baeadas. You are not of her kin- 
 dred — 
 An orphan — 
 
 Richelieu. And her country is her 
 
 mother 1 
 Baeadas. The country is the King ! 
 Richelieu. Ay, is it so? 
 Then wakes the power which in the 
 
 age of iron 
 Burst forth to curb the great, and raise 
 
 the low. 
 Mark, where she stands, around her 
 
 form I draw 
 The awful circle of our solemn Church I 
 Set but a foot within that holy ground. 
 And on thy head — yea, though it wore 
 
 a crown — 
 I launch the curse of Rome 1 
 
 Baeadas. I dare not brave you ! 
 I do but speak the orders of my King. 
 The Church, your rank, power, very 
 
 word, my Lord, 
 Sufflce you for resistance : — blame 
 
 yourself, 
 If it should cost you power ! 
 
 Richelieu. That my stake. Ah ! 
 Dark g;amester! what is thine? Look 
 
 to it weU ! — 
 Lose not a trick. By this same hour 
 
 to-morrow 
 Thou shalt have France, or I thy head ! 
 Bahadas [aside to De Beeinghen]. 
 He cannot 
 Have the despatch? 
 
 De Beeinghen. No : were it so, 
 your stake 
 Were lost already. 
 
 Joseph [aside]. Patience is your 
 game: 
 Reflect you have not the Despatch ! 
 
 Richelieu. O ! monk ! 
 Leave patience to the saints — for / 
 
 am human ! 
 Did not thy father die for France, poor 
 
 orphan? 
 And now they say thou hast no father J 
 
 Fie! 
 Art thou not pure and good ? if so, thou 
 art 
 
 A part of that the Beautiful, the 
 
 Sacred 
 
 Which in all climes, men that have 
 
 hearts adore, 
 By the great title of their mother 
 country ! 
 Baeadas [aside]. He wanders ! 
 
128 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Richelieu. So cling close unto my 
 breast, 
 Here where thou droop'st — lies France ! 
 
 I am very feeble — 
 Of little use it seems to either now. 
 Well, well — we will go home. 
 
 Baradas. In sooth, my Lord, 
 You do need rest — the burthens of 
 
 the State 
 O'ertask your health! 
 
 Richelieu. [To Joseph] I'm pa- 
 tient, see? 
 Bakadas {aside]. His mind 
 And life are breaking fast ! 
 
 Richelieu [overhearing him]. Irrever- 
 ent ribald ! 
 If so, beware the falling ruins ! Hark ! 
 I tell thee, scorner of these whitening 
 
 hairs. 
 When this snow melteth there shall 
 
 come /a flood ! 
 Avaunt ! my name is Richelieu — I 
 
 defy thee ! 
 Walk blindfold on ; behind thee stalks 
 
 the headsman. 
 Ha ! ha ! — how pale he is ! Heaven 
 save my country ! 
 
 [Falls back in Joseph's arms] 
 [Exit Baradas followed by De 
 Beringhbn, betraying his ex- 
 ultation by his gestures] 
 
 END OP ACT IV 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene First. — The Bastile — a cor- 
 ridor — ■ in the background the door 
 of one of the condemned cells. 
 
 [Enter Joseph and Gaoler] 
 
 Gaoler. Stay, father, I wiU call 
 
 the governor. [Exit Gaolbh] 
 
 Joseph. He has it, then — this 
 
 Huguet ; — so we learn 
 From Frangois — Hump ! Now if I 
 
 can but gain 
 One moment's access, all is ours ! The 
 
 Cardinal 
 Trembles 'tween life and death. His 
 
 life is power : — 
 Smite one — slay both ! No .^scula- 
 
 pian drugs, 
 By learned quacks baptised with Latin 
 
 jargon. 
 E'er bore the healing which that scrap 
 
 of parchment 
 WiU medicine to Ambition's flagging 
 
 heart. 
 
 France shall be saved — and Joseph 
 be a bishop ! 
 
 [Enter Governor and Gaoler] 
 
 Governor. Father, you wish to 
 see the prisoners Huguet 
 And the young knight De Mauprat? 
 
 Joseph. So my office. 
 And the Lord Cardinal's order warrant, 
 son! 
 Governor. Father, it cannot be: 
 Count Baradas 
 Has summon' d to the Louvre Sieur De 
 Mauprat. 
 Joseph. Well, well! But Huguet — 
 Governor. Dies at noon. 
 Joseph. At noon ! 
 No moment to delay the pious rites 
 Which fit the soul for death — quick, 
 quick — admit me ! 
 Governor. You cannot enter, 
 
 monk ! Such are my orders ! 
 Joseph. Orders ! vain man ! — the 
 Cardinal still is minister. 
 His orders crush all others ! 
 
 Governor [lifting his hat]. Save his 
 King's ! 
 See, monk, the royal sign and seal 
 
 affix' d 
 To the Count's mandate. None may 
 
 have access 
 To either prisoner, Huguet or De 
 
 Mauprat, 
 Not even a priest, without the special 
 
 passport 
 Of Count de Baradas. I'U hear no 
 more! 
 Joseph. Just Heaven! , and are we 
 baffled thus ! — Despair ! 
 Think on the Cardinal's power — be- 
 ware his anger. 
 Governor. I'll not be menaced, 
 Priest ! Besides, the Cardinal 
 Is dying and disgraced — all Paris 
 
 knows it. 
 You hear the prisoner's knell. 
 
 [Bell tolls] 
 Joseph. I do beseech you — 
 The Cardinal is not dying — But one 
 
 moment. 
 And — hist ! — five thousand pis- 
 toles ! — 
 Governor. How ! a bribe. 
 And to a soldier, grey with years of 
 
 honour ? 
 Begone ! — - 
 Joseph. Ten thousand — twenty! — 
 Governor. Gaoler — put 
 This monk without our waUs. 
 
 Joseph. By those grey hairs. 
 Yea, by this badge [touching the Cross of 
 
Richelieu 
 
 12 
 
 St. Louis worn by the Goveenoe] 
 
 — the guerdon of your vaJour — 
 By all your toils, hard days and sleepless 
 
 nights — 
 Borne in your country's service, noble 
 
 son — 
 Let me but see the prisoner ! — 
 
 GoVBENOR. No ! — 
 Joseph. He hath 
 Secrets of state — papers in which — 
 
 Governor [interrupting]. I know, 
 Such was his message to Count Baradas. 
 Doubtless the Count will see to it. 
 
 Joseph. The Count ! 
 Then not a hope ! — You shall — - 
 GovBENOE. Betray my trust ! 
 Never — not one word more — you 
 heard me, gaoler? 
 Joseph. What can be done? — 
 distraction ! — Richelieu yet 
 Must — what? — I know not — 
 thought, nerve, strength, forsake 
 me. 
 Dare you refuse the Church her holiest 
 rights ? 
 Governor. I refuse nothing — I 
 
 obey my orders — 
 Joseph. And sell your country to 
 her parricides ! 
 Oh, tremble yet ! — Richelieu — 
 Governor. Begone ! 
 Joseph. Undone ! [Exit Joseph] 
 
 Governor. A most audacious 
 shaveling, interdicted 
 Above aU others by the Count — 
 
 Gaoler. I hope. Sir, 
 I shall not lose my perquisites. The 
 
 Sieur 
 De Mauprat wiU not be reprieved ? 
 
 Governor. Oh, fear not. 
 The Count's commands by him who 
 
 came for Mauprat 
 Are to prepare headsman and axe by 
 
 noon; 
 The Count wiU give you perqtiisites 
 
 enough ; 
 Two deaths in one day ! 
 Gaoler. Sir, may Heaven reward 
 him! 
 Oh, by the way, that troublesome 
 
 young fellow. 
 Who calls himself the prisoner Huguet's 
 
 son. 
 Is here again — implores, weeps, raves, 
 to see him. 
 Governor. Poor youth, I pity him ! 
 
 [Enier He Beeinghbn, followed by 
 FEANgois] 
 
 Db Beeinghbn. [To Peancois] 
 Now, prithee, friend. 
 
 Let go my cloak; you really discon 
 pose me. 
 Pranpois. No, they wiU drive n 
 hence ; my father ! Oh ! 
 Let me but see him once — but om 
 — one moment ! 
 De Beeinghbn. [To Goveengj 
 Your servant, Messire, — this pot 
 rascal, Huguet, 
 Has sent to see the Count de Baradas 
 Upon state secrets, that afflict h 
 
 conscience. 
 The Count can't leave his Majesty a 
 
 instant : 
 I am his proxy. 
 
 Goveenoe. The Count's word 
 law! 
 Again, young scapegrace ! How com'i 
 thou admitted ? 
 De Beeinghen. Oh, a most filii 
 fellow : Huguet's son ! 
 I found him whimpering in the com 
 
 below. 
 I pray his leave to say good-bye 1 
 
 father. 
 Before that very long unpleasar 
 
 journey 
 Father's about to take. Let him wa: 
 
 here 
 Till I return. 
 PEANgois. No ; take me with you. 
 De Beeinghen. Nay ; 
 After me, friend — the PubUo first ! 
 
 Goveenoe. The Count's 
 Commands are strict. No one mus 
 
 visit Huguet 
 Without his passport. 
 
 De Beeinghen. Here it is ! Pshaw 
 nonsense ! 
 I'U be your surety. See, my Cerberui 
 He is no Hercules ! 
 
 GovBBNOR. Well, you're responsibh 
 Stand there, friend. If, when you com 
 
 out, my Lord, 
 The youth slip in, 'tis your fault. 
 De Beeinghen. So it is ! 
 
 [Exit through the door of the c© 
 followed by the Gaolee] 
 Governor. Be calm, my lad. Don' 
 fret so. I had once 
 A father too ! I'U not be hard upoi 
 
 you, 
 And so stand close. I must not se 
 
 you enter : 
 You understand. Between this in 
 
 nocent youth 
 And that intriguing monk there is, ii 
 
 truth, 
 A wide distinction. 
 
 [Re-enter Gaoler] 
 
130 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Come, we'll go our rounds ; 
 
 I'll give you just one quarter of an hour ; 
 
 And if my Lord leave first, make my 
 
 excuse. 
 Yet stay, the gallery's long and dark; 
 
 no sentry 
 Until he reach the grate below. He'd 
 
 best 
 Wait tiU I come. If he should lose 
 
 the way, 
 We may not be in call. 
 
 Fbancois. I'll tell him. Sir — 
 
 [Exeunt Governor and Gaoler] 
 He's a wise son that knoweth his own 
 
 father. 
 I've forged a precious one! So far, 
 
 so well ! 
 Alas, what then? this wretch has -sent 
 
 to Baradas — 
 Will sell the scroU to ransom life. Oh, 
 
 Heaven ! 
 On what a thread hangs hope ! 
 
 [Listens at the door] 
 Loud words — a cry ! 
 
 [Looks through the key-hole] 
 They struggle ! Ho ! — the packet ! ! ! 
 
 [Tries to open the door] Lost ! He 
 
 has it — 
 The courtier has it — Huguet, spite 
 
 his chains, 
 Grapples I — well done ! Now, now ! 
 
 [Draws back] 
 The gallery's long ! 
 And this is left us ! 
 
 [Drawing his dagger, and standing 
 behind the door] 
 
 [Re-enter De Beringhbn, with the 
 packet] 
 
 Victorjr ! 
 
 yield It, robber — 
 
 Yield it — or die — • [A short struggle] 
 
 De Beringhen. Off ! ho ! — there ! 
 
 Fbanjois [grappling with him]. Death 
 or honour ! [Exeunt struggling] 
 
 Scene Third. — The King's closet at 
 the Louvre. A suite of rooms in 
 perspective at one side. 
 
 [Baradas and Orleans] 
 
 Baradas. All smiles ! the Cardinal's 
 
 swoonof yesterday 
 Heralds his death to-day ; could he 
 
 survive, 
 It would not be as minister — so great 
 The King's resentment at the priest's 
 
 defiance. 
 
 All smiles ! and yet, should this ac- 
 
 curs'd De Mauprat 
 Have given our packet to another. — 
 
 'Sdeath ! 
 I dare not think of it ! 
 
 Orleans. You've sent to search 
 
 him? 
 Baradas. Sent, Sir, to search? — 
 
 that hireling hands may find 
 Upon him, naked, with its broken seal, 
 'That scroll, whose every word is death I 
 
 No — no — 
 These hands alone must clutch that 
 
 awful secret. 
 I dare not leave the palace, night or day. 
 While Richelieu lives — his minions — 
 
 creatures — spies — 
 Not one must reach the King ! 
 Orleans. What hast thou done? 
 Baradas. Summon'd De Mauprat 
 
 hither ! 
 Orleans. Could this Huguet, 
 Who pray'd thy presence with so fierce 
 
 a fervour. 
 Have thieved the scroll? 
 Baradas. Huguet was housed with 
 
 us, 
 The very moment we dismiss'd the 
 
 coimer. 
 It cannot be! a stale trick for re- 
 prieve. 
 But, to make sure, I've sent our trustiest 
 
 friend 
 To see and sift him — Hist ! here comes 
 
 the Bang. 
 How fare you. Sire ? 
 
 [Enter Lotris] 
 
 Louis. In the same mind, I have 
 Decided ! yes, he would forbid your 
 
 presence. 
 My brother, — your's, my friend, then 
 
 Julie, too ; 
 Thwarts — braves — defies — [Sudr 
 
 denly turning to Baradas] We 
 
 make you minister. 
 Gaston, for you — the baton of our 
 
 armies. 
 You love me, do you not? 
 
 Orleans. Oh, love you. Sire? 
 [Aside] Never so much as now. 
 
 Baradas. May I deserve 
 Your trust [aside] — until you sign 
 
 your abdication ! 
 My Liege, but one way left to daunt 
 
 De Mauprat, 
 And Julie to divorce. — We must 
 
 prepare 
 The death-writ ; what, the' sign'd and 
 
 seal'd? we can 
 Withhold the enforcement. 
 
Richelieu 
 
 131 
 
 Louis. Ah, you may prepare it; 
 We need not urge it to effect. 
 
 Baradas. Exactly ! 
 No haste, my Idege. [Looking at his 
 watch and aside] He may Eve one 
 hour longer. 
 
 [Enter Cottrtiee] 
 
 CouETiEE. The Lady Julie, Sire, 
 
 implores an audience. 
 Louis. Aha ! repentant of her foUy ! 
 — Well, 
 Admit her. 
 Baradas. Sire, she comes for Mau- 
 prat's pardon. 
 And the conditions — 
 
 Louis. You are minister. 
 We leave to you oiu: answer. 
 
 [As Julie enters, — the Captain of the 
 Archers, by another door — and 
 whispers Baradas] 
 
 Captain. The Chevalier 
 De Mauprat waits below. 
 Baradas [aside]. Now the de- 
 spatch ! [Exit with Ofpioee] 
 
 [Enter Julie] 
 
 Julie. My Liege, you sent for me. 
 I come where Grief 
 Should come when guiltless, while the 
 
 name of King 
 Is holy on the earth ! — Here, at the 
 
 feet 
 Of Power, I kneel for mercy. 
 
 Louis. Mercy, Julie,, 
 Is an affair of state. The Cardinal 
 
 should 
 In this be your interpreter. 
 
 Julie. Alas ! 
 I Imow not if that mighty spirit now 
 Stoop to the things of earth. Nay, 
 
 while I speak, 
 Perchance he hears the orphan by the 
 
 throne 
 Where kings themselves need pardon; 
 
 0, my Liege, 
 Be father to the fatherless ; in you 
 Dwells my last hope ! 
 
 [Enter Baradas] 
 Baradas [aside]. He has not the 
 despatch; 
 Smiled, while we search'd, and braves 
 me. — Oh ! 
 liovis [gentty]. What would'st thou? 
 Julie. A single life. — You reign 
 o'er millions. — What 
 Is one man's life to you? — and yet to 
 
 me 
 'Tis France, — 'tis earth, — 'tis every- 
 thing ! — a life — 
 
 A human life — my husband's. 
 Louis [aside]. Speak to her, 
 I am not marble, — give her hope — 
 
 or — 
 Baradas. Madam, 
 Vex not your King, whose heart, too soft 
 
 for justice. 
 Leaves to his ministers that solemn 
 
 charge. [Louis walks up the stage] 
 Julie. You were his friend. 
 Baradas. I was before I loved thee. 
 Julie. Loved me ! 
 Baeadas. Hush, JuUe : could'st thou 
 
 misinterpret 
 My acts, thoughts, motives, nay, my 
 
 verjr words. 
 Here — in this palace? 
 
 Julie. Now I know I'm mad. 
 Even that memory faU'd me. 
 
 Baradas. I am young. 
 Well-born and brave as Mauprat : — 
 
 for thy sake 
 I peril what he has not — fortune — 
 
 power ; 
 All to great souls most dazzUng. I 
 
 alone 
 Can save thee from yon tyrant, now 
 
 my puppet ! 
 Be mine; annul the mockery of this 
 
 marriage. 
 And on the day I clasp thee to my 
 
 breast 
 De Mauprat shall be free. 
 
 Julie. Thou durst not speak 
 Thus in his ear. [Pointing to Louis] 
 
 Thou double traitor ! — tremble. 
 I will unmask thee. 
 
 Baradas. I will say thou ravfest, 
 And see this scroll! its letters shall be 
 
 blood ! 
 Go to the King, count with me word for 
 
 word; 
 And while you pray the life — I write 
 
 the sentence ! 
 Julie. Stay, stay. [Bushing to the 
 
 King] You have a kind and 
 
 princely heart, 
 Tho' sometimes it is silent : you were 
 
 born 
 To power — it has not flushed you into 
 
 madness. 
 As it doth meaner men. Banish my 
 
 husband — 
 Dissolve our marriage — cast me to 
 
 the grave 
 Of human ties, where hearts congeal 
 
 to ice, 
 In the dark convent's everlasting win- 
 ter — 
 (Surely eno' for justice" — hate — re- 
 venge — ) 
 
132 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 But spare tMs life, thus lonely, scathed, 
 
 and bloomless ; 
 And when thou stand'st for judgment 
 
 on thine own, 
 The deed shall shine beside thee as an 
 
 angel. 
 Lotris [much affected]. Go, go, to 
 Baradas : and annul thy marria^ge. 
 And — 
 
 Julie [anxiously, and watching his 
 
 countenance]. Be his bride ! 
 Louis. A form, a mere decorum. 
 Thou know'st I love thee. 
 
 Julie. O thou sea of shame, 
 And not one star. 
 
 [The King goes up the stage and 
 
 passes through the suite of 
 
 rooms at the side in evident 
 
 emotion] 
 
 Baradas. Well, thy election, Julie ; 
 
 This hand — his grave ! 
 
 Julie. His grave ! and I — ■ 
 Bakadas. Can save him. 
 Swear to be mine. 
 
 Julie. That were a bitterer death ! 
 Avaunt, thou tempter ! I did ask his 
 
 life 
 A boon, and not the barter of dishonour. 
 The heart can break, and scorn you : 
 
 wreak your malice ; 
 Adrien and I will leave you this sad 
 
 earth, 
 And pass together hand in hand to 
 Heaven ! 
 Baradas. You have decided. [With- 
 draws to the side scene for a moment 
 and returns] Listen to m.e. Lady ; 
 I am no base intriguer. I adored thee 
 Prom the first glance of those inspiring 
 
 eyes; 
 With thee entwined ambition, hope, the 
 
 future. 
 I will not lose thee ! I can place thee 
 
 nearest — 
 Ay, to the throne — nay, on the throne, 
 
 perchance ;. 
 My star is at its zenith. Look upon 
 
 me; 
 Hast thou decided? 
 
 Julie. No, no ; you can see 
 How weak I am, be human. Sir — one 
 moment. 
 Baradas. [Stamping his foot. De 
 Mauprat appears at the side of the 
 Stage guarded] 
 Behold thy husband ! — Shall he pass 
 
 to death, 
 And know thou could'st have saved him ? 
 
 Julie. Adrien, speak ! 
 But say you wish to live ! — if not your 
 wife. 
 
 Your slave, — do with me as you will! 
 
 De Mauprat. Once more ! — 
 Why, this is mercy, Count ! Oh, think, 
 
 my Julie, 
 Life, at the best, is short, — but love 
 immortal ! 
 Baradas [taking Julie's hand]. Ah, 
 
 loveliest — 
 Julie. Go, that touch has made me 
 iron. 
 We have decided — death ! 
 
 Baradas. [To De Mauprat] Now, 
 say to whom 
 Thou gavest the packet, and thou yet 
 shalt Uve. 
 De Maupkat. I'll tell thee nothing ! 
 Baradas. Hark, — the rack ! 
 De Mauprat. 'Thy penance 
 For ever, wretch ! — What rack is Uke 
 the conscience? 
 Julie. I shall be with thee soon. 
 Baradas [giving the writ to the 
 Officer] . Hence, to the headsman . 
 [The doors are thrown open. The 
 Hussier announces "His Emi- 
 nence the Cardinal Duke de 
 Richelieu "] 
 
 [Enter Richelieu, attended by Gentle- 
 men, Pages, etc., pale, feeble, and 
 leaning on Joseph, followed by 
 Sbckbtabies op State, attended 
 by three Sub-secketaries mth 
 papers, etc.] 
 
 Julie [rushing to Richelieu]. You 
 
 live — you live — and Adrien shall 
 
 not die ! 
 
 Richelieu. Not if an old man's 
 
 prayers, himself near death. 
 
 Can aught avail thee, daughter ! Count, 
 
 you now 
 Hold what I held on earth : — one 
 
 boon, my Lord, 
 This soldier's life. 
 
 Baradas. The stake — my head ! 
 — you said it. 
 I cannot lose one trick. Remove your 
 prisoner. 
 Julie. No ! — No ! — 
 
 [Enter Louis from the rooms beyond] 
 
 Richelieu. [To Officer] Stay, 
 
 Sir, one moment. My good Lie^e, 
 
 Your worn-out servant, wiUing, Srre, 
 
 to spare you 
 Some pain of conscience, would fore- 
 stall your wishes. 
 I do resign my office. 
 De Mauprat. You? 
 Julie. All's over ! 
 
Richelieu 
 
 133 
 
 Richelieu. My end draws near. 
 These sad ones, Sire, I love them, 
 I do not ask his life ; but suffer justice 
 To halt, until I can dismiss his soul, 
 Charged with an old man's blessing. 
 Lotris. Surely ! 
 Babadas. Sire '■ — 
 Louis. Silence — small favour to a 
 
 djring servant. 
 Richelieu. You would consign your 
 armies to the baton 
 Of your most honour'd brother. Sire, 
 
 so be it ! 
 Your minister, the Count de Baradas ; 
 A most sagacious choice ! — Your Secre- 
 taries 
 Of State attend me. Sire, to render up 
 The ledgers of a realm. — I do beseech 
 
 you. 
 Suffer these noble gentlemen to learn 
 The nature of the glorious task that 
 
 waits them. 
 Here, in my presence. 
 Louis. You say well, my Lord. 
 [To Secretaries as he seats him- 
 self]. Approach, Sirs. 
 Richelieu. I — ^ I — faint ! — ■ air ^ — 
 air. 
 
 [Joseph and a Gentleman assist 
 him to a sofa, placed beneath a 
 window] 
 I thank you — 
 Draw near, my children. 
 
 Baradab. He's too weak to question. 
 Nay, scarce to speak ; all's safe. 
 
 Scene Third. — Manent Richelieu, 
 Maupeat and Julie, the last kneel- 
 ing beside the Cardinal ; the Officer 
 OF the Guard behind Maupbat. 
 Joseph near Richelieu, watching 
 the King. Louis. Baradas at the 
 back of the King's chair, anxious 
 and disturbed. Orleans at a 
 greater distance, careless and trium- 
 phant. The Secretaries. As each 
 Sbcretart advances in his turn, he 
 takes the portfolios from the Sub- 
 secretaries. 
 
 First Secretary. The affairs of 
 Portugal, 
 Most urgent. Sire — One short month 
 
 since the Duke 
 Braganza was a rebel. 
 Louis. And is still ! 
 First Secretary. No, Sire, he has 
 succeeded ! He is now 
 Crown'd King of Portugal — craves 
 instant succour 
 
 Against the arms of Spain. 
 
 Louis. We will not grant it 
 Against his lawful King. Eh, Count? 
 Baradas. No, Sire. 
 First Secretary. But Spain's your 
 deadliest foe ; whatever 
 Can weaken Spain must strengthen 
 
 France. The Cardinal 
 Would send the succours ; — [solemnly] 
 
 — balance. Sire, of Europe ! 
 Louis. The Cardinal ! — balance ! 
 
 — We'll consider — Eh, Count ? 
 Baradas. Yes, Sire ; — fall back. 
 First Secretary. But — 
 Baradas. Oh, fall back. Sir ! 
 Joseph. Humph ! 
 
 Second Secretary. The affairs of 
 
 England, Sire, most urgent; Charles 
 
 The First has lost a battle that decides 
 
 One half his realm — craves moneys. 
 
 Sire, and succour. 
 
 Louis. He shall have both. — Eh, 
 
 Baradas ? 
 Baradas. Yes, Sire. 
 (Oh, that despatch ! — my veins are 
 fire!) 
 Richelieu [feebly, but with great dis- 
 tinctness]. My Liege — 
 Forgive me — Charles' cause is lost. 
 
 A man. 
 Named Cromwell, risen, — a great man ! 
 
 — your succour 
 
 Would fail — your loans be squander'd ! 
 Pause — reflect. 
 Louis. Reflect — Eh, Baradas ? 
 Baradas. Reflect, Sire. 
 Joseph. Humph ! 
 
 Louis [aside]. I half repent! No 
 successor to Richelieu ! 
 Round me thrones totter ! dynasties 
 
 dissolve ! 
 The soil he guards alone escapes the 
 earthquake ! 
 Joseph. Otir star not yet eclipsed! 
 
 — you mark the King? 
 Oh ! had we the despatch ! 
 
 Richelieu. Ah! Joseph! Child — 
 Would I could help thee. 
 
 [Enter Gentleman, whispers Joseph, 
 they exeunt hastily] 
 
 Baradas. [To Secretary] Sir, fall 
 back ! 
 
 Second Secretary. But — 
 
 Baradas. Pshaw, Sir! 
 
 Third Secretary [mysteriously]. The 
 secret correspondence, Sire, most 
 urgent — 
 Accounts of spies — deserters — here- 
 tics — 
 
134 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Assassins — poisoners — ■ schemes 
 against yourself ! 
 Louis. Myself ! — most urgent ! 
 
 [Looking on the documents] 
 
 [Re-enter Joseph with Fkansgis, whose 
 pourpoint is streaked with blood. 
 Francois passes behind the Car- 
 dinal's attendants, and sheltered by 
 them from the sight of Bar ad as, etc., 
 falls at Richelieu's feet] 
 
 Francois. O ! my Lord ! 
 Richelieu. Thou art bleeding ! 
 Francois. A scratch — I have not 
 fail'd ! [Gives the packet] 
 
 Richelieu. Hush ! 
 
 [Looking at the contents] 
 Third Secretary. [To King] Sire, 
 the Spaniards 
 Have reinforced their army on the 
 
 frontiers. 
 The Duo de Bouillon — 
 
 Richelieu. Hold! In this depart- 
 ment — 
 A paper — here, Sire — read yourself 
 
 — ■ then take 
 The Count's advice in 't. 
 
 [Enter De Berinqhbn hastily, and draws 
 aside Baradas] 
 
 [Richelieu, to Secretary, giving 
 an open' parchment] 
 Baradas [bursting from De Ber- 
 inqhbn]. What ! and reft it from 
 thee! 
 Ha ! — hold ! 
 
 Joseph. Fall back, son, — it is your 
 
 turn now ! 
 Baradas. Death ! — the Despatch ! 
 Louis [reading]. To Bouillon — and 
 sign'd Orleans ! — 
 Baradas, too ! — league with our foes 
 
 of Spain ! — 
 Lead our Italian armies — what ! to 
 
 Paris ! — 
 Capture the King — my health require 
 
 repose — 
 Make me subscribe my proper abdica- 
 tion — 
 Orleans, my brother, Regent ! — Saints 
 
 of Heaven ! 
 These are the men I loved 1 
 
 [Baradas draws, — attempts to 
 rush out, — is arrested. Or- 
 leans, endeavouring to escape 
 more quickly, meets Joseph's eye 
 and stops short. Richelieu 
 falls back] 
 Joseph. See to the Cardinal. 
 Baradas. He's dying ! — and I yet 
 shall dupe the Bang. 
 
 Louis [rushing to Richelieu]. Riehe- 
 Ueu ! — Lord Cardinal ! — 'tis 1 
 resign ! 
 Reign thou ! 
 Joseph. Alas I too late ! — he 
 
 faints ! 
 Louis. Reign, Richelieu! 
 Richelieu [feebly]. With absolute 
 
 power? 
 Louis. Most absolute ! Oh, Uve ! 
 If not for me — for France ! 
 Richelieu. France ! 
 Louis. Ah! this treason! 
 The army — Orleans — Bouillon I 
 
 Heavens ! — ■ the Spaniard ! 
 Where will they be next week? 
 
 Richelieu [starting up]. There, — at 
 my feet ! 
 
 [To First and Second Secre- 
 taries] 
 Ere the clock strike ! — 
 
 The Envoys have their answer ! 
 [To Third Secretary, witharing] 
 This to De Chavigny — ^he knows the 
 
 rest — 
 No need of parchment here — he must 
 
 not halt 
 For sleep — for food — In my name — 
 
 Mine — he will 
 Arrest the Due de Bouillon at the head 
 Of his army ! Ho ! there. Count de 
 
 Baradas. 
 Thou hast lost the stake. — Away with 
 him! 
 
 [As the Guards open the folding- 
 doors, a view of the ante-room 
 beyond, lined with Courtiers. 
 Baradas passes thro' the line] 
 Ha! — ha! — 
 
 [Snatching Db Mauprat's deaih 
 warrant from the Oppicbr] 
 See here, De Mauprat's death-writ, 
 
 Julie! — 
 Parchment for battledores ! — Embrace 
 
 your husband ! 
 At last the old man blesses you ! 
 
 Julie. Oh, joy ! 
 You are saved, you live — I hold you 
 in these arms ! 
 De Mauprat. Never to part — 
 Julie. No — never, Adrien — never! 
 Louis [peevishly]. One moment makes 
 
 a startling cure. Lord Cardinal. 
 Richelieu. Ay, Sire; for in one 
 moment there did pass 
 Into this wither'd frame the might of 
 
 France ! — 
 My own dear France. — I have thee 
 
 yet — I have saved thee ! 
 I clasp thee still ! it was thy voice that 
 caU'd me 
 
Richelieu 
 
 135 
 
 Back from the tomb ! What mistress 
 like our country? 
 Louis. For Mauprat's pardon — 
 well ! But Julie, — Richelieu, 
 Leave me one thing to love ! 
 
 Richelieu. A subject's lujcury ! 
 Yet, if you must love something, Sire 
 — love me ! 
 Louis [smiling in spite of himself] 
 Fair proxy for a fresh young 
 Demoiselle ! 
 Richelieu. Your heart speaks for 
 my clients : — Kneel, my children — 
 And thank your King — 
 Julie. Ah, tears like these, my 
 Liege, 
 Are dews that mount to Heaven. 
 
 Louis. Rise — rise — be happy ! 
 
 [Retires] 
 [Richelieu beckons to De Bbr- 
 inghen] 
 De Beeinghen [falteringly]. My 
 Lord — you are — most — happily 
 recover'd. 
 Richelieu. But you are pale, dear 
 Beringhen : — this air 
 Suits not your delicate frame — I long 
 
 have thought so : 
 Sleep not another night in Paris : — 
 
 Go,— 
 Or else your precious life may be in 
 
 Leave France, dear Beringhen ! 
 
 De Bbbinghbn. I shall have time. 
 More than I ask'd for, — to discuss the 
 pate. [Exit] 
 
 Richelieu. [roOaLBANs] For you, 
 repentance — absence, and con- 
 fession ! 
 [To Fbancois] Never say fail again. 
 Brave Boy I 
 
 [To Joseph] He'll be — 
 A Bishop first. 
 
 Joseph. Ah, Cardinal — 
 Richelieu. Ah, Joseph ! 
 
 [To Louis, as De Maupbat and 
 Julie converse apart] 
 See, my Liege — see thro' plots and 
 
 counterplots — 
 Thro' gain and loss — thro' glory and 
 
 disgrace — 
 Along the plains, where passionate 
 
 Discord rears 
 Eternal Babel — ■ still the holy stream 
 Of human happiness glides on ! 
 
 Louis. And must we 
 Thank for that also — our prime min- 
 ister ? 
 Richelieu. No — let us own it : — 
 
 there is One above 
 Sways the harmonious mystery of the 
 
 world 
 Bv'n better than prime ministers. 
 Alas! 
 Our glories float between the earth and 
 
 heaven 
 Like clouds that seem pavilions of the 
 
 sun. 
 And are the playthings of the casual 
 
 wind; 
 StiU, like the cloud which drops on 
 
 unseen crags 
 The dews the wild flower feeds on, our 
 
 ambition 
 May from its airy height idrop gladness 
 
 down 
 On unsuspected virtue ; — and the 
 
 flower 
 May bless the cloud when it hath 
 
 pass'd away ! 
 
 the end 
 
LONDON ASSURANCE 
 
 A COMEDY 
 By Dion Boucicault 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 (1822-1890) 
 
 It was Aubrey Bouoioault who said, "I generally have to start at the beginning 
 of the alphabet when I attempt to recall all the plays my father wrote." Yet, 
 though the number was over four hundred, a few of them, "London Assurance", 
 "The Colleen Bawn", and "The Shaughraun" being the most typical, are sufficient 
 to represent the special features characterizing the genial Irishman's work. Bouci- 
 cault was destined to influence many future melodramatists. But his comedy of 
 manners was, all told, only a prosaic imitation of what was most sprightly and 
 artificial in Goldsmith and Sheridan. 
 
 Because Bouoioault was so intimately associated with theatrical life, his genius 
 was narrowed through his faciUty in stagecraft, which made him strain character 
 for situation. Edgar Allan Poe, in his estimate of Mrs. Mowatt, the actress, and 
 the author of the American comedy, ' ' Fashion ' ' , referred to ' ' that despicable mass of 
 inanity 'London Assurance.'" However sweeping this opinion may be, it warns 
 us to approach the Bouoioault drama from across the footlights and not at closer 
 range. 
 
 The playwright was born at Dublin, December 26, 1822, and was christened 
 Dionysius Lardner Bouoioault, a compliment to the great philologist. Dr. Lardner, 
 satirized by Thackeray in the " YeUowplush Papers." On his father's side he in- 
 herited a French strain, seen in the gradual evolution of his name from Bosquet to 
 Bouraiquot, to BourcicauU, with the later dropping of the r. It was on his mother's 
 side that Bouoioault received his greatest heritage. She was a Miss Darley, sister 
 of the essayist and dramatist, George Darley, as well as sister of the Reverend 
 Charles Darley, author of "Plighted Troth." 
 
 Young Bouoioault had reached the age of nineteen when he wrote his first play. 
 The early accounts of his education are conflicting, it being believed in one quarter 
 that he was placed with Stephenson, the inventor of the steam locomotive, and that 
 he had the honour of riding on the first steam engine that ran between Liverpool 
 and Manchester. There is another theory that he attended London University, 
 counting among his friends, Charles Lamb Kenney, a namesake of Elia. Pascoe 
 says that Dublin was his school centre. 
 
 However that may be, he joined a dramatic company in 1838, and had attained 
 some small reputation as an actor when he met success with the first of his dramas, 
 "London Assurance", given its premiSre at Covent Garden, on March 4, 1841. 
 The name adopted for the comedy was a hasty substitute ; for, just before the cur- 
 tain rose, the play was known as " Out of Town." 
 
 It will not bear analysis as a literary production [the author wrote in a 
 preface to the second edition of the printed play]. In fact, my sole object is to 
 
 139 
 
140 Representative British Dramas 
 
 throw together a few scenes of a dramatic nature, and therefore I studied the 
 stage rather than the moral effect. I attempted to instil a pungency into the 
 dialogue, and to procure vivid tones by a strong antithesis of character. The 
 moral which I intended to convey is expressed in the last speech of the comedy, 
 but as I wrote "currente calamo" I have doubtless through the play strayed 
 far wide of my original intent. 
 
 "Barefaced assurance is the vulgar substitute for gentlemanly ease,'' says 
 Sir Harcourt Courtley. "... The title of gentleman is the only one out of any 
 monarch's gift, yet within the reach of every peasant." This is the substance of 
 that last speech. 
 
 As Boucicault said, the "motive" was not sufficiently emphasized, but the stage 
 pictures were effective and the characters afforded ample scope for good acting. 
 
 Boucieault's own account of his dfibut as a dramatist, coloured with the tinge of 
 pleasant romance, is to be found in the North American Review, January-June, 1889. 
 He has told in a minute way his feelings as he took the play to Charles Mathews, 
 who first read it as a one-act piece. The whole drama was cut after a conventional 
 model, of which "The School for Scandal" is a most vivid example. Boucicault 
 was too young to do aught but reflect what he either had heard or had read. For 
 such a young man, the play exhibited remarkable efficiency and surety in dialogue 
 besides possessing theatrical richness. Once, Boucicault spoke of wit as not 
 possessing a soft and genial quality — ■ of its being more admirable than endearing, 
 and he condemned its application as heartless. For this very reason, he stig- 
 matized "The School for Scandal" as the most cold-blooded drama on the stage. 
 
 But in writing "London Assurance ", it cannot be denied that Boucieault's eye 
 was on this more polished comedy of the eighteenth century. Nor, after aU, was 
 there much originality in "London Assurance", for, in other forms, its plot had 
 been used before, and John Brougham came forward claiming his share, not only 
 in the conception of the part of Dazzle, but in the construction of the entire piece. 
 Lester Wallack, the American actor, came to the rescue of Brougham in the dispute 
 which followed. But the latter was not over-anxious to receive his just deserts, 
 whatever they might have been, his friends being the only ones who persisted in push- 
 ing the dispute. Finally, the two authors went to an attorney's office in London, 
 and there Brougham prepared a statement as to his exact share in the work, and 
 forthwith signed away all further claims on receipt of a very substantial check from 
 Boucicault. The legal dispute left no marked ill-feeling, since Brougham after- 
 wards appeared in many of the Boucicault dramas. Among them, he played in 
 "The Shaughraun. " The text for this Irish comedy is included in the third volume 
 of the present author's "Representative Plays by American Dramatists." 
 
 Such a misunderstanding at the outset of the dramatist's career is significant. 
 It was to be repeated many times during the years to come. In fact, Charles Reade 
 once wrote : 
 
 Like Shakespeare and MoUSre, the beggar [meaning Boucicault] steals 
 everything he can lay his hands on ; but he does it so deftly, so cleverly, that 
 I can't help condoning the theft. He picks up a pebble by the shore and 
 polishes it inl^o a jewel. Occasionally, too, he writes divine lines, and knows 
 more about the grammar of the stage than all the rest of them [the dramatists] 
 put together. 
 
Dion BoudcauU 141 
 
 Lester Wallaek was at the theatre during the first production of "London 
 Vssurance." The managers of Co vent Garden had done their utmost to mount 
 he piece according to the latest improvements in stage art. The audience saw 
 jefore them rare examples of the boxed-in scene, where all the appointments were 
 itting and realistic. The stage manager was well-nigh stunned when the young 
 Iramatist asked him to use a real carpet/in one of the settings. Herein may be 
 loted another of Boucieault's claims to influence ; more than any other playwright 
 )f his day, he depended largely upon realistic accessory for certain effects. He 
 ised Are in "The Octoroon" and water in "The Colleen Bawn" — those external 
 ilements affording many outlets for thrilling situations. The Boucicault drama 
 vas essentially external. 
 
 He studied his audiences carefully, noting in what way they responded to his 
 iKmaxes — for he spent many hours preparing novel surprises. 
 
 He wrote many plays in rapid succession. A remarkable fact about his career 
 TOS that, no matter whether good or bad, original or otherwise, the Boucicault 
 hama was eagerly sought by the theatre because it was framed for the theatre, 
 ^s fast as the dramatist wrote, just so fast were his manuscripts given to companies 
 or rehearsal. Boucicault himself declared that "he was a lucky bag out of which 
 lome managers drew fortunes and some drew blanks." 
 
 One usually grows older and wiser with the years. But it is typical of Bouci- 
 lault that he blossomed all of a sudden, that he slipped, at an early age, into what- 
 iver intellectual maturity he was to possess, and that he used over and over again 
 bll the tricks and sentiments of an external nature famUiar to earlier Victorian 
 hama. He was, as some of his friends termed him, a gay, ' ' semi-fashionable, semi- 
 Johemian" fellow, impulsive, nervous, a rapid worker, and as ready to flare into a 
 age as he was to exhibit his abundant Irish wit and humour. No man of his time 
 ras more given to excessive use of the blarney stone. 
 
 I knew [him], [writes Clement ScottJ, in the "Colleen Bawn" days at the 
 Adelphi, when he had a magnificent mansion and grounds at Old Bromp- 
 ton. .... I knew him in the days of "The Shaughraun" at the same theatre, 
 and I met him constantly at the tables of Edmund Yates [et als.], and I was also 
 a frequent guest at his own- table when he lived, as he ever did, money or no 
 money, credit or no credit, "en prince." at his flat. . . . Dion was a born 
 "viveur", a "gourmand" and "gourmet", and certainly one of the most 
 brilUant oonversationahsts it has ever been my happy fortune to meet. 
 
 John Coleman, the actor and writer, used to see Boucicault at Charles Reade's, 
 a later years, when the dramatist had become much older, yet with his Irish nature 
 till unchanged. It was characteristic of Boucicault that he could sing " The 
 Vearing of the Green" with as much spirit at sixty as he could at twenty. Cole- 
 lan says : 
 
 This distinguished actor and author had (so he himself told me) left 
 England under a cloud, but had "cast his nighted colour off" in America, 
 and returned to triumph. When we first met he was living ' ' en grand seigneur " 
 in the famous mansion at Kensington Gore, which had formerly been the home 
 of the Countess of Blessington. He was then making a fortune one moment 
 and spending it the next. . . . 
 
 His accomplishments were many and varied. He knew something about 
 
142 Representative British Dramas 
 
 everything, and what he didn't know about the popular drama (which to some 
 extent he incarnated in himself) wasn't worth knowing. Although no longer 
 young, his mind was alert as a boy's, and I can well believe what Charles 
 Mathews, Walter Lacey, and John Brougham often told me — that in his juve- 
 nalia he was the most fascinating young scapegrace that ever bafQed or bam- 
 boozled a bailiff. 
 
 It is not necessary to go into an account of the proUflc career of Dion Boucioault. 
 One may find it outlined in the present writer's ' ' Famous Actor Families in America", 
 and in Townsend Walsh's ' ' Life of Boucioault ", written for the Dunlap Society. 
 
 He was an actor of tremendous versatility, and ' ' created " the chief rdles in many 
 of his own plays. He fell easily into the habit of depending on French sources, and 
 he was likewise one among many dramatists who profited by adapting plays from 
 the novels of Dickens. He often entered the field as a dramatic innovator, and the 
 work he did on the version of "Rip Van Winkle", which Joseph Jefferson later 
 brought to such success, helped to facilitate its stage production. True to his reach- 
 ing out for any Mnd of available material, he converted Scott's "The Heart of Mid- 
 lothian" and Thackeray's "Vanity Fair" into dramas, and collaborated with 
 Charles Reade in preparing "Foul Play" from the novel for stage presentation. 
 All this dramatic activity showed too much faciUty, and the reader who will exam- 
 ine -his essay on the art of dramatic composition will note the philosophy of style 
 which influenced his literary endeavours. During his long career, he often served as 
 a reader of plays for the current theatre, and his approach toward a manuscript 
 is clearly indicated in what he once said respecting the laws of dramaturgy : 
 
 The essence of a rule is its necessity : it must be reasonable and always in 
 the right. The unities of time and place do not seem to be reasonable and have 
 been violated with impunity, therefore are not always in the right. The liberty 
 of imagination should not be sacrificed to arbitrary restrictions and traditions 
 that lead to dulness and formality. Art is not a church ; it is the philosophy 
 of pleasure. 
 
 The summary of Boucicault's life is a peculiar one ; impulsive yet thoughtful, 
 quick to see effects, but lacking in originality, except that originality which had to 
 do with practical arrangement ; he was extravagant and headstrong, yet kind of 
 heart. He had a fund of knowledge which his dramatic instinct enslaved for stage 
 use. He was quick to lay hold of the events of the moment and to incorporate them 
 in his dramas. Note "The Relief of Lucknow" and "The Octoroon." He was as 
 closely identified with the development of the drama in America as he was with 
 the development of the Victorian drama in England. As an Irishman, he was 
 interested in the political welfare of his country, and his public utterances, his occar 
 sional pamphlets, and the references to Irish condition made in his dramas were 
 many. 
 
 Boucicault was rapid in his work, and he always held that this rapidity was 
 due to the fact that the dramatic copyright law did not afford the author proper 
 protection ; he had to be quick in order to get ahead of his competitors. It was in 
 1856 that the American Congress decided the author had some rights to his printed 
 productions. In France, Boucicault had seen dramatists prosper under the royalty 
 system. For years he too fought for the same opportunity, and only succeeded, 
 finally, by openly defying the Dramatic Authors' Society in England and the 
 
Dion Boueicault 143 
 
 iramatio managers of the United States. This he proceeded to do, around 1860, 
 oy sending forth more than one company in his own plays, taking a proper com- 
 nission for himself from the proceeds of each performance. By these travelling 
 3ompanies of his, he was partly instrumental in hastening the decline of the old 
 3took System. In 1866, he preached his ideas to the French, who greeted them 
 'avourably, and, by 1872, the United States had likewise accepted them. 
 
 The royalty system was 'insisted upon by Boueicault after dire experience. 
 W^riting in 1879, he said : 
 
 To the commercial manager we owe the introduction of the burlesque, 
 opera-bouffe, and the reign of buffoonery. We ow;e to him also the deluge 
 of French plays that set in with 1842, and swamped the English drama of 
 that period. For examples : the usual price received by Sheridan Knowles, 
 Bulwer, and Talfourd at the time for their plays was £500. I was a beginner 
 in 1841, and received for my comedy, "London Assurance", £300. For that 
 amount the manager bought the privilege of playing the work for his season. 
 Three years later I offered a new play to a principal London theatre. The 
 manager offered me £100 for it. In reply to my objection to the smallness of 
 the sum, he remarked : "I can go to Paris and select a first-class comedy ; hav- 
 ing seen it performed, I feel certain of its effect. To get this comedy translated 
 will cost me £25. Why should I give you £300 or £500 for your comedy, the 
 success of which I cannot feel so assured ? " The argument was unanswerable, 
 and the result inevitable. I sold a work for £100 that took me six months' 
 hard work to compose, and accepted a commission to translate three French 
 plays at £50 apiece. This work afforded me child's play for a fortnight. 
 Thus the Enghsh dramatist was obhged either to relinquish the stage alto- 
 gether or to become a French copyist. 
 
 Boueicault has left his impress upon the development of drama, and his name 
 is one to be reckoned with. Few of his plays, however, bear the permanent elements 
 that will preserve them for the next century. He was original, if by that word one 
 means entertaining ; otherwise, he was clever — a cleverness based upon his gift 
 jf dialogue, however imitative, and his knowledge of stagecraft. As one critic 
 said: 
 
 He gave his age what it wanted. . . . He was a dramaturgical mata- 
 dor. . . . The Boueicault drama is dead ; any discussion of it is in the nature 
 of an autopsy. Its most notable quality was its gayety — its fine animal 
 spirits. It was merry and clean. 
 
 Boueicault did much to create for the stage a stereotyped figure of the Irish- 
 nan. Small wonder it is that his name should spell anathema to the new genera- 
 ion of Irish playwrights. W. B. Yeats claims that the Abbey Theatre was firjnly 
 'ounded on a determination to root out the popular conception of the Irishman, 
 10 sentimentally and so ignobly presented in "The Colleen Bawn", "The Shaugh- 
 •aun", and "Arrah-narPogue." 
 
 "London Assurance" has been selected for inclusion in the present collection, 
 lot because it is typical of Boueicault at his maturest, but because it reflects the 
 legradation of English comedy to the needs of a very trivial theatrical atmosphere. 
 [t is one of the plays presenting infinite possibilities from tfee standpoint of acting. 
 
144 Representative British Dramas 
 
 It has the semblance of manners, even as "The School for Scandal " has the essential 
 spirit of manners. Grace Harkaway may be trivial, but still she is picturesque. 
 Lady Gay Spanker, with none of the deeper qualities of Lady Algy, in R. C. Carton's 
 later comedy, "Lord and Lady Algy", possesses vivid and attractive possibihties. 
 Certainly, in the drawing of Mawley, Mr. Carton must have had in mind the former 
 picture of Mr. Spanker. The play has received no better revival than that given 
 to it by the Bancrofts, in 1877, when it was reshaped so as to make it less old- 
 fashioned. In 1847, Charles Dickens wrote : 
 
 Shall I ever forget Vestris in "London Assurance" [Madame Vestris was 
 the original Grace Harkaway] bursting out with certain praises (they always 
 eUcited three rounds) — of a country morning, I think it was ? The atrocity 
 was perpetrated, I remember, on a lawn before a viUa. It was led up to by 
 flower-pots. The thing was as like any honest sympathy, or honest English, 
 as the rose-pink on a sweep's face on May Day is to a beautiful complexion ; but 
 Harley (he was the "creator" of Mark Meddle) generally appeared touched 
 to the soul, and a man in the pit always cried out, "Beau-ti-ful." 
 
LONDON ASSURANCE 
 A COMEDY IN FIVE ACTS 
 
 By DION L. BOURCICAULT 
 
TO 
 
 CHARLES KEMBLE 
 
 THIS COMEDY 
 
 (WITH HIS KIND PERMISSION) 
 
 IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS FERVENT ADMIRER AND HrMBLB SERVANT 
 
 DION. li. BOURCICATJLT 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Covent Garden, 1841 Park, 1841 
 
 Sir Harcottrt Courtly Mr. W. Farren Mr. Plaoide 
 
 Max Harkaway Mr. Bartley Mr. Fisher 
 
 Charles Courtly . Mr. Anderson Mr. Wheatley 
 
 Mr. Spanker Mr. Keeley Mr. Williams 
 
 Dazzle Mr. C. Mathews Mr. Browne 
 
 Mark Meddle Mr. Harley Mr. Latham 
 
 Cool (Valet) Mr. Brindal Mr. Andrews 
 
 Simpson (Butler) Mr. Honner Mr. King 
 
 Martin Mr. Ayliffe Mr. Howard 
 
 Lady Gay Spanker Mrs. Nisbett Miss Cushman 
 
 Grace Harkaway Madame Vestris Miss Clarendon 
 
 Pert Mrs. Humby Mrs. Vernon 
 
 The Scene lies in London and Gloucestershire in 1841. 
 Time — Three days.] 
 
 First produced at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, on March 4, 1841 ; and 
 
 in the United States, at the Park Theatre, New York, October 11, 1841. 
 
LONDON ASSUKANCE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene First. — An Ante-Room in Sir 
 Harcotjrt Cotjrtly's House in 
 Belgrave Square. 
 
 [Enter Cool] " 
 
 Cool. Half-past nine, and Mr. 
 Charles has not yet returned. I am in a 
 fever of dread. If his father happen to 
 rise earlier than usual on any morning, 
 he is sure to ask first for Mr. Charles. 
 Poor deluded old gentleman — he little 
 thinks how he is deceived. 
 
 [Enter Martin, lazily] 
 
 Weill Martin, he has not come home yet ! 
 r Martin. No ; and I have not had a 
 , wink of sleep all night — I cannot stand 
 ' this any longer; I shall give warning. 
 1 This is the fifth night Mr. Courtjy has 
 ^ remained out, and I'm obliged to stand 
 
 at the haU window to watch for him. 
 ; Cool. You know, if Sir Hareourt 
 was aware that we connived at his son's 
 irregularities, we should all be dis- 
 charged. 
 
 Martin. I have used up all my 
 common excuses on his duns. — "Call 
 again", "Not at home", and "Send it 
 down to you ", won't serve any more ; 
 and Mr. Crust, the wine merchant, 
 swears he wiU be paid. 
 
 Cool. So they all say. Why, he 
 has arrests out against him already. 
 I've seen the fellows watching the door 
 — [Loud knock and ring heard] — There 
 he is, just in time — quick, Martin, for 
 I expect Sir William's bell every mo- 
 ment — [Bell rings] — and there it is. 
 [£arfj Martin, slowly] Thank heaven! 
 he will return to college to-morrow, and 
 this heavy responsibility will be taken 
 off my shoulders. A valet is as difficult 
 a post to flU properly as that of prime 
 minister. [Exit] 
 
 Young Courtly. [Without] Hollo ! 
 Dazzle. [Without] Steady ! 
 
 [Enter Young Courtly and Dazzle] 
 
 Young Courtly. HoUo-o-o ! 
 
 Dazzle. Hush ! what are you about, 
 howling hke a Hottentot. Sit down 
 there, and thank heaven you are in 
 Belgrave Square, instead of Bow Street. 
 
 Young Courtly. D — n — damn 
 Bow Street. 
 
 Dazzle. Oh,, with all my heart ! — 
 you have not seen as much of it as I 
 have. 
 
 Young Courtly. I say — let me 
 see — -what was I going to say? — ^oh, 
 look here — [Pulls out a large assortment 
 of bell-pulls, knockers, etc., from his 
 pocket] There ! dam'me ! I'll puzzle 
 the two-penny jjostmen, — I'U deprive 
 them of their right of disturbing the 
 neighbourhood. That black lion's head 
 did belong to old Vampire, the money- 
 lender ; this bell-pull to Miss Stitch, the 
 milliner. 
 
 Dazzle. And this brass griffin — 
 
 Young Courtly. That ! oh, let me 
 see — I think — I twisted that off our 
 own.haU-door as I came in, while you 
 were pasdng the cab. 
 
 Dazzle. What shall I do with them ? 
 
 Young Courtly. Pack 'em in a 
 small hamper, and send 'em to the sitting 
 magistrate with my father's compli- 
 ments ; in the mean time, come into my 
 room, and I'U astonish you with some 
 Burgundy. 
 
 [Re-enter Cool] 
 
 Cool. Mr. Charles — 
 
 Young Courtly. Out ! out ! not at 
 home to any one. 
 
 Cool. And drunk — 
 
 Young Courtly. As a lord. 
 
 Cool. If Sir Hareourt knew this, he 
 would go mad, he would discharge me. 
 
 Young Courtly. You flatter your- 
 self : that would be no proof of his 
 insanity. — [To Dazzle] This is Cool, 
 
 147 
 
148 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 sir, Mr. Cool; he is the best liar in 
 London — there is a pungency about 
 his invention, and an originality in his 
 equivocation, that is perfectly refreshing. 
 
 Cool. [Aside] Why, Mr. Charles, 
 where did you pick him up ? 
 
 YotTNG CouBTLY. You mistake, he 
 picked me up. [Bell rings] 
 
 Cool. Here comes Sir Harcourt — 
 pray do not let him see you in this state. 
 
 Young Courtly. State ! what do 
 you mean? I am in a beautiful state. 
 
 Cool. I should lose my character. 
 
 Young Courtly. That would be a 
 fortunate epoch in your life. Cool. 
 
 Cool. Your father would discharge 
 me. 
 
 Young Courtly. Cool, my dad is an 
 old ass. 
 
 Cool. Retire to your own room, for 
 heaven's sake, Mr. Charles. 
 
 Young Courtly. I'll do so for my 
 own sake. [To Dazzle] I say, old 
 fellow, [staggering] just hold the door 
 steady while I ^o in. 
 
 Dazzle. TMs way. Now, then! — 
 take care ! [Helps him into the room] 
 
 [Enter Sib Harcourt Courtly in an 
 elegant dressing-gown, and Greek 
 scull-cap and tassels, etc.] 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Cool, is breakfast 
 ready ? 
 
 Cool. Quite ready, Sir Harcourt. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Apropos. I omitted 
 to mention that I expect Squire HarW 
 way to join us this morning, and you 
 must prepare for my departure to Oak 
 Hall immediately. 
 
 Cool. Leave town in the middle of 
 the season. Sir Harcourt ? So unprece- 
 dented a proceeding ! 
 
 Sib Harcourt. It is ! I confess it : 
 there is but one power could effect such 
 a miracle — that is divinity. 
 
 Cool. How ! 
 
 Sir Haboourt. In female form, of 
 course. Cool, I am about to present 
 society with a second Lady Courtly; 
 young — blushing eighteen ; — lovely ! 
 I have her portrait ; rich ! I have her 
 banker's account ; — an heiress, and a 
 Venus ! 
 
 Cool. Lady Courtly could be none 
 other. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Ha! ha! Cool, 
 your manners are above your station. 
 — Apropos, I shall find no further use 
 for my brocade dressing-gown. 
 
 Cool. I thank you. Sir Harcourt; 
 might I ask who the fortunate lady is? 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Certainly: Miss 
 Grace Harkaway, the niece of my old 
 friend. Max. 
 
 Cool. Have you never seen the lady, 
 sir? 
 
 Sir , Habcoubt. Never — that is, 
 yes — ^ eight years ago. Having been, 
 as you know, on the continent for the 
 last seven years, I have not had the 
 opportunity of paying my devoirs. 
 Our connexion and betrothal was a very 
 extraordinary one. Her father's estates 
 were contiguous to mine ; — being a 
 penurious, miserly, ugly old scountol, 
 he made a market of my indiscretion, 
 and supplied my extravagance mm 
 large sums of money on mortgages, his 
 great desire being to unite the two 
 properties. About seven years ago, 
 he died — leaving Grace, a girl, to the 
 guardianship of her uncle, with this 
 will : — if, on attaining the age of 
 nineteen, she would consent to marry 
 me, I should receive those deeds, and 
 all his property, as her dowry. If she 
 refused to comply with this condition, 
 they should revert to my heir-presump- 
 tive or apparent. — She consents. 
 
 Cool. Who would not? 
 
 SiB Harcourt. I consent to receive 
 her 15,0002. a year. 
 
 Cool. [Aside] Who would not? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. So prepare. Cool, 
 prepare ; — but where is my boy, where 
 is Charles ? 
 
 Cool. Why — oh, he is gone out, 
 Sir Harcourt ; yes, gone out to take a 
 walk. 
 
 Sir Harcoubt. Poor child ! A per- 
 fect child in heart — a sober, placid 
 mind — the simplicity and verdure of 
 boyhood, kept fresh and unsuUied by 
 any contact with society. Tell me, 
 Cool, at what time was he in bed last 
 night? 
 
 Cool. Half-past nine. Sir Harcourt. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Half -past nine! 
 Beautiful! What an original idea! 
 Reposing in cherub slumbers, while all 
 around him teems with drinking and 
 debauchery! Primitive sweetness of 
 nature! No pilot-coated, bear-sMnned 
 brawling ! 
 
 Cool. Oh, Sir Harcourt ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. No cigar-smok- 
 ing — 
 
 Cool. Faints at the smell of one. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. No brandy and 
 water bibbing. 
 
 Cool. Doesn't know the taste of 
 anything stronger than barley-water. 
 
London Assurance 
 
 149 
 
 Sib H aecotjkt. No night parading — 
 Cooi.. Never heard the clock strike 
 twelve, except at noon. 
 
 Sir Habcourt. In fact, he is my son, 
 and became a gentleman by right of 
 paternity. He inherited my manners. 
 
 [Enter Martin] 
 
 Martin. Mr. Harkaway ! 
 
 [Enter Max Harkaway] 
 
 Max. Squire Harkaway, fellow, or 
 Max Harkaway, another time. [Mar- 
 tin bows, and exit] Ah! Ha! Sir 
 Harcourt, I'm devilish glad to see you ! 
 Gi' me your flst. Dang it, but I'm 
 glad to see ye ! Let me see : six — 
 seven years, or more, since we have met. 
 How quickly they have flown ! 
 
 Sir HABCotTBT [thromng of his 
 studied manner]. Max, Max ! Give me 
 your hand, old boy. — • [Aside] Ah ! he 
 is glad to see me : there is no fawning 
 pretence about that squeeze. Cool, you 
 may retire. [Exit, Cool] 
 
 Max. Why, you are looking quite 
 rosy. 
 
 SibHarcoubt. Ah! ah! rosy! Am 
 I too florid? 
 
 Max. Not a bit ; not a bit. 
 
 Sib Harcoubt. I thought so. — 
 [Aside] Cool said I had put too much 
 oh. 
 
 Max. How comes it, Courtly, that 
 you manage to retain your youth ? See, 
 I'm as grey as an old badger, or a wild 
 rabbit ; while you are — are as black 
 as a young rook. I say, whose head 
 grew your hair, eh? 
 
 Sib Habcourt. Permit me to remark 
 that aU the beauties of my person are of 
 home manufacture. Why should you 
 be surprised at my youth? I have 
 scarcely thrown off the giddiness of a 
 very boy — elasticity of limb — buoy- 
 ancy of soul ! Remark this position — 
 [Throws himself into an attitude] I held 
 that attitude for ten minutes at Lady 
 Acid's last reunion, at the express desire 
 of one of our flrst sculptors, while he was 
 making a sketch of me for the Apollo. 
 
 Max. [Aside] Making a butt of 
 thee for their gibes. 
 
 Sir Habcourt. Lady Sarah Sarcasm 
 started up, and, pointing to my face, 
 ejaculated, ^'Good gracioms! Does not 
 Sir Harcourt remind you of the coun- 
 tenance of Ajax, in the Pompeian por- 
 trait?" 
 
 Max. Ajax ! — humbug. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. You are complimen- 
 tary. 
 
 Max. I'm a plain man, and always 
 speak my mind. What's in a face or 
 figure? Does a Grecian nose entail a 
 good temper? Does a waspish waist 
 indicate a good heart? Or, do oily 
 perfumed locks necessarily thatch a well- 
 furnished brain? 
 
 Sir Habcouet. It's an undeniable 
 fact, — plain people always praise the 
 beauties of the mind. 
 
 Max. Excuse the insinuation; I 
 had thought the first Lady Courtly 
 had surfeited you with beauty. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. No ; she lived four- 
 teen months with me, and then eloped 
 with an intimate friend. Etiquette 
 compelled me to challenge the seducer; 
 so I received satisfaction — and a bullet 
 in my shoulder at the same time. How- 
 ever, I had the consolation of knowing 
 that he was the handsomest man of the 
 age. She did not insult me, by running 
 away with a d — ^d ill-looking scoundrel. 
 
 Max. That, certainly, was flattering. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. I felt so, as I 
 pocketed the ten thousand pounds 
 damages. 
 
 Max. That must have been a great 
 balm to your sore honour. 
 
 Sib Habcoubt. It was — Max, my 
 honour would have died without it; 
 for on that year the wrong horse won 
 the Derby — by some mistake. It wag 
 one of the luckiest chances — a thing 
 that does not happen twice in a man's 
 life — the opportunity of getting rid of 
 his wife and his debts at the same time. 
 
 Max. Tell the truth. Courtly ! Did 
 you not feel a httle frayed in your deli- 
 cacy — your honour, now? Eh ? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Not a whit. Why 
 should I? I married money, and I 
 received it — virgin gold ! My deli- 
 cacy and honour had nothing to do with 
 hers. The world pities the bereaved 
 husband, when it should eoi^atulate. 
 No : the affair made a sensation, and I 
 was the object. Besides, it is vulgar 
 to make a parade of one's feelings, how- 
 ever acute they may be : impenetrability 
 of countenance is the sure sign of your 
 highly-bred man of fashion. 
 
 Max. So, a man must, therefore, lose 
 his wife and his money with a smile, -;- 
 in fact, every thing he possesses but his 
 temper. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Exactly, — and 
 greet ruin with vive la bagatelle ! For 
 example, — your modish beauty never 
 
im 
 
 -^ 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 discomposes the shape of her features 
 with convulsive laughter. A smile 
 rewards the bon mot, and also shows the 
 whiteness of her teeth. She never 
 weeps impromptu — tears might destroy 
 the economy of her cheek. Scenes are 
 vulgar, — hysterics obsolete ; she ex- 
 hibits a calm, placid, impenetrable lake, 
 whose surface is reflexion, but of un- 
 fathomable depth, — a statue, whose 
 life is hypothetical, and not a prima 
 facie fact. 
 
 Max. Well, give me the girl that 
 wiU fly at yoior eyes in an argument, and 
 stick to her point like a fox to his own 
 tail. 
 
 Sir Hakcourt. But etiquette ! 
 Max, — remember etiquette ! 
 
 Max. Damn etiquette ! I have seen 
 a man who thought it sacrilege to eat 
 fish with a knife, that would not scruple 
 to rise up and rob his brother of his birth- 
 right in a gambling-house. Your thor- 
 ough-bred, well-blooded heart will sel- 
 dom kick over the traces of good feeling. 
 That's my opinion, and I don't care who 
 knows it. 
 
 SiE HABCotTRT. Pardon me, — eti- 
 quette is the pulse of society, by regulat- 
 ing which the body pohtio is retained in 
 health. I consider myself one of the 
 faculty in the art. 
 
 Max. Well, well; you are a living 
 Ubel upon common sense, for you are old 
 enough to know better. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Old enough ! What 
 do you mean ? Old ! I still retain all 
 my little juvenile indiscretions, which 
 your niece's beauties must teach me to 
 discard. I have not sown my wild oats 
 yet. 
 
 Max. Time you did, at sixty-three. 
 
 Sir Haecourt. Sixty-three ! Good 
 God ! — forty, 'pon my Hfe ! forty, next 
 March. 
 
 Max. Why, you are older than I am. 
 
 Sir Harcouet. Oh! you are old 
 enough to be my father. 
 
 Max. Well, if I am, I am; that's 
 etiquette, I suppose. Poor Grace ! how 
 often I have pitied her fate ! That a 
 young and beautiful creature should be 
 driven into wretched splendour, or 
 miserable poverty ! 
 
 Sir Harcouet. Wretched ! where- 
 fore? Lady Courtly wretched! Im- 
 possible ! 
 
 Max. Win she not be compelled to 
 marry you, whether she likes you or 
 not? — a choice between you and pov- 
 erty. [Aside] And hang me if it isn't a 
 
 tie! But why do you not introduce 
 your son Charles to me ? I have not 
 seen him since he was a child. You 
 would never permit him to accept any 
 of my invitations to spend his vacation 
 at Oak Hall, — of course, we shall have 
 the pleasure of his company now. 
 
 Sir Haecourt. _ He is not fit to enter 
 society yet. He is a studious, sober 
 boy. 
 
 Max. Boy! Why, he's flve-and- 
 twenty. 
 
 Sir Harcouet. Good gracious! 
 Max, — you wiU permit me to know my 
 own son's age, — he is not twenty. 
 
 Max. I'm dumb. 
 
 Sir Harcouet. You wiU exciise me 
 while I indulge in the process of dressing; 
 
 — Cool ! 
 
 [Enter Cool] 
 
 Prepare my toilet. [Exit Cool] That 
 is a ceremony, which, with me, super- 
 sedes all others. I consider it a duty 
 which every gentleman, owes to society 
 
 — to render himself as agreeable an 
 object as possible: and the least com- 
 pMment a mortal can pay to nature, 
 when she honours him by bestowing 
 extra care in the manufacture of Ms 
 person, is to display her taste to the best 
 possible advantage ; and so, au revoir. 
 
 [Ex'ii] 
 Max. That's a good soul — -he has 
 his faults, and who has not? Forty 
 years of age ! Oh, monstrous ! — but he 
 does look uncommonly young for sixty, 
 spite of his foreign locks and complexion. 
 
 [Enter Dazzle] 
 
 Dazzle. Who's my friend, with the 
 stick and gaiters, I wonder — one of tlie 
 family — the governor, may be? 
 
 Max. Who's this? Oh, Charles — 
 is that you, my boy? How are you? 
 [Aside] This is the hoy. 
 
 Dazzle. He knows me — he is too 
 respectable for a baiUfE. [Alovd] How 
 are you? 
 
 Max. Your father has just left me. 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside] The devil he has ! 
 He has been dead these ten years. Oh! 
 I see, he thinks I'm young Courtly. 
 [Aloud] The honour you would confer 
 upon me, I must unwillingly disclaim, — 
 I am not Mr. Courtly. 
 
 Max. I beg your pardort — a friend, 
 I suppose? 
 
 Dazzle. Oh, a most intimate friend 
 
 — a friend of years — distantly related 
 to the family — one of my ancestors 
 
London Assurance 
 
 <m 
 
 married one of his. [Aside] Adam and 
 Eve. 
 
 Max. Are you on a visit here ? 
 
 Dazzle. Yes. Oh! yes. [Aside] 
 Rather a short one, I'm afraid. 
 
 Max. [Aside] This appears a dash- 
 ing kind of fellow — as he is a friend of 
 Sir Harcourt's, I'll invite him to the 
 wedding. [Aloud] Sir, if you are not 
 otherwise engaged, I shall feel honoured 
 by your company at my house. Oak Hall, 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 Dazzle. Your name is — 
 
 Max. Harkaway — Max Harkaway. 
 
 Dazzle. Harkaway — let me see — 
 I ought to be related to the Harkaways, 
 somehow. 
 
 Max. a wedding is about to come 
 off — will you take a part on the occa- 
 sion? 
 
 Dazzle. With pleasure ! any part, 
 but that of the husband. 
 
 Max. Have you any previous en- 
 gagement? 
 
 Dazzle. I was thinking — eh ! why, 
 let me see. [Aside] Promised to meet 
 my tailor and his account to-morrow ; 
 however, I'U postpone that. [Aloud] 
 Have you good shooting? 
 
 Max. Shooting! Why, there's no 
 shooting at this time of the year. 
 
 Dazzle. Oh ! I'm in no hurry — I 
 can wait till the season, of course. I was 
 only speaking precautionaUy — you 
 have good shooting? 
 
 Max. The best in the country. 
 
 Dazzle. Make yourself comfortable ! 
 — Say no more — I'm your man — wait 
 till you see how I'U murder your pre- 
 serves. 
 
 Max. Do you hunt? 
 
 Dazzle. Pardon me — but wiE you 
 repeat that? [Aside] DeUeious and 
 expensive idea ! 
 
 Max. You ride? 
 
 Dazzle Anything ! Everything ! 
 From a blood to a broomstick. Only 
 catch me a flash of lightning, and let 
 me get on the back of it, and dam'me 
 if I wouldn't astonish the elements. 
 
 Max. Ha! ha! 
 
 Dazzle. _ I'd put a ^dle round about 
 the earth, in very considerably less than 
 forty minutes. 
 
 .Max. Ah! ha! We'll show old 
 Eiddlestrings how to spend the day. 
 He imagines that Nature, at the earnest 
 request of Fashion, made summer days 
 long for him to saunter in the Park, and 
 winter nights, that he might have good 
 time to get cleared out at hazard or at 
 
 whist. Give me the yelping of a pack 
 of hounds, before the shuffling of a pack 
 of cards. What state can match the 
 chase in full cry, each vying with his 
 fellow which shall be most happy? A 
 thousand deaths fly by unheeded in that 
 one hour's Ufe of ecstasy. Time is out- 
 run, and Nature seems to grudge our 
 bliss by making the day so short. 
 
 Dazzle. No, for then rises up the 
 idol of my great adoration. 
 
 Max. Who's that? 
 
 Dazzle. The bottle — that lends a 
 lustre to the soul ! — When the world 
 puts on its night-cap, and extinguishes 
 the sun — then comes the bottle ! Oh, 
 mighty wine ! Don't ask me to apos- 
 trophise. Wine and love are the only 
 two indescribable things in natiu:e ; but 
 I prefer the wine, because its conse- 
 quences are not entailed, and are more 
 easily got rid of. 
 
 Max. How so ? 
 
 Dazzle. Love ends in matrimony, 
 wine in soda water. 
 
 Max. Well, I can promise you as 
 fine a bottle as ever was cracked. 
 
 Dazzle. Never mind the bottle, give 
 me the wine. Say no more ; but, when 
 I arrive, just shake one of my hands, and 
 put the key of the cellar into the other, 
 and, if I don't make myself intimately 
 acquainted with its internal organiza- 
 tion — weU, I say nothing — time will 
 show. 
 
 Max. I foresee some happy days. 
 
 Dazzle. And I some glorious mghts. 
 
 Max. If mustn't be a flying visit. 
 
 Dazzle. I despise the word — I'll 
 stop a month with you. 
 
 Max. Or a year or two. 
 
 Dazzle. I'U Uve and die with you I 
 
 Max. Ha! ha! Remember Max 
 Harkaway, Oak Hall, Gloucestershire. 
 
 Dazzle. I'U remember — ■ fare ye 
 weU. [Max is going] I say, hoUoa ! — 
 TaUyho-o-o-o ! 
 
 Max. Yoicks ! — TaUyho-o-o-o ! 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Dazzle. There I am — quartered 
 for a couple of years, at the least. The 
 old boy wants somebody to ride his 
 horses, shoot his game, and keep a 
 restraint on the morals of the parish; 
 I'm eUgible. What a lucky accident to 
 meet young Courtly last night! Who 
 could have thought it? — Yesterday, I 
 could not make certain of a dinner, 
 except at my own proper peril ; to-day, 
 I would flirt with a banquet. 
 
152 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Enter Yotjng Courtly] 
 
 YoTTNG CouHTLT. What infernal row 
 was that? Why, [seeing Dazzle] are 
 you here still? 
 
 Dazzle. Yes. Ain't you delighted? 
 I'll ring, and send the servant for my 
 luggage. 
 
 YotTNG CouBTLT. The devil you 
 will ! Why, you don't mean to say you 
 seriously intend to take up a permanent 
 residence here? [He rings the bell] 
 
 Dazzle. Now, that's a most inhos- 
 pitable insinuation. 
 
 Young Courtly. Might I ask your 
 name? 
 
 Dazzle. With a deal of pleasure — 
 Richard Dazzle, late of the Unattached 
 Volunteers, vulgarly entitled the Dirty 
 Buffs. 
 
 [Enter Martin] 
 
 Young Courtly. Then, Mr. Rich- 
 ard Dazzle, I have the honour of wishing 
 you a very good morning. Martin, 
 show this gentleman the door. 
 
 Dazzle. If he does, I'U kick Martin 
 out of it. — ■ No offence. [Exit Martin] 
 Now, sir, permit me to place a dioramic 
 view of your conduct before you. After 
 bringing you safely home this morning 
 — ■ after indulgently waiting, whenever 
 you took a passing fancy to a knocker or 
 bell-pull — after conducting a retreat 
 that would have reflected honour on 
 Napoleon. — you would kick me into the 
 street, like a mangy cur; and that's 
 what you call gratitude. Now, to 
 show you how superior I am to petty 
 malice, I give you an unlimited invita- 
 tion to my house — my country house 
 
 — to remain as long as you please. 
 Young Courtly. Your house ! 
 Dazzle. Oak Hall, Gloucestershire, 
 
 — fine old place ! — for further partic- 
 ulars see roadbook — that is, it nomi- 
 nally belongs to my old friend and 
 relation. Max Harkaway; but I'm 
 privileged. Capital old fellow — say, 
 shall we be honoured? 
 
 Young Courtly. Sir, permit me to 
 hesitate a moment. [Aside] Let me 
 see : I go back to college to-morrow, so 
 I shall not be missing ; tradesmen begin 
 to dun — 
 
 [Enter Cool] 
 
 I hear thunder ; here is shelter ready for 
 me. 
 
 Cool. Oh, Mr. Charles, Mr. Solo- 
 mon Isaacs is in the hall, and swears lie 
 win remain till he has arrested you ! 
 
 Young Courtly. Does he ! — sorry 
 he is so obstinate — take him my com- 
 pliments, and I wiU bet him five to one 
 he will not. 
 
 Dazzle. Double or quits, with my 
 kind regards. 
 
 Cool. But, sir, he has discovered the 
 house in Curzon Street ; he says he is 
 aware the fiirniture, at least, belongs to 
 you, and he will put a man in inune- 
 diately. 
 
 Young Courtly. That's awkward 
 
 — what's to be done? 
 
 Dazzle. Ask him whether he 
 couldn't make it a woman. 
 
 Young Courtly. I must trust that 
 to fate. 
 
 Dazzle. I will give you my accept- 
 ance, if it will be of any use to you — 
 it is of none to me. 
 
 Young Courtly. No, sir; but in 
 reply to your most generous and kind 
 invitation, if you be in earnest, I shall 
 feel delighted to accept it. 
 
 Dazzle. Certainly. 
 
 Young Courtly. Then off we go — 
 through the stables — down the Mews, 
 and so slip through my friend's fingers. 
 
 Dazzle. But, stay, you must do the 
 polite ; say farewell to him before you 
 part. Damn it, don't cut him ! 
 
 Young Courtly. You jest ! 
 
 Dazzle. Here, lend me a card. 
 [Courtly gives him one] Now, then, 
 [Wriies] "Our respects to Mr. Isaacs 
 
 — sorry to have been prevented from 
 seeing him." — Ha! ha! 
 
 Young Courtly. Ha! ha! 
 
 Dazzle. We'll send him up some 
 game. 
 
 Young Courtly. [To Cool] Don't 
 let my father see him. 
 
 [Exeunt Young Courtly and 
 Dazzle] 
 
 Cool. What's this ? — "Mr. Charles 
 Courtly, P.P.C, returns thanks for 
 obliging inquiries." [Exit] 
 
 END OF act I 
 
London Assurance 
 
 153 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene First. — The Lawn before Oak 
 Hall, a fine Elizabethan mansion; a 
 Drawing-Room is seen through large 
 French windows at the back. Statues, 
 urns, and garden chairs about the 
 
 [Enter Pbbt and Jambs] 
 
 Pert. James, Miss Grace desires me 
 to request that you will watch at the 
 avenue, and let her know when the 
 squire's carriage is seen on the London 
 road. 
 
 James. I wiU go to the lodge. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Pekt. How I do long to see what 
 kind of a man Sir Harcourt Courtly is ! 
 They say he is sixty ; so he must be old, 
 and consequently ugly. If I was Miss 
 Grace, I would rather give up all my 
 fortune and marry the man I liked, than 
 go to church with a stuffed eel-skin. 
 But taste is everything, — she doesn't 
 seem to care whether he is sixty or 
 sixteen; jokes at love; prepares for 
 matrimony as she would for dinner; 
 says it is a necessary evil, and what can't 
 be cured must be endured. Now, I say 
 this is against all nature; and she is 
 either no woman, or a deeper one than I 
 am, if she prefers an old man to a young 
 one. Here she comes ! looking as 
 cheerfully as if she was going to marry 
 Mr. Jenks ! my Mr. Jenks ! whom no- 
 body won't lead to the halter tiU I have 
 that honour. 
 
 [Enter Grace from the Drawing-Room] 
 
 Grace. Well, Pert? any signs of the 
 squire yet ? 
 
 Pert. No, Miss Grace ; but James 
 has gone to watch the road. 
 
 Grace. In my uncle's letter, he men- 
 tions a Mr. Dazzle, whom he has in- 
 vited ; so you must prepare a room for 
 him. _ He is some friend of my husband 
 that is to be, and my uncle seems to have 
 taken an extraordinary predilection for 
 him. Apropos ! I must not forget to 
 have a bouciuet for the dear old man 
 when he arrives. 
 
 Pert. The dear old man! Do you 
 mean Sir Harcourt ? 
 
 Grace. Law, no ! my uncle, of 
 course. [Plucking flowers] What do I 
 care for Sir Harcourt Courtly? 
 
 Pert. Isn't it odd, Miss, you have 
 never seen your intended, though it has 
 been so long since you were betrothed ? 
 
 Grace. Not at all; marriage mat- 
 ters are conducted now-a-days in a 
 most mercantile manner ; consequently, 
 a previous acquaintance is by no means 
 indispensable. Besides, my prescribed 
 husband has been upon the continent for 
 the benefit of his — property ! They 
 say a southern climate is a great restorer 
 of consumptive estates. 
 
 Pert. WeU, Miss, for my own part, 
 I should like to have a good look at my 
 bargain before I paid for it ; 'specially 
 when one's life is the price of the article. 
 But why, ma'am, do you consent to 
 marry in this blind-man's-buff sort of 
 manner? What would you think if he 
 were not quite so old? 
 
 Grace. I should think he was a little 
 younger. 
 
 Pert. I should like him all the 
 better. 
 
 Grace. That wouldn't I. A young 
 husband might expect affection and 
 nonsense, which 'twoiild be deceit in me 
 to render; nor would he permit me to 
 remain with my uncle. — Sir Harcourt 
 takes me with the incumbrances on his 
 estate, and I shall beg to be left among 
 the rest of the live stock. 
 
 Pert. Ah, Miss ! but some day you 
 might chance to stumble over the man, 
 — what could you do then ? 
 
 Grace. Do ! beg the man's pardon, 
 and request the man to pick me up 
 again. 
 
 Pert. Ah ! you were never in love, 
 Miss? 
 
 Grace. I never was, nor will be, till 
 I am tired of myself- and common sense. 
 Love is a pleasant scape-goat for a little 
 epidemic madness. I must have been 
 inoculated in my infancy, for the infec- 
 tion passes over poor me in contempt. 
 
 [Enter James] 
 
 James. Two gentlemen. Miss Grace, 
 have just ahghted. 
 
 Grace. Very well, James. [Exit 
 James] Love is pictured as a boy ; in 
 another century they wiU be wiser, and 
 paint him as a fool, with cap and bells, 
 without a thought above the jingling of 
 his own folly. Now, Pert, remember 
 this as a maxim, — A woman is always 
 in love with one of two things. 
 
 Pert. What are they, Miss ? 
 
 Grace. A man, or herself — and I 
 know which is the most profitable. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Pert. I wonder what my Jenks 
 would say, if I was to ask him. Law! 
 
154 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 here comes Mr. Meddle, his rival con- 
 temporary solicitor, as he calls Mm, — 
 a nasty, prying, ugly wretch — what 
 brings him here ? He comes puffed with 
 some news. [Retires] 
 
 [Enter Meddle, with a newspaper] 
 
 Meddle. I have secured the only 
 newspaper in. the village — my character, 
 as an attorney-at-law, depended on the 
 monopoly of its information. — I took 
 it up by chance, when this paragraph 
 met my astonished view : [Beads] "We 
 understand that the contract of mar- 
 riage so long in abeyance on account of 
 the lady's minority, is about to be cele- 
 brated, at Oak Hall, Gloucestershire, 
 the well-known and magnificent man- 
 sion of Maximilian Harkaway, Esq., 
 between Sir Hareourt Courtly, Baronet, 
 of fashionable celebrity, and Miss Grace 
 Harkaway, niece to the said Mr. Hark- 
 away. The preparations are proceeding 
 in the good old English style." Is it 
 possible ! I seldom swear, except in a 
 witness box, but, damme, had it been 
 known in the village, my reputation 
 would have been lost ; my voice in the 
 parlour of the Red Lion mute, and 
 Jenks, a fellow who calls himself a 
 lawyer, without more capability than a 
 broomstick, and as much impudence as 
 a young barrister after getting a verdict 
 by mistake ; why, he would actually 
 have taken the Reverend Mr. Spout by 
 the button, which is now my sole privi- 
 lege. Ah ! here is Mrs. Pert : couldn't 
 have hit upon a better person. I'll 
 cross-examine her — Lady's maid to 
 Miss Grace, — confidential purloiner of 
 second-hand silk — a nisi prius of her 
 mistress — Ah ! sits on the woolsack in 
 the pantry, and dictates the laws of 
 kitchen etiquette. — Ah ! Mrs. Pert, 
 good morning ; permit me to say, — and 
 my word as a legal character is not 
 unduly considered — I venture to affirm, 
 that you look a — quite like the — 
 a — 
 
 Peet. Law ! Mr. Meddle. 
 
 'Meddle. Exactly Uke the law. 
 
 Pert. Ha ! indeed ; complimentary, 
 I confess ; like the law ; tedious, prosy, 
 made up of musty paper. You sha'n't 
 have a long suit of me. Good morning. 
 
 [Going] 
 
 Meddle. Stay, Mrs. Pert ; ■ don't 
 calumniate my calling, or dissimulate 
 vulgar prejudices. 
 
 Pert. Vulgar ! you talk of vulgarity 
 to me ! you, whose sole employment is 
 
 to sneak about hke a pig, snouting out 
 the dust-hole of societj[, and feeding 
 upon the bad ends of vice ! you, who 
 live upon the world's iniquity; you 
 miserable specimen of a bad six-and- 
 eightpenoe ! 
 
 Meddle. But, Mrs. Pert — 
 
 Pert. Don't but me, sir; I won't 
 be butted by any such low fellow. 
 
 Meddle. This is slander ; an action 
 will lie. 
 
 Pert. Let it he ; lying is your trade. 
 I'U tell you what, Mr. Meddle ; if I had 
 my wiU, I would soon put a cheek on 
 yotu- prying propensities. I'd treat you 
 as the farmers do the inquisitive hogs. 
 
 Meddle. How? 
 
 Pert. I would ring yoiu- nose. [Exit] 
 
 Meddle. Not much information 
 elicited from that witness. Jenks is at 
 the bottom of this. I have very little 
 hesitation in saying, Jenks is a hbellous 
 rascal; I heard reports that he was 
 undermining my character here, through 
 Mrs. Pert. Now I'm certain of it. 
 Assault is expensive ; but, I certainly 
 will put by a small weekly stipendium, 
 until I can afford to kick Jenks. 
 
 Dazzle. [Outside] Come along; 
 this way ! 
 
 Meddle. Ah ! whom have we here? 
 Visitors ; I'll address them. 
 
 [Enter Dazzle] 
 
 Dazzle. Who's this, I wonder; one 
 of the family ? I must know him. [To 
 Meddle] Ah! how are ye? 
 
 Meddle. Quite well. Just arrived? 
 — ah ! — um ! — Might I request the 
 honour of knowing whom I address? 
 
 Dazzle. Richard Dazzle, Esquire; 
 and you — 
 
 Meddle. Mark Meddle, attorney- 
 at-law. 
 
 [Enter Young Courtly] 
 
 Dazzle. What detained you? 
 
 Young Courtly. My dear fellow, 
 I have just seen such a woman ! 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside] Hush! [.AZoud] 
 Permit me to introduce you to my very 
 old friend. Meddle. He's a capital fel- 
 low ; know him. 
 
 Meddle. I feel honoured. Who is 
 your friend ? 
 
 Dazzle. Oh, he? What, my friend? 
 Oh ! Augustus Hamilton. 
 
 Young Courtly. How d'ye do? 
 [Looking off] There she is again ! 
 
 Meddle [looking off]. Why, that 
 is Miss Grace. 
 
London Assurance 
 
 155 
 
 Dazzle. Of course, Grace. 
 
 YouNQ Courtly. I'll go and intro- 
 duce myself. [Dazzle stops him] 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside] What are you 
 about? would you insult my old friend, 
 Puddle, by running away? [Aloud] I 
 say, Puddle, just show my friend the 
 lions, while I say how d'ye do to my 
 young friend, Grace. [Aside] Culti- 
 vate his acquaintance. 
 
 [Exit. YotJNG COTTBTLT looks 
 
 after him.] 
 
 Meddle. Mr. Hamilton, might I 
 take the liberty ? 
 
 Young Courtly. [Looking off] 
 Confound the fellow ! 
 
 Meddle. Sir, what did you remark ? 
 
 Young Courtly. She's gone ! Oh, 
 are you here still, Mr. Thingomerry 
 Puddle? 
 
 Meddle. Meddle, sir. Meddle, in 
 the list of attorneys. 
 
 Young Courtly. Well, Muddle, or 
 Puddle, or whoever you are, you are a 
 bore. 
 
 Meddle. [Aside] How excessively 
 odd ! Mrs. Pert said I was a pig ; now 
 I'm a boar ! I wonder what they'll 
 make of me next. 
 
 Young Courtly. Mr. Thingamy, 
 wiU you take a word of advice ? 
 
 Meddle. Feel honoured. 
 
 Young Courtly. Get out. 
 
 Meddle. Do you mean to — -I don't 
 understand. 
 
 Young Courtly. Delighted to 
 quicken your apprehension. You are 
 an ass. Puddle. 
 
 Meddle. Ha! ha! another quad- 
 ruped! Yes; beautiful — ■ [Aside] I 
 wish he'd call me something libellous : 
 but that would be too much to expect. — 
 [Aloud] Anything else ? 
 
 Young Courtly. Some miserable, 
 pettifogging scoundrel ! 
 
 Meddle. Good! ha! ha! 
 
 Young Courtly. What do you 
 mean by laughing at me ? 
 
 Meddle. Ha! ha! ha! excellent! 
 delicious ! 
 
 Young Courtly. Mr. are you 
 
 ambitious of a kicking? 
 
 Meddle. Very, very — Go on — 
 kick — go on. 
 
 Young Courtly [looking off]. Here 
 she comes ! I'll speak to her. 
 
 Meddle. But, sir — ^ sir — 
 
 Young Courtly. Oh, go to the 
 devil ! [He runs off] 
 
 Meddle. There, there's a chance 
 lost — gone ! I have no hesitation in 
 
 saying that, in another minute, I should 
 have been kicked ; hterally kicked — 
 a legal luxury. Costs, damages, and 
 actions rose up like sky-rockets in my 
 aspiring soul, with golden tails reaching 
 to the infinity of my hopes. [Looking] 
 They are coming this way ; Mr. Hamil- 
 ton in close conversation with Lady 
 Courtly that is to be. Crim. Con. — 
 Courtly versus Ha.Tni1t.nn — damages 
 problematical — Meddle, chief witness 
 for plaintiff — guinea a day — pro- 
 fessional man! I'll take down their 
 conversation verbatim. 
 
 [He retires behind a bush] 
 
 [Enter Grace, followed by Young 
 Courtly] 
 
 Grace. Perhaps you would follow 
 your friend into the dining-room; re- 
 freshment after your long journey must 
 be requisite. 
 
 Young Courtly. Pardon me, 
 madam ; but the lovely garden and the 
 loveliness before me is better refresh- 
 ment than I coxild procure in any 
 dining-room. 
 
 Grace. Ha! Your company and 
 compliments arrive together. 
 
 Young Courtly. I trust that a 
 passing remark will not spoil so welcome 
 an introduction as this by oflending you. 
 
 Grace. I am not certain that any- 
 thing you could say would offend me. 
 
 Young Courtly. I never meant — 
 
 Grace. I thought not. In turn, 
 pardon me, when I request you will com- 
 mence your visit with this piece of infor- 
 mation : — I consider compliments im- 
 pertinent, and sweetmeat language ful- 
 some. 
 
 Young Courtly. I would condemn 
 my tongue to a Pythagorean silence if I 
 thought it could attempt to flatter. 
 
 Grace. It strikes me, sir, that you 
 are a stray bee from the Mve of fashion ; 
 if so, reserve your honey for its proper 
 cell. A truce to compliments. — You 
 have just arrived from town, I appre- 
 hend. 
 
 Young Courtly. This moment I 
 left mighty London, under the fever of 
 a full season, groaning with the noisy 
 pulse of wealth and the giddy whirling 
 brain of fashion. Enchanting, busy 
 London ! how have I prevailed on my- 
 self to desert you ! Next week the new 
 ballet comes out, — the week after 
 comes Ascot. — Oh ! 
 
 Grace. How agonizing must be the 
 reflection. 
 
156 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Young Courtly. Torture ! Can you 
 inform me how you manage to avoid 
 suicide here ? If there was but an opera, 
 even, within twenty miles ! We couldn't 
 get up a rustic ballet among the village 
 girls ? No ? — ah ! 
 
 Grace. I am afraid you would find 
 that difficult. How I contrive to sup- 
 port life I don't know — it is wonderful 
 — but I have not precisely contemplated 
 suicide yet, nor do I miss the opera. 
 
 Young Courtly. How can you 
 manage to kill time? 
 
 Grace. I can't. Men talk of killing 
 time, while time quietly MUs them. I 
 have many employments — this week 
 I devote to study and various amuse- 
 ments — next week to being married — 
 the following week to repentance, per- 
 haps. 
 
 Young Courtly. Married ! 
 
 Gkacb. You seem surprised; I be- 
 lieve it is of frequent occurrence in the 
 metropolis. — Is it not ? 
 
 Young Courtly. Might I ask to 
 whom? 
 
 Grace. A gentleman who has been 
 strongly recommended to me for the 
 situation of husband. 
 
 Young Courtly. What an extraor- 
 dinary match ! Would you not con- 
 sider it advisable to see him, previous 
 to incurring the consequences of such 
 an act ? 
 
 Grace. You must be aware that 
 fashion says otherwise. The gentleman 
 swears eternal devotion to the lady's 
 fortune, and the lady swears she will 
 outvie him stiU. My lord's horses and 
 my lady's diamonds shine through a few 
 seasons, until a seat in Parliament, or the 
 continent, stares them in the face ; then, 
 when thrown upon each other for re- 
 sources of comfort, they begin to quarrel 
 about the original conditions of the sale. 
 
 Young Courtly. Sale ! No ! that 
 would be degrading civiUzation into 
 Turkish barbarity. 
 
 Grace. Worse, sir, a great deal 
 worse; for there at least they do not 
 attempt concealment of the barter ; but 
 here, every London ball-room is a mar- 
 riage mart — young ladies are trotted 
 out, while the mother, father, or chap- 
 erone plays auctioneer, and knocks them 
 down to the highest bidder — young 
 men are ticketed up with their fortunes 
 on their backs, — and Love, turned into 
 a dapper shopman, descants on the 
 excellent quahties of the material. 
 
 Young Courtly. Oh! that such a 
 
 custom could have ever emanated from 
 the healthy soU of an English heart! 
 
 Grace. No. It never did — like 
 most of our Uterary dandjrisms and 
 dandy literature, it was borrowed from 
 the French. 
 
 Young Courtly. You seem to laugh 
 at love. 
 
 Grace. Love! why, the very word 
 is a breathing satire upon man's reason 
 — a mania, indigenous to humanity — 
 nature's jester, who plays off tricks upon 
 the world, and trips up common sense. 
 When I'm in love, I'U write an ahnanao, 
 for very lack of wit — prognosticate the 
 sighing season — when to beware of 
 tears — about this time, expect matri- 
 mony to be prevalent ! Ha ! ha ! Why 
 should I lay out my life in love's bonds 
 upon the bare security of a man's word? 
 
 [Enter James] 
 
 James. The Squire, madam, has just 
 arrived, and another gentleman with 
 him. 
 
 Grace. [Aside] My intended, I 
 suppose. [Exit James] 
 
 Young Courtly. I perceive you are 
 one of the railers against what is termed 
 the foUies of high life. 
 
 Grace. No, not particularly; I 
 deprecate all foUy. By what prerogar 
 tive can the west-end mint issue ab- 
 surdity, which, if coined in the east, 
 would be voted vulgar? 
 
 Young Courtly. By a sovereign 
 right — because it has Fashion's head 
 upon its side, and that stamps it current. 
 
 Grace. Poor Fashion, for how many 
 sins hast thou to answer ! The gambler 
 pawns his birth-right for fashion — the 
 rov4 steals his friend's wife for fashion — 
 each abandons himself to the storm of 
 impulse, calling it the breeze of fashion. 
 
 Young Courtly. Is this idol of the 
 world so radically vicious? 
 
 Grace. No ; the root is well enough, 
 as the body was, until it had outgrown 
 its native soil; but now, like a mighty 
 giant lying over Europe, it pillows its 
 head in Italy, its heart in France,, leav- 
 ing the heels alone its sole support for 
 England. 
 
 Young Courtly. Pardon me, 
 madam, you wrong yourself to rail 
 against your own inheritance — the 
 kingdom to which loveliness and wit 
 attest your title. 
 
 Grace. A mighty realm, forsooth, — 
 with milliners for ministers, a cabinet of 
 coxcombs, envy for my homage, ruin 
 
London Assurance 
 
 157 
 
 for my revenue — my right of rule 
 depending on the shape of a bonnet or 
 the sit of a pelisse, with the next grand 
 noodle as my heir-apparent. Mr. Ham- 
 ilton, when I am crowned, I shall feel 
 happy to abdicate in your favour. 
 
 [Curtseys and exit] 
 
 YoTJNG CouETLT. What did she 
 mean by that ? Hang me if I can under- 
 stand her — : she is evidently not used to 
 society. Ha ! — takes every word I 
 say for infallible truth — requires the 
 solution of a compliment, as if it were a 
 problem in Euclid. She said she was 
 about to marry, but I rather imagine 
 she was in jest. Ton my life, T feel 
 very queer at the contemplation of such 
 an idea — I'll follow her. [Meddle 
 comes down] Oh! perhaps this booby 
 can. inform me something about her. 
 [Meddle makes signs at him] What the 
 devil is he at ! 
 
 Meddle. It won't do — no — ah ! 
 um — it's not to be done. 
 
 Young Couetly. What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Meddle [points after Geace]. Coun- 
 sel retained — cause to come off ! 
 
 YoiTNG Couetly. Cause to come off ! 
 
 Meddle. Miss Grace is about to be 
 married. 
 
 Young Couetly. Is it possible ? 
 
 Meddle. Certainly. If / have the 
 drawing out of the deeds — 
 
 Young Couetly. To whom? 
 
 Meddle. Ha ! hem ! Oh, yes ! I 
 dare say — Information being scarce in 
 the market, I hope to make mine valu- 
 able. 
 
 Young Couetly. Married! mar- 
 ried ! 
 
 Meddle. Now I shall have another 
 chance. 
 
 Young Couetly. I'll run and ascer- 
 tain the truth of.this from Dazzle. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Meddle. It's of no use : he either 
 dare not kick me, or he can't afford it — 
 in either case, he is beneath my notice. 
 Ah ! who comes here ? — can it be Sir 
 Harcciurt Courtly himself? It can be 
 no other. 
 
 [Enter Cool] 
 
 Sir, I have the honour to bid you wel- 
 come to Oak Hall and the village of 
 Oldborough. 
 
 Cool. [Aside] Excessively polite. 
 [Aloud] — Sir, thank you. 
 
 Meddle. The township contains two 
 thousand inhabitants. 
 
 Cool. Does it! I am delighted to 
 hear it. 
 
 Meddle. [Aside] I can charge him 
 for that — ahem — six and eightpence 
 is not much — but it is a beginning. 
 [Aloud] If you will permit me, I can 
 inform you of the different commodities 
 fbr which it is famous. 
 
 Cool. Much obliged — but here 
 comes Sir Harcourt Courtly, my master, 
 and Mr. Harkaway — any other time I 
 shall feel delighted. 
 
 Meddle. Oh ! [Aside] Mistook the 
 man for the master. [He retires up] 
 
 [Enter Max and Sie Haecouet] 
 
 Max. Here we are at last. Now 
 give ye welcome to Oak HaU, Sir Har- 
 court, heartily ! 
 
 StE Haecouet [languidly]. Cool, as- 
 sist me. 
 
 [Cool takes off his furred cloak 
 and gloves; give's him white 
 gloves and a handkerchief] 
 
 Max. Why, you require unpacking 
 as carefully as my best bin of port. 
 Well, now you are decanted, tell me 
 what did you think of my park as we 
 came along. 
 
 Sie Haecouet. That it would never 
 come to an end. You said it was only 
 a stone's throw from your infernal lodge 
 to the house ; why, it's ten miles, at 
 least. 
 
 Max. I'U do it in ten minutes any . 
 day. 
 
 Sie Haecouet. Yes, in a steam 
 carriage. Cool, perfume my handker- 
 chief. 
 
 Max. Don't do it. Don't ! per- 
 fume in the country ! why, it's high 
 treason in the very face of Nature ; 'tis 
 introducing the robbed to the robber. 
 Here are the sweets from which your 
 fiilsome essences are pilfered, and libelled 
 with their names ; — don't insult them, 
 too. 
 
 Sie Haecouet. [To Meddle] Oh! 
 ouU me a bouquet, my man ! 
 
 Max [turning]. Ah, Meddle ! how 
 are you ? This is Lawyer Meddle. 
 
 Sir Haecouet. Oh ! I took him for 
 one of your people. 
 
 Meddle. Ah ! naturally — um — 
 Sir Harcourt Courtly, I have the honour 
 to congratulate — happy occasion ap- 
 proaches. Ahem! I have no hesita- 
 tion in saying this very happy occasion 
 approaches. 
 
 Sib Haecouet. Cool, is the conver- 
 sation addressed towards me? 
 
158 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Cool. I believe so, Sir Haroourt. 
 
 Meddle. Oh, certainly ! I was com- 
 plimenting you. 
 
 Sir Hahcouht. Sir, you are very 
 good ; the honour is undeserved ; but 
 I am only in the habit of receiving com- 
 pliments from the fair sex. Men's 
 admiration is so damnably insipid. 
 
 Meddle. I had hoped to make a 
 unit on that occasion. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Yes, and you hoped 
 to put an infernal number of cyphers 
 after your unit on that and any other 
 occasion. 
 
 Meddle. Ha ! ha ! very good. 
 Why, I did hope to have the honour of 
 drawing out the deeds ; for, whatever 
 Jenks may say to the contrary, I have 
 no hesitation in saying — 
 
 Sir Harcourt [putting him aside]. 
 [To Max] If the future Lady Courtly 
 be visible at so unfashionable an hour as 
 this, I shall beg to be introduced. 
 
 Max. Visible ! Ever since six this 
 morning, I'U warrant ye. Two to one 
 she is at dinner. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Dinner! Is it pos- 
 sible? Lady Courtly dine at half-past 
 one P.M. ! 
 
 Meddle. I rather prefer that hour 
 to peck a little my — 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Dear me ! who was 
 addressing you? 
 
 Meddle. Oh ! I beg pardon. 
 
 Max. Here, James ! [Calling] 
 
 [Enter James] 
 
 Tell Miss Grace to come here directly. 
 [Exit James] Now prepare. Courtly, 
 for, though I say it, she is — with the 
 exception of my bay mare, Kitty — the 
 handsomest thing in the country. Con- 
 sidering she is a biped, she is a wonder ! 
 Full of blood, sound wind and limb, 
 plenty of bone, sweet coat, in fine condi- 
 tion, with a thorough-bred step, as 
 dainty as a pet greyhound. 
 
 Sir Hakoourt. Damme, don't com- 
 pare her to a horse ! 
 
 Max. Well, I wouldn't, but she's 
 almost as fine a creature, — close 
 similarities. 
 
 Meddle. Oh, very fine creature I 
 Close similarity, amounting to identity. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Good gracious, sir ! 
 What can a lawyer know about women ! 
 
 Meddle. Everything. The oonsis- 
 torial court is fine study of the char- 
 acter, and I have no hesitation in saying 
 that I have examined more women than 
 Jenks, or — 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Oh, damn Jenks ! 
 Meddle. Sir, thank you. Damn 
 him again, sir, damn him again ! 
 
 [Enter Grace] 
 
 Grace. My dear uncle ! 
 
 Max. Ah, Grace, you little jade, 
 come here. 
 
 Sir Harcourt [eyeing her through 
 his glass]. Oh, dear ! she is a rural 
 Venus ! I'm astonished and delighted. 
 
 Max. Won't you kiss your old 
 uncle? [He kisses her] 
 
 Sir Harcoukt [draws an agonizing 
 face]. Oh! — ah — um! — N'importe! 
 — my privilege in embryo — hem! 
 It's very tantalizing, though. 
 
 Max. You are not glad to see me, 
 you are not. [Kissing her] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Oh; no, no! [Aside] 
 that is too much. I shall do something 
 horrible preseptly, if this goes on. 
 [Aloud] I should be sorry to curtail 
 any little ebullition of affection ; but — 
 ahem ! May I be permitted ? 
 
 Max. Of course you may. There, 
 Grace, is Sir Haroourt, your husband 
 that will be. Go to him, girl. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Permit me to do 
 homage to the charms, the presence of 
 which have placed me in sight of 
 Paradise. 
 
 [Sir Harcourt and Grace ; 
 
 [Enter Dazzle] 
 
 Dazzle. Ah ! old fellow, how are 
 you? 
 
 Max. I'm glad to see you ! Are you 
 comfortably quartered, yet, eh? 
 
 Dazzle. Splendidly quartered ! What 
 a place you've got here ! Here, Ham- 
 ilton. 
 
 [Enter Young Courtly] 
 
 Permit me to introduce my friend, 
 Augustus Hamilton. Capital fellow! 
 drinks like a sieve, and rides Hke a 
 thunder-storm. 
 
 Max. Sir, I'm devilish glad to see 
 jovL. Here, Sir Harcourt, permit me to 
 introduce to you — 
 
 Young Courtly. The devil ! 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside] What's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Why, 
 that is my governor, by Jupiter ! 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside] What, old 
 
 Whiskers? you don't say that! 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] It is: 
 what's to be done now? 
 
London Assurance 
 
 159 
 
 Max. Mr. Hamilton, Sir Harcourt 
 Courtly — Sir Harcourt Courtly, Mr. 
 Hamilton. 
 
 SiK Hahcourt. Hamilton! Good 
 gracious ! God bless me ! — why, 
 
 Charles, is it possible ? — why. Max, 
 that's my son ! 
 
 YoTJNQ CouHTLY. [Aside] What 
 shaU I do ! 
 
 Max. Your son ! 
 
 Grace. Your son, Sir Harcourt ! 
 have you a son as old as that gentleman ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. No — that is ^ a — 
 yes, — not by twenty years — a — 
 Charles, why don't you answer me, sir? 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside to Dazzle] 
 What shall I say? 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside] Deny your iden- 
 tity. 
 
 Young Coubtlt. [Aside] Capital ! 
 [Aloud] What's the matter, sir? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. How came you 
 down here, sir ? 
 
 Young Courtly. By one of New- 
 man's — best fours — in twelve hours 
 and a quarter. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Isn't your name 
 Charles Courtly? 
 
 Young Courtly. Not to my knowl- 
 
 SiR Harcourt. Do you mean to say 
 that you are usually called Augustus 
 Hamilton? 
 
 Young Courtly. Lamentable fact 
 — and quite correct. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Cool, is that my 
 son? 
 
 Cool. No, sir — it is not Mr. 
 Charles — but is very like him. 
 
 Max. I cannot understand all this. 
 
 Grace. [Aside] I think I can. 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside to Young Courtly] 
 Give him a touch of the indignant. 
 
 Young Courtly. Allow me to say. 
 Sir What-d'ye-oall-'em Hartly — 
 
 Sib Habcouet. Hartly, sir! 
 Courtly, sir! Courtly! 
 
 Young Coubtly. Well, Hartly, or 
 Court-heart, or whatever your name 
 may be, I say your conduct is — a — a 
 — , and were it not for the presence of 
 this lady, I should feel inclined — to — 
 to — 
 
 Sib Habcourt. No, no, that can't 
 be my son, — he never would address 
 me in that way. 
 
 Max [coming down]. What is all 
 this? 
 
 Sir Habcoubt. Sir, your likeness to 
 ny son Charles is so astonishing, that it, 
 'or a moment — the equilibrium of my 
 
 etiquette — 'pon my Ufe, I — permit 
 me to request your pardon. 
 
 Meddle. [To Sir Harcourt] Sir 
 Harcourt, don't apologize, don't — bring 
 an action. I'm witness. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Some one take this 
 man away. 
 
 [Enter James] 
 
 James. Luncheon is on the table, sir. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Miss Harkaway, I 
 never swore before a lady in my life — 
 except when I promised to love and cher- 
 ish the late Lady Courtly, which I took 
 care to preface with an apology, — I was 
 compelled to the ceremony, and conse- 
 quently not answerable for the language 
 
 — but to that gentleman's identity I 
 would have pledged — my hair. 
 
 Grace. [4side] If that security 
 were called for, I suspect the answer 
 would be — no effects. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Habcourt and Grace] 
 
 Meddle. [To Max] I have some- 
 thing very particular to communicate. 
 
 Max. Can't listen at present. [Exit] 
 
 Meddle. [To Dazzle and Young 
 Courtly] I can afford you informar 
 tion, which I — 
 
 Dazzle. Oh, don't bother ! 
 
 Young Courtly. Go to the devil ! 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
 Meddle. Now, I have no hesitation 
 in saying that is the height of ingrati- 
 tude. — Oh — Mr. Cool — can you 
 oblige me? [Presents his account] 
 
 Cool. Why, what is aU this ? 
 
 Meddle. Small account versus you 
 
 — to giving information concerning the 
 last census of the population of Old- 
 borough and vicinity, six and eight- 
 pence. 
 
 Cool. Oh, you mean to make me pay 
 for this, do you? 
 
 Meddle. Unconditionally. 
 
 Cool. Well, I have no objection — 
 the charge is fair — but remember, I am 
 a servant on board wages, — will you 
 throw in a Httle advice gratis — if I give 
 you the money? 
 
 Meddle. Ahem ! — I will. 
 
 Cool. A fellow has insulted me. I 
 want to abuse him — what terms are 
 actionable ? 
 
 Meddle. You may call him any- 
 thing you please, providing there are no 
 witnesses. 
 
 Cool. Oh, may I? [Looks round] — 
 then you rascally, pettifogging scoun- 
 drel ! 
 
 Meddle. Hallo ! 
 
160 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Cool. You mean — dirty — disgrace 
 to your profession. 
 
 Meddle. Libel — slander — 
 
 Cool. Aye, but where are your 
 witnesses ? 
 
 Meddle. Give me the costs — six 
 and eighteen pence. 
 
 Cool. I deny that you gave me 
 information at all. 
 
 Meddle. You do ! 
 
 Cool. Yes, where are your wit- 
 nesses ? [Exit] 
 
 Meddle. Ah — damme ! [Exit] 
 
 END OP ACT II 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene First. — A Morning-Room in Oak 
 Hall, French windows opening to the 
 Lawn. 
 
 [Max and Sir Harcottrt seated on one 
 side, Dazzle on the other; Grace 
 and Young Courtly are playing 
 chess at back. All dressed for dinner] 
 
 Max. [Aside to Sir Harcourt] 
 What can I do? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Get lid of them 
 civilly. 
 
 Max. What, turn them out, after I 
 particularly invited them to stay a 
 month or two? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Why, they are dis- 
 reputable characters ; as for that young 
 feUow, in whom my Lady Courtly ap- 
 pears so particularly absorbed, — I am 
 bewildered — I have written to town 
 for my Charles, my boy — it certainly is 
 the most extraordinary likeness — 
 
 Dazzle. Sir Haroom't, I have an 
 idea — 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Sir, I am delighted 
 to hear it. — [Aside] That feUow is a 
 swindler. 
 
 Max. I met him at your house. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Never saw him 
 before in all my life. 
 
 Dazzle [crossing to Sir Harcourt]. 
 I will bet you five to one that I can beat 
 you three out of four games at biUiards, 
 with one hand. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. No, sir. 
 
 Dazzle. I don't mind giving you 
 ten points in fifty. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Sir, I never gamble. 
 
 Dazzle. You don't! Well, I'U 
 teach you — easiest thing in life — you 
 have every requisite — good temper. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. I have not, sir. 
 
 Dazzle. A long-headed, knowing 
 old buck. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Sir ! 
 
 [They go up conversing with Max] 
 
 Grace. Really, Mr. Hamilton, you 
 improve. — A young man pays us a 
 visit, as you half intimate, to escape 
 inconvenient friends — that is compu- 
 mentary to us, his hosts. 
 
 Young Courtly. Nay, that is too 
 severe. 
 
 Grace. After an acquaintanceship 
 of two days, you sit down to teach me 
 chess, and domestic economy at the 
 same time. — Might I ask where you 
 graduated in that science — where you 
 learned all that store of matrimonial 
 advice which you have obliged me with? 
 
 Young Courtly. I imbibed it, 
 madam, from the moment I beheld you, 
 and having studied my subject con 
 amore, took my degrees from your 
 eyes. 
 
 Grace. Oh, I see you are a Master 
 of Arts already. 
 
 Young Courtly. Unfortunately, 
 no — -I shall remain a bachelor — till 
 you can assist me to that honour. [Sib 
 Harcourt comes down — aside to Daz- 
 zle] Keep the old boy away. 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside] How do you get 
 on? 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Splen- 
 didly ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Is the conversation 
 strictly confidential? — or might I join? 
 
 Dazzle [taking his arm]. Oh, not 
 in the least, my dear sir — we were 
 remarking that rifle shooting was an 
 excellent diversion during the silmmer 
 months. 
 
 _ Sir Harcourt [drawing himself up]. 
 Sir, I was addressing — 
 
 Dazzle. And I was sasdng what a 
 pity it was I couldn't &id any one 
 reasonable enough to back his opinion 
 with long odds — come out on the 
 lawn, and pitch up your hat, and I will 
 hold you ten to one I put a bullet into it 
 every time, at forty paces. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. No, sir — ^ I consider 
 you — 
 
 Max. Here, all of you — look, here 
 is Lady Gay Spanker coming across the 
 lawn at a hand gaUop ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt [running to the win- 
 dow]. Bless me, the horse is running 
 away! 
 
 Max. Look how she takes that 
 fence I there's a seat. 
 
London Assurance 
 
 161 
 
 Sir Hargourt. Lady Gay Spanker 
 — who may she be? 
 
 Grace. Gay Spanker, Sir Harcourt? 
 My cousin and dearest friend — you 
 must like her. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. It will be my devoir, 
 since it is your wish — though it will be 
 a hard task in your presence. 
 
 Grace. I am sure she will like you. 
 
 Sir Hahcottrt. Ha! ha! I flatter 
 
 YoiOTG CoTTRTLT. Who, and what is 
 she? 
 
 Grace. Glee, glee made a living 
 thing — Nature, in some frolic mood, 
 shut up a merry devil in her eye, and, 
 spiting Art, stole joy's brightest har- 
 mony to thrill her laugh, which peals out 
 sorrow's kneU. Her cry rings loudest 
 in the field — the very echo loves it 
 best, and, as each hiU attempts to ape 
 her voice, earth seems to laugh that it 
 made a thing so glad. 
 
 Max. Ay, the merriest minx I ever 
 kissed. [Lady Gay laughs without] 
 
 Lady Gay. [Without] Max! 
 
 Max. Come in, you mischievous 
 puss. 
 
 [Enter James] 
 
 James. Mr. Adolphus and Lady Gay 
 Spanker. 
 
 [Enter Lady Gay, fully equipped in rid- 
 ing habit, etc.] 
 
 Lady Gay. Ha! ha! WeU, Gov- 
 ernor, how are ye? I have been down 
 five times, climbing up your stairs in 
 my long clothes. How are you, Grace, 
 dear? [Kisses her] There, don't fidget. 
 Max. And there — [Kisses him] there's 
 one for you. 
 
 Sir Harcottrt. Ahem ! 
 
 Lady Gay. Oh, gracious, I didn't 
 see you had visitors. 
 
 Max. Permit me to introduce — Sir 
 Harcourt Courtly, Lady Gay Spanker. 
 Mr. Dazzle, Mr. Hamilton — Lady 
 Gay Spanker. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. [Aside] A devilish 
 fine woman ! 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside to Sir Harcourt] 
 She's a devilish fine woman. 
 
 Lady Gay. You mustn't think any- 
 thing of the liberties I take with my old 
 papa here — bless him ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Oh, no ! [Aside] 
 1 only thought I should like to be in his 
 place. 
 
 Lady Gay. I am so glad you have 
 some. Sir Harcourt. Now we shall be 
 
 able to make a decent figure at the heels 
 of a hunt. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Does your ladyship 
 hunt? 
 
 Lady Gay. Ha! I say. Governor, 
 does my ladyship hunt? I rather 
 flatter myself that I do hunt! Why, 
 Sir Harcourt, one might as well live 
 without laughing as without hunting. 
 Man was fashioned expressly to fit a 
 horse. Are not hedges and ditches 
 created for leaps ? Of course ! And I 
 look upon foxes to be one of the most 
 blessed dispensations of a benign Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Yes, it is all very 
 well in the abstract : I tried it once. 
 
 Lady Gay. Once! Only once? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Once, only once. 
 And then the animal ran away with 
 me. 
 
 Lady Gay. Why, you would not 
 have him walk? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Finding my society 
 disagreeable, he instituted a series of 
 kicks, with a view to removing the 
 annoyance ; but aided by the united 
 stays of the mane and tail, I frustrated 
 his intentions. His next resource, how- 
 ever, was more effectual, for he succeeded 
 in rubbing me off against a tree. 
 
 Max and Lady Gay. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dazzle. How absurd you must have 
 looked with your legs and arms in the 
 air, like a shipwrecked tea-table. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Sir, I never looked 
 absurd in my life. Ah, it may be very 
 amusing in relation, I dare say, but very 
 unpleasant in effect. 
 
 Lady Gay. I pity you. Sir Harcourt ; 
 it was criminal in your parents to neglect 
 your education so shamefully. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Possibly ; but be 
 assured I shall never break rny neck 
 awkwardly from a horse, when it might 
 be accomplished with less trouble from 
 a bed-room window. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] My dad 
 will be caught by this she-Bucephalus 
 tamer. 
 
 Max. Ah! Sir Harcourt, had you 
 been here a month ago, you would have 
 witnessed the most glorious run that 
 ever swept over merry England's green 
 cheek — a steeple-chase, sir, which I 
 intended to win, but my horse broke 
 down the day before. I had a chance, 
 notwithstanding, and but for Gay here, 
 I should have won. How I regretted my 
 absence from it ! How did my filly 
 behave herself, Gay? 
 
162 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Lady Gay. Gloriously, Max! glo- 
 riously ! There were sixty horses in the 
 field, all mettle to the bone: the start 
 was a picture — away we went in a 
 cloud — peU-mell — helter-skelter — 
 the fools first, as usual, using themselves 
 up — we soon passed them — first your 
 Kitty, then my Blueskin, and Craven's 
 colt last. Then came the tug — Kitty 
 skimmed the walls — Blueskin flew over 
 the fences — the Colt neck and neck, 
 and half a mile to run — at last the 
 Colt baulked a leap and went wild. 
 Kitty and I had it all to ourselves — 
 she was three lengths ahead as we 
 breasted the last wall, six feet, if an 
 inch, and a ditch on the other side. 
 Now, for the first time, I gave Blueskin 
 his head — ha ! ha ! — Away he flew 
 like a thunderbolt — over went the 
 filly — I over the same spot, leaving 
 Kitty in the ditch — walked the steeple, 
 eight miles in thirty minutes, and 
 scarcely turned a hair. 
 
 All. Bravo ! Bravo ! 
 
 Lady Gay. Do you hunt? 
 
 Dazzle. Hunt ! I belong to a hunt- 
 ing family. I was born on horseback 
 and cradled in a kennel ! Aye, and I 
 hope I may die with a whoo-whoop ! 
 
 Max. [To Sib Haecourt] You 
 must leave your town habits in the 
 smoke of London : here we rise with the 
 lark. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Haven't the remot- 
 est conception when that period is. 
 
 Grace. The man that misses sunrise 
 loses the sweetest part of his existence. 
 
 Sib Habcourt. Oh, pardon me ; I 
 have seen sunrise frequently after a ball, 
 or from the windows of my travelling 
 carriage, and I always considered it 
 disagreeable. 
 
 Grace. I love to watch the first 
 tear that gHstens in the opening eye of 
 morning, the silent song the flowers 
 breathe, the thrilling choir of the wood- 
 land minstrels, to which the modest 
 brook trickles applause : — these swell- 
 ing out the sweetest chord of sweet 
 creation's matins, seem to pour some 
 soft and merry tale into the daylight's 
 ear, as if the waking world had dreamed 
 a happy thing, and now smiled o'er the 
 telling of it. 
 
 Sir Hahcourt. The effect of a rustic 
 education ! Who could ever discover 
 music in a damp foggy morning, except 
 those confounded waits, who never play 
 in tune, and a miserable wretch who 
 makes ajpoint of crying coffee under my 
 
 window just as I am persuading myself 
 to sleep ; in fact, I never heard any 
 music worth listening to, except in 
 Italy. 
 
 Lady Gay. No? then you never 
 heard a well-trained English pack, fuU 
 cry? 
 
 Sir Habcourt. Full cry ! 
 
 Lady Gay. Aye ! there is harmony, 
 if you win. Give me the trumpet-neigh ; 
 the spotted pack just catching scent. 
 What a chorus is their yelp ! The view- 
 hallo, blent with a peal of free and 
 fearless mirth ! That's our old Bnghsh 
 music, — match it where you can. 
 
 Sir Habcoubt. [Aside] I must see 
 about Lady Gay Spanker. 
 
 Dazzle. [Aside to Sib Habcoubt] 
 Ah, would you — 
 
 Lady Gay. Time then appears as 
 young as love, and plumes as swift a 
 wing. Away we go ! The earth flies 
 back to aid oiu" course! Horse, man, 
 hound, earth, heaven ! — all — all — 
 one piece of glowing ecstasy! Then I 
 love the world, myself, and every living 
 thing, — my jocund soul cries out for 
 very glee, as it could wish that all crea- 
 tion had but one mouth that I might 
 kiss it ! 
 
 Sib Habcourt. [Aside] I wish I 
 were the mouth ! 
 
 Max. Why, we wiU regenerate you, 
 Baronet ! But Gay, where is your hus- 
 band ? — Where is Adolphus ! 
 
 Lady Gay, Bless me, where is my 
 Dolly? 
 
 Sib Habcourt. You are married, 
 then? 
 
 Lady Gay. I have a husband some- 
 where, though I can't find him just now. 
 Dolly, dear ! [Aside to Max] Gov- 
 ernor, at home I always whistle when 
 I want him. 
 
 [Enter Spanker] 
 
 Spanker. Here I am, — did you 
 call me. Gay? 
 
 Sir Harcoijbt [eyeing him]. Is 
 that your husband ? 
 
 Lady Gay. [Aside] Yes, bless his 
 stupid face, that's my Dolly. 
 
 Max. Permit me to introduce you to 
 Sir Haroourt Courtly. 
 
 Spankeb. How d'ye do? I — ah! 
 — um! [Appears frightened] 
 
 Lady Gay. _ Delighted to have the 
 honour of making the acquaintance of a 
 gentleman so highly celebrated in the 
 world of fashion. 
 
 Spanker. Oh, yes^ delighted, I'm 
 
London Assurance 
 
 163 
 
 ere — quite — very, so delighted — 
 slighted ! 
 
 [Gets quite confused, draws on his 
 glove, and tears it] 
 
 Lady Gay. Where have you been, 
 oUy? 
 
 Spanker. Oh, ah, I was just outside. 
 
 Max. Why did you not come in? 
 
 Spanker. I'm sure I didn't — I 
 jn't exactly know, but I thought as — 
 srhaps — I can't remember. 
 
 Dazzle. Shall we have the pleasure 
 ' your company to dinner? 
 
 Spanker. I always dine — usually 
 - that is, unless Gay remains. 
 
 Lady Gay. Stay dinner, of course; 
 e came on purpose to stop three or 
 iiu* days with you. 
 
 Grace. Will you excuse my ab- 
 moe, Gay? 
 
 Max. What ! what ! Where are 
 3u going? What takes you away? 
 
 Grace. We must postpone the 
 inner till Gay is dressed. 
 
 Max. Oh, never mind, — stay where 
 ou are. 
 
 Grace. No, I must go. 
 
 Max. I say you sha'n't ! I will be 
 tng in my own house. 
 
 Grace. Do, my dear uncle ; — you 
 lall be king, and I'll be your prime 
 linister, — that is, I will rule, and you 
 laU have the honour of taking the 
 jnsequences. [Exit] 
 
 Lady Gay. Well said, Grace; have 
 our own way ; it is the only thing 
 e women ought to be allowed. 
 
 Max. Come, Gay, dress for dinner. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Permit me, Lady 
 ray Spanker. 
 
 Lady Gay. With pleasure, — what 
 you want ? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. To escort you. 
 
 Lady Gay. Oh, never mind, I can 
 seort myself, thank you, and Dolly 
 )o ; — come, dear ! [Exit] 
 
 Sir Harcottrt. Au revoir ! 
 
 Spanker. Ah, thank you ! 
 
 [Exit awkwardly] 
 
 Sir Harcottrt. What an ill-assorted 
 air! 
 
 Max. Not a bit ! She married him 
 )r freedom, and she has it ; he married 
 er for protection, and he has it. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. How he ever sum- 
 loned courage to propose to her, I can't 
 uess. 
 
 Max. Bless you, he never did. 
 he proposed to him! She says he 
 ould, if he could ; but as he couldn't, 
 le did it for him. [Exeunt, laughing] 
 
 [Enter Cool tuith a letter] 
 
 Cool. Mr. Charles, I have been 
 watching to find you alone. Sir Har- 
 court has written to town for you. 
 
 Young Courtly. The devil he has ! 
 
 Cool. He expects you down to- 
 morrow evening. 
 
 Dazzle. Oh! he'll be punctual. A 
 thought strikes me. 
 
 Young Courtly. Pooh! Con- 
 found your thoughts ! I can think of 
 nothing but the idea of leaving Grace, 
 at the very moment when I had estab- 
 Ushed the most — 
 
 Dazzle. What if I can prevent her 
 marriage with your Governor ? 
 
 Young Courtly. Impossible ! 
 
 Dazzle. He's pluming himself for 
 the conquest of Lady Gay Spanker. It 
 will not be difficult to make him be- 
 lieve she accedes to his suit. And if she 
 would but join in the plan — 
 
 Young Courtly. I see it all. And 
 do you think she would? 
 
 Dazzle. I mistake my game if she 
 would not. 
 
 Cool. Here comes Sir Harcourt ! 
 
 Dazzle. I'U begin with him. Re- 
 tire, and watch how I'll open the cam- 
 paign for you. 
 
 [Young Courtly and Cool retire] 
 
 [Enter Sir Harcourt] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Here is that cursed 
 fellow again. 
 
 Dazzle. Ah, my dear old friend ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Mr. Dazzle ! 
 
 Dazzle. I have a secret of impor- 
 tance to disclose to you. Are you a man 
 of honour? Hush! don't speak; you 
 are. It is with the greatest pain I am 
 compelled to request you, as a gentle- 
 man, that you will shun studiously the 
 society of Lady Gay Spanker ! 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Good gracious ! 
 Wherefore, and by what right do you 
 make such a demand ? 
 
 Dazzle. Why, I am distantly related 
 to the Spankers. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Why, damme, sir, 
 if you don't appear to be related to every 
 family in Great Britain ! 
 
 Dazzle. A good many of the nobil- 
 ity claim me as a connexion. But, to 
 return — she is much struck with your 
 address ; evidently, she laid herself out 
 for display. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Ha! you surprise 
 me! 
 
 Dazzle. To entangle you. 
 
164 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Sir Hakcourt. Ha! ha! why, it 
 did appear like it. 
 
 Dazzle. You -will spare her for my 
 sake ; give her no encouragement ; if 
 disgrace come upon my relatives, the 
 Spankers, I should never hold up my 
 head again. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. [Aside] I shall 
 achieve an easy conquest, and a glorious. 
 Ha ! ha ! I never remarked it before ; 
 but this is a gentleman. 
 
 Dazzle. May I rely on your gener- 
 osity ? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Faithfully. [Shakes 
 his hand] Sir, I honour and esteem 
 you ; but, might I ask, how oame you 
 to meet our friend. Max Harkaway, in 
 my house in Belgrave Square? 
 
 [Re-enter Young Couetly. Sits on sofa 
 at hack] 
 
 Dazzle. Certainly. I had an ac- 
 ceptance of your son's for one hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. [Astonished] Of my 
 son's? Impossible! 
 
 Dazzle. Ah, sir, fact ! he paid a 
 debt for a poor, unfortunate man — 
 fifteen children — half-a-dozen wives — 
 the devil knows what all. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Simple boy ! 
 
 Dazzle. Innocent youth, I have no 
 doubt ; when you have the hundred 
 convenient, I shall feel delighted. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Oh ! follow me to 
 my room, and if you have the document, 
 it will be happiness to me to pay it. 
 Poor Charles ! good heart ! 
 
 Dazzle. Oh, a splendid heart! I 
 dare say. _ [Exit Sir Harcourt] Come 
 here ; write me the bill. 
 
 Young Courtly. What for? 
 
 Dazzle. What for? why, to release 
 the unfortunate man and his family, to 
 be sure, from jail. 
 
 Young Courtly. Who is he? 
 
 Dazzle. Yourself. 
 
 Young Courtly. But I haven't 
 fifteen children ! 
 
 Dazzle. Will you take your oath of 
 that? 
 
 Young Courtly. Nor four wives. 
 
 Dazzle. More shame for you, with 
 all that family. Come, don't be obsti- 
 nate ; write and date it back. 
 
 Young Courtly. Ay, but where is 
 the stamp? 
 
 Dazzle. Here they are, of all pat- 
 terns. [Pulls out a pocketbook] I keep 
 them ready drawn in case of necessity, 
 all but the date and acceptance. Now, 
 
 if you are in an autographic humour, you 
 can try how your signature will look 
 across half a dozen of them ; — there — 
 write — exactly — you know the place 
 — across — good — and thank your 
 lucky stars that you have found a friend 
 at last, that gives you money and ad- 
 vice. [Takes paper and exit] 
 Young Courtly. Things are ap- 
 proaching to a climax ; I must appear in 
 vroprid persond — and immediately — 
 but I must first ascertain what are the 
 real sentiments of this riddle of a woman. 
 Does she love me? I flatter myself — 
 By Jove, here she comes — I shall never 
 have such an opportunity agaia ! 
 
 [Enter Grace] 
 Grace. I wish I had never seen Mr. 
 Hamilton. Why does every object 
 appear robbed of the charm it once pre- 
 sented to me? Why do I shudder at 
 the contemplation of this marriage, 
 which, till now, was to me a subject of 
 indifference? Am I in love? In love! 
 if I am, my past Ufe has been the work 
 of raising up a pedestal to place my own 
 folly on — I — the infidel — the railer ! 
 Young Courtly. Meditating upon 
 matrimony, madam? 
 
 Grace. [Aside] He Uttle thinks he 
 was the subject of my meditations! 
 [Aloud] No. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] I must 
 unmask my battery now. 
 
 Grace. [Aside] How foolish I am 
 
 — he will perceive that I tremble — I 
 
 must appear at ease. [A pause] 
 
 Young Courtly. Eh? ah! urn! 
 
 Grace. Ah! [They sink into silence 
 
 again. Aside] How very awkward! 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] It is a 
 very difQoult subject to begin. [Aloud] 
 Madam — ahem — there was — is — I 
 mean — I was about to remark — a — 
 [Aside] Hang me if it is not a very 
 slippery subject. I must brush up my 
 faculties;- attack her in her own way. 
 [Aloud] Sing! oh, muse! [Aside]. 
 Why, I have made love before to a 
 hundred women ! 
 
 Grace. [Aside] I wish I had some- 
 thing to do, for I have nothing to say. 
 
 Young Courtly. Madam — there 
 is — a subject so fraught with fate to 
 my future life, that you must pardon my 
 lack of delicacy, should a too hasty 
 expression mar the fervent courtesy of 
 its intent. To you, I feel aware, I must 
 appear in the light of a comparative 
 stranger. 
 
London Assurance 
 
 165 
 
 Grace. [Aside] I know what's 
 ming. 
 
 Young Courtly. Of you — I know 
 rhaps too much for my own peace. 
 Grace. [Aside] He is in love. 
 Young Courtly. I forget all that 
 fell before I saw your beauteous self ; 
 seem born into another world — my 
 ,ture changed — the beams of that 
 ight face faJling on my soul, have, from 
 1 chaos, warmed into life the flowrets 
 affection, whose maiden odours now 
 lat toward the sun, pouring forth on 
 eir pure tongue a mite of adoration, 
 idst the voices of a universe. [Aside] 
 iat's something in her own style. 
 Grace. Mr. Hamilton! 
 Young Courtly. You cannot feel 
 rprised — 
 
 Grace. I am more than surprised; 
 .side] I am delighted. 
 Young Courtly. Do not speak so 
 Idly. 
 
 Grace. You have offended me. 
 Young Courtly. No, madam ; no 
 Dman, whatever her state, can be 
 fended by the adoration even of the 
 sanest ; it is myself whom I have 
 fended and deceived — but still I ask 
 lur pardon. 
 
 Grace. [Aside] Oh ! he thinks I am 
 fusing him. [Alovd] I am not ex- 
 tly offended, but — 
 Young Courtly. Consider my posi- 
 m — a few days — and an insur- 
 ountable barrier would have placed 
 )u beyond my wildest hopes — you 
 Duld have been my mother. 
 Grace. I should have been your 
 other ! [Aside] I thought so. 
 Young Courtly. No — that is, I 
 eant Sir Harcourt Courtly's bride. 
 Grace. [With great ( 
 
 ever! 
 
 Young Courtly. Howl never! 
 ay I then hope ? — you turn away — 
 )u would not lacerate me by a refusal ? 
 Grace. [Aside] How stupid he is ! 
 Young Courtly. Still silent! I 
 ank you, Miss Grace — I ought to 
 ive expected this — fool that I have 
 len — one course alone remains — 
 reweU ! 
 
 Grace. [Aside] Now he's going. 
 Young Courtly. Farewell forever! 
 its] WiU you not speak one word? 
 shall leave this house immediately — I 
 all not see you again. 
 Grace. Unhand me, sir, I insist. 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Oh! 
 lat an ass I've been ! [Rushes up to 
 
 her, and seizes her hand] Release tliis 
 hand ? Never ! never ! [Kissing it] 
 Never wiU I quit this hand ! it shall be 
 my companion in misery — in soHtude 
 
 — when you are far away. 
 
 Grace. Oh ! should any one come 1 
 [Drops her handkerchief; he stoops to 
 pick it up] For heaven's sake do not 
 kneel. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Kneels] Forever 
 thus prostrate, before my soul's saint, I 
 will lead a pious life of eternal adora- 
 tion. 
 
 Grace. Should we be discovered 
 thus — pray, Mr. Hamilton — pray — 
 pray. 
 
 Young Courtly. Pray! I am 
 praying ; what more can I do ? 
 
 Grace. Your conduct is shameful. 
 
 Young Courtly. It is. [Rises] 
 
 Grace. And if I do not scream, it is 
 not for your sake — that — but it might 
 alarm the family. 
 
 Young Courtly. It might — it 
 would. Say, am I wholly indifferent 
 to you ? I entreat one word — I im- 
 plore you — do not withdraw your 
 hand — [She snatches it away — he puts 
 his round her waist] You smile. 
 
 Grace. Leave me, dear Mr. Hamil- 
 ton! 
 
 Young Courtly. Dear! Then I 
 am dear to you ; that word once more ; 
 say — say you love me ! 
 
 Grace. Is this fair? 
 
 [He catches her in his arms, and 
 kisses her. 
 
 [Enter Lady Gay Spanker] 
 
 Lady Gay. Ha! oh! 
 
 Grace. Gay ! destruction ! [Exit] 
 
 Young Courtly. Fizgig! The 
 devil! 
 
 Lady Gay. Don't mind me — pray, 
 don't let me be any interruption ! 
 
 Young Courtly. I was just — 
 
 Lady Gay. Yes, I see you were. 
 
 Young Courtly. Oh ! madam, how 
 could you mar my bHss, in the very 
 ecstasy of its fulfilment ? 
 
 Lady Gay. I always Uke to be in 
 at the death. Never drop your ears; 
 bless you, she is only a little fresh — 
 give her her head, and she will outrun 
 herself. 
 
 Young Courtly. Possibly; but 
 what, am I to do ? 
 
 Lady Gay. Keep your seat. 
 
 Young Courtly. But in a few days 
 she wiU take a leap that must throw me 
 
 — she marries Sir Harcourt Courtly. 
 
166 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Lady Gat. Why, that is awkward, 
 certainly; but you can challenge him, 
 and shoot him. 
 
 Young Couhtly. Unfortunately, 
 that is out of the question. 
 
 Lady Gay. How so ? 
 
 Young Courtly. You wiU not be- 
 tray a secret, if I inform you? 
 
 Lady Gay. AU right — what is it ? 
 
 Young Courtly. I am his son. 
 
 Lady Gay. What — his son ? But 
 he does not know you? 
 
 Young Courtly. No. I met him 
 here, by chance, and faced it out. I 
 never saw him before in my life. 
 
 Lady Gay. Beautiful ! — ^ I see it all 
 
 — you're in love with your mother, that 
 should be — your wife, that wiU be. 
 
 Young Courtly. Now, I think I 
 could distance the old gentleman, if you 
 will but lend us your assistance. 
 
 Lady Gay. I will, in anything. 
 
 Young Courtly. You must know, 
 then,- that my father, Sir Harcourt, has 
 fallen desperately in love with you. 
 
 Lady Gay. With me! — ■ [Utters a 
 scream of delight] — That is delicious ! 
 
 Young Courtly. Now, if you only 
 could — 
 
 Lady Gay. Could ! — I will. Ha ! 
 ha! I see my cue. I'll cross his scent 
 
 — I'll draw him after me. Ho ! ho ! 
 won't I make love to him? Ha ! 
 
 Young Courtly. The only objec- 
 tion might be Mr. Spanker, who 
 might — 
 
 Lady Gay. No, he mightn't, — he's 
 no ob.iection. Bless him, he's an in- 
 estimable little character — you don't 
 know him as well as I do. I dare say — 
 ha ! ha ! [Dinner-bell rings] Here they 
 come to dinner. I'll commence my 
 operations on your Governor imme- 
 diately. Ha ! ha ! how I shall enjoy 
 it. 
 
 Young Courtly. Be guarded ! 
 
 [Enter Max Harkaway, Sir Harcourt, 
 Dazzle, Grace, and Spanker] 
 
 Max. Now, gentlemen — Sir Har- 
 court, do you lead Grace. 
 
 Lady Gay. I beheve Sir Harcourt 
 is engaged to me. [Takes his arm] 
 
 Max. Well, please yourselves. 
 
 [They file out, Max jftrsi, Young 
 Courtly and Grace, Sir 
 Harcourt coquetting with 
 Lady Gay, leaving Dazzle, 
 who offers his arm to Spanker] 
 
 END OP ACT III 
 
 ACT rv 
 
 Scene First. — A handsome Drawing- 
 Room in Oak Hall, chandeliers, tables 
 with books, drawings, etc. Ghace 
 and Lady Gay discovered. Serv- 
 ant handing Coffee] 
 
 Grace. If there be one habit more 
 abominable than another, it is that of 
 the gentlemen sitting over their wine: 
 it is a selfish, unfeeUng fashion', and a 
 gross insult to our sex. 
 
 Lady Gay. We are turned out just 
 when the fun begins. How happy the 
 poor wretches look at the contemplation 
 of being rid of us. 
 
 Grace. . The conventional signal for 
 the ladies to withdraw is anxiously and 
 deliberately waited for. 
 
 Lady Gay. Then I begin to wish I 
 were a man. 
 
 Grace. The instant the door is 
 closed upon us, there rises a roar I 
 
 Lady Gay. In celebration of their 
 short-lived Uberty, my love ; rejoicing 
 over their emancipation. 
 
 Grace. I think it very insulting, 
 whatever it may be. 
 
 Lady Gay. Ah ! my dear, phi- 
 losophers say that man is the creature 
 of an hour — it is the dinner hour, 1 
 suppose. 
 
 [Loud noise. Cries of "A song, 
 a song "] 
 
 Grace. I am afraid they are getting 
 too pleasant to be agreeable. 
 
 Lady Gay. I hope the squire ■will 
 restrict himself; after his third bottle, 
 he becomes rather voluminous. [Cries oj 
 "Silence"] Some one is going to sing. 
 [Jumps up] Let us hear ! 
 
 [Spanker is heard to sing] 
 
 Grace. Oh, no. Gay, for heaven's 
 sake! 
 
 Lady Gay. Oho ! ha ! ha ! why, 
 that is my DoUy. [At the conclusion of 
 the verse] Well, I never heard my Dolly 
 sing before ! Happy wretches, how I 
 envy them ! 
 
 [Enter Jambs, loith a note] 
 
 James. Mr. Hamilton has just left 
 the house for London. 
 
 Grace. Impossible ! — that is, with- 
 out seeing — that is — 
 
 Lady Gay. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Grace. He never — speak, sir ! 
 
London Assurance 
 
 167 
 
 James. He left, Miss Grace, in a 
 desperate hurry, and this note, I believe, 
 for you. [Presenting a note on a salver] 
 Grace. For me ! 
 
 [She is about to snatch it, but re- 
 straining herself, takes it coolly. 
 Exit Jambs] 
 
 [Reads] " Your manner during dinner hag 
 left me no alternative but instant departure ; 
 my absence will release you from the oppres- 
 sion which my society must necessarily inflict 
 on your sensitive mind. It may tend also to 
 smother, though it can never extinguish, 
 that indomitable passion, of which I am the 
 passive victim. Dare I supplicate pardon 
 and oblivion for the past? It is the last 
 request of the self-deceived, but still loving 
 "AuGtrsTus Hamilton." 
 
 [Puts her hand to her forehead and 
 appears giddy] 
 f Lady Gat. Hallo, Grace ! .what's 
 |, the matter? 
 
 |l Grace [recovering herself]. Noth- 
 ing — the heat of the room. 
 
 Lady Gay. Oh! what excuse does 
 he make? particular unforeseen busi- 
 ness, I suppose? 
 Grace. Why, yes — a mere formula 
 
 — a — a — you may put it in the fire. 
 
 [She puts it in her bosom] 
 
 Lady Gat. [Aside] It • is near 
 enough to the fire where it is. 
 
 Grace. I'm glad he's gone. 
 
 Lady Gay. So am I. 
 
 Grace. He was a disagreeable, ig- 
 norant person. 
 
 Lady Gay. Yes ; and so vulgar ! 
 
 Grace. No, he was not at all vidgar. 
 
 Lady Gay. I mean in appearance. 
 
 Grace. Oh ! how can you say so ; 
 he was very distingui. 
 
 Lady Gay. Well, I might have been 
 mistaken, but I took him for a forward, 
 intrusive — 
 
 Grace. Good gracious. Gay ! he was 
 very retiring — ■ even shy. 
 
 Lady Gay. [Aside] It's all right. 
 She is in love, — blows hot and cold in 
 the same breath. 
 
 Grace. How can you be a compe- 
 tent judge ? Why, you have not known 
 him more than a few hours, — while I 
 
 — I — 
 
 Lady Gay. Have known him two 
 days and a quarter ! I yield — • I con- 
 fess, I never was, or will be so intimate 
 with him as you appeared to be ! Ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 [Loud noise of argument. The 
 folding-doors are thrown open] 
 
 [Enter the whole party of gentlemen ap- 
 parently engaged in warm discussion. 
 They assemble in knots, while the 
 Servants hand Co fee, etc., Max, 
 Sib Harcourt, Dazzle, and 
 Spanker, together] 
 
 Dazzle. But, my dear sir, consider 
 the position of the two countries under 
 such a constitution. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. The two countries! 
 What have they to do with the sub- 
 ject? 
 
 Max. Everything. Look at their 
 two legislative bodies. 
 
 Spanker. Ay, look at their two leg- 
 islative bodies. 
 
 Sir Hahcotjrt. Why, it would in- 
 evitably establish universal anarchy and 
 confusion. 
 
 Grace. I think they are pretty well 
 established already. 
 
 Spanker. Well, suppose it did, what 
 has anarchy and confusion to do with 
 the subject? 
 
 Lady Gay. Do look at my DoUy: 
 he is arguing — talking politics — 'pon 
 my life he is. [Calling] Mr. Spanker, 
 my dear ! 
 
 Spanker. Excuse me, love, I am 
 discussing a point of importance. 
 
 Lady Gat. Oh, that is delicious; 
 he must discuss that to me. — [She goes 
 up and leads him down; he appears to 
 have shaken off his gaucherie; she shakes 
 her head] DoUy ! DoUy ! 
 
 Spanker. Pardon me. Lady Gay 
 Spanker, I conceive your mutilation of 
 my sponsorial appellation derogatory to 
 my amour propre. 
 
 Lady Gay. Your what? Ho! ho! 
 
 Spanker. And I particularly request 
 that, for the future, I may not be treated 
 with that cavalier spirit which does not 
 become your sex, nor your station, your 
 ladyship. 
 
 Lady Gat. You have been indulg- 
 ing till you have lost the little wit nature 
 dribbled into your unfortunate little 
 head — your brains want the whipper- 
 in — you are not yourself. 
 
 Spanker. Madam, I am doubly my- 
 self ; and permit me to inform you, that 
 unless you voluntarily pay obedience to 
 my commands, I shall enforce them. 
 
 Ladt Gat. Your commands ! 
 
 Spanker.^ Yes, madam ; I mean to 
 put a full stop to your hunting. 
 
 Ladt Gat. You do ! ah ! [Aside] 
 I can scarcely speak from delight. 
 [Aloud] Who put such an idea into your 
 
168 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 head, for I am sure it is not an original 
 emanation of your genius? 
 
 Spanker. Sir Haroourt Courtly, my 
 friend ; and now, marli me ! I request, 
 for your own sake, tliat I may not be 
 compelled to assert my a — my author- 
 ity, as your husband. I shall say no 
 more than this — if you persist in this 
 absurd rebellion — 
 
 Lady Gay. Well! 
 
 Spanker. Contemplate a separation. 
 [He looks at her haughtily, and retires] 
 
 Lady Gay. Now I'm happy ! My 
 own little darling, inestimable DoUy, 
 has tum.bled into a spirit, somehow. Sir 
 Harcoiirt, too ! Ha ! ha ! he's trying 
 to make him ill-treat me, so that his own 
 suit may thrive. 
 
 Sir Hakcouet. [Advances] Lady 
 Gay! 
 
 Lady Gay. Now for it. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. What hours of mis- 
 ery were those I passed, when, by your 
 secession, the room suffered a total 
 eclipse. 
 
 Lady Gay. Ah ! you flatter. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. No, pardon me, 
 that were impossible. No, believe me, 
 I tried to join in the boisterous mirth, 
 but my thoughts would desert to the 
 drawing-room. Ah ! how I envied the 
 careless levity and cool indifference with 
 which Mr. Spanker enjoyed your 
 absence. 
 
 Dazzle [who is lounging in a chair]. 
 Max, that Madeira is worth its weight 
 in gold ; I hope you have more of it. 
 
 Max. a pipe, I think. 
 
 Dazzle. I consider a magnum of 
 that nectar, and a meerschaum of 
 kanaster, to consummate the ultimatum 
 of all mundane bliss. To drown myself 
 in liquid ecstasy, and then blow a cloud 
 on which the enfranchised soul could 
 soar above Olympus. — Oh ! 
 
 [Enter Jambs] 
 
 James. Mr. Charles Courtly ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Ah, now. Max, you 
 must see a living apology for my con- 
 duct. 
 
 [Enter YouNG Courtly, dressed very 
 plainly] 
 
 Well, Charles, how are you? Don't be 
 afraid. There, Max, what do you say 
 now? 
 
 Max. Well, this is the most extraor- 
 dinary likeness. 
 
 Grace. [Aside] Yes -^ considering 
 
 it is the original. I am not so 
 deceived ! 
 
 Max. Sir, I am delighted to see you. 
 
 Young Courtly. Thank you, sir. 
 
 Dazzle. Will you be kind enough 
 to introduce me, Sir Harcourt? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. This is Mr. Dazzle, 
 Charles. 
 
 Young Courtly. Which? 
 
 [Looking from Mr. Spanker to 
 Dazzle] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. [To Lady Gay] Is 
 not that refreshing? Miss Harkaway 
 — Charles, this is your mother, or rather 
 will be. 
 
 Young Courtly. Madam, I shall 
 love, honour, and obey you punctually. 
 [Takes out a book, sighs, and goes up 
 reading] 
 
 [Enter James] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. You perceive? 
 
 Quite unused to society — perfectly 
 ignorant of every conventional rule of 
 life. 
 
 James. The Doctor and the young 
 ladies have arrived. [Exit] 
 
 Max. The young ladies — now we 
 must to the b^U — I make it a rule 
 always to commence the festivities with 
 a good old country dance — a rattling 
 Sir Roger de Coverly; come. Sir Har- 
 court. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Does this antiquity 
 require a war-whoop in it ? 
 
 Max. Nothing but a nimble foot and 
 a light heart. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Very antediluvian 
 indispensables ! Lady Gay Spanker, 
 wiU you honour me by becoming my 
 preceptor ? 
 
 Lady Gay. Why, I am engaged — 
 but [Aloud] on such a plea as Sir Har- 
 court's, I must waive aU obstacles. 
 
 Max. Now, Grace, girl — give your 
 hand to Mr. Courtly. 
 
 Grace. Pray, excuse me, uncle — I 
 have a headache. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. [Aside] Jealousy! 
 by the gods. — Jealous of my devotions 
 at another's fane ! [Aloud] Charles, 
 my boy ! amuse Miss Grace during our 
 absence. [Exit with Lady Gay] 
 
 Max. But don't you dance, Mr. 
 Courtly ! 
 
 Young Courtly. Dance, sir ! — I 
 never dance — I can procure exercise 
 in a much more rational manner — 
 and music disturbs my meditations. 
 
 Max. Well, do the gaUant. [Exit] 
 
 Young Courtly. I never studied 
 that Art — but I have a Prize Essay on a 
 
London Assurance 
 
 169 
 
 Hydrostatic subject, which would de- 
 light her — for it enchanted the 
 Reverend Doctor Pump, of Corpus 
 Christi. 
 
 Grace. [Aside] What on earth 
 could have induced him to disguise him- 
 self in that frightful way ! — I rather 
 suspect some plot to entrap me into a 
 confession. 
 
 Young Couktly. [Aside] Dare I 
 confess this trick to her? No! Not 
 until I have proved her affection indis- 
 putably. — Let me see — I must con- 
 %; eoct. [He takes a chair, and, forgetting 
 ■ his assumed character, is about to take 
 his natural free manner. — Gbace looks 
 surprised. — He turns abashed] Madam, 
 I have been desired to amuse you. 
 
 Grace. Thank you. 
 
 YoTJNG CotTRTLY. "The labour we 
 dehght in, physics pain." I will draw 
 you a moral, ahem! Subject, the 
 effects of inebriety ! — which, accord- 
 ing to Ben Jonson — means perplexion 
 of the intellects, caused by imbibing 
 spirituous liquors. — About an hour 
 before my arrival, I passed an appalling 
 evidence of the effects of this state — a 
 carriage was overthrown — horses killed 
 
 — gentleman in a helpless state, with Hs 
 neck broken — all occasioned by the 
 intoxication of the post-boy. 
 
 Grace. That is very amusing. 
 Young Coubtly. I found it edifying 
 
 — nutritious food for reflection — the 
 expiring man desired his best compli- 
 ments to you. 
 
 Grace. To me ? 
 
 Young Courtly. Yes. 
 
 Grace. His name was — 
 
 Young Courtly. Mr. Augustus 
 Hamilton. 
 
 Grace. Augustus ! Oh ! 
 
 [Affects to faint] 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Huzza! 
 
 Grace. But where, sir, did this hap- 
 pen? 
 
 Young Courtly. About four miles 
 down the road. 
 
 Grace. He must be conveyed here. 
 
 [Enter Servant] 
 Servant. Mr. Meddle, madam. 
 [Enter Meddle] 
 
 Meddle. On very particular busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Grace. The very person. My dear 
 sir! 
 
 Meddle. My dear madam ! 
 
 Grace. You must execute a very 
 
 particular commission for me iinme- 
 diately. Mr. Hamilton has met with a 
 frightful accident on the London road, 
 and is in a dying state. 
 
 Meddle. Well ! I have' no hesita- 
 tion in saying, he takes it uncommonly 
 easy — he looks as if he was used to it. 
 
 Grace. You mistake: that is not 
 Mr. Hamilton, but Mr. Courtly, who 
 will explain everything, and conduct 
 you to the spot. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Oh! I 
 must put a stop to all this, or I shall 
 be found out. — [Aloud] Madam, that 
 were useless ; for I omitted to mention a 
 small fact which occurred before I left 
 Mr. Hamilton — he died. 
 
 Grace. Dear me ! Oh, then we 
 needn't trouble you, Mr. Meddle. 
 [Music heard] Hark! I hear they are 
 commencing a waltz — if you will ask 
 me — perhaps your society and conver- 
 sation may tend to dispel the dreadful 
 sensation you have aroused. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Hears of 
 my death — screams out — and then 
 asks me to waltz ! I am bewildered ! 
 Can she suspect me? I wonder which 
 she likes best — me or my double ? 
 Confound this disguise — I must retain 
 it — I have gone too far with my dad to 
 puU up now. — At your service, madam. 
 
 Grace. [Aside] I will pay him well 
 for this trick ! 
 
 [Exeunt, all but Meddle] 
 
 Meddle. Well, if that is not Mr. 
 Hamilton, scratch me out with a big 
 blade, for I am a blot — a mistake upon 
 the rolls. There is an error in the plead- 
 ings somewhere, and I wiU discover it. 
 I would swear to his identity before the 
 most discriminating jury. By the bye, 
 this accident will form a capital excuse 
 for my presence here. I just stepped 
 in to see how matters worked, and — 
 stay — here comes the bridegroom elect 
 — and, oh ! in his very arms, Lady Gay 
 Spanker! [Looks round] Where are 
 my witnesses? Oh, that some one else 
 were here! However, I can retire and 
 get some information, eh — Spanker 
 versus Courtly — damages — witness. 
 [Gets into an arm-chair, which he 
 turns round] 
 
 [Enter Sib Harcourt, supporting 
 Lady Gay] 
 
 Sib Hahcoubt. This cool room will 
 recover you. 
 
 Lady Gay. Excuse my trusting to 
 you for support. 
 
170 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 SiE Habcouht. I am transported! 
 Allow me thus ever to support this 
 lovely burden, and I shall conceive that 
 Paradise is regained. [They sit] 
 
 Lady Gay. Oh ! Sir Harcourt, I feel 
 very faint. 
 
 Sir HABcotTHT. The waltz made you 
 giddy. 
 
 Lady Gat. And I have left my salts 
 in the other room. 
 
 Sib Habcoubt. I always carry a 
 flacon, for the express accommodation of 
 the fair sex. 
 
 [Producing a smelling-bottle] 
 
 Lady Gay. Thank you — ah ! [She 
 sighs] 
 
 •Sir Haecoubt. What a sigh was 
 there ! 
 
 Lady Gay. The vapour of con- 
 suming grief. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Grief? Is it pos- 
 sible ! Have you a grief ? Are you 
 unhappy ? Dear me I 
 
 Lady Gay. Am I not married? 
 
 Sib Harcourt. What a horrible 
 state of existence ! 
 
 Lady Gay. I am never contradicted, 
 so there are none of those enlivemng, 
 interesting little differences, which so 
 pleasingly diversify the monotony of 
 conjugal hfe, like spots of verdure — no 
 quarrels, like oases in the desert of 
 matrimony — no rows. 
 
 Sir Habcourt. How vulgar ! what 
 a brute ! 
 
 Lady Gay. I never have anything 
 but my own way ; and he won't permit 
 me to spend more than I like. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Mean-spirited 
 
 wretch ! 
 
 Lady Gay. How can I help being 
 miserable? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Miserable! I won- 
 der you are not in a lunatic asylum, with 
 such unheard-of barbarity ! 
 
 Lady Gay. But worse than all that ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Can it be out- 
 heroded ? 
 
 Lady Gay. Yes, I could forgive that 
 — I do — it is my duty. But only 
 imagine — picture to yourself, my dear 
 Sir Harcourt, though I, the third daugh- 
 ter of an Earl, married him out of pity 
 for his destitute and helpless situation as 
 a bachelor with ten thousand a year — 
 conceive, if you can — he actually per- 
 mits me, with the most placid indiffer- 
 ence, to flirt with any old fool I may 
 meet. 
 
 Sib Habcourt. Good gracious! 
 miserable idiot ! 
 
 Lady Gat. I fear there is an 
 incompatibility of temper, which renders 
 a separation inevitable. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Indispensable, my 
 dear madam ! Ah ! had I been the 
 happy possessor of such a realm of bliss 
 
 — what a beatific eternity unfolds itself 
 to my extending imagination! Had 
 another man but looked at you, I should 
 have annihilated him at once ; and if lie 
 had the temerity to speak, his life alone 
 could have expiated his crime. 
 
 Lady Gay. Oh, an existence of such 
 a nature is too bright for the eye of 
 thought — too sweet to bear reflection. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. My devotion, 
 
 eternal, deep — 
 
 Lady Gay. Oh, Sir Harcourt ! 
 
 Sib Harcourt [more fervently]. 
 Your every thought should be a separate 
 study, — each wish forestalled by the 
 quick apprehension of a kindred soul. 
 
 Lady Gay. Alas ! how can I avoid 
 my fate? 
 
 Sib Habcourt. If a life — a heart 
 
 — were offered to your astonished view 
 by one who is considered the index of 
 fashion — the vane of the beau monde, — 
 if you saw him at your feet, begging, 
 beseeching your acceptance of aU, and 
 more than this, what would your 
 answer — 
 
 Lady Gay. Ah ! I know of none so 
 devoted ! 
 
 Sjr Harcourt. You do ! [Throw- 
 ing himself upon his knees] Behold Sir 
 Harcourt Courtly ! 
 
 [Meddle jumps up in the chair] 
 
 Lady Gay. [Aside] Ha! ha! 
 Yoicks ! Puss has broken cover. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Speak, adored, 
 dearest Lady Gay ! — speak — wiU you 
 fly from the tyranny, the wretched 
 misery of such a monster's roof, and 
 accept the soul which lives but in your 
 presence ! 
 
 Lady Gay. Do not press me. Oh, 
 spare a weak, yielding woman, — be 
 contented to know that you are, alas! 
 too dear to me. But the world — the 
 world would say — 
 
 Sir Habcoubt. Let us be a prece- 
 dent, to open a more extended and 
 liberal view of matrimonial advantages 
 to society. 
 
 Lady Gay. How irresistible is your 
 argument ! Oh ! pause ! 
 
 Sir Habcourt. I have ascertained 
 for a fact, that every tradesman of mine 
 lives with his wife, and thus you see it 
 has become a vulgar and plebeian custom. 
 
London Assurance 
 
 171 
 
 Ladt Gay. Leave me ; I feel I can- 
 not withstand your powers of persua- 
 sion. Swear that you will never for- 
 sake me. 
 
 SIe Habcourt. Dictate the oath. 
 May I grow wrinkled, — may two inches 
 be added to the circumference of my 
 waist, — may I lose the fall in my back, 
 — may I be old and ugly the instant I 
 forego one tithe of adoration ! 
 
 Lady Gay. I must believe you. 
 
 Sir . Harcourt. Shall we leave this 
 detestable spot — this horrible vicinity ? 
 
 Lady Gay. The sooner the better : 
 to-morrow evening let it be. Now let 
 me return; my absence will be re- 
 marked. [He kisses her hand] Do I 
 appear confused? Has my agitation 
 rendered me unfit to enter the room ? 
 
 Sir Habcotjet. More angelic by a' 
 lovely tinge of heightened colour. 
 
 Lady Gay. To-morrow, in this 
 room, which opens on the lawn. 
 
 Sib Harcourt. At eleven o'clock. 
 
 Lady Gay. Have your carriage in 
 waiting, and four horses. Remember, 
 please be particular to have four ; don't 
 let the affair come off shabbily. Adieu, 
 dear Sir Harcourt ! [Exit] 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Veni, vidi, vici ! 
 Hannibal, Caesar, Napoleon, Alex- 
 ander never completed so fair a conquest 
 in so short a time. She dropped fas- 
 cinated. This is an unprecedented 
 example of the irresistible force of per- 
 sonal appearance combined with pol- 
 ished address. Poor creature ! how she 
 loves me ! I pity so prostrating a pas- 
 sion, and ought to return it. I will : it 
 is a duty I owe to society and fashion. 
 
 [Exit] 
 . Meddle. [Turns the chair round] 
 "There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
 which, taken at the flood, leads on to 
 fortune." This is my tide — I am the 
 only witness. "Virtue is sure to flmd 
 its own reward." But I've no time to 
 contemplate what I shall be — some- 
 thing huge. Let me see — Spanker 
 versus Courtly — Crim. Con. — Dam- 
 ages placed at 150,0002., at least, for 
 juries always decimate your hopes. 
 
 [Enter Mb. Spanker] 
 
 Spanker. I cannot find Gay any- 
 where. 
 
 Meddle. The plaintiff himself — I 
 must commence the action. Mr. 
 Spanker, as I have information of deep, 
 vital importance to impart, will you 
 take a seat ? [They sit solemnly. Med- 
 
 dle takes out a note-book and pencil] 
 Ahem ! You have a wife? 
 
 [Re-enter Lady Gay behind] 
 
 Spanker. Yes, I believe I — 
 
 Meddle. Will you be kind enough, 
 without any prevarication, to answer 
 my questions ? 
 
 Spanker. You alarm — -I — 
 
 Meddle. Compose yourself and re- 
 serve your feelings ; take time to con- 
 sider. You have a wife? 
 
 Spankeb. Yes — 
 
 Meddle. He has a wife — good — 
 a bona-fide wife — bound morally and 
 legally to be your wife, and nobody 
 else's in effect, except on your written 
 permission — • 
 
 Spanker. But what has this — 
 
 Meddle. Hush ! allow me, my dear 
 sir, to congratulate you. 
 
 [Shakes his hand] 
 
 Spanker. What for? 
 
 Meddle. Lady Gay Spanker is 
 about to dishonour the bond of wedlock 
 by eloping from you. 
 
 Spanker [starting]. What? 
 
 Meddle. Be patient — I thought 
 you would be overjoyed. Will you 
 place the affair in my hands, and I will 
 venture to promise the largest damages 
 on record. 
 
 Spanker. Damn the damages ! — I 
 want my wife. Oh, I'll go and ask her 
 not to run away. She may run away 
 with me — she may hunt — she may 
 ride — anything she Ukes. Oh, sir, let 
 us put a stop to this affair. 
 
 Meddle. Put a stop to it! do not 
 alarm me, sir. Sir, you will spoil the 
 most exquisite brief that was ever 
 penned. It must proceed — it shall 
 proceed. It is illegal to prevent it, and 
 I will bring an action against you for 
 wilful intent to injure the profession. 
 
 Spanker. Oh, what an ass I am! 
 Oh, I have driven her to this. It was 
 all that damned brandy punch on the top 
 of Burgundy. What a fool I was ! 
 
 Meddle. It was the happiest mo- 
 ment of your life. 
 
 Spankeb. So I thought at the time ; 
 but we live to grow wiser. TeU me, 
 who is the vile seducer? 
 
 Meddle. Sir Harcourt Courtly. 
 
 Spanker. Ha ! he is my best friend. 
 
 Meddle. I should think he is. If 
 you wiU accompany me — here is a 
 verbatim copy of the whole transaction 
 in short-hand — sworn to by me. 
 
172 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Spanker. Only let me have Gay 
 back again. 
 
 Meddle. Even that may be ar- 
 ranged : — this way. 
 
 Spanker. That ever I should live 
 to see my wife run away. Oh, I wiU do 
 any thing — keep two packs of hounds 
 
 — buy up every horse and ass in Eng- 
 land — myself included — oh ! 
 
 [Exit with Meddle] 
 Lady Gay. Ha! ha! ha! Poor 
 Dolly ! I'm sorry I must continue to 
 deceive him. If he would kindle up a 
 little — So, that fellow overheard all — 
 well, so much the better. 
 
 [Enter Young Courtly] 
 
 Young Courtly. My dear madam, 
 how fares the plot? does my Governor 
 nibble? 
 
 Lady Gay. Nibble ! he is caught, 
 and in the basket. I have just left him 
 with a hook in his gills, panting for very 
 lack of element. But how goes on your 
 encounter ? 
 
 Young Courtly. Bravely. By a 
 simple ruse, I have discovered that she 
 loves me. I see but one chance against 
 the best termination I could hope. 
 
 Lady Gay. What is that ? 
 
 Young Courtly. My father has 
 told me that I return to town again to- 
 morrow afternoon. 
 
 Lady Gay. Well, I insist you stop 
 and dine — keep out of the way. 
 
 Young Courtly. Oh, but what 
 excuse shall I offer for disobedience? 
 What can I say when he sees me before 
 dinner ? 
 
 Lady Gay. Say — say Grace. 
 
 [Enter Grace, who gets behind the 
 window curtains\ 
 
 Young Courtly. Ha! ha! 
 
 Lady Gay. I have arranged to elope 
 with Sir Hareourt myself to-morrow 
 night. 
 
 Young Courtly. The deuce you 
 have! 
 
 Lady Gay. Now, if you could per- 
 suade Grace to follow that example — 
 his carriage will be waiting at the Park 
 
 — be there a httle before eleven, and it 
 will just prevent our escape. Can you 
 make her agree to that? 
 
 Young Courtly. Oh, without the 
 slightest difficulty, if Mr. Augustus 
 Hamilton supplicates. 
 
 Lady Gay. Success attend you. 
 
 [Going] 
 
 Young Courtly. I will bend tlie 
 
 haughty Grace. [Going] 
 
 Lady Gay. Do. [Exeunt severally] 
 Grace. Will you? 
 
 end op act IV 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene First. — A Drawing-Room in 
 Oak Hall 
 
 [Enter Cool] 
 
 Cool. This is the most serious affair 
 Sir Hareourt has ever been engaged in. 
 I took the liberty of considering him a 
 fool when he told me he was going to 
 marry: but voluntarily to incur an- 
 other man's incumbrance is very little 
 short of madness. If he continues to 
 conduct himself in this absurd manner, 
 I shall be compelled to dismiss him. 
 
 [Enter Sir Harcourt, equipped for 
 travelling] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Cool ! 
 
 Cool. Sir Harcourt. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Is my chariot in 
 waiting ? 
 
 Cool. For the last half hour at the 
 park wicket. But, pardon the insin- 
 uation, sir ; would it not be more advis- 
 able to hesitate a little for a short reflec- 
 tion before you undertake the heavy 
 responsibility of a woman? 
 
 Sib Harcourt. No : hesitation de- 
 stroys the romance of a faux pas, and 
 reduces it to the level or a mere mer- 
 cantile calculation. 
 
 Cool. What is to be done with Mr. 
 Charles? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Ay, much against 
 my will. Lady Gay prevailed on me to 
 permit him to remain. You, Cool, must 
 return him to college. Pass through 
 London, and deliver these papers : here 
 is a small notice of the coining elopement 
 for the Morning Post; this, by an eye- 
 witness, for the Herald; this, with all 
 the particulars, for the Chronicle; and 
 the full and circumstantial account for 
 the evening journals — ■ after which, 
 meet us at Boulogne. 
 
 CooL. Very good. Sir Harcourt. 
 
 [Going] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Lose no time. Re- 
 member — Hotel Anglais, Boulogne- 
 sur-Mer. And, Cool, bring a few copies 
 with you, and don't forget to distribute 
 some amongst very particular friends. 
 
London Assurance 
 
 173 
 
 Cool. It shall be done. 
 
 [Exit Cool] 
 
 Sib Habcouet. With what indif- 
 ference does a man of the world view the 
 approach of the naost perilous catas- 
 trophe! My position, hazardous as it 
 is, entails none of that nervous excite- 
 ment which a neophyte in the school of 
 fashion would feel. I am as cool and 
 steady as possible. Habit, habit ! Oh ! 
 how many roses will fade upon the 
 cheek of beauty, when the defalcation 
 of Sir Haroourt Courtly is whispered — 
 then hinted — at last, confirmed and 
 bruited. I think I see them. Then, on 
 my return, they will not dare to eject me 
 
 — I am their sovereign 1 Whoever 
 attempts to think of treason, I'll banish 
 him from the West End — I'll out him 
 
 — I'll put him out of fashion ! 
 
 [Enter Lady Gat] 
 
 Ladt Gat. Sir Haroourt ! 
 
 Sir Harcouht. At your feet. 
 
 Ladt Gat. I had hoped you would 
 have repented. 
 
 Sir Hahcourt. Repented! 
 
 Ladt Gat. Have you not come to 
 say it was a jest ? — say you have ! 
 
 Sib Habcotjbt. Love is too sacred a 
 subject to be trifled with. Come, let us 
 fly ! See, I have procured disguises — ■ 
 
 Ladt Gat. My courage begins to 
 fail me. Let me return. 
 
 Sir Habcoubt. Impossible! 
 
 Ladt Gat. Where do you intend to 
 take me ? 
 
 Sir Harcotjbt. You shall be my 
 guide. The carriage waits. 
 
 Ladt Gat. You will never desert 
 me? 
 
 Sir Harcotjbt. Desert! Oh, heav- 
 ens ! Nay, do not hesitate — flight, 
 now, alone is left to your desperate situa^ 
 tion! Come, every moment is laden 
 with danger. [They are going] 
 
 Ladt Gat. Oh ! gracious !■ 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Hush ! what is it ? 
 
 Ladt Gat. I have forgotten — I 
 must return. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Impossible! 
 
 Ladt Gat. I must! I must! I 
 have left Max — a pet staghound, in his 
 basket — without whom, life would be 
 unendurable — I could not exist ! 
 
 Sir Hahcourt. No, no. Let him 
 be sent after us in a hamper. 
 
 Ladt Gat. In a hamper! Re- 
 morseless man ! Go — ■ you love me 
 not. How would you like to be sent 
 after me — in a hamper? Let me fetch 
 
 him. Hark ! I hear him squeal ! Oh ! 
 Max — Max ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Hush ! for heaven's 
 sake. They'll imagine you're calling 
 the Squire. I hear footsteps ; where can 
 I retire ? 
 
 [Enter Meddle, Spanker, Dazzle, and 
 Max. Ladt Qay screams] 
 
 Meddle. Spanker versus Courtly ! — 
 I subpoena every one of you as wit- 
 nesses ! — I have 'em ready — here they 
 are — shilling a-piece. 
 
 [Giving them round] 
 
 Ladt Gat. Where is Sir Harcourt ? 
 
 Meddle. There ! — bear witness ! — 
 call on the vile dehnquent for protection ! 
 
 Spanker. Oh ! his protection ! 
 
 Lady Gay. What? ha! 
 
 Meddle. I'U swear I overheard the 
 whole elopement planned — before any 
 jury ! — Where's the book? 
 
 Spanker. Do you hear, you prof- 
 ligate? 
 
 Ladt Gay. Ha! ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Dazzle. But where is this wretched 
 Lothario ? 
 
 Meddle. Ay, where is the defen- 
 dant? 
 
 Spanker. Where lies the hoary 
 villain ? 
 
 Ladt Gat. What villain? 
 
 Spanker. That will not serve you ! 
 
 — I'U not be bUnded that way ! 
 Meddle. We won't be blinded any 
 
 way! 
 
 Max. I must seek Sir Harcourt, and 
 demand an explanation! Such a thing 
 never occurred in Oak Hall before ! — It 
 must be cleared up ! [Exit] 
 
 Meddle. [Aside to Spanker] Now, 
 take my advice ; remember your gender. 
 Mind the notes I have given you. 
 
 Spanker. [Aside] AU right ! Here 
 they are! Now, madam, I have pro- 
 cured the highest legal opinion on this 
 point. 
 
 Meddle. Hear ! hear ! ■ 
 
 Spanker. And the question resolves 
 itself into a — into — What's this? 
 
 [Looks at notes] 
 
 Meddle. A nutshell ! 
 
 Spanker. Yes, we are in a nutshell. 
 WiU you, in every respect, subscribe to 
 my requests — desires — commands — 
 [Looks at notes] — orders — imperative 
 
 — indicative — injunctive — or other- 
 wise? 
 
 Ladt Gat. [Aside] 'Pon my life, 
 he's actually going to assume the rib- 
 bons, and take the box-seat. I must 
 put a stop to this. I will! It will all 
 
174 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 end in smoke. I know Sir Harcourt 
 would rather run than fight ! 
 
 Dazzle. Oh ! I smell powder ! — 
 command my services. My dear 
 madam, can I be of any use ? 
 
 Spankbh. Oh ! a challenge ! — I 
 must consult my legal adviser. 
 
 Meddle. No ! impossible ! 
 
 Dazzle. Pooh ! the easiest thing in 
 life ! Leave it to me : What has an 
 attorney to do with affairs of honour? — 
 they are out of his element. 
 
 Meddle. Compromise the question ! 
 Pull his nose ! — we have no objection 
 to that. 
 
 Dazzle [turning to Lady Gay]. 
 Well, we have no objection either — ■ 
 have we? 
 
 Lady Gay. No ! — pull his nose — 
 that will be something. 
 
 Meddle. And, moreover, it is not 
 exactly actionable ! 
 
 Dazzle. Isn't it ! — thank you — 
 I'll note down that piece of information 
 
 — it may be useful. 
 
 Meddle. How ! cheated out of my 
 legal knowledge. 
 
 Lady Gay. Mr. Spanker, I am 
 determined ! — I insist upon a chal- 
 lenge being sent to Sir Harcourt 
 Courtly ! — and — mark me — if you 
 refuse to fight him — I will. 
 
 Meddle. Don't. Take my advice 
 
 — you'll incapacit — 
 
 Lady Gat. Look you, Mr. Meddle, 
 unless you wish me to horsewhip you, 
 hold your tongue. 
 
 Meddle. What a she-tiger — I shall 
 retire and collect my costs.' [Exit] 
 
 Lady Gay. Mr. Spanker, oblige me 
 by writing as I dictate. 
 
 Spankeb. He's gone — and now I 
 am defenceless ! Is this the fate of 
 husbands ? — A duel ! — Is this the 
 result of becoming master of my own 
 family ? 
 
 Lady Gay. "Sir, the situation in 
 which you were discovered with my 
 wife, admits neither of explanation nor 
 apology." 
 
 Spanker. Oh, yes ! but it does — I 
 don't believe you really intended to run 
 quite away. 
 
 Lady Gay. You do not ; but I 
 know better, I say I did ! and if it had 
 not been for your unfortunate interrup- 
 tion, I do not know where I might have 
 been by this time. Go on. 
 
 Spanker. "Nor apology." I'm 
 writing mj^ own death-warrant, — ■ com- 
 mitting suicide on compulsion. 
 
 Lady Gay. "The bearer will ar- 
 range aU preliminary matters, for 
 another day must see this sacrilege 
 expiated by your life, or that of 
 
 "Yours very sincerely, 
 "DoUy Spanker." 
 Now, Mr. Dazzle. 
 
 [Gives it over his head] 
 
 Dazzle. The document is as saered 
 as if it were a hundred-pound bill. 
 
 Lady Gay. We trust to your dis- 
 cretion. 
 
 Spanker. His discretion ! Oh, put 
 your head in a tiger's mouth, and trust 
 to his discretion! 
 
 Dazzle [sealing letter, etc., mlh 
 Spanker's seal]. My dear Lady Gay, 
 matters of this kind are indigenous to 
 my nature, independently of their per- 
 vading fascination to all humanity ; but 
 this is more especially delightful, as you 
 may perceive I shall be the intimate and 
 bosom friend of both parties. 
 
 Lady Gay. Is it not the only alter- 
 native in such a case? 
 
 Dazzle. It is a beautiful panacea b 
 any, in every case. [Going — returns] 
 By the way, where would you like this 
 party of pleasure to come off ? Open air 
 shooting is pleasant enough, but if I 
 might venture to advise, we could order 
 half a dozen of that Madeira and a box 
 of cigars into the billiard-room, so make 
 a night of it ; take up the irons every 
 now and then ; string for first shot, and 
 blaze away at one another in an amicable 
 and gentlemanlike way ; so conclude 
 the matter before the potency of the 
 liquor could disturb the individuahty of 
 the object, or the smoke of the cigars 
 render the outline dubious. Does such 
 an arrangement coincide with your 
 views? 
 
 Lady Gay. Perfectly. 
 
 Dazzle. I trust shortly to be the 
 harbinger of happy tidings. [Exit] 
 
 Spanker [coming forward]. Lady 
 Gay Spanker, are you ambitious ot be- 
 coming a widow? 
 
 Lady Gay. Why, Dolly, woman is 
 at best but weak, and weeds become me. 
 
 Spanker. Female ! am I to be im- 
 molated on the altar of your vanity?^ 
 
 Lady Gay. If you become pathetic, 
 I shall laugh. 
 
 Spanker. Farewell — base, heart- 
 less, unfeeling woman ! [Exit] 
 
 Lady Gay. Ha ! well, so I am. I 
 am heartless, for he is a dear, good little 
 fellow, and I ought not to play upon his 
 feelings : but 'pon my life he sounds so 
 
London Assurance 
 
 175 
 
 well up at concert pitch, that I feel dis- 
 inclined to untune him. Poor Dolly, I 
 didn't think he cared so much about me. 
 I will put him out of pain. 
 
 [Exit. Sib Harcoubt comes down] 
 
 Sib Habcourt. I have been a fool ! 
 
 a dupe to my own vanity. I shall be 
 
 pointed at as a ridiculous old coxcomb 
 
 — and so I am. The hour of convic- 
 tion is arrived. Have I deceived my- 
 self? — Have I turned all my senses 
 inward — looking towards self — 
 always self ? — and has the world been 
 ever laughing at me? Well, if they 
 have, I will revert the joke ; — they 
 may say I am an old ass ; but I will 
 prove that I am neither too old to repent 
 my folly, nor such an ass as to flinch 
 from confessing it. A blow half met is 
 but half felt. 
 
 [Enter Dazzle] 
 
 Dazzle. Sir Harcourt, may I be 
 permitted the honour of a few minutes' 
 conversation with you ? 
 
 Sir Harcoubt. With pleasure. 
 
 Dazzle. Have the kindness to throw 
 your eye over that. [Gives the letter] 
 
 SirHaecottrt [reads]. "Situation 
 
 — my wife — apology — expiate — ■ my 
 life." Why, this is intended for a 
 challenge. 
 
 Dazzle. Why,_ indeed, I am per- 
 fectly aware that it is not quite en regie 
 in the couching, for with that I had 
 nothing to do ; but I trust that the 
 irregularity of the composition will be 
 confounded in the beauty of the subject. 
 
 Sir Harcottbt. Mr. Dazzle, are you 
 in earnest? 
 
 Dazzle. Sir Harcourt Courtly, upon 
 my honour I am, and I hope that no 
 previous engagement will interfere with 
 an immediate reply in proprid persond. 
 We have fixed upon the biUiard-room 
 as the scene of action, which I have just 
 seen properly illuminated in honour of 
 the occasion ; and, by-the-bye, if your 
 implements are not handy, I can oblige 
 you with a pair of the sweetest things 
 you ever handled — hair-triggered — 
 saw grip ; heir-looms in my family. I 
 regard them almost in the light of 
 relations. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Sir, I shall avail 
 myself of one of your relatives. [Aside] 
 One of the hereditaments of my folly — 
 I must accept it. [Aloud] Sir, I shall 
 be happy to meet Mr. Spanker at any 
 time or place he may appoint. 
 
 Dazzle. The sooner the better, sir. 
 
 Allow me to offer you my arm. I see 
 you understand these matters ; — my 
 friend Spanker is wofully ignorant — 
 miserably uneducated. [Exeunt] 
 
 [Re-enter Max, mth Grace] 
 
 Max. Give ye joy, girl, give ye joy. 
 Sir Harcourt Courtly must consent to 
 waive all title to your hand in favour of 
 his son Charles. 
 
 Grace. Oh, indeed ! Is that the 
 pith of your congratulation — humph ! 
 the exchange of an old fool for a young 
 one? Pardon me if I am not able to 
 distinguish the advantage. 
 
 Max. Advantage ! 
 
 Grace. Moreover, by what right am 
 I a transferable cipher in the family of 
 Courtly ? So, then, my fate is reduced 
 to this, to sacrifice m.y fortune, or unite 
 myself with a worm-eaten edition of the 
 Classics ! 
 
 Max. Why, he certainly is not such 
 a fellow as I could have chosen for my 
 little Grace; but consider, to retain 
 fifteen thousand aryear! Now, tell me 
 honestly — but why should I say 
 honestly ? Speak, girl, would you rather 
 not have the lad ? 
 
 Grace. Why do you ask me ? 
 
 Max. Why, look ye, I'm an old 
 fellow ; another hunting season or two, 
 and I shall be in at my own death — I 
 can't leave you this house and land, 
 because they are entailed, nor can I say 
 I'm sorry for it, for it is a good law ; but 
 I have a little box with my Grace's name 
 upon it, where, since your father's death 
 and miserly will, I have yearly placed a 
 certain sum to be yours, should you 
 refuse to fulfil the conditions prescribed. 
 
 Grace. My own dear uncle ! 
 
 [Clasping him round the neck] 
 
 Max. Pooh! pooh! what's to do 
 now ? _ Why, it was cinly a trifle — why, 
 you little rogue, what are you crjdng 
 about? 
 
 Grace. Nothing, but — 
 
 Max. But what? Come, out with 
 it : WiU you have young Courtly ? 
 
 [Re-enter Lady Gay] 
 
 Lady Gay. Oh ! Max, Max ! 
 
 Max. Why, what's amiss with you? 
 
 Lady Gay. I'm a wicked woman ! 
 
 Max. What have you done? 
 
 Lady Gay. Everything — oh, I 
 thought Sir Harcourt was a coward, but 
 now I flnd a man may be a coxcomb 
 without being a poltroon. Just to show 
 my husband how inconvenient it is to 
 
176 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 hold the ribands sometimes, I made him 
 send a challenge to the old fellow, and 
 he, to my surprise, accepted it, and is 
 going tp blow my DoUy's brains out in 
 the bilhard-room. 
 
 Max. The devil ! 
 
 Ladt Gat. Just when I imagined I 
 had got my whip hand of him again, out 
 comes my linch-pin — and over I go — 
 oh! 
 
 Max. I will soon put a stop to that 
 — a duel under my roof ! Murder in 
 Oak HaU ! I'll shoot them both ! 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Grace. Are you really in earnest ? 
 
 Lady Gay. Do you think it looks 
 like a joke ? Oh ! Dolly, if you allow 
 yourself to be shot, I will never forgive 
 you — never ! Ah, he is a great fool, 
 Grace ! but I can't teU why, but I would 
 sooner lose my bridle hand than he 
 should be hurt on my account. 
 
 [Enter Sir Harcoukt Courtly] 
 
 TeU me — teU me — have you shot 
 him — is he dead — my dear Sir Har- 
 court ? You horrid old brute — have 
 you killed him? I shall never forgive 
 myself. [Exit] 
 
 Grace. Oh ! Sir Harcourt, what 
 has happened? 
 
 Sir HARCotTRT. Don't be alarmed, 
 I beg — your uncle interrupted us — 
 discharged the weapons — looked the 
 challenger up in the bilhard-room to 
 cool his rage. 
 
 Grace. Thank heaven ! 
 
 Sir Harcoukt. Miss Grace, to 
 apologise for my conduct were useless, 
 more especially as I am confident that 
 no feelings of indignation or sorrow for 
 my late acts are cherished by you ; but 
 still, reparation is in my power, and I 
 not only waive all title, right, or claim 
 to your person or your fortune, but 
 freely admit your power to bestow them 
 on a more worthy object. 
 
 Grace. This generosity, Sir Har- 
 court, is most unexpected. 
 
 Sir Habcourt. No, not generosity, 
 but simply justice, justice ! 
 
 Grace. May I still beg a favour ? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Claim anything that 
 is mine to grant. 
 
 Grace. You have been duped by 
 Lady Gay Spanker, I have also been 
 cheated and played upon by her and 
 Mr. Hamilton — may I beg that the 
 contract between us may, to all ap- 
 pearances, be still held good? 
 
 Sir Habcourt. Certainly, although 
 
 I confess I cannot see the point of your 
 purpose. 
 
 [Enter Max, with Young Courtly] 
 
 Max. Now, Grace, I have brought 
 the lad. 
 
 Grace. Thank you, uncle, but the 
 trouble was quite unnecessary — Sir 
 Harcourt holds to his original contract. 
 
 Max. The deuce he does ! 
 
 Gbace. And I am willing — nay, 
 eager, to become Lady Courtly. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] The 
 deuce you are ! 
 
 Max. But, Sir Harcourt — 
 
 Sir Harcourt. One word. Max, for 
 an instant. [They retire] 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] What 
 can this mean ? Can it be possible that 
 I have been mistaken — that she is not 
 in love with Augustus Hamilton? 
 
 Grace. Now we shall find how he 
 intends to bend the haughty Grace. 
 
 Young Courtly. Madam — Miss, 
 I mean, — are you really in love with my 
 father ? 
 
 Grace. No, indeed I am not. 
 
 Young Coubtly. Are you in love 
 with any one else? 
 
 Grace. No, or I should not mairy 
 him. 
 
 Young Courtly. Then you actually 
 accept him as your real husband? 
 
 Grace. In the common acceptation 
 of the word. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Hang me 
 if I have not been a pretty fool ! [Aio«ii] 
 Why do you marry him, if you don't care 
 about him ? 
 
 Grace. To save my fortune. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] Mer- 
 cenary, cold-hearted girl ! [Aloud] But 
 if there be any one you love in the least 
 — marry him ; — were you never in 
 love? 
 
 Gbace. Never ! 
 
 Young Coubtly. [Aside] Oh! 
 what an ass I've been! [Aloud] I 
 heard Lady Gay mention something 
 about a Mr. Hamilton. 
 
 Gbace. Ah, yes, a person who, after 
 an acquaintanceship of two days, had 
 the assurance to make love to me, and 
 I — 
 
 Young Courtly. Yes, — you — 
 Well? 
 
 Grace. I pretended to receive his 
 attentions. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] It was 
 the best pretence I ever saw. 
 
 Grace. An absurd, vain, conceited 
 
London Assurance 
 
 177 
 
 coxcomb, who appeared to imagine that 
 I was so struck with his fulsome speech, 
 that he could turn me round his finger. 
 
 YoTJNQ CoxJETLY. [Aside] My very 
 thoughts ! 
 
 Geace. But he was mistaken. 
 
 Young Coijbtlt. [Aside] Con- 
 foundedly ! [Aloud] Yet you seemed 
 rather concerned about the news of his 
 death? 
 
 Grace. His accident ! No, but — 
 
 Young Couktlt. But what? 
 
 Geace. ,[Aside] What can I say? 
 [Aloud] Ah! but my maid Part's 
 brother is a post-boy, and I thought he 
 might have sustained an injury, poor 
 boy. 
 
 Young Couhtlt. [Aside] Damn 
 the post-boy ! [Aloud] Madam, if the 
 retention of your fortune be the plea on 
 which you are about to bestow your 
 hand on one you do not love, and whose 
 very actions speak his carelessness for 
 that inestimable jewel he is incapable 
 of appreciating — Know that I am 
 devotedly, madly attached to you. 
 
 Grace. You, sir ? Impossible ! 
 
 Young Courtlt. Not at all, — 
 but inevitable, — I have been so for a 
 long time. 
 
 Ghace. Why, you never saw me till 
 last night. 
 
 Young Courtly. I have seen you in 
 imagination — • you are the ideal I have 
 worshipped. 
 
 Geace. Since you press me into a 
 confession, — which nothing but this 
 could bring me to speak, — know, I did 
 love poor Augustus Hamilton — 
 
 [Re-enter Max and Sib Harcourt] 
 but he — ^ he is — no — more ! Pray, 
 spare me, sir. 
 
 Young Courtly. [Aside] She 
 loves me ! And, oh ! what a situation 
 I am in ! — if I own I am the man, my 
 Governor will overhear, and ruin me — 
 if I do not, she'll marry him. — What is 
 to be done ? 
 
 [Enter Lady Gay] 
 
 Lady Gay. Where have you put 
 my Dolly? I have been racing all 
 round the house — tell me, is he quite 
 dead! 
 
 Max. I'U have him brought in. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. My dear madam, 
 S^ou must perceive this unfortunate 
 securrence was no fault of mine. I was 
 Jompelled to act as I have done — I 
 
 was willing to offer any apology, but 
 that resource was excluded, as un- 
 acceptable. 
 
 Lady Gay. _ I know — I know — 
 'twas I made with him that letter — 
 there was no apology required — 'twas 
 I that apparently seduced you from the 
 paths of propriety, — 'twas all a joke, 
 and here is the end of it. 
 
 [Enter Max, Mr. Spanker, and 
 Dazzle] 
 
 Oh ! if he had but lived to say, "I for- 
 give you, Gay!" 
 
 Spanker. So I do ! 
 
 Lady Gay [seeing him]. Ah! he is 
 aUve! 
 
 Spanker. Of course I am ! 
 
 Lady Gay. Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Em- 
 braces him] I will never hunt again — 
 unless you wish it. Sell your stable — 
 
 Spanker. No, no — do what you 
 Kke — say what you like for the future ! 
 I find the head of a family has less ease 
 and more responsibility than I, as a 
 member, could have anticipated. I 
 abdicate ! 
 
 [Enter Cool] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Ah! Cool, here! 
 [Aside to Cool] You may destroy 
 those papers — I have altered my mind, 
 — and I do not intend to elope at 
 present. Where are they? 
 
 Cool. As you seemed particular. Sir 
 Harcourt, I sent them off by mail to 
 London. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Why, then, a full 
 description of the whole affair wiU be 
 published to-morrow. 
 
 Cool. Most irretrievably ! 
 
 Sir Harcourt. You must post to 
 town immediately, and stop the press. 
 
 Cool. Beg pardon — they would 
 see me hanged first, Sir Harcourt ; they 
 don't frequently meet with such a prof- 
 itable lie. 
 
 Servant. [Without] No, sir! no, 
 sir! 
 
 [Enter Simpson] 
 
 Simpson. Sir, there is a gentleman, 
 who calls himself Mr. Solomon Isaacs, 
 insists upon following me up. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Solomon Isaacs] 
 Isaacs. Mr. Courtly, you wiU excuse 
 my performance of a most disagreeable 
 duty at any time, but more especially 
 in such a manner. I must beg the hon- 
 our of your company to town. 
 
178 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Sir Habcoubt. What ! — how ! — 
 what for ? 
 
 Isaacs. For debt, Sir Harcotirt. 
 
 Sib Habcoubt. Arrested? — impos- 
 sible ! Here must be some mistake. 
 
 Isaacs. Not the slightest, sir. Judg- 
 ment has been given in five cases, for the 
 last three months ; but Mr. Courtly is 
 an eel rather too nimble for my men. — 
 We have been on his track, and traced 
 him down to this village, with Mr. 
 Dazzle. 
 
 Dazzle. Ah! Isaacs! how are you? 
 
 Isaacs. Thank you, sir. 
 
 [Speaks to Sib HABCorET] 
 
 Max. Do you know him ? 
 
 Dazzle. Oh, intimately! Dis- 
 tantly related to his family — same 
 arms on our escutcheon — empty purse 
 falling through a hole in a — pocket : 
 motto, "Requiescat in pace" — which 
 means, "Let virtue be its own reward." 
 
 Sib Habcoubt [To Isaacs] Oh, I 
 thought there was a mistake ! Know, 
 to your misfortune, that Mr. Hamilton 
 was the person you dogged to Oak HaU, 
 between whom and my son a most 
 remarkable likeness exists. 
 
 Isaacs. Ha! ha! Know, to your 
 misfortune. Sir Harcourt, that Mr. 
 Hamilton and Mr. Courtly are one and 
 the same person ! 
 
 Sir Habcoubt. Charles ! 
 
 Young Coubtly. Concealment is in 
 vain — I am Augustus Hamilton. 
 
 Sib Habcoubt. Hang me, if I didn't 
 think it all along! Oh, you infernal, 
 cozening dog ! 
 
 Isaacs. Now, then, Mr. Hamilton — 
 
 Grace. Stay, sir — Mr. Charles 
 Courtly is under age — ask his father. 
 
 Sib Habcoubt. Ahem ! — I won't 
 — I won't pay a shilling of the rascal's 
 debts — not a sixpence ! 
 
 Grace. Then, I will — you may 
 retire. [Exit Isaacs] 
 
 Young Coubtly. I can now per- 
 ceive the generous point of your conduct 
 towards me ; and, believe me, I appre- 
 ciate, and will endeavour to deserve it. 
 
 Max. Ha! ha! Come, Sir Har- 
 court, you have been fairly beaten — 
 you must forgive him — say you will. 
 
 Sib Habcoubt. So, sir, it appears 
 jrou have been leading, covertly, an 
 infernal town life ? 
 
 Young Courtly. Yes, please, father. 
 [Imitating Master Charles] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. None of your hum- 
 bug sir ! [.Aside] He is my own son — 
 how could I expect him to keep out of 
 
 the fire? [Aloud] And you, Mr. Cool! 
 
 — have you been deceiving me? 
 Cool. Oh ! Sir Harcourt, if your 
 
 perception was played upon, how could 
 I be expected to see? 
 
 Sib Habcoubt. Well, it would be 
 useless to withhold my hand. There, 
 boy ! [He gives his hand to Youno 
 Coubtly. Gbace comes down on ih 
 other side, and offers her hand; he takes 
 it] What is all this? What do you 
 want? 
 
 Young Courtly. Your blessing, 
 father. 
 
 Grace. If you please, father. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Oho ! the mystery 
 is being solved. So, so, you young 
 scoundrel, you have been making love — 
 under the rose. 
 
 Lady Gay. He learnt that from you, 
 Sir Harcourt. 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Ahem! What 
 would you do now, if I were to withhold 
 my consent? 
 
 Grace. Do without it. 
 
 Max. The will says, if Grace marries 
 any one but you, — her property reverts 
 to your heir-apparent — and there he 
 stands. 
 
 Lady Gat. Make virtue of necessity. 
 
 Spanker. I married from inclinap 
 tion ; and see how happy I am. And if 
 ever I have a son — 
 
 Lady Gay. Hush ! DoUy, dear ! 
 
 Sib Harcourt. Well ! take her, 
 boy ! Although you are too young to 
 marry. [They retire with Max] 
 
 Lady Gay. Am I forgiven. Sir Har- 
 court ? 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Ahem ! Why — a 
 
 — [Aside] Have you really deceived 
 me? 
 
 Lady Gay. Can you not see through 
 this? 
 
 Sir Habcoubt. And you still love 
 me? 
 
 Lady Gay. As much as I ever did. 
 
 Sib Harcourt [is about to kiss her 
 hand, when Spanker interposes betweei,]. 
 A very handsome ring, indeed. 
 
 Spanker. Very. 
 
 [Puts her arm in his, and they jo 
 up] 
 
 Sir Harcourt. Poor little Spanlter! 
 
 Max [coming down, aside to Sir 
 Habcoubt]. One point I wish to have 
 settled. Who is Mr. Dazzle? 
 
 Sib Harcourt. A relative of the 
 Spankers, he told me. 
 
 Max. Oh, no, a near connexion of 
 yours. 
 
London Assurance 
 
 179 
 
 Sib Hakcourt. Never saw Mm 
 before I came down here, in all my life. 
 {To YoTJNQ Courtly] Charles, who is 
 Mr. Dazzle? 
 
 Young Courtly. Dazzle, Dazzle, — 
 win you excuse an impertinent question ? 
 — but who the deuce are you ? 
 
 Dazzle. Certainly. I have not the 
 remotest idea. 
 
 All. How, sir? 
 
 Dazzle. Simple question as you may 
 think it, it would puzzle half the T^orld 
 to answer. One thing I can vouch — ^ 
 Nature made me a gentleman — that is, 
 I live on the best that can be procured 
 for credit. I never spend my own 
 money when I can oblige a friend. I'm 
 always thick on the winning horse. I'm 
 an epidemic on the trade of a tailor. 
 For further particulars, inquire of any 
 sitting magistrate. 
 
 Sir Hahcourt. And these are the 
 deeds which attest your title to the 
 name of gentleman? I perceive that 
 you have caught the infection of the 
 present age. Charles, permit me, as 
 your father, and you, sir, as his friend, 
 to' correct you on one point. Bare- 
 faced assurance is the vulgar substitute 
 for gentlemanly ease; and there are 
 many who, by aping the vices of the 
 great, imagine that they elevate them- 
 selves to the rank of those, whose faults 
 alone they copy. No, sir ! The title of 
 gentleman is the only 'one out of any 
 monarch's gift, yet within the reach of 
 every peasant. It should be engrossed 
 by Truth — ■ stamped with Honour — 
 sealed with good-feeling — signed Man 
 — and enrolled m every true young 
 EngUsh heart. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 (1843) 
 
 By Robebt Browning 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 (1812-1889) 
 
 The career of Robert Browning, as a dramatist, is so indissolubly connected with 
 the energies and activities of Maoready, that this aspect of his art may very readily 
 be viewed separately from the bulk of his work as a poet. But an understanding 
 of the characteristics which mark Browning as a dramatist is more fully reached 
 when one has formed a clear idea of his style and manner as a poet. 
 
 Dramatic technique is not characterized or dominated by the contemplative 
 spirit. It does not lend itself to any involved thought or to over-flne moral dis- 
 tinctions. It must be direct, always forward-moving, and as active in an external 
 sense as it is active in an internal sense. 
 
 Browning, the poet, is marked by closeness of thought, by a certain iype of 
 dramatic exposition which lent itself not to an interplay of character against 
 character so much as to an interplay of emotion against emotion in a single indi- 
 vidual. The consequence is, one finds his "Dramatic Lyrics", "Romances", and 
 "Idyls", together with his wonderful collection of monologues in "Men and 
 Women", rich in the elements from which great drama might be evolved. They 
 are rich in imaginative quality, in many-sided understanding of character, in inter- 
 play of emotion and in effectiveness of situation. They indicate a dominant 
 tendency on the part of the poet to deal with unusual thought in an unusual man- 
 ner ; to convey, by means of a line, some odd bit of information, or to laud, in an 
 entire poem, a life philosophy of some obscure scholar, artist, or ecclesiastic. 
 Browning's thought, in all of his poetry, is compact, — so compact, indeed, that 
 there is confusion in its very quickness of transition from point to point. This 
 obscurity was not wholly a habit of mind, but it became a habit of expression, and 
 the reader of Browning, though he may find small comfort in the compliment, 
 must understand that much of the difficulty m comprehending Browning is due 
 to the poet's belief that his reader knew quite as much as.he did. 
 
 One might say, therefore, before examining the dramas of Robert Browning, that 
 the habit of the poet would meet with many disfavours on the stage. His genius, 
 while dramatic, was not dramatic in the sense of the theatre, and one has only to 
 read the opening discussions in "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon", or in "Colombo's 
 Birthday", to note what the difficulty would be in the way of stage presentation. 
 There has crept into most of his work those splendid lyric touches — like inserted 
 jewels — such as one finds in the third scene of the first act of " A Blot in the 'Scutch- 
 eon" — a lyrical quality which, at its best, is remarkable and is fraught with even 
 deeper beauty of thought than is to be found in the best of Tennyson. 
 
 It is not necessary for us to record fully the life of Robert Browning. He was 
 born, May 7, 1812, in the parish of St. Giles, Camberwell, London, and he died at 
 the Palazzo Rezzonico, the Grand Canal, Venice, December 12, 1889. Readers 
 of Mrs. Sutherland Orr's "Life" and "Handbook", and of Gilbert Chesterton's 
 
 183 
 
184 Representative British Dramas 
 
 very brilliant contribution to the English Men of Letters Series will be placed suffi. 
 ciently in touch with the mere events of his career. In addition to which, a most 
 commendable edition of some of the Browning dramas, edited by Arlo Bates, and 
 published in the Belles Lettres Series (D. C. Heath & Co.), will give the student an 
 excellent preparation for a consideration of Browning's dramatic work. 
 
 It is only necessary for me to say here that his career as a dramatist began 
 about 1837, when, having made the acquaintance of Maeready, he wrote "Straf- 
 ford" for that actor, and dedicated the book to him when it was published in London 
 the same year. 
 
 The play was acted for the first time at Covent Garden Theatre, on May 1, 
 1837, with Mr. Maeready as Strafford and Miss Helen Faucit as Lady Carlyle. This 
 was followed, in 1841, by "Pippa Passes", dedicated to Sargeant Talfourd, himself 
 a dramatist of some note. And this drama, a series of lyrical experiences in the life 
 of a very appealing character, stands to-day as an effective example of Brown- 
 ing at his simplest and most lyrical height. 
 
 In 1842, "King Victor and King Charles", a tragedy, was published, followed, 
 in 1843, by "The Return of the Druses", another tragedy, and "A Blot in the 
 'Scutcheon", which has been selected for inclusion in the present volume. 
 
 The recorded stage history of this latter play is fully revealed in the Browning 
 commentaries and in the Maeready <Garies. The first mention made by the actor 
 was on January 25, 1843, when he had evidently received the manuscript, and had 
 spent several days in careful consideration of its merits. On the twenty-eighth, 
 he went to the Drury Lane Theatre and heard from Wilmot, who had read "A Blot 
 in the 'Scutcheon" to the company; he reported that they had laughed at it and 
 that Anderson had joked about it. On the twenty-ninth. Browning called to see 
 Maeready and was told of the company's attitude, and Maeready advised him to 
 alter the second act. On the thirty-first, when the actor went to Drury Lane, ac- 
 cording to his diary, he found Browning waiting for him in a state of great excite- 
 ment : 
 
 He abused the door-keeper and was in a very great passion. I oahnly 
 apologized for having detained him, observing that I had made a great effort 
 to meet him at all. He had not given his name to the door-keeper, who had 
 told him he might walk into the green-room ; but his dignity was mortally 
 wounded. I fear he is a very conceited man. Went over his play with him, 
 then looked over part of it. 
 
 On February 1, Maeready was still reading the Browning text and making outs. 
 He notes : 
 
 Serle called, and I told him of my inability to meet my work — ■ that I could 
 not play this part of Browning's unless the whole work of the theatre stopped, 
 that I thought it best to reduce it to its proper form — three acts, and let Phelps 
 do it on all accounts. He concurred with me. 
 
 On February 4, rehearsals began, but, by the sixth, Phelps was so ill that 
 Maeready decided to understudy him. On February 7, the actor says : 
 
 Rehearsed Browning's play, with the idea of .acting the part of Lord 
 Tresham, if Mr. Phelps should continue ill. Browning came and in better 
 humour than I have lately seen him. 
 
Robert Browning 185 
 
 On February 8, rehearsals were still under way, and Maoready's mood was one 
 of despair. The following entry of February 10 throws further light on the sub- 
 ject: 
 
 Began the consideration and study of the part of Tresham, which was to 
 occupy my single thoughts till accomplished. About a quarter past one a 
 note came from Willmot, informing me that Mr. Phelps would do the part, 
 if he "died for it", so that my time had been lost. Arrived I applied to busi- ^ 
 ness ; offered to give to Browning and Mr. Phelps the benefit of my considera- 
 tion and study in the cuts, etc. I had made one I thought particularly valu- 
 able, not letting Tresham die, but consigning him to a convent. Browning, 
 however, in the worst taste, manner, and spirit, declined any further altera- 
 tions, 'expressing himself perfectly satisfied with the manner in which Mr. 
 Phelps executed Lord Tresham. I had no more to say. I could only think 
 Mr. Browning a very disagreeable and offensively mannered person. Voili 
 tout ! 
 
 On February 11, this confession is made by Macready : 
 
 Directed the rehearsal of " Blot on [sic] the 'Scutcheon," and made many 
 valuable improvements. Browning seemed desirous to explain or qualify the 
 strange carriage and temper of yestwday, and laid much blame on Porster for 
 irritating him. Saw the play of " Blot on the 'Scutcheon," which was badly acted 
 in Phelps's and Mrs. Stirling's parts — pretty well in Anderson's, very well 
 in Helen Faucit's. I was angry after the play about the call being directed 
 without me. 
 
 The last entry is on February 16, when Macready mentions a letter received 
 from the Lord Chamberlain, demanding to know by what authority he had played 
 "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon." 
 
 From this outline of events, one can readily imagine several things : first, 
 vanity, conceit, and jealous domination on the part of Macready, characteristics 
 which have been noted in the introduction to the Bulwer play ; on the other hand, 
 a suggestion of misunderstanding which Macready failed to record fully or fairly 
 in his diaries. If the play was badly handled when read to the company, there 
 must have been some reason behind the mishandling of the manuscript. Un- 
 doubtedly the relations between Browning and Macready were strained throughout . 
 the preparations for the first performance of the play. The actor's repeated changes 
 of text, and his attempted alterations of motif must have been galling to the poet, 
 whose work was so organic as to allow of no artificial and theatrical transpositions 
 of scenes and motives. Browning entirely disapproved of the stage version of the 
 play as given. In consequence, Moxon, his publisher, hastened to issue the text, 
 as written by Browning, within twenty-four hours, in order to forestall any of 
 Macready's corrections. This prompted No. 5 of "Bells and Pomegranates." It 
 is recorded that the play was written within five days. 
 
 Let us now see Browning's own impression of what occurred during the nego- 
 tiations and preparations preceding the first performance of "A Blot in the 
 'Scutcheon." Turning to Mrs. Sutherland Orr's "Life", there is a letter written 
 to a Mr. Hill which is here quoted in full : 
 
186 Representative British Dramas 
 
 19, Warwick Crescent : 
 
 December 15, 1884. 
 My dear Mr. Hill, 
 
 It was kind and considerate of you to suppress the paragraph which you 
 send me — and of which the publication would have been unpleasant for 
 reasons qtlite other than as regarding my own work, — which exists to de- 
 fend or accuse itself. You will judge of the true reasons when I tell you the 
 facts — so much of them as contradicts the statements of your critic — who, I 
 suppose, has received a stimulus from the notice, in an American paper which 
 arrived last week, of Mr. Lawrence Barrett's intention "shortly to produce the 
 play" in New York — and subsequently in London : so that "the failure" of 
 forty-one years ago might be duly influential at present — or two years hence, 
 perhaps. The "mere amateurs" are no high game. 
 
 Macready received and accepted the play, while he was engaged at the 
 Haymarket, and retained it for Drury Lane, of which I was ignorant that he 
 was about to become the manager: he accepted it "at the instigation" of 
 nobody, — and Charles Dickens was not in England when he did so : it was read 
 to him after his return, by Forster — and the glowing letter which contains 
 his opinion of it, although directed by him to be shown to myself, was never 
 heard of nor seen by me tiU printed in Forster's book some thirty years after. 
 When the Drury Lane season began, Macready informed me that he should act 
 the play when he had brought out two others — "The Patrician's Daughter", 
 and "Plighted Troth" : having done so, he wrote to me that the former had 
 been unsuccessful in money drawing, and the latter had "smashed his arrange- 
 ments altogether": but he would still produce my play. I had — in my 
 ignorance of certain symptoms better understood by Macready's professional 
 acquaintance — I had no notion that it was a proper thing, in such a case, to 
 "release him from his promise" ; on the contrary, I should have fancied that 
 such a proposal was offensive. Soon after, Macready begged that I would 
 call on him : he said the play had been read to the actors the day before, "and 
 laughed at from beginning to end" : on my speaking my mind about this, he 
 explained that the reading had been done by the Prompter, a grotesque person 
 with a red nose and wooden leg, ill at ease in the love scenes, and that he would 
 himself make amends by reading the play next morning — which he did, and 
 very adequately — • but apprised me that, in consequence of the state of his 
 mind, harassed by business and various trouble, the principal character must 
 be taken by Mr. Phelps ; and again I failed to understand, — what Forster 
 subsequently assured me was plain as the sun at noonday, — that to allow 
 " at Macready's theatre any other than Macready to play the principal part in a 
 new piece was suicidal, — and really beUeved I was meeting his exigencies by 
 accepting the substitution. At the rehearsal, Macready announced that Mr. 
 Phelps was ill, and that he him.self would read the part : on the third rehearsal, 
 Mr. Phelps appeared for the first time, and sat in a chair while Macready 
 more than read, rehearsed the part. The next morning Mr. Phelps waylaid 
 me at the stage-door to say, with much emotion, that it never was intended 
 that he should be instrumental in the success of a new tragedy, and that 
 Macready would play Tresham on the ground that himself, Phelps, was unable 
 to do so. He added that he could not expect me to waive such an advantage, 
 
Robert Browning 187 
 
 — but that, if I were prepared to waive it, "he would take ether, sit up all 
 night, and have the words in his memory by next day." I bade him follow me 
 to the green-room, and hear what I decided upon — which was that as 
 Maoready had given him the part, he should keep it : this was on a Thursday ; 
 he rehearsed on Friday and Saturday — the play being acted the same even- 
 ing, — of the fifth day after the "reading" hy Macready. Maoready at once 
 wished to reduce the importance of the "play" — as he styled it in the bills — 
 tried to leave out so much of the text, that I baffled him by getting it printed 
 in four and twenty hours, by Moxon's assistance. He wanted me to call it ' ' The 
 Sister ! " — and I have before me, while I write, the stage-acting copy, with 
 two lines of his own insertion to avoid the tragical ending — Tresham was to 
 announce his intention of going into a monastery ! all this, to keep up the be- 
 lief that Macready, and Macready alone, could produce a veritable "tragedy", 
 unproduced before. 
 
 Not a shilling was spent on scenery or dresses — and a striking scene 
 which had been used for the "Patrician's Daughter" did duty a second time. 
 If your critic considers this treatment of the play an instance of the "failure of 
 powerful and experienced actors" to ensure its success, — I can only say that 
 my own opinion was shown by at once breaking off a friendship of many years 
 
 — a friendship which had a right to be plainly and simply told that the play 
 I had contributed as a proof of it, would, through a change of circumstances, 
 no longer be to my friend's advantage, — all I could possibly care for. Only 
 recently, when by the publication of Macready's journals the extent of his 
 pecuniary embarrassments at that time was made known, could I in a measure 
 understand his motives for such conduct — and less than ever understand 
 why he so strangely disguised and disfigured them. If "applause" means 
 success, the play thus maimed and maltreated was successful enough : it 
 "made way" for Macready's own benefit, and the theatre closed a fortnight 
 after. 
 
 Having kept silence for all these years, in spite of repeated explanations, 
 in the style of your critics, that the play ' ' failed in spite of the best endeavours ", 
 etc., I hardly wish to revive a very painful matter : on the other hand, — as I 
 have said, my play subsists, and is as open to praise or blame as it was forty- 
 one years ago : is it necessary to search out what somebody or other, — not 
 improbably a jealous adherent of Macready, "the only organizer of theatrical 
 victories", chose to say on the subject? If the characters are "abhorrent" 
 and "inscrutable" — and the language conformable, — they were so when 
 Dickens pronounced upon them, and will be so whenever the critic pleases to 
 re-consider them — which, if he ever has an opportunity of doing, apart from 
 the printed copy, I can assure you is through no notion of mine. This particu- 
 lar experience was sufficient : but the Play is out of my power now ; though 
 amateurs and actors may do what they please. 
 
 Of course, this being the true story, I should desire that it were told thus 
 and no otherwise, if it must be told at all : but not as a statement of mine, — 
 the substance of it has been partly stated already by more than one qualified 
 person, and if I have been willing to let the poor matter drop, surely there is 
 no need that it should be gone into now when Macready and his Athenaeum 
 upholder are no longer able to speak for themselves : this is just a word to you. 
 
188 Representative British Dramas 
 
 dear Mr. Hill, and may be brought under the notice of your critic if you think 
 proper — but only for the facts — not as a communication for the public. 
 
 Yes, thank you, I am in full health, as you wish — and I wish you and Mrs. 
 Hill, I assure you, all the good appropriate to the season. My sister has com- 
 pletely recovered from her illness, and is grateful for your enquiries. 
 
 With best regards to Mrs. Hill, and an apology for this long letter, which 
 however, — when once induced to write it, — I could not well shorten, be- 
 lieve me. 
 
 Yours truly ever, 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 This letter was followed by one to Mr. Hill, dated December 21, 1884, whic 
 continues the history : 
 
 My dear Hill, — Your goodness must extend to letting me have the last 
 word — one of sincere thanks. You cannot suppose I doubted for a moment 
 of a goodwill which I have had abundant proof of. I only took the occasion 
 your considerate letter gave me, to tell the simple truth which my forty years' 
 silence is a sign I would only tell on compulsion. I never thought your critic 
 had any less generous motive for alluding to the performance as he did than that 
 which he professes : he doubtless heard the account of the matter which 
 Macready and his intimates gave currency to at the time; and which, being 
 confined for a while to their limited number, I never chose to notice. But of 
 late years I have got to read, — not merely hear, — of the play's failure "which 
 all the efforts of my friend the great actor could not avert " ; and the nonsense 
 of this untruth gets hard to bear. I told you the principal facts in the letter 
 I very hastily wrote : I could, had it been worth while, corroborate them by 
 others in plenty, and refer to the living witnesses — Lady Martin, Mrs. Stirhng, 
 and (I believe) Mr. Anderson : it was solely through the admirable loyalty of 
 the two former that ... a play . . . deprived of every advantage, in the 
 way of scenery, dresses, and rehearsing — proved what Macready himself de- 
 clared it to be — "a complete success." So he sent a servant to tell me "in 
 case there was a call for the author at the end of the act " — to which I repUed 
 that the author had been too sick and sorry at the whole treatment of his play 
 to do any such thing. Such a call there truly was, and Mr. Anderson had to 
 come forward and "beg the author to come forward if he were in the house — 
 a circumstance of which he was not aware : " whereat the author laughed at 
 him from a box just opposite. . . . I would submit to anybody drawing a con- 
 clusion from one or two facts past contradiction, whether that play could have 
 thoroughly failed which was not only not withdrawn at once, but acted three 
 nights in the same week, and, years afterwards, reproduced in his own theatre, 
 during my absence in Italy, by Mr. Phelps — the person most completely aware 
 of the untoward circumstances which stood originally in the way of success. 
 Why not inquire how it happens that, this second, time, there was no doubt of 
 the play's doing as well as plays ordinarily do? for those were not the days of 
 & "run." 
 
 . . . This "last word" has indeed been the Aristophanic one of fifty 
 syllables : but I have spoken it, reheved myself, and commend all that con- 
 
Robert Browning 189 
 
 earns me to the approved and valued friend of which I am proud to account 
 
 myself in corresponding friendship, 
 
 His truly ever, 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 Browning was always eager to set straight the difficulties between Macready 
 and himself, and William Archer records a letter written by the poet which in a 
 different form reviews the same events : 
 
 It would seem, by all the evidence I had afterwards, that I was supposed to 
 myself understand the expediency of begging to withdraw, at least for a time, 
 my own work — saving Macready the imaginary failure to keep a promise to 
 which I never attached particular importance. As so many hints to my dull 
 perception of this, Macready declined to play his part, caused the play to be 
 read in my absence to the actors by a ludicrously incapable person -^ the 
 result being, as he informed me, " that the play was laughed at from the begin- 
 ning to the end" — naturally enough, a girl's part being made comical by a 
 red-nosed, one-legged, elderly gentleman [Willmott, the prompter] — then, 
 after proposing to take away from his substitute the opportunity of distinction 
 he had given him (to which I refused my consent), leaving the play to a fate 
 which it somehow managed to escape. Macready was fuori di se from the 
 moment when, in pure ignorance of what he was driving at, I acquiesced in his 
 proposal that a serious play of any pretension should appear under his man- 
 agement with any other protagonist than himself. When the more learned 
 subsequently enlightened me a little, I was angry and disinclined to take ad- 
 ■^ce — but it is happily over so long ago ! One friendly straightforward word 
 to the effect that what was intended for an advantage would, under circum- 
 stances of which I was altogether ignorant, prove the reverse — how easy to 
 have spoken, and what regret it would have spared us both ! 
 
 A contemporary impression of the drama is to be had in a letter written by 
 Charles Dickens, on November 25, 1842 : 
 
 Browning's play has thrown me into a perfect passion of sorrow. To say 
 that there is anything in its subject save what is lovely, true, deeply affecting, 
 full of the best emotion, the most earnest feeling, and the most true and tender 
 source of interest, is to say that there is no light in the sun, and no heat in 
 blood. It is fuU of genius, natural and great thoughts, profound and yet simple 
 and beautiful in its vigor. I know nothing that is so affecting, nothing in any 
 book I have ever read, as Mildred's recurrence to that "I was so young — I 
 had no mother." I know no love like it, no passion like it, no moulding of a 
 splendid thing after its conception, like it. And I swear it is a tragedy that 
 MUST be played; and must be played, moreover, by Macready. 4'here are 
 some things I would have changed if I could (they are very slight, mostly 
 broken Unes) ; and I assuredly would have the old servant begin his tale upon the 
 scene; and be taken by the throat, or drawn upon, by his master, in its com- 
 mencement. But the tragedy I never shall forget, or less vividly remember 
 than I do now. And if you tell Browning that I have seen it^ tell him that I 
 beUeve from my soul there is no man living (and not many deiad) who could 
 produce such a work. 
 
190 Representative British Dramas 
 
 We get a further picture of the circumstances attending the reading of the play 
 to Phelps and his company from an article in Blackwood's Magazine, for 1881, 
 written by Helen Paucit. She states : 
 
 It seems but yesterday that I sat by his [Mr. Elton's] side in the green- 
 room at the reading of Robert Browning's beautiful drama, "A Blot in the 
 'Scutcheon." As a rule Mr. Macready always read the new plays. But 
 owing, I suppose, to some press of business, the task was entrusted on this occa- 
 sion to the head prompter, — a clever man in his way, but wholly unfitted to 
 bring out, or even to understand, Mr. Browning's meaning. Consequently, 
 the delicate, subtle lines were twisted, perverted, and sometimes even made 
 ridiculous in his hands. My "cruel father" was a warm admirer of the poet. 
 He sat writhing and indignant, and tried by gentle asides to make me see the 
 real meaning of the verse. But somehow the mischief proved irreparable, for 
 a few of the actors during the rehearsals chose to continue to misunderstand 
 the text, and never took the interest in the play which they must have done 
 had Mr. Macready read it, — for he had great power as a reader. I always 
 thought it was chiefly because of this contretemps that a play, so thoroughly 
 dramatic, failed, despite its painful story, to make the great success which 
 was justly its due. 
 
 A study of "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon" involves a comparison of several acting 
 texts. The play was given its first presentation in London on February 11, 1843. 
 It was acted by the London Browning Society, on May 2, 1885, the same year 
 that it was produced in America by Mr. Lawrence Barrett, who, so it is recorded, 
 omitted the opening scene and the last three of the second act. The Barrett acting 
 edition was issued and annotated by W. J. Rolfe and Miss Hersey.' 
 
 "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon" was followed, in 1844, by "Colombo's Birthday"; 
 in 1846, by "Luria" and "A Soul's Tragedy" ; and, in 1853, by "In a Balcony." 
 
 "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon", which has been seen in America since Lawrence 
 Barrett's time, through the enthusiastic energies of Mrs. Sarah Cowell LeMojme, 
 is one of the least involved of the Browning dramas. It is rich in poetry and in- 
 teresting in characterization, but it is lacking in originality of story, and wanting 
 in consistency of logical movement. Its structure is somewhat akin to the simple 
 structure of the story of " E^anoesoa da Rimini ", although none of the tragic motive 
 exists between Mildred and her brother, Tresham, that exists between Francesca 
 and her husband, Guido. One can realize the pathetic appeal of Mildred, who is 
 only fourteen, that she had no mother, that she did not know, and so she fell. 
 But it hardly satisfies a consistently minded observer, when the dramatist explains 
 that the whole tragedy of illicit love is due not to any opposition but to a certain 
 reticence and bashfulness on the part of the lover. One is tempted to say, after the 
 hero and heroine die, and are joined in death by the brother, whose family pride 
 has been the undoing of everyone concerned, that the tragedy ceases somewhere 
 to be tragedy in the deep sense of the word, and that the "casualty list" is entirely 
 unjustified by the smallness of the obstacle. 
 
 Had Browning thoroughly realized his djramatic opportunities, he would have 
 made more out of that dramatic situation where Mertoun goes to ask for the hand of 
 
 ' The stage history of " A Blot in the 'Scutcheon " is contained in W. Davenport Adams's 
 " Dictionary of the Drama." 
 
Robert Browning 191 
 
 Mildred from her brother ; for here is a conflict of emotion well worthy of dramatic 
 treatment — Mertoun asking for the hand of a woman already his mistress, and 
 Tresham welcoming into his family a man who has already done it so much iU. The 
 tragedy is too swift in its outward motivation, therefore, to take advantage of such 
 a poignant situation. 
 
 Subjected to a careful analysis of its dramatic elements, "A Blot in the 
 'Scutcheon" does not meet the requirements of great drama. It shows Browning 
 too much addicted to those technical tricks of thought, resulting in sentences which, 
 even though involved, constitute poetry and create style ; yet which are hardly 
 effective when uttered by the actor. His is a type of dramatic writing filled with 
 spirituaUzed thought which does so much to choke dramatic action, and to make 
 of something which is noble poetry, almost a still-born drama. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 IN THREE ACTS 
 
 By ROBERT BROWNING 
 
PERSONS 
 
 Mildred Tbesham Miss Helen Fauoit 
 
 GuBNDOLBN Tbesham Mrs. Stirling 
 
 Thobold, Lord Tresham Mr. Phelps 
 
 Austin Tbesham Mr. Hudson 
 
 Henbt, Earl Mertoun Mr. Anderson 
 
 Gebabd Mr. G. Bennett 
 
 Other retainers ot Lord Tresham 
 Time, 17— 
 
 Given at Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London, February 11, 1843. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene First. — The interior of a lodge in 
 Lord Trbsham's park. Many Re- 
 tainers crowded at the v/indow, sup- 
 posed to command a view of the 
 entrance to his mansion. Gerard, 
 the warrener, his back to a table on 
 which are flagons, etc. 
 
 1st Retainer. Ay, do ! push, friends, 
 
 and then you'll push down me ! 
 — What for ? Does any hear a runner's 
 
 foot 
 Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's 
 
 cry? 
 Is the Earl come or his least poursui- 
 
 vant? 
 But there's no breeding in a man of you 
 Save Gerard yonder : here's a half -place 
 
 yet, 
 Old Gerard ! 
 Gerard. Save your courtesies, my 
 
 friend. 
 Here is my place. 
 2nd Retainer. Now, Gerard, out 
 
 with it ! 
 What makes you sullen, this of all the 
 
 days 
 I' the year? To-day that young rich 
 
 bountiful, 
 Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone 
 
 they match 
 With our Lord Tresham through the 
 
 countryside. 
 Is coming here in utmost bravery 
 To ask our master's sister's hand ? 
 Gerard. What then? 
 
 2nd Retainer. What then? Why, 
 
 you, she speaks to, if she meets 
 Your worship, smiles on as you hold 
 
 apart 
 The boughs to let her through her forest 
 
 walks. 
 You, always favourite for your no- 
 deserts. 
 You've heard, these three days, how 
 
 Earl Mertoun sues 
 
 To lay his heart and housp and broad 
 
 lauds too 
 At Lady Mildred's feet: and while we 
 
 squeeze 
 Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss 
 One congee of the least page in his 
 
 train. 
 You sit o' one side — "there's the Earl," 
 
 say I — 
 "What then?" say you! 
 
 3rd Retainer. I'll wager he has let 
 Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred 
 
 swim 
 Over the falls and gain the river ! 
 
 Gerard. Ralph, 
 
 Is not to-morrow my inspecting-day 
 For you and for your hawks ? 
 
 4th Retainer. Let Gerard be ! 
 
 He's coarse-grained, like his carved 
 
 black crossbow stock. 
 Ha, look now, while we squabble with 
 
 him, look ! 
 Well done, now — is not this beginning, 
 
 now, 
 To purpose? 
 
 1st Retainer. Our retainers look 
 
 as fine — - 
 That's comfort. Lord, how Richard 
 
 holds himself 
 With his white staff ! WUl not a knave 
 
 behind 
 Prick him upright? 
 
 4th Retainer. He's only bowing, 
 
 fool! 
 The Earl's man bent us lower by this 
 
 much. 
 1st Retainer. That's comfort. 
 
 Here's a very cavalcade! 
 3rd Retainer. I don't see wherefore 
 
 Richard, and his troop 
 Of sUk and silver varlets there, should 
 
 find 
 Their perfumed selves so indispensable 
 On high days, holidays ! Would it so 
 
 disgrace 
 Our family, if I, for instance, stood — 
 
 195 
 
196 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 In my right hand a cast of Swedish 
 hawks, 
 
 A leash of greyhounds in my left ? — 
 Gebard. — With Hugh 
 
 The logman for supporter, in his right 
 
 The biU-hook, in his left the brushwood- 
 shears ! 
 3bd Retainer. Out on you, crab ! 
 What next, what next ? The Earl ! 
 1st Retainer. Oh Walter, groom, 
 our horses, do they match 
 
 The Earl's? Alas, that first pair of 
 the six — 
 
 They paw the ground — Ah Walter ! 
 and that brute 
 
 Just on his haunches by the wheel 
 
 6th Retainer. 
 
 Ay — ay ! 
 
 You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear, 
 At soups and sauces : what's a horse to 
 
 you? 
 D'ye mark that beast they've slid into 
 
 the midst 
 So cunningly? — then, Philip, mark 
 
 this further ; 
 No leg has he to stand on ! 
 
 1st Retainer. No? That's 
 
 comfort. 
 2nd Retainer. Peace, Cook! The 
 
 Earl descends. Well, Gerard, see 
 The Earl at least! Come, there's a 
 
 proper man, 
 I hope ! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole 
 
 or Swede, 
 Has got a starrier eye. 
 
 3bd Retainer. His eyes are blue : 
 But leave my hawks alone ! 
 
 4th Retainer. So young, and yet 
 So tall and shapely ! 
 
 5th Retainer. Here's Lord Tre- 
 
 sham's self ! 
 There now — there's what a nobleman 
 
 should be ! 
 He's older, graver, loftier, he's more 
 
 like 
 A House's head. 
 
 2nd Retainer. But you'd not 
 
 have a bqy 
 
 — And what's the Earl beside? — 
 
 possess too soon 
 That stateliness ? 
 
 1st Retainer. Our master takes 
 
 his hand — 
 Richard and his white staff are on the 
 
 move — 
 Back fall our people — ■ (tsh ! — there's 
 
 Timothy 
 Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties. 
 And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming 
 
 off!) 
 
 — At last I see our lord's ba/ck and his 
 
 friend's; 
 
 And the whole beautiful bright com- 
 pany 
 Close round them — in they go ! 
 
 [Jumping down from the window- 
 bench, and making for the table 
 and its jugs] 
 
 Good health, long life, 
 Great joy to our Lord Tresham and 
 his House ! 
 6th Retainer. My father drove his 
 father first to court. 
 After his marriage day — ay, did he ! 
 
 2nd Retainer. God bless 
 
 Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the 
 
 Eari! 
 Here, Gerard, reach your beaker ! 
 
 Gerard. Drink, my boys ! 
 
 Don't mind me — all's not right about 
 me — drink ! 
 2nd Retainer. [Aside] He's vexed, 
 now, that he let the show escape! 
 [To Gerard] Remember that the Earl 
 returns this way. 
 Gerard. That way ? 
 2nd Retainer. Just so. 
 
 Gerard. Then my way's here. 
 
 [Goes] 
 
 2nd Retainer. Old Gerard 
 
 WiU die soon — mind, I said it ! He 
 
 was used 
 To care about the pitifullest thing 
 That touched the House's honour, not 
 
 an eye 
 But his could see wherein : and on a 
 
 cause 
 Of scarce a quarter this importanoej 
 
 Gerard 
 Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away 
 In cares' that this was right, nor that 
 
 was wrong. 
 Such point decorous, and such square 
 
 by rule — 
 He knew such niceties, no herald more : 
 And now — you see his humour : die 
 he will ! 
 [1st] Retainer. God help him! 
 Who's for the great servants'-hall 
 To hear what's going on inside ? They'd 
 
 follow 
 Lord Tresham into the saloon. 
 3bd Retainer. I ! — 
 
 4th Retainer. I! — 
 
 Leave Frank alone for catching, at the . 
 
 door. 
 Some hint of how the parley goes 
 
 inside ! 
 Prosperity to the great House once 
 
 more! 
 Here's the last drop ! 
 
 1st Retainer. Have at you! Boys, 
 hurrah i 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 197 
 
 Scene Second. — A Saloon in the 
 Mansion. 
 
 [Enter Lord Thbsham, Lokd Mebtoun, 
 Austin, and Gtjendolen] 
 
 Teesham. I welcome you, Lord 
 
 Mertoun, yet onoe more. 
 To this ancestral roof of mine. Yoiir 
 
 name 
 — Noble among the noblest in itself, 
 Yet taking in your person, fame avers, 
 New price and lustre, — (as that gem 
 
 you wear. 
 Transmitted from a hundred knightly 
 
 breasts. 
 Fresh chased and set and fixed by its 
 
 last lord. 
 Seems to re-kindle at the core) — your 
 
 name 
 Would win you welcome ! — 
 Mertoun. Thanks ! 
 Teesham. — But add to that. 
 
 The worthiness and grace and digriity 
 Of your proposal for uniting both 
 Our Houses even closer than respect 
 Unites them now — add these, and you 
 
 must grant 
 One favour more, nor that the least, — 
 
 to think 
 The welcome I should] give ; — 'tis 
 
 given ! My lord. 
 My only brother, Austin: he's the 
 
 king's. 
 Our cousin. Lady Guendolen — be- 
 trothed 
 To Austin : aU are yours. 
 
 Meetoun. I thank you — less 
 
 For the expressed commendings which 
 
 your seal. 
 And only that, authenticates — forbids 
 My putting from me ... to my heart 
 
 I take 
 Your praise . . . but praise less claims 
 
 my gratitude. 
 Than the indulgent insight it implies 
 Of what must needs be uppermost with 
 
 one 
 Who comes, like me, with the bare 
 
 leave to ask. 
 In weighed and measured unimpas- 
 
 sioned words, 
 A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied. 
 He must withdraw, content upon his 
 
 cheek. 
 Despair within his soul. That I dare ask 
 Firmly, near boldly, near with confi- 
 dence 
 That gift, I have to thank ydu. Yes, 
 
 Lord Tresham, 
 I love your sister — as you'd have one 
 
 love 
 
 That lady ... oh more, more I love 
 
 her ! Wealth, 
 Rank, all the world thinks me, they're 
 
 yours, you know, 
 To hold or part with, at your choice — 
 
 but grant 
 My true self, me without a rood of land, 
 A piece of gold, a name of yesterday, 
 Grant me that lady, and you . . . 
 
 Death or life?. 
 Guendolen. [Apart to Austin] Why, 
 
 this is loving, Austin ! 
 Austin. He's so young ! 
 
 Guendolen. Young? Old enough, 
 
 I think, to half surmise 
 He never had obtained an entrance here. 
 Were aU this fear and trembling needed. 
 Austin. Hush ! 
 
 He reddens. 
 
 Guendolen. Mark him, Austin ; 
 
 that's true love ! 
 Ours must begin again. 
 
 Teesham. We'll sit, my lord. 
 
 Ever with best desert goes diffidence. 
 I may speak plainly nor be miscon- 
 ceived. 
 That I am whoUy satisfied with you 
 On this occasion, when a falcon's eye 
 Were duU compared with mine to search 
 
 out faults. 
 Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers 
 
 to give 
 Or to refuse. 
 Mertoun. But you, you grant 
 
 my suit? 
 I have your word if hers ? 
 
 Tresham. My best of words 
 
 If hers encourage you. I hope it will. 
 Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the 
 
 way? 
 Mertoun. I . . . I . . . our two 
 
 demesnes, remember, touch ; 
 I have been used to wander carelessly 
 After my stricken game : the heron 
 
 roused 
 Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken 
 
 win^ 
 Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours, 
 
 — or else 
 Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken 
 
 flight 
 And lured me after her from tree to 
 
 tree, 
 I marked not whither. I have come 
 
 upon 
 
 The lady's wondrous beauty unaware, 
 
 And ■ — and then ... I have seen her. 
 
 Guendolen. [Aside to Austin] 
 
 Note that mode 
 
 Of faltering out that, when a lady 
 
 passed, 
 
198 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 He, having eyes, did see her! You 
 had said — 
 
 " On such a day I scanned her, head to 
 foot; 
 
 "Observed a red, where red should not 
 have been, 
 
 "Outside her elbow; but was pleased 
 enough 
 
 "Upon the whole." Let such irrever- 
 ent talk 
 
 Be lessoned for the future ! 
 
 Tresham. What's to say 
 
 May be said briefly. She has never 
 known 
 
 A mother's care ; I stand for father too. 
 
 Her beauty is not strange to you, it 
 seems — 
 
 You cannot know the good and tender 
 heart. 
 
 Its girl's trust and its woman's con- 
 stancy. 
 
 How pure yet passionate, how calm yet 
 land, 
 
 How grave yet joyous, how reserved 
 yet free 
 
 As light where friends are — how im- 
 bued with lore 
 
 The world most prizes, yet the simplest, 
 yet 
 
 The . . . one might know I talked of 
 Mildred — thus 
 
 We brothers talk ! 
 
 Mertoun. I thank you. 
 
 Tbesham. In a word. 
 
 Control's not for this lady; but her 
 wish 
 
 To please me outstrips in its subtlety 
 
 My power of being pleased : herself 
 creates 
 
 The want she means to satisfy. My 
 heart 
 
 Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its 
 own. 
 
 Can I say more? 
 
 Mertoun. No more — thanks, 
 
 thanks — no more ! 
 Tresham. This matter then dis- 
 cussed . . . 
 Mertoun. — We'll waste no breath 
 
 On aught less precious. I'm beneath 
 the roof 
 
 Which holds her: while I thought of 
 that, my speech 
 
 To you would wander — as it must not 
 do. 
 
 Since as you favour me I stand or fall. 
 
 I pray you suffer that I take my leave ! 
 Tresham. With less regret 'tis 
 suffered, that again 
 
 We meet, I hope, so shortly. 
 Mertoun. We? again? — 
 
 Ah, yes, forgive me — when shall . . . 
 
 you will crown 
 Your goodness by forthwith apprising me 
 When . . . if . . . the lady will ap- 
 point a d^y 
 For me to wait on you — and her. 
 
 Tresham. So soon 
 
 As I am made acquainted with her 
 
 thoughts 
 On your proposal — howsoe'er they 
 
 lean — 
 A messenger' shall bring you the result. 
 Mertoun. You cannot bind me 
 more to you, my lord. 
 Farewell till we renew ... I trust, 
 
 renew 
 A converse ne'er to disunite again. 
 Tresham. So may it prove ! 
 Mertoun. You, lady, you, sir, take 
 My humble salutation ! 
 
 GuENDOLEN AND AusTiN. Thauks ! 
 Tresham. Within there! 
 
 [Servants enter. Tresham conducts Meh- 
 TOUN to the door. Meantime 
 Austin remarks,] 
 
 Tx -r , WeU, 
 
 Here I have an advantage of the Earl, 
 Confess now! I'd not think that all 
 
 was safe 
 Because my lady's brother stood my 
 
 friend ! 
 Why, he makes sure of her — "do you 
 
 say, yes — 
 "She'll not say, no," — what comes it 
 
 to beside? 
 I should have prayed the brother, 
 
 "speak this speech, 
 "For Heaven's sake urge this on her — 
 
 put in this — 
 "Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other 
 
 thing, — 
 "Then set down what she says, and 
 
 how she looks, 
 "And if she smiles, and" (in an under 
 
 breath) 
 "Only let her accept me, and do you 
 "And all the world refuse me, if you 
 
 dare!" 
 GuENDOLBN. That way you'd take, 
 
 friend Austin? What a shame 
 I was your cousin, tamely from the 
 
 first 
 Your bride, and aU this fervour's run 
 
 to waste ! 
 Do you know you speak sensibly to-day? 
 The Earl's a fool. 
 Austin. Here's Thorold. 
 
 Tell him so ! 
 Tresham [returning]. Now, voices, 
 
 voices ! 'St ! the lady's first ! 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 199 
 
 How seems ' he? — seems he not . . . 
 
 come, faith give fraud 
 The mercy-stroke whenever they en- 
 gage! 
 Down with fraud, up with faith ! How. 
 
 seems the Earl? 
 A name! a blazon! if you knew their 
 
 worth, 
 As you will never ! come — the Earl? 
 GuENDOLEN. Hc's young. 
 
 Teesham. What's she? an infant 
 
 save in heart and brain. 
 Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! 
 
 and you ... | 
 
 Austin, how old is she ? 
 
 GuBNDOLBN. There's tact for you ! 
 I meant that being young was good 
 
 excuse 
 If one should tax him . . . 
 • Tresham Well? 
 
 GuENDOLEN. With 
 
 lacking wit. 
 Tresham. He lacked wit? Where 
 
 might he lack wit, so please you ? 
 GWENDOLEN. In standing straighter 
 
 than the steward's rod 
 And making you the tiresomest ha- 
 rangue, 
 Instead of sliijping over to my side 
 And softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet 
 
 lady, 
 "Your cousin there wiU do me detriment 
 "He little dreams of: he's absorbed, 
 
 I see, 
 "In my old name and fame — be sure 
 
 he'll leave 
 "My Mildred, when his best account 
 
 of me 
 "Is ended, in full confidence I wear 
 "My grandsire's periwig down either 
 
 cheek. 
 "I'm lost unless your gentleness vouch- 
 
 Tresham. ... "To give a best of 
 
 best accounts, yourself, 
 Of me and my demerits." You are 
 
 right ! 
 He should have said what now I say 
 
 for him. 
 Yon golden creature, will you help us all ? 
 Here's Austin means to vouch for much, 
 
 but you 
 — You are . . . what Austin only 
 
 knows ! Come up. 
 All three of us : she's in the library 
 No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. 
 
 Precede ! 
 GuBNDOLBN. Austin, how we 
 
 must — ! 
 Tresham. Must what? Must 
 
 speak truth. 
 
 Malignant tongue ! Detect one fault 
 
 in him! 
 I challenge you ! 
 GuENDOLEN. Witchcraft's a fault 
 
 in him, 
 For you're bewitched. 
 
 Tresham. What's urgent we obtain 
 Is, that she soon receive him — say, to- 
 morrow — 
 Next day at furthest. 
 
 GtrENDOLBN. Ne'er instruct me! 
 
 Tresham. Come ! 
 
 — He's out of your good graces, since 
 
 forsooth, 
 He stood not as he'd carry us by storm 
 With his perfections ! You're for the 
 
 composed 
 Manly assured becoming confidence ! 
 — -Get her to say, "to-morrow," and 
 
 I'U give you . . . 
 I'll give you black Urganda, to be 
 
 spoiled 
 With petting and snail-paces. WiU 
 
 you? Come! 
 
 Scene Third. — Mildred's chamber. 
 A painted window overlooks the 
 park. 
 
 [Mildred and Guendolen] 
 
 GuENDOLEN. Now, Mildred, spare 
 those pains. I have not left 
 
 Our talkers in the library, and climbed 
 
 The wearisome ascent to this your 
 bower 
 
 In company with you, — I have not 
 dared . . . 
 
 Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing 
 you 
 
 Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the 
 fiood, 
 
 Which Thorold seemed in very act to 
 tell 
 
 — Or bringing Austin to pluck up that 
 most 
 
 Firm-rooted heresy — your suitor's eyes, 
 
 He would maintain, were gray instead 
 of blue — 
 
 I think I brought him to contrition I — 
 WeU, 
 
 I have not done such things, (all to de- 
 serve 
 
 A minute's quiet cousin's talk with you,) 
 
 To be dismissed so coolly. 
 
 Mildred. Guendolen ! 
 
 What have I done? what could sug- 
 gest . . . 
 Guendolen. There, there! 
 
 Do I not comprehend you'd be alone 
 
200 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 To tlirow those testimonies in a heap, 
 Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities, 
 With that poor silly heartless Guen- 
 
 dolen's 
 ni-timed misplaced attempted smart- 
 nesses — 
 And sift their sense out? now, I come 
 
 to spare you 
 Nearly a whole night's labour. Ask 
 
 and have ! 
 Demand, be answered ! Lack I ears 
 
 and eyes? 
 Am I perplexed which side of the rock- 
 table 
 The Conqueror dined on when he landed 
 
 first, 
 Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden 
 
 take — 
 The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great 
 
 meed? 
 Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes ! 
 
 MiLDHED. My brother — 
 
 Did he . . . you said that he received 
 
 him well ? 
 GuENDOLEN. If I Said only "well" 
 
 I said not much. 
 Oh, stay — which brother? 
 
 Mild BED. Thorold ! who — who else ? 
 GuENDOLEN. Thorold (a secret) is 
 
 too proud by half, — 
 Nay, hear me out — with us he's even 
 
 gentler 
 Than we are with ovu: birds. Of this 
 
 great House 
 The least retainer that e'er caught his 
 
 glance 
 Would die for him, real dying — no 
 
 mere talk: 
 And in the world, the court, if men 
 
 would cite 
 The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold's 
 
 name 
 Rises of its clear nature to their hps. 
 But he should take men's homage, trust 
 
 in it. 
 And care no more about what drew it 
 
 down. 
 He has desert, and that, acknowledg- 
 ment; 
 Is he content? 
 
 Mildred. You wrong him, Guen- 
 
 dolen. 
 GxTENDOLEN. He's proud, confess; 
 
 so proud with brooding o'er 
 The light of his interminable line. 
 An ancestry with men all paladins, 
 And women all . . . 
 Mildred. Dear Guendolen, 
 
 'tis late ! 
 When yonder purple pane the climbing 
 
 Pierces, I know 'tis midnight. 
 
 Guendolen. Well, that Thorold 
 
 Should rise up from such musings, and 
 
 receive 
 One come audaciously to graft himself 
 Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, 
 No slightest spot in such an one . . . ' 
 Mildred. Who finds 
 
 A spot in Mertoun ? 
 
 Guendolen. Not your brother; 
 
 therefore. 
 Not the whole world. 
 
 Mildred. I am weary, 
 
 Guendolpn. 
 Bear with me ! 
 
 Guendolen. I am foolish. 
 Mildred. Oh no, kind! 
 
 But I would rest. 
 
 Guendolen. Good night and rest 
 to you ! 
 I said how gracefully his mantle lay 
 Beneath the rings of his light hair? 
 Mildred. Brown hair. 
 
 Guendolen. Brown? why, it is 
 brown : how could you know that? 
 Mildred. How? did not you — 
 Oh, Austin 'twas, declared 
 His hair was light, not. brown — my 
 
 head ! — and look, 
 The moon-beam purpUng the dark 
 
 chamber! Sweet, 
 Good night I 
 
 Guendolen. Forgive me — sleep 
 the soundlier for me ! 
 
 [Going, she turns suddenly] 
 Mildred ! 
 Perdition! all's discovered! Thorold 
 
 finds 
 — That the Earl's greatest of all grand- 
 mothers 
 Was grander daughter stiU — to that 
 
 fair dame 
 
 Whose garter slipped down at the 
 
 famous dance ! [Goes] 
 
 Mildred. Is she — can she be really 
 
 gone at last ? 
 
 My heart ! I shall not reach the 
 
 window. Needs 
 
 Must I have sinned much, so to suffer. 
 
 [She lifts the small lamp which is 
 
 suspended before the Virgin's 
 
 image in the window, and places 
 
 it by the purple pane] 
 
 There! 
 
 [She returns to the seat in front] 
 
 Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred, with 
 
 consent 
 Of aU the world and Thorold, Mertoun's 
 
 bride ! 
 Too late! 'Tis sweet to think of, 
 sweeter still 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 201 
 
 To hope for, that this blessed end 
 
 soothes up 
 The curse of the beginning ; but I know 
 It comes too late: 'twill sweetest be 
 
 of all 
 To dream my soul away and die jipon. 
 [A noise without] 
 The voice! Oh why, why gUded sin 
 
 the snake 
 Into the paradise Heaven meant us 
 
 both? 
 
 [The window opens softly. A 
 low voice sings] 
 
 There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's 
 
 so purer than the purest; 
 And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and 
 
 her sure faith's the surest: 
 And her eyes are dark and humid, like 
 
 the depth on depth of lustre 
 Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, 
 
 sunnier than the mid-grape cluster, 
 Oush in golden-tinted plenty down her 
 
 neck's rose-misted marble : 
 Then her voice's music . . . call it the 
 
 well's bubbling, the bird's warble ! 
 
 [A figure wrapped in a mantle 
 appears at the window] 
 
 And this woman says, ' ' My days were 
 sunless and my nights were moonless, 
 
 "Parched the pleasant April herbage, and 
 the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, 
 
 "If you loved me not !" And I who — ■ 
 . (ah, for words of flame !) adore her. 
 
 Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate 
 palpably before her — 
 
 [He enters, approaches her seat, 
 and bends over her] 
 
 I may enter at her portal soon, as now 
 
 her lattice takes me. 
 And by noontide as by midnight make 
 
 her mine, as hers she makes me ! 
 
 [The Eabl throws off his slouched 
 hat and long cloak] 
 
 My very heart sings, so I sing. Beloved ! 
 Mildred. Sit, Henry — do not take 
 
 my hand ! 
 Mbbtoun. 'Tis mine. 
 The meeting that appalled us both so 
 
 much 
 Is ended. 
 Mildred. What begins now? 
 Mebtoun. Happiness 
 
 Such as the world contains not. 
 
 Mildred. That is it. 
 
 Our happiness would, as you say, exceed 
 The whole world's best of bhsses : we 
 — do we 
 
 Deserve that? Utter to your soul, 
 what mine 
 
 Long since. Beloved, has grown used to 
 hear, 
 
 Like a death-kneU, so much regarded 
 once. 
 
 And so familiar now ; this will not be ! 
 Mebtoun. Oh, Mildred, have I met 
 your brother's face? 
 
 Compelled myself — if not to speak un- 
 truth. 
 
 Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside 
 
 The truth, as — • what had e'er prevailed 
 on me 
 
 Save you, to venture? Have I gained 
 at last 
 
 Your brother, the one scarer of your 
 dreams. 
 
 And waking thoughts' sole apprehen- 
 sion too? 
 
 Does a new Ufe, like a young sunrise, 
 break 
 
 On the strange unrest of our night, con- 
 fused 
 
 With rain and stormy flaw — and will 
 you see 
 
 No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted 
 drops 
 
 On each live spray, no vapour steam- 
 ing up. 
 
 And no expressless glory in the East? 
 
 When I am by you, to be ever by 
 you. 
 
 When I have won you and may worship 
 you. 
 
 Oh, Mildred, can you say "this will 
 not be"? 
 MiLDEED. Sin has surprised us, so 
 
 will punishment. 
 Meetotjn. No — me alone, who 
 
 sinned alone ! 
 Mildred. The night 
 
 You likened our past life to — was it 
 storm 
 
 Throughout to you then, Henry? 
 Mebtoun. Of your Ufe 
 
 I spoke — what am I, what my life, to 
 waste 
 
 A thought about when you are by me? 
 — you 
 
 It was, I said my foUy called the storm 
 
 And pulled the night upon. 'Twas day 
 with me — 
 
 Perpetual dawn with me. 
 
 Mildred. Come what, come will, 
 
 You have been happy : take my hand ! 
 Mertoun [after a pause]. How good 
 
 Your brother is ! I figured him a cold — 
 
 Shall I say, haughty man? 
 Mildeed. They told me all. 
 
 I know all. 
 
202 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mertoun. It will soon be over. 
 Mildred. Over ? 
 
 Oh, what is over? what must I hve 
 
 through 
 And say, "'tis over"? Is our meeting 
 
 over? 
 Have I received in presence of them all 
 The partner of my guilty love — with 
 
 brow 
 Trying to seem a maiden's brow — with 
 
 lips 
 Which make beUeve that when they 
 
 strive to form 
 Replies to you and tremble as they 
 
 strive, 
 It is the nearest ever they approached 
 A stranger's . . . Henry, yours that 
 
 stranger's ... Up — 
 With cheek that looks a virgin's, and 
 
 that is . . . 
 Ah, God, some prodigy of thine will 
 
 stop 
 This planned piece of deliberate wicked- 
 ness 
 In its birth even! some fierce leprous 
 
 spot 
 Will mar the brow's dissimulating ! I 
 Shall murmur no smooth speeches got 
 
 by heart, 
 But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful 
 
 story, 
 The love, the shame, and the despair — 
 
 with them. 
 Round me aghast as round some cursed 
 
 fount 
 That should spirt water, and spouts 
 
 blood. I'U not 
 . . . Henry, you do not wish that I 
 
 should draw 
 This vengeance down ? I'U not afleet a 
 
 grace 
 That's gone from me — gone once, and 
 
 gone for ever ! 
 Mertoun. Mildred, my honour is 
 
 your own. I'll share 
 Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. 
 A word informs your brother I retract 
 This morning's offer; time will yet 
 
 bring forth 
 Some better way of saving both of us. 
 Mildred. I'U meet their faces, 
 
 Henry! 
 Mertoun. When? to-morrow! 
 Get done with it ! 
 
 Mildred. Oh, Henry, not to- 
 
 morrow ! 
 Next day ! I never shaU prepare my 
 
 words 
 And looks and gestures sooner. — How 
 
 you must 
 Despise me ! 
 
 Mertoun. Mildred, break it if you 
 choose, 
 A heart the love of you uplifted — still 
 UpUfts, thro' this protracted agony, 
 To heaven ! but MUdred, answer me, — 
 
 first pace 
 The chamber with me — once again— 
 
 now, say 
 Calmly the part, the . . . what it is of 
 
 me 
 You see contempt (for you did say con- 
 tempt) 
 
 — Contempt for you in ! I will pluck 
 
 it off 
 
 And cast it from me ! — but no — no, 
 you'U not 
 
 Repeat that ? — will you, Mildred, re- 
 peat that? 
 Mildred. Dear Henry ! 
 Mertoun. I was scarce a boy — 
 e'en now 
 
 What am I more? And you were in- 
 fantine 
 
 When first I met you ; why, your hair 
 fell loose 
 
 On either side ! My foors-oheek red- 
 dens now 
 
 Only in the reoaUing how it burned 
 
 That morn to see the shape of many a 
 dream — 
 
 You know we boys are prodigal of 
 charms 
 
 To her we dream of — I had heard of 
 one. 
 
 Had dreamed of her, and I was close to 
 her. 
 
 Might speak to her, might Uve and die 
 her own. 
 
 Who knew? I spoke. Oh, Mildred, 
 feel you not 
 
 That now, while I remember every 
 glance 
 
 Of yours, each word of yours, with 
 power to test 
 
 And weigh them in the diamond scales 
 of pride, 
 
 Resolved the treasure of a first and last 
 
 Heart's love shaU have been bartered 
 at its worth, 
 
 — That now I think upon your purity 
 And utter ignorance of guilt — your 
 
 own 
 Or other's guUt — the girUsh undis- 
 guised 
 Delight at a strange novel prize — 
 
 (I talk 
 A siUy language, but interpret, you !) 
 If I, with fancy at its fuU, and reason 
 Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, 
 If you had pity on my passion, pity 
 On my protested sickness of the soul 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 203 
 
 To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and 
 
 watch 
 Your eyelids and the eyes beneath — 
 
 if you 
 Accorded gifts and knew not they were 
 
 gifts — 
 If I grew mad at last with enterprise 
 And must behold my beauty in her 
 
 bower 
 Or perish — (I was ignorant of even 
 My own desires — what then were you ?) 
 
 if sorrow — 
 Sin — if the end came — must I now 
 
 renounce 
 My reason, blind myself to light, say 
 
 truth 
 Is false and lie to God and my own soul ? 
 Contempt were aU of this ! 
 
 Mildred. Do you beUeve . . . 
 
 Or, Henry, I'll not wrong you — you 
 
 beUeve 
 That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve 
 
 o'er 
 The past. We'll love on; you will 
 
 love me still. 
 Mbhtotjn. Oh, to love less what 
 
 one has injured ! Dove, 
 Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my 
 
 breast — 
 Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee 
 
 into strength? 
 Flower I have crushed, shall I not care 
 
 for thee? 
 Bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark 
 
 and device ! 
 Mildred, I love you and you love me. 
 Mildred. Go ! 
 
 Be that your last word. I shall sleep 
 
 to-night. 
 Mbrtoun. This is not otir last meet- 
 ing? 
 Mildred. One night more. 
 Mertoun. And then — think, then ! 
 Mildred. Then, no sweet courtship- 
 days. 
 No dawning consciousness of love for 
 
 us. 
 No strange and palpitating births of 
 
 sense 
 BVom words and looks, no innocent fears 
 
 and hopes, 
 Reserves and confidences : morning's 
 
 over! 
 Mertoun. How else should love's 
 
 perfected noontide follow? 
 All the dawn promised shall the day 
 
 perform. 
 Mildred. So may it be ! but — 
 
 You are cautious, Love ? 
 Are sure that unobserved you scaled 
 
 the walls ? 
 
 Mertoun. Oh, trust me ! Then our 
 
 final meeting's fixed 
 To-morrow night ? 
 
 Mildred. FareweUl Stay, Henry 
 
 . . . wherefore? 
 His foot is on the yew-tree bough ; the 
 
 turf 
 Receives him ; now the moonlight as 
 
 he runs 
 Embraces him — but he must go — is 
 
 gone. 
 Ah, once again he turns — thanks, 
 
 thanks, my Love ! 
 He's gone. Oh, I'E believe him every 
 
 word! 
 I was so young, I loved him so, I had 
 No mother, God forgot me, and I fell. 
 There may be pardon yet: all's doubt 
 
 beyond. 
 Surely the bitterness of death is past. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene. — The Library 
 [Enter Lord Tresham, 
 
 Trbsham. This way! In, Gerard, 
 quick! 
 
 [As Gerard enters, Tresham 
 secures the door] 
 
 Now speak ! or, wait — 
 I'll bid you speak directly. 
 
 [Seats himself] 
 Now repeat 
 Firmly and circumstantially the tale 
 You just now told me ; it eludes me ; 
 
 either 
 I did not Usten, or the half is gone 
 Away from me. How long have you 
 
 lived here ? 
 Here in my house, your father kept our 
 
 woods 
 Before you? 
 
 Gerard. — As his father did, my 
 lord. 
 I have been eating, sixty years almost. 
 Your bread. 
 
 Tresham. Yes, yes. You ever 
 
 were of all 
 The servants in my father's house, I 
 
 know. 
 The trusted one. You'll speak the truth. 
 Gerard. ru speak 
 
 God's truth. Night after night . . . 
 Tresham. Since when? 
 
 Gerard. At least 
 
 A month — each midnight has some 
 man access 
 
204 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 To Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 
 Tresham. Tush, "access" — 
 
 No wide words like "access" to me! 
 
 Gerard. He runs 
 
 Along the woodside, crosses to the 
 
 South, 
 Takes the left tree that ends the 
 avenue . . . 
 Tresham. The last great yew-tree ? 
 Gerard. You might stand upon 
 
 The main boughs like a platform. 
 Then he . . 
 Tresham. Quick ! 
 
 Gerard. Climbs up, and, where 
 they lessen at the top, 
 — I cannot see distinctly, but he 
 
 throws, 
 1 think — for this I do not vouch — 
 
 a line 
 That reaches to the lady's casement — 
 Tresham. — Which 
 
 He enters not ! Gerard, some wretched 
 
 fool 
 Dares pry into my sister's privacy ! 
 When such are young, it seems a precious 
 
 thing 
 To have approached, — to merely have 
 
 approached. 
 Got sight of, the abode of her they set 
 Their frantic thoughts upon. He does 
 
 not enter? 
 Gerard ? 
 
 Gerard. There is a lamp that's fuU 
 i' the midst, 
 Under a red square in the painted glass 
 Of Lady Mildred's . . . 
 
 Tresham. Leave that name out! 
 WeU? 
 That lamp? 
 
 Gerard. — Is moved at mid- 
 night higher up 
 To one pane — a small dark-blue pane ; 
 
 he waits 
 For that among the boughs: at sight 
 
 of that, 
 I see him, plain as I see you, my lord, 
 Open the lady's casement, enter 
 there . . . 
 Tresham. — And stay? 
 
 Gerard. An hour, two hours. 
 Tresham. And this you saw 
 
 Once ? — twice ? — quick ! 
 
 Gerard. Twenty times. 
 
 Tresham. And what brings you 
 
 Under the yew-trees ? 
 
 Gerard. The first night I left 
 
 My range so far, to track the stranger stag 
 That broke the pale, I saw the man. 
 
 Tresham. Yet sent 
 
 No cross-bow shaft through the ma^ 
 rauder? 
 
 Gerard. But 
 He came, my lord, the first time he was 
 
 seen, 
 In a great moonlight, light as any day, 
 From Lady Mildred's chamber. 
 
 Tresham [after a pause]. You 
 
 have no cause 
 — Who could have cause to do my 
 
 sister wrong? 
 Gerard. Oh, my lord, only ones — 
 
 let me this once 
 Speak what is on my mind! Since 
 
 first I noted 
 All this, I've groaned as if a fiery net 
 Plucked me this way and that — fire if 
 
 I turned 
 To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire 
 If down I flung myself and strove to die. 
 The lady could not have been seven 
 
 years old 
 When I was trusted to conduct her safe 
 Through the deer-herd to stroke the 
 
 snow-white fawn 
 I brought to eat bread from her tiny 
 
 hand 
 Within a month. She ever had a smile 
 To greet me with — she ... if it 
 
 could undo 
 What's doiie, to lop each limb from off 
 
 this trunk . . . 
 All that is foolish talk, not fit for you — 
 I mean, I could not speak and bring 
 
 her hiirt 
 For Heaven's compeUing. But when 
 
 I was fixed 
 To hold my peace, each morsel of your 
 
 food 
 Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place 
 
 too. 
 Choked me. I wish I had grown mad 
 
 in doubts 
 What it behoved me do. This mom 
 
 it seemed 
 Either I must confess to you, or die: 
 Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm 
 That crawls, to have betrayed my lady. 
 Tresham. No — 
 
 No, Gerard! 
 
 Gerard. Let me go ! 
 Tresham. A man, you say: 
 
 What man? Young? Not a vulgar 
 
 hind? What dress? 
 Gerard. A slouched hat and a large 
 
 dark foreign cloak 
 Wraps his whole form ; even his face 
 
 IS hid ; 
 But I should judge him young : no hind, 
 
 be swce ! 
 Tresham. Why? 
 Gerard. He is ever armed: 
 
 his sword projects 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 205 
 
 Beneath the cloak. 
 
 Tbesham. Gerard — ; I will not say 
 No word, no breath of this ! 
 Gehaed. Thanks, thanks, my lord ! 
 
 [Goes] 
 
 Tbesham [paces the room. After a 
 
 pause]. Oh, thought's absurd ! — • 
 
 as with some monstrous fact 
 
 Which, when ill thoughts beset us, 
 
 seems to give 
 Merciful God that made the sun and 
 
 stars. 
 The waters and the green delights of 
 
 earth. 
 The lie! I apprehend the monstrous 
 
 fact — ■ 
 Yet know the maker of all worlds is 
 
 good. 
 And yield my reason up, madequate 
 To reconcile what yet I do behold — 
 Blasting my sense ! There's cheerful 
 
 day outside : 
 This is my library, and this the chair 
 My father used to sit in carelessly 
 After his soldier-fashion, while I stood 
 Between his knees to question him : and 
 
 here 
 Gerard our gray retainer, — as he says. 
 Fed with our food, from sire to son, an 
 
 age, — 
 Has told a story — I am to believe ! 
 That Mildred . . . oh, no, no ! both 
 
 tales are true. 
 Her pure cheek's story and the fores- 
 ter's ! 
 Would she, or could she, err — much 
 
 less, confound 
 All guilts of treachery, of craft, of . . . 
 
 Heaven 
 Keep me within its hand ! — I will sit 
 
 here 
 Until thought settle and I see my course. 
 Avert, oh God, only this woe from me ! 
 [As he sinks his head between his 
 arms on the table, Guendolbn's 
 voice is heard at the door\ 
 GuENDOLEN. Lord Tresham! [She 
 knocks] Is Lord Tresham there ? 
 [Teesham; hastily turning, pulls 
 down the first book above him 
 and opens it] 
 Tresham. Come in! [She enters] 
 Ha, Guendolen ! — good morning. 
 GuENDOLEN. Nothing more? 
 
 Tbesham. What shoidd I say more ? 
 Guendolen. Pleasant question ! 
 more? 
 This more. Did I besiege poor Mil- 
 dred's brain 
 Last night till close on morning with 
 "the Earl," 
 
 "The Earl" — whose worth did I as- 
 severate 
 Till I am very fain to hope that . . . 
 
 Thorold, 
 What is all this ? You are not well ! 
 
 Tbesham. Who, I? 
 
 You laugh at me. 
 Guendolen. ' Has what I'm fain to 
 hope, 
 Arrived then? Does that huge tome 
 
 show some blot 
 In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer 
 
 back 
 Than Arthxir's time? 
 
 Tresham. When left you Mildred's 
 
 chamber ? 
 Guendolen. Oh, late enough, I 
 told you ! The main thing 
 To ask is, how I left her chamber, — 
 
 sure, 
 Content yourself, she'll grant this para- 
 gon 
 Of Earls no such ungracious . . . 
 Tresham. Send her here ! 
 
 Guendolen. Thorold ? 
 Tresham. I mean — acquaint her, 
 Guendolen, 
 — But mildly ! 
 
 Guendolen. Mildly? 
 Tresham. Ah, you guessed aright ! 
 I am not well : there is no hiding it. 
 But tell her I would see her at her 
 
 leisure — 
 That is, at once ! here in the library ! 
 The passage in that old Italian book 
 We hunted for so long is found, say, 
 
 found — 
 And if I let it slip again . . . you see, 
 That she must come — and instantly ! 
 
 Guendolen. I'll die 
 
 Piecemeal, record that, it there have 
 
 not gloomed 
 Some blot i' the 'scutcheon ! 
 
 Tresham. Go ! or, Guendolen, 
 
 Be you at call, — with Austin, if you 
 
 choose, — 
 In the adjoining galley ! There, go ! 
 
 [Guendolen goes] 
 Another lesson to me ! You might bid 
 A child disguise his heart's sore, and 
 
 conduct 
 Some sly investigation point by point 
 With a smooth brow, as well as bid me 
 
 catch 
 The inquisitorial cleverness some praise. 
 If you had told me yesterday, "There's 
 
 one 
 "You needs must circumvent and 
 
 practise with, 
 "Entrap by policies, if you would 
 worm 
 
206 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 "The truth out: and that one is — • 
 
 MUdred!" There, 
 There — reasoning is thrown away on 
 
 it! 
 Prove she's unchaste . . . why, you 
 
 may after prove 
 That she's a poisoner, traitress, what 
 
 you will ! 
 Where I can comprehend nought, 
 
 nought's to say. 
 Or do, or think. Force on me but the 
 
 first 
 Abomination, — then outpour all 
 
 plagues, 
 And I shall ne'er make count of them. 
 
 [Enter Mildbed] 
 
 Mildred. What book 
 
 Is it I wanted, Thorold? Guendolen 
 Thought you were pale; you are not 
 
 pale. That book? 
 That's Latin surely. 
 
 Tbesham. Mildred, here's a line, 
 
 (Don't lean on me: I'll English it for 
 
 you) 
 "Love conquers aU things." What 
 
 love conquers them? 
 What love should you esteem — best 
 
 love? 
 Mildred. True love. 
 Tbesham. I mean, and should have 
 
 said, whose love is best 
 Of all that love or that profess to love? 
 Mildred. The list's so long : there's 
 
 father's, mother's, husband's . . . 
 Tbesham. Mildred, I do beUeve a 
 
 brother's love 
 For a sole sister must exceed them aU. 
 For see now, only see ! there's no alloy 
 Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st 
 
 gold 
 Of other loves — no gratitude to claim ; 
 Tou never gave her life, not even aught 
 That keeps Uf e — never tended her, 
 
 instructed. 
 Enriched her — so, your love can claim 
 
 no right 
 O'er her save pure love's claim: that's 
 
 what I call 
 Freedom from earthliness. You'll never 
 
 hope 
 To be such friends, for instance, she 
 
 and you. 
 As when you hunted cowslips in the 
 
 woods 
 Or played together in the meadow 
 
 hay. 
 Oh, yes — with age, respect comes, and 
 
 your worth 
 Is felt, there's growing sympathy of 
 
 tastes, 
 
 There's ripened friendship, there's con- 
 firmed esteem : 
 
 — Much head these make against the 
 
 newcomer ! 
 The startling apparition, the strange 
 
 youth — 
 Whom one half-hour's conversing with, 
 
 or, say. 
 Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond 
 
 all change 
 This Ovid ever sang about) your soul 
 . . . Her soul, that is, — the sister's 
 
 soul ! With her 
 'Twas winter yesterday; now, all is 
 
 warmth. 
 The green leaf's springing and the 
 
 turtle's voice, 
 "Arise and come away!" Come 
 
 whither? — far 
 Enough from the esteem, respect, and 
 
 all 
 The brother's somewhat insignificant 
 Array of rights ! AU which he knows 
 
 before. 
 Has calculated on so long ago ! 
 I think such love, (apart from yours 
 
 and mine,) 
 Contented with its little term of life. 
 Intending to retire betimes, aware 
 How soon the background must be 
 
 place for it, 
 
 — I think, am sure, a brother's love 
 
 exceeds 
 All the world's love in its unworldliness. 
 Mildred. What is this for? 
 Tbesham. This, Mildred, is it for! 
 Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon 1 
 That's one of many points my 
 
 left out — 
 Each day, each hour throws forth its 
 
 silk-slight film 
 Between the being tied to you by 
 
 birth. 
 And you, until those slender threads 
 
 compose 
 A web that shrouds her daily hfe of 
 
 hopes 
 And fears and fancies, all her life, from 
 
 yours: 
 So close you live and yet so far apart! 
 And must I rend this web, tear up, 
 
 break down 
 The sweet and palpitating mystery 
 That makes her sacred? You — for 
 
 you I mean, 
 ShaU I speak, shall I not speak? 
 Mildred. Speak! 
 
 Tbesham. I will. 
 
 Is there a story men could — any man 
 Could tell of you, you would conceal 
 
 from me? 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 207 
 
 I'll never think there's falsehood on 
 
 that lip. 
 Say "There is no such story men could 
 
 tell," 
 And I'll believe you, though I disbelieve 
 The world — the -world of better men 
 
 than I, 
 And women such as I suppose you. 
 
 Speak ! 
 [AJter a pause] Not speak? Explain 
 
 then ! Clear it up then ! Move 
 Some of the miserable weight away 
 •That presses lower than the grave! 
 
 Not speak? 
 Some of the dead weight, Mildred! 
 
 Ah, if I 
 Could bring myself to plainly make 
 
 their charge 
 Against you ! Must I, Mildred ? Silent 
 
 stiU? 
 [After a pause] Is there a gallant that 
 
 has night by night 
 Admittance to your chamber? 
 
 [After a pause] Then, his name ! 
 Till now, I only had a thought for you : 
 But now, — his name ! 
 
 MiLDBED. Thorold, do you devise 
 Fit expiation for_my guilt, if fit 
 There be! 'T is nought to say that 
 
 I'll endure 
 And bless you, — that my spirit yearns 
 
 to i)urge 
 Her stains off in the fierce renewing 
 
 fire: 
 But do not plunge me into other guilt ! 
 Oh, guilt enough! I cannot tell his 
 
 name. 
 Tbbsham. Then judge yourself! 
 
 How should I act? Pronounce ! 
 MiLDHBD. Oh, Thorold, you must 
 
 never tempt me thus ! 
 To die here in this chamber by that 
 
 sword 
 Would seem like punishment : so should 
 
 IgUde, 
 Lake an arch-cheat, into extremest bUss ! 
 'Twere easily arranged for me: but 
 
 you — 
 What would become of you ? 
 
 Tbbsham. And what will now 
 
 Become of me? I'll hide your shame 
 
 and mine 
 From every eye ; the dead must heave 
 
 their hearts 
 Under the marble of our chapel-floor ; 
 They cannot rise and blast you. You 
 
 may wed 
 Four paramour above our mother's 
 
 tomb; 
 Our mother cannot move from 'neath 
 your foot. 
 
 We too will somehow wear this one day 
 
 out: 
 But with to-morrow hastens here — 
 
 the Earl ! 
 The youth without suspicion . . . face 
 
 can come 
 From Heaven, and heart from . . . 
 
 whence proceed such hearts ? 
 I have despatched last night at your 
 
 command 
 A missive bidding him present himself 
 To-morrow — here — thus much is 
 
 said ; the rest 
 Is understood as if 'twere written 
 
 down — 
 "His suit finds favour in your eyes." 
 
 Now dictate 
 This morning's letter that shall counter- 
 mand 
 Last night's — do dictate that ! 
 
 Mildred. But, Thorold — if 
 
 I will receive him as I said ? 
 
 Tbbsham. The Earl? 
 
 MiLDHBD. I wUl receive him. 
 Trbsham [starting up]. Ho there! 
 
 Guendolen ! 
 
 [Gtjendolbn and Austin enter] 
 
 And, Austin, you are welcome, too! 
 Look there ! 
 
 The woman there ! 
 
 Austin and Guendolen. How? 
 
 Mildred? 
 Tbesham. Mildred once ! 
 
 Now the receiver night by night, when 
 sleep 
 
 Blesses the inmates of her father's 
 house, 
 
 — I say, the soft sly wanton that re- 
 ceives 
 
 Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof 
 which holds 
 
 You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has 
 held 
 
 A thousand Treshams — never one Uke 
 her! 
 
 No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick 
 
 Foul breath near quenches in hot eager- 
 ness 
 
 To mix with breath as foul ! no loosener 
 . 0' the lattice, practised in the stealthy 
 tread, 
 
 The low voice and the noiseless come- 
 and-go ! 
 
 Not one composer of the bacchant's 
 mien 
 
 Into — what you thought Mildred's, 
 in a word ! 
 
 Know her ! 
 Guendolen. Oh, Mildred, look to 
 me, at least ! 
 
208 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Th.orold — she's dead, I'd say, but that 
 
 she stands 
 Rigid as stone and whiter ! 
 
 Tbesham. You have heard . . . 
 
 GuENDOLBN. Too much ! You must 
 
 proceed no further. 
 Mildred. Yes — 
 
 Proceed ! All's truth. Go from me ! 
 
 Tresham. All is truth, 
 
 She tells you ! Well, you know, or 
 
 ought to know. 
 All this I would forgive in her. I'd con 
 Each precept the harsh world enjoins, 
 
 I'd take 
 Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one, 
 I'd bind myself before them to exact 
 The prescribed vengeance — and one 
 
 word of hers, 
 The sight of her, the bare least memory 
 Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's 
 
 pride 
 Above all prides, my aU in all so long. 
 Would scatter every trace of my resolve. 
 What were it silently to waste away 
 And see her waste away from this day 
 
 forth. 
 Two scathed things with leisure to 
 
 repent. 
 And grow acquainted with the grave, 
 
 and die 
 Tired out if not at peace, and be for- 
 gotten? 
 It were not so impossible to bear. 
 But this — that, fresh from last night's 
 
 pledge renewed 
 Of love with the successful gallant 
 
 there. 
 She calmly bids me help her to entice. 
 Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth 
 Who thinks her all that 's chaste and 
 
 good and pure, 
 
 — Invites me to betray him . . . who 
 
 so fit 
 As honour's self to cover shame's arch- 
 deed? 
 
 — That she'll receive Lord Mertoun — 
 
 (her own phrase) — 
 This, who could bear? Why, you have 
 
 heard of thieves, 
 Stabbers, the earth's disgrace, who yet 
 
 have laughed, 
 " Talk not to me of torture — I'll betray 
 "No comrade I've pledged faith tol" 
 
 — you have heard 
 Of wretched women — all but Mildreds 
 
 — tied 
 By wild illicit ties to losels vile 
 You'd tempt them to forsake ; and 
 
 they'll reply 
 "Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, 
 
 I find 
 
 "In him, why should I leave him then 
 
 for gold, 
 "Repute or friends?" — and you have 
 
 felt your heart 
 Respond to such poor outcasts of the 
 
 world 
 As to so many friends; bad as you 
 
 You've felt they were God's men and 
 
 women still. 
 So, not to be disowned by you. But she 
 That stands there, calrnly gives her 
 
 lover up 
 As means to wed the Earl that she may 
 
 hide 
 Their intercourse the sureUer : and, for 
 
 this, 
 I curse her to her face before you all. 
 Shame hunt her from the earth ! Then 
 
 Heaven do right 
 To both ! It hears me now — shall 
 
 judge her then ! 
 
 [As Mildred faints and falls, 
 Tbesham rushes out] 
 Austin. Stay, Tresham, we'll ac- 
 company you ! 
 
 GUBNDOLEN. We ? 
 
 What, and leave Mildred? We? Why, 
 Where's my place 
 
 But by her side, and where yours but 
 by mine? 
 
 Mildred — one word ! Only look at 
 me, then ! 
 Austin. No, Guendolen! I echo 
 Thorold's voice. 
 
 She is unworthy to behold . . . 
 Guendolen. Us two? 
 
 If you spoke on reflection, and if I 
 
 Approved your speech — if you (to put 
 the thing 
 
 At lowest) you the soldier, bound to 
 make 
 
 The king's cause yours and flght for it, 
 and throw 
 
 Regard to others of its right or -wrong, 
 
 — If with a ,death-white woman you 
 can help. 
 
 Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, 
 
 You left her — or if I, her cousin, friend 
 
 This morning, playfellow but yester- 
 day. 
 
 Who said, or thought at least a thou- 
 sand times, 
 
 "I'd serve you if I could," should now 
 face rounjd 
 
 And say, "Ah, that's only to signify 
 
 "I'd serve you while you're fit to serve 
 yourself : 
 
 "So long as fifty eyes await the turn 
 
 "Of yours to forestall its yet half- 
 formed wish, 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 209 
 
 'Til proffer my assistance you'll not 
 
 need — 
 "When every tongue is praising you, 
 
 I'U join 
 "The praisers' chorus — when you're 
 
 hemmed about 
 "Withlives between you and detraction 
 
 — lives 
 "To be laid down if a rude voice, rash 
 
 eye, 
 "Rough hand should violate the sacred 
 
 ring 
 "Their worship throws about you, — 
 
 then indeed, 
 "Who'U stand up for you stout as I?" 
 
 If so 
 We said, and so we did, — not MUdred 
 
 there 
 Would be unworthy to behold us both, 
 But we should be unworthy, both of 
 
 us, 
 To be beheld by — by — your meanest 
 
 dog, 
 Which, if that sword were broken in 
 
 your face 
 Before a crowd, that badge torn off 
 
 your breast. 
 And you east out with hooting and eon- 
 tempt, 
 — Would push his way thro' all the 
 
 hooters, gain 
 Your side, go oft with you and all your 
 
 To the next ditch you choose to die in ! 
 
 Austin, 
 Do you love me? Here's Austin, Mil- 
 dred, — here's 
 Your brother says he does not believe 
 
 half — 
 No, nor half that ^ of all he heard ! 
 
 He says. 
 Look up and take his hand ! 
 
 Austin. Look up and take 
 
 My hand, dear Mildred ! 
 
 Mildred. I — I was so young ! 
 
 Beside, I loved him, Thorold — and 
 
 I had 
 No mother ; God forgot me : so, I fell. 
 GuBNDOLEN. Mildred ! 
 Mildred. Require no further ! Did 
 I dream 
 That I could palliate what is done? 
 
 All's true. 
 Now, punish me ! A woman takes my 
 
 hand? 
 Let go my hand! You do not know, 
 
 I see. 
 I thought that Thorold told you. 
 
 GuBNDOLBN. What is this? 
 
 Where start you to? 
 Mildred. Oh, Austin, loosen me ! 
 
 You heard the whole of it — your eyes 
 
 were worse. 
 In their siu-prise, than Thorold's ! Oh, 
 
 unless 
 You stay to execute his sentence, loose 
 My hand! Has Thorold gone, and are 
 
 you here ? 
 Gttendolbn. Here, Mildred, we two 
 
 friends of yours wiU wait 
 Your bidding; be you silent, sleep or 
 
 muse! 
 Only, when you shall want your bidding 
 
 done, 
 How can we do it if we are not by? 
 Here's Austin waiting patiently your 
 
 will! 
 One spirit to command, and one to love 
 And to beUeve in it and do its best. 
 Poor as that is, to help it — why, the 
 
 world 
 Has been won many a time, its length 
 
 and breadth, 
 By just such a beginning ! 
 
 Mildred. I believe 
 
 If once I threw my arms about your 
 
 neck 
 And sunk my head upon your breast, 
 
 that I 
 Should weep again. 
 
 Gtjendolen. Let go her hand now, 
 
 Austin ! 
 Wait for me. Pace the gallery and 
 
 think 
 On the world's seemings and realities, 
 Until I call you. [Attstin goes] 
 
 Mildred. No — I cannot weep. 
 
 No more tears from this brain — no 
 
 sleep — no tears ! 
 O Guendolen, I love you ! 
 
 Gtjendolen. Yes: and "love" 
 
 Is a short word that says so very much ! 
 It says that you conflde in me. 
 
 Mildred. Conflde ! 
 
 Guendolen. Your lover's name, 
 
 then ! I've so much to learn. 
 Ere I can work in your behalf ! 
 
 Mildred. My friend. 
 
 You know I cannot teU his name. 
 
 Guendolen. At least 
 
 He is your lover ? and you love him too ? 
 
 Mildred. Ah, do you ask me that ? 
 
 — but I am fallen 
 So low ! 
 
 Guendolen. You love him still, 
 
 then? 
 Mildred. My sole prop 
 
 Against the guilt that crushes me! 
 
 I say. 
 Each night ere I lie down, "I was so 
 
 young — 
 "I had no mother, and I loved him so ! " 
 
210 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 And then God seems indulgent, and 
 
 I dare 
 Trust him my soul in sleep. 
 
 GuENDOLEN. How could you let us 
 E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun 
 then? 
 Mildred. There is a cloud around 
 
 me. 
 GuENDOLEN. But you Said • 
 You would receive his suit in spite of 
 this? 
 Mildred. I say there is a cloud . . . 
 GuENDOLEN. No cloud to me ! 
 
 Lord Mertoun and your lover are the 
 same! 
 Mildred. What maddest fancy . . . 
 Gtjendolen [calling aloud]. Austin ! 
 (spare your pains — 
 When I have got a truth, that truth 
 I keep) — 
 Mildred. By all you love, sweet 
 Guendolen, forbear! 
 Have 1 confided in you . . . 
 
 Guendolen. Just for this ! 
 
 Austin ! — Oh, not to guess it at the 
 
 first ! 
 But I did guess it — that is, I divined. 
 Felt by an instinct how it was : why 
 
 else 
 Should I pronounce you free from all 
 
 that heap 
 Of sins which had been irredeemable? 
 I felt they were not yours — what other 
 
 way 
 Than this, not yours? The secret's 
 wholly mine ! 
 Mildred. If you would see me die 
 
 before his face . . . 
 Guendolen. I'd hold my peace! 
 And if the Earl returns 
 To-night? 
 
 Mildred. Ah Heaven, he's lost ! 
 Guendolen. I thought so. Austin ! 
 [Enter Austin] 
 Oh, where have you been hiding? 
 
 Austin. Thorold's gone, 
 
 1 know not how, across the meadow- 
 land. 
 I watched him till I lost him in the 
 
 skirts 
 O' the beech-wood. 
 Guendolen. Gone? All thwarts us. 
 Mildred. Thorold too? 
 
 Guendolen. I have thought. First 
 lead this Mildred to her room. 
 Go on the other side ; and then we'll 
 
 seek 
 Your brother : and I'll tell you, by the 
 
 way, 
 The greatest comfort ip the world. 
 You said 
 
 There was a clue to aU. Remember, 
 
 Sweet, 
 He said there was a clue ! I hold it. 
 
 Come ! 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene First. — The end of the Yew- 
 tree Avenue under Mildred's wn. 
 dow. A light seen through a central 
 red pane. 
 
 [Enter Tresham through the trees] 
 
 Again here ! But I cannot lose myself. 
 The heath — the orchard — I have 
 
 traversed glades 
 And dells and bosky paths which used 
 
 to lead 
 Into green wild-wood depths, bewilder- 
 ing 
 My boy's adventurous step. And now 
 
 they tend 
 Hither or soon or late; the blackest 
 
 shade 
 Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the 
 
 trees ope wide. 
 And the dim turret I have fled from, 
 
 fronts 
 Again my step ; the very river put 
 Its arm about me and conducted me 
 To this detested spot. Why then, I'll 
 
 shun 
 Their will no longer : do your will with 
 
 me ! 
 Oh, bitter ! To have reared a towering 
 
 scheme 
 Of happiness, and to behold it razed. 
 Were nothing : all men hope, and see 
 
 their hopes 
 Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope 
 
 anew. 
 But I ... to hope that from a line 
 
 like ours 
 No horrid prodigy like this would spring, 
 Were just as though I hoped that from 
 
 these old 
 Confederates against the sovereign day, 
 Children of older and yet older sires. 
 Whose living coral berries dropped, as 
 
 now 
 On me, on many a baron's surcoat once, 
 On many a beauty's wimple — would 
 
 proceed 
 No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its 
 
 root. 
 Hither and thither its strange snaky 
 
 arms. 
 Why came I here? What must I do? 
 
 [A bell strikes] A bell ? 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 211 
 
 Midnight! and 'tis at midnight . . . 
 
 Ah, I catch 
 — Woods, river, plains, I catch your 
 
 meaning now, 
 And I obey you ! Hist ! This tree 
 will serve. 
 
 [He retires behind one of the trees. 
 
 After a pause, enter Mebtoun 
 
 cloaked as before] 
 
 Mbbtotjn. Not time ! Beat out thy 
 
 last voluptuous beat 
 
 Of hope and fear, my heart ! I thought 
 
 the clock 
 I' the chapel struck as I was pushing 
 
 through 
 The terns. And so I shall no more see 
 
 rise 
 My love-star! Oh, no matter for the 
 
 past! 
 So much the more delicious task to 
 
 watch 
 Mildred revive : to pluck out, thorn by 
 
 thorn, 
 AH traces of the rough forbidden path 
 My rash love lured her to ! Each day 
 
 must see 
 Some fear of hers effaced, some hope 
 
 renewed : ' 
 Then there will be surprises, unfore- 
 seen 
 Delights in store. I'll not regret the 
 past. 
 
 [The light is placed above in the 
 purple pane] 
 And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star ! 
 1 never saw it lovelier than now 
 It rises for the last time. If it sets, 
 'Tis that the re-assuring sun may dawii. 
 [As he prepares to ascend the last 
 tree of the avenue, Tebsham 
 arrests his arm] 
 Unhand me — peasant, by your grasp ! 
 
 Here's goM. 
 'Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd 
 
 pluck 
 A branch from the white-blossomed 
 
 shrub beneath 
 The casement there. Take this, and 
 hold your peace. 
 Thbsham. Into the moonlight yon- 
 der, come with me ! 
 Out of the shadow ! 
 Mbrtoun. I am armed, fool ! 
 
 Tebsham. Yes, 
 
 Or no? You'll come into the light, 
 
 or no? 
 My hand is on your throat -=- refuse ! — ■ 
 Mebtoun. That voice ! 
 
 Where have I heard ... no — that 
 
 was mild and slow. 
 I'll come with you. [They advance] 
 
 Tkesham. You're armed: that's 
 
 well. Declare 
 Your name : who are you ? 
 Mebtoun. (Tresham ! — she is lost !) 
 Tbbsham. Oh, silent? Do you 
 
 know, you bear yourself 
 Exactly as, in curious dreams I've had 
 How felons, this wild earth is fuU of, 
 
 look 
 When they're detected, still your kind 
 
 has looked ! 
 The bravo holds an assured countenance, 
 The thief is voluble and plausible, 
 But silently the slave of lust has crouched 
 When I have fancied it before a man. 
 Your name ! 
 Mebtoun. I do conjure Lord Tre- 
 sham — ay. 
 Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail — 
 That he for his own sake forbear to 
 
 ask 
 My name ! As heaven's above, his 
 
 future weal 
 Or woe depends upon my silence 1 
 
 Vain! 
 I read your white inexorable face. 
 Know me. Lord Tresham ! 
 
 [He throws off his disguises] 
 Teesham. Mertoun ! 
 
 [After a pause] Draw now ! 
 Mebtoun. Hear me 
 
 But speak first I 
 
 Teesham. Not one least word on 
 
 your life! 
 Be sure that I will strangle in your 
 
 throat 
 The least word that informs me how 
 
 you live 
 And yet seem what you seem ! No 
 
 doubt 'twas you 
 Taught Mildred still to keep that face 
 
 and sin. 
 We should join hands in frantic sym- 
 pathy 
 If you once taught me the unteaehable. 
 Explained how you can live so, and so 
 
 lie. 
 With God's help I retain, despite my 
 
 sense, 
 The old belief — a life like yours is still 
 Impossible. Now draw ! 
 
 Mebtoun. Not for my sake, 
 
 Do I.entreat a hearing — for your sake. 
 And most, for her sake ! 
 
 Teesham. Ha ha, what should I 
 
 Know of your ways ? A miscreant like 
 
 yourself, 
 How must one rouse his ire ? A blow ? 
 
 — that's pride 
 No doubt, to him ! One spurns him, 
 
 does one not ? 
 
212 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spits 
 Into his face ! Come ! Which, or all of 
 these ? 
 Mebtoun. 'Twixt him and me and 
 Mildred, Heaven be judge ! 
 Can I avoid this? Have your wiU, 
 my lord ! 
 
 [He draws and, after a few passes, 
 falls] 
 Teesham. You are not hurt? 
 Mebtottn. You'U hear me now ! 
 Tbesham. But rise ! 
 
 Mektotjn. Ah, Tresham, say I not 
 ' ' you'll hear me now ! " 
 And what procures a man the right to 
 
 In his defence before his fellow man, 
 But — I suppose — the thought that 
 
 presently 
 He may have leave to speak before his 
 
 God 
 His whole defence? 
 
 Tresham. Not hurt? It cannot be! 
 You made no effort to resist me. Where 
 Did my sword reach you? Why not 
 
 have returned 
 My thrusts? Hurt where? 
 
 Mertotjn. My lord — ■ 
 
 Tresham. How young he is ! 
 
 Mertoun. Lord Tresham, I am 
 
 very young, and yet 
 I have entangled other Uves with mine. 
 Do let me speak, and do beheve my 
 
 speech ! 
 That when I die before you presently, — 
 Tresham. Can you stay here till I 
 
 return with help ? 
 Mertotjn. Oh, stay by me ! When 
 
 I was less than boy 
 I did you grievous wrong and knew it 
 
 not — 
 Upon my honour, knew it not! Once 
 
 known, 
 I could not find what seemed a better 
 
 way 
 To right you than I took : my life — 
 
 you feel 
 How less than nothing were the giving 
 
 you 
 The life you've taken ! But I thought 
 
 my way 
 The better — only for your sake and 
 
 hers : 
 And as you have decided otherwise, 
 Would I had an infinity of lives 
 To offer you ! Now say — instruct me 
 
 — think ! 
 Can you, from the brief minutes I have 
 
 left. 
 Eke out my reparation ? Oh think — 
 
 think! 
 
 For I must wring a partial — dare I say, 
 Forgiveness from you, ere I die? 
 
 Tresham. I do 
 
 Forgive you. 
 Mertoun. Wait and ponder that 
 
 great word ! 
 Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope 
 To speak to you of — Mildred ! 
 
 Teesham. Mertoun, haste 
 
 And anger have undone us. 'Tis not 
 
 you 
 Should tell me for a novelty you're 
 
 young. 
 Thoughtless, unable to recall the past. 
 Be but your pardon ample as my own ! 
 Mertotjn. Ah, Tresham, that a 
 
 sword-stroke and a drop 
 Of blood or two, shoTild bring aU this 
 
 about ! 
 Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my 
 
 love 
 Of you — (what passion hke a boy's 
 
 for one 
 Like you?) — that ruined me! I 
 
 dreamed of you — 
 You, aU acoomphshed, courted every- 
 where. 
 The scholar and the gentleman. I 
 
 burned 
 To knit myself to you : but I was 
 
 young. 
 And your surpassing reputation kept me 
 So far aloof ! Oh, wherefore all that 
 
 love? 
 With less of love, my glorious yesterday 
 Of praise and gentlest words and kindest 
 
 looks, 
 I^ad taken place perchance six months 
 
 ago. 
 Even now, how happy we had been! 
 
 And yet 
 I know the thought of this escaped you, 
 
 Tresham ! 
 Let me look up into your face ; I feel 
 'Tis changed above me : yet my eyes 
 
 are glazed. 
 Where? where? 
 
 [As he endeavours to raise him- 
 self, his eye catches the lamp] 
 Ah, Mildred ! What wiU Mildred do? 
 Tresham, her life is bound up in the 
 
 Ufe 
 That's bleeding fast away ! I'll live — '■ 
 
 must Uve, — 
 There, if you'll only turn me I shall Uve 
 And save her ! Tresham — oh, had you 
 
 but heard ! 
 Had you but heard ! What right was 
 
 yours to set 
 The thoughtless foot upon her Ufe and 
 
 mine, 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 213 
 
 And then say, as we perish, "Had I 
 
 thought, 
 "All had gone otherwise"? We've 
 
 sinned and die : 
 Never you sin. Lord Tresham! for 
 
 you'll die. 
 And God will judge you. 
 
 Teesham. Yes, be satisfied ! 
 
 That process is begun. 
 
 Mertoun. And she sits there 
 
 Waiting for me ! Now, say you this to 
 
 her — 
 You, not another — say, I saw him die 
 As he breathed this, "I love her" ^ — 
 
 you don't know 
 What those three small words mean! 
 
 Say, loving Tier 
 Lowers me down the bloody slope to 
 
 death 
 With memories ... I speak to her, 
 
 not you. 
 Who had no pity, will have no remorse. 
 Perchance intend her . . . Die along 
 
 with ine. 
 Dear Mildred ! 'tis so easy, and you'll 
 
 So much unkindness ! Can I lie at rest. 
 With rude speech spoken to you, ruder 
 
 deeds 
 Done to you ? — heartless men shall 
 
 have my heart. 
 And I tied down with grave-olothes and 
 
 the worm. 
 Aware, perhaps, of every blow — oh 
 
 God! — 
 Upon those lips — yet of no power to 
 
 tear 
 The felon stripe by stripe ! Die, Mil- 
 dred ! Leave 
 Their honourable world to them! For 
 
 God 
 We're good enough, though the world 
 
 casts us out. [A whistle is heard] 
 Teesham. Ho, Gerard! 
 
 [Enter Gebahd, Austin and Guendo- 
 LEN, with lights] 
 
 No one speak ! You see what's done. 
 I cannot bear another voice. 
 
 MEHTOtJN. There's light — 
 
 Light all about me, and I move to it, 
 Tresham, did I not tell you — did you 
 
 not 
 Just promise to deliver words of mine 
 To Mildred? 
 Teesham. I wiU bear those words 
 
 to her. 
 Meetoun. Now? 
 
 Teesham. Now. Lift you the body, 
 and leave me 
 The head. 
 
 [As they have half raised Mee- 
 toun, he turns suddenly] 
 Meetoun. I knew they turned me : 
 turn me not from her ! 
 There ! stay you ! there ! [Dies] 
 
 Guendolen [after a pause]. Austin, 
 remain you here 
 With Thorold until Gerard comes with 
 
 help : 
 Then lead him to his chamber. I must 
 
 go 
 To Mildred. 
 
 Tresham. Guendolen, I hear each 
 word 
 You utter. Did you hear him bid me 
 
 give 
 His message? Did you hear my 
 
 promise ? I, 
 And only I, see Mildred. 
 
 Guendolen. She will die. 
 
 Teesham. Oh no, she will not die! 
 I dare not hope 
 She'll die. What ground have you to 
 
 think she'll die ? 
 Why, Austin's with you ! 
 
 Austin. Had we but arrived 
 
 Before you fought ! 
 
 Tresham. There was no flght at aU. 
 He let me slaughter him — the boy ! 
 
 I'll trust 
 The body there to you and Gerard — 
 
 thus! 
 Now bear him on before me. 
 
 Austin. Whither bear him ? 
 
 Tresham. Oh, to my chamber ! 
 When we meet there next. 
 We shall be friends. 
 
 [They hear out the body of Mer- 
 toun] 
 
 Win she die, Guendolen? 
 Guendolen. Where are you taking 
 
 me? 
 Teesham. He feU just here. 
 Now answer me. Shall you in your 
 
 whole life 
 — You who have nought to do with 
 
 Mertoun's fate, 
 Now you have seen his breast upon 
 
 the turf, ' 
 
 Shall you e'er walk this way if you can 
 
 help? 
 When you and Austin wander arm-in- 
 arm 
 Through our ancestral grounds, will 
 
 not a shade 
 Be ever on the meadow and the waste — 
 Another kind of shade than when the 
 
 night 
 Shuts the woodside with all its whispers 
 
 up? 
 But will you ever so forget his breast 
 
214 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Ao carelessly to cross this bloody turf 
 
 Under the black yew avenue? That's 
 weU! 
 
 You turn your head : and I then ? — 
 GuBNDOLEN. What is done 
 
 Is done. My care is for the living. 
 Thorold, 
 
 Bear up against this burden : more re- 
 mains 
 
 To set the neck to ! 
 
 Tbbsham. Dear and ancient trees 
 
 My fathers planted, and I loved so well ! 
 
 What have I done that, like some fabled 
 crime 
 
 Of yore, lets loose a Fury leading thus 
 
 Her miserable dance amidst you aU ? 
 
 Oh, never more for me shall winds intone 
 
 With all your tops a vast antiphony, 
 
 Demanding and responding in God's 
 praise ! 
 
 Hers ye are now, not mine! Farewell 
 — farewell ! 
 
 Scene Second. — Mildred's chamber. 
 [Mildred alone] 
 
 He comes not ! I have heard of those 
 
 who seemed 
 Resourceless in prosperity, — you 
 
 thought 
 Sorrow might slay them when she listed ; 
 
 yet 
 Did they so gather up their diffused 
 
 strength 
 At her first menace, that they bade her 
 
 strike. 
 And stood and laughed her subtlest 
 
 skiU to scorn. 
 Oh, 'tis not so with me! The first 
 
 woe fell. 
 And the rest fall upon it, not on me : 
 Else should I bear that Henry comes 
 
 not? — fails 
 Just this first night out of so many 
 
 nights ? 
 Loving is done with. Were he sitting 
 
 now. 
 As so few hours since, on that> seat, 
 
 we'd love 
 No more — contrive no thousand happy 
 
 ways 
 To hide love from the loveless, any 
 
 more. 
 I think I might have urged some little 
 
 point 
 In my defence, to Thorold; he was 
 
 breathless 
 For the least hint of a defence : but no. 
 
 The first shame over, all that would 
 
 might fall. 
 No Henry ! Yet I merely sit and think 
 The morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must 
 
 have crept 
 Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost 
 Her lover — oh, I dare not look upon 
 Such woe! I crouch away from it' 
 
 'Tis she, 
 Mildred, will break her heart, not I! 
 
 The world 
 Forsakes me : oiUy Henry's left me — 
 
 left? 
 When I have lost him, for he does not 
 
 come. 
 And I sit stupidly ... Oh Heaven, 
 
 break up 
 This worse than anguish, this mad 
 
 apathy, 
 By any means or any messenger ! 
 Tresham [without]. Mildred! 
 
 Mildred. Come in ! Heaven hears 
 me! 
 
 [Enter Tresham] You? alone? 
 Oh, no more cursing ! 
 
 'Tresham. Mildred, I must sit. 
 
 There — you sit ! 
 
 Mildred. Say it, Thorold — do 
 
 not look 
 
 The curse ! deliver all you come to say I 
 
 What must become of me? Oh, speak 
 
 that thought 
 Which makes your brow and cheeks so 
 pale! 
 Tresham. My thought? 
 Mildred. All of it ! 
 Tresham. How we waded — years 
 ago — 
 After those water-lilies, till the plash, 
 I know not how, surprised us ; and you 
 
 dared 
 Neither advance nor turn back : so, we 
 
 stood 
 Laughing and crying until Gerard 
 
 came — 
 Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too, 
 For once more reaching the relinquished 
 
 prize! 
 How idle thoughts are, some men's, 
 
 dying men's ! 
 Mildred, — 
 Mildred. You eaU me kindlier by 
 my name 
 Than even yesterday : what is in that? 
 Tresham. It weighs so much upon 
 my mind that I 
 This morning took an office not my 
 
 own! 
 I might ... of course, I must be glad 
 
 or grieved. 
 Content or not, at every little thing 
 
A Blot in the 'Scutcheon 
 
 215 
 
 That touches you. I may with a 
 
 wrung heart 
 Even reprove you, Mildred ; I did more : 
 Will you forgive me ? 
 
 Mildred. Thorold? do you mock? 
 Or no . . . and yet you bid me . . . 
 say that word ! 
 Tebbham. Forgive me, Mildred ! — 
 
 are you silent. Sweet? 
 Mildred [starting wp]. Why does 
 not Henry Mertoun come to-night ? 
 Are you, too, silent ? 
 
 {Dashing his mantle aside, and 
 pointing to his scabbard, which 
 is empty] 
 
 Ah, this speaks for you ! 
 You've murdered Henry Mertoun! 
 
 Now proceed ! 
 What is it I must pardon? This and 
 
 all? 
 Well, I do pardon you — I think I do. 
 Thorold, how very wretched you must 
 be! 
 Teesham. He bade me tell you . . . 
 Mildred. What I do forbid 
 
 Your utterance of ! So much that you 
 
 may tell 
 And will not — how you murdered 
 
 him . . . but, no ! 
 You'll tell me that he loved me, never 
 
 more 
 Than bleeding out his life there : must 
 
 I say 
 "Indeed," to that? Enough! Ipardon 
 you. 
 Trbsham. You cannflt, Mildred ! for 
 the harsh words, yes : 
 Of this last deed Another's judge ; whose 
 
 doom 
 I wait in doubt, despondency and fear. 
 Mildred. Oh, true ! There's nought 
 for me to pardon ! True ! 
 You loose my soul of all its cares at once. 
 Death makes me sure of him forever! 
 
 You 
 Tell me his last words? He shall tell 
 
 me them, 
 And take my answer — not in words, 
 
 but reading 
 Himself the heart I had to read him 
 
 late. 
 Which death . . . 
 Teesham. Death? You are 
 
 dying too ? Well said 
 Of Guendolen! I dared not hope 
 
 you'd die : 
 But she was sure of it. 
 
 Mildred. Tell Guendolen 
 
 I loved her, and tell Austin . . . 
 
 Teesham. Him you loved : 
 
 And me? 
 
 Mildred. Ah, Thorold! Was 't 
 
 not rashly done 
 To quench that blood, on fire with 
 
 youth and hope 
 And love of me — whom you loved too, 
 
 and yet 
 Suffered to sit here waiting his approach 
 While you were slaying him? Oh, 
 
 doubtlessly 
 You let him speak his poor confused 
 
 boy's-speech 
 — Do his poor utmost to disarm your 
 
 wrath 
 And respite me ! — you let him try to 
 
 give 
 The story of our love and ignorance, 
 And the brief madness and the long 
 
 despair — 
 You let him plead all this, because your 
 
 code 
 Of honour bids you hear before you 
 
 strike : 
 But at the end, as he looked up for 
 
 Ufe 
 Into your eyes — you struck him down ! 
 Tresham. No ! No ! 
 
 Had I but heard him — had I let him 
 
 speak 
 Half the truth — less — had I looked 
 
 long on him 
 I had desisted ! Why, as he lay there, 
 The moon on his flushed cheek, I 
 
 gathered all 
 The story ere he told it : I saw through 
 The troubled surface of his crime and 
 
 yours 
 A depth of purity immovable. 
 Had I but glanced, where aU seemed 
 
 turbidest 
 Had gleamed some inlet to the calm 
 
 . beneath; 
 I would not glance: my punishment's 
 
 at hand. 
 There, Mildred, is the truth! and you 
 
 — say on — 
 You curse me? 
 
 Mildred. As I dare approach 
 
 that Heaven 
 Which has not bade a living thing 
 
 despair. 
 Which needs no code to keep its grace 
 
 from stain, 
 But bids the vilest worm that turns on it 
 Desist and be forgiven, — I — forgive 
 
 not. 
 But bless you, Thorold, from my soul 
 
 of souls ! [Falls on his neck] 
 
 There! Do not think too much upon 
 
 the past ! 
 The cloud that's broke was all the same 
 
 a cloud 
 
216 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Wldle it stood up between my friend 
 
 and you ; 
 You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but 
 
 is that 
 So past retrieve ? I have his heart, you 
 
 know; 
 I may dispose of it : I give it you ! 
 It loves you as mine loves ! Confirm 
 me, Henry ! [Dies] 
 
 Teesham. I wish thee joy, Beloved ! 
 I am glad 
 In thy full gladness ! 
 
 GuENDOLEN [without]. Mildred ! 
 
 Tresham ! 
 [Entering with Austin] Thorold, 
 I could desist no longer. Ah, she 
 
 swoons ! 
 That's weU. 
 
 Tbesham. Oh, better far than that ! 
 GuBNDOLBN. She's dead ! 
 
 Let me unlock her arms ! 
 
 Tresham. She threw them thus 
 
 About my neck, and blessed me, and 
 
 then died : 
 You'U let them stay now, Guendolen ! 
 
 Austin. Leave her 
 
 And look to him! What ails you, 
 Thorold? 
 Guendolen. White 
 As she, and whiter! Austin! quick — 
 this side ! 
 Austin. A froth is oozing through 
 his clenched teeth ; 
 Both Ups, where they're not bitten 
 
 through, are black : 
 Speak, dearest Thorold ! 
 
 Tresham. Something does weigh 
 down 
 My neck beside her weight : thanks : I 
 
 should fall 
 But for you, Austin, I believe ! — 
 
 there, there, 
 'Twill pass away soon ! — ah, — I had 
 
 forgotten : 
 I am dying. 
 
 Guendolen. Thorold — Thorold — 
 
 why was this ? 
 Tresham. I said, just as I drank 
 
 the poison off, 
 The earth would be no longer earth 
 
 to me. 
 The life out of all life was gone from me. 
 There are blind ways provided, the 
 
 foredone 
 Heart-weary player in this pageant- 
 world 
 Drops out by, letting the main masque 
 
 defile 
 By the conspicuous portal: I am 
 
 through — 
 Just through ! 
 
 Guendolen. Don't leave him, Aus- 
 tin ! Death is close. 
 Tbesham. Already Mildred's face is 
 
 peacefuUer. 
 I see you, Austin — feel you : here's 
 
 my hand, 
 Put yours in it — ^you, Guendolen, 
 
 yours too ! 
 You're lord and lady now — you're 
 
 Treshams ; name 
 And fame are yours : you hold our 
 
 'scutcheon up. 
 Austin, no blot on it! You see how 
 
 blood 
 Must wash one blot away : the first blot 
 
 came 
 And the first blood came. To the vain 
 
 world's eye 
 All's gules again: no care to the vain 
 
 world. 
 Prom whence the red was drawn ! 
 Austin. No blot shall come ! 
 
 Tresham. I said that : yet it did 
 
 come. Should it come. 
 Vengeance is God's, not man's. Re- 
 member me ! [Dies] 
 Guendolen [letting fall the pulseless 
 
 arm]. Ah, Thorold, we can but — 
 
 remember you ! 
 
THE TICKET-OF-LEAVE MAN 
 
 {1863) 
 By Tom Taylor 
 
TOM TAYLOR 
 (1817-1880) 
 
 Tom Tatlob represents all the glaring defects of the dramatists of the Victorian 
 era. He is the tjrpe of English playwright who readily acceded to the line of least 
 resistance and who, taking the public taste of his time as criterion, lowered his abil- 
 ities in order to meet the popular demand. 
 
 In 1869, he wrote for Every Saturday an article on "Some Thoughts on the 
 Bnghsh Stage" ; and in this article, which criticised the defects and weaknesses of 
 the current theatre, he unconsciously illustrated exactly why his own dramas were 
 replete with those flimsy characteristics he criticised in others. Even in that 
 period they talked of the "pahny days" of acting, and deplored what they thought 
 was the decline of the traditions of Garrick, Kean, and Kemble, and what they 
 suspected were the waning powers of Macready. There were those conservatives 
 who regarded, with tremendous scepticism, the freeing of the theatres. Un- 
 doubtedly, the English stage of the 40's and 50's was dominated by a wildcat 
 competition, where comedy — bordering on farce — and deep-dyed melodrama 
 flourished, and improbable romance was held above subtlety of characterization. 
 As Taylor wrote : 
 
 So long as the patent theatres survived, there was a home in them for artifi- 
 cial comedy as for formal tragedy, and a body of actors trained to represent both 
 with more or less finish and completeness. But the same influences, call them 
 popular or democratic if you will, which were gradually modifsdng manners, 
 pohtical opinions and literature, were at work in the theatre, both to sap 
 theatrical privilege and to new-mould theatrical amusements. The patents 
 were broken down ; all theatres were opened to all kinds of entertainments ; 
 actors became scattered ; and whatever of artificial or stately in stage art had 
 been maintained by the barriers of privilege, or the influences of tradition, began 
 to melt away, and make room for ways of acting and forms of entertainment 
 bearing a more popular impress. 
 
 Such condition turned more minds than that of Tom Taylor on the excellencies 
 of the French stage of this time, in comparison with the dramatic performances 
 then holding in London. He wrote of French audiences, and their ability to judge 
 competently the merits of a drama, in the same terms that American critics — 
 during the height of the regime of the Theatrical Trust — talked of American per- 
 formances and audiences in comparison with audiences and performances in London. 
 This devotion to the French drama was the undoing of Tom Taylor, as it was of 
 many of his contemporaries. For some time, the English theatre was the French 
 theatre reduced to the lowest terms of translation. 
 
 Tom Taylor was born at Bishop-Wearmouth, a suburb of Sunderland, on 
 October 19, 1817. His father was self-educated, and rose to financial prominence 
 
 219 
 
220 Representative British Dramas 
 
 through his brewery business. It was probably from his mother that young Tom 
 inherited much of his sharpness of wit and his intellectual ability. He was educated 
 at the Grange, in Sunderland, and at the University of Glasgow. In 1837, he 
 entered Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1840, he took a Bachelor of Arts degree, 
 with honours in mathematics and the classics, followed, in 1842, by a Fellowship 
 at Trinity, with an eventual Master's degree. For two years thereafter he was a 
 coach at Cambridge, and, in 1845, became Professor of English in London Uni- 
 versity, studying law meanwhile at the Inner Temple. He was called to the bar in 
 1846, following the Northern Circuit, and, in 1850, was Assistant Secretary to the 
 Board of Health, becoming a full secretary in 1854, with an income of a thousand 
 pounds a year. He remained in public position until 1871, when he retired on a 
 pension of six hundred and fifty pounds. 
 
 From the very first he was a journalist, writing for such papers as The Morning 
 Chronicle and the Daily News. At an early date, he became one of the contributors 
 to Punch. His criticisms on art and the theatre won him considerable reputation. 
 Yet what he earned as a literary man and as pubhc official was nothing in compari- 
 son with the income that came to him through the rapid writing of dramas. His 
 life was one of active service in the theatre, — as active as that of Robertson. There 
 are those who claim that both as an editor of Punch — for he succeeded Shirley 
 Brooks in 1874, and held the office until his death — and as writer of leaders and 
 books, his scholarly attainment was continually handicapping Ms lighter genius as 
 a wit. The chronicler who has written the delightful record, "The History of 
 Punch", claims that when Tom Taylor became its editor, his taste was too classic 
 and his fun too scholarly, too well-ordered, too set and ponderous for the post. 
 He likewise states that, under the editorship of Douglas Jerrold, Punch was demo- 
 cratic, but that under the guiding hand of Tom Taylor, it became decidedly radical, 
 anti-Beaconsfield, and anti-Imperial. 
 
 However sedate Taylor may have been, he was a great comrade of the men 
 identified with the wit of the Victorian era. His love for the theatre took shape 
 in early years ; for he played in amateur theatricals, the presiding genius for which 
 was Charles Dickens, assisted by the artists, John Leech and Cruikshank. 
 
 As a playwright, Tom Taylor's record is seventy or more dramas, written in less 
 than thirty-five years. He attempted every form of amusement, leaning heavily 
 upon adaptation, and resorting, wherever advisable, to collaboration. His "Masks 
 and Faces", written in conjunction with Charles Reade, was produced at the Hay- 
 market, on November 20, 1852. His "Our American Cousin" was given at Laura 
 Keene's Theatre, in New York, in 1858, and was the play in which E. A. Sothem 
 won fame as Lord Dundreary. 
 
 It was not the highest type of literary work, the collaboration conducted by 
 Reade and Taylor. We have the former's own testimony : 
 
 While Taylor was away at his office [he said], I wrote, and when he came 
 back at night, he cut. Then he wrote a bit and I cut. It was snip, snap, sUsh, 
 slash. We were both pugnacious. Taylor had the face and the pluck of a 
 pugilist, and I fear I am built that way myself, so we rowed and rowed, fell out, 
 and then fell in again. 
 
 The actors and the management were beset as to which side to take, and they 
 fluctuated like the needle of a compass, until the manuscript of "Masks and Faces" 
 
Tom Taylor 221 
 
 was made ready. But, in after years, the inevitable dispute arose as to the propor- 
 tionate share of each author in the making of this stage success. Mr. Arnold 
 Taylor came to his brother's rescue in the following terms : 
 
 Reade was our guest at Chiswiok Lodge, and the method of writing the 
 play was this, that during the day (my brother being in town at his ofQce), 
 Reade wrote long passages, which were as ruthlessly cut to pieces, or rejected, 
 at night by my brother, when they sat down to put together and complete 
 their work. And morning after morning, as I well remember, when we were at 
 breakfast, Reade used, half in sorrow, half in fun, to say to my mother, 
 "There, Mrs. Taylor, my gentleman has been at his old game. He has cut 
 out every hne of that dialogue, and all those sentiments you so much admired 
 when I read them to you yesterday afternoon." 
 
 Reade's subtle revenge took place when the time came for him to write the novel 
 from the play ; for he put into the narrative nearly everything which had been sac- 
 rificed during collaboration. Yet even then, he stood indebted to Taylor, as the 
 dedication to the book will show : " To Tom Taylor, my friend and coadjutor in the ' 
 comedy of 'Masks and Faces', to whom the reader owes much of the best matter 
 of this tale." 
 
 • Those who wish to carry further the association between these two will find 
 much small gossip in John Coleman's "Charles Reade as I Knew Him." For 
 "Masks and Faces" was not the only collaborative work done by Reade and 
 Taylor, nor was this play the only successful attempt made by Reade for the stage. 
 
 The reader is likewise referred to E. A. Sothern's "Memoirs" for a history of the 
 evolution of "Our American Cousin." 
 
 When all is told, Taylor's pride was showered not so much upon his comedies as 
 upon what he termed his "Historical Plays", which were issued in a special edition, 
 in 1877, and which included "The Fool's Revenge", taken from Victor Hugo's 
 "Le Roi s' Amuse" (December 19, 1869), "'Twixt Axe and Crown", culled from 
 the German (May 22, 1870), "Joan of Arc" (April 10, 1871), "Lady Clancarty" 
 (March 9, 1874), and "Anne Boleyn" (March, 1875). In the preface to this edition 
 he wrote : 
 
 I have no wish to screen myself from Uterary criticism behind the plea that 
 my plays were meant to be acted. It seems to me that every drama sub- 
 mitted to the judgment of audiences should be prepared to encounter that of 
 readers. I have in all cases acknowledged in notes attached to the plays the 
 sources to which I have been indebted for the suggestions of my subjects. . . . 
 
 Taylor was continually being accused of plagiarism. These accusations he 
 denied many times over, lajdng claim to the legitimate use he made of other people's 
 work. In the instance of "The Fool's Revenge", which was taken from Hugo, 
 he avers that he was pushed into writing a play founded upon the Ubretto of the 
 opera, "Rigoletto", and that, when he turned to Hugo, he found in "Le Roi 
 s'Amuse" which was 
 
 wanting in dramatic motive and cohesion ... so much that was defective 
 in that central secret of stage effect, climax — that I determined to take the 
 situation of the jester and his daughter, and to recast in my own way the inci- 
 dents in which their story was invested. 
 
222 Representative British Dramas 
 
 It -was about this time, — to be exact, 1871, — that a controversy arose between 
 Taylor and the critic, "Q" (Thomas PurneU), during which the latter accused Taylor 
 of leaning heavily on French drama, and of scarcely ever having produced an 
 original play. Many letters passed between them in the public prints, and from 
 them a quotation by Taylor is worth while, as illustrating his point of view respect- 
 ing his sources. He wrote to the editor of the Alhenmum : 
 
 Your critic describes me as "the great foster-father of the Gallic drama!" 
 adding, that most of my plays "owe something to somebody other than my- 
 self." I think there are few plays, or books either, of which this might not be 
 said. But as to the specific charge, which forms the staple of the article, that 
 I am a signal offender deserving a special scourging, in the way of borrowing from 
 the French, I wish to inform him, and any of your readers who may be curious in 
 . the matter, that out of the hundred plays, more or less, which I have given to 
 the stage, not more than ten are derived from French sources of any Mnd, 
 and that of these ten not more than half are adaptations of French dramas — 
 the others being founded on French stories or incidents mentioned in French 
 history or memoirs. I leave it to the judgment of any of your readers who 
 may be conversant with the history of our stage, present or past, if this pro- 
 portion of original to second-hand works supports the charge, which it seems the 
 whole object of the article to fix upon me, of special sin in "conveying" from the 
 French and entire lack of originality. 
 
 Again, with regard to that very portion of the play which has a foreign 
 ground-work, and in answer to most of the arguments of the article, I take the 
 liberty of reproducing here a passage from the Preface to "The Ticket-of-Leave 
 Man." 
 
 There followed an ample quotation from the Introductory, printed elsewhere. 
 In this way did Tom Taylor defend himself from the accusation that, as a 
 playwright, he simply repeated the situations and characterizations invented by 
 others. But his method was dangerous, and in many cases led him into squander- 
 ing good ideas for lack of inventiveness, and encouraged in him a tendency to 
 follow the lines of least resistance. 
 
 Among his friends may be counted George Meredith, whom he often visited at 
 Weybridge, meeting there the painters, MiUais and Watts. Later he visited 
 Meredith at Box Hill. The novelist was an enthusiastic associate of the prolific 
 dramatist, probably admiring him more for his biography of Benjamin Haydon and 
 for the work he did on Leslie's "Autobiographical Recollections" and "Life of Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds", than for the clap-trap creation done by him for the theatre. 
 Yet Taylor never failed to discuss with Meredith any new theatrical ideas stirring 
 in his mind. For example, he wrote of his plan for "Lady Clancarty ; or. Wedded 
 and Wooed", receiving from Meredith encouragement and warning — a warning 
 which was a great novelist's indirect criticism of the entire Victorian school of drama. 
 Meredith always expected the stage to look deep into the wells of human nature. 
 
 Box Hill, Dorking, November 18, 1871. 
 
 My dear Tom, — How I envy you the new subject you have chosen. It 
 
 has been ringing through me all the morning. I feel like a man who has been 
 
 introduced to the beautiful woman of a friend, and found her incomparable, 
 
Tom Taylor 223 
 
 made for him himself, and all he can do is to cry out in honesty — take warning 
 if you don't espouse her within a fortnight, and further, if even then you don't 
 do justice to her, positive and spiritual, I feel myself released from the obliga- 
 tion to respect your claims, I will challenge your reputation, and I will beat 
 her forthwith, in contempt of you. 
 
 Why not first write the story, and then dramatize it ? It would make as 
 lovely a story as striking a drama. For the latter it has every splendid and 
 noble quality. Oh ! you happy fellow. But be worthy of your luck. Let 
 nothing delay you, — I repeat my first warning. 
 
 What I just fear is, that you will make the brother a villain. Give him some 
 higher ground of action, drop villainy. There is here a chance of lending the 
 theme a touch of old tragedy of the classic idea. For this purpose of course 
 you must heighten the hero's character, and have him to be more than a simple 
 captain of horse. Jaoobitism could hardly inspire him : the sense of fealty 
 might, and it might give occasion to put stress on the ancient notion of loyal 
 sentiment to a race in a young man's heart — inherited. The brother then, 
 standing for law, order, and the like, might think the State had reason to dread 
 this youth. The sister would take the woman's view. Then you have the 
 three in a perfect triangle, fit for your best powers, — or mine. 
 
 The above only to throw you a modest hint from your hasty outline. — Ever 
 
 lovingly yours, 
 
 George Meredith. 
 
 But the dramatists of Taylor's ilk had very little high-ground for action in 
 their plays ; they were believers in nothing so deeply based as Meredith's proposal. 
 Law, order, consistency were farthest from their minds. 
 
 "The Tioket-of-Leave Man", selected for inclusion in the present collection, 
 was played at the London Olympic Theatre, May 27, 1863, and the following year 
 at the Winter Garden, in New York. 
 
 It is said that for the manuscript of this play, which held the English stage so 
 many years, and reaped a fortune for the many concerned in its success, Taylor re- 
 ceived the munificent sum of one hundred and fifty pounds, out of which he had 
 to pay a literary hack for the rough translation from the French original of Brise- 
 barre and Nuz. The play stands as one of the typical melodramas of the Victorian 
 era, and if it is taken in contrast with Galsworthy's "Justice", we can judge how 
 far technique and purpose and, inventiveness have advanced, and how unreal are 
 the violent psychologies of crime drama, as conceived from the French, when placed 
 by the side of studied realism, centred on a situation deep-grounded in social respon- 
 sibility. To this day, Detective Hawkshaw retains the vitality Which would thrill 
 any district telegraph boy. But Sherlock Holmes goes him one better in subtlety 
 and consistency. In measuring Taylor's play, however, one must recoUect that to 
 the Victorian audiences its sham sentiments were taken seriously. There are in 
 it every now and then attempts at realism. Yet Taylor slipped from drama to 
 melodrama in the progress of a scene as readily as he passed from you to thou in a line 
 of dialogue. The narrative quality of the play is better than its theatricalism, 
 and its varied characterization is not so bad. 
 
 To the present generation Tom Taylor, who died on July 12, 1880, is probably 
 best known for his poetic lines on the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, published 
 in Punch, on May 6, 1865, and beginning " You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's 
 
224 Representative British Dramas 
 
 bier." But to his own contemporaries lie was an acknowledged genius, with a 
 variety of claims on the respect and admiration of his co-workers. Archer says 
 that from the commendable qualities of Tom Robertson and Tom Taylor one good 
 dramatist could have been made. As " Q " claimed, all of Taylor's dramas possessed 
 personaUty and individual marks of distinction. But they were written with 
 studied attention to the wants of the audience of the time. 
 
THE TICKET-OF-LEAVE MAN 
 A DRAMA, IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 By TOM TAYLOR, Esq. 
 
INTRODUCTORY 
 
 I HAVE to thank Mr. Emden for his aid and superintendence as manager, and 
 all the actors concerned in this drama for the large part of the success of the piece 
 which is due to the excellent acting of every one engaged in it. I owe extra thanks 
 to Mr. Horace Wigan for his intelligent labours as stage-manager. 
 
 Mr. Neville gives great force to the part of Brierly by his unstaginess, the general 
 truth as well as force of his impersonation, and, in particular, by the excellence of 
 his north-country dialect, which is essential to the proper representation of the part. 
 
 Actors of this character should bear in mind that any staginess or stiltedness will 
 be fatal to its eflect. 
 
 As much has been said apropos of this drama, on the subject of originahty in 
 play writing, I wish to submit here a few remarks on this matter. As regards the 
 present play, all credit for the invention of the story belongs to MM. Brisebarre and 
 Nuz, the authors both of " Les Drames de la Vie ", and of the drama of " Leonard ", 
 founded, as well as " The Ticket-of-Leave Man ", on " Le RStour de Melun ", one of 
 the drames in question. But here my obligation to the French authors ends. The 
 dialogue is my own. I have made the personages in the play, its sentiments, and 
 its action English, and I claim, on this ground, some, at least, of the rights of a 
 creator. I have always conceived that the dramatist is at hberty to take his story 
 where he pleases, whether from life, from history, or from fiction. Scarcely any 
 subject treated, in the drama or in romance, but has roots in something besides 
 the author's personal invention or observation. In this free appropriation of his 
 subject-matter, if in nothing else, the puniest playwright, who adapts a novel 
 or a predecessor's piece, may claim fellowship with Shakespeare. No one borrowed 
 his subjects so freely and widely as the great master of all dramatists ; he did not 
 scruple to lay under contribution even the plays of earlier English writers, re- 
 casting them, and giving the breath of his own life to their dead bones. I admit, 
 at the same time, that it is perfectly fair that the sources from which an author 
 derives his subject should be stated ; and it is fair, also, that a dramatist who in- 
 vents his own story, as well as the dramatic dress of it, should receive the additional 
 credit which his inventive faculty deserves. 
 
 I have invented many of my subjects ; I have borrowed several ; in my printed 
 plays, I have invariably mentioned the source to which I am indebted for my story. 
 Of my longer comedies and dramas, "Victims", "The Unequal Match", "The Con- 
 tested Election", "The Overland Route", "Payable on Demand", "Helping 
 Hands", "The Babes in the Wood", and "The American Cousin " are strictly of 
 my own invention — subjects as well as treatment. In the case of other pieces, hke 
 "Plot andPassion", "Masks and Faces", " The King's Rival ", "Two Lovesanda 
 Life", I have worked in partnership, but may claim; at least, half the honours of 
 invention, as well as dramatic treatment. In others, as "Still Waters Run Deep", 
 "JRetribution ", "The House and the Home", and "The Fool's Revenge", Ihave 
 
 J226 
 
Introductory 227 
 
 worked on themes supplied by the plays or novels of others. But wherever I have 
 done this, I maintain that comparison of my work with that on which it is founded 
 will show that I have nowhere confined myself to the functions of a mere reproducer 
 of other men's thoughts in another language, but that I have thought for myself, 
 and engrafted dramatic shoots of my own growing upon the stocks which I have 
 transplanted. 
 
 Lastly, I may express my belief, however startling the avowal may be thought, 
 that there has been no period, for the last two centuries, in which invention and ac- 
 tivity have been more conspicuous in the dramatic field than during the thirty or 
 forty years which include the epoch of such dramatists as- Miss Mitford, Sheridan 
 Knowles, Bulwer-Lytton, James White, Jerrold, Browning, G. Darley, Searle, 
 Marston, Home, Lovell, Troughton, Bell, Mrs. Gore, Sullivan, Peake, Poole, 
 Hook, Planchg, Charles and George Dance, the Mortons, Mark Lemon, Buokstone, 
 Selby, Fitzball (who, whatever may be the literary quality of his plays, has given 
 evidence of genuine romantic invention), Bernard, Coyne, Oxenford, Shirley 
 Brooks, Watts, PhiUips, and those pecuhar products of our own time, the burlesque 
 writers, hke the Brothers Brough, and Messrs. Byron and Burnand. 
 
 T. Taylor. 
 Lavender Sweep, 
 
 Wandsworth, June, 1863. 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Olympic Theatre, Winter Garden, 
 
 London, 1863 New York, 1864 
 
 Robert Bhibblt . a Lancashire Lad Mr. H. Neville Mr. W. J. Florence 
 James Dalton . . alias Downey, 
 
 alias The Tiger Mr. Atkins Mr. A. H. Davenport 
 
 Hawkshaw . . . u Detective . . Mr. Horace Wigan Mr. Hagan 
 
 Melter Moss Mr. G. Vincent Mr. Bland 
 
 Green Jones Mr. R. Soutar Mr. V. Bowers 
 
 Mb. Gibson . . . o Bill Broker . Mr. Maclean Mr. Hind 
 
 Sam Willoughbt Miss Raynham Mrs. Floyd 
 
 Maltby Mr. H. Cooper Mr. T. Morris 
 
 Burton Mr. Franks Mr. Smith 
 
 May Edwards Miss Kate Saville Mrs. Chanfrau 
 
 Emily St. Evbemond Miss Hughes Mrs. W. J. Florence 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby Mrs. Stephens Mrs. Hind 
 
 Guests, Navvies, &c. 
 
 Time — The Present Day — An interval of three years and a half between the First 
 and Second Acts, and intervals of six and four months between the Second and Third, 
 and Third and Last Acts, respectively. 
 
THE TICKET-OF-LEAYE MAN 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — The Bellevue Tea Gardens, in 
 the south-west Suburbs of London. 
 Summer evening. Front of the 
 Tavern with ornamental verandah; 
 arbours along the stage, with tables 
 and seats; trees, shrubs, statues, etc. 
 at the back, with ornamental or- 
 chestra and concert room. 
 
 [Parties, male and female, seated at the 
 different tables; Waiters serving 
 refreshments. Music heard off. As 
 the curtain rises the parties are 
 heard giving their orders; Maltby 
 moving about with an eye to the 
 Guests, Waiters, etc.; two De- 
 tectives at table.] 
 
 1st Party. Three hots with — — 
 
 Waiter [serving another table]. 
 Yes, sir. — Brandy and soda for you, 
 sir. 
 
 2d Party. Tea for four — shrimps 
 and a muffin. 
 
 Waiter. Coming! [Serving another 
 party] Pot of half-and-half for you, sir. 
 [At Detective's table] Two Sherry 
 negus, two shillings. [Takes money] 
 
 Maltby [moving about]. Now, 
 James, three teas and a muf&n in 5. — 
 Jackson, money in 6. [To a Guest] 
 Uncommon thirsty weather, sir, un- 
 common. [To another party] If I 
 might recommend a cobbler for the 
 lady, sir, delicious refreshment for 
 July. Now, James, look after them 
 brandies in '3. [Moves off] 
 
 [Enter Hawkshaw; he strolls carelessly 
 to the Detectives' table, then in 
 an undertone and without looking 
 at them] 
 
 Hawkshaw. Report. 
 
 1st Detective. [In same tone and 
 without looking at Hawkshaw] All 
 right. 
 
 Hawkshaw. [Same tone] Here's old 
 Moss. Keep an eye on him. 
 
 [Strolls off] 
 
 [Enter Moss, — sits at table] 
 
 Moss. [To <^e Waiter] Good even- 
 ing, James. Four penn'orth of brandy, 
 if you please, James. [Sits in chair] And 
 a little peppermint. [Coughs and looks 
 around] "Tiger not here yet. 
 
 [Bell rings] 
 
 Maltby. The concert bell, ladies 
 and gentlemen — in the Rotunda. 
 [Pointing to the concert room] The first 
 talent — selections from the best 
 classical music, and original nigger 
 melodies. This way. 
 
 [Exit Maltby, towards concert room. — 
 Most of the parties move off, leaving 
 Detectives, and a Guest here 
 and there] 
 
 [Enter Dalton] 
 
 Moss [stirring and sipping his 
 brandy and peppermint]. Warm and 
 comfortable. "Tiger ought to be here 
 before this. [As he stirs, his eye falls 
 on the spoon; he takes it up, weighs it 
 in his fingers] Uncommon neat article 
 
 — might take in a good many people 
 
 — plated, though, plated. 
 
 [While Moss is looking at the 
 spoon, Dalton takes his seat 
 at Moss's table, unobserved by 
 him] 
 
 Dalton. Not worth flimping, eh? 
 
 Moss [starting, but not recognizing 
 him]. Eh, did you speak to me, sir? 
 
 Dalton. What? don't twig me? 
 Then it is a good get up. [He lifts his 
 hat, and gives him a peculiar look] Eh, 
 Melter? 
 
 Moss [recognizing him]. What, 
 Tiger ! 
 
 Dalton. Stow that. There's no 
 tigers here. My name's Downy; you 
 mind that. John Downy, from Rother- 
 ham, jobber and general dealer. 
 
 Maltby [coming down to Dalton]. 
 Now, sir, what can I have the pleasure 
 of ordering you, sir ? 
 
 229 
 
230 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Dalton. My good friend, Mr. Moss 
 here, insists on standing a bottle of 
 sherry. 
 
 Moss. [In alarm] No, no ! 
 
 Dalton. What, you will make it 
 champagne? very well, I'm not proud. 
 [To Maltby] I like it dry, mind, and 
 none of your home-brewed; I buy my 
 rhubarb-juice at the greengrocer's. 
 
 [Exit Maltby] 
 
 Moss. Come, Ti — [Dalton gives 
 him a look, which stops him] A joke's 
 a joke. But a bottle of real champagne 
 at ten and six -r- 
 
 D ALTON. That's serious, eh? WeU, 
 I've taken a serious turn ; always do 
 when it's low tide here. 
 
 [Pointing to his pocket] 
 
 Moss. Down on your luck, eh? 
 
 Dalton [shrugs his shoulder]. The 
 Crushers are getting to know too much ; 
 then there's the Nailer's been after me. 
 
 Moss. What, Hawkshaw, the 'cutest 
 detective in the force? 
 
 Dalton. He's taken his oath on the 
 Bow Street Offi.ce testament to be 
 square with me for that Peckham 
 job — [Hesitates] 
 
 Moss. Ah ! 
 
 Dalton. When I spoiled his mate. 
 [Shrugs his shoulders] 
 
 Moss [shaking his head]. Ah, I 
 always said that life preserver of yours 
 would be doing somebody a mischief. 
 
 [Re-enter Maltby, mth champagne and 
 glasses] 
 
 Dalton. Hush, here's the tipple. 
 
 Maltby [at back of table, uncork- 
 ing and pouring out]. And though I say 
 it, there ain't a better bottle opened at 
 Buckingham Palace. Ten an' six, Mr. 
 Moss — there's a colour — there's a 
 bouquet ! 
 
 Moss [grumbling as he pays]. 
 There ought to be at the price. 
 
 Maltbt [going up]. Now, Jack- 
 son, take orders in the Rotunda. 
 
 [Exit Maltby] 
 
 Dalton [drinking]. Ah, tidy 
 swizzle ! 
 
 Moss. And so you're keeping dark, 
 eh? 
 
 Dalton. Yes, pottering about on 
 the sneak, flimping or smashing a little 
 when I get the chance ; but the Nailer's 
 too hard on me. There's no picking 
 up a gentlemanly KveUhood. Hang 
 me, if I haven't often thought of turn- 
 ing respectable. 
 
 Moss. No, no; it ain't so bad as 
 
 that yet. [Looking around, and speak- 
 ing cautiously] Now, I have the beau- 
 tifullest lot of Bank of England flimsies 
 that ever came out of Birmingham. 
 It's the safest paper to work, and you 
 should have it cheap, dirt cheap, and 
 credit tiU you'd planted it. 
 
 Dalton. And how about the lag- 
 ging ! If I'm nailed it's a lifer. 
 
 Moss. Bless you, I wouldn't have 
 you chance it ; but in the high society 
 you keep, you could surely pick up a 
 flat to put off the paper. 
 
 Dalton. I've the very man. I 
 gave him an appointment here, for 
 this evening. 
 
 Moss. Did you, though? How pat 
 things come about ! Who is he ? 
 
 Dalton. A Lancashire lad; an 
 only son, he tells me. The old folks 
 spoiled Mm as long as they hved, left 
 Mm a few hundreds, and now he's got 
 the collar over Ms head, and is kicking 
 'em down, seeing life. [Laughs] And 
 life in London ain't to be seen, without 
 paying at the doors, eh, Melter? 
 
 Moss. Ha, ha, ha ! and you're sell- 
 ing Mm the bill of the play. 
 
 Dalton. I'm putting Mm up to a 
 tMng or two — cards, sMttles, biUiards, 
 sporting houses, sparring houses, night 
 houses, casinos — every short cut, to 
 the devil and the bottom of a flat's 
 purse. He's as green as a leek, and 
 as soft as new cheese, no vice, steady 
 to ride or drive, and runs in a snaffle. 
 
 [Rises] 
 
 Moss [rising]. Oh, beautiful, 
 beautiful! [Rubs his hands] It woixld 
 be a sin to drop such a beautiful imloh 
 cow! Suppose we pumped Mm in 
 partnersMp ? 
 
 Dalton. Thank you, I know your 
 partnersMp articles, — me aU the Mcks, 
 and you all the half-pence. But if I 
 can work Mm to plant a lot of these 
 flimsies of yours, I don't mind; re- 
 member, though, I won't go higher 
 than fifteen bob for a fiver. 
 
 Moss. What, only fifteen bob! and 
 such beauties, too, they'd take in the 
 Bank chairman — fifteen ! I'd better 
 chance it myself I Only fifteen — it's 
 robbery. 
 
 Dalton. Take it or leave it. 
 
 [Takes up the newspaper, and sits 
 at table] 
 
 Moss. I must take a turn, and think 
 it over. [Ooing, returns] I'U bring you 
 the flimsies. Come, you'll allow me a 
 pound ? 
 
The Ticketrof-Leave Man 
 
 231 
 
 Dalton. Bid me down again, and 
 I stand on ten shillings — now you 
 know. It's like it or lump it. 
 
 [He returns to his paper] 
 
 Moss [holding up his hands]. Oh, 
 deax ! oh, dear ! What it is to deal with 
 people that have no consciences ! 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Brieklt. [Heard off] A bottle of 
 champagne, lad, and half a dozen 
 Cabanas — and look sharp ! . 
 
 Dalton [looking up from paper]. 
 Here's my pigeon! 
 
 [Enter Beieblt ; he looks feverish and 
 dishevelled, and is dressed in an 
 ^ exaggerated sporting style. Dalton 
 lays the paper down.] 
 
 Ah, Bob ! up to time as usual ! 
 
 Bbierlt. Aye ! nobody shall say 
 Bob Brierly craned while he could keep 
 't going. [Waiter brings champagne 
 and cigars] Here — ■ you — a clean glass 
 for my friend. 
 
 Dalton [pointing to Moss's bottle]. 
 I've had my whack already. 
 
 Beieblt. Nay, lad, you can find 
 room for another glass. 
 
 [Waiter brings another glass — 
 Bbieelt pours out wine] 
 It puts heart into a chap ! [Drinks 
 eagerly] I've nearly lived on 'tthis 
 fortnight past. 
 
 Dalton [stops his hand]. Take 
 care, Bob, or we shall have you in 
 the doctor's hands. 
 
 Briebly. Doctor? Nay; I'm as 
 game as a pebble and as stell as a 
 tree! [Fills Dalton's glass with a 
 shaking hand] Curse the glass ! Here 
 — drink, man, drink. I can't abear 
 drinking single handed. I like com- 
 pany — always did. [Looking round 
 uneasily] _ And now, I don't know 
 how it is — [Nervously looking down 
 near -the table] No, no, it's nothing ! 
 Here, have a weed. [Offers cigar] 
 
 Dalton. I'll take a light from you. 
 [As Dalton lights his cigar at Bbiehly's, 
 the shaking of Brieblt's hand becomes 
 more apparent] Come, come. Master 
 Bob, you're getting shaky — this won't 
 do. 
 
 _ Beieblt. It's that waking — wak- 
 ing. — If I coidd only sleep. [Earnestly] 
 Oh, man — can't you help a chap to a 
 good night's rest? I used to sleep 
 like a top down at Glossop. But in 
 this peat big place, since I've been 
 enjoying myself, seeing life — I don't 
 know — [Passing his hand across his 
 
 I don't know how it is — I get 
 no rest — and when I do, it's worse 
 than none — there's great black crawl- 
 ing things about me. [Gulps down a 
 glass of urine] I say, Downy; do ^ou 
 know how a chap feels when he's going 
 mad? 
 
 Dalton. I know the symptoms of 
 del. trem. pretty well — sit down, sit 
 down. First and foremost [Puts him 
 a chair] I prescribe a devilled biscuit 
 — I'U doctor one for you. [Catling] 
 Waiter! a plate of biscuits, toasted 
 hot — butter and cayenne. [Beieblt 
 hides his head in his hands — aside, 
 looking at him contemptuously] The 
 horrors ! ah, he's seen too much of 
 life lately — Bob, are you in cash ? 
 
 Beieblt. Welly cleaned out — I've 
 written to the lawyer-chap, down at 
 Glossop — him that's got all my prop- 
 erty to manage, yo' know — for more 
 brass. 
 
 Dalton. [Aside] Now, if I'd a few 
 of Moss's fivers — here's a chance. — 
 You must bank with me till the brass 
 comes. Delighted to lend you a sover- 
 eign — five — ten — as much as you 
 want. 
 
 [Enter Moss] 
 
 Beieblt. Nay, will yo' though? 
 That's friendly of you. Here's luck 
 — • and sink the expense ! 
 
 [He pours out wine, standing in 
 front of table] 
 
 Moss. [Aside to Dalton] I've got 
 the flimsies — I'll do it at seven ten. 
 
 Dalton. [Aside] Fork over. 
 
 Moss. [Aside, giving him a roll of 
 notes] There's fifty to begin with — 
 twenty, a tenner, and four fives. Plant 
 the big 'un first. 
 
 [Enter Hawkshaw ; meets Moss at back 
 of chair — approaches the table where 
 the Detectives are — one of them 
 nods towards Moss and Dalton] 
 
 Moss. Good evening, gentleman, 
 you'll find my friend, Mr. Downy, 
 excellent company, sir. Very improv- 
 ing for a young man from the country. 
 [Aside] 'That's an honestly earned 
 seven-pun-ten ! [Exit Moss] 
 
 [Waiter brings biscuits and cayenne] 
 Dalton. Now, for your devU, 
 Master Bob. [As he prepares the 
 biscuit, Hawkshaw approaches the table, 
 and takes up the paper which Dalton 
 hcks put down — Dalton pushes the 
 biscuit across to Brieelt] Try that ! 
 
232 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Hawkshaw. Beg pardon, sir, but if 
 the paper's not in hand — 
 
 [Sits at back of table] 
 
 Dalton [rudely, and pocketing the note 
 hastily]. Eh — sir ? 
 
 Hawkshaw [sitting down coolly at the 
 table and unfolding the paper]. Papers 
 very dull lately, don't you think so, 
 sir? 
 
 Dalton [assuming u, country dialect]. 
 I never trouble 'em much, sir, except for 
 the Smithfleld Market List, in the way 
 of business. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Ah, much my own 
 case. They put a feUow up to the 
 dodges of the town, though: for in- 
 stance, these cases of bad notes offered 
 at the Bank lately. 
 
 [Watching him close] 
 
 Dalton. I never took a bad note in 
 my life. 
 
 Hawkshaw. You've been lucky — 
 in the Smithfleld line, too, I think you 
 said. In the jobbing way, may I ask, 
 sir, or in the breeding? 
 
 Dalton. Sometimes one, and some- 
 times t'other — always ready to turn 
 the nimble shilling. 
 
 Hawkshaw. My own rule. 
 
 Dalton. May I ask your business? 
 
 Hawkshaw. The fancy iron trade. 
 My principle is, to get as much of my 
 stock on other people's hands as I can. 
 From the country, I think^ 
 
 Dalton. Yes, Yorkshire. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Ah ! I'm Durham my- 
 self ; and this young gent ? 
 
 Beierly. What's that to you? 
 [Pushi?ig away the biscuit] It's no use 
 — I can't swallow a morsel. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Prom Lancashire, I 
 see ; why, we are quite neighbours 
 when we are at home — and neighbours 
 ought to be neighbourly in this over- 
 grown city, so I hope you'll allow me 
 to stand treat — give it a name, gentle- 
 men. 
 
 Dalton [roughly]. Thank you, I 
 never drink with strangers. 
 
 Brierly. They've a saying down 
 in GIossop, where I came from. If you 
 want a welcome, wait to be axed. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Ah, quite right to be 
 cautious about the company you keep, 
 young man. Perhaps I could give you 
 a bit of good advice — 
 
 Brierly. Thank ye! I'm not in 
 the way o' taHn' good advice. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Well, don't take bad; 
 and you won't easy find a worse adviser 
 than your thieving companion here. 
 
 Dalton [firing up]. Eh? what do 
 you mean by that? 
 
 Hawkshaw. Not you, sir. [Tap- 
 ping the champagne bottle] This gentle- 
 man here. He robs people of their 
 brains — their digestions — and their 
 conscience — to say nothing of their 
 money. But since you won't allow 
 me to stand anything — 
 
 Dalton. And wish to keep our- 
 selves to ourselves. 
 
 Brierly. And think your room a 
 deal better than your company — 
 meanin' no offence you know. 
 
 Hawkshaw [rises]. Not in the 
 least. If gentlemen can't please them- 
 selves in a pubKc establishment! I'll 
 wish you a very good evening. [Aside] 
 A plant, — I'U keep an eye on 'em! 
 
 [Exti] 
 
 Dalton. [Aside] I don't half like 
 the look of that fellow. There's some- 
 thing about his eye — I must make 
 out if Moss knows him — Bob, will 
 you excuse me for five minutes? 
 
 Brierly. Don't be long — I can't 
 abear my own company. 
 
 Dalton. I've only a word to say to 
 
 a customer. [Exit] 
 
 [Hawkshaw re-appears, watches 
 
 Dalton off and follows him 
 
 after a moment's interval] 
 
 Brierly [goes to chair]. And I'll 
 try to sleep tUl he comes back. If I 
 could only sleep without dreaming! 
 I never close my eyes but I'm back 
 at GIossop wi' the old folks at home 
 — 't mother fetthn' about me, as she 
 used when I was a brat — and father 
 stroking my head, and caUin' me Ms 
 bonny boy — noa, noa — I mustn't 
 think o' them — not here — or I shall 
 go mad. 
 
 [Sinking his head in his hands, 
 and sobbing] 
 
 [Music — other Guests come in 
 ' and sit at the other tables] 
 
 [Enter Maltbt] 
 
 Maltby. Now then, James! Jack- 
 son, take orders. Interval of ten 
 minutes allowed for refreshment. Give 
 your orders, gents, give your orders. 
 The nigger melodists will shortly com- 
 mence their unrivalled entertainment, 
 preliminary to the orchestral selection 
 from Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. 
 
 [Enter May Edwards with her guitar. 
 — The Waiters move about, bring- 
 ing refreshments to tables] 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 233 
 
 Mat. If they'll only let me sing to- 
 night. [Tuning' guitar] 
 
 Maltbt. Halloa, halloa ! what's 
 this? Oh, it's you, is it, Edwards? 
 Come, I'm glad to see you're about 
 again, but I can't have you cadging 
 hire. 
 
 May. Oh, Mr. Maltby, if you'll 
 only allow me to try one song, and go 
 round after it, I'U stop as soon as ever 
 they ring up. 
 
 Maltby. Well, well, you was always 
 a well-behaved girl, so, for once in a 
 way — 
 
 Mat. Oh, thank you, thank you, 
 and if you should have an opening for 
 me in the room, sir, when I'm quite 
 strong again — 
 
 Maltby. No chance of it, we're 
 chuck fuU — a glut of talent ; but if 
 I should be able to find room for you 
 in the chorus, and to double Miss 
 Plantagenet when she's in the tantrums, 
 ten shillings a week, and find your own 
 wardrobe, you know — I'm not the 
 man to shrink from a generous action. 
 Now then, Jackson, money in 4. 
 
 [Exit Maltby] 
 [May sings^] 
 
 Where daisies blow and waters glide. 
 
 My lonely cottage stands beside 
 
 The willowy brook that flows along 
 
 Its rushy banks with murmuring song. 
 
 And near the door there grows a tree, 
 
 So thick that scarce the cot you see, 
 
 And screens and shades my still retreat 
 
 From Winter's cold and Summer's heat ; 
 
 Arid there, at eve, a nightingale 
 
 Will sit concealed and tell its tale — 
 
 So sweet, that all who wander by 
 
 Are fain to stop, and listen nigh. 
 
 Thou gentle child, with golden hair. 
 
 Whom long I've watched with love and care. 
 
 The wind is cold, and rough for thee, 
 
 Say, wilt thou come and dwell with me ? 
 
 [After her song she goes round the 
 tables; all repulse her] 
 1st Party. The concert's quite 
 enough without catterwauUng between 
 the acts. 
 
 2d Partt. We've no small change, 
 Miss. Waiter ! bottle pale sherry ! 
 3d Partt. Be ofl ! 
 4th Partt. Now then, what's the 
 girl gaping at? Can't you take an 
 answer? 
 Mat. [To Brierlt] Please, sir — 
 ^ Brierlt. Be o& with thee, lass. 
 I'm in no mood for music. 
 
 Mat [suppressing her tears]. Not a 
 penny ! 
 
 Brierlt. Stop, lass ; [Feels in his 
 pocket] not a farden. Where's Downy ? 
 Come here, what'st crying at? 
 
 Mat. I've not taken anything to- 
 day, and I've not been well lately. 
 
 [She turns faint and grasps a seat 
 to support herself] 
 
 Brierlt [rising]. Poor thing ! 
 here, [Places chair] sit thee down; 
 why, thee looks welly clemmed. Try 
 and eat a bit. [He gives her a biscuit] 
 
 Mat. Thank you, sir, you're very 
 kind. [She tries to swallow but cannot] 
 If I had a drink of water. 
 
 Brierlt. Wather? [At back of 
 table] Nay, a sup o' this will hearten 
 thee up. [Tries to give her wine from 
 his bottle] Not a drop ! [He looks 
 around and sees Waiter crossing, 
 bringing a decanter of sherry] Here, 
 that'll do. [Takes decanter] 
 
 Waiter. Beg pardon, sir, it's for 
 No. 1. 
 
 Brierlt. I'se No. 1. 
 
 1st Partt. HoUo, sir! that's my 
 sherry. 
 
 Brierlt. No, it's mine. 
 
 1st Party. I'U let you know. [He 
 
 rises and turns up his cuffs; Brierlt 
 
 looks at him] — No, I'll see the landlord. 
 
 [Exit 1st Partt] 
 
 Brierlt. There, lass. [Pours out a 
 glass for May] Sup that. 
 
 Mat [drinks]. It's wine. 
 
 Brierlt. Sup it up. 
 
 May. It makes me so warm. 
 
 Brierly. It'U put some heart i' 
 thee. Sup again, thou'lt tune thy 
 pipes Uke a mavis on that. Now try 
 and eat a bit. 
 
 May. Oh, sir, you're too good. 
 
 Brierly. Good? me ! nay — 
 
 [Enter Maltby, followed by 1st Party] 
 
 Maltby [soothingly]. Merely a 
 lark, depend upon it. The gentleman 
 wiU apologize. [To Brierly] The 
 gent who ordered that bottle of 
 sherry — 
 
 Brierlt. Let him ordther another; 
 I'll pay for it. 
 
 Maltbt. The gent can't say fairer. 
 [Calls] Bottle sherry, Jackson; seven 
 and six, sir. 
 
 Brierly. Here. [Feels in his 
 pockets] Eh? score it down. 
 
 ' The words translated from the German of Uhland, and the music composed by Mrs. 
 Tom Taylor. 
 
234 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Maltby. We ain't in the habit of 
 scoring, sir, not to strangers. 
 
 Beierly. Then yo'd betther begin; 
 my name's Bob Brierly. 
 
 Maltby. Your name may be Bob 
 Brierly, sir, or Bob Anybody, sir, but 
 when people take wine in this estabUsh- 
 ment, sir — especially other party's 
 wine — they pay for it. 
 
 [Dalton re-appears] 
 
 Bbiehly. a teU yo' — I'll pay as 
 soon as my friend comes back. 
 
 Maltby. Oh, your friend ! A regu- 
 lar case of bilk — 
 
 Bribrly. Now yo' take care. 
 
 [Firing up; the parties gather 
 round from tables] 
 
 May [frightened]. Oh, please, sir, 
 please; Mr. Maltby. 
 
 1st Party. It's too bad. 
 
 2d Party. Why can't you pay the 
 man? 
 
 3d Party. Police ! 
 
 Dalton [coming forward]. Holloa! 
 what's aU this ? 
 
 Brierly [seizing him]. Here, 
 Downjr, you lend me a sovereign to 
 pay this chap. 
 
 Dalton. Sorry I haven't change, 
 but we'U manage it directly. [To 
 Maltby] It's aU right. I'll be bail 
 for my friend here. 
 
 Maltby. Your word's quite enough, 
 sir. Any friend of Mr. Moss's — ■ 
 
 Dalton. Come, Bob, don't be a 
 fool; take a turn and cool yourself. 
 [Drawing him off; aside] Now to 
 plant the big 'un. [Draws him off] 
 
 Maltby. [To Guests] Sorry for 
 this disturbance, gents, quite out of 
 keeijing with the character of my es- 
 tablishment. [Bell — Music, piano] 
 But the concert is about to re-com- 
 mence ; that way, gents, to the Ro- 
 tunda. [Guests go off — Fiercely to 
 May] This is all along of your oadpping, 
 Edwards, sitting down to drink with a 
 promiscuous party. 
 
 May. Oh, I'm so sorry — he never 
 thought — it was all his kindness. 
 
 Maltby [sneeringly]. Kindness 1 
 
 much kindness he'd have showed you, 
 if you'd been old and ugly. You ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself. 
 
 May [indignantly]. You ought to 
 be ashamed of yoiurself ! it is cruel in 
 you to insult a helpless and friendless 
 girl like me. 
 
 Maltby. Insult! ho, ho, ha, here's 
 a lark! A half-starved street-singer 
 
 cheeking me'^in my own estabhshment I 
 You'd better apply for an engagement, 
 you had, on the first vacancy. [Looking 
 off] HoUo ! what's that ? carriage com- 
 pany ! Heavy swells on the lark, wMte 
 ties and pink bonnets ! Show the 
 ladies and gentleman to the Rotunda, 
 Jackson. [Exit] 
 
 May [sinks down at one of the 
 tables]. I'm foohsh to be angry, my 
 bread depends on such as he. Oh, if 
 I could only get away from this weary 
 work! if some kind lady would take 
 me in. I'm quick at my needle; but 
 who'd take me, a vagabond, without a 
 friend to speak for me? I'm all alone 
 in the world now. It's strange how 
 people's life is made for 'em. I see 
 so many girls, nicely dressed, well off, 
 with parents to love and care for 'em. 
 I can't bear it sometimes, to see them, 
 and then think what I am, and what's 
 before me. [Puts her hand to her face] 
 I'm a siUy girl: it's all because I'm 
 so weak from the fever. There's 
 nothing Uke keeping a good heart. 
 How good he was to me; it was all 
 through me he got into this trouble; 
 but I mustn't think of him. Ah, 
 [Looking off] there's a pleasant looldng 
 party yonder. Come along, old friend, 
 you've to earn my supper yet. 
 
 [Takes her guitar and exit] 
 
 [Enter Green Jones and Emily St. 
 EvREMOND — he wears evening cos- 
 tume, black, white tie, Gibus hat, 
 etc.; she is gaily dressed, pink 
 bonnet, etc.] 
 
 Green [speaking as he comes down]. 
 Excuse me, Emily ! Anything but the 
 Rotunda ; if your mama Ukes the music 
 let her enjoy it. 
 
 Emily. I'm sure the music's very 
 nice, Mr. Jones. 
 
 Green. Mr. Jones, Miss St. Evre- 
 mond ! What have I done to be kept 
 at arm's length by that chevaux de 
 frise of a mister? was it for this that I 
 thawed the thick-ribbed ice of Mrs. 
 Traddles? 
 
 Emily. Thick-ribbed ain't a proper 
 word to use to any lady, and I tell 
 you my ma's name ain't Traddles, 
 Mr. Jones ; it's the same as mine — 
 St. Evremond ; she's changed it at my 
 wish. 
 
 Green. I beg pardon of your stern 
 parient, [Sits] Mrs. St. Evremond, late 
 Traddles; but I repeat, was it to be 
 caUed Mister Jones that I treated Mrs. 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 235 
 
 5t. B. and her chyild to the Star and 
 barter ; arid her ohyild without Mrs. E. 
 X) the Trafalgar, where from the moon- 
 it balcony that overhung the fragrant 
 iver, we watched together the sunset 
 )ver the Isle of Dogs? 
 
 Emily. And very wrong it was of 
 ne to go to that whitebait dinner 
 irithout ma; and preciously she blew 
 ne up about it, though I told her you 
 iouldn't have treated me with more 
 'aspect if I'd been a countess instead 
 )f a coryphfie. 
 
 Green. Emily, you only did me 
 ustioe. My intentions are honourable. 
 [f you are in the ballet, that's no reason 
 TOM shouldn't be a dear, good girl, 
 ifou've been a trump of a daughter; 
 [ don't see why you shouldn't turn 
 rat a trump of a wife. Emily, accept 
 ny hand. 
 
 Emily. Nonsense, Green, you don't 
 nean it. 
 
 Green. I'm perfectly serious. My 
 land and my heart, my fortune and 
 ny future. Don't stare, Emily. It's 
 is true as that my name is Green. 
 ['m quite in earnest — I am indeed. 
 
 Emily. Oh! Green, dear, I'm in 
 luoh agitation. ' [Rises] 
 
 Green. We wiU spend a rosy exist- 
 inoe. You hke life, and I flatter myself 
 [ understand it. 
 
 Emily. And don't If I call this 
 ife — the music and the company, 
 md the singing and the tra^gze. I 
 hpught the man must break Ms neck. 
 [t was beautiful. 
 
 Green. Yes, I like to associate 
 vith aU classes. "Survey mankind," 
 70U. know, Emily — -"from China" — 
 » earthenware. So, when Charley 
 Punter proposed a night at the tea 
 faxdens, I sank the swell; and here 
 : am with Enuly and her mama. 
 Dharley didn't seem to see the parient; 
 )ut, "Propriety, Charley my' boy," 
 [ said, and he submitted with a sigh. 
 Vnd now what wiU you have? [Re- 
 •nter May, — she begins to sing] Oh ! 
 mything but that. Now, do obUge 
 ne by shutting up, that's a good girl. 
 
 Emily. No, no, poor thing. Let 
 ler sing; she has a sweet voice. 
 
 Green. Flat, decidedly. 
 
 Emily [contemptuously]. You're 
 mother. Give me half a crown for her. 
 
 Green [gives one; she asks by 
 mture for another]. Two? Such a 
 lore. I shall have to change a note 
 tt the bar. 
 
 Emily. You'll have to change a 
 good many notes when we are married. 
 [To May] Come along, you shall have 
 both half crowns. 
 
 [Exeunt Green Jones and Emily, 
 as May is following] 
 
 [Enter Bhieely] 
 
 Briehly. Downy not here? He 
 said I was to bring t' brass to our table. 
 
 May [recognises him; comes down]. 
 'Tis he ! [Joyously] Oh, sir, I'm so 
 sorry — • 
 
 Brierly. Why, it's t' singin' lass. 
 [Crosses to her] I say, have you seen 
 my friend ? 
 
 May. No, sir. 
 
 Briehly. And where's t' landlord. 
 Here's that'll make Mm civil enough. 
 [Shews a number of sovereigns in 
 his hand] 
 
 May. Oh, what a lot of money ! 
 
 Brierly. Brass for a twenty pound 
 note. I got it changed at t' cigar 
 shop down t' road. He's a good 'un 
 is Downy — lends me whatever I want. 
 Here yo' landlord. Hoy ! 
 
 [Enter Maltby] 
 
 Maltby. Coming ! Coming ! [Rec- 
 ognising Brierly] Oh, it's you. 
 
 Brierly [flinging a half sovereign 
 to Maltby]. There; seven and six is 
 for t' wine, and t' other half crown's 
 for t' thrasMn' I owe you. 
 
 [Approaches him threateningly] 
 
 Maltby hpocketing the rrioney and 
 retreating]. 'Take care — I'll teach you 
 to insult a respectable licensed victualler. 
 [To May, who tries to calm Brierly] 
 And you too, you tramp, I'll have you 
 looked up for annoying my customers. 
 How do I know my spoons are safe? 
 
 Brierly. Thou cur! 
 
 [He breaks away from Maltby, 
 jjOho escapes, crying "PoUce!"] 
 
 May. I can't bear you should trouble 
 for me, indeed, sir. 
 
 [Concealing her tears] 
 
 Brierly. Nay, never heed that 
 muck-worm. Come, dry tMne eyes. 
 Thou's too soft for tMs Ufe o' tMne. 
 
 May [apologetically]. It's the fever, 
 I tMnk, sir — I usedn't to mind unkind 
 looks and words much once. 
 
 Brierly. Here, take tMs, [Puts 
 money into her hand] and stay thee 
 quiet at home till thou'st i' fettle 
 again. 
 
 May. Two sovereigns ! oh, sir ! [Cries] 
 
 Brierly. Nay, thou'lt make oetter 
 
236 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 use o' t' brass thaa me — What, 
 eryin' again ! come, come, never heed 
 that old brute; hard words break no 
 bones, yo' know. 
 
 May. It's not his hard words I'm 
 crying for now, sir. 
 
 Bbibrlt. What then? 
 
 Mat. Your kind ones — they're 
 harder to bear — they sound so strange 
 to me. 
 
 Beieelt. Poor thing ! heaven help 
 thee — thou mindest me of a sister I 
 lost; she'd eyes like thine, and hair, 
 and much t' same voice, nobbut she 
 favert redder i' t' face, and spoke 
 broader. I'd be glad whiles to have 
 a nice gradely lass hke you to talk to. 
 
 May. But where I live, sir, it's a 
 very poor place, and I'm by myself, 
 and — 
 
 Bbierlt [hesitates]. No, no — 
 
 you're right — I couldn't come there, 
 but I'm loth to lose sight of yo' too. 
 
 [Enter Dalton hastily] 
 
 Dalton. Brierly ! 
 Beieely. Here's t' change — I've 
 borrowed five o' the twenty. 
 
 Dalton. All right, now let's be off 
 — I've a cab outside. 
 
 Beieelt. [To Mat] Mind, if you 
 want a friend, write to Bob Brierly, 
 at the Lancashire Arms, Air-street, 
 yo'U not forget. > 
 
 May. Never — I'll set it down 
 [Aside] in my heart ! 
 Dalton. Come ! 
 
 Beieely. And yo', tell me yo'r 
 name — will yo' ? 
 
 May. May Edwards. 
 Dalton. Confound your billing and 
 cooing — come ! 
 
 [As Beieely follows Dalton, 
 Hawkshaw and two of the 
 Detectives appear] 
 Hawkshaw. You're wanted. 
 Dalton. [Aside] The crushers ! 
 Run, Bob! 
 
 [Music — Dalton attempts to 
 escape — Detectives detain 
 Beieelt — Hawkshaw seizes 
 Dalton — in the scuffle, Dal- 
 ton's hat and wig are knocked 
 
 om 
 
 Hawkshaw. I know you, James 
 Dalton ! 
 
 Dalton [starting]. Ah ! 
 
 Hawkshaw. Remember the Peck- 
 ham job. 
 
 Dalton. The Nailer! Hit out. 
 Bob! 
 
 [Beieelt has been wrestling with 
 the two Detectives ; as Dai- 
 ton speaks he knocks one down] 
 Beieelt. I have ! Some o' them 
 garottin' chaps ! 
 Mat [cries]. Help! help! 
 
 [Wringing her hands] 
 [A fierce struggle — Dalton es- 
 capes from Hawkshaw and 
 throws him — he draws a pistol 
 — Dalton strikes him dovm 
 with a life-preserver and makes 
 his escape through the trees — 
 Beieelt is overpowered and 
 handcuffed — Guests nish in 
 and form Tableau] 
 
 END OP act first 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene. — The Room occupied by May 
 Edwards in Mrs. Willoughby's 
 House, humbly but neatly furnished; 
 flowers in the window; a work-table; 
 stool; door communicating with her 
 bedroom; door leading to the stair- 
 case; guitar hanging agaiiist wall; 
 needlework on the table. 
 Mat discovered with a birdcage on the 
 table, arranging a 'piece of sugar 
 and groundsel between the bars; 
 sofa; chiffonier; American clock, etc. 
 
 Mat. There, Goldie, I must give 
 you your breakfast, though I don't 
 care a bit for my own. Ai! you find 
 singing a better trade than I did, you 
 little rogue. I'm sure I shall have a 
 letter from Robert this morning. I've 
 all his letters here. [Takes out a packet 
 from her work-box] How he has im- 
 proved in his handwriting since the 
 first. [Opening letter] That's more 
 than three years back. Oh! what an 
 old woman I'm getting! It's no use 
 denying it, Goldie. [To her bird] If 
 you'll be quiet, hke a good, well-bred 
 canary, I'll read you Robert's last 
 letter. [Reads] "Portland, February 
 25th, 1860. My own dearest May, — 
 [Kissing it] As the last year keeps 
 slipping away, I think more, and more 
 of our happy meeting; but for your 
 love and comfort, I think I should 
 have broken down." Goldie, do you 
 hear that? [She kisses the letter] "But 
 now we both see how things are guided 
 for the best. But for my being sent 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 237 
 
 to prison, I shoxild have died before 
 this, a broken-down drunkard, if not 
 worse; and you might still have been 
 earning hard bread as a street singer, 
 or carried from a hospital ward to a 
 pauper's grave." Yes, yes, [Shudder- 
 ing] that's true. "This place has 
 made a man of me, and you have found 
 friends and the means of earning a 
 livelihood. I count the days tUl we 
 meet. Good-bye, and heaven bless 
 you, prays your ever affectionate 
 Robert Brierly." [Kisses the letter fre- 
 quently] And don't I count the days 
 too ? There ! [Makes a mark in her 
 pocket almanack] Another gone ! They 
 seem so slow — when one looks forward 
 — and yet they pass so quickly ! [Tak- 
 ing up birdcage] Come, Goldie, while 
 I work you must sing me a nice song 
 for letting you hear that nice letter. 
 
 [Hanging up birdcage — a knock 
 at the door] 
 
 [Enter Emily] 
 
 Emily [entering]. May I come in? 
 
 May. Oh, yes, Mrs. Jones. 
 
 [Sits to work] 
 
 Emily. St. Evremond, please. Miss 
 Edwards. Jones has changed his name. 
 When people have come down in cir- 
 cumstances, the best way they can do 
 is to keep up their names. [Sits] I 
 like St. Evremond ; it looks well in the 
 bin, and sounds foreign. That's always 
 attractive — and I dress my hair d la 
 Franjaise, to keep up the effect. I've 
 brought back the shawl you were kind 
 enough to lend me. 
 
 May. I hope you got the engage- 
 ment, dear? 
 
 Emily [sighs]. No; the proprietor 
 said my appearance was quite the 
 thing — good stage face and figure, 
 and all that: you know how those 
 creatures always flatter one ; but they 
 hadn't an opening just now in the 
 comic duet and character-dance busi- 
 ness. 
 
 May. I'm so sorry; your husband 
 will be so disappointed. 
 
 Emily. Oh! bless you, he doesn't 
 know what I've been after. I couldn't 
 bear to worrit him, poor fellow! He's 
 had so many troubles. I've been used 
 to rough it — before we came into 
 our fortune. 
 
 [Noise heard overhead — - May 
 starts] 
 
 May. What noise is that? It's in 
 your room. 
 
 Emily. Don't be alarmed — it's only 
 Green ; I left him to practise the clog- 
 dance while I went out. He's so clumsy. 
 He often comes down like that in- the 
 double shuf3.es. But he gets on very 
 nicely in the oomio duets. 
 
 May. It's very fortunate he's so 
 willing to tiu'n his hand to anything. 
 
 Emily. Yes, he's wilUng enough to 
 turn his hand, only "he is so slow in 
 turning his legs. Ah, my dear, you're 
 very hicky only having yourself to 
 keep. 
 
 May. I find it hard enough to work 
 sometimes. But after the life I've 
 passed through, it seems paradise. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! I couldn't a-bear it ; 
 such a want of excitement ! And you 
 that was brought up to a public Ufe 
 too. [Rises] Every night about six, 
 when they begin to light up the gas, 
 I feel so fldgetty, you can't think — I 
 want to be off to the theatre. I couldn't 
 live away from the float, that is, not 
 if I had to work for my living, — of 
 course it was very different the three 
 years we had our fortune. 
 
 [Sighs and gives herself an air of 
 martyrdom] 
 
 May. I'm afraid Mr. Jones ran 
 through a great deal in a very short 
 time. 
 
 Emily. Well, we were both fast, 
 dear; and to do Jones justice, I don't 
 think he was the fastest. You see he 
 was used to spending, and I wasn't. 
 It seemed so jolly at first to have 
 everything one liked. [A knock] 
 
 May. Come in ! 
 
 [Enter Green Jones, much dilapidated; 
 he wears a decayed dressing-gown 
 and a shocking cap, and carries a 
 pair of dogs in his hand; he 
 throws himself into chair] 
 
 May. Your wife's here, Mr. Jones. 
 
 Emily. St. Evremond, please dear. 
 
 Green. Yes, Montage St. Evre- 
 mond ; that is to be in the paulo- 
 poster-futurum. I thought you would 
 be here, MiUy. I saw you come in at 
 the street door. [May takes her work] 
 
 Emily. Oh, you were watching for 
 me out of the window, I suppose, 
 instead of practising your pas. 
 
 Green. I was allowing my shins 
 an interval of refreshment. I hope. 
 Miss Edwards, you may never be 
 reduced to earn a subsistence by the 
 clog hornpipe, or if you are, that you 
 wiU be allowed to practise in your 
 
238 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 stockings. The way I've barked my 
 intractable shins! 
 
 Emily. Poor dear fellow! There, 
 there ! He's a good boy, and he shall 
 have a piece of sugar, he shall. 
 
 [Kissing him] 
 
 Green. Sugar is all very well, 
 Emily, but I'm satisfied I shall never 
 electrify the British public in this 
 style of pump. ' [Showing clog] The 
 truth is. Miss Edwards, I'm not meant 
 for a star of the ballet ; as Emily says, 
 I'm too fleshy. 
 
 Emily. Stout was the word. 
 
 Geeen. Oh ! was it ? Anyway, you 
 meant short-winded. My vocation is 
 in the more private walks of existence. 
 If I'd a nice, easy, light porter's place, 
 now — 
 
 Emily. Oh! Montague, how can 
 you be so mean-spirited? 
 
 Ghben. Or if there's nothing else 
 open to us but the music halls : I 
 always said we should do better with 
 the performing dogs. 
 
 Emily. Performing dogs ! Hadn't 
 you better come to monkeys at once? 
 ■ Green. I've a turn for puppies. 
 I'm at home with them. It's the thing 
 I've been always used to, since I was 
 at college. But we're interrupting 
 Miss Edwards. Come along, Emily ; 
 if you're at liberty to give your Mon- 
 tague a lesson in the poetry of motion 
 under difflculties. [Showing the clog] 
 But, oh, remember your Montague has 
 shins, and be as sparing as possible of 
 the double stuffles. 
 
 [Rises, leaving his clogs] 
 
 Emily. You poor, dear, soft-headed 
 — soft-hearted — soft-shinned crea- 
 ture! What would you do without 
 me? [Comes back] Oh, what a man 
 it is ; he has forgotten his dancing 
 pumps, and I'm sure they're big 
 enough. 
 
 [Exeunt Emily and Green Jones] 
 
 May [folding up her shawl]. How 
 times are changed since she made him 
 give me half-a-crown that dreadful 
 night, when Robert — [Sits] — I can't 
 bear to think of it, though aU has 
 turned out so well. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Willoughby] 
 
 Ah, Mrs. Willoughby, I was expecting 
 a visit from you. I've the week's rent 
 all ready. 
 
 [Gives her a folded parcel from 
 small box on table] 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Which ready 
 
 you always was, to the minit, that I 
 will say, my dear. You'll excuse me 
 if I take a chair, [Sits] these stairs is 
 trying to an elderly woman — not that 
 I am so old as many that looks younger, 
 which when I'd my front tittivated only 
 last week, Mr. Miggles, that's the hair- 
 dresser at 22, he says to me, "Mrs. 
 Willoughby," he says, "forty is what 
 I'd give you with that front," he says. 
 "No, Mr. Miggles," I says, "forty it 
 was once, but will never be again, which 
 trouble is a sharp thorn, and losses is 
 more than time, and a shortness of 
 breath along of a shook three years 
 was last July." "No, Mr. Miggles," I 
 says, "fronts can't undo the work of 
 years," I sa^s, "nor yet wigs, Mr. 
 Miggles — whioh skin-partings equal 
 to years, I never did see, and that's 
 the truth." [Pauses for breath] 
 
 May. At aU events, Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby, you're looking very, very 
 well this morning. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Ah, my dear, 
 you are very good to say so, which, 
 if it wasn't for rheumatics and the 
 rates, one a-top of another, and them 
 dustmen, which their carts is a mockery, 
 unless you stand beer, and that boy, 
 Sam, though which is the worst, I'm 
 sure is hard to say, only a grand- 
 mother's feelings is not to be told, 
 which opodeldoc can't be rubbed into 
 the 'eart, as I said to Mrs. Molloy — 
 her that has my flirst floor front — 
 which she says to me, "Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby," says she, "nine oils is the 
 thing," she says, "rubbed in warm," 
 says she. "Which it's aU very well, 
 Mrs. Molloy," says I, "but how is a 
 lone woman to rub it in the nape of 
 the neck and the small of the back; 
 and Sam that giddy, and distressing 
 me to that degree. No, Mrs. MoUoy," 
 I says, "what's sent us we must bear 
 it, and parties that's reduced to let 
 lodgings, can't afford easy chairs," 
 which well I know it, and the truth it 
 is — and me with two beauties in 
 chintz in the front parlor, which I got 
 a bargain at the brokers when the 
 parties was sold up at 24, and no more 
 time to sit down in 'em than if I was 
 a cherry bin. 
 
 May. I'm sure you ought to have 
 one, so hard as you've worked all your 
 life, and when Sam gets a situation — 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Sam, ah, that 
 boy — I came here about him ; hasn't 
 he been here this morning? 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 239 
 
 Mat. No, not yet. I was expecting 
 im — he promised to carry some 
 lings home for me. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Ah Miss 
 dwards if you would only talk to 
 im; he don't mind anything I say, 
 3 more than if it was a flat-iron, which 
 hat that boy have cost me in distress 
 : mind and clothes, and caps, and 
 reakages never can be known — and 
 is poor mother, which was the only 
 16 I brought up and had five, she says 
 ) me, "Mother," she says, "he's- a 
 ig child," she says, "and he's a beau- 
 ful child, but he have a temper of 
 is own"; which, "Mary," I says — 
 16 was called Mary, like you, my 
 aar, after her aunt from which we 
 [id expectations but which was left 
 ) the Blind Asylum, and the Fish- 
 longers' Alms Houses, and very like 
 3U she was, only she had light hair 
 id blue eyes — "Mary, my dear," I 
 Lys, "I hope you'll never live to see 
 ," and took she was at twenty-three, 
 idden, and that boy I've had to mend 
 id wash and do for ever since, and 
 jrd Unes it is. 
 
 Mat. I'm sure he loves you very 
 Barly, and has an excellent heart. 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Heart, my dear 
 -which I wish it had been his heart 
 found in his right-'and pocket as I 
 as a-mending his best trowsers last 
 ight, which it was a short pipe, which 
 is nothing but the truth, and smoked 
 ) that degree as if it had been black- 
 aded, which many's the time when 
 s've come in, I've said, "Sam," I've 
 bid, "I smeU tobacco," I've said. 
 Grandmother," he'd say to me, quite 
 :ave and innocent, "p'raps it's the 
 limbley" — and him a child of fifteen, 
 id a short pipe in his right-hand 
 Dcket! I'm sure I could have broke 
 ly heart over it, I could ; • let alone the 
 ipe — which I flung it into the fire 
 -but a happy moment since is a 
 ling I have not known. 
 
 [Pauses for breath] 
 Mat. Oh! he'll get rid of aU his 
 id habits in time. I've broken him 
 I to carry my parcels already. 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Yes, indeed! 
 id how you can trust him to carry 
 ireels; but, oh! Miss Edwards, if 
 3u'd talk to him, and tell him short 
 ipes is the thief of time, and tobacco's 
 16 root of all evil, which Dean Close 
 3've proved it strong enough, I'm 
 ire — and I cut it out of the Weekly 
 
 Pulpit — and wherever that paper is 
 now — [Rummaging in her pocket — 
 knock at door] That's at your door — 
 which, if you're expecting a caller or a 
 customer — [Rises] 
 
 Mat. No ; I expect no one — unless 
 it's Sam. [Knock repeated, timidly] 
 Come in. [Lays down her work] 
 
 [Brierlt opens the door, timidly] 
 
 Bribhlt [doubtfully]. Miss Ed- 
 wards, please? 
 
 May [rushing into his arms]. 
 Robert ! you here ! 
 
 Bhibhly. My own dear May ! 
 
 [Rushes over to her] 
 
 Mat [confused]. I'm so glad! 
 But, how is it that you're — how well 
 you look ! [Fluttered] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Eh? well I'm 
 sure! 
 
 Mat. Oh! you mustn't mind, Mrs. 
 WiUoughby, it's Robert. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Oh — Robert ! 
 I suppose, by the way he's a-goin' on, 
 Robert's your brother — leastways, if 
 he ain't your brother — 
 
 Brierlt. Her brother? yes, ma'am, 
 I'm her brother ! [Kisses Mat] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Indeed ! and if 
 I might make bold to ask where you've 
 come from — 
 
 Brierlt. I'm just discharged. 
 
 [He pauses — Mat giving him a 
 look.] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Discharged! 
 
 and where from — not your situation, 
 I 'ope? 
 
 Brierlt. From Her Majesty's Serv- 
 ice, if you must know. 
 
 May. I've not seen him for three 
 years and more. I didn't expect him 
 so soon, Mrs. Willoughby, so it was 
 quite natural the sight of him siiould 
 startle me. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Which well I 
 know it — not 'avin' had brothers 
 myself, but an uncle that ran away 
 for _ a soldier, and came back on the 
 parish with a wooden leg, and a shiUin' 
 a day pension, and always in arrears 
 for hquor — ^ which the way that man 
 would drink beer ! 
 
 Brierlt. I should have written to 
 prepare you, but I thought I might 
 be here as soon as my letter, so I 
 jumped into the train at Dorchester, 
 and here I am. 
 
 Mat. That was very thoughtless of 
 you — no, it was very thoughtful and 
 kind of you. But I don't understand — 
 
240 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Briekly. How I come to be here 
 before the time I told you in my letter? 
 You see, I had ftiU marks and nothing 
 against me, and the regulations — 
 
 [May gives him a look which 
 interrupts him] 
 May [crosses to Mrs. Willottghby]. 
 If Sam comes shall I tell him to go 
 down stairs to you, Mrs. WUloughby? 
 
 Mrs. Willottghby. I shall be much 
 obliged to you, my dear — which I 
 know, when brothers and sisters meet 
 they'll have a great deal to talk over, 
 and two's company and three's none, 
 is well beknown — and I never was 
 one to stand listenin' when other folks 
 is talkin' — and one thing I may say, 
 as I told Mrs. MoLLoy only last week, 
 when the first floor had a httle tiff 
 with the second pair front about the 
 water — "Mrs. MoUoy," I says, "no- 
 body ever heard me put in my oar 
 when I wasn't asked," I says, "and 
 idle chatterin' and gossip," I says, 
 "is a thing that I never was given to, 
 and I ain't a^goin' to begin now," I 
 says, which good mornin' to you, young 
 man, and a better girl, and a nicer girl, 
 and a harder workin' girl than your 
 sister, I 'ope and trust may never 
 darken my doors, [Brierly throws 
 open door] which her rent was ever 
 ready to the day. No, my dear, it's 
 the truth, and you needn't blush. 
 [During this last speech Brierly gets 
 round and urges her towards door] 
 Thank you, [Going to door] I can open 
 the door for myself, young man. 
 [Turns to him] And a very nice look- 
 ing head you have on your shoulders, 
 though you have had your hair cut 
 uncommon short, which I must say 
 — good mornin', my dear, and any- 
 thing I can do for you. [Exit, but is 
 heard still talking till the door below is 
 shut loudly] I'm sure, which nobody 
 can say but I was always ready to 
 oblige, if reduced to let lodgings owing 
 to a sudden shock. 
 
 Brierly. Phew! [Giving a sigh of 
 relief]_ One would think she'd been on 
 the silent system for a twelvemonth ! 
 Now, we're alone at last, May. Let 
 me have a good look at you. I gave 
 you a bit of a squeeze, but I hadn't a, 
 good look. [He takes her by the hand.] 
 
 May. Well — 
 
 Brierly. Prettier than ever — you 
 couldn't look better or kinder. 
 
 May. Now sit down, and don't talk 
 nonsense. 
 
 Brierly. Sit down ! not I — I've 
 had a good look at you — and I must 
 have a good look at the place. How 
 snug it is ! as neat as the cell I've just 
 left. But it wasn't hard to keep that 
 in order — I had only a stool, a basin, 
 and a hammock. Didn't I pohsh the 
 hammock-hooks neither. One must 
 have a pride in something — you know. 
 But here you've no end of things — a 
 sofa — and a carpet — and chairs — 
 and — [Going round as he speaks] 
 
 May. Isn't it a nice clock, Robert? 
 and look at the cheffonier! I picked 
 that up a bargain — and all out of my 
 own earnings ! 
 
 Brierly. It's the cosiest little nest 
 for my bird — you were a singing bird 
 once, you know. — [Sees the guitar] 
 And there's the old bread-winner — 
 I'm glad you've not parted with thai. 
 
 May. I shotild be the most ungrate- 
 ful creature if I did ! How many a 
 dinner it's earned for me ! — how 
 many a week's rent it's paid! But 
 for it I never should have known you 
 — ^my friend — my brother. Yes, 
 Robert, I wanted to explain to Mrs. 
 Willoughby, when she called you my 
 brother. 
 
 Brierly. So did I. But I felt it 
 was true — [Sits] If I'm not your 
 brother born and bred. May, you've 
 been a true sister to me — ever since 
 that night — 
 
 May. Oh, Robert — a kind word 
 was never lost yet. No wonder I clung 
 to you — 
 
 Brierly. Aye, when all stood aloof. 
 In the prison — in the dock — to the 
 van door. But for you, May, I should 
 have been a desperate man. I might 
 have become all they thought me — a 
 felon, in the company of felons. 
 
 May. Oh, do not look back to that 
 misery — but tell me how you are out 
 so long before your time ? 
 
 Brierly. Here's my ticket-of-leave 
 — they've given me every week of my 
 nine months — they hadn't a mark 
 against me — I didn't want to look 
 forward to my discharge — I was 
 afraid to — I worked away ; in school, 
 in the quarry-gang first, and in the 
 office afterwards, as if I had to stay 
 there for ever — I wasn't unhappy 
 either — all were good to me. Aid 
 then I had your letters to comfort me. 
 But when I was sent for to the Gov- 
 ernor's room yesterday, and told I 
 was a free man, everything swam 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 241 
 
 ound and round — I staggered — they 
 lad to give me water, or I think I 
 hould have fainted like a girl. 
 
 Mat. Ah, as I felt that night when 
 •ou gave me the wine. 
 
 Bhiebly. Poor dear, I remember 
 t, as if it was yesterday. But when I 
 lassed out at the gate, not for gang 
 abour, in my prison dress, with my 
 irison mates, under the warder's eye, 
 ind the sentry's musket, as I had 
 lone so many a weary week — but in 
 ny own clothes — unwatched — a free 
 Qan — free to go where I liked — to 
 lo what I liked -^ speak to whom I 
 iked, [Rises] I thought I should have 
 ;one crazy — I danced, I san^, I 
 dcked up the pebbles of the Chizzle 
 leach — the boatmen laid hands on 
 ae for an escaped lunatic, till I told 
 em I was a. discharged prisoner, and 
 hen they let me pass — but they 
 Irew back from me; there was the 
 lonviot's taint about me — you can't 
 ling that off with the convict's jacket. 
 
 May. But here, no one knows you 
 
 — you'll get a fresh start now. 
 Bribely. I hope so, but it's awfuUy 
 
 ip-hiE work. May, I've heard enough 
 lown yonder of all that stands between 
 I poor fellow who has been in trouble, 
 md an honest hfe. But just let me 
 ;et a chance. 
 
 Mat. Oh — if only Mr. Gibson 
 TOuld give you one. 
 
 Briekly. Who's he? 
 
 May. The husband of the lady who 
 ras my first and best friend. [Brierly 
 ooks uneasy] After you, of course, you 
 ealous thing. It was she gave me 
 rork — recommended me to her friends 
 
 — and now I've quite a nice little 
 msiness. I pay m.y way — I'm as 
 lappy as the day is long — and I'm 
 hinMng of taking an apprentice. 
 
 Bribely. How I wish I was a lass. 
 [Taking her hand] 
 
 Mat. I think I see those great 
 lumsy hands spoiling my work. 
 
 Bribely. You don't want a light 
 lorter — eh. May ? 
 
 Mat.' No — I've not quite business 
 nough for that yet. If Mr. Gibson 
 ?ould only give you employment. He's 
 omething in the city. 
 
 Bribely. No chance of that. May. 
 
 must begin lower down, and when 
 've got a character, then I may reach 
 i step higher, and so creep back little 
 ly Uttle to the level of honest men. 
 jrloomily] There's no help for it. 
 
 May [putting her hands upon his 
 shoulder]. At aU events you can wait 
 and look about you a little — you've 
 money coming in, you know. 
 
 Beierly. Me, May? 
 
 May. Yes. You forget those two 
 sovereigns you lent me — I've put 
 away a shilling every week out of my 
 savings — • and then there's the interest, 
 you know — ever so much. It's all 
 here. [Goes to table, and coming down 
 on his left, puts a savings-box into his 
 hand] You needn't count it. There'd 
 have been more if you hadn't come so 
 soon. 
 
 Bribely. My good, kind May, do 
 you think I'd touch a farthing of your 
 savings ? 
 
 May. Oh, do take it, Robert, or I 
 shall be so unhappy — I've had more 
 pleasure out of that money than any I 
 ever earned, because I thought it would 
 go to help you. 
 
 Brierly. Bless your kind heait ! 
 To think of those little fingers working 
 for me — a lusty, big-boned chap like 
 me ! Why, May, lass — ■ I've a matter 
 of twenty pounds in brass of my own 
 earnings at Pentonville and Portland 
 — overtime and allowances. The Gov- 
 ernor paid it over to me, like a man, 
 before I started yesterday — aye, and 
 shook hands with me. God bless him 
 for that ! 
 
 May. Twenty pounds ! Oh, how 
 small my poor httle earnings will 
 look ! I was so proud of them, too — 
 
 [Ruefully] 
 
 Brierly. Well, keep 'em, May — 
 keep 'em to buy your wedding-gown. 
 [Takes her in his arms and kisses 
 her.] 
 
 [Enter Sam — he gives a significant cough] 
 
 May. Oh! [Startled] Sam! 
 
 Brierly [hastily]. Sam! is it! 
 Confound him !, I'll teach him. 
 
 [Crosses, sees it is a boy and pauses] 
 
 Sam. Now will you, though? 
 Granny will be uncommon obliged 
 to you. She says I want teaching — 
 don't she? [To May] 
 
 May. How dare you come in like 
 that, Sam, without so much as knock- 
 ing? 
 
 Sam. How was I to know you had 
 company?* Of course I'd knocked if 
 I'd been aware you'd your young man. 
 
 Beierly. I tell you what, young un, 
 if you don't make yourself scarce — 
 
 Sam. Well, what? [Retreating] If 
 
242 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I don't make myself scaxce, you'll 
 pitch into me. Just you try it, [Squar- 
 ing] Lanky ! — Yah ! Hit one of your 
 own size — do. [Squaring] 
 
 Brierly. Go it, Master Sam ! Ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 Sam. My name's not Sam. It's 
 Samivel Willoughby, Esquire, most 
 respectable references given and re- 
 quired, [Pulls collar up] as Granny 
 says when she advertises the first floor. 
 
 Beiehly. Now be off, like a good 
 little chap. 
 
 Sam. Come, cheeky ! Don't you 
 use bad language. I'm rising fifteen, 
 stand five feet five in my bluchers, 
 and I'm sprouting agin' the summer, 
 if I ain't six foot of greens like you. 
 
 May. Hold your tongue ! you're a 
 naughty, impudent little boy. 
 
 Sam. Come — I'm bigger than you 
 are, I'll bet a bob. [Stands on his toes] 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Willoughby] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, here's that 
 boy at last ! which upstairs and down- 
 stairs, and all along the street, have I 
 been a seekin' of him, [Throws him over 
 to left] which, if you'd beheve me. Miss 
 Edwards, I left a fourpenny-bit in the 
 chany dog-kennel on the mantelpiece 
 downstairs, only yesterday mornin' as 
 ever was, which if ever there was a real 
 bit of Dresden, and cost me fourteen- 
 and-six at Hanway Yard in 'appier 
 days, with a black and white spaniel 
 in a wreath of roses, and a Shepherdess 
 to match, and the trouble I've 'ad to 
 keep that boy's 'ands off it since he was 
 in long clothes — where's that four- 
 penny-piece — [/Seizes him] you young 
 villain — which you know you took it. 
 
 Sam. Well, then, I did — to buy 
 bird's-eye with. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Bird's-eye! and 
 him not fifteen — and the only one left 
 of three. [Falls in chair] 
 
 Sam. If you will nobble a fellow's 
 bacca, you must take the consequences ; 
 and just you mind — it ain't no use a- 
 tryin' it on breaking my pipes, Granny. 
 I've given up Broselys and started a 
 briar-root. [Pulls it out] It's a stun- 
 ner. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, dear, oh, 
 dear ! if it ain't enough to melt an 'eart 
 of stone — no ! fronts I may wear to 
 'ide my suffering, but my grey 'airs 
 that boy have determined to bring 
 with sorrow to the grave. 
 
 Sam. What? Cos I smoke? Why 
 
 there's Jem Miggles smokes, and he's a 
 year younger than me, and he's allowed 
 all the lux'ries of the season — Ms 
 father's going to take him to see the 
 badger drawn at Jemmy Shaw's one 
 of these days — and his mother don't 
 go into hysterics. 
 
 May. Sam, I'm surprised you should 
 take pleasure in making your grand- 
 mother unhappy ! 
 
 Sam. I don't take pleasure — she 
 won't let me ; she's always a laiaggin' 
 and aggravatin' me. Here, dry your 
 eyes, granny — [Goes to her] — and I'll 
 be a good boy, and I won't go after 
 the rats, and I won't aggravate old 
 Miggles's bullfinches. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. And you'll give 
 up that nasty tobacco, and you'll keep 
 your clothes tidy, and not get slid^' 
 down ladders in yowc Sunday trowsers 
 
 — which moleskins won't stand, let 
 alone mixed woolens. 
 
 Sam. Best put me in charity leathers 
 at once, with a muffin cap and badge; 
 wouldn't I look stunnin' ? Oh, my ! 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. There ! that's 
 just him — always some of his imperent, 
 audacious chafiE — I know he gets it 
 from that young Miggles — ready to 
 stop his poor granny's mouth with. 
 
 Sam. No. [Kisses her] That's the 
 only way to stop it. Come, I'm goin' 
 to take myself up short, like a jibbin' 
 cab 'oss ! and be a real swell, granny, 
 in white kids ! only I'm a^waiting till 
 I come into my fortune — you Imow, 
 that twenty pounds you was robbed of, 
 three years ago. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Which robbery 
 is too good a word for it. It was 
 forgery, aye, and a'most as good as 
 murder — which it might ha' been 
 my death! Yes, my dears, as nice- 
 looking, civil-spoken a young man as 
 you would wish to see — in a white 
 'at, which I never can forget, and a 
 broad way of speaking — and, "Would 
 you change me a twenty pound note, 
 ma'am," he says; "And it ain't very 
 often," I says, "you could have come 
 into this shop" — which I was in the 
 cigar and periodical line at the time. 
 
 Brierly. Where was your shop? 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. In the Fulham 
 Road, three doors outside the Bell-vue 
 Gardens — "And a note is all the same 
 to me," I sez — "if all correct," I sez 
 
 — and when I looked in that young 
 man's face, I had no more suspicion 
 than I should of either of yours, my 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 243 
 
 ears; so lie gave me the note, and 
 9 took the sovereigns. And the next 
 ling I saw was a gent, which his name 
 a told me was Hawkshaw, and he 
 ere in the police, on'y in plain clothes, 
 ad asked to look at the note, and 
 )ld me it was a bad 'un ; and if that 
 lan left me on the sofa, in the back 
 lop, or behind the counter, with my 
 let in a jar of brown rappee, and my 
 sad among the ginger-beer bottles, 
 
 more than I can tell — for fits it 
 as for days and days, and when I 
 orked out .of 'em, then I was short 
 ' my rent, and the stock sold up, and 
 le ruined. 
 
 [Beieely shews signs of agitation 
 while she is speaking] 
 Beibbly. And you never recovered 
 aur money ? 
 
 Mes. Willouqhby. Not a penny, 
 ly dear, and if it hadn't been for a 
 ind friend that set me up in my own 
 imiture, in the Fulham Workhouse, 
 
 might have been at this moment, 
 astways St. George's, which that's 
 y legal settlement — and that blessed 
 jy — [She cries] 
 
 Sam [gaily]. In a suit of grey 
 itoes, a-stepping out with another 
 lap, a big 'un and a little 'un together, 
 te a job lot at an auction, to church 
 ' a Sunday, to such a joUy long ser- 
 on ! shouldn't I like it ! [Consolingly, 
 id changing his tone] I say, don't cry, 
 'anny, we ain't come to skiUy yet. 
 Mes. Willoughby. Which if that 
 rang man knew the mischief he'd done. 
 Mat. Perhaps he does, and is sorry 
 r it. [They rise — he goes to back] 
 
 Mes. Willotjghby. Not he, the 
 retch! What do the likes o' them 
 tre for the poor creatures they robs 
 -hangin's too good for 'em, the 
 llains. 
 
 Beibbly [taking his hat, and going]. 
 ood-bye. May. 
 May. You're not going? 
 Bbieely. I've a little bit of busi- 
 sss that can't wait — some money to 
 ly- 
 
 May. You'll not be long? 
 Beieely. No ; I'll be back directly. 
 [side] Thank heaven, I can make it 
 ' to her ! [Exit Bhieely] 
 
 May. [Aside] Poor fellow ! he can't 
 iar it ! she little thinks — 
 Mes. Willoughby. You'U excuse 
 e, it's not often I talk about it. Miss 
 awards, which it's no use a^cryin' 
 'er spilt milk, and there's them as 
 
 temjjers the wind to the shorn lamb — 
 and if it wasn't for that boy ^- 
 
 Sam. There, she's at me again. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Which if I'd 
 only the means to put him to school, 
 and out of the streets, and clear of that 
 Jim Miggles and them rats — 
 
 Sam [half crying]. Bother the rats ! 
 
 May. You see, Sam, how unhappy 
 you make your grandmother. 
 
 Sam. And don't you see how un- 
 happy she makes me, talkin' of sendin' 
 me to school. 
 
 May [forcing him to Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby]. Come, kiss her, and promise 
 to be a good boy. Ah, Sam, you don't 
 understand the blessing of having one 
 who loves you as she does. 
 
 Sam. Then, what does she break my 
 pipes for? 
 
 Mes. Willoughby. Oh, them pipes ! 
 
 [A knock] 
 
 May. More visitors ! What a busy 
 morning this is ! Come in ! 
 
 [Enter Mb. Gibson] 
 
 •eh? 
 
 Mb. Gibson. Miss Edwards - 
 
 May. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mb. Gibson. Glad I'm right — I 
 thought it was the third floor front — 
 a woman told me downstairs. I'm 
 afraid I puUed the wrong beU. 
 
 [Looks about him, takes off his 
 hat, gloves, etc. — May sets 
 him a chair; he sits] 
 
 Mes. Willoughby. And a nice 
 way Mrs. MoUoy would be in if you 
 brought her down to another party's 
 beU, which, asking your pardon, sir, 
 but was it the first floor as opened the 
 street door? 
 
 Mb. Gibson. I don't know. It was 
 a lady in a very broad cap border and 
 still broader brogue. 
 
 Mbs. Willoughby. Which that is 
 the party, sir, as I was a^speakin' of; 
 and I do 'ope she didn't fly out, sir, 
 which Mrs. Molloy of a morning — 
 after her tea — she says it's the tea — 
 is that rampageous — 
 
 Mb. Gibson. No, no ; she was civil 
 enough when I said I wanted Miss 
 Edwards. 
 
 Mes. Willoughby. Which I do 
 believe, my dear, you've bewitched 
 every soul in the 'ouse, from the kitchens 
 to the attics. 
 ■ Me. Gibson. Miss Edwards don't 
 confine her witchcraft to your lodgers, 
 my good lady. She's bewitched my 
 wijfe. My name's Gibson. 
 
244 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mat. Oh., sir; I've never been 
 able to say what I felt to your good, 
 kind lady; but I hope you will teU 
 her I am grateful. 
 
 Me. Gibson. She knows it by the 
 return you have made. You've showed 
 you deserved her kindness. For fifty 
 people ready to help, there's not one 
 worth helping — that's my conclusion. 
 I was teUing my wife so this morning, 
 and she insisted that I should come 
 and satisfy myself that she had helped 
 one person at any rate who was able 
 and willing to help herseU, [Looks at 
 her] and a very tidy, nice looking girl 
 you are, [Goes up round table and comes 
 down] and a very neat, comfortable 
 room you have, I must say. 
 
 Mrs. Willotjghby. Which you can 
 tell your good lady, sir, from me. Miss 
 Edwards' rent were always ready to the 
 days and minits — as I was telling her 
 brother just now. 
 
 Me. Gibson. Brother? My wife 
 said you were alone in the world. 
 
 Mat. I was alone, sir, when she 
 found me. He was [She hesitates] 
 away. 
 
 Me. Gibson [pointing to Sam, who 
 has put down a chair and is balancing 
 himself acrobatically]. Is this the young 
 gentleman ? 
 
 [Sam pitches over with chair, and 
 Mes. Willoughbt lugs him up] 
 
 Mes. Willoughbt. Oh, dear no, 
 sir, begging your pardon, which that is 
 my grandson, Samuel WUloughby, the 
 only one of three, and will be fifteen 
 the twenty-first of next April at eight 
 o'clock in the morning, and a growing 
 boy — which take your cap out of 
 your mouth, Samuel, and stand straight, 
 and let the gentleman see you. 
 
 [Me. Gibson sits] 
 
 Sam [sulkily]. The old gent can 
 see well enough — it don't want a 
 telescope. [Slinks across at back] I 
 ain't a-going to be inspected. I'll 
 mizzle. [Takes flying leap over chair] 
 
 [Exit Sam] 
 
 Mes. Willoughby. Which Miss Ed- 
 wards' brother is grown up, and only 
 come back this blessed mornin' as 
 ever was, discharged from Her Majesty's 
 Service, and five foot nine in his shoes, 
 by the name of Robert — which, well 
 he may, for a sweeter complexion — 
 
 Me. Gibson. With a good char- 
 acter, I hope. 
 
 May. Oh, yes! [Eagerly] the very 
 best, sir. 
 
 [Re-enter Bbieely] 
 
 Beierlt. [Aside] I've done itl I 
 can face her now. 
 
 Me. Gibson. So — [Rises] I sup- 
 pose this is Robert, a likely young 
 feUow. 
 
 Mat. This is Mr. Gibson, Robert, 
 the husband of the lady who was so 
 good to me. 
 
 Beierlt. Heaven bless her and 
 you too, sir, for your kindness to this 
 poor girl, while I was unable to help her. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. But now you've got 
 your discharge, she'U have a protector. 
 
 Beierlt. I hope so, sir — as long 
 as I live, and can earn a crust — I 
 suppose I shall be able to do that. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. What do you mean to 
 do? 
 
 Beieelt. Ah, there it is ; I wish 1 
 knew what I could get to do, sir. 
 There are not many things in the way 
 of work that would frighten me, I 
 think. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. That's the spirit I 
 like — your sister speaks well of you, 
 but I shouldn't mind that. It's enough 
 for me that you've come out of [Beibhlt 
 looks startled] Her Majesty's Service 
 with a good character. [Beierlt gives 
 a sigh of relief] You write a good 
 hand? 
 
 [Mat goes up and round table — 
 gets letters from box — comes 
 down] 
 
 Beierlt. Tolerably good, sir. 
 
 Mat. Beautiful, sir : here are some 
 of his letters — look, sir. [Going lo 
 shew him, but pauses, seeing date of 
 letter] Portland ! — not this, sir. 
 [Turns page] This side is better written. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. A capital hand. Can 
 you keep accounts? 
 
 Brierlt. Yes, sir, I helped to 
 keep the books — yonder. 
 
 [Re-enter Sam, who comes over rapidly 
 at back, to Mrs. Willoughbt] 
 
 Sam. Holloa, granny, here's a parcel 
 I found for you in the letter-box — 
 ain't it heavy, neither. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. For me? 
 [Takes it] Whatever is it? Eh! 
 money? Oh! Sam, you ha'n't been 
 and gone and done anything wrong? 
 
 Sam. Bother! Do you think if I 
 
 had I'd a come to you with the swag? 
 
 [Mrs. Willoughbt, who has 
 
 opened the packet, screams, and 
 
 lets a paper fall from the packet] 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 245 
 
 May. What's the matter, Mrs. Wil- 
 mghby? 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Sovereigns ! real 
 olden sovereigns ! 
 
 fciBSON.jSoweigns! 
 
 Sam. Oh, crikey! 
 
 [Goes up and down in exultation] 
 
 May [picks up the paper Mbs. 
 ifiLLonoHBY has let fall]. Here's a note 
 -"For Mrs. WiUoughby — £20 in 
 ayment of an old debt." 
 
 Me. Gibson [who has seated him- 
 ilf and begun to write, rises and comes 
 own]. Yes, and no signature. Come, 
 on't faint, old lady ! Here, give her a 
 lass of water. [To May] 
 
 Mbs. Willoughby [recovering]. 
 overeigns ! for me ? Oh, sir, let me 
 )ok at 'em — the beauties — eight, 
 ine, ten, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, 
 wenty ! Just the money I lost. 
 
 Sam. There, granny — I always said 
 '6 was oomin' into our fortune. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby [viith a sudden 
 ash of doubt]. I shouldn't wonder if it 
 as some nasty ring-dropper. Oh! 
 re they Bank of Elegance, or only 
 ilt washed? Which I've seen 'em at 
 ondon Bridge a-seUin' sovereigns at a 
 enny a-piece. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Oh, no ! they're the 
 3al thing. 
 
 Briehly. Perhaps it's somebody 
 lat's wronged you of the money and 
 ants you to clear his conscience. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Ah! eccentric people 
 iU do that sort of thing — ■ even with 
 loome tax. Take my advice, old lady, 
 eep the cash. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Which in course 
 
 gentleman like you knows best, and 
 m sure whoever sent the money, all 
 
 wish is, much good may it do him, 
 ad may he never know the want of it. 
 
 Bribrly. Amen ! 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Which, first and 
 ffemost — there's my silver teapot, 
 11 have out of pawn this blessed day, 
 ad I'U ask Mrs. MoUoy to a cup of 
 ia in my best blue chaney, and then 
 lis blessed boy shall have a year of 
 aishin' school. 
 
 Sam. I wish tl^e party had kept his 
 loney, I do ! [Mrs. Willouohby is 
 mnting the sovereigns over and over] 
 
 say, granny, you couldn't spare a 
 sung chap a couple of them, could 
 
 3U? 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Drat the boy's 
 iperenoe ! Him asMn' for sovereigns 
 
 as natural — Ah ! they'll all be for 
 you, Sam, one of these days. 
 
 Sam. I should like a little in ad- 
 vance. 
 
 [Sam makes a grab at the sover- 
 eigns playfully, and runs, fol- 
 lowed by Mrs. Willoughby, 
 whom he dodges behind a chair 
 
 — Mb. Gibson writes at table]. 
 Mrs. Willoughby [half -hysteria 
 
 cally, throwing herself into a chair]. Oh ! 
 Sam, which that boy wiU be the death 
 of his poor grandmother, he will. 
 
 Sam [jumping over chair-back, on 
 which he perches, gives back money and 
 kisses her]. There, granny, it was only 
 a lark. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby [admiringly and 
 affectionately]. Oh, what a boy you are 1 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Willoughby and 
 Sam] 
 
 Mb. Gibson [gives note to Brierly]. 
 Here, young man, bring this note to 
 my ofQee, 25 St. Nicholas-lane, at ten 
 o'clock to-morrow. I've discharged my 
 messenger — we'U see if you are fit for 
 the place. 
 
 Beibelt. Oh, sir! 
 
 Mr. Gibson. There — there — don't 
 thank me. [Crosses to Mat] I like 
 gratitude that shews itself in acts like 
 yours to my wife. Let's hope your 
 brother wiU repay me in the same coin. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Mat. Robert, the money has 
 brought us a blessing already. 
 
 [He takes her in his arms exultingly 
 
 — music, piano] 
 
 END OP SECOND ACT 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene. — Me. Gibson's Bill-broking 
 Office in Nicholas-lane, City — a 
 mahogany railing runs up the 
 stage, separating compartment (in 
 which stand across the stage two 
 large mahogany desks, set round 
 with wire and a brass rail at the 
 top to. support books) from the com- 
 partment at the side of which is the 
 door leading to Mb. Gibson's 
 private office — in front of the 
 compartment runs a mahogany coun- 
 ter, with a place for writing at, 
 divided off — a large iron safe for 
 books — another safe near door — 
 door communicating with passage 
 
246 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 and street — a small desk down 
 stage — two windows]. 
 [As the curtain rises, Sam is discovered 
 carrying the ledgers out of safe, 
 through an entrance in the railing 
 to compartment, and arranging them 
 on the desks — Bbierly is dis- 
 covered at the counter numbering 
 cheques in a cheque-book] 
 
 Sam. There they are, all ship-shape. 
 I say, Bob, if granny could see these 
 big chaps, [Whilst carrying ledgers] all 
 fuU of £ s d, and me as much at home 
 with them as old Miggles with his toy 
 terriers. [Puts books on desk and returns] 
 
 Bribblt. Only the outsides, Sam — 
 fifty — fifty-one — 
 
 Sam. Everything must have a be- 
 ginning. I'm only under messenger 
 now, at six bob a week — but it's the 
 small end of the wedge. I don't mean 
 to stay running errands and dusting 
 books long, I can tell you. I intend 
 to speculate — I'm in two tips already. 
 
 Brierly. Tips ? 
 
 Sam. Yes. [Takes out betting book] 
 I stand to win a fiver on Pollux for the 
 Derby, and a good thing on the Count 
 for the Ascot Cup — they were at 
 Pollux last week, but he's all right 
 again, and the Count's in splendid 
 form, and the stable uncommon sweet 
 on him. 
 
 Bbierly. Bring me those pens. 
 [As Sam comes to him with the pens he 
 catches him by the collar and shakes 
 him] You young rascal ! — Now, you 
 mark me, Master Sam. If ever I 
 hear of you putting into a tip again, 
 I'll thrash you within an inch of your 
 life, and then I'll split on you to Mr. 
 Gibson, and he'U discharge you. 
 
 Sam. Now I call that mean. One 
 City gent interfering with another 
 City gent's amusements. 
 
 Brierly [bitterly]. Amusements ! 
 When you've seen as much as I have, 
 you'll know what comes of such amuse- 
 ments, lad. 
 
 Sam. As if I didn't know well 
 enough already. Lark, lush, and a 
 latch-key — a swell rig out, and lots 
 of ready in the pockets — a drag at 
 Epsom, and a champagne lunch on the 
 hill ! Oh, my — ■ ain't it stunning ! 
 
 Bbierly. Ah! Sam, that's the fancy 
 picture — mine is the true one. Ex- 
 citement first, then idleness and drink, 
 and then bad companions — sin — 
 shame , — and a prison. 
 
 Sam. Come, I don't want to be 
 preached to in office hours — Granny 
 gives me quite enough of that at home 
 — ain't it a bore, just ! 
 
 Bribbly. Oh, my lad, take my 
 advice, do ! Be steady — stick to work 
 and home. It's an awful look-out for 
 a young chap adrift in this place, with- 
 out them sheet-anchors. 
 
 [Returns to counter] 
 
 Sam. Oh, I ain't afraid. I cut my 
 eye-teeth early. Tips ain't worse than 
 time bargains — and they're business. 
 [Crosses at back] But don't look glum, 
 Bob, you're the right sort, yoU' are, 
 and sooner than rile you I'll cut tips, 
 burn "Bell's Life," and take to Capel 
 Court and the "Share List," and that's 
 respectable, you know. 
 
 [Sits on counter] 
 
 Brierly [looking over cheque book]. 
 You young rascal ! you've made me 
 misnumber my cheques. 
 
 Sam. Serves you joUy well right, 
 for coming to business on your wedding 
 day. 
 
 Brierly. Oh ! I've two hours good 
 before I'm wanted for that. 
 
 Sam. I say. Bob, you don't mean 
 to say you've been to the Bank for the 
 petty cash this morning? 
 
 Brierly. Yes. 
 
 Sam. And didn't leave the notes on 
 the counter? 
 
 Bbierly. No. 
 
 Sam. And didn't have your pocket 
 picked? 
 
 Bbiebly. No. 
 
 Sam. Well, you are a cool hand. 
 I've often wondered how the poor chaps 
 in Newgate managed to eat a good 
 breakfast before they're tm-ned oft. 
 But a fellow coming to office the morn- 
 ing he's going to be spliced — and 
 when the Governor has given him a 
 holiday, too — by Jove, it beats the 
 Old Bailey by lengths. I hope I shall 
 be as cool when I'm married. 
 
 Bbierly. You — you young cock- 
 sparrow ! 
 
 Sam. Yes. I've ordered the young 
 woman I want down at Birmingham, 
 Miss Edwards ain't my style. 
 
 Bbiebly. No — isn't she though? 
 I'm sorry it's too late to have her 
 altered. 
 
 Sam. She's too quiet — wants go. 
 I like high action. Now I call Mrs. 
 Jones a splendid woman. Sam Wil- 
 l9ughby, Esquire, must have a real 
 tip-top lady. I don't mean to marry 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 247 
 
 ill I can go to church with my own 
 irougham. 
 
 Briebly. I surpose that means 
 rhen you've set up as a crossing 
 weeper. And now, Sam, till your 
 rougham comes round for you, just 
 rot off to the stationer's and see if 
 Ir. Gibson's new bill-case is ready. 
 
 Sam [vaulting over the counter, sees 
 Iay through the glass door]. All right, 
 [ere's Miss Edwards adeeming in full 
 Dg. I twig — I ain't wanted. Quite 
 orreet — Samivel is fly. 
 
 [Puis his finger to his nose and 
 Exit] 
 
 [Enter Mat in wedding dress] 
 
 Bbieblt. Ah, May, darling! 
 
 [Takes her by the hand and kisses 
 her] 
 Sam [looking in]. I saw you ! 
 
 [Exit] 
 Bbieblt. Hang that boy ! But 
 ever mind his impudence, my own 
 ttle wife. 
 
 Mat. Not yet, sir. 
 Briebly. In two hours. 
 May. There's many a slip between 
 le cup and the lip, you know. But 
 i the clerks aren't come yet, I thought 
 might just look in and shew you — • 
 
 [Displays her dress] 
 Bbiebly. Your wedding gown ! 
 Mat. Yes. It's Mrs. Gibson's pres- 
 it, with such a kind note — and she 
 isists on providing the wedding break- 
 ;St — and she's sent in the most 
 sautiful cake, and flowers from their 
 im conservatory. My little room 
 oks so pretty. 
 
 Bbieblt. It always looks pretty 
 hen thou art in it. I shall never 
 iss the sun, even in Nicholas Lane, 
 'ter we are married, darling. 
 Mat. Oh! Robert, won't it be 
 shghtful? Me, housekeeper here, and 
 3U, messenger, and such a favourite 
 10 ! And to think we owe all to these 
 )od, kind, generous — There's only 
 le thing I can't get off my mind. 
 Bbieblt. What's that? 
 Mat. Mr. Gibson doesn't know the 
 uth about you. We should have 
 Id him before this. 
 
 Bbiebly. It's hard for a poor chap 
 lat's fought clear of the mud, to let 
 ) the rope he's holding to and slide 
 ick again. I'U teU him when I've 
 len long enough here to try me, only 
 lit a bit. 
 Mat. Perhaps you are right, dear. 
 
 Sometimes the thought comes like a 
 cloud across me. But you've never 
 said how you like my dress. 
 
 [Displaying it] 
 
 Beierlt. I couldn't see it for look- 
 ing at thy bonny face — but it's a 
 grand gown. 
 
 Mat. And my own making I I for- 
 got — Mrs. Jones is come, and Mrs. 
 Willoughby. They're going to church 
 with us, you know — Emily looks so 
 nice — she would so like to see the 
 office, she says, if I might bring her in? 
 
 Bbieblt. Oh, yes! the place is free 
 to the petticoats till business hours. 
 
 Mat [crosses and calls at door]. 
 Come in, EmUy. 
 
 [Enter Mbs. Green Jones] 
 
 Emilt. Oh! Mr. Brierly. 
 
 May. While Robert does the hon- 
 ours of the offlce, I'll go and help 
 Mrs. Willoughby to set out the break- 
 fast. The white service looks so lovely, 
 Robert, and my canary sings as I 
 haven't heard him since I left the old 
 lodgings. He knows there's joy in 
 the wind. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt [calling without]. 
 Miss Edwards ! 
 
 May. There! I'm wanted. I'm 
 coming, Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, dear! 
 (If I'd known the trouble it was to be 
 married, I don't think I should have 
 ventured. I'm coming. [Exit] 
 
 Emilt \who has been looking about 
 her]. I did so want to see an office — 
 a real one, you know. I've seen 'em 
 set on the stage often, but they ain't 
 a bit like the real thing. 
 
 Bbieblt. They are but duU places. 
 Not this one, though, since May's been 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Emilt. Yes, they are dull, but so 
 respectable — look so like money, you 
 know. I suppose, now, there's no end 
 of money passes here? 
 
 Bbieblt. A hundred thousand 
 pounds a day, sometimes. 
 
 Emilt. Gracious goodness ! All in 
 sovereigns ? 
 
 Bbieblt. Not a farthing — aU in 
 cheques and bills. We've a few thou- 
 sands, that a queer, old-fashioned de- 
 positor insists on Mr. Gibson keeping 
 here, but, except that, and the petty 
 cash, there's no hard money in the 
 place. 
 
 Emilt. Dear me! I thought you 
 City people sat on stools all day shovel- 
 ling sovereigns about. Not that I 
 
248 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 could bear to think of Jones sitting 
 on a stool aU day, even to shovel 
 about sovereigns, though he always 
 says something in the City would 
 suit him better than the comic duet 
 business. But he doesn't know what's 
 good for him — never did, poor fellow. 
 
 Beierly. Except when he married 
 you. 
 
 Emily. Well, I don't know about 
 that, but I suppose he would have 
 got through the property without me 
 
 — he's so much the gentleman, you 
 know. 
 
 Bbiebly. He's coming to church 
 with us? 
 
 Emily. Oh, yes ! You know he's to 
 give away the bride. But he was 
 obliged to keep an appointment in the 
 City first ; so queer for Jones, wasn't 
 it? He wouldn't tell me what it was. 
 
 Green [heard without]. Two and 
 six, my man. Very good, wait. 
 
 Brierly. Here's your husband ! 
 
 Emily [looking through door]. In 
 a cab — and a new coat, and waist- 
 coat, and trousers ! Oh, Jones ! Well, 
 I sha'n't pay for them. 
 
 [Enter Green Jones in a gorgeous new 
 suit] 
 
 Geeen [speaking off]. Now, hand 
 me out those parcels — yah, stupid, 
 give me hold. [Hands in parcels one 
 by one] Here, bear a hand. 
 
 [He pitches parcels to Brieely, 
 
 who pitches them on to Mrs. 
 
 Green Jones, who deposits 
 
 them on the counter] 
 
 Emily. [As first bonnet box comes in] 
 
 Jones ! [As second bonnet box comes in] 
 
 Green! [As case of Eau-de-Cologne 
 
 comes in] Green Jones ! [Glove box 
 
 comes in] Oh ! [Two bouquets in paper 
 
 are given in] Gracious goodness ! 
 
 Green. There — all out. Let's see 
 
 — bonnets, Eau-de-Cologne, gloves, 
 bouquets — seven ten ; two and six 
 the cab — my own togs, five ten — 
 that's thirteen two and six in all. 
 
 Emily. Jones, are you mad? 
 
 Green. Is your principal here, 
 Brierly ? 
 
 Beierly. The Governor? No, it's 
 not his time yet. 
 
 Green. [En attendant] You 
 couldn't advance me thirteen two six, 
 could you? 
 
 Beierly. What! lend you the 
 money? I'm afraid — 
 
 Emily [reproachfully]. Oh, Jones ! 
 
 Green. Emily, be calm. It's not 
 the least consequence. They can wait 
 — the shopman, I mean — that is — 
 the two shopmen and cabby. 
 
 Emily. Oh, he's gone crazy ! 
 
 Green. The fact is, I've had a 
 windfall. Choker Black has turned up 
 trumps. He was put in the hole in 
 California's year, had to bolt to Aus- 
 traUa — struck an awfully fuU pocket 
 at the diggings, and is pajdng off his 
 old ticks like an emperor. He let me 
 in for two thousand, and he has sent 
 me bills for five hundred, as a first 
 instalment. 
 
 Emily. Five hundred ! And you've 
 got the money? 
 
 Geeen. I've got the bihs on his 
 agent. Here they are. Emily, em- 
 brace your husband ! [He kisses her] 
 
 Beieely. I wish you joy — both of 
 you. Mr. Gibson will discount the 
 biUs for you as soon as he comes in. 
 
 Geeen. But, I say, cash, you know, 
 no curious sherry — no old masters, or 
 patent filters — I've had rather too 
 much of that sort of thing in my time. 
 
 Emily [who has been peeping into 
 bonnet box]. What a duck of a bonnet ! 
 
 Brierly. No, you're not among 
 your old sixty per cent, friends here. 
 We only do good bills at the market 
 rate. 
 
 Emily [who has opened glove box] 
 And what loves of gloves ! 
 
 Green. That's your sort. I feel 
 now the full value of the commercial 
 principle. 
 
 Emily. Oh, Green ! But you'll be 
 careful of the money? 
 
 Green. Careful ! I'm an altered 
 man. Henceforth I swear — you'll 
 allow me to register a vow in your 
 olHoe ? — to devote myself to the 
 virtuous pursuit of money-making. 
 I'm worth five hundred pounds, I've 
 fifteen hundred more coming in. — 
 Not one farthing of that money shall 
 go in foolish extravagance. 
 
 Emily. But how about these things, 
 Jones ? 
 
 Green. Trifles ; — a cadeau de noce 
 for the ladies, and a case of Eau-de- 
 Cologne for myself. I've been running 
 to seed so long, and want watering bo 
 much. 
 
 [Sprinkles himself with Eavrder 
 Cologne] 
 
 Emily. Oh dear. Green ! I'm afraid 
 you're as great a fool as ever. 
 
 Brierly. Nay, nay, Mrs. Jones — 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 249 
 
 ) man's a fool with £500 in his pocket, 
 ut here come the clerks ; — band-boxes 
 id bouquets ain't busines^Uke. You 
 ust carry these down to May. 
 Green [loading Emily with the 
 ircels]. Beg her acceptance of a 
 jnnet, a bouquet, and a box of Fiver's 
 iven and a quaxter ; — and accept the 
 ,me yourself, from yours ever affeo- 
 onately, G. J. 
 
 [Tries to kiss her over the parcels 
 
 but cannot] 
 
 Emilt [from over the parcels]. Oh, 
 
 ) along with your nonsense ! I'U 
 
 ve you one down stairs. [Exit] 
 
 inter Mh. Bukton and Mb. Shabpe, 
 clerks] 
 
 Sharpb. Good morning. Governor 
 )me yet? 
 
 Bbieelt. Not yet, Mr. Sharpe; 
 's getting near his time, though. 
 
 [Clebks hang up their hats, 
 coats, etc., and seat themselves 
 at desks] 
 Shabpe. [To Mr. Geeen _ Jones] 
 an we do anything for you, sir? 
 Bbieblt [indicating Gbben Jones]. 
 Ms gentleman's waiting to see Mr. 
 ibson. Here he is. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Gibson] 
 
 Mr. Gibson [rubbing his feet on 
 <,e mat]. Good morning, morning, Mr. 
 tarpe — good morning, Biu-ton. 
 Tell, Robert — didn't expect to find 
 ou at the office this morning. 
 
 Bribrlt. Here's a gentleman wait- 
 ig for you, sir, on business. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. If you'll walk into my 
 )om, sir? 
 
 [Exit Geeen Jonbs into Me. 
 Gibson's room] 
 
 Bbieelt. I thought I might as well 
 umber the cheques, sir, and go for 
 le petty cash. Somehow, I felt I 
 louldn't like anything to go wrong 
 )-day. 
 
 Me. Gibson. Well, that's a very 
 roper feeling. I hope May likes my 
 ife's present. She is a flrst-rate 
 ousekeeper; though she did call you 
 er brother, the httle rogue — and I've 
 rery reason to be satisfied with you. 
 
 Bbieelt. I'm right proud of that, 
 r. 
 
 Mb. Gibson. You won't mind my 
 iving you a word of advice on your 
 edding-day? Go on as you've be^n 
 -keep a bright eye and an enquiring 
 mgue in your head — learn how busi- 
 
 ness is done — watch the market — 
 and from what I've seen of you the six 
 months you've been here, I shouldn't 
 wonder if I found a better berth than 
 messenger for you one of these days. 
 
 Beiebly. Mr. Gibson — -sir — I 
 can't thank you — but a look-out like 
 that — it takes a man's breath away. 
 
 Me. Gibson. In the City there's 
 no gap between the first round of the 
 ladder and the top of the tree. But 
 that gentleman's waiting. [Pauses — 
 goes to door] By-the-way! I expect a 
 call from a Mr. Hawkshaw. 
 
 Bbieelt [starting]. Hawkshaw ! 
 
 Me. Gibson. Yes, the famous de- 
 tective. Shew Mm in when he comes. 
 I've a particular appointment with him. 
 [Exit Me. Gibson into his own 
 room] 
 
 Bbieelt. Hawkshaw coming here! 
 The principal witness against me at 
 my trial. Perhaps he won't know me 
 
 — I'm much changed. But they say, 
 at Portland, he never forgets a face. 
 If he knows me, and tells Mr. Gibson, 
 he'll discharge me — and, to-day, just 
 when we looked to be so happy! It 
 would break May's heart. But why 
 should I stay? I'm free for the day 
 
 — I will not wait to meet my rmn. 
 
 [Going] 
 
 [Enter Hawkshaw] 
 
 Hawkshaw. Mr. Gibson within? 
 
 Bbieelt. Yes, sir, but he has a 
 gentleman with him. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Take in my name. 
 
 [Writes on a card with pencil and 
 gives it to Bbieelt] 
 
 Beibelt [takes card and, crossing, 
 sees name on it — Aside]. Hawkshaw! 
 It is too late ! Would you hke to 
 look at the paper, sir? 
 
 [Offers him one from desk] 
 
 Hawkshaw [as he takes it, gives a 
 keen look of recognition at Bbieelt, who 
 shrinks under his eye, but represses his 
 agitation by an effort]. I've seen you 
 before, I tmnk? 
 
 Beieblt. I don't recollect you, sir. 
 
 Hawkshaw [carelessly]. Perhaps 
 I'm wrong — though I've a good mem- 
 ory for faces. Take in my card. 
 [Bbieelt goes off with card] It's Dal- 
 ton's pal — the youngster who got four 
 years for passing forged Bank of Eng- 
 land paper, at the BeUevue Tea 
 Gardens. I owe Master Dalton one 
 for that night yet. Back from Portland, 
 eh? Looks all the better for his 
 
250 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 schooling. But Portland's an odd shop 
 to take an ofi&oe messenger from. I 
 wonder if his employer got his character 
 from his last place. 
 
 [Re-enter Brieely] 
 
 Bribrlt. Mr. Gibson will see you 
 i.1 a moment, sir. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Very well. 
 
 [Gives him a look] 
 
 [Re-enter Green Jones from Mr. Gib- 
 son's room, with check] 
 
 Green. [To Bkiebly] All right ! 
 Market rate — and no old masters. 
 I'll drive to the bank — cash this — 
 settle with those counter-skippers, and 
 rattle back in time to see you turned 
 off. I say — you must allow me to 
 order a little dinner at the "Star and 
 Garter", and drive you down — aU 
 right, you know. Mail phaeton and 
 pair — your wife and my wife. I 
 want to show you the style G. J. used 
 to do it in. [Goes wp] Now, cabby, 
 puU round — [Speaking loudly] — Lon- 
 don Joint Stock Bank — best pace. 
 
 [Exit Green Jones] 
 
 Brierly. [Aside] He little thinks 
 what may be hanging over me. 
 
 Mr. Gibson [appearing at the door 
 of his room]. Now, Mr. Hawkshaw, I'm: 
 at your service. 
 
 Hawkshaw [returning Brierly the 
 paper]. Cool case of note-passing, that 
 at Bow-street, yesterday. [Brierly 
 winces — aside] It's my man, sure 
 enough. [Exit into Gibson's room] 
 
 Brierly. He knows me — I can 
 read it in his face — his voice. He'll 
 tell Mr. Gibson ! Perhaps he's telling 
 him now ! — I wish I'd spoken to him 
 — but they have no mercy. Oh, if 
 I'd only made a clean breast of it to 
 Mr. Gibson before this ! 
 
 [Enter Gibson and Hawkshaw from 
 Mr. Gibson's room] 
 
 Mr. Gibson. [To first clerk] Mr. 
 Sharpe, will you go round to the banks 
 and see what's doing? [Sharpe takes 
 his hat and exits] Mr. Burton, you'U 
 be just in time for morning's clearance. 
 
 Burton [Getting his hat — Aside]. 
 By Jove ! the Governor wants to make 
 a morning's clearance of us, I think. 
 I'm half an hour too soon for the 
 Clearing House. Time for a tip-top 
 game at billiards. [Exit] 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Robert! 
 
 [Writing at desk] 
 
 Brierly. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Before you leave, 
 just step round into Glynn's and get 
 me cash for this. You'll have time 
 enough before you're wanted down- 
 stairs, you rascal. 
 
 Brierly. [Aside] He knows noth- 
 ing. [Aloud] I'U be back in five 
 minutes, sir. 
 
 [As Gibson i^ about to give him 
 the cheque, Hawkshaw, who 
 is standing between Gibbon 
 and Brierly, interposes, and 
 takes cheque carelessly] 
 
 Hawkshaw. Your messenger, eh? 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Yes. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Had him long? 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Six months. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Good character? 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Never had a steadier, 
 soberer, better-behaved lad in the offlce. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Had you references 
 with him? 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Why, I think I took 
 him mainly on the strength of his own 
 good looks and his sweetheart's. An 
 honest face is the best testimonial after 
 aU. 
 
 Hawkshaw. H'm — neither is al- 
 ways to be relied on. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. You detectives would 
 suspect your own fathers. Why, how 
 you look at the lad. Come, you've 
 never had him through your hands. 
 
 [A pause] 
 
 Hawkshaw. No, he's quite a 
 stranger to me. [Turns away] Here's 
 the cheque, young man. Take care you 
 make no mistake about it. 
 
 Brierly. [Aside, going] Saved! 
 saved ! Heaven bless him for those 
 words. [Exit] 
 
 Hawkshaw. [Aside] Poor devil, 
 he's paid his debt at Portland. [AZouii] 
 Now to business. You say a bill 
 drawn by Vanzeller & Co., of Penang, 
 on the London Joint Stock Bank, was 
 presented for discount here, last night, 
 which you know to be a forgery? 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Yes. As it was after 
 hours the clerk told the presenter to 
 call this morning. 
 
 Hawkshaw. BiU forging is tip-top 
 work. The man who did this job 
 knows what he's about. We mustn't 
 alarm him. What time did the clerk 
 tell him to call? 
 
 Mr. Gibson. At eleven. 
 
 Hawkshaw. It's within five min- 
 utes. You go to your room. I'U take 
 my place at one of these desks as a 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 251 
 
 clerk, and send the customers in to 
 you. When the forged bill is pre- 
 sented, you come to the door and say, 
 loud enough for me to hear — "Van- 
 zeller and Co., Penang," — and leave 
 the rest to me. 
 
 Mr. Gibson [nervously]. Hadn't I 
 better have assistance within call ? 
 
 Hawkshaw. Oh dear no — I like 
 to work single-handed — but don't be 
 excited. Take it coolly, or you may 
 frighten the bird. [Goes to desk] 
 
 Mk. Gibson. Easy to say take it 
 Boolly! I haven't been thief catching 
 all my life. 
 
 [Exit Gibson into his room] 
 
 [Enter Moss] 
 
 Moss [at the counter, getting out 
 his bills]. Let me see — Spelter and 
 Wayne. Fifty, ten, three — thirty days- 
 after sight. That's commercial. [Ex- 
 %mining another bill] For two hundred 
 It two months — drawn by Captain 
 □rabbs — accepted the Honourable Au- 
 gustus Greenway : that's a thirty per 
 3enter. Better try that at another 
 ihop. [Takes out another] Mossop 
 md MiUs — good paper — ninety-nine, 
 sight, two — at sixty days. That'll 
 io here. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. [At door of his room] 
 Mr. Hawkshaw! 
 
 Hawkshaw. H— sh ! 
 
 [Warns him against using his 
 ' name, but obeys his call, and 
 
 goes in] 
 
 Moss [on hearing name]. Hawk- 
 !haw! [With a quick glance as Hawk- 
 shaw posses into Me. Gibson's room] 
 V detective here ! Ware — hawk ! 
 Alarmed, but recovering] Well, it ain't 
 ^i" nie — I'm all on the sg^uare, now. 
 f bills will go missing — it ain't me 
 hat steals 'em — Tiger does that — 
 .'m always a bond fide holder for value 
 - 1 can face any examination, I can. 
 Jut I should hke to know Hawkshaw' s 
 ittle game, and I shouldn't mind 
 poiUng it. [Re-enter Hawkshaw] 'Mr. 
 rtbson, if you please? 
 
 Hawkshaw. He's in his office, sir. 
 "l* Moss passes in he recognises him. 
 -Exit Moss] Melter Moss here! 
 /an he be the forger? He heard my 
 ame. Dear, dear, to think that a 
 usiness-man like Mr. Gibson should 
 e ^een enough to call a man like me 
 y his name. [Re-enter Moss] Here 
 e comes ; now for the signal. 
 
 [Goes to desk] 
 
 Moss [coming down with cheques 
 and bill book]. All right ! Beautiful 
 paper, most of it. One, two of 'em 
 fishy. Well, I'll try them_ three doors 
 down — they ain't so particular. 
 Hawkshaw. [Aside] No signal! 
 Moss. [In front of counter] If you'll 
 allow me, I'll take a dip of your ink, 
 young man — I've an entry to make in 
 my bill book. — [Hawkshaw pitches 
 him a pen] Thank you. 
 
 [Moss writes] 
 [Enter Dalton, dressed as a re- 
 spectable elderly commercial 
 man, in as complete contrast 
 as possible with his appear- 
 ance in First Act] 
 Dalton. Mr. Gibson? 
 
 [Takes out his bill case] 
 Hawkshaw. [At desk] You'U find 
 him in his office, sir. 
 
 Dai/Ton. [Aside] That's not the 
 young man I saw here yesterday 
 afternoon. [Aloud] Let me see first 
 that I've got the bill. 
 
 [Rumm,ages for bill] 
 
 Mobs [recognising Dalton]. Tiger 
 
 here, in his City get-up. Oh, oh! 
 
 If this should be Hawkshaw' s Uttle 
 
 game ! I'll drop him a Une. 
 
 [Writes, and passes paper secretly 
 
 to Dalton, with a significant 
 
 look, and taking care to keep 
 
 behind the railing of the counter] 
 
 Dalton [recognising him]. Moss! 
 
 [Taking paper, reads] "Hawkshaw's at 
 
 that desk." Forewarned, forearmed ! 
 
 [Goes up] 
 Moss [goes up]. There, I hope I've 
 spoiled Hawkshaw's little game. 
 
 [Exit Moss] 
 
 [Me. Gibson appears at door of office] 
 
 Me. Gibson. [About to 
 Hawkshaw again] Mr. — • 
 
 Hawkshaw [hastily interrupting 
 him]. H'sh ! a party wants to see you, 
 sir, if you could step this way, for a 
 moment. 
 
 Dalton. Would you oblige me, 
 Mr. Gibson, by looking very particu- 
 larly at this bill? 
 
 [Gives it to Gibson, who comes 
 down] 
 
 Mr. Gibson. "Vanzeller and Co., 
 Penang." [Glances at Hawkshaw, 
 aside, who crosses and seats himself at 
 desk] He don't stir! "Vanzeller and 
 Co., Penang." [Aside] Confound it, 
 I haven't made a blunder, have I ! 
 "VanzeUer and Co., Penang." 
 
252 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Hawkshaw prepares handcuffs 
 under the desk] 
 
 Dalton. Yes, a most respectable 
 firm. But all's not gold that glitters ; 
 I thought the paper as safe as you do ; 
 but, unluckily, I burnt my fingers 
 with it once before. You may or may 
 not remember my presenting a bill 
 drawn by the same firm for discount 
 two months ago. 
 
 Me. Gibson. Yes, particularly well. 
 
 Dalton. Well, sir, I have now dis- 
 covered that was a forgery. 
 
 Mk. Gibson. So have I. 
 
 Dalton. And I'm sadly afraid, be- 
 tween you and me. — By the way, I 
 hope I may speak safely before your 
 clerk? 
 
 Mb. Gibson. Oh, quite. 
 
 Dalton. I'm almost satisfied that 
 this bill is a forgery, too. The other 
 has been impounded, I hear. My 
 object in coming here yesterday was, 
 first to verify, if possible, the forgery 
 in the case of this second bill; and 
 next, to ask your assistance, as you 
 had given value for the first as well 
 as myself, in bringing the forger to 
 justice. 
 
 [Hawkshaw looks up as in douht] 
 
 Me. Gibson. Really, sir, — 
 
 Dalton. Oh, my dear sir ! If we 
 City men don't stand by each other in 
 these rascally cases ! But before tak- 
 ing any other step, there is one thing 
 I owe to myself, as well as to you, and 
 that is to repay you the amount of the 
 first forged bill. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. But you said you had 
 given value for it? 
 
 Dalton. The more fool I ! But if 
 I am to pay twice, that is no reason 
 you should be a loser. I've a memo- 
 randum of the amount here. [Looks 
 at his bill-book] Two hundred and 
 twenty — seven — - five. Here are 
 
 notes — two hundreds — a ten — 
 and two fives — seven — and one — 
 two — three. [Counting out copper] 
 
 Me. Gibson. Oh! pray, sir, don't 
 trouble yourself about the coppers. 
 
 Dalton. I'm particular in these 
 matters. Excuse me — it's a httle 
 peculiarity of mine — [Counting out 
 coppers] — three — four — five. "There ! 
 that's off my conscience! But you've 
 not examined the notes. 
 
 [Hawkshaw pockets handcuffs] 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Oh, my dear sir. 
 
 [Putting them up] 
 
 Dalton. Ah! careless; careless! 
 
 [Shakes his head] Luckily, I had en- 
 dors'd 'em. 
 
 Me. Gibson. Really, sir, I had 
 marked that two hundred and twenty 
 off to a bad debt a month ago. By 
 the way, I have not the pleasure of 
 knowing your name. 
 
 Dalton. Wake, sir — Theopilus 
 Wake, of the firm of Wake Brothers, 
 shippers and wharfingers, Limehouse 
 and Dock-street, Liverpool. We have 
 a branch establishment at Liverpool. 
 Here's our card. [Gives card] 
 
 Mr. Gibson. So far from expecting 
 you to repay the money, I thought 
 you were coming to bleed me afresh 
 with forged bill No. 2 — for a forgery 
 it is, most certainly. 
 
 Dalton. Quite natural, my dear 
 sir, quite natural — I've no right to 
 feel the least hurt. 
 
 Me. Gibson. And what's more, I 
 had a detective at that desk ready to 
 pounce upon you. 
 
 DAtTON. No, reaUy I 
 
 Me. Gibson. You can drop the 
 clerk, now, Mr. Hawkshaw. 
 
 [Hawkshaw comes down] 
 
 Dalton. Hawkshaw! Have I the 
 honour to address Mr. Hawkshaw, the 
 detective, the hero of the great gold 
 dust robberies, and the famous Trunk- 
 line-transfer forgeries ? [Crosses] 
 
 Hawkshaw. I'm the man, sir. 1 
 believe — [Modestly] 
 
 Dalton. Sir, the whole commercial 
 world owes you a debt of gratitude it 
 can never repay. I shall have to ask 
 your valuable assistance in discovering 
 the author of the audacious forgeries. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Have you any clue? 
 
 Dalton. I believe they are the 
 work of a late clerk of ours — • who got 
 into gay company, poor lad, and has 
 gone to the bad. He knew the Van- 
 zellers' signature, as they were old 
 correspondents of ours. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Is the lad in London? 
 
 Dalton. He was within a week. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Can you give me a 
 description of him ? Age — height — 
 hair — eyes — complexiou — last ad- 
 dress — haunts — habits — associates 
 — [Significantly] — any female con- 
 nexion? 
 
 Dalton. Unluckily I know very 
 little of him personally. My partner, 
 Walter Wake, can supply aU the in- 
 formation you want. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Where shall I And 
 him? 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 253 
 
 ■ Dalton. Here's our card. We'll 
 take a cab and question him at our 
 office. Or [As if struck by a sudden 
 thought] suppose you bring him here — 
 so that we may all lay our heads to- 
 gether. 
 
 Hawkshaw. You'll not leave this 
 office till I come back ? 
 
 Dalton. If Mr. Gibson will permit 
 me to wait. 
 
 Mb. Gibson. I shall feel extremely 
 obUged to you. 
 
 Hawkshaw. You may expect me 
 back in half an hour at fartherest — 
 [Going, returns] — egad, sir, you've 
 had a narrow escape. I had the 
 darbies open under the desk. 
 
 [Showing handcuffs] 
 
 Dalton. Ha, ha, ha! how very 
 pleasant. 
 
 [Takes and examines handcuffs 
 curiously] 
 
 Hawkshaw. But I'll soon be down 
 on this youngster. 
 
 Mb. Gibson. If only he hasn't left 
 London. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Bless you — they can't 
 leave London. Like the moths, they 
 turn and turn about the candle till 
 they burn the wings. 
 
 Dalton. Ah! thanks to men like 
 you. How httle society is aware of 
 what it owes its detective benefactors. 
 
 Hawkshaw. There's the satisfaction 
 of doing one's duty — and something 
 else, now and then. 
 
 Mb. Gibson. Ah! a good, round 
 reward. 
 
 Hawkshaw. That's not bad; but 
 there's something better than that. 
 
 Dalton. Indeed ! 
 
 Hawkshaw. Paying oft old scores. 
 Now, if I could only clinch the darbies 
 on Jem Dalton's wrists. 
 
 Dalton. Dalton! What's your 
 grudge against him in particular ? 
 
 Hawkshaw. He was the death of 
 my pal — the best mate I ever had — 
 poor Joe Skirrit. [Draws his hands 
 across his eyes] I shall never work 
 with such another. 
 
 Me. Gibson. Did he murder him? 
 
 Hawkshaw. Not to say murdered 
 him ri^ht out. But he spoiled him — 
 gave mm a clip on the head with a 
 neddy — a life-preserver. He was 
 never his own man afterwards. He 
 left the force on a pension, but he 
 grew sort of paralysed, and then got 
 queer in his head. I was sitting with 
 him the week before he died — "Jack," 
 
 he says, — it was Joe and Jack with us, 
 — "Jack," he says, "I lay my death at 
 the "Tiger's door" — that was the name 
 we had for Dalton in the force. ' ' You'll 
 look after him. Jack," he says, "for the 
 
 sake of your old mate." By , no, 
 
 I won't say what I said, but I promised 
 him to be even with Jem Dalton, and 
 I'U keep my word. 
 
 Dalton. You know this Dalton? 
 
 Hawkshaw. Know him ! He has 
 as many outsides as he has aliases. 
 You may identify him for a felon to- 
 day, and puU your hat off to him for a 
 parson to-morrow. But I'll hunt him 
 out of aU his skins ; — and my best 
 night's sleep will be the day I've 
 brought Jem Dalton to the dock! 
 
 Dalton. Mr. Hawkshaw, I wish 
 you every success ! 
 
 Hawkshaw. But I've other fish to 
 fry now. [Going up, looks at card] 
 Wake Brothers, Buckle's Wharf, Lime- 
 house. [Exit Hawkshaw] 
 
 Dalton. Ask anybody for our office. 
 [Aside] And if anybody can teU you 
 I shall be astonished. 
 
 [Following him up, then returning] 
 
 Mr. Gibson. I'm really ashamed to 
 keep you waiting, sir. 
 
 Dalton. Oh, I can write my letters 
 here. [Pointing to the counter] If you 
 don't mind trusting me all alone in 
 your office. 
 
 Mb. Gibson. My dear sir, if you 
 were Dalton himself — the redoubtable 
 Tiger — you couldn't steal ledgers and 
 day-books, and there's nothing more 
 valuable here — except, by the way, 
 my queer old depositor. Miss Faddle's, 
 five thousand, that she insists on my 
 keeping here in the office in gold, as 
 she believes neither in banks nor bank- 
 notes. — And, talking of notes, I may 
 as well lock up these you so hand- 
 somely paid me. [Ooes to safe] 
 
 Dalton. Not believe in notes ! In- 
 fatuated woman ! [Aside] I hope he'll 
 like mine. 
 
 Mb. Gibson [locks safe]. I'll leave 
 you to write your letters. 
 
 [Exit Mr. Gibson into his office] 
 
 Dalton. Phew! [Whistles low] 
 That's the narrowest shave I ever 
 had. So, Jack Hawkshaw, you'll be 
 even with Jem Dalton yet, will you? 
 You may add this day's work to the 
 score against him. How the old boy 
 swallowed my soft sawder and Brum- 
 magem notes ! They're beauties ! It 
 would be a pity to leave them in his 
 
254 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 hands — and five thousand shiners, 
 p'raps, alongside of 'em. Come — I've 
 my wax handy — never travel without 
 my tools. Here goes for a squeeze at 
 the lock of this safe. 
 
 [Goes to safe, and hy means of a 
 pick-lock applies wax to the 
 wards of the lock by the key- 
 hole. Music, piano] 
 
 [Enter Brieely] 
 
 Bhierlt [hangs up hat]. Clerks 
 not returned. Hawkshaw gone ? [Sees 
 Dalton at safe] HoUoa! who's this? 
 Tampering with the safe ! — Hold hard 
 there ! [He seizes Dalton, who turns] 
 
 Dalton. [Aside] Brierly! Hands 
 off, young 'un. Don't you know a 
 locksmith when you see him? 
 
 Bbieely. Gammon ! Who are you ? 
 How came you here? What are you 
 doing with that safe ? 
 
 Dalton. You ask a great deal too 
 many questions. 
 
 Brieblt. I'll trouble you to answer 
 'em. 
 
 Dalton. By what right ? 
 
 Brierly. I'm messenger in this 
 office, and I've a right to know who 
 touches a lock here. 
 
 Dalton. You messenger here? In- 
 deed! and suppose I took to asking 
 questions — you mightn't be so keen 
 of answering yourself — Robert Brierly ! 
 
 Brierly. You know me ! 
 
 Dalton. Yes. And your character 
 from your last place — Port — 
 
 Brierly [terrified]. Hush ! 
 
 Dalton. Your hair hasn't grown so 
 fast but I can see traces of the prison- 
 crop. 
 
 Brierly. For mercy's sake ! 
 
 Dalton. Silence for silence. Ask 
 me no questions and I'll press for no 
 answers. 
 
 Brierly. You must explain your 
 business here to Mr. 'Gibson. I sus- 
 pected you for a thief. 
 
 Dalton. And I know you for a 
 jail-bird. Let's see whose information 
 will go the farthest. There, I'll make 
 you a fair ofifer, Robert Brierly. Let 
 me pass, and I leave this place without 
 breathing a word to your employer 
 that you're fresh from a sentence of 
 penal servitude for four years. Detain 
 me, and I denounce you for the convict 
 you are ! [A knock at the door] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. [Without] Mr. 
 Brierly ! 
 
 Brierly. Hush ! Coming, Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby. 
 
 Dalton. Is it a bargain? 
 Brierly. Go — go — anything to 
 escape this exposure. 
 
 [Giving him his hat, etc., from 
 counter] 
 Dalton. [At door] There's Aby 
 Moss, waiting for me outside. He 
 shall blow the lad to Gibson. He may 
 be useful to us, and I owe him one 
 for spoiling my squeeze. 
 
 [Exit Dalton] 
 [Enter Mrs. Willoughby] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Which, I've to 
 ask pardon for intruding, not bein' 
 used to an office, and knowing my place 
 I 'ope. But it's gettin' on for a quarter 
 past eleven, Mr. Robert, and twelve's 
 the latest they will do it, and the break- 
 fast aU set out beautiful — and some 
 parties is a gettin' impatient, which 
 it's no more than natural, bless her, 
 
 and Sam that rampagious But 
 
 whatever's the matter? You look 
 struck aU of a heap like ! 
 
 Brierly. Oh, nothing, nothing. 
 It's natural, you know, a man shoiild 
 look queer on his wedding morning. 
 There, go and tell May I'll be with 
 her directly. 
 
 [Enter Sam] 
 
 Sam. Come along. Bob, we're all 
 tired of waiting, especially this child. 
 [Sings nigger song] Come along ! 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. [Admiringly] 
 Oh, that boy ! If it ain't enough to 
 make any grandmother's 'eart proud. 
 
 Brierly. Go — go — • I'll follow you 
 — I've some business matters to attend 
 to. 
 
 Sam. a nice state for business you're 
 in — -I don't think — There, granny. 
 [Looks at him] This is what comes of 
 getting married ! If it ain't an awful 
 warning to a young fellow like me! 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Drat your im- 
 perence. 
 
 Sam. But the party's waiting down 
 stairs, and we're wanted to keep 'em 
 in spirits, so come along, granny. 
 
 [Polks out with Mrs. Willoughby] 
 
 Brierly. Known ! Threatened ! 
 
 Spared by Hawkshaw — only to be 
 denounced by this man. 
 
 [Enter Moss] 
 
 Moss. Mr. Gibson, if you please? 
 Brierly. He's in his office, sir — 
 that way. [Points f-o open door] 
 
The Ticket-of-LeaDe Man 
 
 255 
 
 Moss. I remember the young man 
 now. A convict get himself into a 
 respectable situation! It is a duty 
 one owes to society to put his employer 
 on his guard. [Exit] 
 
 Bbierly. Yes — he's gone — I can 
 draw my breath again — I was wrong 
 to let mm go. But to have the cup 
 at one's lip, and see it struck away — 
 I couldn't — I couldn't — even the 
 detective had mercy. When we're 
 married, I'll tell Mr. Gibson all. 
 
 [Re-enter Moss and Mb. Gibson from 
 his office] 
 
 Moss. You can question him, sir, 
 if you don't believe me : any way I've 
 done my duty, and that's what I look 
 to. [Exit Moss] 
 
 Bbierlt. Here's the money for the 
 cheque, sir. 
 
 [Gibson takes money — Bribely 
 is going] 
 
 Mb. Gibson. Robert. 
 
 Brierly. Sir ! 
 
 Mb. Gibson. Where are you going ? 
 
 Brierly. To dress for church, sir. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Stay here. 
 
 Brierly. Sir 1 
 
 Mb. Gibson. You have deceived 
 me. 
 
 Brierly. Mr. Gibson ■ — 
 
 Mr. Gibson. I know all — your 
 srime — your conviction — your pun- 
 ishment ! 
 
 Brierly. Mercy! mercy! 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Unhappy young man. 
 
 Brierly. Ah! unhappy you may 
 ivell call me. I was sentenced, sir, 
 but I was not guilty. It's true, sir, 
 but I don't expect you to believe it 
 
 — I've worked out my sentence, sir 
 
 — they hadn't a mark against me at 
 Portland — • you may ask 'em — here's 
 ny tioket-of-leave, sir. You own I've 
 seen steady and industrious since I 
 same here. — By heaven's help I mean 
 ;o be so stiU — indeed I do. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. I dare say, but I 
 nust think of my own credit and ohar- 
 leter. If it was buzzed about that 
 L kept a tioket-of-leave man in my 
 implojTnent — 
 
 Enter Green Jones, May, Emily, 
 Mrs. Willotjghby and Sam] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Which, axin' 
 four pardon, Mr. Gibson, we're all 
 eady, and the cab is a-waitin' — 
 
 Sam. And the parson getting cold. 
 
 not 
 
 my 
 
 [Together] 
 
 May. Robert, why are you 
 dressed? What is the matter? 
 
 Brierly. Heaven help thee, 
 poor lass! 
 
 May. You are pale — you tremble 
 — you are iU ! Oh, speak ! what is it ? 
 
 Bbierly. Bear up. May. But our 
 marriage — cannot — be — yet — 
 awhile. 
 
 All. The wedding put off! 
 
 [May stands aghast] 
 
 Emily. No bonnets! 
 
 Mbs. Willotjghby. And 
 no breakfasts. 
 
 Green. By Jove ! 
 
 Sam. Here's a go ! 
 
 May. Am I dreaming? Robert, 
 what does this mean? 
 
 Brierly. It's hard to bear. Keep 
 up your heart — I'm discharged. He 
 knows all. 
 
 May. [To Gibson] Oh, sir, you 
 couldn't have the heart — say it was 
 not true. 
 
 Mr. Gibson. Sorry for it. You have 
 both deceived me — you must both 
 leave the place. 
 
 Brieblt. You hear? — Come, May. 
 
 May. I'U go, sir. It was I deceived 
 
 you, not he. Only give him a chance — 
 
 [Music — piano till end] 
 
 Brierly. Never heed her, sir. 
 She'd have told you long ago, but I 
 hadn't the heart — My poor lass! 
 Let her bide here, sir — I'll not trouble 
 you — I'll leave the country — I'll 'Hst. 
 
 May. Hush, hush, Robert! We 
 were wrong to hide the truth; we are 
 sorely punished — but if you've courage 
 to face what's before us, / have. 
 
 Bbiebly. My brave wench ! Thank 
 you for all your kindness, sir. Good- 
 bye, friends. Come, May, we'll go 
 together. 
 
 END OP act third 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene First. — Bridgewater Arms — A 
 large, gaily decorated Cofee-Room, 
 set out with tables and benches; a 
 bar crosses the corner of room, with 
 gaily painted hogsheads ranged 
 above it; • beer engine, etc., at the 
 head of bar; door to street in flat; 
 door to parlour, curtained windows 
 in flat; a piano; a trap leading 
 to cellar, practicable, up stage, near 
 
256 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 the end of the bar; table and three 
 chairs in front, table and benches] 
 
 [Moss, with bags of silver, and D ALTON 
 sealed at table. — Maltbt waiting 
 upon them] 
 
 Maltby. [At back of table] Pint of 
 sherry. [Putting it down] Very cu- 
 rious ! — Yes, Mr. Moss, it's a pleasure 
 to see you, sir, at the Bridgewater 
 Arms ; though it ain't the Bellevue 
 Gardens! worse luck! 
 
 Moss. Ah! ups and downs is this 
 lot of life, Mr. Maltby. You'll let me 
 know when Mr. Tottie comes ? 
 
 Maltby. Ah, the subcontractor for 
 the main sewer in the next street. Such 
 a nuisance ! stops all trafQc — 
 
 M OSS. But sends you all the navvies. 
 It's here they're taken on, and paid — 
 you know. 
 
 Maltby. Connexion not aristo- 
 cratic, but beery; we do four butts 
 a-week at the bar, to say nothing of 
 the concert room upstairs. 
 
 Dalton. What, the navvies like 
 music to their malt, do they? 
 
 Maltby. Oh, yes, sir ! I introduced 
 the arts from the West End. The 
 roughs adore music, especially selec- 
 tions from the Italian Opera, and as 
 for sentiment and sensation, if you 
 could hear Miss St. Evremond touch 
 them, up with the "Maniac's Tear", 
 the new sensation baUad, by a gifted 
 composer, attached to the establish- 
 ment, and sold at the bar, price one 
 shilling: why, we've disposed of three 
 dozen "Maniac's Tears" on a pay 
 night — astonishing how it goes down ! 
 
 Dalton. With the beer? 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Green Jones, door in flat, 
 and comes down. — She wears a 
 handsome evening dress under her 
 shawl] 
 
 Maltby [coming forward to her]. 
 Here comes Mrs. Jones — gentlemen, 
 this is the great and gifted creature I 
 was alluding to. 
 
 Emily. Go along with your non- 
 sense ! 
 
 Maltby. Miss St. Evremond, the 
 great sensation baUadist, formerly of 
 the NobiUty's Concerts, and her Maj- 
 esty's Theatre — [Aside] — in the bal- 
 let. 
 
 Moss. Proud to make the acquaint- 
 ance of so gifted an artiste. 
 
 Emily. You're very obliging, I'm 
 sure. [Taking off her bonnet and shawl, 
 
 and smoothing her hair. — To Maltby] 
 How's the room to-night? 
 
 Maltby. Tidy, but nothing to what 
 it will be. It's the navvies' pay-night, 
 you know. 
 
 Emily. Navvies! oh. Lord! [Sighs] 
 to think of Emily St. Evremond wasting 
 her sweetness upon an audience of 
 navigators ! 
 
 Dalton. They are not aristocratic, 
 but they are appreciative. 
 
 Emily. Yes! poor creatures! they 
 do know a good thing when they hear 
 it! [To Maltbt] 
 
 Dalton. If Miss St. Evremond will 
 oblige us with a ballad — 
 
 Maltby. " The Maniac's Tear." 
 
 Emily. If these gentlemen wouldn't 
 mind. 
 
 Dalton. On the contrary — we like 
 music; don't we. Moss? 
 
 Moss. I doat upon it; especially 
 Handel! 
 
 Emily. But where' s the accompan- 
 ist? 
 
 Maltby. I regret to say the signer 
 is disgracefully screwed! 
 
 Emily. Oh, never mind, Jones can 
 accompany me ! [Going up] Come in, 
 Green Jones; you're wanted! 
 
 [Maltby opens piano] 
 
 [Enter Green Jones with basket of 
 trotters, door in flat — they both 
 come down] 
 
 Green. In the trotter line, or the 
 tuneful? 
 
 Emily. To accompany me on the 
 piano ! [She arranges her hair] 
 
 Green. Till you're ready, these 
 gentlemen wouldn't like to try a trotter, 
 would they? A penny a set, and of 
 this morning's boiling — if I might 
 tempt you? They're deUeious with a 
 soupgon of pepper. 
 
 Maltby. No, no, Mr. Jones, these 
 are not your style of customers. 
 
 Green. Excuse me, Mr. Maltby, 
 I'm aware trotters are not known in 
 good society; but they go down as a 
 relish, even with people accustomed 
 to entries! I liked 'em as a swell 
 before I was reduced to them as a 
 salesman. 
 
 Maltby. [To Mrs. Green Jones] 
 Perhaps you'd give us the "Maniac's 
 Tear " ? 
 
 Emily. I can't do it without letting 
 down my back hair! 
 
 Dalton. Oh, down with the back 
 hair, by all means! 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 257 
 
 Emily. You're very kind. Jones! 
 Where's the glass? 
 
 [Jones produces a hand-glass 
 from basket — Emily arranges 
 her hair by glass] 
 Green [seating himself at the piano]. 
 One word of preface, gentlemen. It's 
 a sensation ballad ! scene — Criminal 
 Ward, Bedlam! Miss St. Evremond 
 is an interesting lunatic — with lucid 
 intervals. She has murdered her hus- 
 band — [Finds basket in his way] 
 Emmy ! if you'd just shift those trotters 
 
 — and her three children, and is sup- 
 posed to be remonstrating with one 
 of the lunacy commissioners on the 
 cruelty of her confinement! 
 
 [Music — Emily sings a sensor- 
 tion ballad, " The Maniac's 
 Tear", accompanied by her 
 husband — all applaud] 
 
 Maltby [goirig off]. Now — look 
 sharp, Miss St. Evremond. The Wis- 
 consin Warblers are at their last chorus. 
 [Exit Maltby] 
 
 Emily. [To her husband] Bye-bye, 
 dear, till after the concert — you know 
 I can't be seen speaking to you while 
 you carry that basket. 
 
 Gkeen. True — in the humble 
 trotter-man who would suspect the 
 husband of the brilliant St. Evremond! 
 There's something romantic in it — -I 
 hover round the room — I hear you 
 universally admired — visibly ap- 
 plauded — audibly adored. Oh, agony I 
 
 Emily. Now, Jones — you are going 
 to be jealous again! I do believe 
 jealousy's at the bottom of those 
 trotters ! 
 
 [Exit Mrs. and Mb. Green Jones] 
 
 Moss. Now's our time — while the 
 fools upstairs are having their ears 
 tickled. You've the tools ready for 
 jumping that crib in St. Nicholas 
 Lane? 
 
 Dalton. Yes, but tools ain't enough 
 
 — I must have a clear stage, and a 
 pal who knows the premises. 
 
 Moss. I've managed that — nobody 
 sleeps in the place but the old house- 
 keeper and her precious grandson. 
 
 Dalton. He's as sharp as a terrier 
 dog — and can bite too — a young 
 varmint. If I come across him!, 
 
 [Threateningly] 
 
 Moss. No occasion for that — 
 you're so violent. I've made the 
 young man's acquaintance. I've asked 
 him to meet me here to-night for a 
 quiet little game — his revenge, I 
 
 caUed it. I'll dose the lad till he's 
 past leaving the place. You drop a 
 hint to the old lady — she'll come to 
 take care of him. The coast will be 
 clear yonder. 
 
 Dalton. And the five thousand 
 shiners will be nailed in the turning of 
 a jemmy. If we had that young 
 Brierly in the job — he knows the 
 way about the place blindfold. But 
 he's on the square, he is — bent on 
 earning an honest livelihood. 
 
 Moss. But I've blown him wherever 
 he's got work. He must danoe to our 
 tune at last. 
 
 Dalton. Ah! if you've got him in 
 hand! Work him into the job, and 
 I'U jump the crib to-night. 
 
 Moss. He's applied to be taken on 
 at the contract works near here. This 
 is the pay night — Tottie, the sub- 
 contractor, is a friend of mine • — 
 
 Dalton. He's lucky! 
 
 Moss. Yes. I find him the cash 
 at twenty per cent., till his certificates 
 are allowed by the engineer. 'Taint 
 heavy interest, but there's no risk — 
 a word from me, and he'd' discharge 
 every nawie in his gang. But I've 
 only to breathe jail-bird, and there's 
 no need of a discharge. The men 
 themselves would work the lad off the 
 job. They are sad roughs, but they've 
 a horror of jail-birds. 
 
 Dalton. Ah ! nobody likes the Port- 
 land mark. I know that — I've tried 
 the honest dodge, too. 
 
 Moss. It don't answer. 
 
 Dalton. It didn't with me. I had 
 a friend, like you, always after me. 
 Whatever I tried, I was blown as a 
 convict, and hunted out from honest 
 men. 
 
 Moss. And then you met me — 
 and I was good to you — wasn't I ? 
 
 Dalton. Yes. You were very kind. 
 
 Moss. Always allowed you hand- 
 some for the swag you brought, and 
 put you up to no end of good things! 
 and I'll stick by you, my dear — I 
 never drop a friend. 
 
 Dalton. No, till the hangman takes 
 your place at his side. 
 
 [Presses his elbows to his side in 
 the attitude of a man pinioned] 
 
 Moss. Don't be disagreeable, my 
 dear — you give me a cold shiver. 
 Hush! here come the navvies. 
 
 [Enter the Navigators noisily, through 
 door. They seat themselves at their 
 
258 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 tables, calling, some for pots of 
 beer, some for quarterns of gin. 
 The Potman and Waiters bustle 
 about with Maltby superintending 
 and taking money. Briehly fol- 
 lows. Enter Hawkshaw, dis- 
 guised as a navvy. He appears 
 flustered with drink — goes to one 
 of the tables, and, assuming a coun- 
 try dialect, calls swaggeringly] 
 
 Hawkshaw. Gallon o' beer I 
 mea.ster. 
 
 Maltby. A gallon? 
 
 Hawkshaw. Aye, and another when 
 that's done — I'm in brass to-night, 
 and I stand treat. Here, mates, who'll 
 drink? [Navvies crowd, with loud ac- 
 clamations to his table — beer is brought 
 — Hawkshaw to Bkiekly, who is 
 seated left of table] Come, won't thou 
 drink, my Uttle flannel back? 
 
 Briebly. No, thank you; I've a 
 poor head for liquor, and I've not had 
 my supper yet. 
 
 HaWksh/w. Thou'st sure it's not 
 pride ? 
 
 Brierly. Pride? I've no call for 
 pride — ■ I've come to try and get taken 
 on at the works. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Well, thou looks a 
 tough 'un. There's cast-iron Jack was 
 smashed in the tunnel this morning. 
 There'll be room for thee, if thou 
 canst swing the old anchor. 
 
 Brierly. The old anchor? 
 
 Hawkshaw. Ha, ha! It's easy to 
 see thou's no banker. Why, the pick, 
 to be sure — the groundsman's bread- 
 winner. Halloa, mates, keep a drop 
 of grog for Ginger. [Goes back to table] 
 
 Navvies. Aye, aye! 
 
 Hawkshaw. Here's the old anchor, 
 boys, and long may we live to swing 
 it. 
 
 All. The pick forever. Hip, hip 
 hurrah ! 
 
 Maltby [coming down]. Mr. Tot- 
 tie's in the parlor, and wishes particu- 
 larly to see you, Mr. Moss. 
 
 Moss. I should think he did — say 
 I'm coming. [Exit Maltby] 
 
 Dalton. [Aside to Moss] You look 
 after the Lancashire lad — • yonder he 
 sits — and I'U drop a hint to the old 
 woman. Stay, we'd better work from 
 the old church-yard of St. Nicholas — 
 there's a door opens into it from the 
 crib. I'll hide the tools behind one of 
 the tombstones. 
 
 Moss. Beautiful! Sacred to the 
 
 memory of Jem Dalton's jack-in-the- 
 box! Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 [Exit Moss into parlor, Dalton 
 
 by the street door] 
 
 Hawkshaw. Here, landlord, take 
 
 your change out of that. [Flings a 
 
 sovereign on table] Call for more beer, 
 
 mates, tiU I come back. 
 
 [Exit, staggering like a drunken 
 man, after Dalton] 
 1st Navvy. Thou'Ut come back, 
 mate? 
 
 Hawkshaw. Aye, aye, boys, di- 
 rectly. [At door] Contractor's in t' 
 parlor wi' the week's pay. 
 
 1st Navvy. Here's thy health! 
 All. [Sing] "For he's a jolly good 
 fellow," etc. 
 
 [Enter Green Jones] 
 
 Green. Emily is bringing down the 
 
 house in the "Maniac." I can't stand 
 
 it; my feelings as a husband are 
 
 trampled on. But she's a trump, too 
 
 — and what a talent ! By heaven, if 
 ever I get my head above water again, 
 I won't fool away my money as I've 
 done; no, I'U take a theatre at the 
 West End, and bring out my wife in 
 everything. It will be an immense 
 success; meanwhile, tiU the pounds 
 present themselves, let me look after 
 the pence. Trotters, gents, trotters 
 
 — P|enny the set, and this morning's 
 boihng. [He goes up among tables] 
 
 1st Navvy. Stop tiU we get brass, 
 we'll clear out thy basket. 
 
 [Exit Navvies, followed by Green 
 Jones] 
 
 Brierly. Yes, the old anchor is my 
 last chance — I've tried every road to 
 an honest hvelihood, and, one after 
 another, they are barred in my face. 
 Everywhere that dreadful word, "jail- 
 bird," seems to be breathed in the air 
 about me — sometimes in a letter, 
 sometimes in a hint, sometimes a copy 
 of the newspaper with my trial, and 
 then it's the same story — sorry to 
 part with me — no complaint to make 
 
 — but can't keep a tioket-of-leave 
 man. Who can it be that hunts me 
 down this way? Hawkshaw spared 
 me. I've done no man a wrong — 
 poor fellows like me should have no 
 enemies. I wouldn't care for myself, 
 but my poor lass, my brave, true- 
 hearted May; I'm dragging her down 
 along with me. Ah! here she is. 
 [Enter May, poorly dressed — she has a 
 
 can, and some food in a bundle] 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 259 
 
 May. [Cheerfully] Well, Robert, 
 dear, I said I shouldn't be long; I've 
 brought your supper. 
 
 Bkierly. Thank thee, darling — 
 I'm not hungry — thou'st been out 
 after work all the day — eat thyself 
 
 — thou need'st strength most. 
 
 May. Nay, dear, what will become 
 of me if you lose heart? But if you'll 
 be a good boy, and take your tea [Opens 
 tin and takes bread from bundle], I'll 
 tell you a piece of good news — for 
 you — for both of us. 
 
 Bbibbly. That will be something 
 new. 
 
 May. I've got a promise of work 
 from the Sailor's Ready-Made Clothing 
 Warehouse near here. It won't be 
 much, but it wiU keep the wolf from 
 the door till you get another situation. 
 Have you tried if the contractor here 
 will take you? 
 
 Bbierly. Not yet. He's in yonder 
 paying the men. He'll send for me; 
 but I scarcely dare to ask him. Oh, 
 May, lass, I've held on hard to hope, 
 but it feels as if it was slipping out of 
 my hand at last I 
 
 May. Robert, dear Robert, grasp 
 it hard ; so long as we do what is right, 
 all will come clear at last; we're in 
 kind hands, dear — you know we are. 
 
 Beiebly. I begin to doubt it, lass 
 
 — I do, indeed. 
 
 May. No, no; never doubt that, 
 or my heart will give way too — 
 
 Bbibbly. And thou that has had 
 courage for both of us. Every blow 
 that has fallen, every door that has 
 been shut between me and an honest 
 livelihood, every time that clean hands 
 have been drawn away from mine, 
 and respectable faces turned aside as 
 I came near them, I've come to thee 
 for comfort, and love, and hope, and 
 I've found them till now. 
 
 May. Oh, yesl what's the good of 
 a sunshine wife? It's hard weather 
 tries us women best, dear; you men 
 ain't half so stout-hearted. 
 
 Bbibbly. I'd not mind the misery 
 so much for myself ; 'tis for thee. 
 
 May. I don't complain — do I ? 
 
 Bbibbly. Never! But, neverthe- 
 less, I've brought thee to sorrow, and 
 want, and shame. Till I came back 
 to thee thou hadst friends, work and 
 comforts. But since Mr. Gibson dis- 
 charged us off, the bUght that has 
 followed me has reached thee too, 
 the bravest, honest^t, brightest lass 
 
 that ever doubled a man's joys, and 
 halved his burdens. Oh! it's too bad 
 
 — [Rises] — it kills the heart out of 
 me — it makes me mad 1 [Crosses] 
 
 May [following him]. I teR you, 
 'twill all come clear at last, if we are 
 only true to ourselves — to each other. 
 I've work promised, and perhaps you 
 may be taken on here. I spy bright 
 days before us stiU. 
 
 Bbibbly. Bright days! I can't see 
 them through the prison cloud that 
 stands hke a dark wall between me 
 and honest labour. May, lass, I some- 
 times think I had better let it all go 
 
 — run — 'list — make a hole in the 
 water, anything that would rid thee of 
 me ; thou could'st make thy way alone. 
 
 May. Oh, Robert, that is cruel! 
 nothing others could do to us could ' 
 hurt me Uke those words from you; 
 we are man and wife, and we'U take 
 life as man and wife should, hand-in- 
 hand: where you go, I will go; where 
 you suffer, I will be there to comfort; 
 and when better times come, — as come 
 they will — we will thank God for 
 them together. 
 
 Bbibbly. I'll try to hope. 
 
 May. And you won't heed the 
 black thoughts that come over you 
 when you're alone? 
 
 Bbibbly. I'U do my best to fight 
 'em off. 
 
 May. That's a brave dear. I'm 
 only going to the warehouse; I shall 
 be back soon. Good-bye, dearest. Re- 
 member, when the clouds are thickest, 
 the sun stiU shines behind them. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Bbibbly. Bless that brave, bright 
 heart; she puts strength into me, in 
 spite of the devilish doubts that have 
 got their claws about my throat. Yes, 
 I will try once more. 
 
 [The Navigatobs come noisily 
 out of parlour, and re-seat 
 themselves at the tables] 
 
 [Enter Moss, from parlour] 
 
 Moss [speaking off]. So, all paid 
 at last? 
 
 [Re-enter Dalton, and Hawkshaw, after 
 him] 
 
 Dalton. [To Moss] All right, the 
 
 lad's coming. I've tipped the old 
 
 woman the office, and planted the tools. 
 
 [He looks at table] 
 
 Hawkshaw [tapping Bbibbly on 
 the shoulder, who starts suddenly]. All 
 
260 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 the gang ha' gotten their brass — 
 Tottie's takin' on men now, my little 
 flannel-baok. Thou go in, and put on 
 a bold face — Tottie Ukes chaps as 
 speaks up to him. 
 
 [Hawkshaw returns to his Mates] 
 Beibrlt. If this chance fail — God 
 help us both. 
 
 [Exit into parlour. Navvies at 
 the table clamour and fight, and 
 shout over their drink. Moss 
 glances at Brierly as he 
 
 Moss. There he goes I 
 
 [Navvies clamour] 
 
 Dalton. It would be a pity to let 
 a tieket-of-leave man in among aU 
 those nice, sober, well-behaved young 
 men. [Clamour] 
 
 Moss. I must blow him again; 
 he ought to be near the end of his 
 tether, now. [Enter Sam Willotjghby] 
 Here comes our young friend. [Coax- 
 ingly to Sam Willotjghby] Ah, my 
 dear — so you've come out for a little 
 hanky-panky with old Moss. Sit down. 
 My friend, Mr. Walker. What'll you 
 have? 
 
 Sam. I don't care — I'm game for 
 anything from sherry to rum-shrub. 
 Suppose we begin with a brandy and 
 soda, to cool the coppers! 
 
 Dalton. [Calls] Brandy and soda, 
 Maltby. 
 
 Sam. I had an awful go in of it 
 
 last night at the balls, and dropped 
 
 into a lot of 'em like a three-year-old. 
 
 [Imitates action of billiard-play, 
 
 with his walking-cane for a cue] 
 
 Moss. BiUiards, too! Lord! what 
 a clever young chap you are! 
 
 [Maltby brings soda-water and 
 brandy] 
 
 Sam [sits at back of table]. Yes, I 
 know a thing or two. [Takes glass] 
 I wasn't born blind, like a terrier pup 
 — I rayther think. — But you promised 
 me my revenge, you old screw. [Drinks] 
 That's the tipple to steady a chap's 
 hand. Now, fork out the pictures, old 
 boy. 
 
 Moss [shuffling cards]. Oh, what a 
 boy you are! What shall it be this 
 time? 
 
 Sam. a round or two of brag to 
 begin with, and a few deals at Blind 
 Hookums for a wind-up. 
 
 [As he deals, enter Brierly from 
 inner room] 
 
 Brierly. Heaven be thanked, 
 another chance yetl 
 
 Hawkshaw. [As Brierly passes] 
 WeU, my little flannel-baok, has he 
 taken you on? 
 
 Brierly. Yes, I'm, to come to work 
 to-morrow morning. I'm in Ginger's 
 gang. 
 
 Hawkshaw. I'm Ginger. Come, 
 let's wet thy footing. 
 
 Brierly. My last shiUing. [Throws 
 it down] It's aU I have, but you're 
 welcome. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Nay, it sha'n't be said 
 Ginger Bill ever cleared a chap out 
 neither. I'll pay for thy footing, and 
 thou'lt stand beer thy first pay night. 
 Here, measter, a gallon to wet t' new 
 chap's name. Bob, we'U christen thee, 
 'cause thou hadst but a shiUin'. — 
 Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Navvies [laugh — They all drink]. 
 Here's Bob's health. 
 
 Brierly [recognising Sam], Sam 
 Willoughby, in this place, and over 
 the devil's books, too. Oh! I'm sorry 
 to see this — sorry — sorry. — Poor old 
 woman! If she knew! 
 
 Sam. [Calling] Best card! [Show- 
 ing a card] First stake! 
 
 Dalton. Stop a minute — ace of 
 diamonds ! 
 
 Sam. First stake to you. Hang it! 
 never mind, [Deal] one can't lose muoh 
 at this game — I go a tizzy. 
 
 [Puts a stake on cards] 
 
 Moss. A shilling. 
 
 Sam. Five. 
 
 Dalton. I stand. 
 
 Moss. Ten. 
 
 Sam. a sovereign! thirty-one! 
 Third stake, and the brag. [Shows 
 his cards] Pair royal — • pair — ace of 
 spades. Fork over the shiners. 
 
 Moss. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I'm 
 ruined — ruined. [Pays sovereign] 
 
 Dalton. [Calls] Two colds with- 
 out. 
 
 Sam. Now, for my deal. 
 
 [He deals three cards to each — 
 Maltby brings brandy] 
 
 Moss. Best card! First stake. I 
 stand. 
 
 Sam. I brag. Hang peddling with 
 tizzies — half a crown. 
 
 Dalton. Five. 
 
 [Moss looks at Sam's hand, and 
 signals to Dalton] 
 
 Sam. Ten. 
 
 Dalton. A sovereign. 
 
 Moss. Oh! dear, what a boy it is! 
 How much hav§ you got in your 
 pocket ? 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 261 
 
 Sam. Lotsl I'm paid quarterly 
 now. Had my quarter to-day ! — 
 Another cold -without. [Calls] Let's 
 see — I'll hold on. [Draws card] 
 Thirty-four — ■ overdrawn — confound 
 itl Now let's see your hand. 
 
 [To D ALTON] 
 
 Dalton. Three pairs — fives, trays, 
 deuces, and the knave of clubs. 
 
 Sam. Hang it all! How is a man 
 to stand against such cards? 
 
 Bbierly. How is a man to stand 
 against sUch play? He was looking 
 over your cards, and see — [/Seizes a 
 card from Moss's lap] — the ace of 
 diamonds! Handy to make pairs royal! 
 Sam, if you won't believe me, believe 
 your own eyes: you're being cheated, 
 robbed. You old villain — you should 
 be ashamed of yourself ! 
 
 Moss. Oh, dear! oh, dear! to say 
 such things to a man at my time of 
 Ufe! 
 
 Dalton. We're not to be bullied. 
 
 Sam [threateningly]. You give me 
 back my money. 
 
 [Maltbt comes down] 
 
 Moss. I sha'n't! Here, Mr. 
 Maltby. 
 
 Maltbt. Come, be off. I can't 
 have any disturbance here. Mr. Moss 
 is a most respectable man, and his 
 friends are as respectable as he is, 
 and as for you — if you won't leave 
 the room quietly, you must be made to. 
 
 Sam. Who'll make me? Come on, 
 [Squaring] both of you! Stand up to 
 'em. Bob, I'm not afraid ! 
 
 [Navigators gather round] 
 
 [Enter Mas. Willoughbt] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. It's his voice — 
 which well I know it. Oh 1 Sam — 
 Sam, I've found you at last ! 
 
 Sam. Well, suppose you have — 
 what then? 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. What then! 
 Oh !/ dear — oh ! dear. And I've run 
 myself into that state of trimmle and 
 perspiration, and if it hadn't been for 
 the gentleman I might have been east, 
 and west, and high, and low, but it's 
 at the "Bridgewater Arms" you'll find 
 him, he says — and here I have found 
 you, sure enough — and you come 
 'ome with me this minute. 
 
 Moss. Ah! you'd better go home 
 with the old lady ! 
 
 Dalton. And if you take my ad- 
 vice, you'll send him to bed without 
 his supper. 
 
 Sam. [Mrs. Willoughbt pushing 
 him away] I ain't a-going. Now, jrou 
 give me my money — ■ I'm not going 
 to stand any nonsense. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. And this is 
 what he calls attending elocution 
 class of a night, and improvin' of his 
 mind — and me a/-toilin' and a-moilin' 
 for him — • which I'm his own grand- 
 mother, gentlemen, and him the only 
 one of three. [Still holding him] 
 
 Sam. It's no use, granny, I'm not 
 a child to be tied to your apron strings 
 — -you've no right to be naggin' and 
 aggravatin', and coming after a chap, 
 to make him look small this way. I 
 don't mind — I sha'n't stir. There! 
 
 [He flings his cap on the table, and 
 sits on it, swinging his legs] 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt. Oh ! dear — oh 1 
 dear — ■ he'll break my heart, he wiU. 
 
 Brieblt. Sam, my lad, listen to 
 me, if you won't hearken to her. — 
 A bad beginning makes a bad end, and 
 you're beginning badly : the road you're 
 on leads downwards, and once in the 
 slough at the bottom o't — oh ! trust 
 one who knows it — there's no working 
 clear again. You may hold out your 
 hand — • you may cry for help — jrou 
 may struggle hard — but the qmck- 
 sands are under your foot — and you 
 sink down, down, till they close over 
 your head. 
 
 Hawkshaw. [Seated] Hear the 
 little flannel-back. He talks like a 
 missionary, he do. [All laugh] 
 
 Brieblt. Go home, my lad — go 
 home with her — be a son to her — 
 love her as she has loved thee — make 
 her old days happy — be sober, be 
 steady, and when you're a grown 
 man, and her chair's empty at t'ehim- 
 ney corner, you'll mayhap remember 
 this day, and be thankful you took the 
 advice of poor, hunted-down, broken- 
 hearted Bob Brierly. 
 
 Sam [who has betrayed signs of 
 feeling while Bbierlt has been speak- 
 ing]. 1 don't know — I feel so queer 
 — and — don't look at me. [To Mrs. 
 Willoughbt — gets off table and crosses 
 to her] I've been a regular bad 'un, 
 granny — I'm very sorry — I'll put 
 on the curb — I'U puU up — that is, 
 I'll try. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughbt [rises]. Oh! 
 bless him for those words! Bless you! 
 my own dear boy. [Crosses to Bribrlt] 
 And you, too, Mr. Brierly — which if 
 the widow's blessing is worth while. 
 
262 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 it's yours, and many of them. Oh! 
 dear — oh ! dear. 
 
 [Cries — Gets out her handker- 
 chief, and in doing so drops her 
 purse and keys — Moss picks 
 up the purse — Mrs. Wil- 
 liOTJGHBY catches his eye as he 
 does so — Dalton, unobserved 
 by all, picks up the keys] 
 
 Beiehly. Nay, don't thank me. 
 It's late now. Go home — Sam, give 
 her your arm. 
 
 Moss. Here's yoiir purse, old lady. 
 [Making a final attempt on Sam] What, 
 you won't stay and make a night of 
 it? 
 
 Mbs. WiLLOtTGHBY. I'll trouble you 
 not to speak to my grandson. If ever 
 an old man was ashamed of his grey 
 hairs, it's you ought to be. Come, 
 Sam. 
 
 Moss. [Aside] Baulked. 
 
 Dalton. No — I didn't give her 
 back her keys. 
 
 Sam [turning to Moss]. If I wasn't 
 Et-going to turn over a new leaf — Oh, 
 wouldn't I Uke to pitch into you!' 
 
 [Exit Sam and Mrs. Willotjqhby] 
 
 Hawkshaw [pretending to be very 
 drunk]. And so should I — ^ an old 
 varmint — and so would all of us ; — 
 you're bad enough for a tommy shop- 
 keeper. 
 
 Navvies. Aye, that he is — ought 
 to be ashamed of himself. 
 
 Moss. And who accuses me? A 
 nice chap, this, to take away honest 
 folk's characters! 
 
 Hawkshaw. Stow that! He's one 
 of us now — a regular blue-stocking. 
 Tottie's taken him on! He's paid his 
 footing — eh, mates ? 
 
 All. Aye — aye. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Here's Bob's health, 
 mates. 
 
 All. Aye — aye. 
 
 Moss. Stop ; before you drink that 
 health, best know the man you're 
 drinking to. You're a rough lot, I 
 know; but you're honest men. 
 
 Brierly. Oh, man, if you've a 
 heart — ■ [Bises] 
 
 Moss. I owe you one — I always 
 pay my debts — [To Navvies] 
 You're not felons, nor company for 
 felons — for jail-birds. 
 
 All. Jail-birds ! 
 
 Moss. Aye — jail-birds. Ask him 
 how long it is since he served his four 
 years at Portland. [Hawkshaw goes 
 up, crosses, and sits quietly at head of 
 
 table] Look ! — he turns pale — his lip 
 falls ; he can't deny it ! 
 
 [Brierly turns away] 
 Hawkshaw. Who knows, lads — 
 perhaps he's repented. 
 
 All. No — no. [Grumblinp] No 
 jail-bird — no convict — no ticket-of- 
 leaver. 
 
 [They turn away from Briebly] 
 
 Brierly. Aye, mates — it's true I 
 
 was convicted, but I wasn't guilty. 
 
 I served my time. I came out an 
 
 altered man. I tried hard to earn an 
 
 honest livelihood [They all turn 
 
 away] Don't all turn away from me! 
 Give me a chance — only a chance. 
 All. No — no. 
 
 Bbiebly. Nay, then, my last hope 
 is gone — I can fight no longer ! 
 
 [Throws his head on his hands in 
 
 despair] 
 [The Navigators retire; Hawk- 
 shaw, pretending to be very 
 drunk, appears to sleep with 
 head on table: The Naviga- 
 tors drop off, and exit one by 
 one] 
 Moss. [To Dalton] Honesty's 
 bowled out at last! It's our game 
 now. [Puts his hand on Bbibbly's 
 shoulder] 1 say, my friend — 
 
 Brierly. Eh! [Looking up] You! 
 The man who told them ! [Fiercely] 
 
 Moss. Yes — yes ; but don't put 
 yourself in a passion. 
 
 Brierly. Only teU me — Is it you 
 who have followed me in this way? 
 
 — who have turned aU against me? — 
 who have kept me from earning honest 
 bread? 
 
 Moss. Yes. 
 
 Brierly. But why, man, why? I 
 had done you no wrong. 
 
 Moss. Ask him. [Pointing to Dal- 
 ton] He's an old friend of yours. 
 
 Brierly. I don't know him — yet 
 
 — I've seen that face before. Yes, it 
 is — Jem Downey 1 Thou villain I [He 
 seizes him] I know thee now. Thou 
 shalt answer to me for all this misery. 
 
 Dalton. Easy does it. Bob. Hands 
 off, and let's take things pleasantly. 
 
 Brierly. Not content with leading 
 me into plajr, and drink, and deviltry, 
 
 — with making me your tool, — witli 
 sending me to a prison, it's you that 
 have dogged me — have denounced 
 me as a convict. 
 
 Dalton. Of course — ■ you didn't 
 think any but an old friend would 
 have taken such an interest in you. 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 263 
 
 P 
 
 Bbierly. Did you want to close all 
 roads against me but that which leads 
 to the dock ? 
 
 Dalton. Exactly. 
 
 [Briebly turns to Moss] 
 . Moss. Exactly. 
 
 Dalton. You see, when a man's 
 in the mud himself, and can't get out 
 of it, he don't like to see another flght 
 clear. Come, honest men won't have 
 anything to do with you — best try 
 the black sheep — we ain't proud. 
 [AU sit] We've a job in hand will be 
 the making of all three. [Fills his 
 glass] Here, drink, and put some 
 heart into you. [Bbierly drinks] 
 That's your sort — a lad of spirit — 
 I said there was real grit in him — 
 didn't I, Mossey? 
 
 Moss. You always gave him the 
 best of characters. 
 
 Dalton. Is it a bargain? 
 
 Bbierly. Yes. 
 
 Dalton. There ! Tip us the cracks- 
 man's crook — so 1 
 
 [Shakes hands with a peculiar grip] 
 
 [Enter Mat Edwards] 
 
 Mat. Robert — not here ? [Sees 
 him] Ah, there he is. [Going — 
 pauses] Who are those with him? 
 
 Dalton. Now a caulker to clinch 
 the bargain. [They drink] 
 
 Mat. [In pain] Ah ! Robert ! 
 
 Bbierly. You here — lass? 
 
 Moss. Oh, these petticoats! 
 
 Dalton. You're not wanted here, 
 young woman. 
 
 May. He is my husband, sir. He 
 is not strong — ■ the drink will do him 
 harm. 
 
 Dalton. Ha, ha, ha! Brandy do 
 a man harm! It's mother's milk — 
 take another sip. [Pills Brierly's 
 glass again] To your girl's good 
 health? 
 
 May. Robert, dear — coihe with 
 me. 
 
 Brieklt. Have you got work? 
 
 May. No — not yet. 
 
 Bbibely. No more have I, lass. 
 The man took me on — it was the old 
 story. 
 
 May. Oh, Robert — come ! 
 
 Bbierly. I shall stay with friends 
 here — thou go home, and don't sit 
 up for me. 
 
 May [imploringly]. Robert! 
 
 Briebly. I've my reasons. 
 
 Dalton. Come, are you going? 
 
 Brierlt. [May clings to ■ him] 
 
 Stand off, lass. You used to do what 
 I bid you ^- stand oflf, I say.' 
 
 [He shakes himself free from her] 
 May. Oh, Robert, Robert! 
 
 [Staggers back to table and sits] 
 Bbierly. [Aside] I must — or 
 they'll not trust me. 
 
 May. These men! to what have 
 they tempted him in his despair? 
 They sha'n't drive me away. [Aside] 
 I'll watch. 
 
 [Exit, after a mute appeal to 
 Briebly. The tables before 
 this have been cleared of all the 
 Navvies except Hawkshaw, 
 who lies with his head on the 
 table as if dead drunk — Moss 
 rises] 
 Maltby [re-entering from bar, shak- 
 ing Hawkshaw by the shoulder]. Now, 
 my man, we're shutting up the bar. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Shut up. I'm shut up. 
 Good night. [Lets his head fall] 
 
 Dalton [coming down]. It's no 
 use — he won't go, and I'm wanted in 
 the concert room. [Exit Maltby, call- 
 ing] Bar closed! 
 
 Moss. [To Dalton, suspiciously 
 pointing to Hawkshaw] There's a 
 party — 
 
 Dalton [rising]. Eh? [Shaking 
 Hawkshaw] Holloa, wake up! 
 
 [Hawkshaw grunts] 
 Moss. He's in a deplorable state of 
 intoxication. 
 
 Dalton. Yes, he's got his cargo — 
 no danger in him — now for business. 
 First and foremost, no more of this. 
 
 1 Passages added since the first representa- 
 tion: 
 
 Stand off, I say ! 
 
 Mat. Oh ! Robert, Robert I This is the 
 first time you ever thrust me from you. He 
 is a good, kind husband, gentlemen ; but we 
 have had sore trouble lately, and it has al- 
 most driven him wild sometimes. But, oh, 
 if you have wives of your own at home, think 
 of them and spare me. Don't drive him to 
 drink. He's never taken to that in all our 
 troubles. Robert, come home with me - — 
 our hearth may be cold, but Love has always 
 sat beside it — our cupboard may be bare, 
 but we have never yet wanted bread, and, 
 with heaven's help, we never will. Robert, 
 come — come with the wife that loves you — 
 come, come ! 
 
 and don't sit up for me. 
 
 Mat. Robert ! 
 
 not wanted here at all. 
 
 Mat. Oh! Robert, Robert! 
 
264 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Pockets the bottle. — To Bribrlt] You've 
 heard the job we have in hand? 
 
 Bhibhly. Yes, but you have not 
 told me where it is, or why you want 
 my help. 
 
 Dalton. It's old Gibson's office. 
 The five thousand you know — you 
 know where it's kept. 
 
 Brierly. Well. 
 
 Dalton. And you'll take us to it? 
 
 Brierly. Yes. 
 
 Dalton. That's the ticket. Then 
 we naay as well start. 
 
 Brierly. Now? 
 
 Dalton. Now. My rule is, never 
 put ofl till to-morrow the crib I can 
 crack to-day. Besides, you might 
 change your mind. 
 
 Moss. One has heard of such things. 
 
 Brierly. But — 
 
 Dalton. You crane — 
 
 Brierly. No. 
 
 Dalton. I'll get a cab. [Going] 
 
 Moss. And I'll get another — we'd 
 best go single. [Following him] 
 
 Dalton. No, it wouldn't be polite 
 to leave Mr. Brierly. [Aside] I don't 
 half trust him — don't let him out of 
 yoiu- sight. [Exit] 
 
 Brierly. -[Aside] If he'll only leave 
 me for a moment. 
 
 Moss [sitting]. He's carried off the 
 bottle, and the bar's shut up, or we 
 might have a little refreshment. 
 
 Brierly. Perhaps, if you went to 
 the landlord — 
 
 Moss. No, I'd rather stay with you 
 — I like your company, uncommon. 
 [Enter Maltby, with a wine-basket and 
 a candle] 
 
 Maltby. Here's Mr. Tottie stand- 
 ing champagne round to the Wisconsin 
 Warblers, and the bar stock all out, 
 and the waiters in bed! I must go 
 down to the cellar myself — very 
 humiliating! [Goes to trap near bar] 
 What with the light, and what with 
 the liquor — I say, Mr. Moss, if you 
 would lend me a hand? 
 
 Brierly. [Aside] I might give him 
 the information. [To Maltby] Let 
 me help you, sir. [Goes to trap] 
 
 Moss. Then I'll go too. 
 
 [Maltby opens trap] 
 
 Brierly. The stairs are steep — 
 two's quite enough. 
 
 Moss. But I'm so fond of your 
 company. 
 
 Maltby. If you'll hold the light. 
 [Bhiebly takes it and Maltby 
 goes down] 
 
 Brierly. [Aside] A word'U do it. 
 
 [Going down — • Moss takes candle 
 
 from him and gets between him 
 
 and Maltby] 
 
 Moss. Allow me. The light will do 
 
 best in the middle. [Moss descends] 
 
 Maltby. [From below] Now, then! 
 
 Brierly [rapidly closes the trap, 
 
 and stands upon it]. Now's the time. 
 
 [Seizes the pen that stands on the bar, 
 
 and writes, reading as he writes, quickly] 
 
 "To Mr. Gibson, Peokham. The oflce 
 
 will be entered to-night ; I'm in it to save 
 
 the property and secure the robbers. — 
 
 R. Brierly." But who'll take it? 
 
 Hawkshaw [who has got up and 
 read the letter over his shoulder]. I -will. 
 Brierly. You ? 
 
 Hawkshaw [pulls off his rough 
 cap, wig, and whiskers, and speaks in 
 his own voice]. Hawkshaw, the detec- 
 tive ! [Gives a pistol] Take this — 
 I'll be on the look-out. 
 
 [Hawkshaw lets his head fall again 
 as Dalton re-appears, beckon- 
 ing at the door, and Moss re- 
 appears from the trap] 
 
 Scene Second. — A Street in the City — 
 Moonlight. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Willotjghbt and Sam. 
 She is searching her pocket '] 
 
 ' Seconi) Scene. — Begin 
 [Enter May Edwards, breathless and pgle, her 
 head uncovered, — her hair dishevelled] 
 May. Thrust from his side ■ — No, no — 
 not his ; but the fierce, hard man's, that drink 
 and despair have changed him to I He told 
 me to go home. Hornet (Shuddering) As 
 if there was any home for me, but where he is, 
 in his sorrow I I tried to watch — but the 
 pain in my heart blinded me, and I've wan- 
 dered — wandered through the black night 
 in these stony streets I Oh — if I had only 
 died before this I If I could die now ! Ha I 
 the river can't be far off I — there is rest 
 there. {Shrieks) No, no, no — What devil- 
 ish tempting is this? Die and leave him 
 alone with his despair. Heaven help him and 
 forgive me ! No ; I will live — to bring 
 him back to love and hope and faith. If I 
 must die, it shall be with my hand in his — 
 our hearts against each other! li, I could 
 but find him! Oh, Robert! Husband! 
 Love ! Where are you ? Come to me — 
 come to me ! [She staggers off, distradedlv] 
 [Omit her appearance in the suhseqiwU 
 part of the scene] 
 Then enter Mrs. Willoughbt and Sam. 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 265 
 
 Sam. You're sure you had 'em at the 
 public. 
 
 Mrs. Willottghby. Certain sure, 
 my dear, leastwise, I let myself out 
 with the big street door, so I couldn't 
 have left that in the kitchen window, 
 and I'd the Uttle ones all in my pocket, 
 which I noticed a hole in it only yester- 
 day — and it's best Holland, at one 
 and six, and only worn three years, 
 and they ain't dropped into my skirt, 
 nor they ain't a-hanging to my crino- 
 line. 
 
 Sam. Oh, bother, granny; we can't 
 have a reg^ular Custom House search 
 in the street; let's go back to the 
 public — perhaps they've found them. 
 
 [Enter Mb. and Mrs. Gheen Jones, 
 she with shawl and bonnet — he 
 I with his basket and the guitar] 
 
 Green. There's only one set left; 
 perhaps Providence has sent a cus- 
 tomer. Trotters, mum? 
 
 [To Mrs. Willottghby] 
 Emily [stopping him]. In my com- 
 pany! I'm surprised at you! conceal 
 that basket! [Advancing to Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby] Why, if it isn't Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby and Sam! Why, don't you 
 know us — the St. Evremonds ? 
 
 Mrs. Willotjghby. Lor bless me — 
 and so it is ! and that dear, blessed man 
 that suffered so in his shins — which 
 perseverance is its own reward; and 
 may I ask what Mr. Jones — 
 Emily. Mr. St. Evremond. 
 Mrs. Willottghby. Mr. St. Evre- 
 mond — what's he adoin'? 
 Emily. He's in business. 
 Green. Yes, as a — 
 
 [Producing basket] 
 Emily [getting between Mrs. Wil- 
 lottghby and the basket]. As a sort of 
 sheep farmer. But whatever are you 
 doing here at this time of night? 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, my dear, 
 it's a long story — and if you wears 
 pockets, mend 'em, is my advice — 
 which, whether they dropped, or 
 whether they was picked — 
 
 Sam. [Impatiently] We can't get in 
 — granny's lost her keys. 
 
 Emily. And you haven't a latch? 
 Well, I wouldn't have thought it of 
 you. Where did she lose them? 
 
 Sam. At the Bridgewater Arms — 
 and the house is shut up now. 
 
 Emily. I'm engaged there; I don't 
 mind knocking Maltby up — I rather 
 like it. Come along, Jones, it's only 
 
 a step; [Aside to him] conceal that 
 basket ! 
 
 [Exeunt Emily, Sam, and Mrs. 
 
 Willottghby] 
 
 Green. Emily thinks trotters low; 
 
 she don't see that even the trotter 
 
 trade may be elevated by poUteness 
 
 and attention to seasoning. [Exit] 
 
 [Enter Dalton, Moss, and Bbibrly] 
 
 Dalton. Come along. Bob. AU 
 serene. [Aside] Where could he have 
 got that six-shooter from? However, 
 I nailed the caps in the cab. Moss, 
 you be crow — two whistles if the 
 coast ain't clear — we'll work the crib. 
 Lucky I nailed the old woman's keys. 
 They'll save tools and time. Give 
 me the glim. [Moss takes out small 
 lanthorn and gives it to him] Now, my 
 lad, [To Briehly] take care; I'm a 
 man of few words. — The pal who 
 sticks by me, I stick by him, till death. 
 But the man who tries to double on 
 me, haS better have the hangman 
 looking after him, than Jem Dalton. 
 [Exeunt Dalton, Bhierly, and 
 Moss] 
 
 [Enter Hawkshaw] 
 
 Hawkshaw. This should be Cramp- 
 ton's beat. [Cfives a peculiar whistle, 
 and enter a Detective] Take the 
 fastest Hansom you can find; tear 
 down with this to Peokham. [Oives 
 note] ' Bring the old gent back to St. 
 Nicholas Lane. Say he'll be wanted 
 to make a charge. There's a crib to 
 be jumped. I'm down on 'em. By 
 the bye, lend me your barker. [De- 
 tective gives him a pistol, and exit] 
 Jem Dalton's a tough customer. I 
 always feel rather ashamed to burn 
 powder. Any fool can blow a man's 
 bra.ins out. [Tries caps and charges] 
 That lad's true blue after all. I had 
 no idea that he tumbled to their game. 
 He managed that letter uncommonly 
 neat. Now for St. Nicholas Church- 
 yard. When Jem Dalton planted his 
 tools he never thought they'd come up 
 darbies. [Exit] 
 
 [Enter May, breathless] 
 
 May. I've followed the cab as far 
 as I could. I saw them get out, and 
 lost them at the last turning. If I 
 could only keep them in sight — if 
 he could but hear my voice — Robert ! 
 Robert ! [Exit] 
 
266 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Scene Third. — The Churchyard of St.l 
 Nicholas with tombstones and neg- 
 lected trees; wall at back; up, side 
 of stage, an iron railing supposed 
 to separate the churchyard from the 
 street; the wall of Mb. Gibson's 
 office, with practicable back door] 
 
 [Dalton and Bribelt drop over the wall, 
 followed by Moss] 
 
 Dalton. Now to transplant the 
 tools! [Gets tools from behind tomb- 
 stone] AH right. Moss, look alive! 
 Here's the door and the keys. 
 
 [Exit into office by back door, fol- 
 lowed by Brieely] 
 
 Moss. [On the look-out] Nice, quiet 
 place — I like working in the city ; I 
 wish everybody Kved out of town, and 
 left their premises in charge of their 
 housekeepers. [Mat is heard, singing 
 the refrain of her song] What's that? 
 That girl! She must have followed us. 
 Here she is. 
 
 [Enter May in the street] 
 
 May [sees Moss]. Oh, sir, you 
 were with him ! where is he ? 
 
 Moss. I'm just taking a little walk 
 in my garden before retiring for the 
 night; they've gone on to the Cave of 
 Harmony — first turn on the left ; 
 there's a red lamp over the door ; you 
 can't miss it. 
 
 Mat. Oh, thank you — thank you! 
 
 Moss. That's neat! Trust old 
 Moss when anybody's to be made 
 
 [Hawkshaw during the above 
 has dropped over wall at the 
 back, seizes Moss from be- 
 hind, stops his mouth with one 
 hand, and handcuffs him] 
 Hawkshaw. Stir or speak, and you're 
 a dead man ! 
 
 Dalton [appearing at back door]. 
 
 Hang the cloud! I can't see. Moss! 
 
 Hawkshaw [Imitating]. AU serene ! 
 
 Dalton [coming down]. We've 
 
 done the job. [Calling to Beieelt] 
 
 Now, the box. 
 
 Beierlt. [Within] I'll bring it. 
 
 [Comes from door with cash-box] 
 Dalton. We'll share at the Pigeons 
 in Duck Lane. The box ! quick ! 
 Bhierlt. a word or two first. 
 Dalton. We can talk in the cab. 
 Brierlt. No, here. You were my 
 ruin four years ago. 
 
 Dalton. I've paid you back to-night 
 twice over. Come, the box. 
 
 Brierlt. I suffered then for your 
 crime. Ever since, you've come be- 
 tween me and honest Ufe — you've 
 broke me down — you've brought me 
 to this. 
 
 Dalton. I suppose you mean you've 
 a right to an extra share of the swag? 
 
 Brierly. No, I mean that you're 
 my prisoner, or you're a dead man. 
 
 [Seizes him and presents pistol] 
 Dalton. Hands off, you fool! 
 Brierlt. Nay then — 
 
 [Snaps pistol] 
 Dalton. You should have asked me 
 for the caps. Here they are. 
 
 [Holds them up] 
 Beieelt. No matter; armed or 
 unarmed, you don't escape me. 
 
 [A struggle — Dalton strikes 
 down Beierly as Hawkshaw 
 rushes from his concealment] 
 Hawkshaw. Now, Jem Dalton! 
 It's my turn! 
 
 Dalton. Hawkshaw ! 
 
 [They struggle; Hawkshaw is 
 forced down on a tombstone and 
 nearly strangled; Sam appears 
 outside the rails, springs over 
 them, seizes Dalton by the 
 legs and throws him over; 
 Hawkshaw rises and puts the 
 handcuffs on Dalton; May 
 appears in the street] 
 May. Robert! Husband! 
 Sam. [Over Dalton] Lie still, will 
 you? You're a nice young man! 
 [Crossing, looking over Moss] You're a 
 pair of nice young men! 
 
 Hawkshaw. Now, Jem Dalton! re- 
 member poor Joe Skirrett — I promised 
 him I'd do it. I've done it at last. 
 
 [Enter Me. Gibson from back door oj 
 house, followed by May, who has 
 gone round] 
 
 Gibson. This way. Here they are! 
 The safe open! The cash-box gone! 
 
 Hawkshaw. No, saved. 
 
 [Oives it to him] 
 
 Gibson. By whom? 
 
 Hawkshaw. The man who is bleed- 
 ing yonder, Robert Brierly. 
 
 May. My husband — wounded ! 
 Oh, mercy! [She kneels over him] 
 
 Gibson. Thank heaven, he's not 
 dead. I can repay him yet. 
 
 Hawkshaw. Men don't die so easily. 
 He's worth a dozen dead men. 
 
The Ticket-of-Leave Man 
 
 267 
 
 May. Look — lie opens his eyes. 
 Robert, speak to me — it's May — 
 —your own wife. 
 
 Beibklt. [Faintly] Darling, I'm 
 glad you're here. It's only a clip of 
 the head. I'm none the worse. It 
 was all my game to snare those villains. 
 
 Who's there? Mr. Gibson? You 
 wouldn't trust me, sir, but I was not 
 ungrateful. You see, there may be 
 some good left in a " ticket-of-leave 
 man" after all. [Tableau] 
 
 THE END 
 
CASTE 
 
 (1867) 
 By T. W. Robertson 
 
THOMAS WILLIAM ROBERTSON 
 (1829-1871) 
 
 We speak of the era of Tom Robertson as though some fateful thing had hap- 
 pened to the British drama with his advent. The stage pendulum had swung so 
 far toward an imitation of heroic speech and attitude, the sentiment of stage poetry 
 had gone so far away from the sentiment of real Hfe, that it seemed as though the 
 EngUsh went to the theatre to stifle reahty beneath an imagination which was al- 
 most puerile and an invention which was thoroughly artificial. Such drama was, 
 as we have said before, encouraged through the domination of the actor and his 
 method. Speak as we may of the innovations of Tom Robertson — these innova- 
 tions would have had, at the very outset, small encouragement, had it not been 
 for the close cooperation of Squire and Marie Bancroft, both of whom were so 
 closely identified with the cream of Robertson's comedy writing. 
 
 "Caste", the logical selection for inclusion in the present volume, may not 
 now strike us with any of its former originality. It may be stilted, and yet it still 
 has vitality. It is curious to note, in dramatic history, how a drama may lose 
 its contemporaneousness, and yet remain an effective piece fOr the theatre. Only 
 recently (1918), Miss Ethel 'Bsuryiaore produced a garbled version of "Camille." 
 Had she been content to remain true to the Matilda Heron transcription, and had 
 she applied to it her theory of dressing Camille according to her period, she would 
 have met with great success. I agree with Archer that ' ' the day is fast approaching 
 when 'Caste' will have to be played in the costumes of the '60's." It will be inter- 
 esting to see whether ceasing to regard this comedy's manners and sentiments 
 as contemporaneous will obliterate it altogether from stage history. 
 
 Robertson was bom of a theatrical family. His father, WilUam Robertson, 
 was an actor of the old school, and a manager ; so, likewise, was his great-grandfather. 
 Tom, born on January 9, 1829, at Newark-on-Trent, and his sister, Madge, who 
 afterwards became Mrs. Kendall, sustained the family tradition. The early youth 
 of Tom Robertson, outside of school, was spent in the theatre. He was only five 
 when he began playing juvenile parts, and intermittently he pursued his studies 
 at Spalding Academy and elsewhere, becoming noted thus early for his super- 
 abundant wit. 
 
 In 1843, his father assumed the management of the Lincoln Company, and 
 called his son into service as a scene painter, a prompter, a writer of songs, and an 
 adapter of many plays, including one by Dickens. If the full story were told of 
 these years, it would be a most interesting record of the provincial English touring 
 system, into which Robertson threw himself with energy, acting any part from 
 Hamlet to the Ghost, and changing quickly from Surface to Doctor Pangloss. 
 
 The declining fortunes of the Robertson family were due probably to the de- 
 clining influence of the circuit system. And, in 1848, Robertson went to London, 
 
 1 271 
 
272 Representative British Dramas 
 
 a significant move for one without money, but with a great diffuseness and variety 
 of talent. For some time, he tutored at Utrecht, having become proficient in 
 French, but the mere pittance he made scarcely kept him from starving. It was in 
 1851 that, at the Olympic Theatre, Robertson's first play, "A Night's Adventures", 
 was produced by WilUam Farren, and we are told that this old actor in gross out- 
 spokenness declared that it was "a damned bad play", to which the ever-ready 
 Robertson replied, "Not so damned bad as the acting." The anecdote is not so 
 significant as it is representative of the alertness of the Robertson repartee — an 
 alertness which won for him many friends, and fitted him for his task as an associate 
 on the contributing staff of Fun. Stamped as a wit, Robertson made friends with 
 the wits of the time. In his acting experience, he soon became acquainted with 
 Henry J. Byron, and played with him on several occasions. The two had many 
 grim experiences with poverty, each pledging the other that if successful he would 
 be true to the one on whom fortune failed to smile. 
 
 Farren, however, knew a good thing when he saw it. He bought another play 
 from Robertson for three pounds, and the three-pound habit passed on to Charles 
 Matthews and Madame Vestris, who employed Robertson as prompter of the Olym- 
 pic when they took charge. The work that Robertson did was of the "pot-boiler" 
 quality. As fast as he would write his little pieces, some of them original, and 
 others adaptations, he would sell them to Laey, the pubhsher, for a nominal sum. 
 This work not being very profitable, he tried to enlist in the army. It was a life, as 
 Robertson said afterwards, of irreg^ular habits and loose salary, and might easily 
 have been a tragedy. 
 
 In 1856, he married Miss Elizabeth Burton, and the two went to Dublin as 
 leading lady and eccentric comedian. It was on the death of a little daughter that 
 Robertson definitely retired from the stage and began writing for the magazines, and 
 translating plays for Lacy. 
 
 But literature for him did not seem to flourish any more. We are told that 
 at one time Robertson seriously thought of giving up writing and turning tobacco- 
 nist. Small income came from his theatrical criticisms in the Illustrated Times, 
 edited by Henry Vizetelly, and in the Comic News, edited by H. J. Byron. Even 
 novel writing proved unsuccessful, though little did Robertson realize at the time 
 he wrote his story, "David Garriok", based on Mglesville's three-act play, "Sulli- 
 van", that this would be the beginning of his career. Here is a strange indication 
 of the way in which dramas were evolved on the British stage in those days: a 
 novel is shaped out of a French play, and a dramatization of that novel results in 
 the script of " David Garrick ", which Robertson sold to Lacy for ten pounds. 
 
 Some years after, E. A. Sothern, the famous comedian, who had met with such 
 success in Dundreary, was looking about for some drama to refute the belief of 
 Thackeray and John Leech that it would be difQoult for him to dupUcate his success. 
 A casual conversation with the actor brought the play of "Garrick" to the fore, 
 and Sothern gave Robertson the money to buy the rights back from Lacy, and even 
 went so far as to advance him fifty pounds royalties. It was produced at the 
 Prince of Wales Theatre, Birmingham, April, 1864, and met with great success, even 
 though the critics scored Sothern because they thought his voice not fitted for love- 
 making. In after years, a dispute arose between Sothern and Tom Robertson as 
 to the originality of the piece, and they both claimed the writing of the drunken 
 scene, even as there was some dispute over individual touches in "Home", a 
 
Thomas William Robertson 273 
 
 Robertson comedy produced by Sothern at the Haymarket, in 1869. "Home", 
 however, was not an original play at the start, for it was taken from Augier's 
 |j"L'Aventuri&re." "David Garriok" afterwards became a steadfast addition to 
 j|he repertory of the actor, Sir Charles Wyndham. 
 
 ' The significant date in the career of Tom Robertson was November 11, 1865, 
 when, at the Prince of Wales's Theatre, in London, the Bancrofts produced his play 
 of Bohemian manners, "Society." It established the fortunes of eveiy one con- 
 cerned. 
 
 We get a glimpse of the Robertson of this time in a description preserved by 
 Squire Bancroft himself, who believed that the Robertson comedies saved the 
 English theatre and revived an intelligent interest in the drama, infusing a natural- 
 ness into stage work which did much to encourage a natural school of acting. 
 He says of Robertson : 
 
 He was of a highly nervous temperament, and he had a great habit of biting 
 his moustache and caressing his beard — indeed,, his hands were rarely still. 
 He was at that time thirty-six, above medium height, and rather stoutly built, 
 with a pale skin, and reddish beard, and small, piercing, red-brown eyes which 
 were ever restless. 
 
 rollowinghisfirstsuceess, came "Ours" (September 16, 1866), "Caste" (April 6, 
 1867), "Play" (February 15, 1868), "School" (January 14, 1869), and "M.P." 
 (April 23, 1870). 
 
 Managers began to compete for his dramas, and he turned them out with a 
 rapidity which was startling and dangerous to his permanence as a playwright. 
 Such actors as Lester Wallack, noted for their picturesque, often flamboyant, roman- 
 ticism, became startled over the new regime of acting set in motion by Tom Robert- 
 son. He was noted for his thoroughness of preparation. W. S. Gilbert, whose 
 friendship with him began as early as 1869, at a dinner given to the literary staff 
 of Fun, once declared : 
 
 I frequently attended his rehearsals and learnt a great deal from his method 
 of stage-management, which in those days was quite a novelty, although most 
 pieces are now stage-managed on the principles he introduced. I look upon 
 stage-management, as now understood, as having been absolutely "invented" 
 by him. 
 
 As for the acting upheld and well founded by the Bancrofts, who encouraged 
 the first work of John Hare, we have the confession of Wallack that, however 
 easy he himself might have considered Sheridan's mode of characterization to be, 
 his greatest difficulty was in studsring the extreme modem school of writing. And 
 he said further : 
 
 In speaking Tom Robertson's lines, for instance, one is talking "every- 
 day talk." It looks very easy, but it is most difficult, for if you are illustrating 
 Sheridan or Shakespeare, you are speaking in a language that is new to you ; 
 which on that account impresses you all the more ; whereas, if you have a 
 speech from Tom Robertson or Boucicault, you can give it just as well in two 
 or three different ways. 
 
274 Representative British Dramas 
 
 One can gain a clear idea of the freshness of the Robertson comedy, as it im- 
 pressed itself upon the London theatre-going pubUc, by reading the criticisms of 
 the time. Exclamations arose on all sides at what one critic designated as the 
 simplicity of scene and the "accumulation of incidents and satire more interesting 
 and more poignant than might be found in all the sensational dramas of the last 
 half century." 
 
 Another significant thing to the critics of the period regarding Robertson was 
 that, whereas it had become a popular fetish that the English were only interested 
 in French adaptations, and whereas the managers had raised an almost insuperable 
 barrier against originality — a barrier which poor Boucicault found difficult to 
 surmount, and which afforded the theatre an opportunity of securing a miseel- 
 laneous assortment of plays for the mere hack price of translation — here was a 
 dramatist who suddenly raised the value of the home product, and raised himself 
 above the degraded position of mere literary and theatrical carpenter. Robertson 
 was naive about his sudden success and his long-awaited release from poverty. 
 He is reported to have said, speaking of his actor experiences : 
 
 Those were the days when I had one meal a day and three parts a night to 
 play — now I have three meals a day and no part to play, and for this relief 
 Providence has my most heartfelt thanks. 
 
 If one compares the stage directions of the period of James Sheridan Knowlea 
 with the stage directions of the Shavian drama, one will find a wider difference in 
 intent and purpose, the latter being so nearly in accord with the reahstic novel- 
 ist's summing up of psychology and motive. Robertson laid the foundation for the 
 modern school of stage direction. He put a stop to the spontaneous horseplay and 
 "gags" of the earlier actor, who introduced dialogue at wiU into a play, as the spirit 
 moved him. 
 
 William Archer, after raising such interesting questions as "Did Robertson ini- 
 tiate the modern English drama?" "Is he the inteUeetual ancestor of Mr. Pinero 
 and Mr. Oscar Wilde?" "Is the 'Second Mrs. Tanqueray' implicit in 'Caste'?" 
 "Did the Robertson impetus die away in Mr. BjTon and Mr. Godfrey, while Mr. 
 Pinero, Mr. Wilde and Mr. Jones are the products of a still newer movement?" 
 " Is Mr. Carton, perhaps, the one survivor of ' The tribe of Tom ' ? " goes on to say : 
 
 I am inclined to regard Robertson as a man with a curious instinct of super- 
 ficial modernity, of which his intimate knowledge of stage-effect enabled him 
 to make the most, but without the psychological penetration, the philosophical 
 culture, or the artistic seriousness necessary for the great dramatist. He has 
 been called the Thackeray of the stage, — I should rather call him the Leech, 
 inasmuch as his criticism of life is that of the family caricaturist rather than of 
 the philosophic satirist. 
 
 We take this estimate as a fair approach, in these more modern days, of Tom 
 Robertson. His value is to be found, not so much in comparison with the work 
 which followed him, as in contrast with the work which preceded him. And if this 
 latter estimate is taken, one cannot deny his significance as a milepost in the develop- 
 ment of the Victorian drama. 
 
 A fuU list of his plays would scarcely add more to the impression of Tom Robert- 
 son. His comedies were filled with satire, with a certain tenderness, a certain wit, 
 
Thomas William Robertson 275 
 
 and an appreciation of the small needs of eommon life. His writing for the stage 
 was characterized as the " teaoup-and-saucer " drama, a phrase which, in America, 
 at a somewhat later period, passed on to David Belasoo, in the form of the "milk- 
 and-water" school of acting, which that manager established at the New York Mad- 
 ison Sctuare Theatre, in contradistiitction to the broad romance of Lester WaUaok. 
 Some day, an adequate edition of Robertson's plays will be available, outside the 
 few copies now extant in reference libraries. These plays are representative of the 
 writing done for the Bancrofts, although the long list contained in the "Dictionary 
 of National Biography " indicates that one must wade through a large amount of 
 good,-bad, and indifferent, in order to reach conclusions which are easily formulated 
 by taking a few representative plays with which to measure him. 
 
 Robertson was a good fellow; a social mixer with Tom Hood, Gilbert, the 
 Broughs, Joseph Knight, the VizeteUys, B. L. Blanohard, and John Oxenford. His 
 success with this group encouraged in him a cheerful cynicism, if one can use the 
 term, and discovered in him a certain kindliness which is apparent in all of his plays. 
 Wit was dominant in everything he wrote, even in the dramatization of "David 
 Copperfleld", given in 1869, when Rol?ertson first met Dickens. The latter ap- 
 plauded what he called the dramatist's unassuming form, and said that in Robert- 
 son's plays "real wit could afford to put off any airs of pretension to it." 
 
 The autobiographical value of Robertson's plays is evident. Incidents in 
 "Society" were drawn from Ufe. "Dreams" is in part a confession of his early 
 difleulties. The biographer must likewise rely on Pinero's impression of Robert- 
 son in "Trelawny of the 'Wells.' " 
 
 Contemporary criticism of the Robertson school is reflected in the writings of 
 John Oxenford, who was then supreme dramatic critic on the London Times. It is 
 likewise to be found in the reviews of Clement Scott. Both these men, born and 
 bred of the Victorian era, give the right perspective of the professional attitude 
 toward the new realism which Robertson introduced into the theatre. Soott em- 
 phasizes the dependence of the English people upon J'renoh drama, by telling 
 this anecdote: when "Ours" was announced for production, the London papers 
 insisted on thinking that the name of the play was "L'Ours", French for "The 
 Bear." He also calls attention to Robertson's use of scenes spoken off stage, as 
 a modern detail, as characteristic as the old time "aside." 
 
 "Caste" was founded on a tale written by Robertson, in 1866, and published in 
 a collection of short stories, edited by Tom Hood, called " Rates and Taxes and How 
 They Were Collected." In this volume there was fiction by W. S. Gilbert and Clem- 
 ent Scott. Robertson's contribution was "The Poor Rate Unfolds a Tale." A 
 reading of this story shows the richness Robertson infused into the play evolved 
 from it. 
 
 The comedy was dedicated to Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft) and, as we have 
 said, was given at the Prince of Wales's Theatre, London, Saturday, April 6, 1867. 
 
 Augustin Pilon, in "The English Stage", is correct in his estimate of Robertson, 
 which may be applied directly to "Caste" : 
 
 It would be but an iU service to Robertson to give an outline of his plays. 
 A mere outline would give the impression that they were childish and absurd, 
 and they were neither the one nor the other. He never invented a striking 
 situation, so far as I am aware. He never settled (or even raised) a moral 
 or social problem in any of his productions. He gave all his attention to the 
 
276 Representative British Dramas 
 
 characters and the dialogue. . . . He wanted nothing better than to be a 
 reahst and to reproduce what he had actually seen. He knew nothing of great 
 ladies, as one may well understand. When he had to portray them he was 
 obhged to copy fromi bad models. His Lady Ptarmigant is a regular bourgeoise; 
 his Marquise de Saint Maur, who learns bits of Froissart by heart, and gives 
 lessons in history to her son, is either a myth or an anachronism. His Hawtree, 
 on the other hand, is as real as can be ; Robertson had met him probably in the 
 clubs which he frequented. 
 
 In the study of "Caste", one will, as Mr. Archer says, note how contemporane- 
 ousness seizes hold of a dramatist and stamps itself upon the dialogue. There are 
 definite references to the Indian Mutiny and to the ballet at Covent Garden. But 
 apart from this, as Mr. Archer confesses : 
 
 It is curious to remember that "Caste" (produced in 1867) is now (1904) 
 just as old as "Money" and "London Assurance" were when "Caste" was 
 new. Yet the distance that separates them from "Caste" in tone and diction 
 appears infinitely greater than the distance between "Caste" and "Liberty 
 HaU", which is very slight indeed. 
 
 One can imagine the sensation which was created among the Bancroft company, 
 when Tom Robertson brought his script of "Caste", and read the play to them. 
 Little did they think upon what a triumphant career they were launching the play, 
 which has held the stage ever since that time, being revived, again and again, with 
 notable casts. The part of Eccles, known to a later generation through the dis- 
 tinctive characterization work done by Sir John Hare, is one which calls for special 
 character-acting — a type of character-acting which is now dying out. As one 
 critic remarked, after a later revival of "Caste", if the play was coldly received it 
 was not due to loss of freshness on the part of Robertson, but rather to a sad de- 
 preciation in the acting which had originally brought it to success. 
 
 In the evolutionary career of Bernard Shaw, "Caste" has played its small 
 part. He confesses, in his "Dramatic Opinions and Essays", that the Robertson- 
 ian movement caught him as a boy, the Ibsen movement caught him as a man, 
 and whatever next movement there is to be will catch him as a fossil. There is the 
 usual Shavian wit when he gets down to real criticism. We find him excellently 
 discriminating, and resentful of Robertson's view of the working classes in Eccles 
 and Gerridge, which he claimed to be worthy of the untrustworthiness of Dickens. 
 But, despite his irritation, Shaw is fair enough to call attention to the fact that even 
 Eccles and Gerridge were something in the mid-century Victorian days, when there 
 was a shabby-genteel ignorance of the working classes. 
 
 He writes : 
 
 Let it not be forgotten that in both [Eccles and Gerridge] there really is a 
 humanization, as humanization was understood in the '60's : that is a dis- 
 covery of saving sympathetic qualities in personages thitherto deemed be- 
 yond redemption. Even theology had to be humanized then by the rejection 
 of the old doctrine of eternal punishment. 
 
 This fair recognition on the part of Shaw must be the same recognition given 
 by the modern reader who studies the play. 
 
 In America, the piece was pirated in its original production by W. J. Florence. 
 
Thomas William Robertson 277 
 
 _^^ ia , ■ . 
 
 V 
 
 The stage history of "Caste" is epitomized in W. Davenport Adams's "Dictionary 
 of the Drama." 
 
 A study of Robertson involves a study of the period in which he lived. It takes 
 up a consideration of the humourists who have been discussed elsewhere in this 
 volume ; it records the beginnings of a brilliant history of acting ; it is involved in 
 thefmaking of several players whose reputations are now a part of the history of the 
 English stage. Tom Robertson was brought in contact with fixed ideas in play- 
 writing, with stage management as represented by the gruff, overbearing Buckstone. 
 When he died, on February 3, 1871, he had helped to change the conditions which had 
 at first handicapped him. Little did Buckstone think, when he wrote "Rubbish" 
 on the fly-leaf of the manuscript copy of "Society", that it would be preserved in 
 , the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford. It was "rubbish" to him, not be- 
 cause of its dramaturgy, but because it upset the conventional notions of the Hay- 
 market Theatre which he managed. We must take Tom Robertson as a forerunner 
 of Knero and Jones. While we can understand W. B. Yeats's remark that such plays 
 as "Caste" require little awakening knowledge for their consumption, yet, when 
 the play was first given, it not only brought to the Victorian audience a certain 
 refreshing human point of view, but it likewise brought to the English stage a 
 decided realistic note which took the drama out of the vacuous atmosphere of 
 romantic unreality. 
 

 
CASTE 
 Bt T. W. ROBERTSON 
 
TO 
 
 MISS MARIE WILTON 
 (MRS. BANCROFT) 
 
 THIS COMEDY IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY 
 
 HER QKATEPTJL FRIEND 
 
 AND 
 
 FELLOW LABOTJRBK 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Prince of Wales's Theatre, Broadway Theatre, 
 London, April 6, 1867 New York, Augusts, 
 
 1867 
 Hon. George D'Alroy . ■ . Mr. Frederick Younge Mr. W. J. Plorenoe 
 Captain Hawtree yf* ^"-f**^ Mr. Bancroft Mr. Owen Marlowe 
 
 EccLES Uif^-^f>»^. i .-i<r^ Mr. George Honey Mr. Wm. Davidge 
 
 Sam Gbrridgb . . . . . . Mr. Hare Mr. Edward Lamb 
 
 Dixon 
 
 Marquise de St. Maur . . Miss Larkin Mrs. G. H. Gilbert 
 
 Esther EccLBS»';-'^i'»'^U*>J^ Miss Marie Wilton Mrs. S. P. Chanfrau 
 
 Polly Eccles •Soy''^ <■ ■ ■ Miss Lydia Foote Mrs. W. J. Florence 
 
 Act I. The Little House at Stangate COURTSHIP 
 
 Act II. The Lodgings in Mayfair MATRIMONY 
 
 Act III. The Little House in Stangate WIDOWHOOD 
 
 A lapse of eight months occurs between the first and the second Act, and a 
 of twelve months between the second and the third. 
 
CASTE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene First. — A plain set chamber, 
 paper soiled. A window, with prac- 
 ticable blind; street ba,cking and 
 iron railings. Door practicable, 
 when opened showing street door 
 (practicable). Fireplace; two-hinged 
 gas-burners on each side of mantel- 
 piece. Sideboard cupboard, cup- 
 board in recess; tea-things, teor-pot, 
 teorcaddy, tea-tray, etc., on it. Long 
 table, before fire; old piece of carpet 
 and rug down; plain chairs; book- 
 shelf, back; a small table under it 
 with ballet-shoe and skirt on it; 
 bunch of benefit bills hanging under 
 book-shelf. Theatrical printed por- 
 traits, framed, hanging about; chim- 
 'ney glass clock; box of lucifers and 
 ornaments on mantel-shelf; kettle 
 on hob, and fire laid; door-mats on 
 the outside of door. Bureau in lower 
 right-hand corner. Rapping heard 
 at door, the handle is then shaken as 
 curtain rises. The door is unlocked. 
 
 [Enter George P'Alroy.] 
 
 George D'Alroy. Told you so; the 
 key was left under- the mat-Jn -ca§e_I 
 came. They're not back from rehearsal. 
 [Hangs up hat tin peg near door as Haw- 
 TBEB enters] Confound rehearsal ! 
 
 [Crosses to fireplace] 
 
 Hawtbee [6acfc to audience, looking 
 round]. And this is the fairy's bo wer! 
 
 George. "TfBS ; illld TBis is the fairy's 
 fireplace ; the fire is laid. I'll light it. 
 [Lights fire with lucifer from 
 mantel-piece] 
 
 Hawtree [turning to George]. And 
 this is the abode rendered blessed by 
 lier.abUijjg. It is here that she dwells, 
 waiEsTwTks, — eats and drin]£S;__Does 
 she eat and drink? 
 
 George. Yes, heartily. I've seen 
 her. 
 
 Hawtree. And you are really 
 spoons! — case of true lovff-^'hit — 
 dead. 
 
 George. Right- through. Can't 
 live^awajF-l-rem-her. 
 
 [With elbow on end of mantel- 
 piece, down stage] 
 
 Hawtree. Poor old Dal! and 
 you've brought me_ovOT_th&4Bater to — 
 
 George. Stangatg. 
 
 Hawtree. Slangate — ■ to see her 
 for the same sort of reason that when 
 a patient is in a dangerous state one 
 doctor calls in another — for a con- ' 
 sultation. 
 
 George. Yes. Th en thej atientdies. 
 
 Hawtree. Tell us about it — you 
 know_r ye_^gaDLa3Easc..- 
 
 [Sits at table, leg on chair. 
 
 George. Well then, eighteen 
 months ago — 
 
 Hawtree. Oh cut that! you told 
 me all about that. You went to a 
 . theatre, and saw a girl in a ballet, and 
 you feU in love. 
 
 George. Yes. I found out that 
 she was an amiable, good girl. 
 
 Hawtree. Of course; cut that. 
 We'll credit her with all the virtues 
 and accomplishments. 
 
 George. Who worked hard to sup- 
 port audmaken fath«r. 
 
 Aawtree. Oh! the father's a 
 drunkard, is he? The father does 
 not inherit the daughter's virtues? 
 
 George. No. I hate him. 
 
 Hawtree. Naturally. Quite so! 
 Quite so ! 
 
 George. And she — • that is, !^sther 
 
 — is very good to her yjumger sistef. 
 Hawtree. Younger sister "also an- 
 gelic, amiable, accomplished, etc. 
 
 George. IJm — good enough, but 
 got a teniper-=4asge_ temper. Well, 
 with some difficulty, I got to speak to 
 her. I mean to Esther. Then I was 
 allowed to see her to her door here. 
 
 Hawtree. I know — pastry-cooks 
 
 — Richmond dinner — and all that. 
 George. You're too fast. Pastry- 
 cooks — yes. Richmond — no. Your 
 
 281 
 
282 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 knowledge of the world, fifty yards round 
 barracks, misleads you. I saw her 
 neairljijevSEX- day^ anal kept on falling 
 in love — faUing and faUing, until I 
 thought I should never reach the bot- 
 tonni then I Diet you. 
 
 Hawtree. I remember the night 
 when you told me ; but I thought it 
 was only an amourette. However, if 
 the Are is a conflagration, subdue it; 
 try dissipation. ""'^ 
 
 'Tj^oRGE. I have. 
 
 Hawtree. What success? 
 
 George. Noije; dissipation brought 
 me bad health and seft-oontempt, a 
 sick head and a sore heart. 
 
 Hawtree. Foreign travel ; absence 
 makes the ,hea£t grow [sligM pause] — 
 stronger. Get leave and cut away. 
 
 George. I did get leave, and I did 
 cut away ; and while away I was miser- 
 able and a gon-er coon than ever. 
 
 Hawtree. What's to be done? 
 
 [Sits cross-legged on chair, facing 
 George] 
 
 George. Don't know. That's the 
 reason_I asked you .ta eomeD.ver,aaisee. 
 
 Hawtree. Of course, Dal, you're 
 not such a soft as toJihink_gf jnaraiage. 
 You know what your mother is. Either 
 you are going to behave properly, with 
 a proper regard for the world, and all 
 that, you know; or you're going to do 
 the other thing. Now, the question is, 
 what do you mean to do ? The girl is a 
 nice girl, no doubt ; but as to-yautjnak- 
 i ng- her Mrs. D'AB:"oy;~the thing is out 
 
 of the question. ~~^— - "~ 
 
 '"'George. Why? What should pre- 
 vent me? 
 
 Hawtree. i2aste! — the- inexorable 
 law of caste. The social law, so becom- 
 ing and so good, that commands Uke 
 to mate with Uke, and forbids a giraffe 
 to fall in love with a squirrel. 
 
 George. But my dear Bark — 
 
 Hawtree. My dear Dal, all those 
 marriages of people with common people 
 are all very well in novels and plays 
 on the stage, because the real people 
 don't exist, and have no relatives who 
 exist, and no connections, and so no 
 harm's done, and it's rather interesting 
 to look at ; but in real life with real 
 relations, and real mothers and so forth, 
 it's absolute bosh ; it's worse, it's utter 
 social and personal annihilation and 
 damnation. 
 
 George. As to my mother, I haven't 
 thought about her. 
 
 [Sits corner of table] 
 
 Hawtree. Of course not. Lovers 
 are so damned selfish ; they never think 
 of anybody but themselves. 
 
 George. My father died when I 
 was three years old, aic d she m arried 
 again before JT^witj! air, ajl'l "lafrifli a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 Hawtree. A nobleman of the most 
 ancient families of France, of equal 
 blood to her own. She obeyed the 
 duties imposed on her by her station 
 and by caste. 
 
 George. Still, it caused a separation 
 
 and a division between us, and I never 
 
 see my bro"EE»i because he lives abroad. 
 
 Of course the Marquise de St. Maui is 
 
 my mother, and I look u pon her with 
 
 a sort, of superstitious awe. ~ 
 
 [Moves chair "witK^ which he has 
 
 been twisting about during speech 
 
 from table to left corner. 
 
 Hawtree. She's a grand Brahmin 
 priestess. 
 "GltiRGB. Just so; and I know I'm 
 
 a.Jopl. Now youtre_ clever. Bark, — 
 
 a ifttle too clevOT, I think. You're 
 paying your devoirs — that's the cor- 
 rect woi;d,_isnit jt-^^- to Lady- Florence 
 Carbarry, ' the daughter- of a countess. 
 She's above you — you've no title., Is 
 she to forget her caste? 
 
 Hawtree. That argument doesn't 
 apply. A man can be no more than a 
 ^gentleman. 
 
 George. 
 
 " True hearts are more than coronets, 
 And simple faith than Norman blood." 
 
 Hawtree. 1A)w, George, if you're 
 going to consider this question from the 
 point of view of poetry, you're off to 
 No-Man's Land, where I won't follow 
 you. 
 
 George. No gentleman can be 
 ashamed of the woman he loves. No 
 matter what her original station, once 
 his wife he raises her to his rank. 
 
 Hawtree. Yes, he isises her^ — 
 her; but her connections — her rela- 
 tives. How about therh ? ^ 
 
 [BccLES enters] 
 
 EccLES [Outside], Polly! Polly! 
 Polly! [Enters] Why the devil — 
 
 [George crosses to Hawtree, 
 who rises. Eccles sees them 
 and assumes a deferential man- 
 ner] 
 Eccles. Oh, Mr. De-Ahoy! I 
 didn't see you, sir. Gootf ^afternoon ; 
 the same to you, sir, and many on 'em 
 
Caste 
 
 283 
 
 [Puts hat on bureau and comes 
 down] 
 Hawtreb. Who is this? 
 George. 
 
 H'AWTKBB. ^Si 
 
 [Turns up to booh-shelf, scanning 
 BccLBS through eye-glass] 
 
 Gborge. Miss Ecoles and her sister 
 not r6turiied-foom-Tehejtrg53~yet ? 
 
 EccLES. No, sir, they have not. I 
 expect 'em in directly. I hope you've 
 been quite well since I seen you last, 
 sir? „_ 
 
 SioRGE. Quite, thank you; and 
 how have you been, Mr. Eccles ? 
 
 EccLEs. Well, sir, I have not been 
 the thing at all. My 'elth, sir, and my 
 spirits is both broke. I'm not the man 
 I u'selToTje. I am not accustomed to 
 this sort of thing. rve_ seen bet ter 
 da2s__but_they^ are gone" — most like 
 for ever. It is a melancholy thing, 
 
 sir, fnrji Tna.n jvF^)Tny time of Ufe tO look 
 
 -baekra better days that are gone most 
 like for ever. 
 
 George. I daresay. 
 
 BccLEs. O nce proud and pr osperous, 
 n ow poorj mdJffiiEia- DnSSTtrastBt of a 
 shop, 1 amnow, by the pressure of cir- 
 cumstances over which I have no con- 
 trol, driven to seek work and not to 
 find it. il^verty is a_jlreadful thing, 
 sir, fo r a m an as has once"^beenTfBll off. 
 
 Q^tOhge^ TdaJesa^T 
 
 EccLES [sighing]. Ah, sir, the poor 
 and lowly is often 'ardly used. What 
 chance has the working-man? 
 
 Hawtreb. None when he don't 
 work. 
 
 EccLES. We are all equal in mind 
 and feeling. 
 
 George. [Aside] I hope not. 
 
 EccLBS. I am sorry, gentlemen, 
 that I cannot offer you any refresh- 
 ment; but luxury and me has long 
 been strangers. 
 
 George. I am very sorry for your 
 misfortunes, Mr. Eocles. [Looking 
 round at Hawtreb, mho turns away] 
 May I hope^that you will allow me to 
 offer youjhis trifling loan? 
 
 [Giving him half a sovereign] 
 
 EccLES. Sir, you're a gentleman. 
 One can tell a real gentleman with half 
 a sov — I mean half an eye — a real 
 gentleman understands the natural 
 emotions of the working-man. Pride, 
 sir, is a thing as should be put down 
 by the strong 'and of pecuniary neces- 
 sity. There's a friend of mine round 
 the corner as I promised to meet on a 
 
 little matter of business; so if you wiU 
 excuse me, sir — 
 
 George. With pleasure. 
 
 EccLBS [going up]. Sorry to leave 
 you, gentlemen, but — 
 
 George. Don't stay on my ac- 
 count. 
 
 Hawtrbe. Don't mention it. 
 
 EccLBS. Business is business. [Goes 
 
 up] The girls will be in directly. Good 
 
 afternoon, gentlemen, — good afternoon 
 
 — [Going out] Good afternoon. [Exit] 
 
 [George sits in chair, corner of 
 
 table, right] 
 
 Hawtrbe [coming down left of table]. 
 Papa is not nice, but — • 
 
 [Sitting on corner of table down stage] 
 
 " True hearts are more than ooroneta, 
 And simple faith than Norman blood." 
 
 Poor George! I wonder w hat your 
 niamma — ■ the Most Noble~tEe Mar- 
 quise de St. Maur — would think of 
 Papa Eecles . Come. Dal, allow that 
 therB~is something in caste. Conceive 
 that dirty rufQan — that rinsing of stale 
 beer — that walking tap-room, for a 
 father-in-law. Take a ^pinjto Central 
 America.. Forget her. 
 "tfEoKGE. Can't. 
 
 Hawtreb. ^ You'U be wretched and 
 miserable with her. 
 
 George. I'd rather be _35a:e±chad 
 with her than miseraS le" without her. 
 [Hawtreb takes out cigar case] Don't 
 smoke here! 
 
 Hawtreb. Why not? 
 
 George. She'll be coming in directly. 
 
 Hawtreb. I don't think she'd mind. 
 
 George. I should. Do you smoke 
 before LadxFlGrenGe-SffirberTy ? 
 
 TJ.AWTnh'ETclosing case]. Ha! You're 
 suffering from a fit of the morals. 
 
 George. What's that? 
 
 Hawtrbe. The morals is a disease, 
 like the measles, that attacks the young 
 and innocent. 
 
 George [with temper]. You talk like 
 Mephistopheles, without the cleverness. 
 [Goes up the window and looks 
 at watch] 
 
 Hawtrbe [arranging cravat at glass]. 
 I don't pretend to be a particularly good 
 sort of fellow, nor a particularly bad 
 sort of fellow. I suppose I'm about the 
 average standard sort of thing, and I 
 doji't like to see a friend go down hill to 
 the devil while I can put the drag on. 
 [Turning, with back to fire] Here is a 
 girl of very humble station — poor, and 
 aU that, with a drunken father, who 
 
284 
 
 Representative B.ritish Dramas 
 
 evidently doesn't care how he gets 
 money so long as he don't work for it. 
 Marriage! Pah! Couldn't the thing 
 be arranged? 
 
 George. Hawtree, cut that! [At 
 window] She's here! 
 
 [Goes to door and opens it] 
 
 [Enter Esther] 
 
 George [flurried at sight of her]. Good 
 morning. I got here before you, you 
 see. 
 
 Esther. Good morning. 
 
 [Sees Hawtbee — slight pause, in 
 which Hawtree has removed 
 his hat] 
 George. I've taken the liberty — I 
 hope you won't be angry — of asking 
 you to let me -present a friend of mine 
 to you; Miss B coles — Captain Haw- 
 tree. 
 
 [Hawtbee bows. George assists 
 Esther in taking off bonnet 
 and shawl] 
 Hawtree. [Aside] Pretty. 
 Esther. [Aside] Thinks too much of 
 himself. 
 
 George [hangs up bonnet and shawl 
 on pegs]. You've had a late rehearsal. 
 Where's Polly? 
 
 Esther. She stayed behind to buy 
 something. 
 
 [Enter Polly] 
 
 Polly [head through door]. How de 
 do, Mr. D'Alroy? Oh! I'm tired to 
 death. ' Kept at rehearsal by an old 
 fool of a stage manager. But stage 
 m"anagers~are~ always old fools, — ex- 
 cept when they are young. We sha'n't 
 have time for any dinner, so I've 
 brought .something for tea. 
 ' Esther. " What is it? 
 Polly. Ham. [Showing ham in 
 paper. Esther sits right, at window. 
 Crossing. /Seem^ Hawtbee] Oh! I beg 
 your pardon, sir. I didn't see you. 
 
 George. A friend of mine, Mary. 
 Captain Hawtree — Miss Mary Eocles. 
 [George sits at window. Polly 
 bows very low, to left, to right, 
 and to front, half burlesquely, 
 to Hawtree] 
 Hawtbee. Charmed. 
 Polly. [Aside] What a swell. Got 
 nice teeth, and he knowsit. How quiet 
 we all are ; let's talk about something. 
 [Hangs up her hat. She crosses 
 to fire round table, front. Haw- 
 tbee crosses and places hat on 
 bureau] 
 
 Esther. Wbat can we tali about? 
 
 Polly. Anything. Ham. Mr. 
 D'Alroy, do you like ham? 
 
 George. I adore her ^ [Polly 
 titters] — I mean I adore, it. 
 
 Polly. [To Hawtree^u'^o has crossed 
 to table watching Polly undo paper eorir 
 taining ham. She turns the plate on top 
 of the ham still in the paper, then throws 
 the paper aside and triumphantly brings 
 the plate under Hawtbee's nose, Haw- 
 tbee giving a little start back] Do you 
 like ham, sir? [Very tragically] 
 
 Hawtree. Yes. 
 
 Polly. Now that is very strange. 
 I should have thought you'd have been 
 above ham. [Getting teortray] 
 
 Hawtree. May one ask why? 
 
 Polly. You look abqve^Jt. You 
 look quite equal to tongue^^ glazed. 
 [Laughing] Mr. D'Alroy is here so 
 often that he kn ows our_ways. 
 
 [Getting tea-things from sideboard 
 and placing them on table] 
 
 Hawtbee. I Uke everything that is 
 piquante . and. fresh, and pretty and 
 agreeable. 
 
 Polly [laying table all the time for tea). 
 Ah! you mean that for me. [Curtsey- 
 ing] Oh ! [Sings] Tra, la, la, la, la, la. 
 [Flourishes cup in his face; he retreats a 
 step] Now I must put the kettle on. 
 [George and Esther are at window] 
 Esther never does any work when Mr. 
 D'Alroy is here. "They're spooning; 
 ugly word,^ "spooning, isn't it? — re- 
 minds one of red-currant jam. By the 
 bye, love is very like red-currant jam 
 — at the first taste sweet, and after- 
 wards shuddery. Do you ever spoon? 
 
 Hawtree [leaning across table]. I 
 should like to do_so at tb^ moment. 
 
 Polly. I dar^say~you would. No, 
 you're too grand. Jflt, me. You want 
 taking_ down_a.,p.eg — • I mean a foOtr 
 Let's see — what are you — a corporal? 
 
 Hawtbee. Ca^ptain. 
 
 Polly. I pimer a corporal. See 
 here. Let's change about'. "You be 
 corporal — it'U do you goQd,_aad I'll 
 be "my lady." — 
 
 Hawtbee. ' Pleasure. 
 
 Polly. You must call me "my 
 lady", though, or you sha'n't have any 
 ham. 
 
 Hawtree. Certainly, "my lady"; 
 but I cannot accept your hospitafity, 
 for I'm engaged to dine. 
 
 Polly. At what time ? 
 
 Hawtbee. Seven. 
 
 Polly. Seven! Why, that's half- 
 
Caste 
 
 286 
 
 past tea-time. Now, Corporal, you 
 must wait on me. 
 Hawtrbe. As the pages did of old. 
 Polly. "My lady." 
 Hawtree. "My lady." 
 Polly. Here's the kettle,_Cprporal. 
 [Holding out TcettU at arm's length. 
 Hawtree looks at it through 
 
 Hawtree. Very nice kettle. 
 
 Polly. Take it into the back kitchen. 
 
 Hawtree. -Eh ! 
 
 Polly. Oh^Jlm-CQmigg_too. 
 
 Hawtrbe7 Ah ! that alters the case. 
 [He takes out handkerchief and 
 then takes hold of kettle — 
 crosses as George rises and 
 comes down, slapping Hawtree 
 on back. Hawtree immedi- 
 ately places kettle on the floor. 
 Polly throws herself into chair 
 by fireside up stage, and roars 
 with laughter. George and 
 Esther laugh] 
 
 George. What are you about? 
 
 Hawtree. I'm about to fill the 
 kettle. 
 
 Bbtheb [going to Polly]. Mind what 
 you are doing, PoUy. What will Sam 
 
 Polly. Whatever Sam chooses. 
 What the sweetheart can't see the 
 husband can't grieve at. Now then — 
 Corporal ! 
 Hawtree. "My lady 1" 
 
 [Takes up kettle] 
 Polly. Attention ! Forward ! March ! 
 and mind the soot don't drop upon your 
 trousers. 
 
 [Exeunt Polly and Hawtree, 
 Hawtree first] 
 Esther. What a girj,. it is — all 
 spirits ! The w"brsfr4s that it is so easy 
 
 George. And so easy to find out 
 jaiUEJQaistake. [They cross down stage, 
 Esther first^ But why won't you let 
 ma.pMsmt .xffiii_SBiUi-ar-piano ? 
 
 [Following Esther] 
 
 Esther. I doB44 wanfone. 
 
 George. You said you were fond 
 of plajdng. 
 
 Esther. We may be fond of many 
 things without having them. [Leaning 
 against end of table. Taking out letter] 
 Now here is a gentleman says he is 
 attached to me.~— — 
 
 George [jealous]. May I know his 
 name? 
 
 Esther. What for? It would be 
 useless^j/S his solicitations — 
 
 [Throws letter into fire] 
 
 George. I lit that Are. 
 
 Esther. Then burn these, too. 
 
 George crosses to fire] No, not that. 
 
 Taking one back] I must keep that; 
 
 3urn the others. 
 
 [George throws letters on fire, 
 
 crosses back of table quickly — 
 
 takes hat from peg and goes to 
 
 door as if leaving hurriedly. 
 
 Esther 'fifces chair froni'table 
 
 and goes to centre of stage with 
 
 it, noticing George's manner. 
 
 George hesitates at door. Shuts 
 
 it quickly, hangs his hat up 
 
 again, and comes down to back 
 
 of chair in which Esther has 
 
 seated herself] 
 
 George. Whgjgjt hat from ? 
 
 Esther. Why dcTyou wish to know ? 
 
 George. Because J love you, and I 
 
 don't think you love me7 and^Tfear a 
 
 rival. 
 
 You haye^none, 
 
 TTKnow you have so many 
 
 They're nothing to me. 
 Not^ne? •.■ 
 
 No."' They're admirers, 
 not a husband among 
 
 Not the writer of that 
 
 Oh. I like him 
 
 Then, Esther, you don't 
 Don't I? How .do you 
 
 Esther. 
 
 George. 
 admirers. 
 
 Esther. 
 
 George. 
 
 Esther. 
 but there's 
 them. 
 
 George. 
 letter? 
 
 Esther [coquetiishly]. 
 very much. 
 
 Ge'orgb [sighing]. Ah! 
 
 Esther. And I'm very fond of this 
 letter. 
 
 George. 
 care for me. 
 
 Esther. 
 know? 
 
 George. Because you won't let me 
 read that letter. 
 
 Esther. It won't please you if you 
 see it. 
 
 George. I daresay not. That's 
 just the reason that I want to. You 
 won't ? ' 
 
 Esther [hesitates]. I will. There! 
 [Giving it to him] 
 
 George [reads]. "Dear Madam." 
 
 Esther. That's tender, isn't it? 
 
 Gborgb. "The terms are four 
 pounds — your dresses to be found. " 
 'For eight weeks certain, and longer if 
 you should suit. [In astonishment] I 
 cannot close the engagement until the 
 return of my partner. I expect him 
 back to-day, and I will write you as 
 soon as I have seen him. Yours very," 
 
286 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 etc. Pour pounds — find dresses. 
 What does this mean? 
 
 Esther. It means that theyjwant a 
 Columbine for the PantomufCe aTMan- 
 cHester.-and l-thinrk'I's'asirge.t the en- 
 gagement. 
 
 George. Manchester ; then you'll 
 leave London? 
 
 Esther. I must. [Pathetically] You 
 see this little house is on my shoulders. 
 Polly only earns eighteen shilUngs a 
 week, and father has^bBen but of work 
 a long, long time. I make the bread 
 here, and it's hard to make sometimes. 
 I've been mistress of this place, and 
 forced to think ever since my mother 
 died, and I was eight years old. Pour 
 pounds a week is a large sum, and I can 
 save out of it. '~"" 
 
 -'•" [This speech is not to be spoken in 
 a tone implying hardship] 
 
 George. But you'll go away, and I 
 sha'n't-see you. 
 
 EsTHER.~^''raps it will be for the 
 best. [Rises and crosses] What future 
 is there for usj^ Xoulre-at^^n of rank, 
 and I am a ppQr,girl who-gets herJixing 
 by "dancing. "It would have been better 
 that we had never met. 
 
 George. No. 
 
 Esther. Yes, it would, for I'm 
 afraid that — 
 
 George. You love me? 
 
 Esther. I don't know. I'm not 
 
 sure; but I think I do. 
 
 [Stops and turns half-face to 
 George] 
 
 George [trying to seize her hand]. 
 Esther! 
 
 Esther. No. Think of the differ- 
 ence of our_s.tations. 
 
 GboKSe. That's what Hawtree says! 
 Caste ! caste ! curse east_e ! [Goes up] 
 
 Esther. If I go to Manchester it 
 will be for the best. We_must_both try 
 to forget each o_ther. ' " 
 
 George [comes down by table]. Por- 
 getyou! no, Esther; let me — 
 
 [Seizing her hand] 
 
 Polly. [Without] Mind what you're 
 about. Oh dear! oh dear! 
 
 [George and Esther sit in 
 window seat] 
 
 [Enter Polly and Hawtree] 
 
 Polly. You nasty, great clumsy 
 Corporal, you've spilt the water all over 
 my frock. Oh dear! [Coming down. 
 Hawtree puts kettle on ham on table] 
 Take it off the ham! [Hawtree then 
 places it on the mantel-piece] No, nol 
 
 put it in the fireplace. [Hawtree does 
 so] You've spoilt my frock. [Sitting] 
 Hawtree. AUow me to offer you a 
 new one. [Crossing] 
 
 Polly. No, I won't. You'll be call- 
 ing to see how jt logks.when it's on. 
 Haven't you •got'aTiaadierchief ? 
 Hawtree. Yes. 
 Polly. Then wipe it dry. 
 
 [Hawtree bends almost on one 
 
 fcneevr-a-nri wipes dress. Enter 
 
 Sam, whistling. Throws cap 
 
 into Hawtree's hat on drawers] 
 
 Sam [sulkily]. Arternoon — yer 
 
 didn't hear me knock! — the door was 
 
 open. I'm afraid I intrude. 
 
 Polly. No, you don't. We.'te glad 
 to^ee you if you've got a haadkgrcBpK 
 Help-to-wipe this dry. 
 
 [Sam pulls out handkerchief from 
 slop, and dropping on one knee 
 snatches skirt of dress from 
 Hawtree, who looks up sur- 
 prised] 
 Hawtree. I'm very sorry. [Rising] 
 I beg your pardon. 
 
 [Business; Sam stares Pawtree 
 out] 
 Polly. It won't spoil it. 
 Sam. The stain won't come out. 
 
 ' [Rising] 
 
 Polly. It's only water. 
 
 Sam. [To Esther] Arternoon, Miss 
 
 Eooles. [To George] Arternoon, sir! 
 
 [Polly rises. To Polly] WhoV-tlie 
 
 other swell? 
 
 Polly. I'll introduce you. Captain 
 Hawtree — Mr. Sama«l-Gerridge. 
 
 Hawtree. Charmed, I'm sure. 
 [Staring at Sam through eye-glass. Sam 
 acknowledges Hawtree's recognition hy 
 a "chuck" of the head over left shoulder; 
 going up to George]_,W1io's this? 
 George. Polly's sweetheart. 
 Hawtree. ^hi — Notrif I can be of 
 no further assistance, KU go.. 
 
 [Comes over back down to drawers] 
 Polly. Going, Cdrporal? 
 Hawtree. Yaas! [Business; taking 
 up hat and stick from bureau he sees 
 Sam's cap. He picks it out carefully, 
 and coming down stage examines it as a 
 curiosity, drops it on the floor and pushes 
 it away with his stick, at the same time 
 moving backwards, causing him to bump 
 against Sam, who turns round savagely] 
 I beg your pardon. [Crossing up stage] 
 George, will you — [George takes no 
 notice] Will you — ? 
 GeorgbT "What! 
 Hawtree. Go with me? 
 
Caste 
 
 287 
 
 George. Go? Nol 
 Hawtree [coming down to Polly]. 
 Then, Miss Eccles — I mean "my 
 lady." 
 
 [Shaking hands and going; as he 
 baclf:&jiivjiyjby/mps against Sam, 
 and business rgpSlited, Haw- 
 tree close to door keeping his 
 eye on Sam, who has shown 
 signs_o} anger] 
 Polly. Good-byej Corporal! 
 Hawtree. [At door] Good-bye! Good 
 afternoon, Mr. — Mr. — er — Pardon 
 me. ' 
 
 Sam [with constrained ra^e]. Gerridge, 
 sir — QgKidge. 
 
 Hawtree [as if remembering name]. 
 
 Ah! Gerridge. Good-day. [Exit] 
 
 Sam [turning fo'PoLLY in awful ra^e]. 
 
 Who's that fool? Who's that long 
 
 idiot? 
 
 Polly. I told you; Captain Haw- 
 tree. 
 Sam. What's 'e want 'ere ? 
 Polly. Hfi!a_a_friemi of Mr. D'Al- 
 roy's. 
 Sam. Ugh! Isn't one of em enough 1 
 Polly. Whart- do you mean ? 
 Sam. For the neighbours __tQ_Jalk 
 about. Wha*rEeaKer? "^ 
 
 -PoLlY. WhafHoyou mean by after ? 
 You're forgetting yourself, I think. 
 
 Sam. Na7~rfQ~not forgetting myself 
 — I'm rememberi ng you. Wh at can a 
 
 ag yoti 
 ell dre 
 
 long f sol" of a swell dressed up to the 
 nines witMn an inch of his life want 
 with two girls of your cl ass? Look 
 at the-differenoe of your stations I 'E 
 don't come 'ere after any good. 
 
 [During the speech, Esther crosses 
 to fire. and_ sits before it in a low 
 chair. Qeorqe follows her and 
 sits on her left] 
 Polly. ~ Samiid ! 
 
 Sam. I .mean what I say. People 
 should stick to Jthgir own class. Life's 
 a railway journey, iSa Mankind's a 
 passenger — first class, second class, 
 I third class. Any person found riding in 
 \& superior class to that for which he has 
 taken "His-tinkBlnrtirbe removed at the 
 first station stopped at, according to the 
 bye-laws of the company. 
 
 Polly. You're giving yourself nice 
 airs 1 What business is it of yours who 
 co mes here ? Who are you? 
 Sam. I'm a mechanic. 
 Polly. That's evident. 
 , Sam. I ain't ashamed of it. I'm not 
 ashamed of my paper cap. 
 Polly. Why should you be? 1 
 
 daresay Captain Hawtree isn't 
 ashamed of his fourteen-and-sixpenny 
 gossamer. 
 
 Sam. Y"1 i thinV <\ '^'■"l "f J^i'm 'nng 
 he's a captainv^WEy did he call you 
 "my lady"? 
 
 Polly. Because he treated me as 
 one. I wish you'd make the same mis- 
 take. ^ 
 ""Sam. Ugh ! 
 
 [Sam goes angrily to bureau. 
 Polly bounces up stage, and 
 sits in window seat] 
 
 Esther [sitting with George, tite-d,- 
 t&te, by fire]. But we must listen to 
 reason. 
 
 George. I ^ate-reaaon! 
 
 Esther. I wonder what it means? 
 
 George. Everything disagreeable. 
 When people ^k unpleasantly, they 
 alwsbys-say Itsten-to reason. 
 
 Sam [turning round]. What will the 
 neighboiurs say ? 
 
 Polly. I jlon't^ care ! 
 
 [Coming down] 
 
 Sam. What will the neighbours 
 think ? 
 
 Polly. They can't think. They'r^ 
 lik e you, the^ ^ Tint \)(^m_n^vi(vi.tpi(\ up -* 
 to fEt 
 
 Sam. It all comes of your being on 
 the stage. [Going to Polly] 
 
 Polly. It all comes of your not 
 understanding thfi_stage- or— anything 
 else — "but pjjtty. Now, if you were a 
 gentleman — 
 
 Sam. Why then, of course, I should 
 make up to a lady. 
 
 "~~PoLLT. Ugh! 
 
 [Polly flings herself into chair 
 by table] 
 
 George. Reason's an idiot. Two 
 and.^wo are four, and twelve are 
 fifteen, and eight are twenty. That's 
 reason ! 
 
 Sam [turning to Polly]. Painting 
 your cheeks! 
 
 Polly [rising]. Better paint our 
 cheeks than paint nasty old doors as you 
 do. How can you understand art? 
 You're only a mechanic! You're not a 
 professional! You're in trade. You 
 are not of the same station as we are. 
 When the manager speaks to you, you 
 touch your hat, and say, "Yes, sir," 
 because he's your superior. 
 
 [Snaps fingers under Sam's nose] 
 
 George. When people love there's 
 no such thing as money — it don't 
 exist. -' " ' 
 
 Esther. Yes, it does. 
 
288 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 George. Then it oughtn't to. 
 
 Sam. The manager employs me 
 same as he does you. Payment is good 
 anywhere and everywhere. Whatever's 
 commercial, is right. 
 
 Polly. Actors are not like me- 
 chanics. They wear cloth coats, and 
 not fustian jackets. 
 
 Sam [sneeringly in Polly's face]. I 
 despise play actors. 
 
 Polly. I despise mechanics. 
 
 [Polly slaps his face] 
 
 George. I never think of anything 
 else but you. 
 
 Esther. Really? 
 
 Sam [goes to bureau, misses cap, looks 
 around, sees it on floor, picks it up an- 
 grily, and comes to Polly, who is sitting 
 by the table]. I won't stay here to be 
 insulted. [Putting on cap] 
 
 Polly. Nobody wants you to stay. 
 Gol Go! Go! 
 
 Sam. I wiU go. Good-bye, Miss 
 Mary Eccles. [Goes off and returns 
 quickly] I sha'n't comeieEe. again ! 
 
 — ... — ■[At door half-open] 
 
 Polly. Don't! Good riddance to 
 bad rubbish."~ 
 
 Sam [rushing down stage to Polly]. 
 You can go to your captain! 
 
 Polly. And you to your putiy. 
 
 [Sam throws his cap down and kicks 
 it — • then goes up stage and picks 
 it up. Polly turns and rises, 
 leaning against table, facing him, 
 crosses to door, and locks it. 
 Sam, hearing click of lock, turns 
 quickly] 
 
 Esther. And shall you always love 
 me as you do now? ~ 
 
 G^oRGii. -More. 
 
 Polly. Now you sha'n't go. [Lock- 
 ing door, taking out key, which she 
 pockets, and placing her back against 
 door] Nyer! Now I'll just show you 
 my power. Nyer ! 
 
 Sam. Jl/iss Jlfory Eocles, let me out! 
 [Advancing to door] 
 
 Polly. Mr. Sam^uel Gerridge, I 
 sha'n't! [Sam turns away] 
 
 Esther. Now you two. [Postman's 
 knock] The postman! 
 
 Sam. Now you must_let me out. 
 You must unlock the door. " 
 
 Polly. No, I heeTIn't. [Opens window, 
 looking out] Here -r- postman. [Takes 
 letter from postman at window] Thank 
 you. [Business ; flicks Sam in the face 
 with letter] For you, Esther ! 
 
 Esther [rising]. For me? 
 
 Polly. Yes. 
 
 [Gives it to her, and closes window, 
 and returns to door triumph- 
 antly. Sam goes to window] 
 Esther [going down]. From .. Man- 
 chester! 
 
 George. Manchester? 
 
 [Coming down back of Esther] 
 Esther [reading]. I've got the en- 
 gagement — four pounds a weeE T 
 
 GBORGE~[p2acire9 his arm around her]. 
 You sha'n't go. Esther — stay--.- be 
 
 my j?if e 1- 
 Esther. 
 
 world ? 
 George. 
 
 my, world. 
 
 But the world — your 
 
 Hang the world! You're 
 Stay with your husband, 
 Mrs. George D'Alroy. 
 
 [During this Polly has been danc- 
 ing up and down in front of the 
 door] 
 Sam. I will go out. 
 
 [Turning with sudden determina- 
 tion] 
 Polly. You can't, and you sha'n't! 
 Sam. I can — I will 1 
 
 [Opens window and jumps out] 
 Polly [frightened]. He's hurt him- 
 self. Sam — Sam, — dear Sam! 
 
 [Running to window. Sam ap- 
 pears at window. Polly slaps 
 his face and shuts window down 
 violently] 
 Nyer! 
 
 [During this George has kissed 
 Esther] 
 George. My wife ! 
 
 [The handle of the door is heard to 
 rattle, then the door is shaken 
 violently. Esther crosses to 
 door ; finding it locked, turns to 
 Polly sitUng_vn window seat, 
 who gives her the key. Esther 
 then opens the door. Eccles 
 reels in, very drunk, and clings 
 to the corner of the bureau for 
 support. George stands pull- 
 ing his moustache. Esther, a 
 little way up, looking with 
 shame first at her father, then 
 at George. Polly sitting in 
 window recess] 
 « 
 
 act drop 
 
 For call. — George, hat in hand, bidding 
 Esther good-bye. Eccles sitting 
 in chair, nodding before fire. Sam 
 again looks in at window. Polly 
 pulls the blind down violently. 
 
Caste 
 
 289 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene Fibst. — D'Alroy's lodgings in 
 Mayfair. A set chamber. Folding- 
 doors opening on to drayying-room. 
 Door on the right. Two windows, 
 with muslin curtains. Loo-table. 
 Sofa above piano. Two easy-chairs, 
 on each side of table. Dessert — 
 claret in jug; two wine-glasses half 
 full. Box of cigarettes, vase of 
 flowers, embroidered slipper on can- 
 vas, and small basket of coloured 
 wools, all on table. Foot-stool by 
 easy-chair. Ornamental gilt work- 
 basket on stand in window. Easy- 
 chair. Piano. Mahogany-stained 
 easel with oil-painting of D'Alboy 
 in full dragoon regimentals. Daven- 
 port with vase of flowers on it; a chair 
 on each side; a water-colour drawing 
 over it, and on each side of room. 
 Half moonlight through window. 
 Esther and George discovered. 
 Esther at window. When curtain 
 has risen she comes down slowly to 
 chair right of table, and George 
 sitting in easy-chair left of table. 
 George has his uniform trousers and 
 
 spurs on. 
 
 • 
 
 Esther. George, dear, you seem out 
 of spirits. 
 
 George [smoking cigarette]. Not at 
 aJlr-dearriioTat all. [Rallying] 
 
 BsTHEB. Then why don't you talk ? 
 
 George. Fve notmng-to say. 
 
 Esther. That's no reason. 
 
 George. I can't talk about nothing. 
 
 Esther. Yes, you can ; you often do. 
 [Crossing round back of table and caress- 
 ing him] You -used, t o do before we 
 were married. 
 
 George. No, I didn't. I talked 
 about you, and^my love for you. D'ye 
 call ffiaf nothing? 
 
 Esther [sitting on stool left of George]. 
 How long have we been married, dear? 
 Let me see;^x_jiuuitlis — jtesterday. 
 [Dreamily] '-I-f'Eardly seems a week; 
 it almost seems a dream. 
 
 George [putting his arm around her]. 
 Awfully j oll y dra a.m. Don't let us 
 wake up. [Aside and recovering himself] 
 How ever.shaJlJ tell her? 
 
 Esther. And~wEen I married you 
 I wasjj ge n ty - tw erwasn't I ? 
 
 George. Yes, dear; but then, you 
 know, you must have been some age or 
 other. ' 
 
 Esther. No; but to think I lived 
 
 two and twenty years without knowing 
 you! 
 
 George. What of it, dear? 
 
 Esther. It seems such a "dreadful 
 waste of time. 
 
 George. So it was — awful. 
 
 Esther. Do you remember our first 
 ipeeting? Then 1 was in the ballet. 
 
 George. Yes ; now you're in the 
 heavies. 
 
 Esther. Then I was in the front 
 rank — now I am of. hjgh rank — the 
 Honourabje Mrs. "George D*A]rby. You 
 promoted'me JtcLbe your wife. 
 
 George. No, dear, you promoted 
 me to be your husband. 
 
 Esther. And now I'm one of the 
 aristocracy ; ain't I ? 
 
 George. Yes, dear ; I suppose that 
 we may consider ourselves — • 
 
 Esther. Tell me, George; are you 
 quite sure f,hq,t| ymi a.rp prniiH of your 
 poOTjitflil-huBiWB" wtf e ? 
 
 'iCJeorgb. Proud of youl Proud as 
 the winner of the Derby. 
 
 Esther. Wouldn't you have loved 
 me better if I'd been a lady? 
 
 George. You are a lady — you're 
 my- wife. 
 
 Esther. What wiU your mamma 
 say when she knows of our marriage? 
 I quite tr emble at t he, thought of meet- 
 ing her. " ' 
 
 George. So do I. Luckily she's in 
 Rome.i_.,^ ~ 
 
 Esther. Do you know, George, I 
 should like to be married all over again. 
 
 George. Not to anybody else, I 
 hope? 
 
 Esther. My darling I 
 
 George. But why over again? 
 Why? 
 
 Esther. Our courtship was so beau- 
 tiful. It was like in a novel _from^ the 
 library, only better. You, a fine, rich, 
 high-born gentleman, coming to our 
 humble little house to court poor me. 
 Do you remember the ballet you first 
 saw me in? That was at Covent Gar- 
 den. "Jeanne la PoUe; or, the Return 
 of the Soldier." [Goes up to piano] 
 Don't you remember the dance? 
 
 [Plays a quick movement] 
 
 George. Esther, how came you to 
 learn to play the piano ? Did you teach 
 
 EsTHEB. Yes. [Turning on mu^ic- 
 stool] So did PoUy. We can only just 
 touch the notes to amuse ourselves. 
 
 George. How was it? 
 
 Esther. I've told you so often. 
 
290 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Rises and sits on stool at 
 George's feet] 
 
 George. Tell me again. I'm Uke 
 the children — I like to hear what I 
 know already. 
 
 Esther. Well, then, mother died 
 when I was quite youftg. I can only 
 just remember her. Polly was an in- 
 fant ; so I had to heJPoUj^ mother. 
 Father — ■ wh6~is' a "very eocenlirio man 
 [George sighs deeply — Esther notices 
 it and goes on rapidly — all to be simul- 
 taneous in action] but_a_very good one 
 when you know him^T^^id not take 
 much notice of us, and we got on as 
 we could. We used to let the first 
 floor, and a lodger took it — Hei:r 
 GrififiHhaagen. He w^a ballaLmaster 
 atnflie Opera.'^ He tooFaTTancy to me, 
 and asked me if I should Hke to learn 
 to dance, and I told him father couldn't 
 afford to pay for my tuition- and he 
 said that [imitation] he did not vant 
 bayment, but dat he would teach rhe for 
 noding, for he had taken a fancy to me, 
 because I was hke a leetle lady he had 
 known long years ago in de far off land 
 he came from. Then he got us an 
 engagement at the theatre. That was 
 how we first were in the ballet. 
 
 George [slapping his leg]. That fel- 
 low was a great brick; I should like to 
 ask him to dinner. What became of 
 him? - 
 
 Esther. I don't know. He left 
 BnglandT [George fidgets and looks at 
 ■Coatch] You are restless, George. 
 What's the matter? 
 
 George. Nothing. 
 
 Are you going out? 
 
 Yes. [Looking at his boots 
 
 That's the reason I dined 
 
 Esther. 
 
 George. 
 and spurs] 
 in — 
 
 Esther. 
 
 George. 
 
 Esther. 
 
 George 
 
 To the barracks ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 On duty? 
 
 [hesitatingly]. On duty. 
 [Rising] And, of cpuxse, when a man 
 is a soldier, "he must ^o on duty when 
 he's ordered, and where he's ordered — 
 and — [Aside] — why did I ever enter 
 the service? [Crosses] 
 
 Esther [rises, crosses to George — 
 and twining her arm round him]. George, 
 
 don'fr'lnind leaving me. Somehow or 
 other, George, these last few days 
 everything- seeraa tn hHiVe. changed with 
 me — I don't know why. Sometimes 
 rfiy~eyes fill with_ ±6apsT-fQr_no_reason, 
 and sometimes I feel so happy, for .no 
 
 reason. I don't mind being left by 
 myselfj;SJI-used-to do. When you are 
 a few minutes behind time I don't run 
 to the window and watch for you, and 
 turn irritable. Not that I love you 
 less — no, for I love . you more ; but 
 often when you are away I don't feel 
 that I am by myself. [Dropping her 
 head on his breast] I never reel alone. 
 [Goes to piano and turns over 
 music] 
 
 George [watching Esther]. What 
 angels women are! At least, this one 
 is. I forget all about the others. 
 [Carriage-wheels heard off] If I'd known 
 1 could have been -so -happy, I'd have 
 sold OTIfwhen I married. 
 
 [Knock at street door] 
 
 Esther [standing at table]. That for 
 us, dear? 
 
 George [at first window]. Hawtree 
 in a hansom. He's come for — [Aside] 
 — me. I OTMSi tell her sooner or later. 
 [At door] Come in, Hawtree. 
 
 [Enter Hawtree, in regimentals] 
 
 Hawtree. How do? Hope you're 
 weU, Mrs. D'Alroy? [Coming down] 
 ■TJebrgei are you tJDming to — 
 
 George {coming down left of Haw- 
 tree]. No, I've dined '— [gives a sig- 
 nificant look] — we dined early. 
 
 [Esther plays scraps of music at 
 piano] 
 
 Hawtree [sotto voce]. Haven't you 
 told her? 
 
 George. No, IdasenLt. 
 
 Hawtree. Buryoujnust. 
 
 George. You knosLJEhat an awful 
 coward-lam. You. do it for me. 
 
 Hawtree. Not for worlds. I've 
 just had my own adieux to make. 
 
 George. Ah, yes, — to _Elorenoe 
 Carberry. How did she take it? 
 
 Hawtree. OE; [sligftt~^ause] very 
 well. 
 
 George [earnestly]. Did she cry? 
 
 Hawtree. No. 
 
 George. Nor exhibit any emotion 
 whatever ? 
 
 Hawtree. No, not particularly. 
 
 George [surprisedly]. 'Qidn^l yoUj.. 
 kiss her?~~-^ 
 
 Hawtree. No ; Lady Clardonax 
 was in the room. 
 
 George [wonderingly]. Didn't she 
 squeeze your hand ? 
 
 Hawtree. No. 
 
 George [impressively]. Didn't she 
 say anything? 
 
 Hawtree. Noj--..except that she 
 
Caste 
 
 291 
 
 hoped to see me back again soon, an d 
 that India was a Vtsiitj flfwa't.a. 
 
 George. Umph! It seems to have 
 been a tragic parting [serio-comically] — 
 almost as tragic as parting — your back 
 hair. 
 
 Hawtree. Lady Florence is not 
 the sort of person to make a scene. 
 
 George. To be sure, she's not your 
 wife. I wishEstherwoijld_lia-as-oool 
 anfl nf )TnfriW5.bl e" [After a pause] No, 
 rHo^^^-tto, I don't. [A rap at door] 
 
 [Enter Dixon] 
 
 George [g oe^ up to Dixon]. Oh, 
 Dixon, lay oiit my — 
 
 Dixon. "T^ave laid them out, sir; 
 every thingJs-Efi^idy. 
 
 George [going down to Hawtree — ■ 
 after a pause — irresolutely]. I must tell 
 her — mustn't I? 
 
 Hawtree. Better sen d for her sister. 
 Let Dixon go for ner in a cab. 
 "George. JoslrBn: — PH-send him at 
 once. Dixon ! 
 
 [Goes up and talks to Dixon] 
 
 Esther [rising and going to back of 
 chair, left of table]. " Da-5a>u want to 
 have a talk with mx_^^band? Shall 
 I go into the dining^oom? 
 
 Hawtree. No, Mrs. D'Alroy. 
 
 [Going to table and placing cap on 
 it] 
 
 George. No, dear. At once, Dixon. 
 TeU the cabnian to drive like — [exit 
 Dixon] — ■ Eke a — eomet.just.^ined. 
 
 Esther. [To Hawtree] Are you 
 going to take him anywhere? 
 
 Hawtree [George comes down and 
 touchh Hawtbeb quickly on the shoulder 
 before he can speajc]. No. [Aside] Yes 
 
 — to Isjlia. [Crossing to George] 
 TellTier now. 
 
 George. No, no. I'U wait till I 
 
 put on my unifor m. [Going up] 
 
 [Door opens and Polly peeps iri] 
 
 Polly. How d'ye do, good people, 
 
 — quite well ? 
 
 [Polly gets back of table — kisses 
 Esther] 
 George. Eh? Didn't you meet 
 
 Dixon? 
 PotCY. 
 George. 
 Polly. 
 
 -Who? 
 
 Dixon"^— my man. 
 N o. --^ — ~~ 
 George. 'Confcaind-it ! — he'll have 
 his ride f or nothin g. How d'ye do, 
 
 Polly? " " " [Shakes hands] 
 
 Polly. How d'ye do, George. 
 
 [Esther takes Polly's things and 
 goes up stage with them. Polly 
 
 places parasol on table. Esther 
 returns left of Polly] 
 
 Polly. Bless you, my turtles. [Bless- 
 ing them, ballet fashion] George, kiss 
 you r motbec ' [He hisses her] 'Tiiat's 
 wKt I call an honourable brother-in- 
 law's kiss. I'm not in the way, am I ? 
 
 George [behind easy-chair right of 
 table]. Not at all. I'm very glad 
 youiEgjEome. 
 
 [Esther shows Polly the new 
 music. Polly sits at piano 
 and plays comic tune] 
 
 Hawtree [back to audience, and elbow 
 on easy-chair, aside to George]. Under 
 ordinary circumstances she's not a very 
 eligible visitor. ~ 
 
 George. Caste again. [Going up] 
 I'll be back d&ectly. [Exit George] 
 
 Hawtree fJoofcinj at watch and cross- 
 ing]. Mrs. D'Alroy, I — 
 
 Esther [who is standing over Polly 
 at piano]. Going ? 
 
 Polly [rwmg]. Do I drive you 
 
 away. Captain ? — 
 
 ~\Taking her parasol from table. 
 Esther gets to back of chair left 
 of table] 
 
 Hawtree. No. 
 
 Polly. YesTTlio. I frighten you, 
 I'm so ugl y. I know I do. You 
 fngfffen me. 
 
 Hawthee. How so? 
 
 Polly. Yoji're so handsome. -[Com- 
 ing down] Particularly in those clothes, 
 for all. the world like an jiispeotor of 
 police. 
 
 Esther. [Half aside] PoUy! 
 
 Polly. I will! I Jike-to-take him 
 down a bit. 
 
 Hawtree. [Aside] This is rather a 
 wild sort of thlngjn -sisters-in-law. 
 
 Pbi,LY. ASy ne^s, Captain? 
 
 Hawtree [in a drawling tone]. No. 
 Is there any news withjaiu? 
 
 Polly [imitating him]. Yaas; we've 
 got ^„new piece jooming oUt at our 
 theatre. 
 
 Hawtree [interested]. What's it 
 about? 
 
 Polly [drawling]. I don't know. 
 [To Esther] Had him there! [Haw- 
 tree droops his sword from his arm; 
 Polly turns round qMichly, hearing the^ 
 noise, and pretends to bjL-Jxightensd] 
 Goiag- to kill anybody to-day, that 
 you've got your sword on? 
 
 Hawtree. No. 
 
 Polly. I thought not. 
 
 [Sings] " With a sabre on his brow, 
 And a helmet by his side, 
 
292 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The soldier sweethearts servant- 
 maids, 
 And eats cold meat besides." 
 
 [Laughs and walks about waving 
 her parasol] 
 
 [Ent^ George in uniform, carrying in 
 his hand his sword, sword-belt,^ and 
 cap. Esther takes them from~him, 
 and places them on sofa, then comes 
 half down. George goes down by 
 Hawtreb] 
 
 Polly [clapping her hands]. Oh! 
 here's a beautiful brother-in-law I Why 
 didn't you come in oil hofsebaok as they 
 do at Astley's ? — gallop in and say 
 [Imitating soldier on horseback and pranc- 
 ing up and down stage during the piece], 
 Soldiers of France! the eyes of Europe 
 are a^looking at you ! The Empire has 
 confidence in you, and Prance expects 
 that every man tlds day will do his — • 
 little utmost I The foe is before you — 
 more's the pity — • and you are before 
 them — worse luck for you ! Forward ! 
 Go and get MUed; and to those who 
 escape the Emperor will give a little 
 bit of ribbon! Nineteens, about 1 
 Forward ! Gallop ! Charge ! 
 
 [Galloping to right, imitating bugle, 
 
 and giving point with parasol. 
 
 She nearly spears Hawtree's 
 
 nose. Hawtree claps his hand 
 
 upon his sword-hilt. She throws 
 
 herself into chair, laughing, and 
 
 clapping Hawtree's cap (from 
 
 table) upon her head. All laugh 
 
 and applaud. Carriage-wheels 
 
 heard without] 
 
 Polly. _^h, what a funny little cap, 
 
 it's got no'peat. [A peal of knocks heard 
 
 at street door] What's that? 
 
 George [who has hastened to window]. 
 A carriage 1 Good heavens — my 
 mother ! 
 
 Hawtree. [At window] The Mar- 
 ghioness ! 
 
 Esther [crossing to George]. Oh, 
 George ! 
 
 Polly [crossing to window]. A Mar- 
 chionSssl A— real, live _ Marahioness ! 
 Let me look! I never saw a real hve 
 Marchioness in all my life. 
 
 George [forcing her from window]. 
 Not no, no! She doesn't know I'm 
 married. I must break it to her by 
 degrees. What shall I do ? 
 
 [By this time Hawtree is at door 
 right. Esther at door left] 
 Esther. Let me go into the bed- 
 jroom until — • 
 
 Hawtree. 
 stairs. 
 Esther. 
 
 Too late! She's on the 
 
 Here, then! 
 
 [At centre doors, opens them] 
 Polly. I want to see a real, live 
 March — 
 
 [George lifts her in his arms and 
 places her within folding-doors 
 with Esther — then shutting 
 doors quickly, turns and facet 
 Hawtree, who, gathering up 
 hissword, faces GnonoE. They 
 then exchange places much in 
 the fashion of soldiers, ' ' mount- 
 ing guard." As George opens 
 door and admits Marchioness, 
 Hawtree drops down to left] 
 George [with great ceremony], -My 
 dear mother, I saw you getting out of 
 the carriage. 
 
 .Marchioness. My dear boy. [Kiss- 
 ing his forehead] I'm so glasLJLjfot to 
 London before you embarked. [Geohge 
 nervous. Hawtree coming down] Cap- 
 tain Hawtree, I think. How do you do ? 
 Hawtree [coming forward a liitle]. 
 Quite weU, I thank your ladyship. I 
 trust you are — 
 
 Marchioness [sitting in easy-chair]. 
 Oh, -quite, thanks. [Slight pause] Do 
 you Jtill see the Countess and Lady 
 Florence ? 
 
 [Looking at him through her 
 glasses] 
 Hawtree. Yes. 
 
 Marchioness. Please remember me 
 to- them — [Hawtree iakescap from 
 table, and places sword urider~~his-Tirm] 
 Are you going ? 
 
 Hawtree. Yaas — Compelled. 
 [Bows, crossing round back of table. 
 To George who meets him] I'U be at 
 the door for„yQ u at seven . We must 
 be at barracks byThfijquSx&r. [George 
 crosses back of table] Poor devil! This 
 comes of a man marrying beneath him. 
 [Exit Hawtree. George comes 
 down left of table] 
 Marchioness. I'm not sorry that 
 he's gone, for I wanted to talk to you 
 alone. Strange that-ar-womanr=of~su«h 
 good birth as the Countess should en- 
 courage the attention of Captain Haw- 
 tree for her daughter Florence. [Dur- 
 ing these lines D'Alroy conceals Polly's 
 hat and umbrella under table] Lady 
 Clardonax was one of the old Carberrys 
 of Hampshire — not the Norfolk Car- 
 berrys, but the direct line. And Mr. 
 Hawtree's grandfather was in trade — 
 something in the City — soap, I think. 
 
Ca^te 
 
 293 
 
 Stool, George 1 [Points to stool. Geokge 
 brings it to her. She motions that he is 
 to tit at her feet. George does so with 
 a ngh] He's a very nice person, but 
 parvenu, as one may see by his languor 
 and Ms swagger. My boy [kissing his 
 forehead], I am sure, will never make a 
 ni gsallian ge. He^is "a'V'Slrsyi'SSS by 
 his mother's side Planta-genista. The 
 source of our life stream is royal. 
 
 Geokge. How is the.Marc[uis? 
 
 Marchioness. Paralysed. I left 
 him att-Sa a with three p hysicians. He 
 is always jjaralysed at this time of the 
 year ; it is in the family. The paralysis 
 is not personal, but hereditary. I came 
 over to see my steward ; got to town 
 last night. 
 
 Geohgb. How did you find me out 
 here ? — - — ~~ - 
 
 Maechioness. I sent the footman to 
 the barracks, and he saw your man 
 Dixoirtn' jffie-street^-and. DixoiL gave 
 him this address It's so long since I've 
 seen you. [Leans back in chair] You're 
 looking verxJffifi^L.anid I daresay when 
 mounted are quite a "lieau cavalier." 
 And so, my boy [playing with his hair], 
 you are going abroad for the first time 
 on active service. 
 
 George. [Aside] Every word can be 
 heard in the next room. If they've 
 only gone upstairs. 
 
 fflABC-BiewBes, And now, my dear 
 boy, before you go I want to give y ou 
 s ome ad viegl aard-yoTrffitIgiaL\tj!lsa.pise 
 it"^Beo^^eTra3£;^ajEOWjin. We old 
 women^Kowa great deal more than 
 people give us credit for. You are a 
 solmer — so was your father — so was 
 his father — so was mine — • so was our 
 royal founder; we were born to lead! 
 The common people expect it from us. 
 It is our duty. Do you not remember 
 in the Chronicles of Froissart? [With 
 great enjoyment] I think I can quote it 
 word for word; I've a wonderful 
 memory for my age. [With closed -eyes] 
 It was in the fifty-ninth chapter — 
 "How Godefroy D'Alroy helde the towne 
 of St. Amande duryng the siege before 
 Tournay." It said "the towne was 
 not closed but with pales, and captasme 
 there was Sir Amory of Pauy — the 
 SeneschaU of Carcassonne — who had 
 said it was not able to hold agaynste 
 an hooste, when one Godefroy D'Alroy 
 sayd that rather than he woulde depart, 
 he woulde keepe it to the best of his 
 power. Whereat the souldiers cheered 
 and sayd, 'Lead us on, Sir Godefroy.' 
 
 And then began a fierce assault; and 
 they within were chased, and sought 
 for shelter from street to street. But 
 Godefroy stood at the gate so valyantly 
 that the souldiers helde the towne until 
 the eommyng of the Earl of Haynault 
 with twelve thousande men." 
 
 George. [Aside] I wish she'd go. 
 If she once gets onto Froissart, she'll 
 never know when to stop. 
 
 Marchioness. When my boy fights 
 — and you will fight — he is sure to 
 distinguish himself. It is his nature 
 to — [toys-mth his hair] — he cannot 
 forget-las- birth. - And -wbesSTyou meet 
 these Asiatic ruffians, who have dared 
 to revolt, and to outrage humanity, 
 you will strike as your ancestor Sir 
 Galtier of Chevrault struck at Poictiers. 
 [Changing tone of voice as if remembering] 
 Froissart mentions it thus: — "Sir 
 Galtier, with his four squires, was in 
 the front, in that battell, and there did 
 marvels in arms. And Sir Galtier rode 
 up to the Prince, and sayd to him — 
 'Sir, take your horse and ryde forth, 
 this journey is yours. God is this daye 
 in your handes. Gette us to the French 
 Kynge's batayle. I think verily by his 
 valyantesse, he woU not fly. Advance 
 banner in the name of God and of Saynt 
 George 1 ' And Sir Galtier galloped for- 
 ward to see his Kynge's victory, and 
 meet his own death." 
 
 Geoegb. [Aside] If Esther hears all 
 this I 
 
 Marchioness. There is another sub- 
 ject about which I slioidd have spoken to 
 you before this ; but an absurd prudery 
 forbade me. Imayjnever.see youmore. 
 I anr old — _aad_yDu -^ are going into 
 baftte"^— [HssiTC^ his forehead with emo- 
 tion] — and_this may_bfi-our last ^neet- 
 ing. [Noise heard within folding-doors] 
 What's that? 
 
 George.' Nothing — my man Dixon 
 in there. 
 
 Marchioness. We may not meet 
 again On this earth. I do not fear your 
 cottductrmy George, with men ; but I 
 know the temptations _that -beset a 
 youth who is well' born. But a true 
 soldier, a true gentleman, should not 
 only be without fear, but without re- 
 proach. It is easier taJlght a -furious 
 man than toJEDi:figQjilia.,coaa!aest of a 
 love-sick girl. A thousand Sepoys slain 
 in battle cannot redeem the honour of 
 a man who has betrayed the confidence 
 of a trusting woman. Think, George, 
 what dishonour — what stain upon 
 
294 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 your manhood — to hurl a girl to shame 
 and — degradation! And what excuse 
 for it? That she is plebeian? A man 
 of real honour will spare the wom^an who 
 has confessed her-iove for him as he 
 would give quarter to an enemy he had 
 disarmed. [Taking his hands] Let my 
 boy avoid the snares_jo artfully spread ; 
 and when he asks his mother to welcome 
 the woman he has chosen for his wife, 
 let me take her to my arms and plant 
 a motherly Mss upon the white brow of 
 a lady. [Noise of a fall heard within 
 folding-dooTs. Rising.] What's that? 
 Geohge [rising]. Nothing. 
 Marchioness. I heard a cry. 
 
 [Folding-doors open; discovering 
 Esther with Polly, staggering 
 in, fainting] 
 Polly. George 1 George I 
 
 [George goes up and Esther 
 falls in his arms. George 
 places Esther on sofa. 
 George on her right, Polly 
 on her left] 
 Marchioness [coming down]. Who 
 are these women ? 
 Polly. , Women 1 
 
 Marchioness. George — DIAlroy, 
 these persons should have been sent 
 away. ' How could you dare to risk your 
 mother meeting women of their stamp ? 
 Polly [violently]. What does she 
 mean? How dare shejsalUne-a woman? 
 What's^shei mike to know ? 
 
 George. Silence, Polly 1 You 
 mustn't insult my mother. 
 
 Marchioness. The insult is from 
 you. I leave you, and I ho^e that 
 time iiiay induce me to forget this scene 
 of degradation. [Turning to go] 
 
 George. Stay, mother. [Mar- 
 chioness turns slightly away] Before 
 you go [GeorgiS has raised Esther 
 from sofa in his arms] let me present to 
 you Mrs. George D'Alrojr- My wife I 
 Marchioness. Married 1 
 George. Married. 
 
 [Marchioness sinks into easy- 
 chair; George replaces Esther 
 on sofa, but still retains her 
 hand. Three hesitating taps at 
 door heard. George crosses 
 to door, opens it, discovers 
 EccLES, who enters. George 
 drops down hack of Mar- 
 chioness's chair] 
 EccLES. They told us- to-CQm_6_up- 
 When your man came JoUy. was out; 
 so I thought I should do ihsTeaC 
 [Calling at door] Come up, Sam. 
 
 [Enter Sam in his Sunday clothes, with 
 short cane and smoking a cheroot. 
 He nods and grins — ■ Polly points 
 to Marchioness — ■ Sam takes 
 cheroot from his mouth and quickly 
 removes his hat] 
 
 EccLES. Sam had just called; so 
 we three j= — Sam-and-ir"and— your man, 
 all bame in the 'ansom cab together. 
 Didn't we, Sam. 
 
 [Eccles and Sam go over to the 
 girls, and Eccles drops down 
 to front of table — ; smilingly. 
 Marchioness [with glasses up, to 
 George]. Who is this? 
 
 George [coming left o/ Marchioness]. 
 My wife's father. 
 'Marchioness. What is he? 
 George. A — nothing. 
 Eccles. I am one of nature's noble- 
 men. Happy to see you, my lady — 
 [turning to her] — now, my daughters 
 have told me who you are — [Geohge 
 turns his back in an agony as Eccles 
 crosses to Marchioness] — we old folks, 
 fathers, and i n"t1iBrs nf "the young 
 couples, ought to make friends. 
 
 [Holding out liis dirty hand] 
 Marchioness [shrinking back]. Go 
 away ! [Eccles goes back to table again, 
 disgusted] What's his name? 
 George. E^ccles. 
 
 Marchioness. Eccles! Eccles! 
 There never was an Eccles. He don't 
 exist. 
 
 Eccles. Don't he, though? What 
 d'ye call this? 
 
 [Goes up again to back of table os 
 
 Sam drops down. He is just 
 
 going to take a decanter when 
 
 Sam stops him] 
 
 Marchioness. No Eccles was ever 
 
 born! 
 
 George. He takes the liberty of 
 breathing notwithstanding. [Aside] 
 And I wish he wouldn't. 
 
 Marchioness. And who is the Uttle 
 man? Is he also Eosles? 
 
 [Sam looks round. Polly gets 
 close up to him, and looks mth 
 defiant glance at the Mar- 
 chioness] 
 George. No. 
 
 Marchioness. Thank— goodness! 
 What then? 
 
 George. His name is Gerridge. 
 Marchioness. Gerridge f It breaks 
 one's teeth. Why is_.he^here? 
 
 George. He is making love to 
 Polly, my wife's sister. 
 
Caste 
 
 295 
 
 jyiAECHioNEss. And what is he; 
 Geobge. iLgasnan. 
 Marchioness. He looks it. [George 
 goes up to Estheb] And what is she 
 — the — the sister ? 
 
 [EccLES, who has been casting 
 longing eyes at the decanter on 
 table, edges towards it, and 
 when he thinks no one is no- 
 ticing, fills mne-glass] 
 Polly [asserting herself indignantly]. 
 T'nHntlie ballet at the Theatre Royal, 
 Lambeth? Sowas Esther. We're not 
 ash amed of what we aj e. We have no 
 oauieTobe". 
 
 Sam. That's right, Polly! pitch 
 into .th«m-swellfrl — whQL.are they? 
 
 [EccLBS by this time has seized 
 wine-glass, and turning his 
 back, is about to drink, when 
 Ha^BKeT ' enters. E coles 
 hides glass undeJuMs coat, and 
 pretends' to be looking up at 
 picture] 
 VikW'iB.tS [mitering]. George! [Stops 
 suddenly, looking round] So, aU's 
 
 blQW-H-! 
 
 ''Marchioness [rising]. Captain Haw- 
 tree, 566 me to m^_oaCTiage; I am 
 Droken-liparted:^ ~ 
 
 [Takes Hawteee's arm and is 
 going up] 
 EccLES [who has tasted the claret, 
 ipits it out with a grimace, exclaiming]. 
 Rot! 
 
 [Polly goes to piano — sits on 
 stool — Sam, back to audience, 
 leaning on _^piano. Eccles 
 exffi^ through folding-doors] 
 George. [To Marchi oness] Don't 
 ;o inangOT^^__YJMi-maji uut bee iiie again. 
 [BgraEB rises in nervous excite- 
 ment, clutching George's hand. 
 
 MARCHIONES^^iapS. EsTHER 
 
 bringsQsORG'EjIqwn] 
 
 Esther "(wiift arm round his neck]. 
 )h, GeorgeJ.jausL^u..eo? 
 
 [They come to front of table] 
 
 George. Yes. 
 
 Esther. I can't leave-jfeu. I'll go 
 STthjjou ! 
 
 ^xEOHGE. Impossible I — Xh«-eountry 
 8 tqo_un,§fittled. 
 "Esther. May I come after you ? 
 
 George. Yes. 
 
 Esther [with her head on his shoulder]. 
 JBS&.. 
 
 Marchioness [coming down, Haw- 
 'BEB at door]. I t is bis duty to go. 
 lis^honour calls fiiffl: Tfie" honour of 
 lis fairury"-^-^bMr honour. 
 
 Esther. ButJ tee- him so! Pray 
 don't be angry with me ! 
 
 Hawtree [looking at watch and com- 
 ing down]. George! 
 
 George. I. must go, love. 
 
 [Hawtree goes up to door again] 
 
 Marchioness [advancing]. Let me 
 arm you, George — rJ.et,you*- mother, as 
 in t.^a fl^yg of old. There is blood — 
 and blood, my son. See, your wife 
 cries whett she should be proud of you ! 
 
 George. My Esther is^^all Jhat is 
 gflod-€ffl.d_jiQble. NaJadjL- boriuto a 
 coronet could be gentler or more true. 
 Esther, my wife, fetch me my sword, 
 and b uckle mx -batt-tpround me. 
 
 Esther [cHnging to him]. No, no; 
 I can't! 
 
 *^^CrEORGE. Iljy. [Whispers to Esther] 
 To please my mothw^ [To Mar- 
 chioness] You sEaH see. [Esther 
 totters up stage, Polly assisting her, and 
 brings down his sioord. As Esther is 
 trying to buckle his belt, he whispers] 
 I ' v.a-4effc--irroae5s--£Qr_yBU,_jQ2_ dariing. 
 Myjaffiser-will-call-on you-to-morrow. 
 Forgive me !- - 1 -tried- hard»to..ielL.you 
 we were ordered for India ; but when 
 the time came, my heart failed me, and 
 
 [Esther, before she can succeed 
 in fastening his sword-belt, reels, 
 and falls fainting in his arms. 
 Polly hurries to her. Sam 
 standing at piano, looking 
 frightened; Hawtree with 
 hand upon handle of door; 
 Marchioness looking on, at 
 right of George] 
 
 ACT drop 
 
 [For call — George and Hawtree gone. 
 Esther in chair fainting; Polly 
 and Sam each side of her, Polly 
 holding her hands, and Sam fanning 
 her with his red handkerchief. The 
 folding-doors thrown open, and 
 EccLES standing at back of table 
 offering glass of claret] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene. — The room in Stangate {as in 
 Act I). Same furniture as in Act 
 I, with exc eption j f-'pianrr;~with roll 
 of musiSL&mi~Vrp^on- it, in place of 
 bureau. Map of Indi a-ever-numtle- 
 piece. Sword with crape knot, spurs. 
 
296 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 and cap, craped, hanging over 
 chimney-piece. Portrait of D'Alroy 
 (large) on mantel-piece. Berceavr- 
 nette, and child, with coral, in it. 
 Polly's bonnet and shawl hanging on 
 peg. Small tin saucepan in fender, fire 
 alight, and kettle on it. Two candles 
 (tallow) in sticks, one of which is 
 broken about three inches from the 
 top and hangs over. Slate and 
 pencil on table. Jieg on table, band- 
 box and ballet skirt on table. At 
 rise of curtain Polly discovered at 
 table, back of stage. Comes down 
 and places skirt in bandbox. She 
 is dressed in black. 
 
 Polly [placing skirt in box, and lean- 
 ing her chin upon her hand]. There — 
 there's the dress for-poDE_Esther in case 
 she gets the OTLgagement, which I don't 
 suppose she wiHr~~ItVT;aD~good"luck, 
 and good luck never comes to her, poor 
 
 thing. [Goes up to back of cradle] 
 
 Baby's asleep stiU. How good he 
 looks — as good as if he were dead, 
 like his po or fathe r: and alive too, at 
 thB'sameTime, Ulie his dear self. Ah I 
 dear me; it's a strange world. [Sits 
 in chair right of table, feeling in pocket 
 for money] Ppjor , and— elevenpence. 
 That must do for to-day and to-morrow. 
 Esther is going to bring in the rusFs for 
 Georgy. [Takes up slate] Three, five 
 — eight, and four — twelve, one shil- 
 ling — father can only have twopence. 
 [This all to be said in one breath] He 
 must make do with that till Saturday, 
 when I get my sMary. If Esther gets 
 the engagement, I sha'n't have many 
 more salaries to takg^ I shall leave the 
 stage and retire into private hfe. I 
 wonder if I shall like private life, and 
 if private life will like me. It will seem 
 so strange being no longer Miss Mary 
 Eccles — but Mrs. Samuel _Gerridge. 
 [Writes it on sTSiJgf"^ ' Mrs. "Sainiiel 
 Gerridge." [Laughs bashfully] La! to 
 think of my being Mrs. Anybody! 
 How annoyed Susan Smith, wiU— be! 
 [Writing on slate] "Mrs. Samuel Ger- 
 ridge presents her compliments to Miss 
 Susan Smith, and Mrs. Samuel Ger- 
 ridge requests the favour of Miss Susan 
 Smith's company to tea, on Tuesday 
 evening next, at Mrs. Samuel Ger- 
 ridge's house." [Pause] Poor Susan! 
 [Beginning again] "P.S. — Mrs. 
 Samuel Gerridge — " 
 
 [Knock heard at room door; 
 Polly starts] 
 
 Sam. [Without] Polly, openjihe door. 
 Polly. Sam ! come in. 
 Sam. [Without] I can't. 
 Polly. Why not ? 
 Sam. I've got somethin' on my 'ead. 
 [Polly rises and opens door. 
 Sam enters, carrying two rolls 
 of wall-paper, one in each 
 hand, and a small table on his 
 head, which he deposits down 
 stage, then puts roll of paper 
 on piano, as also his cap, 
 Sam has a rule-pocket in cor- 
 duroys] 
 Polly [shuts door]. What's that? 
 Sam [pointing to table with pride]. 
 Furniture. How are you, my Polly? 
 [Kissing her] You look handsomer 
 than ever this morning. [Donees and 
 sings]. ' ' Tid-dle-di-tum-ti-di-do." 
 
 Polly. What's the matter, Sam? 
 Are you mad ? 
 
 Sam. No, 'appy — much the same 
 thing. 
 
 Polly. Where .have you befen these 
 twojdaxs ? ' 
 
 Sam [all excitement]. That's just what 
 I'm goin' to tell yer. PoUy, my pet, 
 my brightesfTatswing and most bril- 
 liant burner, 'What do yer think? 
 
 Polly. Oh, do go on, Sam, or I'll 
 slap your face. 
 
 Sam. Well, then, you've 'card me 
 
 speak of old Binks, — the- plumber, 
 
 glazier, and gasfitter, who died six 
 months ago ? 
 Polly. Yes. 
 
 Sam [sternly and deliberately]. I've 
 bought 'is business. 
 Polly. "TSToT 
 
 Sam [excitedly]. Yes, of 'is widow, 
 old Mrs. Binks — so much down, and 
 so rniioh more at the end of the year. 
 [Donees and sings] 
 
 Ri-ti-toodle 
 
 Roodle-oodle 
 
 Ri-ti-tooral-lay. 
 
 Polly. La, Sam. 
 
 Sam [pacing stage up and down]. Yes; 
 I've bought the goodwill, fixtiires, 
 flttin's, stock, rolls of gas-pipe, --and 
 sheets of lead. [Jumps on table, quimy 
 facing Polly] Yes, Polly, I'm airades- 
 man with a shop ^- a master tradesman. 
 [Coming to Polly seriously] All I want 
 to complete the grejnises-is a missus. 
 
 [Tries to kiss her. She pushes 
 him away] 
 
 Polly. Sam, don't be foolish. 
 
 Sam [arm round her waist]. Come and 
 
Caste 
 
 297 
 
 be Mrs. Sam Gerridge, Polly, my pateat- 
 safety-da y-and-rngMr Hglit. ■ You'll fur- 
 iiisfe-'iiteT!3mpietely. 
 
 [Polly goes up, Sam watching 
 her admiringly; he then sees 
 slate, snatches it up and looks 
 at it. ISKe snatches it from 
 him with a shriek, and rubs out 
 the writing, looking daggers at 
 him, Sam laughing] 
 
 Sam. Only to think now. 
 
 [Putting TWmr— round her waist. 
 Polly pouting] 
 
 Polly. Don't be a goose. 
 
 Sam [going 'towards table], I spent 
 the whole of yftstscday- lookini _ up 
 tuTDJnffSr" Now I bought that a bar- 
 gain, and I brought it 'ere to show you 
 for your approval; I've bought lots 
 of other tilings," andTTll bring 'em all 
 'ere to show you for your approval. 
 
 Polly. I couldn't think what had 
 become of you. [Seated right of table] 
 
 Sam. Couldn't yer? Oh, I say, I 
 want yer to choose the new paper for 
 the little back-parlour just behind the 
 shop, you know. Now what d'yer 
 think of this? 
 
 [Fetching a pattern from piano 
 and unrolling it] 
 
 Polly. No, I don't Uke that. [Sam 
 fetches the other, a flaming pattern] Ah 1 
 that's^neat"" ' 
 
 Sam. Yes, that's neat and quiet. 
 I'll new^gager it, and new-furnish it, 
 and it shaUall " belifan-new. 
 
 [Puts paper on top of piano] 
 
 Polly. But won't it cost a lot of 
 money? 
 
 "~S"AM [bravely]. I can work for it. 
 With customers in the shop, and you 
 in the back-parlour, I can work like 
 Bfty men. [Sits on table, beckons Polly 
 to him; she comes left of table, Sam puts 
 his arm round Polly, sentimentally] 
 Only fancy, at night, when the shop's 
 closed, and the shutters are up, count- 
 ing out the -till together,! — [Ghemging 
 his manner] Besides, that isn't all I've 
 beenjdoin'. I've been writin', and what 
 I've written, I've got printed. 
 
 Folly; No! 
 
 Sam. True. 
 
 Polly. You've been writing — 
 about me? [Delighted] 
 
 Sam. No-— about the shop. [Polly 
 disgusted] liere^it^iK [Takes roll of 
 circulars frotn pocket of his canvas slop] 
 Per mustn't Jaush_--Tr,yer .know — • it's 
 my first attempt. I wrote it the night 
 before last ; and when I thought of you 
 
 the words seemed to flow like — red- 
 hot solder. [Reads] Hem! "Samuel 
 Gerridge takes this opportimity of in- 
 formin' the nobility, gentry, and in- 
 habitants of the Borough-road — " 
 
 Polly. The Borough-road ? 
 
 Sam. Well, there ain't many of the 
 nobility and gentry as lives in the 
 Borough-road, but it pleases the in- 
 habitants to make 'em believe yer 
 think so [resuming] — "of informin' the 
 nobility, gentry and inhabitants of the 
 Borough-road, and its vicinity" — and 
 "its vicinity." [Looking at her] Now 
 I think that's rather good, eh? 
 
 Polly. Yes. [Doubtfully] I've 
 heard worse. 
 
 Sam. I first thought of saying neigh- 
 bour'ood ; but then jdoinity sounds so 
 much more genteel [resuming] — "and 
 its vicinity, that 'e has entered up»n 
 the business of the late Mr. Binks, 
 'is relict, the present Mrs. B., 'avin' 
 disposed to 'im of the same" ^- now 
 listen, PoUy, because it gets interestin' 
 — "S. G.— " 
 
 Polly. S. G. Who's he? 
 
 Sam [looking at Polly vnth surprise]. 
 Why, me. S. G. — • Samuel Gerridge — 
 me, us. We're S. G. Now don't in- 
 terrupt me, or you'U cool my metal, 
 and then I can't work; "S. G. 'opes 
 that, by a constant attention to> busi- 
 ness, and" — mark this — "by sup- 
 plyin' the , best articles at the most 
 reasonable prices, to merit a continu- 
 ance of those favours which it will 
 ever be 'is constant study to deserve." 
 There! [Turning on table triumphantly] 
 Stop a bit, — there's a little bit more 
 yet. "Bell-'angin', gas-fittin', plumbin', 
 and glazin', as usual." There! and 
 it's all my own! 
 
 [Puts circular on mantel-piece, 
 and crossing contemplates it] 
 
 Polly. Beautiful, Sam. It looks 
 very attractive from here, don't it? 
 
 Sam. [Postman's knock] There's the 
 postman. I'll go. I shall send some 
 of these out by post. 
 
 [Goes off and returns with letter] 
 
 Polly [taking it]. Oh, for Esther. 
 T JfTinw who it's froTn . [Places letter on 
 mantel-piece. At chair left of table. 
 Sam sits corner of table, reading circular. 
 Seriously] Sam, whQ_do you think was- 
 here last night? 
 
 Sam. Who? 
 
 Polly. C aptain Hawtree. 
 
 Sam [deprecatingly]. Oh, 'im! — 
 Come back from India, I suppose. 
 
298 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Polly. Yes, — luckily Esther was out. 
 
 Sam. I never liked that long swell. 
 He was a 'uppish, conceited — 
 
 Polly [sitting at end of table]. Oh, 
 he's bettei-Jihan h«-used' to be — he's a 
 majorngw. He's only been in England 
 a fortnight. 
 
 Sam. Did he tell yer anything about 
 
 DeAIrgy? r- ' 
 
 ^^-5*0LLY [leaning against table end]. 
 Yes ; he said he was riding out not far 
 from ttie cantonment,.- and was sur- 
 rounde"3"^By^ a troop of Sepoy cavalry, 
 whiBh-4oolr1lInr~prisoher,_and-galloped 
 off withJiini. — " 
 ' Sam. But about 'is death ? 
 
 Polly. Oh! [hiding her face] that 
 he said was beUeved to be too terrible 
 te-mention. 
 
 Sam [crossing to Polly at table]. Did 
 'e tell yer anything else? 
 
 Polly. No ; he asked a lot of ques- 
 tions, and I told him everything. How 
 poorEst]ifirJiad._takea-h«F-^w4d»«iood 
 andrwEat a dear gqodjbaby-the baby was, 
 and wha-t-a coinfort to us all, and how 
 Esther had come back -to Uve with us 
 again. 
 
 Sam [sharply]. And the reason for it ? 
 
 Polly \loohing down]. Yes. 
 
 Sam. How your father ^gQ±_alL-tha_ 
 money that 'e'ji left JorJEjiather ? 
 
 Vo^.TJY^Kar'ply]. Don't say any more 
 about that, Sam. 
 
 Sam. Oh ! I only think Captain 
 'Awtree ought to know where the money 
 did g o to, a nd_y-QU-sliouldn't try and 
 se reenTyour Ta tEer...and let 'im suppose 
 t hat you , and Esther spent it all. 
 ^^ PollyT I told him — I told him — 
 I tqld him. [Angrily] 
 
 -&AM. Did you tell 'im that your 
 fat her was alw ays at 'armonic meetin's 
 af^Eaverns, and ad 'aH^Bracked 'isself 
 with drink, and W3,s alwaysTingin' the 
 songs-and-makin' the speeches 'e 'eard 
 there, and-was. always goin' on about 
 'is wrongs as one of the workin' classes ? 
 'E's a prefty^oneTor one of the workin' 
 classes, 'e is! 'Asn't done a stroke of 
 work these twenty year. Now, I am 
 one of the workin' jdasses, but I don't 
 'owl about it. I work, I don't spout. 
 
 Polly. Hold your tongue, Sam. I 
 won't haYe_you say any more against 
 poor father. He has his faults, but 
 he's a very clever man. [Sighing] 
 
 Sam. Ah! What else did Captain 
 Hawtree say? 
 
 Polly. He advised us to apply to 
 Mr. D'AJroy^s jnother. 
 
 Sam. What! the Marquissy? And 
 what did you say to that? 
 
 Polly. I said that Esther wouldn't 
 
 hear of jt And so-the Major 8atd:that 
 
 he's write to Esther, and I suppose this 
 is^he lefcterr" " 
 
 Sam. Now, PoUy, come along and 
 choose the paper for the little back- 
 parlour. 
 
 [Going to table and taking it up 
 to wall behind door] 
 
 Polly [rising]. Can't. Who's to 
 mind- baby ? 
 
 Sam. Ths baby? Oh, I forgot all 
 about 'im. [Goes to cradle] I see yer! 
 [Goes tojydndow casually] There's your 
 father coininL-down tJie^streeET Won't 
 'e mind 'Im? 
 
 Polly [going up]. I daresay he will. 
 If I promise him an extra sixpence on 
 Saturday. [Sam opens window] Hi! 
 Father ! [Polly goes to cradle] 
 
 Sam. [Aside] 'E looks down in the 
 mouth, 'e does. I suppose 'e's 'ad no 
 drink this morning. [Goes to Polly] 
 
 [Enter Eccles in shabby black. Pauses 
 on entering, looks at Sam, turns 
 away in disgust, takes off hat, places 
 it on piano, and shambles across 
 stage. Taking chair, places it, and 
 sits before fire] 
 
 Polly [goes to Eccles]. Come in to 
 stop a bit, father? 
 
 Eccles. No; not for long. [Sam 
 comes down] Good morning, Samuel. , 
 Gouis..back to work? that's right, my 
 boy, — stick to it. [Pokes fire] Stick 
 to it — nothing like it. 
 
 Sam.- [Aside] Now, isn't that too 
 bad? No, Mr. 1 Eccles. I've knocked 
 off for the day. 
 
 Eccles [waving poker]. That's bad, 
 
 — that's very bad ! Nothing Uke work 
 
 — for the young. I don't work so 
 much as I used to, myself, but I like to 
 [Polly sitting on corner of table up left] 
 see the young 'uns at it. It does me 
 good, and it does them good, too. What 
 does the poet say ? 
 
 [Rising, impressively, and leaning 
 on table] 
 
 "A carpenter said tho' that was well spolce, 
 It was better by far to defend it with hoak. 
 A currier, wiser than both put together, 
 Said say what you will, there is nothing 
 
 like labour. 
 For a' that and a' that, 
 Your ribbon, gown and «' that. 
 The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
 The working man's the gold for a' that." 
 
Caste 
 
 299 
 
 [Sits again, triumphantly wagging 
 his head] 
 Sam. [Aside] This is one of the public- 
 house loafers, that wants all the wages 
 and none of the work, an idle old — 
 
 [Goes in disgust to piano, puts on 
 
 cap, and takes rolls of paper 
 
 under his arm] 
 
 Polly. [To EccLEslJlsther will be in 
 
 by-and-by. [Persuasively] Do, father. 
 
 EccLES. No, no, I tell you I won't! 
 
 Polly [whispering, arm round his 
 
 neck], And-I'U give you sixpence extra 
 
 on Sa;tfif3ay. 
 
 [EccLEs's/ace relaxes into a broad 
 grin. Polly geis-hatand cloak] 
 EccLES. Ahl. you sly_ little puss, 
 yn ii^ know b ow to get over your poor 
 old father. 
 Sam. [Aside] Yes, with sixpence. 
 Polly [putting on bonnet and cloak at 
 door]. Qive the cradle a rock if baby 
 Dries. 
 
 Sam [crossing to Eccles]. If you 
 should— 'appen to want-employment or 
 a,inaisement7~Mr„Bccles, just oast your 
 3ye_xwer this. [Puts circular on table, 
 Ihen joins Polly at door] Stop a bit, 
 
 ' [Throws circular into cradle. 
 Exeunt, Polly first. Eccles 
 takes out pipe from pocket, looks 
 into it, ihen blows through it 
 making a squeaking noise, and 
 finishes by tenderly placing it 
 on table. He ihen hunts all his 
 pockets for tobacco, finally find- 
 ing a little paper packet con- 
 taining a screw of tobacco in 
 his waistcoat pocket, which he 
 aiso places oniahle after turning 
 up Che~corner of the tablecloth 
 for the purpose of emptying the 
 contents of his pocket of the few 
 remnants of past screws of to- 
 bacco on to the bare table and 
 mixing a little out of the packet 
 with it and filling pipe. He then 
 brushes all that remains on the 
 table into the paper packet, 
 pinches it up, and carefully 
 replaces it in waistcoat pocket. 
 Having put the pipe into his 
 mouth, he looks about for a light, 
 across his shoulder and under 
 table, though never rising from 
 the chair; seeing nothing, his 
 face assumes an expression of 
 comic anguish. Turning to 
 table he angrily replaces table- 
 cloth and then notices Sam's 
 
 circular. His face relaxes into 
 a smile, and picking it up he 
 tears the circular in half, makes 
 a spill of it, and lighting it at 
 fire, stands, with his back to fire- 
 place, and smokes vigorously] 
 Eccles. Ennr J/gther Niss£.market 
 she's broup;Ether pigs to — ugh ! Mind 
 the baby indeed! What good is he to 
 me? That fo ol of a g^'rl tn throw away 
 all ber chances 1 — a, honour able-hess — 
 and her father not to have on him the 
 price of a pint of early beer or a quartern 
 of cool, refreshing gin! Stopping in 
 here to rook a young honourable ! Cuss 
 him! 
 
 [Business, puffs smoke in baby's 
 face, rocking cradle] 
 Are we sia,vea,^_WB— working _ men? 
 [Sings Savagely] TBntons never, never, 
 never shall be-^-" [ifodding his head 
 saqacioustg^sits by taMe\ I won' t stand, 
 thisr-IivBjmt to the old cat — I mean 
 "Tio^ yie Marqiiissy -^ ^ to tell her that her 
 daughter-in-law an d her gra ndSgir"is 
 al most— g ttfflging: TEat fool Esther is 
 too p roud to writ fl-t o h er f or, money. 
 I ffiSe pride — Tt's beastly ! [Rising] 
 There's no beastly pride about me. 
 [Goes up, smacking his lips] I'm as dry 
 as a Ume-kiln. [Takes up jug] Milk! 
 — [with disgust] for this young aristo- 
 cratic pauper. Everybody in the house 
 is sacrificed for him! [At foot of cradle, 
 with arm,s on chair back] And to think 
 that a working man, and a member of 
 the Committee of Banded Brothers for 
 the Regeneration of Human Kind, by 
 means of equal diffusion of intelligence 
 and equal division of property, should 
 be thusty, while this cub — [Draws 
 aside curtain, and looks at child. After 
 a pause — ] That there coral he's got 
 round his neck is gold, real gold ! [With' 
 hand on knob at end of cradle] Oh, 
 Society! Oh, Governments! Oh, Class 
 Legislation ! — is this right ? Shall this 
 mindless wretch enjoy himself, while 
 sleeping, with a jewelled gawd, and his 
 poor old grandfather want the price of 
 half a pmt? No! it shall not be! 
 Rather than see it, I will myself resent 
 this outrage on the rights of man! and 
 in this holy crusade of class against 
 class, of the weak and lowly against 
 the powerful and strong — [pointing to 
 child] — I will strike one blow for free- 
 dom! [Goes to back of cradle] He's 
 asleep. It will fetch ten bob round 
 the corner ; and if the Marquissy gives 
 us anything it can be got out with some 
 
300 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 o' that. [Sisaia-'coral] JUe still, my 
 darling ! — it's „ grandf atlier a-watcliin' 
 over you — ■ 
 
 " Who ran to catch me when I fell, 
 And kicked the place to make it well 7 
 My grandfather ! " 
 
 [Rocking cradle with one hand; 
 
 leaves it quickly , -and as he takes 
 
 hat ~off_ j)iano JEsTHBR enters. 
 
 She is dressed as a widow, her 
 
 face pale, and her manner quick 
 
 and imperious. She carries a 
 
 parcel and paper bag of rusks 
 
 in her hand; she puts parcel 
 
 on table, goes to cradle, kneels 
 
 down and kisses child] 
 
 EccLES. My lovejLliad a nice walk ? 
 
 You should wrap yourself up well, — 
 
 you are so liable to catch cold. 
 
 Esther. My Georgy? — Where's 
 hisjeoral? [Socles, going to door, fum- 
 bles with lack nervously, and is going out 
 as Esther speaks] Qane\ — Father! 
 [Rising — Ecclbs stops] The — child's 
 coral-=— 'where-is it ? 
 
 Eccles [confused]. Where's what, 
 duekey? 
 
 Esther. The _ coral! You've got 
 
 it, ^J-kaawufl Gisce-it-me ! [QuicJcly 
 
 and imperiously] Give it meJ [Eccles 
 takes coral frpm his- pocketr-and gives it 
 back] If you dore to touch-jaj/i-ohild — 
 [Goes to cradle] 
 Eccles. Esther! [Going quickly to 
 piano and banging hat on it] Am I not 
 yoiir father? — 
 
 [Esther gets round to front of 
 table] 
 Esther. Ari H T a,ni his mot her! 
 Eccles [coming to her]. Do you 
 bandy words with me, you pauper, you 
 pauper ! ! ! to whom I have given shelter 
 ' — shelter to you_and your brat! Tve 
 a good mind — 
 
 [Raising his clenched fist] 
 Esther [confronting him]. If you 
 dare ! I am no longer your little drudge 
 — your frightened servant. When 
 mother died — [Eccles changes coun- 
 tenance and cowers beneath her glance] — 
 and I was so high, I tended yqUj_and 
 worked for^ou — and you^beat me. 
 That Jams is past. I am a woman — 
 I am a _wife — a widow ^^'a mother ! 
 Do you think I will let you outrage 
 himf Touch me if you dare! 
 
 [Advancing a step] 
 
 Eccles [bursting into tears and coming 
 
 down]. And this is my own child, 
 
 which I nussed when a babby, and sang 
 
 "Cootsicum Coo" to afore she could 
 speak. [Gets hat from piano, and re- 
 turns a step or two] Hon. Mrs. De 
 Ahoy [Esther drops down behind chair 
 by table], l ior^ve you for all that you 
 have said. "norgive~yainOT" all that 
 you have done. In everything that 
 I have done I have acted-with the best 
 intentions. May the babe In - that 
 cradle never treat you as you have this 
 day tret a grey 'aired father. May he 
 never cease to love and tonour you, as 
 you have ceased to love and honour 
 me, after all that I have done for you, 
 and the position to which I have raised 
 you by my own industry. [Goes to door] 
 May he never behave to you Uke the 
 bad daughters of King Lear ; and may 
 you never Uve to feel how much more 
 sharper than a serpent's [slight pause as 
 if remembering quotation] scale it is to 
 have a thankless child ! [Exit] 
 
 Esther [kneeling back of cradle]. My 
 dairiing! [Arranging bed and placing 
 coral tobahy's lips , the nuto her own] 
 MarnniaTs come back_tq heFown. Did 
 she stay away from him so long ? [Rises 
 and looks at sabre, etc.] My George! to 
 think that you can ne ver look upon his 
 face or heaa^ — Ms'Toioe; My Brave, 
 gallant, handsome husband! My Hon 
 and my love ! [Comes down, pacing stage] 
 Oh ! to be a soldier, and to fight the 
 wretches jyho de stroyed — him — who 
 took my darling from me! [Action of 
 cutting with sabre] To gallop miles 
 upon their upturned facesj [Crossing 
 with action, breaks down sobbing at mantel- 
 piece; sees letter] What's this? Cap- 
 tain Hawtree's hand. [Sitting in chair, 
 reads, at left hand of table] "My dear 
 Mrs. D'Alroy, — I returned toJEngland 
 les?TAian a fortnight ago. I"Eave some 
 papersand eHeets of my poor friend's, 
 which I am anxious to dehvef to you, 
 and I beg of you toname^xLdayLwlien I 
 can call with them and see you ; at the 
 same time let me express my deepest 
 sympathy with your affliction. Your 
 husband's loss-^?yais mourn ed^ by every 
 man in the regiment. [Esther lays the 
 letlef~On-her heart, and then resumes read- 
 ing] I have heard with great pain of the 
 pecuniary embarrassments into which 
 accident and imprudence^f othOTS have 
 placed you. I-troSTyou will not con- 
 sidOT me, one of popiJGfiQrge's oldest 
 comrades and friends, either intrusive 
 or impertinent in sending the enclosed 
 [she takes out a cheque], and in hoping 
 that, should any further difficulties 
 
Caste 
 
 301 
 
 arise, you will faif onn me . of them, and 
 remerSS^thMJLsdsXtdeafMrs. D'AJroy, 
 now, ana always, your faithful and 
 sincere friend, Aithur Hawtree." 
 [Esther goes to cradle and bends over it] 
 Oh, his boy, if you could read it ! 
 
 [So6s, uyith head on head of cradle] 
 [Enter Polly] 
 
 Polly. F ather g onai- 
 
 Esther. Polly, you look quite flur- 
 ried. 
 
 [Polly laughs and whispers to 
 
 Esther] 
 
 [near head of table, taking Polly in her 
 
 trms and kissing her] So soon? Well, 
 
 mydajlihg, Ihnpft.yoii Tnaiy_bejhappy. 
 
 Polly. Yes. Sam's going to speak 
 to father about it this afternoon. 
 [Crosses rirWiidrt able, pu tting- rusks in 
 laucepan] Did you see the agent, 
 iear? 
 
 Esther [sits by table] Yes ; the 
 iianager_didnit_aome — he broke his 
 ippoiotiaent-^igain. 
 
 Polly [sits opposite at table]. Nasty, 
 :ude fellow ! 
 
 Esther. The agent said it didn't 
 natter, he thoughU-should-get-the en- 
 jaiiement. He'll oidy give me thirty 
 ihiUings a weekr-thffligh. 
 
 Polly. But you said that two 
 )ouijdsj5rasJie^regulax_salary. 
 
 Esther. Yes, but they know I'm 
 )oor, and wantJihe engagement, and 
 io take advantage of me. 
 
 Polly. Never mind, Esther. I put 
 .he dress in that bandbox. It looks 
 blmost as good as new. 
 
 Esther. I've had a lettOTjcom Cap- 
 ain Hawtree. 
 
 PotLY. I know,_dgar4_h£_eameJijere 
 astjiight. 
 
 ^THER. A dear, good letter — 
 peaking of George, and enclosing a 
 iheque jor thirty pou nds. 
 
 PollyT Oh, how^kind! Don't you 
 eJl^iliM:, — 
 
 [Noise of carriage-wheels without] 
 
 Esther. ,^i-sliaWt. 
 Eccles enters, breathless. Esther and 
 Polly rise] 
 
 Eccles. I|^s_jthe Marquissy in her 
 gafih. [Esther puWohthe lid of band- 
 ox] NoWji_girls,_ do be civil to her, 
 .nd she may do soniething for us. 
 Places hat on piano] 1 see the~coach 
 .s^I.was opming out of the "Rainbow." 
 [Hastily pulls an old comb out of 
 his pocket, and puts his hair in 
 order] 
 
 Esther. TheJ*forquise! 
 
 [Esther comes down to end of 
 table, Polly holding her hand] 
 Eccles [at door]. This way, my 
 lady^=:jip_th«m_ steps. They're rather 
 awkward for the Ukes o' you ; but them 
 as is^ poor ,and_lowly must do as best 
 they can with steps and circumstances. 
 
 [Enter Marquise. She surveys the place 
 with aggressive astonishment] 
 
 Mabquisb [going down, half aside]. 
 What a ho le!_ jind to think that my 
 gran3son should breathe such an at- 
 mosphere, and be contaminated by 
 such associations ! [To Eccles, who is a 
 little up] Which is the young woman 
 
 who yi^yMfld rny son ? 
 
 Esther. 1 am Mrs. George D'Alroy, 
 widow of George D'Alroy. Who are 
 youi. 
 
 MAROTriSE;_^_ I_ am his i nothgr, the 
 Mar_CLuise_de3ElMaur. 
 
 Esther [with the grand air]. Be 
 seated, I beg. 
 
 [Eccles takes chair from right 
 centre, which Esther immedi- 
 ately seizes as Sam enters with 
 an easy^ chair on his head, which 
 he puts down, not seeing Mar- 
 quise, who instantly sits down 
 in it, concealing it completely] 
 Sam [astonishedY- It's the Marquissy ! 
 [Looking at her] My eyes ! These aris- 
 tocrats are fine women — plenty of 'em 
 — [describing circle] quality and quan- 
 tity! 
 
 Polly. Go away, Sam ; you'd better 
 come back. 
 
 [Eccles nudges him and bustles 
 him towards door. Exit Sam. 
 Eccles shuts door on him] 
 Eccles [coming down right of Mar- 
 quise, rubbing his hands] If we'd Sr- 
 knowld yDur_,ladyship 'ad been adeem- 
 ing we'd a' 'ad the place cleaned up a 
 bit. 
 
 [With hands on chair back, in 
 lower right corner of stage. He 
 gets round to right, behind Mar- 
 quise, who turns the chair 
 slightly from him] 
 Polly. Hold^our tongue, father! 
 
 [Eccles crushed] 
 Marquise. [To Esther] You re- 
 member me, do you not? 
 
 Estheh: pOTfeotly, though I only 
 
 saw you once. . [Seating herself en 
 
 graride dame] May I ask what has 
 
 procured me the honour of this visit? 
 
 Marquise. I was informed that 
 
302 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 you g ere in \g an.t,-aiBd— 1 came to offer 
 yoflassistanceT 
 
 EsTHEB. I thank you for your offer, 
 and the delicate consideration "for my 
 feehngs with which it is made. Lneed^ 
 no assistajiee^ 
 
 [EccLES groans and leans on piano] 
 
 Mahquise. a letter that I received 
 last night inform^ed me that you did. 
 
 Esther. May"T ask" if that letter 
 came from Captain^ Hawtree ? 
 
 Mabqtjise. 1^0 — from JMs person 
 — your father, I think. 
 
 Esther. [To Eocles] How dare you 
 interfere in my affairs ? 
 
 Eccles. My lovey, I did it with' the 
 best intentions. 
 
 Marquise. Then you will not ac- 
 cept assistance from me? 
 
 EsTilEir.— .No. 
 
 Polly [aside to Esther, holding her 
 hand]. Bless you, my darUng . 
 
 [Polly standing beside her] 
 
 Marquise. But youJiave-ft-child — 
 a spn.j:r::Jiiy_graillilson. [With emotion] 
 
 Esther. Master D'Ahoy wants for 
 nothing. 
 
 Polly. [Aside] And never shall. 
 [Eccles groans and turns on to 
 piano] 
 
 Marquise, l^oame here to propose 
 that my grandson_shoul£^_t)aok with 
 me. ~^' [Polly rushes up to cradle] 
 
 Esther [rising defiantly]. What! 
 part with my Vinyl I'd sooner d ie ! 
 
 "Marquise. You can see him when 
 you wish. As for money, I — 
 
 Esther. Notjor ten thousand mil- 
 lionjEarids — not for Ten thousand 
 rniHIorf marchionesses ! 
 
 Eccles. Better do what the good 
 lady asks you, my dear ; she's advising 
 you for your own good, and for the 
 child's likewise. 
 
 Marquise. Surely you cannot in- 
 tend to bring up my son's son in a place 
 like this? — — 
 
 Esther, .^-do. [Goes up to cradle]^ 
 
 Eccles. It is a poor place, and we' 
 are poor people, sure enough. We 
 ought not to fly in the faces of our 
 pastors and masters — our 'pastresses 
 and mistresses. 
 
 Polly. [Aside] Oh, hold your tongue, 
 do! [Up at cradle] 
 
 Esther [before cradle]. Master George 
 D'Alroy will remain with his mother. 
 The oflfer to take himtemr^Eer is an 
 insult to his deadjather^and to_him. 
 
 EccEBs: — [AMde] He don^ seem to 
 feel it, stuck-up little beast. 
 
 Marquise. But you have no money 
 
 — how can you rear him ? — how can 
 you-educate him? — how can you live? 
 
 Esther tt'eiring dress from bandbox]. 
 Turn columbiae. — go on thfi^ tage 
 agajn and danee. 
 
 MARQ'ffrsE. [rising]. You are insolent 
 
 — you forget that I am a lady. h 
 Esther. You f orget that I am a 
 
 mother. Do y ou da^ JB-ta-jJEgc-Ja-biiy 
 m ^— child — Ats2 _breathing imags, Ms 
 living memory — • wTtE^aoney ? [Croases 
 to door and throws it open] 'There is the 
 door — go ! [Picture] 
 
 Eccles. [To Marquise, who hasrisen, 
 ide] Very sorry, my lady, as you 
 should be tret in this way, which was 
 not my wishes. 
 
 Marquise. Silence! [Eccles re- 
 treats, putting back chair. Mabqtjise 
 goes up to dooH_Mrs. D'Alroy, if any- 
 thing iifluldr-h^ve~i acreased ni ysorrow 
 for the wretched raarriage my poor 
 son was decoyed into, it would be your 
 conduct this day to his mother. [Exit] 
 Esther [falling into Polly's arms]. 
 Oh, Polly! Polly! 
 
 Eccles [looking after her]. To go 
 away and not—tollsaYe a sov. behind 
 [Running up to open door] Cat! 
 Stingy old cat! 
 
 [Almost runs to fire, and pokes it 
 violently; carriage-wheels heard 
 without] 
 
 [0 to my room and lie 
 a?v5~fe<fcbaibjS5 or il^t 
 co me back and steal 
 
 her! 
 Cat! 
 
 Esther. I'lL 
 down. Let me 
 old woman- 
 him. 
 
 [Exit Esther, and Polly follows 
 with baby] 
 Eccles. Well, women is the ob- 
 stinatest devils as never wore horse- 
 shoes. Children? Beasts! Beasts! 
 
 [Enter Sam and Polly] 
 
 Sam. Come along, Polly, and let's 
 get it over at once. [Sam places cap on 
 pianff^and goes to table. Polly takes 
 bandbox from table, and places it up stage] 
 Now, Mr'. Tlccles [Eccles turns sud- 
 denly, facing Sam], since you've been 
 talkm'^OB— family— mattfflSr-l'd-JiJsg^ to 
 'ave a word with yer, so take this op- 
 portunity to — ■ 
 
 Eccles [waving his hand grandly]. 
 Take what you like,. and_jthen order 
 more [rising and leanmg over table], 
 Samuel Gerridge. That hand is a 
 hand that has never turnedjts^baok 
 on a friend, or aJ5<3iEle7tQ^give.yin." 
 
 [Smgs, front of table] 
 
Caste 
 
 303 
 
 I'll stand by my friend, 
 I'll stand by my friend, 
 I'll stand by my friend, 
 If he'll stand to me — me 
 
 Well, Mr. 
 
 gentlemen !" 
 Eccles, sir, it's 
 
 Sam. 
 lis — 
 
 RoLLY [aside, coming down to Sam]. 
 lon't-teUr-yfiarHrocr-Buddeii, Sam — it 
 ijgli t, ahhnlf hi s feelings. 
 
 Sam. It's this ; yer know that for 
 16 last four__years I've_Jieen keepin' 
 impany with Mary — Polly. 
 
 [Turning to her and smiling. 
 EcoLES drops into chair as if 
 shot] 
 
 Eccles. Go it ! go it ! strike home, 
 oung -man! — Strika-Oa this grey head ! 
 Hngs] " Britons, strike home ! " Here 
 apping his chest], to my heart ! Don't 
 jaremel Have a go at my grey hairs, 
 ull 'em r^ull 'em out ! A long pull, 
 ad a strong pull, and a pull all to- 
 ather 1 
 
 [Cries, and drops his face on arm 
 on table] 
 
 Polly. Oh, father 1 I wouldn't hiu't 
 our feelings for the world. 
 
 [Patting his head] 
 
 Sam. No, Mr. Eccles, I don't want 
 ) 'urt your feelin's, but I'm a-goin' to 
 iter upon a business. Here's a oir- 
 UafT [Offering one] 
 
 Eccles [indignantly]. Circ'lars. 
 Hiat are circ'lars? — compared .Jaja. 
 ither's feelings? 
 
 Sam. AndJLjwant_EDlly— _tD— name 
 lie day, sir, and so -Pask you — 
 
 Eccles. This is 'ard, this is 'ard. 
 ine of mv daugl itBrs-aiaiaaes^a-soger'. 
 'he other goes a-gasfitting. 
 
 Sam [annoyed]. The business which 
 ill enable me to maintain a wife is 
 lat of the late Mr. Binks, plumber, 
 lazier, etc. 
 
 Eccles [rising, sings. Air, "Lost 
 '.osabelle"]. 
 
 They have given thee to a plumber, 
 
 They have broken every vow. 
 They have given thee to a plumber, 
 And my heart, my heart is breaking 
 now." 
 
 [Drops into chair again] 
 rowV-gaatlemen ! 
 
 [Sam thrusts circulars into his 
 
 pocket, and turns away angrily] 
 
 Polly. You "knigSrf&fHr, „you can 
 
 ame aai see me. [Leans over him] 
 
 Sam [soito voce]. No, no. 
 
 [Motions to Polly] 
 
 Eccles [looking up]. So I can^ and 
 
 liat's a comfort. [Shaking her hand] 
 
 And you can come and see me, and that's 
 a comf or-fe- — I-U come xuul see -y-ou often 
 — very often — every day [Sam turns 
 up stage in horror], and crack a fatherly 
 bottle [rising], and shed a friendly 
 tear. 
 
 [Wipes eyes with dirty pocket- 
 handkerchief, which he pulls 
 from breast pocket] 
 Polly. DOjfather, do. 
 
 [Goes^up arid gets tea-tray] 
 Sam [with a gulp]. Yes, Mr. Eccles, 
 do. 
 
 [Goes to Polly and gesticulates be- 
 hind tray] 
 Eccles. I will. [Goes to centre of 
 stage]. And"thisjt is to be a father. I 
 would part with any of my children for 
 their own good, readily — ■ if I was paid 
 for it. [Goes to right corner; sings] 
 "For I know that the angels are whis- 
 pering to me" — me, gentlemen! 
 
 [Polly gets tea-things] 
 Sam. UL-trjLaruLiBake-Polly a good 
 husband, and anything that I can do to 
 prove it [lowering Ms voice], in the way 
 of spirituous Jiquors and toba fico [slip- 
 ping coin into his hand, unseeribyPojjijY] 
 shaJLbe done. 
 
 EccLBS [lightening up and placing his 
 left hand on Sam's head]. 
 
 " Be kind to thy father. 
 Wherever you be, 
 For he is a blessing 
 And credit to thee, — thee, gentlemen." 
 
 [Gets to centre of stage]. Well, my chil- 
 dren — l)less..you, take_ the blessing of 
 a grey-'aired father.'"" [Polly looking 
 from one to the other] Samuel Gerridge, 
 she shall be thine. [Mock heroically, 
 looking at money] You shall be his 
 wife [looking at Polly] and you [looking 
 at Sam] shall be her- husband — for a 
 husband I know no fitter — ^no "gas- 
 fitter" mani ^uns to piano and takes 
 hat; goes to door, looks comically pathetic 
 at Sam and Polly, puts on hat and 
 comes towards centre of stage] I've a 
 friend waiting for me round the corner, 
 which I want to have a word with ; and 
 may you neverJknow-Jiaw-.inuch. more 
 sharper than a serpent's tootETit is to 
 have a marriageable daughter". 
 [Sings] 
 
 " When I heard she was married, 
 I breathed not a tone. 
 The heyes of all round me 
 Was fixed on my h'own ; 
 I flew to my chamber 
 To hide my despair, 
 
304 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I tore the bright circlet 
 
 Of gems from my hair. 
 When I heard she was married. 
 When I heard she was married — " 
 
 [Breaks down. Exit] 
 
 PoLLT [drying her eyes]. There, Sam. 
 
 I always tiid_j»u-Jiartr-tlMfiigfh: -father 
 
 had his faults, hisjieart was in the right 
 
 place. 
 
 Sam. Poor Polly. 
 
 [Crosses to fireplace. Knock at 
 door] 
 Polly [lop of table]. Come in. 
 
 [Enter JIawtrbe] 
 
 Major Hawtree. 
 
 [Sam turns away as they shake 
 hands] 
 
 Hawteee. I met Jhe Marquise's 
 carriage on ^;he bridge. ~Sas she been 
 here? 
 
 [Sam at fire, with back to it] 
 
 Polly. Yes. 
 
 Hawtree. What happened? 
 
 Polly. Oh, she wanted to take away 
 the child. (AtTiead of table] 
 
 Sam. In the coach. 
 
 [Polly sets tea-things] 
 
 Hawtree. And what did Mrs. 
 D'Alroy say to that? 
 
 Sam. Mrs. D'Alroy said Jhat. she'd 
 see 'er blowed flrslF IPolly pushes 
 Sam] — or words to that effect. 
 
 Hawtree. I'm sorry to hear this; 
 I had hoped — however, that's over. 
 
 Polly [sitting at table]. Tes, it's 
 over ; and I hope we shall hear jio^more 
 about it. Want to take away the child, 
 indeed — like her impudence! What 
 next! [Getting ready tea-things] 
 Esther's gone to lie down. I__sha'n't 
 wake" her tip for tea, though she's had 
 nothing, to -eat-arli-day: 
 
 Sam [head of table]. Shall I fetch 
 some shrimps? 
 
 Polly. No. What made you think 
 of shrimps? 
 
 Sam. They're a relish, and oonsoUn' 
 — at least I always-f-0afid-.'em so. 
 
 [Check lights gradually] 
 
 Polly. I won't ask you to take tea 
 with us. Major, -^T^you-'xe_too grand. 
 
 [Sam motions approbation to 
 Polly, not wanting Hawtree 
 to remain] 
 
 Hawtree [placing hat on piano]. Not 
 ajLall. . I shallJ)e_most-happy. [Aside] 
 'Pon my word, these are very good sort 
 of people. I^jiojdea — 
 
 Sam [points to Hawtree]. He's 
 a-goin' to stapito tea, — well, I ain't. 
 
 [Goes up to window and sits. 
 Hawtree crosses and sits op- 
 posite Polly at table] 
 Polly. Sam ! Sam ! [Pause — he 
 says Eh?] PuU down the blind and 
 light the gas. 
 
 Sam. No, don't light-up-r-Llike this 
 sort of dusk. It's unbusiafiss^Mke, but 
 pleasant. . ^ "^ — 
 
 [Sam cuts enormous slice of bread 
 and hands it on point of knife 
 to Hawtree. Cuts small lump 
 of butter and hands it on point 
 of knife to Hawtree, who looks at 
 it through eye-glass, then takes 
 it. Sam then helps himself. 
 Polly meantime has poured out 
 tea in two cups, and one saucer 
 for Sam, sugars them, and then 
 hands cup and saucer to Haw- 
 tree, who has both hands fuJk 
 He takes it awkwardly and places 
 it on table. Polly, having only 
 one spoon, tastes Sam's lea, then 
 stirs Hawtree's, attracting his 
 attention by doing so. He looks 
 into his tea-cup. Polly stirs 
 her own tea, and drops spoon 
 into Hawtree's cup, causing 
 it to spurt in his eye. He drops 
 eye-glass and wipes his eyes] 
 Polly [making tea]. Sugar, Sam! 
 [Sam takes tea and sits facing fire]. Oh, 
 there isn't anyjiiilk — it'U be here di- 
 rectly, it's just his time. _ 
 
 Voice. [Outside; rattle of milk-pails] 
 Mia-oow. 
 
 Polly. There he is. [Knock at 
 door] Oh, I know; I owe him four- 
 pence. [Feeling in her pocket] Sam, 
 have-yoTj-got-foiiFpenBe ? 
 
 [Knock again, louder] 
 Sam. No [his mouth full], — I ain't 
 got no fourpenee. 
 
 Polly. He'sjvery impatient. Come 
 in! 
 
 [Enter George, his face bronzed, and in 
 full.Jiealth. He carries a milk-can 
 irC his hand, which ^ after p utlino his 
 
 hat on-piano, he places on table] 
 George. ATfellow hung this on the 
 raiUngs, so I broughVitTnr-^^ 
 
 ^"^ [PuLL-i!' tees him, and graduoRy 
 sinks down under table on one 
 side. Then Sam, with his 
 mouth fullj-.andr^r-ead^and butter 
 in hand, does the same on the 
 other. Hawtree pushes him- 
 self back a space, in chair; re- 
 mains motionless. George aS' 
 tonished. Picture] 
 
Caste 
 
 305 
 
 George. What's the matter with 
 ou? . 
 
 Hawtkee [rising]. (JeCTge! 
 
 George. Hastlfie! — -You here? 
 
 Polly [under table]. 0-o-o-h! the 
 tiost! the-gh^sstt 
 
 Sam. It shan't hurt you, Polly. 
 'erhaES_it!sjanly-iiidigestion. 
 
 Hawtree. Then you are not d«ad? 
 Dead, JO. Where's my 
 
 You werg^ reported killed. 
 It^wasn't tnie. 
 
 ■ old friend 
 
 [Shakes hands] 
 Whsi^s jny 
 
 George. 
 dfe? 
 
 Hawtreb 
 
 George. 
 
 Hawtree. 
 livel 
 
 George. And well, 
 janded this mocning. 
 
 "Sam [who has popped his head from 
 mder the tahledoth]. He a jnlt — dead, 
 'ollr.:=:^he's.alive. 
 
 ' [PoLLYmfes from under the table 
 slowly] 
 Polly [pause; approaches him, touches 
 im, retreats]. George! [He nods] 
 reorge ! George ! 
 George. Yes! Yes! 
 Polly. Ali ve! My Hear G eorge ! 
 )h, my brQtEer! [Looking at Tom in- 
 msely] "ilive! [Going to him] Oh, 
 ay dear, 3ear_brother! [In his arms] 
 - how oould you go_aiid_do-so ? 
 
 [Laughs hysterically] 
 [Sam goes to Polly. George 
 places _Pfij(LY_ia__SAM's arms. 
 Sam kisses Polly's hand vio- 
 lently. Hawitheb comes up, 
 stares — busines.s^.. Sam: jiiiii-o 
 stamp of 'hi-s-fout-mnves' av^ay] 
 George. Where's Esther? 
 Hawtree. Here,. -ri^^ in this house. 
 George. HereT,::^ doesn't she know 
 'mback? " 
 
 Polly. No, -^ how should she? 
 George [To HawtreeX. "'Didn't you 
 ;6t myjfilegtam ? 
 Hawtree. No ; where from ? 
 George. Sojlthamptnn.! I^entitto 
 he Club. ' 
 
 Hawtree. I haven't been there 
 hese three_da3ca^ 
 
 TaLvf^Jiysierically] . Oh, my dear, 
 lear, dear dead-and-gone^jBome-back- 
 bll-aUve-oh, brother George! 
 
 [George passes her] 
 Sam. Glad to see yer, sir. 
 George. Thank you, Gerridge. 
 Shakes hands] Same to you — but 
 Dsther? 
 
 Polly [back to audience, and 'kerchief 
 her eyes] She's asleep in her room. 
 
 [George is going; Polly stops 
 him] 
 
 Polly. You mustn't see her.~ 
 
 George. Not see her! — after this 
 long absence ! — wliy_not ? 
 
 Hawtree. Sh%'.s — iU — ta=day. She 
 has^ been greatly excited. The news 
 of your death, _whichrwe-aU-m«aMied, 
 ha^ shaken Jer terribly. 
 
 George. Poor girl! Poor girl ! 
 
 Polly. Oh, we all cried so when 
 you died ! — [crying] — and now you're 
 alive again, I want to cry ever so much 
 more. ' [Crying] 
 
 Hawtree. We must break the news 
 to her gently and by degrees. 
 
 [Crosses behind, to fire, taking his 
 tea with him] 
 
 Sam. Yes, if you turn the tap on 
 to fuU pressure, she'll explode. 
 
 [Sam turns to Hawtree, who is 
 just raising cup to his lips and 
 brings it down on saucer with 
 a bang; both annoyed] 
 
 George. To return, and not to be 
 able to see tSF^^— to~~loVe "her — to 
 kiss her ! [Stamps] 
 
 Polly. Hush ! 
 
 George. I forgot — I shall wake 
 her! 
 
 Polly. More than that, — you'll 
 wake-the-bftby. 
 
 George. Baby! — what baby? 
 
 Polly. Yours. 
 
 George. Mine? — mine? 
 
 Polly. Yes, — yours and Esther's. 
 Why,~d idn't you know there was a baby ? 
 
 George. NoI 
 
 Polly. La! the ignorance of these 
 men! 
 
 Hawtree. Yes, George, you're a 
 father. 
 
 [At fireplace] 
 
 George. Why wasn't I told of this? 
 Why_didllIt_XO]i write ? 
 
 Polly. How could we when you 
 weje_djaa(d? 
 
 Sam. And 'adn't left yoiu* address. 
 [Looks at Hawtree, who turns 
 away quickly] 
 
 George. If I can't see Esther, I will 
 see the child. The-sight of_me won't 
 be too much for its nerves. Where is it ? 
 
 Polly. Sleei)ing_jiL_its- mother's 
 arms. [George goes to door — ■ she in- 
 tercepts him] Please not! Please not! 
 
 George. I must ! I will! 
 
 Polly. It might kill her, and you 
 wouldn't like Jtp do that. I'll fetch the 
 baby; but, oh, please don't make a 
 noise. [Going up] You won't make a 
 
306 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 noise — you'll, be as_c|uiet as you can, 
 won't -you-?- &i !,_ JLcanlEJb-filieve it ! 
 [Exit Polly. Sam dances break- 
 down and finishes up by looking 
 at Hawtree, who turns away 
 astonished. Sam disconcerted; 
 sits on chair by table; George 
 at door] 
 George. My baby — my ba — It's 
 a dream! [To Sam] You've seen it — 
 What's it like? 
 
 Sam. Oh 1 it's like a — like a sort 
 of — infant — white and — milky, and 
 aU that. 
 
 [Enter Polly with baby wrapped in 
 shawls; George shuts door and 
 meets her] 
 
 Polly. Gently 1 gently, — take 
 care! Esther will Jiafdly have it 
 touched. 
 
 [Sam rises and gels near to 
 George! 
 
 George. BuLl'm its father. 
 
 Polly. That don't matter. She's 
 very particular. 
 
 George. Boy or girl? 
 
 Polly. Guess. 
 
 George. Boy! [Polly nods. 
 George proud] What's his name? 
 
 Polly. Guess. 
 
 George. Geaarge? [Polly nods] 
 Eustace? [Polly raods] Fairfax? Al- 
 gernon? [Polly nods; pause] My 
 names ! 
 
 Sam. [To George] You'd 'ardly think 
 there was room enough in 'im to 'old 
 so many names, would yer? 
 
 [Hawtree looks at him — turns 
 to fire. Sam disconcerted again. 
 Sits] 
 
 George. To-oomejaaok all the way 
 from India tojfindJhatJim dead, and 
 that you're alive. „ To find my wife a 
 widow with a ne»J.ove -aged — How 
 old are you? I'U buy you a pony to- 
 morrow, my brave Uttle boy! What's 
 his weight? I should say two pound 
 nothing. My — baby — my boy ! 
 [Bends over him and kisses him] Take 
 him away, Polly, for fear I should 
 break him. [Polly takes child, and 
 places it in cradle] 
 
 Hawtree [crosses to piano. Passes 
 Sam, front — stares — business. Sam 
 goes round to fireplace, flings down 
 bread and butter in a rage and drinks his 
 tea out of saucer] But tell us how it Js 
 you're back — how you escaped ? 
 
 [Hawtree leans against piano] 
 
 George [coming down]. By and ^y. 
 
 Too long a story just now. Tell me all 
 about- it; — [PoECT qives him chair.] 
 How is it Esther's living here? 
 
 Polly. She "came -hack after the 
 baby was boniy and the furniture was 
 sold up. 
 
 George. Sold up? What furniture? 
 
 Polly. That you bought for her. 
 
 Hawtree. It couldn't be helped, 
 George — ■ Mrs^-D^Alrey-^was -so poor. 
 
 George. Poor I But I left her 
 £600 to put in the bank! 
 
 Hawtree. We must tell you. She 
 gave it to, her father, who banked it in 
 hi^ owhjiame. "'-' 
 
 Sam. Snd lost it in bettin' — every 
 copper. 
 
 George. Then shfiVJaeea-in-want? 
 
 Polly. No — hot in want. Friends 
 lent her jnoney. 
 
 George [seated]. What friends? 
 [Pause; he looks at^oijLr,jvho indicates 
 Hawtree] You? 
 
 Polly. Yes. 
 
 George [rising and shaking Haw- 
 trbe's hand]. TiaJik-yGar-©ld fella. 
 [Hawtree droops his head] 
 
 Sam. [Aside] Now who'd a thought 
 that long swelL-'adlit in 'im? 'e never 
 mentioned it. 
 
 George. So Papa Eccles had the 
 money? [Sitting again] 
 
 Sam. And blued it. 
 
 [Sits on corner of table] 
 
 Polly [pleadingly]. You see father 
 was very unlucky,_Dn the race-course. 
 He told usThat' if it hadn't been that 
 all his calculations were upset by a 
 horse winning who had no business to, 
 he should have made our fortunes. 
 Father's been unlucky, and he gets 
 tipsy at times, but he's a very clever 
 man, if you only give him scope enough. 
 
 Sam. I'd give Jini scope enough! 
 
 George. Where is he now? 
 
 Sam. Public-house." 
 
 George. And how is he? 
 
 Sam. Drunls:! 
 
 [Polly ^pushes him off table. 
 Sam sits at fireplace up stage] 
 
 George. [To Hawtree] You were 
 rightr-'TKere-is "something^^-in^ste. 
 [Aloud] But tell us all about it. [Sits] 
 
 Polly. Well, you know,., you, jent 
 away ; - and then the Jjaby^was-bom. 
 Oh ! he was such a sweet little thing, 
 just like — your eyes — your hair. 
 
 [Standing by George, who is sitr 
 ting] 
 George. Cut that ! 
 Polly. Well, baby came ; and when 
 
Caste 
 
 307 
 
 )aby was six days old^yourlettBr came, 
 Vlajor [to HxtvtbbbJ. I saw that it was 
 rom India^and that it wasn't in ypur^ 
 land [to George] ; I guessed what was 
 nside it, so I opened it unknown to her, 
 md I read' there, of _j6ur capture and 
 ieglh.. ~I dafen^t tell Iier. I went "to 
 ather to^k his advice, but he was too. 
 'ipsy jQJunders'tand' me. "Sam fetched 
 ;he doctor. He told us that the news 
 vould JdU/her. When she woke up, 
 ihe said she had drearat-there, was a 
 ettscfrom you. I'Told her. No ; and 
 lay after day she asked for a letter. 
 5o tha, doctor advisedus to write one 
 IS if it came from""you'. So we -did. 
 Jam and I and the ooetor told her — 
 lold Esther, I mean — that her eyes 
 vefe bad and she mustn't read, and we 
 ■ead our letter to her; didn't we, Sam? 
 Jut, bless you! she alffiaya_knew— it 
 lad n't come froi a-you !- At last, when 
 ihe was strongerTwe told her all. 
 
 George [^ter a pause]. How did 
 ihe take it ? 
 
 Folly. She pressed the baby in 
 ler arms,.And3urned her face to the 
 rail. [A pause] Well, to make a 
 ong story short, when she got up, she 
 ound father had lost aU the money 
 rou had left her. There was a dreadful 
 leene between tlLem. - She told him he'd 
 oTOed JieraSH her-childy-aad^father left 
 he house, and swore he'd never come 
 )aek again. 
 
 Sam. Don't be alarmed, — 'e did 
 lome back. [Sitting by fire] 
 
 Polly. Oh,_yes;_Je was too good- 
 learted to stop long from his children, 
 le has his faults, but his good points, 
 \rhen you find 'em, are wonderful ! 
 
 Sam. Yes, when you find 'em. 
 
 [Rises, gets bread and butter from 
 table, and sits at corner of table] 
 
 Polly. So she had to come back 
 lere to us, and that's all. 
 
 Geoegb. Why... didn't-sh«— write -to 
 "taiCiher? 
 
 Polly. Father, wanted her ; but she 
 ?as too proud ;;:^ she said_she'd die 
 irst. " 
 
 George [rising, to Hawtreb]. There's 
 I woman I .Caste's aU humbug. [Sees 
 word over mantel-piece] That's my 
 word [crossing round] and a map of 
 ndia, and that's the i)iano I bought 
 ler — I'U swear to the silk. 
 
 Polly. Yes ; that was bought in at 
 he sale. 
 
 George. [To Hawtbee] Thank ye, 
 IdfeUa. 
 
 Hawtree. Not by me — I was in 
 India at the time. 
 
 George. By whom, then? 
 
 Polly. By Sam. [Sam winks to her 
 to discontinue] I_ shall! He knew 
 Esther wa£ breaking her -heart about 
 anyone 'else "having it, so he took the 
 money lie'd saved up.^for our wedding, 
 and we're going te be married"tiow — 
 ain't"^ins, Sam?" 
 
 Sam [rushing to George and pulling 
 out circulars from his pocket]. And hope 
 by CMistaaL. attention to business, to 
 merit^ — [Polly pushes him away] 
 
 Polly. Since you died_it_Jiasn't 
 been opened, but JU,_iion't play it to- 
 night, may 1 die an pid_maidl- 
 
 [Goes up. George crosses to 
 Sam, and shakes his hand, 
 then goes up stage, pulls up 
 blind, and looks into street. 
 Sam turns up and meets Polly 
 by top of table] 
 
 Hawtree. [Aside] Now who'd have 
 thought that Uttle-i!ad..tad .it in him ? 
 He-aeYOT^rnentioned it. [Atoud] ' Apro- 
 pos, George, your mother — I'll go to 
 the Sauare, and-teU her xif^— 
 
 [Takes hat from piano] 
 
 George. Is she in town? 
 
 [At cradle] 
 
 Hawtree. Yes. Will you come 
 with me? 
 
 George. And leave my jsjfe? — and 
 sucha,^e! 
 
 Hawtree. I'll go at once. I shall 
 catchy her before dinner. Good-bye, 
 old feUowT—Seeing' "you back again, 
 alive and well, makes me feel quite — 
 that I quite feel — [Shakes George's 
 hand. Goes to door, then crosses to Sam, 
 who has turned Polly's tea into his 
 saucer, and is just about to drink ; seeing 
 Hawtree, he puts it down quickly, and 
 turns his hack] Mr. Gerridge, I fear I 
 have often made myself very offensive 
 to you. 
 
 Sam. Well, sir, yer 'ave. 
 
 Hawtree. [Atbottom of table] I feared 
 so. I didn't know you then. I beg 
 your par don. Let me ask vou to shake 
 hands 7:£jtoJ:'org}ye me, and forget it. 
 
 [Offering his hand] 
 
 Sam [taking it]. Say no more, sir; 
 and if ever IVe made niysel f offensLve 
 to you, I ask "your pardon ; Torget it 
 and forgive me. [They shake hands 
 warmly; as Hawtree crosses to door, 
 recovering from Sam's hearty shake of the 
 hand, Sam runs to him] Hi, sir ! When 
 yer marry that young lady as I know 
 
308 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 you're engaged to, if you should furnish 
 a house, and require anything in my 
 
 way — 
 
 [He brings out circular; begins to 
 read it. Polly comes down 
 and pushes Sam away, against 
 Hawtree. Sam goes and sits 
 on low chair by fireplace, down 
 stage, disconcerted, cramming 
 circulars into his pocket] 
 
 Hawthee. Good-bye, George, for 
 the present. [At door] Bye, Polly. 
 [Resumes his Pall Mall manner as he 
 goes out] I'm off to the Square. 
 
 [Exit Hawteee] 
 
 George [at cradle]. But Esther? 
 
 Polly [meets George]. Oh, I forgot 
 all about Esther. I'U-teUJier all about 
 it. 
 
 George. How? [By door] 
 
 Polly. I don't know; but it will 
 come. EEOwdeace— win-send— it to me, 
 as, it has sent you, my dear brother. 
 [Embracing him] You don't know how 
 glad I am to see you back again ! You 
 must go. [Pushing him. George takes 
 hat off piano] Esther will be getting up 
 directly. [At door unth George, who 
 looks through keyhole] It's no use look- 
 ing there ; it's dark. 
 
 George [at door]. It isn't often a 
 man can see his own widow. 
 
 Polly. And it isn't often that he 
 wants to ! Now, you must go. 
 
 [Pushing him off] 
 
 George. I shall stop outside. 
 
 Sam. And I'll whistle for you when 
 you may come in. 
 
 Polly. Now — hush ! 
 
 George [opening door mde]. Oh, my 
 Esther, when you know I'm alive 1 I'll 
 marry you all over again,, and we'U 
 have a second honeymoon, my darUng. 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Polly. Oh, Sam, Sam ! [C/)mmenc- 
 ing to sing and dance. Sam also dances; 
 they meet in centre of stage, join hands, 
 and dance around two or three times, 
 leaving Sam on the left of Polly, near^ 
 table. Polly going down] Oh, Sam, 
 I'm so excited, I don't know what to 
 do. What shall I do — what shall 
 I do? 
 
 Sam [taking up Hawtree's bread and 
 butter]. 'Ave a bit of bread and butter, 
 PoUy. 
 
 Polly. Now, Sam, light the gas ; 
 I'm going to wake- her -up. [Opening 
 door] Oh, my darling, if I dare tell 
 you! [Whispering] He's come back! 
 He's alive! He's come back! He's 
 
 come back ! Alive ! Alive ! Alive I 
 Sam, kiss me ! 
 
 [8am rushes to Polly, kisses her, 
 
 and she jumps off, Sam shutting 
 
 the door] 
 Sam [dances shutter-dance]. I'm glad 
 the swells are gone ; now I can open my 
 safety--valve7 and let my feelings escape. 
 ToTMGE^of 'is comin' back aUve from 
 India just as I am goin' to open my 
 shop. Perhaps he'll get me the pat- 
 ronage of the Royal Family. It would 
 look stunnin' over the door, a Uon and 
 a unicorn, a-standin' on their hind legs, 
 doin' nothin' furiously, with a lozenge 
 between 'em — thus. [Seizes plate on 
 table, puts his left foot on chair by table, 
 and imitates the picture of the Royal arms] 
 Polly said I was to light up, and what- 
 ever Polly says must be done. [Lights 
 brackets over mantel-piece, then candles; 
 as he lights the broken one, says] Why 
 this one is for aH the world like old 
 Eccles ! [Places candles on piano and 
 sits on music-stool]' Poor Esther! to 
 think of my Inrowtn' her when she was 
 in the ballet Une, — then jn -the 'onour- 
 able Une ; then a mother — no, hon- 
 ourables is " ' mammas " , — then a widow, 
 and then in the baUet line again ! — 
 and 'im to come 'back [grromnff affected] 
 — and find a baby, with aU 'is furniture 
 and fittin's ready for immediate use 
 [crossing back of table during last few 
 lines, sits in chair left of table] — and 
 she, poor thing, lyin' asleep with 'er 
 eye-Uds 'ot and swollen, not knowin' 
 that that great big, 'eavy, 'ulHn', over- 
 grown dragoon is prowUn' outside, ready 
 to fly at 'er lips, and strangle 'er in 'is 
 strong, lovin' arms — it — it — it — 
 
 [Breaks down and sobs, with his 
 
 head on the table] 
 
 [Enter Polly] 
 
 Polly. Why, Sam! What's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Sam [rises and crosses]. I dunno. 
 he water^got into my meter. 
 Polly. Hush ! Here's Esther. 
 
 [Enter Esther. They stop suddenly. 
 Polly down stage] 
 
 Sam [singing and dancing]. "Tiddy- 
 ti-tum," etc. 
 
 Esther [sitting near fire, taking up 
 costume and beginning to work]. Sam, 
 you seem in: high spirits to-night! 
 
 Sam. Yes ; j^er see Polly and I are 
 goin' to be married — and — and 'opes 
 
 mi 
 
 -A. 
 
Caste 
 
 309 
 
 by bestowingamerit^^- to continue the 
 favour -15 •' " ' 
 
 FohhY [who has kissed Esthbe two or 
 three times]. What are you talking 
 about ? 
 
 Sam. I don't know, — I'm off my 
 
 burner, 
 
 "*"' [Brings music-stool. Polly goes 
 round to chair, facing Estheb] 
 
 Esther. What's thfi_ matter . with 
 you to-mghti..dfiax ? " {To Polly] I can 
 see something in your eyes. 
 
 Sam. P'rapSTt'tTEe new furniture ! 
 [Sits on music-stool] 
 
 Estheb. Will you help me with the 
 dress, Polly? 
 
 [They sit, Esthek upper end, hack 
 of table, Polly facing her, at 
 lower end] 
 
 Polly. It was a pretty dress when 
 it was new — not unlike the one Mdlle. 
 
 Delphine used to wear. [Suddenly 
 
 clasping her tetrads] Oh ! 
 
 Esther. What's the matter? 
 
 Polly. A_needle! [Crosses to Sam, 
 who examines finger] I've got it ! 
 
 Sam. What — the needle — in yotir 
 fcger? 
 
 Polly. No ; ^ idea in my head ! 
 
 Sam [still looking at her finger]. Does 
 it 'urt? 
 
 Polly. Stupid ! [Sam still sitting on 
 stool. Aloud] Do you recollect Mdlle. 
 DelpMa e, Esthe r? 
 
 Esthbh. Yes. 
 
 Polly. Do you recollect her in that 
 ballet JliaJuild-BjeKnJjiiffenhaagen ar- 
 ranged ? — Jeanne la Polle, "or, the 
 ReturnjoliliSLScildier ? 
 
 Esther. Yes ; wilLxoJU. do-the fresh 
 hem.? 
 
 Polly. What's the use? Let me 
 see — how jid it go ? How well I re- 
 member the scene! — the cottage was 
 on that side, -t he bridge- a tt-the back — 
 then "ballet of yillagerSjjmd the entrance 
 of DelpMne as~jreanhe, the bride — 
 tra-lal-lala-lala-la-la [^ings and panto- 
 mimes, Sam imitating her]. Then the 
 entrance of -Claude, the bridegroom — 
 [To Sam, imitating swell] " How-de-do ? 
 how::dtedo ? 
 
 Sam \rising]. 'Ow are yer? 
 
 \lmitating Folly, then sitting 
 again] 
 
 Polly. Then there was the proces- 
 sion to church — the march of the 
 soIdieE|_^ovOT_tia._bridge — [sings and 
 pantonwmes] — arrest, of Claude, who is 
 dr^wn for the conscription — business; 
 Esther looks dreamily], and is torn from 
 
 the arms of his bride, at the church- 
 porch. Omnes broken-hearted. This is 
 Omnes broken-hearted. [Pantomimes] 
 
 Esther. Polly, I don't like this ; 
 it brings. back m_emories. 
 
 Polly [going to table and leaning her 
 hands on it. Looks over at 'Esther] Oh, 
 fu^about memories X; — one can't mourn 
 for ever. [Esther surprised] Every- 
 thing in this /sajrld isn't sad. There's 
 bad news — and there's good news 
 sometimes^^-when we least expect it. 
 
 Esther. Ah ! not for me. 
 
 Polly. Wh^ot? 
 
 Esther [amioiisly]. PoUy! 
 
 Polly. Second Act. [This to be said 
 quickly, startling Sam, who has been look- 
 ing on the ground during last four or five 
 lines] Winter — the Village Pump. 
 This isthe village pump [pointing to 
 Sam, seated by piano, on music-stool; 
 Sam turns round on music-stool, disgusted] 
 Entrance of Jeanne — now called Jeanne 
 la FoUe, because she has gone mad on 
 account of the supposed loss of her 
 husband. 
 
 Sam. The jupposed loss? 
 
 Polly. The supposed loss ! 
 
 Esther [dropping costume]. Polly ! 
 
 Sam. [Aside to Polly] Mind ! 
 
 Polly. Can't stap now ! Entrance 
 of -Claude, wKo isn't dead, in a captain's 
 uiuf^m_ — a cloak thrown -over his 
 shoulders. 
 
 Esther. Not dead ! 
 
 Polly. Don't you remember the 
 
 ballet? Jeamr6.xis~mad, and can't 
 
 recognise- her^usband.; .and.don.'t, till 
 he shows her the ribbon she gave him 
 when they were betrothed. A bit of 
 ribbon! Sam, have you got a bit of 
 ribbon? Oh, that crape sword-knot, 
 that will do. 
 
 [Crosses down. Sam asU 
 
 Esther. Touch that ! 
 
 [Rising, coming down] 
 
 Polly. Why ^not ? — it's no use 
 now. 
 
 Esther [slowly, looking into Polly's 
 eyes]. You Jiaxe. heard of George — I 
 know you have — I see it in your eyes. 
 Y6U_ may tell me ^^ I can bear it — I 
 can indeed — indeed I can. Tell me ■ — 
 he is nat.4eadJ' [Violently agitated] 
 
 Polly. No ! 
 
 Esther. No ? 
 
 Polly. No ! 
 
 Esther [whisperjl,.^J^as.k Jleaven ! 
 [Sam turns on stool, back to audience] 
 You've seen him, — I see you have ! — 
 I know ff ! -^ I feel it ! I had a, bright 
 
310 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 aad haOT2_iJream--^ I saw him as I 
 slept T OnTlet me know if he is near! 
 Give me some sign — some sound — 
 [Polly opens piano] — some token of 
 his life and presence ! 
 
 [Sam touches Polly on the shoul- 
 der, takes hat, and exit. All to 
 be done very quickly. Polly sits 
 immediately at piano and plays 
 air softly — the same air played 
 by Esther, Act II, on the 
 treble only] 
 Esthee'^ [m an ecstasy]. Oh, my 
 husband ! come to me ! for I know that 
 you are near ! Let me feel your arms 
 clasp round me ! Do not fear for me ! 
 
 — I can bear the sight of you ! — [door 
 opens showing Sam kee^vugjQrEQR^^ bach] 
 
 — it will not km mfe"! — George — love ! 
 husband~=^ come, oh, come to me ! 
 
 [George breaks' away from Sam, 
 and coming down behind 
 Esther places his hands over 
 her eyes; she gives a faint 
 scream, and turning^Jalls in his 
 arms. 'PdiJLY~plays bass as 
 well as treble of the air, forte, 
 then fortissimo. She then plays 
 at random, endeavouring to hide 
 her tears. At last strikes piano 
 wildly, and goes off into a fit 
 of hysterical laughter, to the 
 alarm of Sam, who, rushing 
 down as Polly cries "Sam! 
 Sam!" falls on his knees in 
 front of her. They embrace, 
 Polly pushing him contemp- 
 tuously away afterwards. 
 George gets chair, sits, and 
 Esther kneels at his feet — 
 he snatches off Esther's jMp, 
 and throws it up stage. Polly 
 goes left of George, Sam 
 brings rnusic-stool, and she sits] 
 Esther. To. see you here again — 
 to feel j^our Jwarm breath upon my 
 cheek — is it real, or am-I- dreaming? 
 Sam [rubbing his head]. No ; it's real. 
 Esther [embracing George]. My 
 darhng ! 
 
 Sam. My darling ! [Polly on musio- 
 stool, which Sam has placed for her. 
 Sam, kneeling by her, imitates Esther — 
 Polly scornfully pushes him away] But 
 tell us — tell us how you escaped. 
 
 George. It's a long story, but I'll 
 condense it. I was riding -out, and 
 suddenly jEound:3nyseIf surroundedLand 
 taken- prisoner. One of the troop that 
 took me was a fella who Jiad been my 
 servant, and to whom I had done some 
 
 little ^n4Bess — He helped me to es- 
 cape, and^d me ia-a!ISHrt:«f cave, and 
 for a lon'g-time used to bring me food. 
 Unfortunatelyj_he was ordered away; 
 so he .brought anotlMfSegoy to look 
 aftOT^e! T feltfronTthe firsTthis man 
 meant to betray me, and I watched 
 him like a lynx, during the one day he 
 was with me. As evening drew on, a 
 Sepoy picket was -passing. I could tell 
 by the look in the fella's eyes, he meant 
 to call out as soon as they were near 
 enough ; so I seized him by the throat, 
 and shook _the life out of~Eiim. 
 
 Esther. YoiTstrangled him? 
 
 George. Yes. 
 
 Esther. Killed him — dead? 
 
 George. He didn't get up again. 
 [Embraces Estheh] 
 
 Polly. [To Sam] You never go and 
 MU Sepoys. [Pushes him over] 
 
 Sam. No ! ,1 pay rates and taxes. 
 
 George. The day after, Havelock 
 and his Scotchmen marched through 
 the village, andltuxnad- out to meet 
 them. I -was too done up to join, so 
 I was sent straight on to Calcutta. I 
 got leave, took a berth on the P. & 0. 
 boat; the passage restored me. I 
 landed this _iaor-ningv came on Tiere, 
 and brought in the milk. 
 
 [Enter the Marquise ; she rushes to em- 
 brace George. All rise, Sam put- 
 ting stool back] 
 
 Marqttise. My dear boy, — my 
 dear, dear boy ! 
 
 Polly. Why, see, —she's ciying! 
 She's glad to see him alive and back 
 again. 
 
 Sam [profoundly]. Well ! There's al- 
 ways some good in women, even when 
 they're ladies. 
 
 [Goes up to window. Polly puts 
 
 dress in box, and goesJo_cradle; 
 
 then beside Sam] 
 
 Marquise [crossing to Esther]. My 
 
 dear^AtugfaterT-weHmustJoEg ot ou r li tt le 
 
 di fferences. . [Kissing her ] _Won 't you? 
 
 find a similar and as unexpected a re; 
 turn mentioned by FroissarlTTn TEe 
 chapter that treats of Philip Dartnell — 
 
 GfEORGE. Yes, mother — I remem- 
 ber — [Kisses her] 
 
 Marquise. [To George, aside] We 
 must take her__ abroad. aad_iaak6' a 
 lady of Eer., 
 
 George. Can't, mamma; —: she's 
 readyjjnade^ Nature . Jias-.iione TF' to 
 our hands. 
 
Caste 
 
 311 
 
 Maequise. [Aside to George] But I 
 won't^have tih«maiL_wlio smells of 
 putty — l8AU^~5usiness at bacF. He is 
 listening, and at the word "putty" throws 
 his cap irritably on table. Polly pacifies 
 him, aiui makes him sit down beside her 
 on mndow] — nor the man who smells 
 of beer. 
 
 [Goes to Esther, who offers her 
 chair, and sits in chair opposite 
 to her. Marquise back to 
 audience, Esther facing au- 
 dience] 
 
 [Enter Hawtree, pale] 
 
 Hawtree. George !_.Qh, the Mar- 
 cMcuLessasJieKe. 
 
 George. What's the patter? 
 
 Hawtree. Oh, notEng. Yes, there 
 is. I don]t_ miai-Jtelling- you. I've 
 been ti^Dwn. I called at my chambers 
 as I pame'along and found this. 
 
 [Gives George a note. Sits on 
 music-stool] 
 
 George. Fro m the Countess, Lady 
 Florence's moiher. JReads] "Dear 
 Major Hawtree, — I hasten to inform 
 you that my^_daughter"Plorenee;is about 
 to enter— into— {bBx^aUiahce with Lord 
 Saxeby, the eldest son of the Marquis 
 of Loamshire. Under these circum- 
 stances, should you think fit to call 
 here again," iTeel assured — " Well, 
 perhaps it's for the best. [Returning 
 letter] Caste! you know. Caste! 
 And a marquis is a .bigger-.S5Ee]l than a 
 majors 
 
 Hawtree. Yes, best ^.. marry in 
 your own,xank of life. 
 
 George. If you can find the girl. 
 But..tfjBver you-ftnd the girl, marry her. 
 As to her station, -^ 
 
 " True hearts are more than coronets, 
 And simple faith than Norman blood." 
 
 Hawtree. Ya-as. But a gentle- 
 man should hardly ally himself to a 
 
 "TrEORGE. My dear feUa, Nobody's a 
 mistake — he__doa't exist. Nobody's 
 nobody ! Everybody's somebody ! 
 
 Hawtree. Yes. But _stiU — - Caste. 
 . George. Oh, Caste!a.all dght. Caste 
 IS a good toing if it^s not carried too far. 
 It shuts tBe~ door oh the pretentious 
 and the vulgar ; but it should open the 
 door very wide for exceptional merit. 
 Let brains, .break through its barriers, 
 and what brains can break through 
 love may leap over. 
 Hawtree. Yes. Why, George, 
 
 you're quite inspired — quite an orator. 
 
 What makes- you so brilliant? Your 
 
 captivity ? The voyage ? What then ? 
 
 George. I'm in love with my wife ! 
 
 [Enter Eccles, drunk, a bottle of gin in 
 his hand] 
 
 Eccles [crossing to centre of stage]. 
 Bless this 'appy company. May we 
 'ave in our arms what- we love in our 
 'earts. [Goes to head oflable. Esther 
 goes to cradle, back to audience. Polly 
 and Sam, half amused, half angry. Mar- 
 quise still sitting in chair, back to 
 audience. Hawtree facing Eccles. 
 George up stage, leaning on piano in 
 disgust] , PoUy, fetch wine-glasses — a 
 tumbler will do for me. Let us drink 
 a toast. Mr. Chairman [to Marquise], 
 ladies and .gentlemen, — I beg to pro- 
 pose "the 'ealth of our newly returned 
 warrior, my son-4n-law. [Marquise 
 shivers] The Right Honourable George 
 De Alroy. Get glasses, Polly, and send 
 for a bottle of sherry wine for my lady- 
 ship. My ladyship ! My ladyship ! 
 M' lad'ship I [She half turns to him] 
 You and me'U have a drain together on 
 the quiet. So delighted to— see you 
 under these altered circum — circum — 
 circum — stangate. 
 
 [Polly, who has shaken her head 
 at him to desist, in vain, very 
 
 Sam. Shove 'is 'ead in a bucket ! 
 
 [Exit in disgust] 
 Hawtree. [Aside to George] I think 
 I can. abate -this, nuisance — at least, 
 I can_ remove it. 
 
 [Rises and crosses to Eccles, who 
 has got round to side of table, 
 leaning on it. He taps Eccles 
 with^ Ms stick, first on right 
 shoulder, then on left, and 
 finally sharply on right. Eccles 
 turns round and falls on point 
 of stick — Hawtree steadying 
 him. George crosses behind, 
 to Marquise, who has gone to 
 cradle — ■ puts his arm round 
 Esther and takes her to mantel- 
 piece] 
 Mr. Eccles, don't you think that, 
 with your talent for liquor, if you had 
 an allowance of about two pounds a 
 week, and went to Jersey, where spirits 
 are cheapi,_±hat-y€«i-eotdd~ drink your- 
 self, to death in a year? 
 
 "Eccles. I think I could — I'm sure 
 I'll try. 
 
312 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Goes up by table, steadying himself 
 by it, and sits in chair by fire, 
 with the bottle of gin. Haw- 
 tree standing by fire. Esther 
 and Polly embracing. As they 
 turn away from each other — ] 
 George [cormrig across with Esther]. 
 Come and plax^me^ that air that used 
 to ring in my ears as I lay awaEe^ night 
 after night, captive in the cave — you 
 know. 
 
 [He hands Esther to piano. She 
 plays the air] 
 
 Marquise [bending over cradle, at end]. 
 My grandson ! 
 
 [EccLES falls off the chair in the 
 last stage of drunkenness, bottle 
 in hand. Hawtree, leaning 
 one foot on chair from which 
 EccLES has fallen, looks at him 
 through eye-glass. Sam enters, 
 and goes to Polly, behind cradle, 
 and, producing wedding-ring 
 from several papers, holds it up 
 before her eyes. Esther 
 until curtain drops] 
 
H. M. S. PINAFORE 
 
 (1878) 
 By W. S. Gilbert 
 
WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT 
 (1836-1911) 
 
 One comes away from a Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera full of zest, and with 
 a sense of having been splendidly amused. A rare breeze blows across their stage 
 — a mixture of melody and wit, putting to shame our worn-out modern musical 
 comedies. In stage history, we know pf nothing to compare with the partnership of 
 these two men. After their names became inseparable — in other words, after the 
 Savoy operas, which began in 1875, with "Trial by Jury" — Gilbert and Sullivan 
 separated through disagreement. But neither one profited by the break ; though 
 they reunited later, their other work never equalled or even approached "H. M. S. 
 Pinafore", "The Pirates of Penzance", and "Patience." 
 
 The last revival of "Pinafore" in America was given shortly after the death 
 of Sir Gilbert, which occurred on May 29, 1911, when he met with a tragic end by 
 drowning in a lake on his estate. At that time the news was heralded with almost 
 contemporaneous poignancy, even though the librettist was born in 1836, and had 
 ceased being an active influence in the theatre. What is to be noted is that these 
 partners produced some of the most musical and satirical commentaries on current 
 fads and fancies, and that no one has yet been able to approach them in their com- 
 bined ability. Since Sullivan's death, in 1900, there has been no one to caricature 
 grand opera scores, as he did in the "The Mikado" and "Pinafore" ; and no one has 
 mastered the libretto style of Gilbert. 
 
 The latter began as a serious dramatist, coming under the influence of Tom 
 Robertson — an influence which he confesses, and which may well be seen in the 
 ground-plan for the plot of "Pinafore." Gilbert tried his hand at tenderness in 
 "Broken Hearts", at sentiment in "Sweethearts", and at straight drama in "Dan'l 
 Druce." By literary nature he was whimsical. And by business nature, he was 
 sensible, for stage experience prompted him to desert the serious. He did so even- 
 tually in these very terse terms : 
 
 You are in error in supposing that the adverse criticisms of "Bramtingham 
 Hall" alone determined me to write no more serious plays. This is my sixth 
 consecutive failure in that class of work, and I simply bow to what I take to be 
 the verdict of the press and the pubUc. 
 
 Some one has facetiously said, Shakespeare wrote the quotation book. Cer- 
 tainly, the lyrics in the Gilbert librettos are weU-nigh as familiar in quotation. 
 The universal apphcation of some of the Gilbert satire makes his best pieces as 
 applicable to-day as they were when written. There is a theatrical superstition that 
 "Patience" is not easy to revive. Managers argue that because the inteUeetual 
 shafts in it put the audience in an uncomfortable position about human weaknesses, 
 the piece leaves a bitter taste to carry away. It may also be that, historically, the 
 plot presupposes some knowledge of the literary dissembling which drew upon 
 
 315 
 
316 Representative British Dramas 
 
 many English writers the satiric shafts of Gilbert and of George Du Maurier. But 
 if the esthete was a sham in 1881, when "Patienoe" was first given at the London 
 OpSra Comique, on the evening of April 23, he is certainly a sham to-day. If 
 there were pre-Raphaehtes in 1881, there are Futurists and "high-brows" to-day. 
 Gilbert was probably right in banking on the belief that though "types disappear 
 with every decade, the long-haired poet will never cut his locks, and the adoring 
 disciple will never cease to adore." 
 
 A common accusation is that Gilbert and Sullivan, in their successful collabora- 
 tive careers, slavishly followed their old themes rather than invented original plots 
 and situations. There is certainly a conventional pattern for "Pinafore" and 
 "Patienoe" ; one is always on the lookout for the set lyrics, which are the "gems" 
 in Gilbert and SuUivan. But the beauty about Gilbert's lyrics, so unlike the general 
 scheme of the modern musical comedy, is that they have an organic connection with 
 the plot as a whole. 
 
 Gilbert was born on the Strand, London, November 18, 1836. When only two 
 years old, he was stolen by brigands at Naples, where his parents were staying at 
 the time. During the very earliest period of his education, he showed a gift for 
 drawing and for writing, and when, in 1855, he entered King's CoUege, having as 
 his fellow-students the late Walter Besant and Alfred Ainger, editor of Charles 
 Lamb's Letters, he began writing for the college magazine. It was his intention 
 to go to Oxford, but the Crimean War occurring, he stood his examinations for a 
 Royal Artillery Conamission. The war came to a quick end, however, and it was 
 after his graduation from London University, in 1857, that he obtained a com- 
 mission in^the Third Battalion of Gordon Highlanders. That same year he became 
 a clerk in the Education Department, and, during his spare time, studied for the 
 bar, which he entered in 1863. For the Cornhill Magazine of that year he has a 
 most amusing article on "My Maiden Brief." He had already appeared in print, 
 having translated a laughing song from Auber's "Manon Lescaut." He had 
 begun writing articles and drawing pictures for Fun, which was edited by H. J. 
 Byron. Those who wish to determine the art abiKty of Gilbert at this time may 
 find eighty-four illustrations prepared for a novel written by his father, and en- 
 titled "The Magic Mirror." There is no telling how many columns of sheer wit, 
 shot through with sound criticism of drama and art, and mostly unsigned, are from 
 the pen of Gilbert, who contributed to the Cornhill, London Society, Tinsleys, Illus- 
 trated Times, Temple Bar, and Punch. 
 
 The first of the illustrated "Bab Ballads" was published in Fun on June 1, 1867, 
 and they became a regular feature until January 23, 1869, when we find the title — 
 "Bab Ballads" — used for the first time. Critics recognized in the verses by 
 Gilbert that whimsy and vivacity which marked his special humour. On Christmas, 
 1866, he presented a burlesque of the opera, "L'Elixir d'Amore", which he called 
 "Dulcamara; or. The Little Duck and the Great Quack", and thereafter an en- 
 tire series of travesties followed in quick succession. They were almost an annual 
 event. Between 1869 and 1872 he wrote some sketches, accompanied with 
 music by Frederick Clay, for the German Reeds, among these attempts being 
 "Ages Ago", afterwards utilized in "Ruddigore."' Not until 1871 was Gilbert in- 
 troduced to Sullivan by the Reeds, and never was a meeting more propitious. 
 Soon afterwards, the two were hard at work on what was to be the beginning of 
 fortune for both. Gilbert's career was one continued succession of productions. 
 Oftentimes, in one year, he would produce at least four of his pieces. We find, in 
 
William Schwenck Gilbert 317 
 
 1871 alone, "Randall's Thumb", "Creatures of Impulse", "Great Expectations", 
 "On Guard", "The Wedding March", "Thespis; or. The Gods Grown Old," 
 and "Pygmalion and Galatea" attracting the London public. Out of the latter 
 play he is said to have reaped a fortune of over $200,000. In 1874, the London 
 public was shocked by the supposed immorality of "Charity", and pleased by 
 ''Sweethearts", which Mrs. Bancroft was giving at the Prince of Wales's. 
 
 From the time Gilbert and Sullivan combined, beginning with "Trial by Jury", 
 on March 25, 1875, — the libretto based on a sketch for Fun, April 11, 1868, — with 
 D'Oyly Cartp as the manager, until, in 1889, misunderstanding broke the partner- 
 ship, we have in rapid succession "The Sorcerer" (November 17, 1877), "Pinafore" 
 (May 25, 1878), "The Pirates of Penzance" (New York, December 31, 1879), 
 "Patience" (April 23, 1881), "lolanthe" (November 25, 1882), "Princess Ida", 
 based on Tennyson's "The Princess" (January 5, 1884), "The Mikado" (March 14, 
 1885), a production out of which it is said Gilbert, Sullivan, and D'Oyly Carte each 
 made $150,000, "Ruddigore" (January 22, 1887), "The Yeoman of the Guard" 
 (October 3, 1888), "The Gondoliers" (December 7, 1889). This list includes 
 the brilliant period of the Gilbert and Sullivan collaboration. Each piece carried 
 a sub-title. 
 
 The fact that "H. M. S. Pinafore" reminds one of a Bab Ballad recalls George 
 Moore's statement, in "Impressions and Opinions", that the "measure of his [Gil- 
 bert's] success has always been determined by the measure of his faithfulness to these 
 ballads ; and if we examine them, we find they contain in essence the whole of his 
 literary perceptions." Although the production, as staged in London, ran for over 
 seven hundred consecutive nights, it was not at first the success it afterwards be- 
 came. In fact, we are told it was because the music was so persistently played at 
 the Covent Garden Promenade Concerts that people finally became curious regard- 
 ing the opera. The international copyright law was still in a muddle, and the 
 property of English writers was within the grasp of every pirate in existence. 
 Gilbert and Sullivan had dif&culties with their American production of "Pinafore." 
 In the United States, it was performed everywhere without permission; even 
 church choirs, so we are told, gave productions of "Pinafore", and at one time 
 at least eight rival companies were presenting it. Because of this lack of property 
 control, Gilbert and Sidlivan decided to give an authentic production in America, 
 and for that purpose came to New York in time to produce their opera at the Fifth 
 Avenue Theatre, on December 1, 1879, Sullivan leading his orchestra. Strange 
 to say, when the pirated edition was given on January 17, 1879, the metropolitan 
 critics received it with greater cordiality, although, when the later authentic version 
 was produced, they recognized that the music, as conducted by Sullivan, was better, 
 and the scenic effects more elaborate. 
 
 SuUivan is reported to have said of his score : 
 
 It is perhaps a rather strange fact that the music to "Pinafore", which was 
 thought to be so merry and spontaneous, was written while I was suflfering 
 agonies from a cruel illness. I would compose a few bars, and then lie almost 
 insensible from pain. When the paroxysm was passed, I would write a little 
 more, until the pain overwhelmed me again. Never was music written under 
 conditions so distressing. 
 
 Cellier tells us that the play was originally called "Mantelpiece", but that, as 
 soon as "Her Majesty's Ship" was decided upon, Gilbert built an actual replica of 
 
318 Representative British Dramas 
 
 the boat. In fact, he possessed a complete model of the Savoy stage, and worked 
 out his effects, not only while writing his play, but during rehearsals. While he 
 was conducting rehearsals, his business was so well planned out that there was no 
 need to waste time inventing movement and action ; it had all been sketched be- 
 forehand on the little model stage in his study. The slightest suggestions would 
 set his very rich imagination at work. For instance, it is believed that a huge exe- 
 cutioner's sword, which hung in his library, was the beginning of a series of inven- 
 tions that finally crystallized into "The Mikado." 
 
 It would be interesting to foUow the transformation which took .place in the 
 renaming of the "Mantelpiece", and the launching of "H. M. S. Pinafore." Cel- 
 lier, in his rather discursive account of the Gilbert and SuUivan operas, suggests 
 something of the changes. He notes that the Hon. Sir Joseph Porter was given the 
 distinguished group of "sisters and cousins and aunts", but that in the Bab Ballads 
 they belonged to Captain Reese. 
 
 Attending a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, and listening to revelry of tuneful and 
 bright music, one can hardly beUeve that the composer of such melodies was also 
 the writer of the world-famous "Onward, Christian Soldiers", "Nearer My God 
 To Thee", and "The Lost Chord." 
 
 In George W. Smalley's "Anglo-American Reminiscences", there is a very 
 excellent pen-picture of the irritability of W. S. Gilbert. We learn from a first- 
 hand view what a t3To he was at rehearsals. We are given to understand that he 
 was one of the touchiest men, resenting the slightest unfavourable allusion to his 
 work. This portraiture makes us believe that had any one but himself written 
 such a mild bit of fun as this, in the "Pirates of Penzance" — "And whistle all 
 the airs from that infernal nonsense 'Pinafore'", — ^ Gilbert woiild have cut him 
 off forever from his friendship. "The Pirates", strange to say, was first givenin 
 New York, D'Oyly Carte having his company in America for " Pinafore." 
 
 The reason "Patience" has appealed to so many, above "The Pirates", is that 
 the era of esthetic shams is not over, whereas the days of pirates are no more, — 
 save in the industrial world ! Hence, in this instance, comic opera becomes melo- 
 drama rather than satire, and the plot seems forced rather than natural. Besides, 
 SuUivan's music score for "The Pirates" is pretentious, and, therefore, not so easily 
 carried in the memory. There are more vocal pyrotechnics in "The Pirates", 
 whereas "Patience" has simple, bright, rapid, and melodic Isrics. 
 
 The Gilbert and Sullivan formula is easily recognized after one has seen a number 
 of Gilbert and Sullivan operas in succession. Their excellencies are mannerisms, but 
 they are none the less effective. One "hums" through the world-famous songs 
 with a certain relish. There is pleasurable delight in just recalling: "I polished 
 up the handle so carefully That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navy " ; 
 Captain Corcoran' s "I sail the ocean blue"; or Dick Deadeye's "Captain, I've 
 important information," and the sentimental sweetness of "I'm called Little 
 Buttercup." 
 
 These are all classics in their special lines. The mind conjures up the police 
 sergeant's plaintive wail, "Oh, take one consideration with another (with another), 
 a poUoeman's lot is not a happy one (happy one)." "Patience" is equally rich in 
 its songs. Do you not remember, "If you are eager for to shine in the high 
 esthetic line as a man of culture rare" ? 
 
 The first act of "Patience" rolls from one exceUenoe to another, and all the 
 while you are made to feel that, somewhere, Gilbert is burlesquing the Swinburnians, 
 
William Schwenck Gilbert 319 
 
 as well as having fun with his own love for Shelley. No jingles to-day can quite 
 combine the lyric quality, with the appositeness, to be found in "When I first put 
 this uniform on," and Bunthorne's "Come, walk up and purchase with avidity, 
 overcome your difftdenoe and natural timidity." And there is anabiding tender- 
 ness in the duet, "Prithee, pretty maiden, prithee tell me true." 
 
 As a story, "Patience" is thin. But its satirical spirit constitutes its unity. 
 The esthete is hounded from first to last. In such Ijrrics as "A magnet hung in 
 a hardware shop", "To him with compliments ironical", "You hold yourself Uke 
 this", "And when I go out the door", the esthete is given no peace. 
 
 There are those who beUeve "The Mikado" is Gilbert and Sullivan's best com- 
 bination. Certain it is that the little operetta almost became a cause cillhre, creat- 
 ing embarrassment in her Majesty's, Queen Victoria's, royal circle. In 1857, the 
 Queen had sent the Emperor of Japan a battleship as a gift. And the Japanese, for 
 the first time, had come in contact with Western eiviUzation by sending some 
 of their officials to London. Gilbert's satirical burlesque of the Japanese, who were 
 the nation's of&cial visitors, met at first with scant royal favour. 
 
 The acting history of Gilbert's earher plays is mostly centred in the early ef- 
 forts of Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, who presented his "The Palace of Truth", based on 
 a tale by Madame De Genlis; "PygmaUon and Galatea", in which Mrs. Kendal 
 created the rdle of Galatea, originally intended for Mary Anderson, — and after- 
 wards played by her. In the "Memories" of the latter, one finds the following 
 record, showing how difficult Gilbert could be at rehearsals. She writes as follows : 
 
 During the rehearsals of the former ["Pygmalion and Galatea"] I was fre- 
 quently told that my reading of the character would not be tolerated by the 
 London public. Galatea, the child of Pygmalion's art, a statue, come to Ufe, 
 could not, it seemed to me, think, look, stand, or speak like an earthly-born 
 maiden ; some remnant of the inanimate marble would inevitably linger about 
 her, giving to her movements a plastic grace, and to her thoughts and their ex- 
 pression a touch of the ethereal. Mr. Gilbert did not agree with my concep- 
 tion of the classic meaning of Galatea's character — which seemed to me its 
 strongest and most effective side — saying that the play was a nineteenth- 
 centiuy comedy dressed in Greek costume, "which," he added, "is the only 
 classic thing about it." I had undertaken the part on condition that I should 
 act it according to my own ideas ; and painful and embarrassing as it was for 
 me not to be versatile enough to carry out the brilliant author's wish that 
 Galatea should speak certain comic speeches with a visible consciousness of their 
 meaning, I felt convinced that my only hope of success was to stamp every 
 word, look, tone, and movement with that ingenuousness which seemed to me 
 the key-note of her nature. Another trouble during the dress rehearsals was my 
 pose for the statue. My friend, Mr. Alma-Tadema, had suggested that I 
 should be draped after some of those lovely Tanagra figurines ; and he was good 
 enough to arrange my draperies himself, going with Mr. Gilbert into the stalls 
 to see the effect. The author insisted that Galatea looked like a stiff mediseyal 
 saint ; so the Tanagra idea was abandoned. At the last full-dress rehearsal 
 matters grew worse. Pose after pose was tried, but the judges in front had some- 
 thing to say against each. I went to my dressing-room on the eventful night 
 in tears ; but, dashing them aside, I resolved to make my own statue in my own 
 way. Though it was already six o'clock, my mother bought and hastily made 
 
320 Representative British Dramas 
 
 the drapery which was necessary for the new effect. In my white Greek 
 clothes, with swollen eyes and tear-stained face, I worked for an hour before the 
 long mirror, when suddenly the statue that I wanted stood before me. The 
 audience received it with round after round of applause, and Mr. Gilbert ac- 
 knowledged himself satisfied with his new Galatea. This success I thought 
 vras deserved not for any excellence on my part, but because of the suffering 
 I had undergone during the many rehearsals. 
 
 Clement Scott claimed that Gilbert had the trenchant humour of Douglas 
 Jerrold, and the topsy-turviness and comic genius of Dean Swift. It would indeed 
 have been strange had Gilbert, who was so continually a part of the atmosphere 
 out of which Fun and Punch were created, escaped such a comparison. He was 
 distinctly of his period, distinctly prone to allow his humour to play with the marked 
 limitations of the Victorian era. Because of that, he is one of the signs of the Vic- 
 torian times. And his attitude toward the stage and toward his art is measure 
 of how much a part of the theatre of his day he was. There has been preserved for 
 us, in Professor Brander Matthews's publications for the Dramatic Museum of 
 Columbia University, an interesting paper by Gilbert, entitled "The Stage Play", 
 which is prefaced by Archer, who points out how Gilbert's idea of dramaturgy was 
 governed by the requirements of his time. As this critic says, Gilbert's chief suc- 
 cesses among his plays had been written for the Haymarket company, under Buck- 
 stone's management, and had to deal with the stage conventions of 1872. The 
 essay originally appeared in "Tom Hood's Comic Annual" for 1873. 
 
 If Gilbert held to the theory of isolated bright lines, a theory which was later 
 to be a failing of Oscar Wilde, he sufficiently overcame his belief in that theory to 
 make the bright b'nes which scintillate through his librettos a very inherent part 
 of the play. 
 
H. M. S. PINAFORE ; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE LASS THAT LOVED A SAILOR 
 
 AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL NAUTICAL COMIC OPERA 
 IN TWO ACTS 
 
 By W. S. GILBERT 
 
 [First produced at the Op6ra Comique Theatre, by Mr. R. D'Oyly Carte, on 
 Saturday, May 25. 1878.] 
 
CAST OF THE LONDON PRODUCTION OF "PINAFORE" 
 
 The Rt. Hon. Sik Joseph 
 
 PoRTBE, K. C. B. . . First Lord of the Admiralty . . 
 
 Capt. Cobcoran . . . Commanding H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 Ralph Rackstbaw . . Able Seaman . . 
 
 Dick Deadete .... Able Seaman . . 
 
 Bill Bobstat .... Boatswain's Mate . 
 
 Bob Becket Carpenter's Mate . 
 
 Tom Tucker .... Midshipmite 
 Sergeant op Marines . 
 
 Josephine The Captain's Daughter . . . 
 
 Hebe Sir Joseph's First Cousin . . 
 
 Little Buttercup . . . A Portsmouth Bumboat Woman 
 First Lord's Sisters, His 
 
 Cousins, His Aunts, 
 
 Sailors, Marines 
 
 Scene : Quarter-deck of H. M. S. Pinafore off Portsmouth 
 Act I. — Noon Act II. — Night 
 
 Op6ra Comigue, 
 May 25, 1878 
 
 Mr. George Grosmith 
 Mr. R. Barrington 
 Mr. George Power 
 Mr. R. Temple 
 Mr. F. CUfton 
 Mr. Dymott 
 
 Miss Emma Howson 
 Miss Jessie Bond 
 Miss Everard 
 
 CASTS OF THE TWO AMERICAN PRODUCTIONS 
 
 PIRATED AUTHENTIC 
 
 The Standard Theatre, The Fifth Avenue Theatre, 
 
 New York, January New York, December 1, 
 
 17, 1879. Under John 1879. Sullivan, Leader 
 
 Duff of Orchestra 
 
 Sir Joseph Porter .... Mr. Thomas Wldffen Mr. J. H. Ryly 
 
 Capt. Corcoran Mr. Eugene Clarke Mr. Brocolin 
 
 Ralph Rackstraw .... Mr. Henri Laurent Mr. Talbot 
 
 Dick Deadete Mr. Davidge Mr. Furneaux Cook 
 
 Boatswain Mr. Maokin Mr. Clifton 
 
 Josephine Miss Eva MiUs Miss Blanche Roosevelt 
 
 Cousin Hebe Mile. Jarbeau Miss Jessie Bond 
 
 Little Buttercup .... Miss Blanche Gal ton Miss Alice Barnett 
 
H. M. S. PINAFORE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE LASS THAT LOVED A SAILOE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 OENB. — Quarter-deck of H. M. S. Pina- 
 fore. View of Portsmouth in dis- 
 tance. Sailors, led by Boatswain, 
 discovered cleaning brasswork, splic- 
 ing rope, etc. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 le sail the ocean blue, 
 
 And our saucy ship's a beauty ; 
 
 Wre sober men, and true. 
 
 And attentive to our duty. 
 
 ^hen the balls whistle free o'er the 
 bright blue sea. 
 
 We stand to our guns all day ; 
 
 ?^hen at anchor we ride on the Ports- 
 mouth tide, 
 
 Te have plenty of time to play. 
 
 Unter Little Btttteecitp, with large 
 basket on her arm] 
 
 Recitative 
 
 !ail, men-o'-war's men — safeguards of 
 
 your nation, 
 '.ere is an end, at last, of all privation ; 
 ou've got your pay — spare all you 
 
 can afford 
 welcome Little Buttercup on board. 
 
 Abia 
 
 dear 
 
 or I'm called Little Buttercup, 
 
 Little Buttercup, 
 Though I could never tell why, 
 ut still I'm called Buttercup, poor 
 
 Little Buttercup, 
 Sweet Little Buttercup, I. 
 ve snuff, and tobaccy, and excellent 
 
 jaoky; 
 I ve scissors, and watches, and knives ; 
 ve ribbons and laees to set off the faces 
 Of pretty young sweethearts and 
 
 wives. 
 
 I've treacle and toffee and excellent 
 coffee. 
 Soft tommy and succulent chops ; 
 I've chickens and conies and pretty 
 polonies. 
 And excellent peppermint drops. 
 Then buy of your Buttercup — dear 
 Little Buttercup, 
 Sailors should never be shy ; 
 So buy of your Buttercup — poor Little 
 Buttercup, 
 Come, of your Buttercup buy ! 
 
 Boatswain. Ay, Little Buttercup — 
 and weU called — for you're the rosiest, 
 the roundest, and the reddest beauty 
 in all Spithead. 
 
 Buttercup. Red, am I ? and round 
 — and rosy I Maybe, for I have dis- 
 sembled well! But hark ye, my merry 
 friend — hast ever thought that be- 
 neath a gay and frivolous exterior there 
 may lurk a cankerworm which is slowly 
 but surely eating its way into one's 
 very heart ? 
 
 Boatswain. No, my lass, I can't 
 say I've ever thought that. 
 
 [Enter Dick Dbadetb. He pushes 
 through Sailors] 
 
 Dick. I have thought it often. 
 
 [All recoil from him] 
 
 Buttercup. Yes, you look like it! 
 What's the matter with the man? 
 Isn't he well? 
 
 Boatswain. Don't take no heed of 
 him; that's only poor Dick Deadeye. 
 
 Dick. I say — it's a beast of a 
 name, ain't it — Dick Deadeye? 
 
 Buttercup. It's not a nice name. 
 
 Dick. I'm ugly too, ain't I ? 
 
 Buttercup. You are certainly plain. 
 
 Dick. And I'm three-cornered too, 
 ain't I? 
 
 323 
 
324 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 BuTTEKCXTP. You 3x6 rather trian- 
 gular. 
 
 Dick. Ha! ha! That's it. I'm 
 ugly, and they hate me for it ; for you 
 all hate me, don't you ? 
 
 Boatswain [crossing]. Well, Dick, 
 we wouldn't go for to hurt any fellow- 
 creature's feelings, but you can't ex- 
 pect a chap with such a name as Dick 
 Deadeye to be a popular character — 
 now, can you? 
 
 Dick. No. 
 
 Boatswain. It's asking too much, 
 ain't it? 
 
 Dick. It is. From such a face and 
 form as mine the noblest sentiments 
 sound like the black utterances of a 
 depraved imagination. It is human 
 nature — I am resigned. 
 
 Recitative 
 
 BiTTTBECUP [looking down hatchway]. 
 But, tell me — who's the youth whose 
 
 faltering feet 
 With difftculty bear him on his course? 
 
 Boatswain [crossing]. 
 That is the smartest lad in all the fleet — ■ 
 Ralph Rackstrawl 
 
 Bttttebcup. 
 Ha! that name! Remorse! remorse! 
 
 [Enter Ralph from hatchway] 
 
 Madrigal. — Ralph 
 
 The nightingale 
 Loved the pale moon's bright ray, 
 
 And told his tale 
 In his own melodious way! 
 He sang "Ah, well-a-day! " 
 
 All. He sang "Ah, well-a-day!" 
 
 The lowly vale 
 For the mountain vainly sighed ; 
 
 To his humble wail 
 The echoing hills repUed. 
 
 They sang "Ah, weU-a-day ! " 
 
 All. They sang "Ah, weU-a-day ! " 
 
 Recitative 
 
 I know the value of a kindly chorus. 
 
 But choruses yield Uttle consolation. 
 When we have pain and trouble too 
 before us ! 
 I love — and love, alas, above my 
 stationl 
 
 Buttercup [Aside]. 
 He loves — and loves a lass above his 
 station ! 
 All [Aside]. 
 Yes, yes, the lass is much above his 
 station ! 
 
 Ballad. — Ralph 
 
 A maiden fair to see. 
 The pearl of minstrelsy, 
 
 A bud of blushing beauty ; 
 For whom proud nobles sigh, 
 And with each other vie. 
 
 To do her menial's duty. 
 
 All. To do her menial's duty. 
 
 A suitor, lowly born. 
 With hopeless passion torn. 
 
 And poor beyond concealing. 
 Has dared for her to pine 
 At whose exalted shrine 
 
 A world of wealth is kneeling. 
 
 All. a world of wealth is kneeUngI 
 
 Unlearns d he in aught 
 
 Save that which love has taught. 
 
 (For love had been his tutor) 
 Oh, pity, pity me — 
 Our captain's daughter she, 
 
 And I that lowly suitor! 
 
 All. And he that lowly suitor ! 
 
 [Exit Little Buttebcup] 
 
 Boatswain. Ah, my poor lad, you've 
 climbed too high : our worthy captain's 
 child won't have nothin' to say to a 
 poor chap Uke you. Will she, lads? 
 
 Dick. No, no, captains' daughters 
 don't marry foremast hands. 
 
 All [recoiling from him]. Shame! 
 shame ! 
 
 Boatswain [crossing]. Dick Dead- 
 eye, them sentiments o' yourn are a 
 disgrace to our common natm:'. 
 
 Ralph. But it's a strange anomaly, 
 that the daughter of a man who hails 
 from the quarter-deck may not love 
 another who lays out on the fore-yaid 
 arm. For a man is but a man, whether 
 he hoists his flag at the maintruok or 
 his slacks on the maindeck. 
 
 Dick. Ah, it's a queer world! 
 
 Ralph. Dick Deadeye, I have no 
 desire to press hardly on you, but such 
 a revolutionary sentiment is enough 
 to make an honest sailor shudder. 
 
 Boatswain [who has gone on poop- 
 deck, returns]. My lads, our gaUant 
 captain has come on deck,; let us greet 
 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 325 
 
 him as so brave an officer and so gallant 
 a, seaman deserves. 
 
 Recitative 
 
 Captain. 
 My gallant crew, good morning. 
 
 Xhh [saluting]. Sir, good morning! 
 
 Captain. 
 [ hope you're all well. 
 
 All [as before], 
 puiteweU; and you, sir? 
 
 Captain. 
 [ am reasonable in health, and happy 
 To meet you all once more. 
 
 All [as before]. You do us proud, sir ! 
 
 Song. — Captain 
 
 Captain. 
 [ am the Captain of the Pinafore! 
 
 All. 
 ^nd a right good captain, too ! 
 
 Captain. 
 
 You're very, very good, 
 
 And be it understood 
 [ command a right good crew. 
 
 All. 
 fV^e're very, very good, 
 \nd be it understood 
 
 He commands a right good crew. 
 
 Captain. 
 Though related to a peer, 
 [ can hand, reef, and steer, 
 
 And ship a selvagee ; 
 [ am never known to quail 
 ^.t the fury of a gale, 
 Vnd I'm never, never sick at sea ! 
 
 All. What, never? 
 
 Captain. 
 
 No, never 1 
 
 All. What, never? 
 
 Captain. 
 
 Hardly ever ! 
 
 All. 
 
 He's hardly ever sick at sea ! 
 Then give three cheers, and one cheer 
 
 more, 
 i'or the hardy Captain of the Pinafore! 
 
 Captain. 
 : do my best to satisfy you all — 
 
 All. 
 ^nd with you we're quite content. 
 
 Captain. 
 
 You're exceedingly polite, 
 
 And I think it only right 
 Po return the compliment. 
 
 All. 
 
 We're exceedingly polite, 
 
 And he thinks it's only right 
 Po return the compliment. 
 
 Captain. 
 
 Bad language or abuse, 
 
 I never, never use. 
 Whatever the emergency ; 
 
 Though, "bother it", I may 
 
 Occasionally say, 
 I never use a big, big D 
 
 All. What, never? 
 
 Captain. No, never! 
 
 All. What, never? 
 
 Captain. Hardly ever! 
 
 All. 
 
 Hardly ever swears a big, big D 
 
 Then give three cheers, and one cheer 
 
 more, 
 For the well-bred Captain of the Pina- 
 fore! 
 [After song exeunt all but Captain] 
 
 [Enter Little Buttbhcup] 
 Recitative 
 
 Buttercup. 
 
 Sir, you are sad. The silent eloquence 
 
 Of yonder tear that trembles on your 
 ejrelash 
 
 Proclaims a sorrow far more deep than 
 common ; 
 
 Confide in me — • fear not — I am a 
 mother ! 
 Captain. 
 
 Yes, Little Buttercup, I'm sad and 
 sorry — 
 
 My daughter, Josephine, the fairest 
 flower 
 
 That ever blossomed on ancestral tim- 
 ber. 
 
 Is sought in marriage by Sir Joseph 
 Porter, 
 
 Our Admiralty's First Lord, but for 
 some reason. 
 
 She does not seem to tackle kindly to it. 
 BuTTEBCUP [with emotion]. 
 
 Ah, poor Sir Joseph! Ah, I know too 
 well 
 
 The anguish of a heart that loves but 
 vainly ! 
 
 But see, here comes your most attrac- 
 tive daughter. 
 
 I go — Farewell ! [Exit] 
 
 Captain [looking after her]. 
 
 A plump and pleasing person ! 
 
 [Enter Josephine on poop. She comes 
 down, twining some flowers which 
 she carries in a small basket] 
 
 Ballad. — ■ Josephine 
 
 Sorry her lot who loves too well, 
 
 Heavy the heart that hopes but 
 vainly, 
 
326 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Sad are the sighs that own the spell 
 Uttered by eyes that speak too 
 plainly ; 
 Heavy the sorrow that bows the 
 
 head 
 When love is alive a.nd hope is dead ! 
 Sad is the hour when sets the sun — ■ 
 Dark is the night to earth's poor 
 daughters, 
 When to the ark the wearied one 
 Flies from the empty waste of waters ! 
 Heavy the sorrow that bows the 
 
 head 
 When love is alive and hope is dead ! 
 
 Captain. My child, I grieve to see 
 that you are a prey to melancholy. 
 You should look your best to-day, for 
 Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., will be here 
 this afternoon to claim your promised 
 hand. 
 
 Josephine. Ah, father, your words 
 cut me to the quick. I can esteem — 
 reverence — venerate Sir Joseph, for he 
 is a great and good man; but oh, I 
 cannot love him! My heart is already 
 given. 
 
 Captain. [Aside] It is, then, as I 
 feared. [Aloud] Given? And to 
 whom? Not to some gilded lordling? 
 
 Josephine. No, father — the object 
 of my love is no lordling. Oh, pity me, 
 for he is but a humble sailor on board 
 your own ship! 
 
 Captain. Impossible ! 
 
 Josephine. Yes, it is true — ■ too true. 
 
 Captain. A common sailor? Oh, 
 fie! 
 
 Josephine. I blush for the weakness 
 that allows me to cherish such a passion. 
 I hate myself when I think of the depth 
 to which I have stooped in permitting 
 myself to think tenderly of one so 
 ignobly born, but I love him! I love 
 him! I love him! [Weeps] 
 
 Captain. Come, my child, let us 
 talk this over. In a matter of the heart 
 I would not coerce my daughter — I 
 attach but little value to rank or wealth, 
 but the line must be drawn somewhere. 
 A man in that station may be brave 
 and worthy, but at every step he would 
 commit solecisms that society would 
 never pardon. 
 
 Josephine. Oh, I have thought of 
 this night and day. But fear not, 
 father. I have a heart, and therefore 
 I love; but I am your daughter, and 
 therefore I am proud. Though I carry 
 my love with me to the tomb, he shall 
 never, never know it. 
 
 Captain. You are my daughter, 
 after all. But see, Sir Joseph's barge 
 approaches, manned by twelve trusty 
 oarsmen and accompanied by the ad- 
 miring crowd of female relatives that 
 attend him wherever he goes. Retire, 
 my daughter, to your cabin — take 
 this, his photograph, with you — it 
 may help to bring you to a more reason- 
 able frame of mind. 
 
 Josephine. My own thoughtful 
 father. [Exit Josephine) 
 
 Bahcakolle [ivithout] 
 
 Over the bright blue sea 
 
 Comes Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., 
 
 Wherever he may go 
 
 Bang-bang the loud nine-pounders go! 
 
 Shout o'er the bright blue sea 
 
 For Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B. 
 
 [During this the Crew have entered on 
 tiptoe, listening attentively to the 
 song] 
 
 Chorus of Sailors 
 
 We sail the ocean blue, 
 
 And our saucy ship's a beauty ; 
 We're sober men, and true, 
 
 And attentive to our duty. 
 We're smart and sober men. 
 
 And quite devoid of fe-ar, 
 In all the Royal N, 
 
 None are so smart as we are. 
 
 [Enter Sir Joseph's Female Relatives. 
 They dance round stage] 
 
 Relatives. 
 
 Gaily tripping, 
 
 Lightly skipping. 
 Flock the maidens to the shipping. 
 Sailors. 
 
 Flags and guns and pennants dippiiig 
 All the ladies love the shipping. 
 Relatives. 
 
 Sailors sprightly 
 
 Always rightly 
 Welcome ladies so politely. 
 Sailors. 
 
 Ladies who can smile so brightly, 
 Sailors welcome most politely. 
 
 [Enter Sir Joseph with Cousin Hebe] 
 
 Captain [from poop]. 
 Now give three cheers, I'll lead the way. 
 
 All. 
 Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurray! 
 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 327 
 
 Song. — Sib Joseph 
 
 I am the monarcli of the sea, 
 The Ruler of the Queen's Navee, 
 Whose praise Great Britain loudly 
 
 chants. 
 Cousin Hebe. 
 ^d we are his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts ! 
 Relatives. 
 Lnd we are his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts ! 
 Sib Joseph. 
 When at anchor here I ride, 
 My bosom swells with pride. 
 And I snap my fingers at a foeman's 
 
 , taunts. 
 Cousin Hebe. 
 Lnd so do his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts ! 
 All. 
 i,nd so do his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts ! 
 Sir Joseph. 
 But when the breezes blow, 
 I generally go below. 
 And seek the seclusion that a cabin 
 
 grants ! 
 Cousin Hebe. 
 Vad so do his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts ! 
 All. 
 ^nd so do his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts !_ 
 His sisters and his cousins. 
 Whom he reckons up by dozens. 
 And his aunts ! 
 
 Song. — Sir Joseph. 
 
 ^en I was a lad I served a term 
 
 U ofSoe boy to an attorney's firm. 
 
 '- cleaned the windows and I swept the 
 
 floor, 
 ^.nd I polished up the handle of the big 
 front door. 
 I poUshed up that handle so carefullee 
 That now I am the Ruler of the 
 Queen's Navee ! 
 Chorus. — He polished, etc. 
 
 Vs office boy I made such a mark 
 
 That they gave me the post of a junior 
 
 clerk, 
 served the writs with a smile so bland, 
 i.nd I copied all the letters in a big 
 rotmd hand — 
 I copied all the letters in a hand so 
 
 free. 
 That now I am the Ruler of the 
 Queen's Navee. 
 Chorus. — He copied, etc. 
 
 In serving writs I made such a name 
 That an articled clerk I soon became ; 
 I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit 
 For the pass examination at the In- 
 stitute. 
 And that pass examination did so 
 
 weE for me. 
 That now I am the Ruler of the 
 Queen's Navee ! 
 Chorus. — And that pass examina- 
 tion, etc. 
 
 Of legal knowledge I acquired such a 
 
 grip 
 That they took me into the partnership, 
 And that junior partnership, I ween, 
 Was the only ship that I ever had seen. 
 But that kind of ship so suited me, 
 That now I am the Ruler of the 
 Queen's Navee ! 
 Chorus. — But that kind, etc. 
 
 I grew so rich that I was sent 
 By a pocket borough into Parliament. 
 I always voted at my party's call. 
 And I never thought of thinking for 
 myself at all. 
 I thought so httle, they rewarded me 
 By making me the Ruler of the 
 Queen's Navee ! 
 Chorus. — He thought so little, 
 etc. 
 
 Now, landsmen aU, whoever you may be. 
 If you want to rise to the top of the tree. 
 If your soul isn't fettered to an office 
 
 stool. 
 Be careful to be guided by this golden 
 rule — 
 Stick close to your deck and never 
 
 go to sea. 
 And you all may be Rulers of the 
 Queen's Navee ! 
 Chorus. — Stick close, etc. 
 
 Sib Joseph. You've a remarkably 
 fine crew. Captain Corcoran. 
 
 Captain. It is a fine crew, Sir 
 Joseph. 
 
 Sir Joseph [examining a very small 
 midshipman]. A British sailor is a 
 splendid fellow. Captain Corcoran. 
 
 Captain. A splendid fellow indeed, 
 Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sir Joseph. I hope you treat your 
 crew kindly. Captain Corcoran. 
 
 Captain. Indeed, I hope so. Sir 
 Joseph. 
 
 Sib Joseph. Never forget that they 
 are the bulwarks of England's greatness. 
 Captain Corcoran. 
 
328 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Captain. So I have always con- 
 sidered them, Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sir Joseph. No bullying, I trust — 
 no strong language of any Mnd, eh? 
 
 Captain. Oh, never. Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sir Joseph. What, never? 
 
 Captain. Hardly ever, Sir Joseph. 
 They are an excellent crew, and do their 
 work thoroughly without it. 
 
 Sir Joseph [reprovingly]. Don't pat- 
 ronize them, sir — pray, don't patronize 
 them. 
 
 Captain. Certainly not, Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sir Joseph. That you are their 
 captain is an accident of birth. I can- 
 not permit these noble fellows to be 
 patronized because an accident of birth 
 has placed you above them and them 
 below you. 
 
 Captain. I am the last person to 
 insult a British sailor. Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sir Joseph. You are the last person 
 who did. Captain Corcoran. Desire 
 that splendid seaman to step forward. 
 
 Captain. Ralph Rackstraw, come 
 here. 
 
 Sir Joseph [sternly]. If what? 
 
 Captain. I beg your pardon — 
 
 Sir Joseph. If you please. 
 
 Captain. Oh yes, of course. If 
 you please. [Ralph steps forward] 
 
 Sib Joseph. You're a remarkably 
 fine fellow. 
 
 Ralph. Yes, your honour. 
 
 Sib Joseph. And a flrst-rate sea- 
 man, I'U be bound. 
 
 Ralph. There's not a smarter top- 
 man in the navy, your honour, though 
 I say it who shouldn't. 
 
 Sir Joseph. Not at all. Proper 
 self-respect, nothing more. Can you 
 dance a hornpipe ? 
 
 Ralph. No, yoiu- honour. 
 
 Sib Joseph. That's a pity : all 
 sailors should dance hornpipes. I wiU 
 teach you one this evening, after dinner. 
 Now, tell me — don't be afraid — how 
 does your captain treat you, eh? 
 
 Ralph. A better captain don't walk 
 the deck, your honour. 
 
 All. Hear ! 
 
 Sir Joseph. Good. I Uke to hear 
 you speak well of your commanding 
 ofQcer; I dare say he don't deserve it, 
 but stiU it does you credit. Can you 
 sing? 
 
 Ralph. I can hum a little, your 
 honour. 
 
 Sir Joseph. Then hum this at your 
 leisure, [diving him MS. music] It is 
 a song that I have composed for the use 
 
 of the Royal Navy. It is designed to 
 encourage independence of thought and 
 action in the lower branches of the ser- 
 vice, and to teach the prii.dple that a 
 British sailor is any man's equal, ex- 
 cepting mine. Now, Captain Cor- 
 coran, a word with you in your cabin, 
 on a tender and .sentimental subject. 
 
 Captain. Ay, ay, Sir Joseph. Boat- 
 swain, in commemoration of this joyous 
 occupation, see that extra grog is served 
 out to the ship's company at one bell. 
 
 Boatswain. Beg pardon. If what, 
 your honour? 
 
 Captain. If what? I don't think 
 I understand you. 
 
 Boatswain. If you please, your 
 honour. 
 
 Captain. What ! 
 
 Sir Joseph. The gentleman is quite 
 right. If you please. 
 
 Captain [stamping his foot impa- 
 tiently]. If you please ! 
 
 Sib Joseph. 
 
 For I hold that on the seas 
 The expression, "If you please," 
 A particularly gentlemanly tone im- 
 plants. 
 
 Cousin Hebe. 
 And so do his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts ! 
 
 All. 
 And so do his sisters, and his cousins, 
 and his aunts ! 
 
 [Exeunt Captain and Sir Joseph 
 into cabin] 
 
 Boatswain. Ah! Sir Joseph's a 
 true gentleman : courteous and con- 
 siderate to the very humblest. 
 
 Ralph. True, Boatswain: but we 
 are not the very humblest. Sir Joseph 
 has explained our true position to us. 
 As he says, a British seaman is any 
 man's equal excepting his ; and if Sir 
 Joseph says that, is it not our duty to 
 believe him ? 
 
 All. Well spoke ! well spoke ! 
 
 Dick. You're on a wrong tack, and 
 so is he. He means well, but he don't 
 know. When people have to obey other 
 people's orders, equahty's out of the 
 question. 
 
 All [recoiling]. Horrible! horrible! 
 
 Boatswain. Dick Deadeye, if you 
 go for to infuriate this here ship's com- 
 pany too far, I won't answer for being 
 able to hold 'em in. I'm shocked! 
 that's what I am — shocked ! 
 
 Ralph [coming forward]. Messmates, 
 my mind's made up. I'U speak to the 
 captain's daughter, and tell her, Uke an 
 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 329 
 
 lonest maa, of the honest love I have 
 or her. 
 
 All. Hurrah ! 
 
 Ralph. Is not my love as good as 
 .nother's? Is not my heart as true 
 ,s another's? Have I not hands and 
 yes and ears and limbs like another? 
 
 All. Ay, ay. 
 
 Ralph. True, I lack birth — 
 
 Boatswain. You've a berth on 
 loard this very ship. 
 
 Ralph. Well said — I had forgotten 
 hat. Messmates, what do you say? 
 Id you approve my determination? 
 
 All. We do. 
 
 Dick. I don't. 
 
 Boatswain. What is to be done 
 rith this here hopeless chap? Let us 
 ing him the song that Sir Joseph has 
 dndly composed for us. Perhaps it will 
 )ring this here miserable ereetiir to a 
 )roper state of mind. 
 
 Jleb. — Ralph, Boatswain, Boat- 
 swain's Mate, and Chorus 
 
 i. British tar is a soaring soul. 
 As free as a mountain bird ! 
 ilis energetic fist should be ready to resist 
 
 A dictatorial word, 
 ilis nose should pant and his lip should 
 
 curl, 
 ilis cheeks should flame and his brow 
 
 should furl, 
 ilis bosom shoidd heave and his heart 
 
 should glow, 
 Vnd his fist be ever ready for a knock- 
 down blow. 
 Chorus. — His nose should pant, 
 etc. 
 
 ilis eyes should flash with an inborn flre, 
 
 His brow with sc'orn be wrung ; 
 ile never should bow down to a domi- 
 neering frown. 
 Or the tang of a tyrant tongue, 
 ilis foot should stamp and his throat 
 
 should growl, 
 ilis hair should twirl and his face should 
 
 scowl, 
 ilis eyes should flash and his breast 
 
 protrude, 
 i.nd this should be his customary 
 attitude ! [Pose] 
 
 Chorus. — His foot should stamp, 
 etc. 
 
 [All strike attitude and then dance 
 off to hornpipe down hatchway, 
 excepting iRALPH, who remains, 
 leaning pensively against bul- 
 wark] 
 
 [Enter Josephine from cabin] 
 
 Josephine. It is useless — Sir 
 Joseph's attentions nauseate me. I 
 know that he is a truly great and good 
 man, but to me he seems tedious, 
 fretful, and dictatorial. Yet his must 
 be a mind of no common order, or he 
 would not dare to teach my dear father 
 to dance a hornpipe on the cabin table. 
 [Sees Ralph] Ralph Rackstraw ! 
 
 [Overcome by emotion] 
 
 Ralph. Ay, lady — no other than 
 poor Ralph Rackstraw ! 
 
 Josephine. [Aside] How my head 
 beats! [Aloud] And why poor, Ralph? 
 
 Ralph. I am poor in the essence of 
 happiness, lady — rich only in never- 
 ending unrest. In me there meet a 
 combination of antithetical elements 
 which are at eternal war with one an- 
 other. Driven hither by objective 
 influences — thither by subjective emo- 
 tions — wafted one moment into blazing 
 day by mocking hope — - plunged the 
 next into the Cimmerian darikness of 
 tangible despair, I am but a living 
 ganglion of irreconcilable antagonisms. 
 I hope I make myself clear, lady? 
 
 Josephine. Perfectly. [Aside] His 
 simple eloquence goes to my heart. Oh, 
 if I dared — but no, the thought is mad- 
 ness! [Aioud] Dismiss these foolish 
 fancies, they torture you but needlessly. 
 Come, make one effort. 
 
 Ralph. [Aside] I will — one. [Aloud] 
 Josephinfe ! 
 
 Josephine [indignantly]. Sir ! 
 
 Ralph. Ay, even though Jove's 
 armoury were launched at the head of 
 the audacious mortal whose lips, un- 
 hallowed by relationship, dared to 
 breathe that precious word, yet wotild 
 I breathe it once, and then perchance 
 be silent evermore. Josephine, in one 
 brief breath I will concentrate the 
 hopes, the doubts, the anxious fears of 
 six weary months. Josephine, I am a 
 British sailor, and I love you ! 
 
 Josephine. Sir, this audacity! 
 [Aside] Oh, my heart, my heart! 
 [AZowd] This unwarrantable presump- 
 tion on the part of a common sailor! 
 [Aside] Common ! oh, the irony of the 
 word ! [Aloud] Oh, sir, you forget the 
 disparity in our ranks. 
 
 iRALPH. I forget nothing, haughty 
 lady; I love you desperately, my life 
 is in thy hand — I lay it at your feet ! 
 Give me hope, and what I lack in educa- 
 tion and polite accompUshmeats, that 
 
330 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I will endeavour to acquire. Drive me 
 to despair, and in death alone I shall 
 look for consolation. I am proud, and 
 cannot stoop to implore. I have 
 spoken, and I wait your word ! 
 
 Josephine. You shall not wait long. 
 Your proffered love I haughtily reject. 
 Go, sir, and learn to past your eyes on 
 some village maiden in your own poor 
 rank — they should be lowered before 
 your captain's daughter ! 
 
 Duet. — Josephine and Ralph 
 
 Josephine. 
 
 Refrain, audacious tar. 
 
 Your suit from pressing, 
 Remember what you are, 
 
 And whom addressing ! 
 Proud lords to seek my hand 
 
 In throngs assemble. 
 The loftiest in the land 
 
 Bow down and tremble ! 
 [Asidel I'd laugh my rank to scorn 
 
 In union holy. 
 Were he more highly born 
 
 Or I more lowly ! 
 Ralph. Proud lady, have your way. 
 
 Unfeeling beauty ! 
 You speak and I obey, 
 
 It is my duty ! 
 I am the lowliest tar 
 
 That sails the water. 
 And you, proud maiden, are 
 
 My captain's daughter ! 
 [Aside] My heart with anguish torn 
 
 Bows down before her, 
 She laughs my love to scorn. 
 
 Yet I adore her. 
 [Repeat refrain ensemble, then 
 
 exit Josephine into cabin] 
 
 Recitative. — Ralph 
 
 Can I survive this overbearing 
 Or live a life of mad despairing. 
 My proffered love despised, rejected? 
 No, no, it's not to be expected ! 
 [Calling off] Messmates, ahoy ! 
 Come here ! Come here ! 
 
 [Enter Sailors, Hebe, and Relatives] 
 
 All. Ay, ay, my boy. 
 
 What cheer, what cheer ? 
 Now teU us, pray. 
 Without delay. 
 What does she say — 
 What cheer, what cheer? 
 Ralph. [To Cousin Hebe] 
 The maiden treats my suit with scorn. 
 Rejects my humble love, my lady ; 
 
 She says I am ignobly born. 
 
 And cuts my hopes adrift, my lady. 
 
 All. Oh, cruel one ! 
 
 Dick. 
 She spurns your suit? Oho! Ohol 
 I told you so, I told you so. 
 
 Sailors and Relatives. 
 
 ShaU I TIL, \ submit? 
 
 { they I ' 
 {^if^y} but slaves? 
 
 Are 
 
 Love coines alike to high and low — 
 Britannia's sailors rule the waves, 
 And shall they stoop to insult? No! 
 Dick. 
 You must submit, you are but slaves ; 
 
 A lady she! Oho! Oho! 
 You lowly toilers of the waves. 
 She spurns you all — I told you so ! 
 
 [Goes off] 
 Ralph [drawing a pistol]. 
 My friends, my leave of life I'm taking, 
 For oh, for oh, my heart is breaking. 
 When I am gone, oh, prithee tell 
 The maid that, as I died, I loved her 
 well ! [Loadinf it] 
 
 All [turning away, weeping]. 
 Of life, alas ! his leave he's taking, 
 For, ah ! his faithful heart is breaking. 
 When he is gone we'll surely tell 
 The maid that, as he died, he loved her 
 well. 
 
 [During chorus he has loaded 
 pistol] 
 Ralph. 
 Be warned, my messmates all 
 
 Who love in rank above you — 
 For Josephine I fall ! 
 
 [Puts pistol to his head. All the 
 Sailors stop their ears] 
 
 [Enter Josephine] 
 
 Josephine. 
 Ah ! stay your hand ! I love you ! 
 
 All. 
 Ah ! stay your hand — she loves you I 
 
 Ralph [incredulously]. Loves me? 
 
 Josephine. Loves you! 
 
 All. 
 
 Yes, yes — ah, yes — she loves you ! 
 
 Ensemble 
 
 Sailors and Relatives, and Joseph- 
 ine 
 
 Oh, joy ! oh, rapture unforeseen 1 
 For now the sky is aU serene ; 
 The god of day — the orb of love, 
 Has hung his ensign high above, 
 The sl^ is all arblaze. 
 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 331 
 
 (Pith wooing words and loving song, 
 We'll chase the lagging hours along. 
 
 ind if I ^g find } *^® maiden coy, 
 IWell I murmur forth decorous joy 
 In dreamy roundelays ! 
 
 Dick Deadbte. 
 3.B thinks he's won his Josephine, 
 But though the sky is now serene, 
 V frowning thunderbolt above 
 Vlay end their ill-assorted love 
 
 Which now is all a-blaze. 
 )iir captain, ere the day is gone, 
 Nm be extremely down upon 
 The wicked men Who art employ 
 To make his Josephine his coy 
 
 In many various ways. 
 
 Josephine. 
 
 Hebe. 
 
 Ralph. 
 
 Josephine. 
 
 Hebe. 
 
 Ralph. 
 
 Josephine. 
 
 Ralph. 
 
 Boatswain. 
 
 Josephine. 
 
 Ralph. 
 
 Boatswain. 
 
 All. 
 
 This very night, 
 With bated breath 
 And muffled oar — 
 Without a light. 
 As stiU as death, 
 We'U steal ashore. 
 A clergyman 
 Shall make us one 
 At half -past ten. 
 And then we can 
 Return, for none 
 Can part us then ! 
 This very night, etc. 
 
 [Dick appears at hatchway] 
 
 Dick. 
 'orbear, nor carry out the scheme 
 
 you've planned, 
 he is a lady — you a foremast hand ! 
 lemember, she's your gallant captain's 
 
 daughter, 
 Jid you the meanest slave that crawls 
 
 the water. 
 All. Back, vermin, back, 
 Nor mock us ! 
 Back, vermin, back, 
 You shock us ! 
 et's give three cheers for the sailor's 
 
 bride 
 ^ho easts aU thought of rank aside — 
 7ho gives up house and fortune too 
 or the honest love of a sailor true ! 
 or a British tar is a soaring soul 
 As free as a mountain bird ! 
 is energetic fist should be ready to 
 
 resist 
 A dictatorial word ! 
 ■is foot should stamp and his throat 
 
 should growl, 
 is hair should twirl and his face should 
 
 scowl. 
 
 His eyes should flash and his breast 
 protrude. 
 
 And this should be his customary at- 
 titude. [Pose] 
 [General Dance] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Same Scene. Night. Moonlight. 
 
 [Captain discovered singing on poop- 
 deck, and accompanying himself on 
 a mandolin. Little BuTTEHCtrp 
 seated on quarter-deck, near gun, 
 gaging sentimentally at him] 
 
 Song. — Captain 
 
 Fair moon, to thee I sing, 
 
 Bright regent of the heavens ; 
 Say, why is everything 
 
 Either at sixes or at sevens ? 
 I have lived hitherto 
 
 Free from breath of slander, 
 Beloved by all my crew — 
 
 A reaUy popular commander. 
 But now my kindly crew rebel ; 
 
 My daughter to a tar is partial ; 
 Sir Joseph storms, and, sad to tell. 
 He threatens a court martial ! 
 Fair moon, to thee I sing. 
 
 Bright regent of the heavens ; 
 Say, why is everything 
 Either at sixes or at sevens ? 
 
 BuTTBKCirp. How sweetly he carols 
 forth his melody to the unconscious 
 moonl Of whom is he thinking? Of 
 some high-born beauty? It may be! 
 [Sighing] Who is poor Little Buttercup 
 that she should expect his glance to fall 
 on one so lowly ! And yet if he knew — 
 [Captain has come down from 
 poop-deck] 
 
 Captain. Ah! Little Buttercup, 
 still on board? That is not quite right, 
 httle one. It would have been more 
 respectable to have gone on shore at 
 dusk. 
 
 Buttercup. True, dear Captain — 
 but the recollection of your sad pale 
 face seemed to chain me to the ship. 
 I would fain see you smile before I go. 
 
 Captain. Ah! Little Buttercup, I 
 fear it will be long before I recover my 
 accustomed cheerfulness, for misfortunes 
 crowd upon me, and aU my old friends 
 seem to have turned against me ! 
 
332 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 BuTTEECup. Oh. no — do not say 
 "all", dear Captain. That were unjust 
 to one, at least. 
 
 Captain. True, for you are staunch, 
 to me. [Aside] If ever I gave my 
 heart again, methinks it woiild be to 
 such a one as this ! [Aloud] I am 
 deeply touched by your innocent regard 
 for me, and were we differently situated, 
 I think I could have returned it. But as 
 it is, I fear I can never be more to you 
 than a friend. 
 
 BuTTBRCTjp [change of manner]. I 
 understand! You hold aloof from me 
 because you are rich and lofty — and I, 
 poor and lowly. But take care! The 
 poor bumboat woman has gipsy blood 
 in her veins, and she can read destinies. 
 There is a change in store for you ! 
 
 Captain. A change ! 
 
 Buttercup. Ay — be prepared ! 
 
 Duet. — Little Buttercup and 
 Captain 
 
 Buttercup. 
 Things are seldom what they seem : 
 Skim milk masquerades as cream ; 
 Highlows pass as patent leathers ; 
 Jackdaws strut in peacocks' feathers. 
 
 Captain [puzzled]. 
 
 Very true. 
 So they do. 
 
 Buttercup. 
 Black sheep dwell in every fold ; 
 All that glitters is not gold ; 
 Storks turn out to be but logs ; 
 Bulls are but inflated frogs. 
 
 Captain [puzzled]. 
 
 So they be, 
 Frequentlee. 
 
 Buttercup. 
 Drops the wind and stops the mill ; 
 Turbot is ambitious brill ; 
 Gild the farthing if you will, 
 But it is a farthing still. 
 
 Captain [puzzled]. 
 
 Yes, I know 
 That is so. 
 Though to catch your drift I'm striving. 
 
 It is shady — it is shady ; 
 I don't see at what you're driving, 
 
 Mystic lady — mystic lady, 
 
 [Aside] 
 Stern conviction's o'er me stealing, 
 That the mystic lady's dealing 
 In oracular revealing. 
 
 Buttercup. [Aside] 
 Stern conviction's o'er him stealing, 
 That the mystic lady's dealing 
 In oracular revealing. 
 
 Both. Yes, I know 
 
 That is so ! 
 
 Captain. 
 Though I'm anything but clever, 
 I could talk like that for ever : 
 Once a oat was killed by care ; 
 Only brave deserve the fair. 
 
 Buttercup. Very true, 
 So they do. 
 
 Captain. 
 Wink is often good as nod ; 
 Spoils the child who spares the rod ; 
 Thirsty lambs run foxy dangers ; 
 Dogs are found in many mangers. 
 
 Buttercup. Frequentlee, 
 I agree. 
 
 Captain. 
 Paw of oat the chestnut snatches ; 
 Worn-out garments show new patches ; 
 Only count the chick that hatches ; 
 Men are grown up catohy-catchies. 
 
 Buttercup. Yes, I know 
 That is so. 
 
 [Aside] 
 Though to catch my drift he's striving, 
 
 I'll dissemble — I'll dissemble ; 
 When he sees at what I'm driving. 
 
 Let him tremble — let him tremble ! 
 
 Ensemble 
 Though a mystic tone J ^ \ borrow. 
 
 You will f ^^^^^ t^® truth with sorrow, 
 Here to-day and gone to-morrow ; 
 Yes, I know 
 That is so ! 
 [At the end exit Little Butter- 
 cup, melodramatically] |i 
 Captain. Incomprehensible as her 
 utterances are, I nevertheless feel that 
 they are dictated by a sincere regard tor 
 me. But to what new misery is she 
 referring? Time alone can tell ! 
 
 [Enter Sir Joseph] 
 
 Sir Joseph. Captain Corcoran, I am 
 much disappointed with your daughter. 
 In fact, I don't thiiik she will do. 
 
 Captain. She won't do. Sir Joseph! 
 
 Sir Joseph. I'm afraid not. The 
 fact is, that although I have urged my 
 suit with as much eloquence as is oge- 
 sistent with an of&cial utterance, I have 
 done so hitherto without success. How 
 do you account for this ? 
 
 Captain. Really, Sir Joseph, I 
 hardly know. Josephine is, of course, 
 sensible of your condescension. 
 
 Sir Joseph. She naturally would be. 
 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 333 
 
 Captain. But perhaps your exalted 
 mk dazzles her. 
 
 Sib Joseph. You think it does ? 
 
 Captain. I can hardly say ; but she 
 
 a modest girl, and her social position 
 
 far below your own. It may be that 
 le feels she is not worthy of you. 
 
 Sir Joseph. That is really a very 
 snsible suggestion, and displays more 
 aowledge of human nature than I had 
 .ven you credit for. 
 
 Captain. See, she comes. If your 
 irdship would kindly reason with her, 
 id assure her, officially, that it is a 
 landing rule at the Admiralty that love 
 vels all ranks, her respect for an official 
 tteranoe might induce her to look upon 
 our offer in its proper light. 
 
 Sir Joseph. It is not unlikely. I 
 ill adopt your suggestion. But soft, 
 18 is here. Let us withdraw, and 
 ateh our opportunity. 
 
 Unier Josephine from cabin. Sib 
 Joseph retires up and watches her] 
 
 ScBNA. — Josephine 
 
 The hours creep on apace. 
 My guilty heart is quaking ! 
 
 Oh that I might retract 
 The step that I am taking. 
 
 Its folly it were easy to be showing. 
 
 What I am giving up and whither 
 going. 
 
 >n the one hand, papa's luxurious home, 
 Hung with ancestral armour and old 
 
 iarved oak and tapestry from distant 
 
 Rome, 
 Rare "blue and white" Venetian 
 
 iieh Oriental rugs, luxurious sofa 
 pillows, 
 
 nd everything that isn't old, from 
 GiUow's. 
 
 nd on the other, a dark dingy room 
 In some back street, with stuffy chil- 
 dren crying, 
 
 /'here organs yell, and clacking house- 
 wives fume, 
 
 And clothes are hanging out all day 
 a-drying ; 
 
 Jith one cracked looking-glass to see 
 your face in, 
 
 nd, dinner served up in a pudding 
 basin ! 
 
 A simple sailor, lowly born. 
 Unlettered and unknown. 
 
 Who toils for bread from early morn 
 
 Till half the night has flown ! 
 No golden rank can he impart — 
 No wealth of house or land — 
 No fortune save his trusty heart 
 And honest brown right hand ! 
 And yet he is so wondrous fair 
 That love for one so passing rare. 
 So peerless in his manly beauty. 
 Were little else than solemn duty ! 
 Oh, god of love, and god of reason, say. 
 Which of you twain shall my poor heart 
 obey ! ^| 
 
 Sib Joseph [coming forward]. Mad- 
 am, it has been represented to me that 
 you are appalled by my exalted rank; 
 I desire to convey to you, officially, my 
 assurance that if your hesitation is 
 attributable to that circumstance, it 
 is uncalled for. 
 
 Josephine. Oh ! then your lordship 
 is of opinion that married happiness is 
 not inconsistent with discrepancy in 
 rank? 
 
 Sir Joseph. I am officially of that 
 opinion. 
 
 Josephine. That the high and the 
 lowly may be truly happy together, pro- 
 vided that they truly love one another ? 
 
 Sib Joseph. Madam, I desire to 
 convey to you, officially, my opinion 
 that love is a platform upon which all 
 ranks meet. 
 
 Josephine. I thank you, Sir Joseph. 
 I did hesitate, but I will hesitate no 
 longer. [Aside] He little thinks how 
 eloquently he has pleaded his rival's 
 cause ! 
 
 [Captain has entered; during this speech 
 he comes forward] 
 
 Trio. — Sib Joseph, Captain, and 
 Josephine 
 
 Captain. 
 Never mind the why and wherefore. 
 Love can level ranks, and therefore. 
 Though his lordship's station's mighty, 
 
 Though stupendous be his brain. 
 Though your tastes are mean and flighty 
 
 And your fortune poor and plain — 
 
 Captain and Sib Joseph. 
 Ring the merry bells on board ship. 
 
 Rend the air with warbling wild. 
 
 For the union of I ^^ [ lordship 
 
 With a humble captain's child ! 
 Captain. 
 For a humble captain's daughter — 
 
334 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Josephine. [Aside] 
 For a gallant captain's daughter — 
 
 Sir Joseph. 
 And a lord wlio rules the water — 
 
 Josephine. [Aside] 
 And a tar who ploughs the water ! 
 
 All. 
 Let the air with joy be laden, 
 
 Rend with songs the air above, 
 For the union of a maiden 
 
 With the man who owns her love ! 
 
 Sir Joseph. 
 Never mind the why and wherefore. 
 Love can level ranks, and therefore , 
 Though your nautical relation 
 
 [alluding to Captain] 
 
 In my set could scarcely pass — 
 Though you occupy a station 
 
 In the lower middle class — 
 
 Captain and Sir Joseph. 
 Ring the merry bells on board ship, 
 
 Rend the air with warbUng wild. 
 
 For the union of | ^ > lordship 
 
 With a humble captain's child ! 
 
 Sir Joseph. 
 For a humble captain's daughter — 
 
 Josephine. [Aside] 
 For a gallant captain's daughter — 
 
 Captain. 
 And a lord who rules the water — 
 
 Josephine. [Aside] 
 And a tar who ploughs the water ! 
 
 All. 
 Let the air with joy be laden, 
 
 Fill with songs the air above. 
 For the union of a maiden 
 
 With the man who owns her love ! 
 
 Josephine. 
 Never mind the why and wherefore, 
 Love can level ranks, and therefore 
 I admit its jurisdiction ; 
 
 Ably have you played your part ; 
 You have carried firm conviction 
 
 To my hesitating heart. 
 
 Captain and Sir Joseph. 
 Ring the merry bells on board ship. 
 
 Rend the air with warbling wild, 
 
 For the union of ] ^^ [ lordship 
 
 With a humble captain's child ! 
 
 Captain and Sib Joseph. 
 For a humble captain's daughter — 
 
 Josephine. [Aside] 
 For a gallant captain's daughter — 
 
 Captain and Sir Joseph. 
 And a lord who rules the water — 
 
 Josephine. [Aside] 
 And a tar who ploughs the water 1 
 [Aloud] 
 Let the air with joy be laden — 
 
 Captain and Sir Joseph. 
 Ring the merry bells on boaxd ship — 
 
 Josephine. 
 For the union of a maiden — 
 
 Captain and Sir Joseph. 
 For the union with his lordship. 
 
 All. 
 Rend with songs the air above 
 For the man who owns her love ! 
 
 [Exit Josephine] 
 
 Captain. Sir Joseph, I cannot ex- 
 press to you my delight at the happy 
 result of your eloquence. Your argu- 
 ment was unanswerable. 
 
 Sir Joseph. Captain Corcoran, it 
 is one of the happiest characteristics of 
 this glorious country that official utter- 
 ances are invariably regarded as un- 
 answerable. 
 
 [Exit Sir Joseph into cabin] 
 
 Captain. At last my fond hopes 
 are to be crowned. My only daughter 
 is to be the bride of a Cabinet Minister. 
 The prospect is Elysian. 
 
 [During this speech Dick Deadete has 
 entered] 
 
 Dick. Captain. 
 
 Captain. Deadeye! You here? 
 Don't ! [Recoiling from him] 
 
 Dick. Ah, don't shrink from me. 
 Captain. I'm unpleasant to look at, 
 and my name's agin me, but I ain't as 
 bad as I seem. 
 
 Captain. What would you with me? 
 
 Dick [mysteriously]. I'm come to 
 give you warning. 
 
 Captain. Indeed ! Do you propose 
 to leave the Navy, then? 
 
 Dick. No, no, you misunderstand 
 me; listen. 
 
 Duet. — Captain and Dick Deadeye 
 
 Dick. 
 Kind Captain, I've important informa- 
 tion. 
 
 Sing hey, the kind commander that 
 you are ! 
 About a certain intimate relation ; 
 
 Sing hey, the merry maiden and the 
 tar! 
 
 Both. 
 
 The merry maiden and the tar! 
 
 Captain. * 
 
 Good fellow, in conundrums you are 
 
 speaking. 
 Sing hey, the mystic sailor that you 
 
 are! 
 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 335 
 
 he answer to them vainly I am seeking ; 
 Sing hey, the merry maiden and the 
 
 tarl 
 Both. 
 
 The merry maiden and the tar ! 
 
 Dick. 
 
 ind Captain, your young lady is a- 
 
 sighing, 
 Sing hey, the simple captain that 
 
 you are 
 
 his very night with Rackstraw to be 
 
 flying; 
 Sing hey, the merry maiden and the 
 
 tarl 
 Both. 
 
 The merry maiden and the tar ! 
 
 Captain. 
 
 cod feUow, you have given timely 
 
 ■warning. 
 Sing hey, the thoughtful sailor that 
 
 you are 1 
 11 talk to Master Rackstraw in the 
 
 morning ; 
 Sing hey, the cat-o'-nine-tails and the 
 
 tarl [Producing a "cat"] 
 
 Both. 
 
 The merry cat-o'-nine-tails and the 
 tar! 
 Captain. Dick Deadeye, I thank 
 ou for your warning; I will at once 
 ike means to arrest their flight. This 
 oat-cloak will afford me ample dis- 
 iiise. So 1 
 
 Unvelopes himself in a mysterious cloak, 
 holding it before his face] 
 
 Dick. Ha! ha! They are foiled — 
 riled — foiled ! 
 
 Writer Geew ore tiptoe, with Ralph and 
 Boatswain, meeting Josephine, 
 who enters from cabin on tiptoe, with 
 bundle of necessaries, and accom- 
 panied by Little Btjttehctjp. The 
 Captain, shrouded in his boatr-cloak, 
 watches them unnoticed] 
 
 Ensemble 
 
 Carefully on tiptoe stealing. 
 Breathing gently as we may. 
 
 Every step with caution feeling, 
 We will softly steal away. 
 
 [Captain stamps — chord] 
 All [much alarmed]. 
 Goodness me 1 
 Why, what was that ? 
 Dick. Silent be. 
 
 It was the cat ! 
 
 All [reassured]. 
 
 It was — it was the cat ! 
 Captain [producing cat-o'-nine-tails]. 
 
 They're right, it was the cat! 
 
 Pull ashore, in fashion steady. 
 Hymen will defray the fare, 
 
 For a clergyman is ready 
 To unite the happy pair ! 
 
 [Stamp as before, and chord] 
 
 All. Goodness mel 
 
 Why, what was that ? 
 Dick. Silent be, 
 
 Again the cat 1 
 All. It was again that oat 1 
 Captain [aside]. 
 
 They're right, it was the oat 1 
 
 [Throwing off cloak] Hold! [All start] 
 Pretty daughter of mine, 
 
 I insist upon, knowing 
 
 Where you may be going 
 With these sons of the brine ; 
 
 For my excellent crew, 
 Though foes they could thump any, 
 Are scarcely fit company. 
 
 My daughter, for you. 
 Chew. 
 
 Now, hark at that, do 1 
 Though foes we could thump any, 
 We are scarcely fit company 
 
 For a lady like you 1 
 
 Ralph. 
 Proud ofBcer, that haughty lip uncurl! 
 
 Vain man, suppress that supercilious 
 sneer, 
 For I have dared to love your match- 
 less girl, 
 
 A fact well known to all my mess- 
 mates here! 
 
 Captain. Oh, horror! 
 
 Ralph and Josephine. 
 
 I ri' [ humble, poor, and lowly born. 
 
 The meanest in the port division — 
 The butt of epauletted scorn — 
 
 The mark of quarter-deck derision — 
 
 wormy 
 
 f myl 
 this! 
 
 eyes 
 Above the dust to which you'd mould 
 I me, 
 \ him. 
 In manhood's glorious pride to rise. 
 
 gl^gjan Englishman — behold 
 
 f me! 
 thim! 
 
336 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 All. He is an Englishman ! 
 Boatswain. • 
 
 He is an Englishman 1 
 
 For he himself has said it, 
 And it's greatly to his credit, 
 That he is an Englishman ! 
 All. That he is an Enghshman! 
 
 BOATSWAII^ 
 
 For he might have been a 
 
 Roosian, 
 A French, or Turk, or Proosian, 
 Or perhaps Itah-an! 
 All. Or perhaps Itali-anl 
 Boatswain. 
 
 But in spite of all temptations 
 To belong to other nations. 
 He remains an Englishman ! 
 All. Hurrah ! 
 
 For the true-born Englishman ! 
 Captain [trying to repress his anger]. 
 In uttering a reprobation 
 To any British tar, 
 I try to speak wiih modera- 
 tion. 
 But you have gone too far. 
 I'm very sorry to disparage 
 A humble foremast lad. 
 But to seek your captain's child 
 in marriage. 
 Why, damme, it's too bad! 
 
 [During this Cousin Hebe and Female 
 Relatives have entered] 
 
 All [shocked]. Oh! 
 Captain. Yes, damme, it's too bad ! 
 Captain and Dick Deadeyb. Yes, 
 damme, it's too bad. 
 
 [During this SiB Joseph has appeared 
 on poop-deck. He is horrified at 
 the bad language] 
 
 Hebe. 
 Did you hear him — did you hear him ? 
 
 Oh, the monster overbearing! 
 Don't go near him — don't go near 
 him — 
 
 He is swearing — he is swearing. 
 
 Sib Joseph [with impressive dignity]. 
 
 My pain and my distress 
 
 I find it is not easy to express ; 
 
 My amazement — my surprise — 
 You may learn from the expression of 
 my eyes! 
 
 Captain. 
 My lord, one word — the facts are 
 
 known before you ; 
 The word was injudicious, I allow — 
 But hear my explanation, I implore you. 
 And you will be indignant, too, I vow! 
 
 Sir Joseph. '-'i 
 
 I will hear of no defence. 
 
 Attempt none if you're sensible. 
 That word of evil sense 
 Is wholly indefensible. 
 Go, ribald, get you hence 
 
 "To your cabin with celerity. 
 This is the consequence . 
 
 Of ill-advised asperity! 
 [Exit Captain, disgraced, followed by 
 
 Josephine] 
 All. Behold the consequence 
 Of ill-advised asperity! 
 Sir Joseph. 
 For I'll teach you all, ere long. 
 
 To refrain from language strong. 
 For I haven't any sympathy for ill-bred 
 taunts ! 
 Hebe. 
 No more have his sisters, nor his cousins, 
 nor his aunts. 
 All. 
 
 For he is an Englishman, etc. 
 Sib Joseph. Now, tell me, my fine 
 fellow — for you are a fine f eUow — 
 Ralph. Yes, your honour. 
 Sib Joseph. How came your cap- 
 tain so far to forget himself? I am 
 quite sure you had given him no cause 
 for annoyance. 
 
 Ralph. Please your honour, it was 
 thus wise. You see, I'm only a top- 
 man — a mere foremast hand — 
 
 Sib Joseph. Don't be ashamed of 
 that. Your position as a topman is a 
 very exalted one. 
 
 Ralph. Well, your honour, love 
 burns as brightly in the foksle as it does 
 on the quarter-deck, and Josephine is 
 the fairest bud that ever blossomed 
 upon the tree of a poor fellow's wildest 
 hopes. 
 
 [Enter Josephine ; she rushes to Ralph's 
 arms. Sib Joseph horrified] 
 
 She's the figurehead of my ship of life 
 — the bright beacon that guides me 
 into my port of happiness — the rarest, 
 the purest gem that ever sparkled on a 
 poor but worthy fellow's trusting brow. 
 
 All. Very pretty. 
 
 Sib Joseph. Insolent sailor, you 
 shall repent this outrage. Seize him! 
 [Two Marines seize him and 
 handcuff him] 
 
 Josephine. Oh, Sir Joseph, spare 
 him, for I love him tenderly. 
 
 Sib Joseph. Away with him. I will 
 teach this presumptuous mariner to 
 discipline his affections. Have you 
 such a thing as a dungeon on board? 
 
H. M. S. Pinafore 
 
 337 
 
 All. We have 1 
 
 Sir Joseph. Then load Mm with 
 hains and take him there at once ! 
 
 Octette 
 
 Ralph. 
 
 Farewell, my own! 
 
 Light of my life, farewell ! 
 For crime unknown 
 I go to a dungeon cell. 
 All. 
 
 For crime, etc. 
 Josephine. . 
 
 In the meantime, farewell 1 
 ■ And aU alone 
 
 Rejoice in your dungeon cell I 
 All. 
 
 And aU, etc. 
 Sib Joseph. 
 A bone, a bone 
 
 I'U pick with this sailor fell ; 
 Let him be shown 
 At once to his dungeon cell. 
 All. 
 
 Let him, etc. 
 Boatswain, Dick, and Hebe. 
 He'll hear no tone 
 
 Of the maiden he loves so well ! 
 No telephone 
 
 Communicates with his ceUl 
 All. 
 
 No telephone, etc. 
 BuTTEKCtrp [mysteriously]. 
 But when is known 
 
 The secret I have to tell, 
 Wide will be thrown 
 
 The door of his dungeon cell. 
 All. 
 
 Wide will be thrown 
 
 The door of his dimgeon cell! 
 All repeat respective verses, ensemble. 
 At the end Ralph is led off in custody] 
 Sir Joseph. Josephine, I cannot tell 
 ou the distress I feel at this most pain- 
 ul revelation. I desire to express to 
 'OU, officially, that I am hurt. You, 
 rhom I honoured by seeking in mar- 
 iage — you, the daughter of a captain 
 a the Royal Navy ! 
 Bttttehcup. Hold! I have some- 
 hing to say to that ! 
 SiE Joseph. You? 
 BxTTTEBCup. Yes, I! 
 
 Song. — Buttercup 
 
 A many years ago. 
 When I was young and charming, 
 
 As some of you may know 
 I practised baby-farming. 
 
 All. 
 
 Now tMs is most alarming! 
 When she was young and oharming, 
 She practised baby-farming, 
 A many years ago. 
 
 Buttercup. 
 
 Two tender babes I nussed: 
 
 One was of low condition, 
 The other, upper crust, 
 
 A regular patrician. 
 All [explaining to each other]. 
 ^Now, this is the position : 
 One was of low condition, 
 The other a patrician, 
 
 A many years ago. 
 
 Buttercup.. 
 
 Oh, bitter is my cup ! 
 
 However could I do it ? 
 I mixed those children up, 
 
 And not a creature knew it I 
 All. 
 
 However could you do it ? 
 Some day, no doubt, you'U rue it, 
 Although no creature knew it. 
 
 So many years ago. 
 
 Buttercup. 
 
 In time each little waif 
 
 Forsook his foster-mother. 
 The well-born babe was Ralph — ■ 
 
 Your captain was the other ! 
 All. 
 
 They left their foster-mother. 
 The one was Ralph, our brother — ■ 
 Our captain was the other, 
 
 A many years ago. 
 
 Sib Joseph. Then I am to under- 
 stand that Captain Corcoran and Ralph 
 were exchanged in childhood's happy 
 hoiu: — that Ralph is really the Cap- 
 tain, and the Captain is Ralph? 
 
 Buttercup. That is the idea I in- 
 tended to convey. 
 
 Sir Joseph. You have done it very 
 well. Let them appear before me, at 
 once ! 
 
 [Ralph enters as Captain; Captain as 
 a common sailor. Josephine rushes 
 to his arms] 
 
 Josephine. My father — a common 
 sailor ! 
 
 Captain. It is hard, is it not, my 
 dear? 
 
 Sir Joseph. This is a very singular 
 occurrence; I congratulate you both. 
 [To Ralph] Desire that remarkably 
 fine seaman to step forward. 
 
338 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Ralph. Corcoran, come here. 
 
 Captain. If what ? If you please. 
 
 Sir Joseph. Perfectly right. If you 
 please. 
 
 Ralph. Oh. If you please. < 
 
 [Captain steps forward] 
 
 SiK Joseph. [To Captain] You are 
 an extremely fine fellow. 
 
 Captain. Yes, your honour. 
 
 SiK Joseph. So it seems that you 
 were Ralph, and Ralph was you. 
 
 Captain. So it seems, your honour. 
 
 Sir Joseph. Well, I need not teU 
 you that after this change in your con- 
 dition, a marriage with your daughter 
 will be out of the question. 
 
 Captain. Don't say that, your 
 honour — • love levels all ranks. 
 
 Sir Joseph. It does to a consider- 
 able extent, but it does not level them 
 as much as that. [Handing Josephine 
 to Ralph] Here — take her, sir, and 
 mind you treat her kindly. 
 
 Ralph and Josephine. 
 Oh, bliss ! oh, rapture 1 
 
 Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sad my lot, and sorry. 
 What shall I do ? I cannot live alone ! 
 
 All. 
 What will he do ? he cannot live alone ! 
 
 Hebe. 
 Fear nothing — while I live I'H not 
 
 desert you. 
 I'U soothe and comfort your declining 
 days. 
 
 Sir Joseph. 
 No, don't do that. 
 
 Hebe. Yes, but indeed I'd rather. 
 
 Sir Joseph [resigned]. 
 To-morrow morn our vows shall all be 
 
 plighted, 
 Three loving pairs on the same day 
 united ! 
 
 Duet. — Ralph and Josephine 
 
 Oh I joy ! oh, rapture unforeseen ! 
 The clouded sky is now serene ; 
 The god of day — the orb of love. 
 Has hung his ensign high above, 
 The sky is all ablaze. 
 
 With wooing words and loving song, 
 We'U chase the lagging hours along ; 
 
 And if I ^j 1^1® I the maiden coy, 
 
 We'U murmur forth decorous joy, 
 In dreamy roundelays. 
 
 Captain. 
 
 For he is the Captain of the Pina- 
 fore. 
 All. 
 
 And a right good captain too I 
 Captain. 
 
 And though before my fall 
 I was Captain of you all, 
 
 I'm a member of the crew. 
 All. 
 
 Although before his fall, etc. 
 Captain. 
 
 I shall marry with a wife 
 In my own rank of hf e I 
 
 [Turning to Buttercup] 
 And you, my love, are she. 
 I must wander to and fro. 
 But wherever I may go, 
 I shall never be untrue to thee I 
 All. What, never? 
 
 Captain. No, never I 
 All. What, never f 
 
 Captain. Hardly ever ! 
 All. 
 Hardly ever be untrue to thee. 
 Then give three cheers, and one cheer 
 
 more. 
 For the faithful seamen of the Pinar 
 fore. 
 
 Buttercup. 
 For he loves Little Buttercup, dear 
 Little Buttercup, 
 I'm sure I shall never know why ; 
 But stiU he loves Buttercup, poor Little 
 Buttercup, 
 Sweet Little Buttercup, ay! 
 All. For he loves, etc. 
 
 Sir Joseph. 
 
 I'm the monarch of the sea. 
 And when I've married thee 
 
 [To Hebe] 
 I'U be true to the devotion that my 
 
 love implants. 
 Hebe. 
 Then good-bye to his sisters, and his 
 cousins, and his aunts. 
 Especially his cousins. 
 Whom he reckons up by dozens. 
 His sisters, and his cousins, and Ms 
 
 aunts I 
 All. 
 
 For he is an Englishman, _ 
 And he himself hath said it. 
 And it's greatly to his credit 
 That he is an EngUshmanI 
 
BECKET 
 
 {1893) 
 
 [Printed, 1879] 
 
 By Alfeed Tennyson 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 
 (1809-1892) 
 
 Tennyson was sixty-six years old when he began writing plays. He had 
 gained liis reputation as the leading lyric poet of his time. And he had put a stamp 
 on his writings, not only distinctively English, but as reflecting the spirit of his age. 
 Tennyson is more specifically dated than Browning. He is more reflective of the 
 scientific trend of the Victorian era, and he is as foreign to the renaissance which 
 began in England diu-ing the late "eighties " as though he were of a period far re- 
 moved. His religious questionings were thoroughly in accord with the state of up- 
 heaval created by the widespread discussion of the theory of evolution, and he was 
 truly and faithfully dealing with the problems open-mindedly. The early reactions 
 of a fair conservative are expressed in Tennyson's poems : the attitude toward the 
 woman question, in "The Princess"; the moral preachments, throughout "In 
 Memoriam" and "Maud" ; and the scientific interest represented, not only in his 
 longer poems, but in such a small piece as "Flower in the Crannied Wall." 
 
 Tennyson's interest in the theatre was not due to any impelling love of the 
 dramatic. His work, heretofore, had been of a narrative, epic, idyllic character. 
 It had been tested lyrically and technically, and had come forth wonderfully puri- 
 fied in form and expression. "The Idylls of the King" represent a narrative as 
 formal and decorative as the pictures of Dante Gabriel Rossetti or of Aubrey De 
 Vere. Though filled with chivalry, they have about them none of the original, rugged 
 humanity of Sir Thomas MaUory. They are polished to suit the Tennyson tech- 
 nique. He had, in "Maud", attempted a certain form of play-wiiting — a form 
 which he called tnonodrame, — but this was not, in any sense, of the theatre or for the 
 theatre. He was not essentially dramatic in his depiction of character, nor were 
 his monologues, when he wrote them, fraught with any of the deep, vivid humanity 
 seen in Browning. 
 
 One might, therefore, say that Tennyson, in comparison with Browning, was the 
 less prepared of the two to meet the requirements of the stage. And we doubt 
 whether he would have attempted a task for which he was not equipped had it not 
 been that he was encouraged to do so through the cordial interest of Henry Irving. 
 Irving and Macready not only stood sponsors for the dramas of Tennyson and 
 Browning, but it is because of them that the two poets became dramatic experi- 
 menters. 
 
 Tennyson's interest in Elizabethan drama prompted him, not only in his form, 
 but, Ukewise, in his subject-matter. We are told that he selected his topics with the 
 express purpose of explaining certain national ideals or ideas left untouched by 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 The order of the Tennyson dramas is as follows: "Queen Mary" (1875); 
 "Harold" (1876) ; "The Falcon" (1879) ; "The Cup" (1881) ; " The Promise of 
 May" (1882); "Becket" (1884) ; "The Foresters" (1892). These are based on 
 
 341 
 
342 Representative British Dramas 
 
 very definite sources, showing tjiat Tennyson was a student of his particular periods, 
 and was moved not so much by inspiration as by historical accuracy. When he 
 wrote "Queen Mary," he studied Proude. There is no indication that he read 
 Hugo's "Mary Tudor", or that he was indebted to the plays on "Queen Mary" 
 by Decker and Webster, or Thomas Heywood. When he wrote "Harold", he read 
 carefully Freeman's "History of the Norman Conquest", and he analyzed fully 
 the situations in Bulwer's novel, "Harold." 
 
 His preparations for "Beoket" were equally as careful. The poet himself says: 
 
 Admirers of "Becket" wiU find that Becket's letters, and the writings of 
 Herbert of Bosham, Fitzstephen, and John of Salisbury throw great Ught on 
 those days. Bishop Lightfoot found out about Rosamund for me. 
 
 Even in his lighter pieces Tennyson turned to others for his plots. "The Cup'' 
 was taken from Plutarch's "De Muherum Virtutibus", and "The Falcon" from 
 incidents in Boccaccio's "Decameron." He was self-conscious in his national 
 ambitions: in "Queen Mary" there is a distinct desire to paint the individual 
 claiming reUgious hberty; in "Becket" there is a formal struggle between the 
 Crown and the Church; in "Harold" we get racial conflict; and in "The Fores- 
 ters", as Arthur C. Benson says, there is a reflection of the state of the people during 
 the Magna Charta, when the struggle of political liberty over absolutism began. 
 
 Tennyson was not taken over-seriously in the dramatic world of his day. In 
 fact, it was Irving alone who brought the poet to success. The public did not even 
 have respect for the official character of the Poet Laureate. It is curious, Ukewise, 
 to note two other qualities in Tennyson which challenged the manner of the times 
 and the limitations of royalty. "The Promise of May" was a terrible failure, 
 partly because of the free discussion invited by the moral problem involved. It is 
 interesting to note the contemporaneous debates created by Tennyson's reactions 
 on moral, spiritual, and scientific matters. In addition to which, the Victorian 
 stage was handicapped by the ignorance and limitations of Queen Victoria, whose 
 reputation was largely dependent on the intellectual forcefulness and diplomatic 
 cleverness of her Prime Ministers* — Lord Beaconsfield, W. E. Gladstone, and 
 Lord Salisbury. It is said that when a command performance of "Becket" was 
 ordered, it did not quite satisfy the old-fashioned tastes of the Queen, who, in all 
 probabihty, would much rather have been regaled with stage pieces like "Sweet- 
 hearts" or "Sweet Lavender." 
 
 The history of the Teimyson plays involves a record of Henry Irving and Ellen 
 Terry. The actor produced "Queen Mary" at the London Lyceum, April 18, 1876, 
 with Miss Bateman in the title rdle and himself as Philip of Spain. He also 
 gave "The Cup" and "Becket." "The Falcon" was produced at the St. James's 
 Theatre, under the management of John Hare and the Kendals, in December, 1879 ; 
 "The Cup" was produced by Irving and Terry on January 3, 1881 ; "The Promise 
 of May" at the Globe Theatre, on November 11, 1882; "Becket" at the Lyceum, 
 on February 6, 1893 ; and finally "The Foresters" was given an American produc- 
 tion by Augustin Daly, on March 17, 1892. 
 
 It was in 1878 that Tennyson was reported as having had in preparation since 
 1876 a drama on "Becket." Theatrical papers announced, in October of the next 
 year, that it was understood Irving was considering the manuscript. "The actor had 
 been a friend of the poet since 1876, but his friendship was not of that order which 
 
Alfred Tennyson 343 
 
 could upset the wisdom of the manager. "Beoket" was held for many years, until 
 the times, as Irving thought, were ready for it. According to the fashion of the poet, 
 there were proofs of the play in 1879, and its publication was deferred until Decem- 
 ber, 1884. According to the poet's son, Tennyson visited Canterbury in August, 
 1877, and in this way obtained local color. 
 
 It was Irving's firm impression that "Beoket" was a finer play than Shake- 
 speare's "King John." But, however that may have been, he was convinced, in 
 1879, that public taste was not ready for it. There must have been some doubt 
 on the part of Tennyson as to how far his readers would take the Catholicism of the 
 piece, for he asked W. T. Ward to come and hear him read it, and to talk over the 
 ecclesiastical points with him. Tennyson was attacked on all sides for his lack of 
 noble handhng of Becket's character ; especially was he scored for suggesting any 
 offensive element in Becket's association with the fair Rosamund. From the Catholic 
 point of view, no better article may be found than Maurice T. Eagan's " 'St. Thomas 
 of Canterbury ' and 'Becket ' ", in which he contrasts Tennyson's drama with Aubrey 
 De Vere's dramatic poem deaUng with the same figure. The whole article attacks 
 Tennyson's ignorance of Catholicism and his wilful distortion of the truth. "The 
 pride and impatience of his Becket is only equalled by the self-conceit of his St. 
 Simon Stylites," so this critic asserts. 
 
 It has not been the judgment of the times, since "Becket" was written, that it 
 is a great play, nor that it reflects perfectly the spirit of the twelfth century or 
 the character of Henry, claimed for it by the historian, John Richard Greene. One 
 can see, however, why it appealed to Irving. Its dominant recommendations are 
 its great power in one character, and its pictorial pageantry, both of which offered 
 Irving ample scope for colour and display. Readers have an opportunity of study- 
 ing how far Irving struggled with the original version of the play; for the stage 
 edition, wherein transpositions of scenes and cuts are indicated, was issued at the 
 time of the production at the Lyceum. 
 
 The preparations for the Irving performance took place during the very last 
 days of Tennyson's life ; some of the final poetic lines written by him were penned 
 at the request of Irving, to go at the end of the Northampton scene, — what Hallam 
 Tennyson calls the "anthem speech." 
 
 Irving writes : 
 
 On the appearance of "Becket", I pointed out toTeimyson that the poem 
 seemed to me to have great possibilities if I could only get it into stage shape. 
 I asked him if he would allow it to be produced in an altered form, and he re- 
 pHed that I might do anything I pleased. Accordingly, I made such changes 
 as I thought necessary, and sent it to him cut for the stage, and suggesting that 
 he could make the changes, and this he did, adding a speech at the end of the 
 first act. 
 
 All during Tennyson's final illness, he was very much concerned about rehear- 
 sals. Irving again writes : 
 
 One of the most touching incidents which I remember occurred while he was 
 on his deathbed. He turned to the physician. Dr. Dabbs, who told me of the 
 incident, and said : "I suppose I shall never see 'Becket.' " "I fear not," said 
 the doctor. "They did not do me justice with 'The Promise of May' ", said 
 the dying poet, "but Irving will do me justice in 'Becket.' " 
 
344 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The play ' was produced at a cost of £4,723 lis. 2d. And because of the splen- 
 dour of the pageantry and the very powerful acting of Irving, it was one of the 
 successes of the season, running one hundred and twelve times; 
 
 There are some splendid purple patches of poetry in this play, but there are 
 likewise many scenes that are episodic and throw small light on the transposition 
 of Beckel's character from the courtier-priest to the domineering prelate. Irving 
 having appeared as Richelieu and Cardinal Wolsey, the mitre of Becket in conse- 
 quence sat easily upon his head. The interest in the acted play, apart from its 
 colour and proportion, was due to the interest awakened by what Irving put into 
 it of fine characterization and technical art. A contemporary criticism, written for 
 the "Theatrical World" of 1894, by Archer, is quoted herewith : 
 
 "Becket" [July 9-20, 1894], revived last week at the Lyceum, is a mild and 
 dignified rebuke to apriorist criticism, with its rules and formulas. There 
 is no rule that it does not break, no formula that it fails to set at naught. It 
 is rambling, disjointed, structureless ; its psychological processes take place 
 between the acts ; it overrides history for the sake of an infantile love-interest ; 
 its blank verse is ' ' undramatic ' ' , and its humour is — well, unsophisticated. In 
 short, it is nothing that it ought to be, and everything that it oughtn't. Liter- 
 ally everything : for it is what most of all it oughtn't to be — a success. It 
 dehghted the audience on the evening when I saw it — the third of the revival. 
 There was a genuine warmth in their applause which did my heart good, for it 
 entirely expressed my own sentiments. AU Miss Terry's charm cannot make 
 the Rosamund scenes very interesting to me ; but the nobiUty and pathos of 
 Mr. Irving's Becket are as irresistible as ever. This is undoubtedly one of his 
 great achievements ; an entirely beautiful and memorable creation. The verse 
 may be as " undramatic ' ' as you please, but it is a delight to hear Mr. Irving speak 
 it; and, for my part, I much prefer Mr. Tennyson's "undramatic" verse to 
 the self-consciously and spasmodically dramatic iambics of some other poets. 
 "Becket", in sum, is not a coherent, organic drama, but a series of animated 
 historic scenes, beautifully written, staged, spoken and acted. 
 
 As a matter of historical record, let it be said that Irving was playing Becket 
 on the evening (October 13, 1905) when he was stricken, and probably the final 
 words that came from the actor's mouth were those significant lines spoken by 
 Becket at the close of the play : 
 
 " Into Thy hands, O Lord — into Thy hands ! — " 
 
 1 Adams, in his "Dictionary of the Drama", mentions the following dramas dealing with 
 Becket: Bishop of Bale's "Of the Impostures of Thomas Becket"; W. H. Ireland's 
 "Henry II" (1799); Douglas Jerrold's "Thomas h Beckett" (1829); R. Cattermole'a 
 "Becket: A Historical Tragedy" (1832) ; George Darley's "Thomas k Becket" (1840) ; Sir 
 Arthur Helps' "King Henry the Second" (1843) ; George Wightwick's "Henry II" (1851); 
 Dr. Charles Grindrod's "King Henry II" (1883); Aubrey Da Vere's "St. Thomas of 
 Canterbury" (1876). 
 
 Adams adds : An adaptation of Tennyson's drama, consisting mostly of the scenes re- 
 lating to Rosamund, adapted by E. W. Godwin, performed as "Fair Rosamund", in Cannizaro 
 Woods, Wimbledon, summer of 1886, with Lady Archibald Campbell as Rosamund, Baseett 
 Roe as Henry II, F. H. Mackhn as Becket, Miss Maud Millett as Margery, Miss Genevieve 
 Ward as Queen Eleanor. Irving's arrangement was given, London Lyceum, February 6, 
 1893 ; English provinces in 1904, when Mabel Hackney was Rosamund, Mrs. Cecil Raleigh 
 Eleanor. First in America, September, 1893, San Francisco. 
 
BECKET 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 The collected works of Lord Tennyson are published in America by 
 
 The Macmillan Company. 
 
To THE Lord Chancellor, 
 
 THE EIGHT HONOURABLE EARL OP SELBORNE 
 
 Mt dear Selbornb — To you, the honoured Chancellor 
 of our own day, I dedicate this dramatic memorial of your 
 great predecessor ; — which, altho' not intended in its present 
 form to meet the exigencies of our modem theatre, has never- 
 theless — for so you have assured me — won your approba- 
 tion. — Ever yours TENNYSON. 
 
CAST OF INITIAL PERFORMANCE OF BECKET 
 
 London Lyceum Theatre 
 February 6, 1893 
 
 Henry II son of the Earl of Anjou Mr. William Terriss 
 
 Thomas Beckbt . . . Chancellor of England, 
 
 afterwards Archbishop 
 
 of Canterbury . . . Mr. Irving 
 
 Gilbert Foliot . . . Bishop of London . . . Mr. Lacy 
 
 Roger Archbishop of York . . Mr. Beaumont 
 
 Bishop of Hereford Mr. Cushing 
 
 Hilary Bishop of Chichester . . Mr. Archer 
 
 JocELYN Bishop of Salisbury . . 
 
 John op Salisbury . . 1 , , , „ , ( Mr. Bishop 
 
 ■r. > friends of Becket ••.),,„•■ 
 
 Herbert op Bosham . ) ( Mr. Haviland 
 
 Walter Map .... reputed author of " Golias," 
 
 Latin poems against the 
 priesthood .... 
 
 King Louis op France Mr. Bond 
 
 Geoffrey son of Rosamund and 
 
 Henry 
 
 Grim a monk of Cambridge . . Mr. W. H. Holloway 
 
 Sib Reginald Fitzurse 
 
 Sir Richard de Brito ■ 
 
 Sib William de Tracy 
 
 Sir Hugh de Mobville 
 
 the four knights of the 
 King's household, ene- • 
 mies of Becket . 
 
 ■ Mr. Frank Cooper 
 Mr. Tyars 
 Mr. Hague 
 Mr. Percival 
 
 Two Knight Templars 
 
 De Broc op Saltwood Castle Mr. Tabb 
 
 Lord Leicester Mr. Harvey 
 
 Philip de Eleemosyna Mr. Howe 
 
 J Mr. Gordon Craig 
 
 John op Oxford . . . called the Swearer . . . Mr. Ian Robertson 
 Eleanor of Aquitaine Queen of England {divorced 
 
 from Louis of France) . Miss Genevi6ve Ward 
 
 Rosamund de Clifford Miss Ellen Terry 
 
 Margery Miss Kate Phillips 
 
 Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc. 
 
BECKET 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the 
 Hall. Roofs of a City seen thro' 
 Windows. 
 
 [Henby and Bbcket at chess] 
 
 Henet. So then our good Arch- 
 bishop Theobald 
 Lies dying. 
 Becket. I am grieved to know as 
 
 much. 
 Henry. But we m.ust have a 
 mightier man than he 
 For his successor. 
 Becket. Have you thought of one? 
 Henby. A cleric lately poison'd his 
 own mother, 
 And being brought before the courts of 
 
 the Church, 
 They but degraded him. I hope they 
 
 whipt him. 
 I would have hang'd him. 
 Becket. It is your move. 
 
 Henby. Well — there. [Moves] 
 
 The Church in the pell-meU of Stephen's 
 
 time 
 Hath cUmb'd the throne and almost 
 
 clutoh'd the crown ; 
 But by the royal customs of our realm 
 The Church should hold her baronies of 
 
 me. 
 Like other lords amenable to law. 
 I'U have them written down and made 
 the law. 
 Becket. My Uege, I move my 
 
 bishop. 
 Henby. _ And if I Uve, 
 No man without my leave shall excom- 
 municate 
 My tenants or my household. 
 Becket. Look to your king. 
 
 Henby. No man without my leave 
 shall cross the seas 
 To set the Pope against me — I pray 
 your pardon. 
 Becket. Well — wiU you move? 
 Henbt. There. [Moves] 
 
 Becket. Check — you move so 
 
 wildly. 
 Henry. There then ! [Moves] 
 
 Becket. Why — there then, for you 
 see my bishop 
 Hath brought your king to a standstill. 
 You are beaten. 
 Henby [kicks over the board]. Why, 
 there then — down go bishop and 
 king together. 
 I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my 
 
 fancy 
 Upon the game I should have beaten 
 
 thee. 
 But that was vagabond. 
 
 Becket. Where, my liege? With 
 Phryne, 
 Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another ? 
 Henby. My Rosamund is no Lais, 
 Thomas Becket ; 
 And yet she plagues me too — no fault 
 
 in her — 
 But that I fear the Queen would have 
 her life. 
 Becket. Put her away, put her 
 away, my Uege ! 
 Put her away into a nunnery ! 
 Safe enough there from her to whom 
 
 thou art bound 
 By Holy Church. And wherefore should 
 
 she seek 
 The Ufe of Rosamund de Clifford more 
 Than that of other paramours of thine? 
 Henby. How dost thou know I am 
 
 not wedded to her ? 
 Becket. How should I know? 
 Henby. That is my secret, Thomas. 
 Becket. State secrets should be 
 patent to the statesman 
 Who serves and loves his king, and 
 
 whom the king 
 Loves not as statesman, but true lover 
 and friend. 
 Henby. Come, come, thou art but 
 deacon, not yet bishop. 
 No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor 
 .yet. 
 
 349 
 
350 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I would to God thou wert, for I should 
 
 find 
 An easy father confessor in thee. 
 
 Becket. St. Denis, that thou 
 
 shouldst not. I should beat 
 Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten 
 
 it. 
 Henry. Hell take thy bishop then, 
 
 and my kingship too! 
 Come, come, I love thee and I know 
 
 thee, I know thee, 
 A doter on white pheasant-flesh at 
 
 feasts, 
 A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish, 
 A dish-designer, and most amorous 
 Of good old red sound hberal Gascon 
 
 wine: 
 Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou 
 
 flatter it? 
 Becket. That palate is insane which 
 
 cannot teU 
 A good dish from a bad, new wine from 
 
 old. 
 Henry. Well, who loves wine loves 
 
 woman. 
 Becket. So I do. 
 Men are God's trees, and women are 
 
 God's flowers ; 
 And when the Gascon wine mounts to 
 
 my head, 
 The trees are all the stateher, and the 
 
 flowers 
 Are all the fairer. 
 
 Henry. And thy thoughts, thy 
 
 fancies ? 
 Becket. Good dogs, my liege, well 
 
 train'd, and easily call'd 
 Off from, the game. 
 
 Henry. Save for some once or 
 
 twice, ' 
 
 When they ran down the game and 
 
 worried it. 
 Becket. No, my liege, no ! — ■ not 
 
 once — in God's name, no ! 
 Henry. Nay, then, I take thee at 
 
 thy word — beheve thee 
 The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's 
 
 hall. 
 And so this Rosamund, my true heart- 
 wife, 
 Not Eleanor — she whom I love indeed 
 As a woman should be loved — Why 
 
 dost thou smile 
 So dolorously? 
 
 Becket. My good liege, if a man 
 Wastes himself among women, how 
 
 should he love 
 A woman, as a woman should be 
 
 loved? 
 t Henry. How shouldst thou know 
 
 that never hast loved one? 
 
 Come, I would give her to thy care in 
 
 England 
 When I am out in Normandy or 
 Anjou. 
 Becket. My lord, I am your sub- 
 ject, not your — 
 Henry. Pander. 
 
 God's eyes ! I know aU that — not my 
 
 purveyor 
 Of pleasures, but to save a life — her 
 
 hfe; 
 Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell- 
 fire. 
 I have built a secret bower in England, 
 
 Thomas, 
 A nest in a bush. 
 
 Becket. And where, my liege? 
 Henry [whispers]. Thine ear. 
 
 Becket. That's lone enough. 
 Henry [laying paper on table]. This 
 chart here marked 'Her Bower,' 
 Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a cir- 
 cling wood, 
 A hundred pathways running every- 
 
 way, 
 And then a brook, a bridge ; and after 
 
 that 
 This labyrinthine brickwork maze in 
 
 maze. 
 And then another wood, and in the 
 
 midst 
 A garden and my Rosamund. Look, 
 
 this line — ■ 
 The rest you see is colour'd green — 
 
 but this 
 Draws thro' the chart to her. 
 Becket. This blood-red line? 
 
 Henry. Ay! blood, perchance, ex- 
 cept thou see to her. 
 Becket. And where ,is she ? There 
 
 in her EngUsh nest? 
 Henry. Would God she were — no, 
 here within the city. 
 We take her from her secret bower in 
 
 Anjou 
 And pass her to her secret bower in 
 
 England. 
 She is ignorant of all but that I love 
 her. 
 Becket. My liege, I pray thee let 
 me hence : a widow 
 And orphan child, whom one of thy 
 wild barons — 
 Henry. Ay, ay, but swear to see to 
 
 her in England. 
 Becket. Well, well, I swear, but not 
 
 to please myself. 
 Henry. Whatever come between 
 
 us? 
 Becket. What should come 
 
 Between us, Henry ? 
 
Becket 
 
 351 
 
 Hen^iy. Nay — I know not, Thomas. 
 Becket. What need then? Well — 
 
 whatever come between us. 
 
 [Going] 
 Henrt. a moment ! thou didst help 
 
 me to my throne 
 In Theobald's time, and after by thy 
 
 wisdom 
 Hast kept it firm from shaking; but 
 
 now I, 
 For my realm's sake, myself must be 
 
 the wizard 
 To raise that tempest which will set it 
 
 trembhng 
 Only to base it deeper. I, true son 
 Of Holy Church — no croucher to the 
 
 Gregories 
 That tread the kings their children 
 
 underheel — 
 Must curb her ; and the Holy Father, 
 
 while 
 This Barbarossa butts him from his 
 
 chair, 
 Will need my help — be facile to my 
 
 hands. 
 Now is my time. Yet — lest there 
 
 should be flashes 
 And fulminations from the side of 
 
 Rome, 
 An interdict on England — I will have 
 My young son Henry erown'd the King 
 
 of England, 
 That so the Papal bolt may pass by 
 
 England, 
 As seeming his, not mine, and fall 
 
 abroad. 
 I'll have it done — and now. 
 
 Becket. Surely too young 
 
 Even for this shadow of a crown ; and 
 
 tho' 
 I love him heartily, I can spy already 
 A strain of hard and headstrong in him. 
 
 Say, 
 The Queen should play his kingship 
 
 against thine! 
 Henhy. I will not think so, Thomas. 
 
 Who shall crown him? 
 Canterbury is djring. 
 Becket. Th6 next Canterbury. 
 
 Henry. And who shall he be, my 
 
 friend Thomas? Who? 
 Becket. Name him; the Holy 
 
 Father wiU confirm him. 
 Henry [lays his hand on Becket'3 
 
 shoulder]. Here! 
 Becket. Mock me not. I am not 
 
 even a monk. 
 Thy jest — no more. Why — look — 
 
 is this a sleeve 
 For an archbishop ? 
 Henry. But the arm within 
 
 Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my 
 foes. 
 Becket. A soldier's, not a spiritual 
 
 arm. 
 Henry. I lack a spiritual soldier, 
 Thomas — 
 A man of this world and the next to 
 boot. 
 Becket. There's Gilbert Fohot. 
 Henry. He ! too thin, too thin. 
 
 Thou art the man to fill out the Church 
 
 robe ; 
 Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much 
 for me. 
 Becket. Roger of York. 
 Henry. Roger is Roger of York. 
 
 King, Church, and State to him but 
 
 foils wherein 
 To set" that precious jewel, Roger of 
 
 York. 
 No. 
 
 Becket. Henry of Winchester? 
 Henry. Him who erown'd Stephen — 
 King Stephen's brother ! No ; too royal 
 
 for me. 
 And I'll have no more Anselms. 
 
 Becket. Sire, the business 
 
 Of thy whole kingdom waits me: let 
 me go. 
 Henry. Answer me first. 
 Becket. Then for thy barren jest 
 Take thou mine answer in bare common- 
 place — 
 Nolo episcopari. 
 
 Henry. Ay, but Nolo 
 
 Archiepiscopari, my good friend. 
 Is quite another matter. 
 
 Becket. A more awful one. 
 
 Make me archbishop! Why, my Uege, 
 
 I know 
 Some three or four poor priests a thou- 
 sand times 
 Fitter for this grand function. Me arch- 
 bishop ! 
 God's favour and king's favour might so 
 
 clash 
 That thou and I — That were a jest 
 indeed ! 
 Henry. Thou angerest me, man : I 
 do not jest. 
 
 [Enter Eleanor and Sir Reginald 
 Fitzurse] 
 
 Eleanor [singing]. 
 
 Over I the sweet summer closes, 
 The reign of the roses is done — 
 
 Henry. [To Becket, who is going] 
 Thou shalt not go. I have not 
 ended with thee. 
 
352 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Eleanor [seeing chart on table]. This 
 chart with the red Mne! her bower! 
 whose bower ? 
 
 Hbnkt. The chart is not mine, but 
 Becket's : take it, Thomas. 
 
 Eleanor. Becket ! O — ay — and 
 these chessmen on the floor — the king's 
 crown broken! Becket hath beaten 
 thee again — and thou hast kicked 
 down the board. I know thee of old. 
 
 Henry. True enough, my mind was 
 set upon other matters. 
 
 Eleanor. What matters? State 
 matters? love matters? 
 
 Henry. My love for thee, and 
 thine for me. 
 
 Eleanor. 
 
 Over I the sweet summer closes. 
 The reign of theroses is done ; 
 
 Over and gone with the roses, 
 And over and gone with the sun. 
 
 Here ; but our sun in Aquitaine lasts 
 longer. I would I were in Aquitaine 
 again — your north chiUs me. 
 
 Over ! the sweet summer closes. 
 And never a flower at the close ; 
 
 Over and gone with the roses, 
 And winter again and the snows. 
 
 That was not the way I ended it first — 
 but unsymmetrically, preposterously, 
 illogically, out of passion, without art 
 — • Eke a song of the people. WiU you 
 have it? The last Parthian shaft of a 
 forlorn Cupid at the King's left breast, 
 and all lef t-handedness and under-hand- 
 edness. 
 
 And never a flower at the close. 
 Over and gone with the roses. 
 Not over and gone with the rose. 
 
 True, one rose will outblossom the rest, 
 one rose in a bower. I speak after my 
 fancies, for I am a Troubadour, you 
 know, and won the violet at Toulouse ; 
 but my voice is harsh here, not in tune, 
 a nightingale out of season ; for mar- 
 riage, rose or no rose, has killed the 
 golden violet. 
 
 Becket. Madam, you do ill to scorn 
 wedded love. 
 
 Eleanor. So I do. Louis of France 
 loved me, and I dreamed that I loved 
 Louis of France : and I loved Henry of 
 England, and Henry of England 
 dreamed that he loved me; but the 
 marriage-garland withers even with the 
 putting on, the bright link rusts with 
 the breath of the first after-marriage 
 kiss, the harvest moon is the ripening of 
 
 the harvest, and the honeymoon is the 
 gall of love ; he dies of his honeymoon. 
 I could pity this poor world myself that 
 it is no better ordered. 
 
 Henry. Dead is he, my Queen? 
 What, altogether ? Let me swear nay to 
 that by this cross on thy neck. God's 
 eyes ! what a lovely cross ! what jewels! 
 
 Eleanor. Doth it please you ? Take 
 it and wear it on that hard heart of 
 yours — there. [Gives it to him] 
 
 Henry [puts it on]. On this left 
 breast before so hard a heart, 
 To hide the scar left by thy" Parthian 
 dart. 
 
 Eleanor. Has my simple song set 
 you jingling? Nay, if I took and trans- 
 lated that hard heart into our Provengal 
 facilities, I could so play about it with 
 the rhyme — 
 
 Henry. That the heart were lost in 
 the rhyme and the matter in the metre. 
 May we not pray you. Madam, to spare 
 us the hardness of your facility ? 
 
 Eleanor. The wells of Castaly are 
 not wasted upon the desert. We did 
 but jest. 
 
 Henry. There's no jest on the brows 
 of Herbert there. What is it, Herbert? 
 
 [Enter Herbert of Bosham] 
 
 Herbert. My liege, the good Arch- 
 bishop is no more. 
 
 Henry. Peace to his soul! 
 
 Herbert. I left him with peace on his 
 face — Jhat sweet other- world smile, 
 which wiU be reflected in the spiritual 
 body among the angels. But he longed 
 much to see your Grace and the Chan- 
 cellor ere he past, and his last words 
 were a commendation of Thomas 
 Becket to your Grace as his successor 
 in the archbishoprick. 
 
 Henry. Ha, Becket! thou remem- 
 berest our talk! 
 
 Becket. My heart is full of tears — 
 I have no answer. 
 
 Henry. Well, "well, old men must 
 die, or the world would grow mouldy, 
 would only breed the past again. Come 
 to me to-morrow. Thou hast but to 
 hold out thy hand. Meanwhile the 
 revenues are mine. A-hawking, a^hawk- 
 ing ! If I sit, I grow fat. 
 
 [Leaps over the table, and exit] 
 
 Becket. He did prefer me to the 
 chancellorship. 
 Believing I should ever aid the Church — 
 But have I done it ? He commends me 
 now 
 
Becket 
 
 353 
 
 From out his grave to this arohbishop- 
 rick. 
 
 Heebbht. a dead man's d3dng wish 
 should be of weight. 
 
 Becket. His should. Come with 
 me. Let me learn at full 
 The manner of his death, and all he 
 said. 
 
 [Exeunt Herbert and Becket] 
 
 Eleanor. Pitzurse, that chart with 
 the red line — thou sawest it — her 
 bower. 
 
 FiTZURSE. Eosamund's? 
 
 Eleanor. Ay — there lies the secret 
 of her whereabouts, and the Eling gave 
 it to his Chancellor. 
 
 Fitztjrse. To this son of a London 
 merchant — how your Grace must hate 
 him! 
 
 Eleanor. Hate him? as brave a 
 soldier as Henry and a goodlier man : 
 but thou — dost thou love this Chan- 
 cellor, that thou hast sworn a voluntary 
 allegiance to him? 
 
 Fitztjrse. Not for my love toward 
 him, but because he had the love of the 
 King. How should a baron love a 
 beggar on horseback, with the retinue of 
 three kings behind him, outroyaUing 
 royalty? Besides, he holp the King to 
 break down our castles, for the which I 
 hate him. 
 
 Eleanor. For the which I honour 
 him. Statesman not Churchman he. 
 A great and sound policy that : I could 
 embrace him for it : you could not see 
 the King for the kinglings. 
 
 FiTZURSE. Ay, but he speaks to a 
 noble as tho' he were a churl, and to a 
 ohurl as if he were a noble. 
 
 Eleanor. Pride of the plebeian ! 
 
 Fitztjrse. And this plebeian like to 
 be Archbishop ! 
 
 Eleanor. True, and I have an in- 
 herited loathing of these black sheep of 
 the Papacy. Archbishop? I can see 
 further into a man than our hot-headed 
 Henry, and if there ever come feud 
 between Church and Crown, and I do 
 not then charm this secret out of our 
 loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor. 
 
 Fitztjrse. Last night I followed a 
 woman in the city here. Her face was 
 veiled, but the back methought was 
 Rosamund — his paramour, thy rival. 
 I can feel for thee. 
 
 Eleanor. Thou feel for me ! — para- 
 mour — rival ! King Louis had no para- 
 mours, and I loved him none the more. 
 Henry had many, and I loved him none 
 the less — now neither more nor less — 
 
 not at all ; the cup's empty. I would 
 she were but his paramour, for men tire 
 of their fancies ; but I fear this one 
 fancy hath taken root, and borne blos- 
 som too, and she, whom the King loves 
 indeed, is a power in the State. Rival I 
 
 — ay, and when the King passes, there 
 may come a crash and embroilment as 
 in Stephen's time ; and her children — 
 canst thou not — that secret matter 
 which would heat the King against 
 thee. [Whispers him and he starts] Nay, 
 that is safe with me as with thyself : 
 but canst thou not — thou art drowned 
 in debt — thou shalt have our love, our 
 silence, and our gold — canst thou not 
 
 — if thou light upon her — free me 
 from her? 
 
 FiTZURSE. Well, Madam, I have 
 loved her in my time. 
 
 Eleanor. No, my bear, thou hast 
 not. My Courts of Love would have 
 held thee guiltless of love — the fine at- 
 tractions and repulses, the delicacies, 
 the subtleties. 
 
 FiTZURSE. Madam, I loved accord- 
 ing to the main purpose and intent of 
 nature. 
 
 Eleanor. I warrant thee! thou 
 wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs 
 cracked — enough of this. Follow me 
 this Rosamund day and night, whither- 
 soever she goes ; track her, if thou canst, 
 even into the King's lodging, that I may 
 [clenches her fist] — may at least have 
 my cry against him and her, — and 
 thou in thy way shouldst be jealous of 
 the King, for thou in thy way didst 
 once, what shall I call it, affect her 
 thine own self. 
 
 FiTZURSE. Ay, but the young colt 
 winced and whinnied and flung up her 
 heels ; and then the King came honey- 
 ing about her, and this Becket, her 
 father's friend, like enough staved us 
 from her. 
 
 Eleanor. Us ! 
 
 FiTZURSE. Tfea, by the Blessed Vir- 
 gin! There were more than I buzzing 
 round the blossom — De Tracy — even 
 that flint De Brito. 
 
 Eleanor. Carry her off among you ; 
 run in upon her and devour her, one and 
 all of you ; make her as hateful to her- 
 self and to the King, as she is to me. 
 
 FiTZURSE. I and all would be glad to 
 wreak our spite on the rosetaced minion 
 of the King, and bring her to the level 
 of the dust, so that the King — 
 
 Eleanor. Let her eat it like the ser- 
 pent, and be driven out of her paradise. 
 
354 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene First. — Becket's House in 
 London. Chamber barely furnished. 
 [Beckbt unrobing. Heebert of 
 BosHAM and Servant] 
 
 Servant. Shall I not help your lord- 
 ship to your rest? 
 Becket. Friend, am I so much 
 better than thyself 
 That thou shouldst help me? Thou 
 
 art wearied out 
 With this day's work, get thee to thine 
 
 own bed. 
 Leave me with Herbert, friend. 
 
 [Exit Servant] 
 Help me off, Herbert, with this — and 
 this. 
 Herbert. Was not the people's 
 blessing as we past 
 Heart-oomfort and a balsam to thy 
 blood? 
 Beckbt. The people know their 
 Church a tower of strength, 
 A bulwark against Throne and Baron- 
 age. 
 Too heavy for me, this ; off with it, 
 Herbert ! 
 Herbert. Is it so much heavier 
 
 than thy Chancellor's robe? 
 Becket. No ; but the Chancellor's 
 and the Archbishop's 
 Together more than mortal man can 
 bear. 
 Herbert. Not heavier than thine 
 
 armour at Thoulouse ? 
 Becket. Herbert, Herbert, in my 
 chancellorship 
 I more than once have gone against the 
 Churchv 
 Herbert. To please the King? 
 Becket. Ay, and the King of kings, 
 Or justice ; for it seem'd to me but just 
 The Church should pay her scutage like 
 
 the lords. 
 But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert 
 
 Foliot 
 That I am not the man to be your 
 
 Primate, 
 For Henry could not work a miracle — ■ 
 Make an Archbishop of a soldier? 
 
 Herbert. Ay, 
 
 For Gilbert Foliot held himself the 
 man. 
 Becket. Am I the man? My 
 mother, ere she bore me, 
 Dream' d that twelve stars fell glitter- 
 ing out of heaven 
 Into her bosom. 
 
 Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light, 
 
 The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd 
 
 Into thy making. 
 Becket. And when I was a child, 
 
 The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep. 
 
 Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. 
 Dream, 
 
 Or prophecy, that ? 
 
 Herbert. Well, dream and prophecy 
 
 both. 
 Becket. And when I was of Theo- 
 bald's household, once — 
 
 The good old man would sometimes 
 have his jest — ■ 
 
 He took his mitre off, and set it on me. 
 
 And said, 'My young Archbishop — 
 thou wouldst make 
 
 A stately Archbishop ! ' Jest or prophecy 
 there ? 
 Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. 
 Becket. Am I the man? That 
 rang 
 
 Within my head last night, and when I 
 slept 
 
 Methought I stood in Canterbury Min- 
 ster, 
 
 And spake to the Lord God, and said, 
 ' Lord, 
 
 I have been a lover of wines, and deli- 
 cate meats. 
 
 And secular splendours, and a favourer 
 
 Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder 
 
 Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, 
 and lynxes. 
 
 Am I the man?' And the Lord an- 
 swer'd me, 
 
 ' Thou art the man, and all the more the 
 man.' 
 
 And then I ask'd again, '0 Lord mv 
 God, 
 
 Henry the King hath been my friend, 
 my brother. 
 
 And mine uplifter in this world, and 
 chosen me 
 
 For this thy great archbishoprick, be- 
 lieving 
 
 That I should go against the Church 
 with him. 
 
 And I shall go against him with the 
 Church, 
 
 And I have said no word of this to him : 
 
 Am I the man?' And the Lord an- 
 swer' d me, 
 
 ' Thou art the man, and all the more the 
 man.' 
 
 And thereupon, methought, He drew 
 toward me. 
 
 And smote me down upon the Minster 
 floor. 
 
 I fell. 
 
 Herbert. God make not thee, but 
 thy foesj fall. 
 
Becket 
 
 355 
 
 Becket. I fell. Why fall? Why 
 
 did He smite me? What? 
 Shall I fall off — to please the King 
 
 once more ? 
 Not fl^ht — tho' somehow traitor to the 
 
 King — 
 My truest and mine utmost for the 
 
 Church? 
 Herbert. Thou canst not fall that 
 
 way. Let traitor be ; 
 For how have fought thine utmost for 
 
 the Church, 
 Save from the throne of thine arch- 
 
 bishoprick? 
 And how been made Archbishop hadst 
 
 thou told him, 
 'I mean to fight mine utmost for the 
 
 Church, 
 Against the King ' ? 
 Becket. But dost thou think the 
 
 King 
 Forced mine election? 
 
 Herbert. I do think the King 
 
 Was potent in the election, and why 
 
 not? 
 Why should not Heaven have so in- 
 spired the King? 
 Be comforted. Thou art the man — 
 
 be thou 
 A mightier Anselm. 
 Becket. I do believe thee, then. I 
 
 am the man. 
 And yet I seem appall' d — on such a 
 
 sudden 
 At such an eagle-height I stand and 
 
 see 
 The rift that runs between me and the 
 
 King. 
 I served our Theobald well when I was 
 
 with him ; 
 I served King Henry well as Chancellor ; 
 I am his no more, and I must serve the 
 
 Church. 
 This Canterbury is only less than Rome, 
 And all my doubts I fling from me like 
 
 dust. 
 Winnow and scatter all scruples to the 
 
 wind. 
 And all the puissance of the warrior. 
 And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, 
 And aU the heap'd experiences of life, 
 I east upon the side of Canterbury — 
 Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits 
 With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons 
 
 thro' 
 The random gifts of careless kings, have 
 
 graspt 
 Her livings, her advowsons, granges, 
 
 farms. 
 And goodly acres — we will make her 
 
 whole ; 
 
 Not one rood lost. And for these Royal 
 
 customs. 
 These ancient Royal customs — they 
 
 are Royal, 
 Not of the Church — and let them be 
 
 anathema. 
 And all that speak for them anathema. 
 Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved 
 
 too much. 
 Becket. O Herbert, here 
 
 I gash myself asunder from the King, 
 Tho' leaving each, a wound ; mine own, 
 
 a grief 
 To show the scar for ever — his, a hate 
 Not ever to be heal'd. 
 
 [Enter Rosamund db Clifford, flying 
 from Sir Reginald Fitzursb. 
 Drops her veil] 
 
 Becket. Rosamund de Clifford ! 
 
 Rosamund. Save me, father, hide 
 me ^- they follow me — and I must not 
 be known. 
 
 Becket. Pass in with Herbert there. 
 ■ [Exeunt Rosamund and Her- 
 bert by side door] 
 
 [Enter Pitzubse] 
 
 Fitzursb. The Archbishop ! 
 Becket. Ay ! what wouldst thou, 
 
 Reginald? 
 Fitzursb. Why — why, my lord, I 
 
 foUow'd — foUow'd one — 
 Becket. And then what follows? 
 
 Let me foUow thee. 
 FiTzuHSE. It much imports me .1 
 
 should know her, name. 
 Becket. What her? 
 FiTZURSE. The woman that I fol- 
 
 low'd hither. 
 Becket. Perhaps it may import her 
 
 all as much 
 Not to be known. 
 
 FiTZURSE. And what care I for 
 
 that? 
 Come, come, my lord Archbishop; I 
 
 saw that door 
 Close even now upon the woman. 
 Becket. Well? 
 
 FiTZURSE [making for the door]. Nay, 
 
 let me pass, my lord, for I must 
 
 know. 
 Beckbt. Back, man ! 
 Fitzursb. _ Then tell me who 
 
 and what she is. 
 Becket. Art thou so sure thou fol- 
 
 lowedst anything? 
 Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for 
 
 thine eyes 
 Glare stupid-wild with wine. 
 
356 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 FiTztTESB [making to the door]. I must 
 and wiU. 
 I care not for thy new archbishoprick. 
 Beckbt. Back, man, I tell thee! 
 What! 
 Shall I forget my new archbishoprick 
 And smite thee with my crozier on the 
 
 skull? 
 'Fore God, I am a mightier man than 
 thou. 
 FiTZURSE. It well befits thy new 
 archbishoprick 
 To take the vagabond woman of the 
 
 street 
 Into thine arms ! 
 
 Becket. drunken ribaldry ! 
 
 Out, beast ! out, bear ! 
 
 FiTZTjRSB. I shall remember this. 
 
 Beckbt. Do, and begone ! 
 
 [Exit Fitzuese] 
 
 [Going to the door, sees Db Tracy] 
 
 Tracy, what dost thou here ? 
 
 Db Tracy. My lord, I follow'd 
 
 Reginald Fitzurse. 
 Becket. Follow him out ! 
 De Tracy. I shall remember this 
 
 Discourtesy. [Exit] 
 
 Becket. Do. These be those baron- 
 brutes 
 That havock'd all the land in Stephen's 
 
 day. 
 Rosamund de Clifford. 
 
 [Re-enter Rosamund and Herbert] 
 
 RosAMTJND. Here am I. 
 
 Becket. Why here? 
 
 We gave thee to the charge of John of 
 
 Salisbury, 
 To pass thee to thy secret bower to- 
 morrow. 
 Wast thou not told to keep thyself from 
 
 sight ? 
 Rosamund. Poor bird of passage! 
 
 so I was ; but, father, 
 They say that you are wise in winged 
 
 things, 
 And know the ways of Nature. Bar the 
 
 bird 
 From following the fled summer — a 
 
 chink — he's out, 
 Gone ! And there stole into the city a 
 
 breath 
 FuU of the meadows, and it minded me 
 Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and the 
 
 walks 
 Where I could move at pleasure, and I 
 
 thought 
 Lo ! I must out or die. 
 
 Becket. Or out and die. 
 
 And what hast thou to do with this 
 
 Fitzurse? 
 
 Rosamund. Nothing. He sued my 
 hand. I shook at him. 
 He found me once alone. Nay — nay 
 
 I cannot 
 Tell you : my father drove him and his 
 
 friends, 
 De Tracy and De Brito, from our castle. 
 I was but fourteen and an April then. 
 I heard him swear revenge. 
 
 Beckbt. Why will you court it 
 
 By self -exposure? flutter out at night? 
 
 Make it so hard to save a moth from the 
 
 flre? 
 
 Rosamund. I have saved many of 
 
 'em. You catch 'em, so. 
 
 Softly, and fling them out to the free 
 
 air. 
 They burn themselves within-dooT. 
 
 Becket. , Our good John 
 
 Must speed you to your bower at once. 
 
 The child 
 Is there already. 
 
 Rosamund. Yes — the child — the 
 child — 
 O rare, a whole long day of open field. 
 Becket. Ay, but you go disguised. 
 Rosamund. O rare again ! 
 
 We'U baffle them, I warrant. What 
 
 shall it be ? 
 I'll go as a nun. 
 Becket. No. 
 
 Rosamund. What, not good enough 
 Even to play at nun? 
 
 Becket. Dan John with a nun, 
 
 That Map, and these new railers at 
 
 the Church 
 May plaister his clean name with scur- 
 rilous rhymes ! 
 No! 
 Go like a monk, cowUng and clouding 
 
 up 
 That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the 
 
 squint 
 Of lust and glare of malice. Good 
 night ! good night ! 
 Rosamund. Father, I am so tender 
 to all hardness ! 
 Nay, father, first thy blessing. 
 Beckbt. Wedded? 
 
 RosaVund. Father! 
 
 Beckbt. Well, well ! I ask no more. 
 
 Heaven bless thee ! hence ! 
 Rosamund. O holy father, when 
 thou seest him next. 
 Commend me to thy friend. 
 Becket. What friend? 
 
 Rosamund. The King. 
 
 Becket. Herbert, take out a score 
 of armed men 
 To guard this bird of passage to her 
 cage; 
 
Becket 
 
 357 
 
 And watch Pitzurse, and if he follow 
 thee, 
 
 Make him thy prisoner. I am Chancel- 
 lor yet. 
 
 [Exeunt Herbert and Rosa- 
 mund] 
 
 Poor soul ! poor soul ! 
 
 My friend, the King! ... O thou 
 (Jreat Seal of England, 
 
 Given me by my dear friend the King 
 of England — 
 
 We long have wrought together, thou 
 and I — 
 
 Now must I send thee as a common 
 friend 
 
 To tell the King, my friend, I am against 
 him. 
 
 We are friends no more : he will say 
 that, not I. 
 
 The worldly bond between us is dis- 
 solved, 
 
 Not yet the love : can I be under him 
 
 As Chancellor? as Archbishop over 
 him? 
 
 Go therefore like a friend slighted by 
 one 
 
 That hath cUmb'd up to nobler com- 
 pany. 
 
 Not slighted — aU but moan'd for : 
 thou must go. 
 
 I have not dishonour'd thee — I trust I 
 have not ; 
 
 Not mangled justice. May the hand 
 that next 
 
 Inherits thee be but as true to thee 
 
 As mine hath been ! O my dear friend, 
 the King ! 
 
 brother ! — I may come to martyr- 
 
 dom. 
 
 1 am martyr in myself already. — Her- 
 
 bert! 
 Herbert [re-entering]. My lord, the 
 
 town is quiet, and the moon 
 Divides the whole long street with light 
 
 and shade. 
 No footfall — no Fitzurse. We have 
 
 seen her home. 
 Becket. The hog hath tumbled 
 
 himself into some comer. 
 Some ditch, to snore away his drunken- 
 ness 
 Into the sober headache, — Nature's 
 
 moral 
 Against excess. Let the Great Seal be 
 
 sent 
 Back to the King to-morrow. 
 
 Herbert. Must that be? 
 
 The King may rend the bearer Umb 
 
 from Umb. 
 Think on it again. 
 Becket. Against the moral excess 
 
 No physical ache, but failure it may be 
 Of all we aim'd at. John of Salisbury 
 Hath often laid a cold hand on my 
 
 heats. 
 And Herbert hath rebuked me even 
 
 , now. 
 I wiU be wise and wary, not the soldier 
 As Foliot swears it. — John, and out of 
 
 breath ! 
 
 [Enter John of Salisbury] 
 
 John of Salisbury. Thomas, thou 
 
 wast not happy taking charge 
 Of this wild Rosamund to please the 
 
 King, 
 Nor am I happy having charge of her — 
 The included Danae has escaped again 
 Her tower, and her Acrisius — • where to 
 
 seek? 
 I have been about the city. 
 
 Becket. Thou wilt find her 
 
 Back in her lodging. Go with her — at 
 
 once — 
 To-night -:- my men wiU guard you to 
 
 the gates. 
 Be sweet to her, she has many enemies. 
 Send the Great_ Seal by daybreak. 
 
 Both, good night ! 
 
 Scene Second. — Street in Northamp- 
 ton leading to the Castle. 
 
 [Eleanor's Retainers and Becket's 
 Rbtaihe-rs fighting. Snier Eleanor 
 and Becket from opposite streets] 
 
 Eleanor. Peace, fools ! 
 
 Becket. Peace, friends ! what idle 
 
 brawl is this? 
 Retainer op Becket. They said — 
 
 her Grace's people — thou wast 
 
 found — 
 Liars 1 I shame to quote 'em — caught, 
 
 my lord. 
 With a wanton in thy lodging — Hell 
 
 requite 'em ! 
 Retainer of Eleanor. My liege, 
 
 the Lord Fitzurse reported this 
 In passing the Castle even now. 
 
 Retainer of Becket. And then 
 
 they mock'd us and we fell upon 
 
 'em. 
 For we would live and die for thee, my 
 
 lord, 
 However kings and queens may frown 
 
 on thee. 
 Becket. [To his Retainers] Go, go 
 
 — no more of this ! 
 Eleanor. [To her Retainers] 
 
 Away ! — [Exeunt Retainers] 
 
 Fitzurse — • 
 
358 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Beckbt. Nay, let him be. 
 Eleanor. No, no, my Lord 
 
 Archbishop, 
 'Tis known you are midwinter to all 
 
 women. 
 But often in your chancellorship you 
 
 served 
 The foUies of the King. 
 
 Becket. No, not these follies ! 
 
 Eleanor. My lord, Fitzurse beheld 
 
 her in your lodging. 
 Becket. Whom? 
 ELEAifOR. Well — you know — the 
 
 minion, Rosamund. 
 Becket. He had good eyes ! 
 Eleanor. Then hidden in the street 
 He watch' d her pass with John of Salis- 
 bury 
 And heard her cry ' Where is this bower 
 of mine?' 
 Becket. Good ears too ! 
 Eleanor. You are going to the 
 Castle, 
 Will you subscribe the customs ? 
 
 Becket. I leave that, 
 
 Knowing how much you reverence Holy 
 
 Church, 
 My liege, to your conjecture. 
 
 Eleanor. I and mine — 
 
 And many a baron holds along with 
 
 me — 
 Are not so much at feud with Holy 
 
 Church 
 But we might take yoiu" side against the 
 
 customs — 
 So that you grant me one slight favour. 
 Becket. What? 
 
 Eleanor. A sight of that same chart 
 which Henry gave you 
 With the red line — 'her bower.' 
 
 Becket. And to what end? 
 
 Eleanor. That Church must scorn 
 herself whose fearful Priest 
 Sits winking at the hcense of a king, 
 Altho' we grant when kings are dan- 
 gerous 
 The Church must play into the hands 
 
 of kings ; 
 Look ! I would move this wanton from 
 
 his sight 
 And take the Church's danger on my- 
 self. 
 Becket. Tor which she should be 
 
 duly grateful. 
 Eleanor. True ! 
 
 Tho' she that binds the bond, herself 
 
 should see 
 That kings are faithful to their marriage 
 vow. 
 Becket. Ay, Madam, and queens 
 also. 
 
 Eleanor. And queens also ! 
 What is your drift ? 
 
 Becket. My drift is to the Castle, 
 
 Where I shall meet the Barons and my 
 
 King. [Exit] 
 
 [De Broc, De Tracy, Db Brito, 
 
 De Morville 
 
 To the Castle? 
 
 Ay! 
 Stir up the King, the 
 
 Eleanor. 
 
 De Broc. 
 
 Eleanor. 
 
 Lords ! 
 
 Set all on Are against him ! 
 De Brito. Ay, good Madam ! 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 Eleanor. Fool! I will make thee 
 hateful to thy King. 
 Churl! I will have thee frighted into 
 
 France, 
 And I shall live to trample on thy grave. 
 
 Scene Third. — The Hall in Northampton 
 Castle. 
 
 [On one side of the stage the doors of an 
 inner Council-chamber, half-open. 
 At the bottom, the great doors of the 
 Hall. Roger Archbishop op 
 York, Foliot Bishop op London, 
 Hilary of Chichester, Bishop 
 OP Hereford, Richard de Hast- 
 ings {Grand Prior of Templars), 
 Philip de Eleemosyna (the Pope's 
 Almoner), and others. De Beoc, 
 Fitzurse, Db Brito, De Mob- 
 viLLE, De Tracy, and other Babons 
 assembled — a table before them. 
 John of Oxford, President of the 
 Council.] 
 
 [Enter Becket and Herbert op 
 Bosham] 
 
 Becket. Where is the King? 
 Roger of York. Gone hawking on 
 
 the Nene, 
 His heart so gall'd with thine ingrati- 
 tude. 
 He will not see thy face till thou hast 
 
 sign'd 
 These ancient laws and customs of the 
 
 realm. 
 Thy sending back the Great Seal mad- 
 
 den'd Mm, 
 He all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes 
 
 away. 
 Take heed, lest he destroy thee utterly. 
 Becket. Then shalt thou step into 
 
 my place and sign. 
 
Becket 
 
 359 
 
 Roger op York. Didst thou not 
 
 promise Henry to obey 
 These ancient laws and customs of the 
 
 realm? 
 Becket. Saving the honour of my 
 
 order — ay. 
 Customs, traditions, — clouds that come 
 
 and go ; 
 The customs of the Church are Peter's 
 
 rock. 
 Roger OF York.' Saving thine order ! 
 
 But King Henry sware 
 That, saving his King's kingship, he 
 I would grant thee 
 The crown itself. Saving thine order, 
 
 Thomas, 
 Is black and white at once, and comes 
 
 to naught. 
 bolster'd up with stubbornness and 
 
 pride. 
 Wilt thou destroy the Church in fight- 
 ing for it. 
 And bring us aU to shame ? 
 
 Becket. Roger of York, 
 
 When I and thou were youths in "Theo- 
 bald's house, 
 Twice did thy malice and thy calumnies 
 Exile me from the face of Theobald. 
 Now I am Canterbury and thou art 
 
 York. 
 Roger or York. And is not York 
 
 the peer of Canterbury ? 
 Did not Great Gregory bid St. Austin 
 
 here 
 Found two arohbishopricks, London and 
 
 York? 
 Becket. What came of that? The 
 
 first archbishop fled, 
 And York lay barren for a hundred 
 
 years. 
 Why, by this rule, FoUot may claim the 
 
 pall 
 For London too. 
 
 FoLioT. And. with good reason too. 
 For London had a temple and a priest 
 When Canterbviry hardly bore a name. 
 Becket. The pagan temple of a 
 
 pagan Rome ! 
 The heathen priesthood of a heathen 
 
 creed ! 
 Thou goest beyond thyself in petulanoy ! 
 Who made thee London? Who, but 
 
 Canterbury? 
 John of Oxford. Peace, peace, my 
 
 lords ! these customs are no longer 
 As Canterbury calls them, wandering 
 
 clouds. 
 But by the King's command are written 
 
 down. 
 And by the King's command I, John of 
 
 Oxford, 
 
 The President of this Council, read 
 them. 
 Becket. Read ! 
 
 John of Oxford [reads]. 'AU causes 
 of advowsons and presentations, whether 
 between laymen or clerics, shall be tried 
 in the King's court.' 
 
 Becket. But that I cannot sign : for 
 that would drag 
 The cleric before the civil judgment- 
 seat. 
 And on a matter wholly spiritual. 
 
 John of Oxford. 'If any cleric be 
 accused of felony, the Church shall not 
 protect him ; but he shall answer to the 
 summons of the King's court to be tried 
 therein.' 
 
 Becket. And that I cannot sign. 
 Is not the Church the visible Lord on 
 
 earth? 
 Shall hands that do create the Lord be 
 
 bound 
 Behind the back like laymen-criminals? 
 The Lord be judged again by Pilate? 
 No! 
 John of Oxford. 'When a bishop- 
 rick falls vacant, the King, tiU another 
 be appointed, shall receive the revenues 
 thereof.' 
 
 Becket. And that I c^not sign. 
 Is the King's treasury 
 A fit place fpr the monies of the Church, 
 That be the patrimony of the poor ? 
 
 John of Oxford. 'And when the 
 vacancy is to be filled up, the King shall 
 summon the chapter of that church to 
 court, and the election shall be made in 
 the Chapel Royal, with the consent of 
 our lord the Bang, and by the advice of 
 his Government.' 
 
 Becket. And that I cannot sign: 
 for that would make 
 Our island-Church a schism from Chris- 
 tendom, 
 And weight down all free choice beneath 
 the throne. 
 FoLioT. And was thine own election 
 so canonical, . 
 Good father? 
 
 Becket. If it were not, Gilbert 
 Foliot, 
 I mean to cross the sea to France, and 
 
 lay 
 My crozier in the Holy Father's hands, 
 And bid him re-create me, Gilbert 
 Foliot. 
 FoLiOT. Nay; by another of these 
 customs thou 
 Wilt not be sufler'd so to cross the seas 
 Without the license of our lord the King. 
 Becket. That, too, I cannot sign. 
 
360 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [De Bboc, De Bbito, De Tract, 
 
 FiTZTTRSE, De Morville, start 
 
 up — o clash of swords] 
 
 Lords. Sign and obey 1 
 
 Becket. My lords, is this a combat 
 
 or a council? 
 
 Are ye my masters, or my lord the 
 
 King? 
 Ye make this clashing for no love o' 
 
 the customs 
 Or constitutions, or whate'er ye call 
 
 them, 
 But that there be among you those that 
 
 hold 
 Lands reft from Canterbury. 
 
 De Broc. And mean to keep them, 
 In spite of thee ! 
 
 Lords [shouting]. Sign, and obey the 
 
 crown ! 
 Becket. The crown? Shall I do 
 less for Canterbury 
 Than Henry for the crown? King Ste- 
 phen gave 
 Many of the crown lands to those that 
 
 helpt him ; 
 So did Matilda, the King's mother. 
 
 Mark, 
 When Henry came into his own again. 
 Then he took back not only Stephen's 
 
 gifts. 
 But his own mother's, lest the crown 
 
 should be 
 Shorn of ancestral splendour. This did 
 
 Henry. 
 Shall I do less for mine own Canterbury ? 
 And thou, De Broc, that boldest Salt- 
 wood Castle — 
 De Broc. And mean to hold it, 
 
 or — 
 Becket. To have my Hfe. 
 
 De Broc The King is quick to 
 anger ; if thou anger Mm, 
 We wait but the King's word to strike 
 thee dead. 
 Becket. Strike, and I die the death 
 of martyrdom ; 
 Strike, and ye set these customs by my 
 
 death 
 Ringing their own death-knell thro' all 
 the realm. 
 Herbert. And I can tell you, lords, 
 ye are all as like 
 To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket' s 
 
 heart 
 As find a hare's form in a lion's cave. 
 John op Oxford. Ay, sheathe your 
 swords, ye will displease the King. 
 De Broc. Why down then thou ! 
 but an he come to Saltwood, 
 By God's death, thou shalt stick him 
 like a calf ! [Sheathing his sword] 
 
 Hilary. O my good lord, I do en- 
 treat thee — sign. 
 Save the King's honour here before Ms 
 
 barons. 
 He hath sworn that thou shouldst sign, 
 
 and now but shuns 
 The semblance of defeat ; I have heard 
 
 him say 
 He means no more ; so if thou sign, my 
 
 lord. 
 That were but as the shadow of an 
 
 assent. 
 Becket. 'Twould seem too hke the 
 
 substance, if I sign'd. 
 Philip de Eleemosyna. My lord, 
 
 thine ear! I have the ear of the 
 
 Pope. 
 As thou hast honour for the Pope our 
 
 master. 
 Have pity on him, sorely prest u;pon 
 By the fierce Emperor and his Antipope. 
 Thou knowest he was forced to fly to 
 
 Prance ; 
 He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify 
 Thy King; for if thou go against thy 
 
 King, 
 Then must he likewise go against thy 
 
 King, 
 And then thy King might join the Anti- 
 pope, 
 And that would shake the Papacy as it 
 
 stands. 
 Besides, thy King swore to our cardinals 
 He meant no harm nor damage to the 
 
 Church. 
 Smooth thou his pride — thy signing is 
 
 but form ; 
 Nay, and should harm come of it, it is 
 
 the Pope 
 Win be to blame — not thou. Over and 
 
 over 
 He told me thou shouldst pacify the 
 
 King, 
 Lest there be battle between Heaven 
 
 and Earth, 
 And Earth should get the better — for 
 
 the time. 
 Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou 
 
 sign? 
 Becket. Have I the orders of the 
 
 Holy Father? 
 Philip db Eleemostna. Orders, my 
 
 lord — why, no ; for what am I? 
 The secret whisper of the Holy Father. 
 Thou, that hast been a statesman, 
 
 couldst thou always 
 Blurt thy free mind to the air? 
 
 Becket. If Rome be feeble, then 
 
 should I be firm. 
 Philip. Take it not that way — 
 
 balk not the Pope's wiE, 
 
Becket 
 
 361 
 
 When lie hath shaken off the Emperor, 
 He heads the Church against the King 
 with thee. 
 Richard de Hastings [kneeling]. 
 Beoket I am the oldest of the 
 Templars ; 
 I knew thy father ; he would be mine 
 
 age 
 Had he lived now ; think of me as thy 
 
 father ! 
 Behold thy father kneeling to thee, 
 
 Beoket. 
 Submit; I promise thee on my salva^ 
 
 tion 
 That thou wilt hear no more o' the 
 customs. 
 Beoket. What ! 
 Hath Henry told thee? hast thou talk' d 
 with him? 
 Another Templar [kneeling]. Father, 
 I am the youngest of the Templars, 
 Look on me as I were thy bodily son. 
 For, like a son, I lift my hands to 
 thee. 
 Philip. Wat thou hold out for ever, 
 Thomas Becket? 
 Dost thou not hear ? 
 Becket [signs]. Wby — there then 
 — there — I sign. 
 And swear to obey the customs. 
 
 FoLiOT. Is it thy will. 
 
 My lord Archbishop, that we too should 
 sign? 
 Becket. O ay, by that canonical 
 obedience 
 Thou still hast owed thy father, Gilbert 
 Poliot. 
 FoLiOT. Loyally and with good 
 
 faith, my lord Archbishop? 
 Becket. O ay, with all that loyalty 
 and good faith 
 Thou stiU hast shown thy primate, 
 Gilbert Foliot. 
 
 [Becket draws apart with Her- 
 bert] 
 Herbert, Herbert, have I betray'd the 
 
 Church? 
 rU have the paper back — blot out my 
 name. 
 Herbert. Too late, my lord : you 
 
 see they are signing there. 
 Becket. False to myself — it is the 
 will of God 
 To break me, prove me nothing of my- 
 self ! 
 This Almoner hath tasted Henry's gold. 
 The cardinals have finger' d Henry's 
 
 gold. 
 And Rome is venal ev'n to rottenness. 
 I see it, I see it. 
 I am no soldier, as he said — at least 
 
 No leader. Herbert, tiU I hear from 
 
 the Pope 
 I will suspend myself from all my func- 
 tions. 
 If fast and prayer, the lacerating 
 
 scourge — • 
 FonoT [from the table]. My lord 
 
 Archbishop, thou hast yet to seal. 
 Beoket. First, FoUot, let me see 
 
 what I have sign'd. 
 
 [Goes to the table] 
 What, this ! and this ! — what ! new 
 
 and old together ! 
 Seal? If a seraph shouted from the 
 
 sun, 
 And bade me seal against the rights of 
 
 the Church, 
 I would anathematise him. I wiU not 
 
 seal. [Exit with Herbert] 
 
 [Enter King Henry] 
 
 Hbnht. Where's Thomas? hath he 
 sign'd? show me the papers ! 
 
 Sign'd and not seal'd ! How's that? 
 John op Oxford. He would not seal. 
 
 And when he sign'd, his face was stormy- 
 red — 
 
 Shame, wrath, I know not what. He 
 sat down there 
 
 And dropt it in his Hands, and then a 
 paleness, 
 
 Like the wan twilight after sunset, crept 
 
 Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd, 
 
 'False to myseU! It is the will of God ! ' 
 Henry. God's will be what it will, 
 the man shall seal. 
 
 Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's 
 son — 
 
 Nay, if I cannot break him as the pre- 
 late, 
 
 I'U crush him as the subject. Send for 
 him back. [Sits on his throne] 
 
 Barons and bishops of our realm of Eng- 
 land, 
 
 After the nineteen winters of King 
 Stephen — 
 
 A reign which was no reign, when none 
 could sit 
 
 By his own hearth in peace ; when mur- 
 der common 
 
 As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, 
 hadfill'd 
 
 All things with blood ; when every door- 
 way blush' d, 
 
 Dash'd red with that unhaUow'd pass- 
 over ; 
 
 When every baron ground his blade in 
 blood ; 
 
 The household dough was kneaded up 
 with blood ; 
 
362 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The mill wheel turn'd in blood; the 
 
 wholesome plow 
 Lay rusting in the fmrow's yellow 
 
 weeds, 
 Till famine dwarf t the race — I came, 
 
 your King ! 
 Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the 
 
 East, 
 In mine own hall, and sucking thro' 
 
 fools' ears 
 The flatteries of corruption — went 
 
 abroad 
 Thro' all my counties, spied my people's 
 
 ways; 
 Yea, heard the churl against the baron 
 
 — yea. 
 And did him justice ; sat in mine own 
 
 courts 
 Judging my judges, that had found a 
 
 King 
 Who ranged confusions, made the 
 
 twihght day. 
 And struck a shape from out the vague, 
 
 and law 
 From madness. And the event — our 
 
 fallows till'd, 
 Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm 
 
 again. 
 So far my course, albeit not glassy- 
 smooth, 
 Had prosper'd in the main, but sud- 
 denly 
 Jarr'd on this rook. A cleric violated 
 The daughter of his host, and murder'd 
 
 him. 
 Bishops — York, London, Chichester, 
 
 Westminster — 
 Ye haled this tonsured devil into your 
 
 courts ; 
 But since your canon wiU not let you 
 
 take 
 Life for a life, ye but degraded him 
 Where I had hang'd him. What doth 
 
 hard murder care 
 For degradation? and that made me 
 
 muse, 
 Being bounden by my coronation oath 
 To do men justice. Look to it, your 
 
 own selves ! 
 Say that a cleric murder'd an arch- 
 bishop. 
 What could ye do ? Degrade, imprison 
 
 him — 
 Not death for death. 
 
 John op Oxford. But I, my liege, 
 
 could swear. 
 To death for death. 
 
 Henry. And, looking thro' my reign, 
 I found a hundred ghastly murders done 
 By men, the scum and offal of the 
 
 Church ; 
 
 Then, glancing thro' the story of this 
 realm, 
 
 I came on certain wholesome usages, 
 
 Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's day, 
 
 Good royal customs — hlc/d them writ- 
 ten fair 
 
 For John of Oxford here to read to 
 you. 
 John or Oxford. And I can easily 
 swear to these as being 
 
 The King's will and God's will and 
 justice ; yet 
 
 I could but read a part to-day, be- 
 cause — 
 FiTZURSE. Because my lord of Can- 
 terbury — 
 De Tracy. Ay, 
 
 This lord of Canterbury ^- 
 
 De Brito. As is his wont 
 
 Too much of late whene'er your royal 
 rights 
 
 Are mooted in our councils — 
 
 FiTZURSE. — made an uproar. 
 
 Henry. And Beeket had my bosom 
 on aU this ; 
 
 If ever man by bonds of gratefulness — 
 
 I raised him from the puddle of the 
 ■ gutter, 
 
 I made him porcelain from the clay of 
 the city — 
 
 Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' 
 love of him. 
 
 Hoped, were he chosen archbishop. 
 Church and Crown, 
 
 Two sisters gliding in an equal dance. 
 
 Two rivers gently flowing side by 
 side — 
 
 But, no ! 
 
 The bird that moults sings the same 
 song again. 
 
 The snake that sloughs comes out a 
 snake again. 
 
 Snake — ay, but he that lookt a fangless 
 one, 
 
 Issues a venomous adder. 
 
 For he, when having dofft the Chan- 
 cellor's robe — 
 
 Flung the Great Seal of England in my 
 face — 
 
 Claim'd some of our crown lands for 
 Canterbury — 
 
 My comrade, boon companion, my eo- 
 reveller. 
 
 The master of his master, the King's 
 king. — 
 
 God's eyes ! I had meant to make him 
 all but king. 
 
 Chancellor- Archbishop, he might well 
 have sway'd 
 
 AU England under Henry, the young 
 King, 
 
Hecket 
 
 sea 
 
 When I was hence. What did the 
 
 traitor say ? 
 False to himself, but ten-fold false to 
 
 me! 
 The wiU of God — why, then it is my 
 
 wiU — 
 Is he coming? 
 Messenger [entering]. With a crowd 
 of worshippers. 
 And holds his cross before him thro' 
 
 the crowd, 
 As one that puts himself in sanctuary. 
 Henry. His cross ! 
 Roger of York. His cross ! I'll 
 front him, cross to cross. 
 
 [Exit Roger or York] 
 Henry. His cross ! it is the traitor 
 that imputes 
 Treachery to his King ! 
 It is not safe for me to look upon him. 
 Away — with me ! 
 
 [Goes in with his Barons to the 
 Council-Chamher, the door of 
 which is left open] 
 
 [Enter Beckbt, holding his cross of silver 
 before him. The Bishops come 
 rour^ him] 
 
 Hereford. The King wiU not abide 
 thee with thy cross. 
 Permit me, my good lord, to bear it for 
 
 thee, 
 Being thy chaplain. 
 Beckbt. No : it must protect me. 
 Herbert. As once he bore the stand- 
 ard of the Angles, 
 So now he bears the standard of the 
 
 FoLiOT. I am the Dean of the 
 province : let me bear it. 
 Make not thy King a traitorous mur- 
 derer. 
 
 Becket. Did not your barons draw 
 their swords against me? 
 
 [Enter Roger op York, with his cross, 
 advancing to Becket] 
 
 Beckbt. Wherefore dost thou pre- 
 sume to bear thy cross, 
 
 Against the solemn ordinance from 
 Rome, 
 
 Out of thy province ? 
 Roger of York. Why dost thou 
 presume, 
 
 Arm'd with thy cross, to come before 
 the King? 
 
 If Canterbury bring his cross to court. 
 
 Let York bear his to mate with Canter- 
 bury. 
 
 Foliot [seizing hold of Bboket's 
 cross]. Nay, nay, iny lord, thou 
 must not brave the mng. 
 Nay, let me have it. I wiU have it ! 
 JBbcket. Away ! 
 
 [Flinging him off] 
 FoLioT. He fasts, they say, tms 
 mitred Hercules ! 
 He fast! is that an arm of fast? My 
 
 lord, 
 Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone 
 
 along with thee ; 
 But thou the shepherd hast betray'd the 
 
 And thou art perjured, and thou wilt 
 
 not seal. 
 As Chancellor thou wast against the 
 
 Church, 
 Now as Archbishop goest against the 
 
 King; 
 For, Uke a fool, thou knowst no middle 
 
 way. 
 Ay, ay ! but art thou stronger than the 
 
 King? 
 Becket. Strong — not in mine own 
 
 self, but Heaven ; true 
 To either function, holding it ; and thou 
 Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify thy 
 
 flesh. 
 Not spirit — thou remainest Gilbert 
 
 Foliot, 
 A worldly follower of the worldly strong. 
 I, bearing this great ensign, make it 
 
 clear 
 Under what Prince I fight. 
 
 Foliot. My lord of York, 
 
 Let us go in to the Council, where our 
 
 bishops 
 And our great lords wiE sit in judgment 
 
 on him. 
 Becket. Sons sit in judgment on 
 
 their father ! — then 
 The spire of Holy Church may prick the 
 
 graves — 
 Her crypt among the stars. Sign? 
 
 seal? I promised 
 The King to obey these customs, not 
 
 yet written. 
 Saving mine order ; true too, that when 
 
 written 
 I sign'd them — being a fool, as Foliot 
 
 call'd me. 
 I hold not by my signing. Get ye 
 
 hence, 
 TeU what I say to the King. 
 
 [Exeunt Hereford, Foliot, and 
 other Bishops] 
 Roger of York. The Church 
 
 will hate thee. [Exit] 
 
 Becket. Serve my best friend and 
 
 make him my worst foe: 
 
364 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Fight for the Church, and set the Church 
 agamst me ! 
 Hekbebt. To be honest is to set all 
 knaves against thee. 
 Ah ! Thomas, excommunicate them all ! 
 Hebefoed [re-entering]. I cannot 
 brook the turmoil thou hast raised. 
 I would, my lord Thomas of Canter- 
 bury, 
 Thou wert plain Thomas and not Can- 
 terbury, 
 Or that thou wouldst deliver Canterbury 
 To our King's hands again, and be at 
 peace. 
 Hilary [re-entering]. For hath not 
 thine ambition set the Church 
 This day between the hammer and the 
 
 anvil — 
 Fealty to the King, obedience to thy- 
 self? > 
 Hebbebt. What say the bishops? 
 Hilary. Some have pleaded for 
 him. 
 But the King rages — most are with the 
 
 King ; 
 And some are reeds, that one time sway 
 
 to the cmrent. 
 And to the wind another. But we hold 
 Thou art forsworn; and no forsworn 
 
 Archbishop 
 Shall helm the Chm:ch. We therefore 
 
 place ourselves 
 Under the shield and safeguard of the 
 
 Pope, 
 And cite thee to appear before the Pope, 
 And answer thine accusers. . . . Art 
 thou deaf? 
 Becket. I hear you. 
 
 [Clash of arms] 
 Hilary. Dost thou hear those 
 
 others ? 
 Becket. Ay ! 
 
 Roger op Yobk [re-entering]. The 
 King's 'God's eyes!' come now 
 so thick and fast. 
 We fear that he may reave thee of 
 
 thine own. 
 Come on, come on ! it is not fit for us 
 To see the proud Archbishop mutilated. 
 Say that he bUnd thee and tear out thy 
 tongue. 
 Becket. So be it. He begins at top 
 with me : 
 They crucified St. Peter downward. 
 
 Roger of York. Nay, 
 
 But for their sake who stagger betwixt 
 
 thine 
 Appeal, and Henry's anger, yield. 
 Becket. Hence, Satan! 
 
 [Exit RoGBH OF York] 
 FiTztTRSE [re-entering]. My lord, the 
 
 King demands three hundred 
 marks. 
 Due from his castles of Berkhamstead 
 
 and Eye 
 When thou thereof wast warden. 
 
 Becket. TeU the King 
 
 I spent thrice, that in fortifjang his 
 castles. 
 De Tracy [re-entering]. My lord, the 
 King demands seven hundred 
 marks. 
 Lent at the siege of Thoulouse by the 
 King. 
 Becket. I led seven hundred knights 
 
 and fought his wars. 
 De Brito [re-entering]. My lord, the 
 King demands five hundred marks, 
 Advanced thee at his instance by the 
 
 Jews, 
 For which the King was bound secmty. 
 Becket. I thought it was a gift; I 
 thought it was a gift. 
 
 [Enter Lord Leicester, followed by 
 Barons and Bishops] 
 
 Leicester. My lord, I come un- 
 willingly. The King 
 Demands a strict account of^U those 
 
 revenues 
 From all the vacant sees and abbacies. 
 Which came into thy hands when Chan- 
 cellor. 
 Becket. How much might that 
 
 amount to, my lord Leicester? 
 Leicester. Some thirty — forty 
 
 thousand silver marks. 
 Becket. Are theSe your customs? 
 O my good lord Leicester, 
 The King and I were brothers. All I 
 
 had 
 I lavish'd for the glory of the King ; 
 I shone from him, for him, his glory, his 
 Reflection : now the glory of the Church 
 Hath swaUow'd up the glory of the 
 
 King ; 
 I am his no more, but hers. Grant ma 
 
 one day 
 To ponder these demands. 
 
 Leiobsteb. Hear first thy sentence I 
 The King and all his lords — 
 
 Becket. Son, flcrst hear me ! 
 
 Leicester. Nay, nay, canst thou, 
 that boldest thine estates 
 In fee and barony of the Bang, deoUne 
 The judgment of the King ? 
 
 Becket. The King ! I hold 
 
 Nothing in fee and barony of the King. 
 Whatever the Church owns — she holds 
 
 it in 
 Free and perpetual alms, unsubjeet to 
 One earthly sceptre. 
 
Becket 
 
 365 
 
 Leicester. Nay, but hear thy judg- 
 ment. 
 The King and all his barons — 
 
 Becket. Judgment ! Barons ! 
 
 Who but the bridegroom dares to judge 
 
 the bride, 
 Or he the bridegroom may appoint? 
 
 Not he 
 That is not of the house, but from the 
 
 street 
 Stain' d with the mire thereof. 
 
 I had been so true 
 To Henry and mine office that the Bang 
 Would throne me in the great Arch- 
 
 bishopriok : 
 And I, that knew mine own infirmity. 
 For the King's pleasure rather than 
 
 God's cause 
 Took it upon me — err'd thro' love of 
 
 him. 
 Now therefore God from me withdraws 
 
 Himself, 
 And the King too. 
 
 What ! forty thousand marks ! 
 Why thou, the King, the Pope, the 
 
 Saints, the world. 
 Know that when made Archbishop I 
 
 was freed, 
 Before the Prince and chief Justiciary, 
 From every bond and debt and obliga- 
 tion 
 Inourr'd as Chancellor. 
 
 Hear me, son. 
 
 As gold 
 Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel 
 
 Cain, 
 The soul the body, and the Church the 
 
 Throne, 
 I charge thee, upon pain of mine anath- 
 ema. 
 That thou obey, not me, but God in me, 
 Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand 
 By the King's censure, make my cry to 
 
 the Pope, 
 By whom I will be judged ; refer myself. 
 The King, these customs, aU the Chtirch, 
 
 to him. 
 And under his authority — I depart. 
 
 [Ooing] 
 [Leicestbb looks at him doubt- 
 ingly] 
 Am I a prisoner? 
 
 Lbicestek. By St. Lazarus, no ! 
 
 I am confounded by thee. Go in peace. 
 De Broo. In peace now — but after. 
 Take that for earnest. 
 
 [Flings a hone at him from the 
 
 rushes] 
 
 De Bhito, Fitzurse, De Tracy, and 
 
 others [flinging vjisps of rushes]. Ay, 
 
 go in peace, caitiff, caitiff! And that 
 
 too, perjured prelate — and that, turn- 
 coat shaveling! There, there, thei:e! 
 traitor, traitor, traitor ! 
 
 Becket. Mannerless wolves ! 
 
 [Turning and facing them] 
 
 Herbert. Enough, my lord, enough ! 
 
 Becket. Barons of England and of 
 
 Normandy, 
 
 When what ye shake at doth but seem 
 
 to fly. 
 True test of coward, ye follow with a 
 
 yell. 
 But I that threw the mightiest knight 
 
 of France, 
 Sir Engelram de Trie, — 
 
 Herbert. Enough, my lord. 
 
 Becket. More than enough. I play 
 the fool again. 
 
 [Enter Herald] 
 
 Herald. The King commands you, 
 upon pain of death, 
 That none should wrong or injiu-e your 
 Archbishop. 
 FoLiOT. Deal gently with the young 
 man Absalom. 
 
 [Great doors of the Hall at the 
 back open, and discover ' a 
 crowd. They shout:] 
 Blessed is he that cometh in the name of 
 the Lord ! 
 
 Scene Fourth. — Refectory of the 
 Monastery at Northampton. 
 
 [A banquet on the Tables] 
 
 [Enter Becket. Becket's Retainers] 
 
 1st Retainer. Do thou speak first. 
 
 2nd Retainer. Nay, thou! Nay, 
 thou! Hast not thou drawn the short 
 straw? 
 
 1st Retainer. My lord Archbishop, 
 wilt thou permit us — 
 
 Becket. To speak without stammer- 
 ing and like a free man? Ay. 
 
 1st Retainer. My lord, permit us 
 then to leave thy service. 
 
 Becket. When ? 
 
 1st Retainer. Now. 
 
 Becket. To-night? 
 
 1st Retainer. To-night, my lord. 
 
 Becket. And why? 
 
 1st Retainer. My lord, we leave 
 thee not without tears. 
 
 Becket. Tears? Why not stay 
 with me then? 
 
366 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 1st Retainer. My lord, we cannot 
 yield thee an answer altogether to thy 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Becket. I warrant you, or your 
 own either. Shall I find you one? 
 The King hath frowned upon me. 
 
 1st Retainer. That is not alto- 
 gether our answer, my lord. 
 
 Becket. No ; yet all but all. Go, 
 go ! Ye have eaten of my dish and 
 drunken of my cup for a dozen years. 
 
 1st Retainer. And so we have. We 
 mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou not 
 say, 'God bless you,' ere we go? 
 
 Becket. God bless you all! God 
 redden your pale blood! But mine is 
 human-red ; and when ye shall hear it is 
 poured out upon earth, and see it mount- 
 ing to Heaven, my God bless you, that 
 seems sweet to you now, will blast and 
 bhnd you Mke a curse. 
 
 1st Retainer. We hope not, my 
 lord. Our humblest thanks for your 
 blessing. Farewell ! 
 
 [Exeunt Retainers] 
 
 Becket. Farewell, friends ! farewell, 
 swallows ! I wrong the bird ; she leaves 
 only the nest she built, they leave the 
 builder. Why? Am I to be murdered 
 to-night? [Knocking at the door] 
 
 Attendant. Here is a missive left 
 at the gate by one from the castle. 
 
 Becket. Cornwall's hand or Leices- 
 ter's : they write marvellously alike. 
 
 [Beading] 
 
 ' Fly at once to France, to King Louis 
 of France : there be those about our 
 King who would Ikave thy_ blood.' 
 
 Was not my lord of Leicester bidden 
 to our supper? 
 
 Attendant. Ay, my lord, and divers 
 other earls and barons. But the hour 
 is past, and our brother, Master Cook, 
 he makes moan that all be Begetting 
 cold. 
 
 Becket. And I make my moan along 
 with him. Cold after warm, winter 
 after summer, and the golden leaves, 
 these earls and barons, that clung to 
 me, frosted off me by the first cold 
 frown of the King. Cold, but look how 
 the table steams, like a heathen altar; 
 nay, like the altar at Jerusalem. Shall 
 God's good gifts be wasted? None of 
 them here! Call in the poor from the 
 streets, and let them feast. 
 
 Herbert. That is the parable of 
 our blessed Lord. • 
 
 Becket. And why should not the 
 parable of our blessed Lord be acted 
 again? Call in the poor I The Church 
 
 is ever at variance with the kings, and 
 ever at one with the poor. I marked 
 a group of lazars in the marketplace 
 — half-rag, half-sore — beggars, poor 
 rogues (Heaven bless 'em) who never 
 saw nor dreamed of such a banquet. 
 I will amaze them. Call them in, I say. 
 They shall henceforward be my earls 
 and barons — our lords and masters 
 in Christ Jesus. [Exit Herbert] 
 
 If the King hold his purpose, I am 
 myself a beggar. Forty thousand 
 marks ! forty; thousand devils — and 
 these craven bishops ! 
 
 [Enter a Poor Man with his dog] 
 
 Man. My lord Archbishop, may I 
 come in with my poor friend, my dog? 
 The King's verdurer caught him a-hunt- 
 ing in the forest, and cut off his paws. 
 The dog followed his calling, my lord. I 
 ha' carried him ever so many rmles in my 
 arms, and he licks my face and moans 
 and cries out against the King. 
 
 Becket. Better thy dog than thee. 
 The King's courts would use thee worse 
 than thy dog — they are too bloody. 
 Were the Church king, it would be 
 otherwise. Poor beast I poor beast ! 
 set him down. I will bind up his 
 wounds with my napkin. Give him a 
 bone, give him a bone! Who misuses 
 a dog would misuse a child — they can- 
 not speak for themselves. Past help! 
 his paws are past help. God help him I 
 
 [Enter the Beggars (and seat themselves 
 at the Tables). Becket and Her- 
 bert wait upon them] 
 
 1st Beggar. Swine, sheep, ox — 
 here's a French supper. When thieves 
 fall out, honest men — 
 
 2nd Beggar. Is the Archbishop a 
 thief who gives thee thy supper? 
 
 1st Beggar. Well, then, how does 
 it go ? When honest men fall out, 
 thieves — no, it can't be that. 
 
 2nd Beggar. Who stole the widow's 
 one sitting hen o' Sunday, when she was 
 at mass ? 
 
 1st Beggar. Come, come! thou 
 hadst thy share on her. Sitting hen! 
 Our Lord Beoket's our great sitting-hen 
 cock, and we shouldn't ha' been sitting 
 here if the barons and bishops hadn't 
 been a-sitting on the Archbishop. 
 
 Becket. Ay, the princes sat in judg- 
 ment against me, and the Lord hath 
 prepared your table — Sederunt prin- 
 cipes, ederunt pauperes. 
 
Becket 
 
 367 
 
 A Voice. Becket, beware of the 
 knife! 
 
 Becket. Who spoke? 
 
 3rd Beggab. Nobody, my lord. 
 What's that, my lord? 
 
 Becket. Venison. 
 
 3rd Beggar. Venison? 
 
 Becket. Buck ; deer, as you call it. 
 
 3ed Beggar. King's meat ! By the 
 Lord, won't we pray for your lordship ! 
 
 Becket. And, my children, your 
 prayers wiU do more for me in the day 
 of peril that dawns darkly and drearily 
 over the house of God — yea, and in the 
 day of judgment also, than the swords of 
 the craven sycophants would have done 
 had they remained true to me whose 
 bread they have partaken. I must leave 
 you to yom- banquet. Feed, feast, and 
 be merry. Herbert, for the sake of the 
 Church itself, if not for my own, I must 
 fly to France to-night. Come with me. 
 [Exit with Herbert] 
 
 3ed Beggar. Here — all of you ^- 
 my lord's health. [They drink] Well — 
 if that isn't goodly wine — 
 
 1st Beggar. Then there isn't a 
 goodly wench to serve him with it : 
 they were fighting for her to-day in the 
 street. 
 
 3ed Beggar. Peace ! 
 
 1st Beggar. The black sheep baaed 
 to the miller's ewe-lamb. 
 
 The miller's away for to-night. 
 Black sheep, quoth she, too black a sin 
 for me. 
 
 And what said the black sheep, my 
 masters ? 
 
 We can make a black sin white. 
 
 3rd Beggar. Peace ! 
 
 1st Beggar. 'Ewe lamb, ewe lamb, 
 I am here by the dam.' 
 
 But the miller came home that night. 
 And so dusted his back with the meal in 
 his sack, 
 
 That he made the black sheep white. 
 
 3bd Beggab. Be we not of the 
 family? be we not a-supping with the 
 head of the family? be we not in my 
 lord' s own refractory ? Out from among 
 us ; thou art our black sheep. 
 
 [Enter the four Knights] 
 
 FiTZTJESE. Sheep, said he? And 
 sheep without the shepherd, too. Where 
 is my lord Archbishop ? Thou the lusti- 
 est and lousiest of this Cain's brother- 
 hood, answer. 
 
 3bd Beggar. With Cain's answer, 
 my lord. Am I his keeper? Thou 
 shouldst call him Cain, not me. 
 
 PiTZTjESB. So I do, for he would 
 murder his brother the State. 
 
 3bd Beggar [rising and advancing]. 
 No, my lord ; but because the Lord hath 
 set his mark upon him that no man 
 should murder Mm. 
 
 FiTzuRSB. Where is he? where is 
 he? 
 
 3bd Beggar. With Cain belike, in 
 the land of Nod, or in the land of France 
 for aught I know. 
 
 Fitzubse. France! Ha! De Mor- 
 viUe, Tracy, Brito — fled is he ? Cross 
 swords all of you ! swear to follow him ! 
 Remember the Queen! 
 
 [The four Knights cross their 
 swords] 
 
 De Brito. They mock us ; he is 
 here. 
 
 [All the Bbggabs rise and advance 
 upon them] 
 
 Fitzitrse. Come, you filthy knaves, 
 let us pass. 
 
 3bd Beggar. Nay, my lord, let us 
 pass. We be a-going home after our 
 supper in all humbleness, my lord ; for 
 the Archbishop loves humbleness, my 
 lord ; and though we be fifty to four, we 
 daren't fight you with our crutches, my 
 lord. There now, if thou hast not laid 
 hands upon me ! and my fellows know 
 that I am aU one scale like a fish. I 
 pray God I haven't given thee my 
 leprosy, my lord. 
 
 [Fitzubse shrinks from him and 
 another presses upon De Beito] 
 
 De Beito. Away, dog ! 
 
 4th Beggab. Aid I was bit by a 
 mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog 
 already by this token, that tho' I can 
 drink wine I cannot bide water, my 
 lord ; and I want to bite, I want to 
 bite, and they do say the very breath 
 catches. 
 
 Db Bbito. Insolent clown ! Shall I 
 smite him with the edge of the sword ? 
 
 Db Morvillb. No, nor with the 
 flat of it either. Smite the shepherd 
 and the sheep are scattered. Smite the 
 sheep and the shepherd will excom- 
 municate thee. 
 
 De Bbito. Yet my fingers itch to 
 beat him into nothing. 
 
 5th Beggar. So do mine, my lord. 
 I was bom with it, and sulphur won't 
 bring it out o' me. But for aU that the 
 Archbishop washed my feet o' Tuesday. 
 He likes it, my lord. 
 
 6th Beggar. And see here, my 
 lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my leg. 
 It's humbling — it smells o' human 
 
368 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my lord? 
 for the Archbishop likes the smell on it, 
 my lord ; for I be his lord and master 
 i' Christ, my lord. 
 
 De Morvh-le. Faugh! we shall all 
 be poisoned. Let us go. 
 
 [They draw back, Beggars fol- 
 lomng] 
 
 7th Beggar. My lord, I ha' three 
 sisters a-dying at home o' the sweat- 
 ing sickness. They be dead while I be 
 a-supping. 
 
 8th Beggar. And I ha' nine darters 
 i' the spital that be dead ten times o'er 
 i' one day wi' the putrid fever; and I 
 bring the taint on it along wi' me, for 
 the Archbishop likes it, my lord. 
 ' [Pressing upon the Knights till 
 
 they disappear thro' the door] 
 
 3bd Beggar. Crutches, and itches, 
 and leprosies, and ulcers, and gangrenes, 
 and running sores, praise ye the Lord, 
 for to-night ye have saved our Arch- 
 bishop ! 
 
 1st Beggar. I'U go back again. I 
 hain't half done yet. 
 
 Herbert op Bosham [entering]. My 
 friends, the Archbishop bids you good 
 night. He hath retired to rest, and 
 being in great jeopardy of his life, he 
 hath made his bed between the altars, 
 from whence he sends me to bid you 
 this night pray for him who hath fed 
 you in the wilderness. 
 
 3ed Beggar. So we will — so we 
 will, I warrant thee. Beoket shall be 
 king, and the Holy Father shall be 
 king, and the world shall live by the 
 King's venison and the bread o' the 
 Lord, and there shall be no more poor 
 for ever. Hurrah ! Vive le Roy ! 
 That's the English of it. 
 
 ACT II 
 Scene First. — Rosamund's Bower. 
 
 A Garden of Flowers. In the midst a 
 bank of wild-flowers with a bench be- 
 fore it. 
 Voices heard singing among the trees. 
 
 Duet 
 
 1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear 
 
 in the pine overhead ? 
 
 2. No ; but the voice of the deep as it 
 
 hollows the cliffs of the land. 
 
 1. Is there a voice coming up with the 
 
 voice of the deep from the strand, 
 One coming up with a song in the 
 flush of the glimmering red ? 
 
 2. Love that is bom of the deep coining 
 
 up with the sun from the sea. 
 
 1. Love that can shape or cati shatter a 
 
 life till the life shall have fled? 
 
 2. Nay, let us welcome him. Love that 
 
 can Mf t up a life from the dead. 
 
 1. Keep him away from the lone little 
 
 isle. Let us be, let us be. 
 
 2. Nay, let him make it his own, let 
 
 him reign in it — he, it is he. 
 Love that is born of the deep coming 
 up with the sun from the sea. 
 
 [Enter Henry and Rosamund] 
 
 Rosamund. Be friends with Mm 
 
 again — I do beseech thee. 
 Henry. With Becket? I have but 
 
 one hour with thee — 
 Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the 
 
 mitre 
 Grapphng the crown — and when I flee 
 
 from this 
 For a gasp of freer air, a breathing- 
 while 
 To rest upon thy bosom and forget 
 
 him — 
 Why thou, my bird, thou pipest Becket, 
 
 Beoket — 
 Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's 
 
 own bower, 
 Must be the nightmare breaking on my 
 
 peace 
 With 'Becket.' 
 
 Rosamund. O my Ufe's life, not to 
 
 smUe 
 Is all but death to me. My sun, no 
 
 cloud ! 
 Let there not be one frown in this one 
 
 hour. 
 Out of the many thine, let this be mine ! 
 Look rather thou all-royal as when first 
 I met thee. 
 Henry. Where was that? 
 Rosamund. Forgetting that 
 
 Forgets me too. 
 
 Henry. Nay, I remember it well. 
 There on the moors. 
 
 Rosamund. And in a narrow path. 
 A plover flew before thee. Then I saw 
 Thy high black steed among the flaming 
 
 furze, 
 Like sudden night in the main glare of 
 
 day. 
 And from that height something was 
 
 said to me 
 I knew not What. 
 
Becket 
 
 369 
 
 Henry. I ask'd the way. 
 
 Rosamund. I think so. 
 
 So I lost mine. 
 Henry. Thou wast too shamed to 
 
 answer. 
 Rosamund. Too soared — so young ! 
 Henry. The rosebud of my rose ! — 
 Well, well, no more of him — I have 
 
 sent his folk, 
 His kin, all his belongings, overseas , 
 Age, orphans, and babe-breasting 
 
 mothers — all 
 By hundreds to him — there to beg, 
 
 starve, die — 
 So that the fool King Louis feed them 
 
 not. 
 The man shall feel that I can strike 
 I him yet. 
 
 Rosamund. Babes, orphans, mothers ! 
 
 I is that royal. Sire ? 
 
 j Henry. And I have been as royal 
 
 with the Chiu:ch. 
 
 He shelter' d in the Abbey of Pontigny. 
 
 There wore his time studying thq canon 
 
 law 
 To work it against me. But since he 
 
 cursed 
 My friends at Veselay, I have let them 
 
 know. 
 That if they keep him longer as their 
 
 guest, 
 I scatter all their cowls to aU the hells. 
 Rosamund. And is that altogether 
 
 royal? 
 Henry. Traitress ! 
 Rosamund. A faithful traitress to 
 
 thy royal fame. 
 Henry. Fame! what care I for 
 fame? Spite, ignorance, envy, 
 Yea, honesty too, paint her what way 
 
 they will. 
 Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow ; 
 Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow ; 
 And round and round again. What 
 
 matters ? Royal — 
 I mean to leave the royalty of my crown 
 Unlessen'd to mine heirs. 
 
 Rosamund. ■ Still — thy fame too : 
 I s^ that should be royal. 
 
 Henry. And I say, 
 
 I care not for thy saying. 
 
 Rosamund. And I say, 
 
 I oare not for thy saying. A greater 
 
 King 
 Than thou art, Love, who cares not for 
 
 the word. 
 Makes ' care not ' — care. There have I 
 spoken true? 
 Henry. Care dwell wi& me for ever, 
 when I cease 
 To care for thee as ever 1 
 
 Rosamund. No need ! no need ! . . . 
 There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit ? 
 
 . . . My bank 
 
 Of wild-flowers. [He sits] At thy feet ! 
 
 [She sits at his feet] 
 
 Henry. I bade them clear 
 
 A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the wood, 
 
 Not leave these countryfolk at court. 
 
 Rosamund. I brought them 
 
 In from the wood, and set them here. 
 
 I love them 
 More than the garden flowers, that seem 
 
 at most 
 Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not half 
 
 speaking 
 The language of the land. I love them 
 
 too, 
 Yes. But, my Uege, I am sure, of all 
 
 the roses — 
 Shame fall on those who gave it a dog's 
 
 name — 
 This wild one [picking a briar-rose] — 
 
 nay, I shall not prick myself — 
 Is sweetest. Do but smell ! 
 
 Henry. Thou rose of the world I 
 
 Thou rose of all the roses ! [Muttering] 
 I am not worthy of her — this beast- 
 body 
 That God has plunged my soul in — I, 
 
 that taking 
 The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so 
 
 long 
 Have wander'd among women, — a foul 
 
 stream 
 Thro' fever-breeding levels, — at her 
 
 side. 
 Among these happy dales, run clearer, 
 
 drop 
 The mud I carried, hke yon brook, and 
 
 glass 
 The faithful face of heaven — 
 
 [Looking at her, and unconsciously 
 aloud] 
 
 — thine ! thine ! 
 Rosamund. I know it. 
 
 Henry [muttering]. Not hers. We 
 have but one bond, her hate of 
 Becket. 
 Rosamund [half hearing]. Nay ! nay I 
 what art thou muttering? I hate 
 Becket? 
 Henry [muttering]. A sane and 
 natural loathing for a soul 
 Purer, and truer and nobler than her- 
 self ; 
 And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, 
 A bastard hate born of a former love. 
 Rosamund. My fault to name him ! 
 O let the hand of one 
 To whom thy voice is aU her music, 
 stay it 
 
370 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 But for a breath. 
 
 [Puts her hand before his lips] 
 
 Speak only of thy love. 
 
 Why there — Uke some loud beggar at 
 
 thy gate — 
 The happy boldness of this hand hath 
 
 won it 
 Love's alms, thy kiss Rooking at her hand] 
 — Sacred ! I'U kiss it too. 
 
 [Kissing it] 
 There ! wherefore dost thou so peruse 
 
 it? Nay, 
 There may be crosses in my line of life. 
 Henry. Not half her hand — no 
 hand to mate with her. 
 If it should come to that. 
 
 RosAMtiND. With her? with whom? 
 Henry. Life on the hand is naked 
 gipsy-stuff ; 
 Life on the face, the brows — clear 
 
 innocence ! 
 Vein'd marble — not a furrow yet — 
 and hers [Muttering] 
 
 Crost and reerost, a venomous spider's 
 web — 
 RosAMTTND [springing wp]. Out of 
 the cloud, my Sun — out of the 
 eclipse 
 Narrowing my golden hour ! 
 
 Henry. O Rosamund, 
 
 I would be true — would teU thee aU — 
 
 and something 
 I had to say — I love thee none the 
 
 less — 
 Which win so vex thee. 
 
 Rosamund. Something against mef 
 Henry. No, no, against myself. 
 Rosamund. I will not hear it. 
 
 Come, come, mine hour ! I bargain for 
 
 mine hour. 
 I'll caU thee little Geoffrey. 
 
 Henry. CaU him ! 
 
 Rosamund. Geoffrey ! 
 
 [Enter Geopfrbt] 
 
 Henry. How the boy grows ! 
 Rosamund. Ay, and his brows are 
 
 thine ; 
 The mouth is only Clifford, my dear 
 
 father. 
 Geoffrey. My liege, what hast 
 
 thou brought me ? 
 Henry. Venal imp ! 
 
 What say'st thou to the Chancellorship 
 
 of England? 
 Geoffrey. O yes, my liege. 
 Henry. ' O yes, my liege ! ' He 
 
 As if it were a oake of gingerbread. 
 
 Dost thou know, my boy, what it is to 
 be Chancellor of England? 
 
 Geoffrey. Something good, or thou 
 wouldst not give it me. 
 
 Henry. It is, my boy, to side with 
 the King when Chancellor, and then to 
 be made Archbishop and go against the 
 King who made him, and turn the world 
 upside down. 
 
 Geoffrey. I won't have it then. 
 Nay, but give it me, and I promise thee 
 not to turn the world upside down. 
 
 Henry [giving hirh a hall]. Here is a 
 ball, my boy, thy world, to turn anyway 
 and play with as thou wilt — which is 
 more than I can do with mine. Go try 
 it, play. [Exit Geoffrey] 
 
 A pretty lusty boy. 
 Rosamund. So Uke to thee; 
 
 Like to be Uker. 
 
 Henry. Not in my chin, I hope I 
 
 That threatens double. 
 Rosamund. Thou art manlike 
 
 perfect. • 
 Henry. Ay, ay, no doubt ; and were 
 I humpt behmd, 
 Thou'dst say as much — the goodly 
 
 way of women 
 Who love, for which I love them. May 
 
 God grant 
 No iU befaU or him or thee when I 
 Am gone. 
 
 Rosamund. Is he thy enemy? 
 Henry. He? who? ay! 
 
 Rosamund. Thine enemy knows the 
 
 secret of my bower. 
 Henry. And I could tear him 
 asunder with wild horses 
 Before he would betray it. Nay — no 
 
 fear! 
 More Uke is he to excommunicate me. 
 Rosamund. And I would creep, 
 crawl over knife-edge flint 
 Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay Ms 
 
 hand 
 Before he flash'd the bolt. 
 
 Henry. And when he flash'd it 
 
 Shrink from me, Uke a daughter of the 
 Church. 
 Rosamund. Ay, but he will not. 
 Henry. Ay! but if he did? 
 
 Rosamund. O then! then! I 
 almost fear to say 
 That my poor heretic heart would ex- 
 communicate 
 His excommunication, cUnging to thee 
 Closer than ever. 
 
 Henry [raising Rosamund and hiss- 
 ing her]. My brave-hearted Rose! 
 Hath he ever been to see thee? 
 
 Rosamund. Here? not he. 
 
 And it is so lonely here — no confes- 
 sor. 
 
Becket 
 
 371 
 
 Henry. Thou shalt confess all thy 
 
 sweet sins to me. 
 EosAMUND. Besides, we came away 
 in such a heat, 
 I brought not ev'n my cruoiflx. 
 Henry. Take this. 
 
 [Giving her the Crucifix which 
 Eleanor gave him] 
 Rosamund. O beautiful ! May I 
 have it as mine, till mine 
 Be mine again ? 
 Henry [throwing it round her nech]. 
 
 Thine — as I am — till death ! 
 Rosamund. Death? no! I'll have 
 it with me in my shroud. 
 And wake with it, and show it to all the 
 Saints. 
 Henry. Nay — I must go ; but 
 when thou layest thy Up 
 To this, remembering One who died for 
 
 thee, 
 Remember also one who lives for thee 
 Out there in France ; for I must hence 
 
 to brave 
 The Pope, King Louis, and this turbu- 
 lent priest. 
 Rosamund [kneeling]. O by thy love 
 for me, all mine for thee. 
 Fling not thy soul into the flames of hell : 
 I kneel to thee — be friends with him 
 again. 
 Henry. Look, look! if little Geof- 
 frey have not tost 
 His ball into the brook ! makes after it 
 
 too 
 To find it. Why, the child will drown 
 himself. 
 Rosamund. Geoffrey ! Geoffrey ! 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Second. — Monimirail. 
 
 ^' The Meeting of the Kings." John op 
 Oxford and Henry. Crowd in the 
 distance] 
 
 John of Oxford. You have not 
 
 crown'd young Henry yet, my 
 
 Uege? 
 Henry. Crown'd! by God's eyes, 
 
 we will not have him crown'd. 
 I spoke of late to the boy, he answer' d 
 
 me. 
 As if he wore the crown already — No, 
 We will not have him crown'd. 
 Tis true what Becket told me, that the 
 
 mother 
 Would make him play his kingship 
 
 against mine. 
 
 John of Oxford. Not have him 
 
 crown'd? 
 Henry. Not now — not yet ! and 
 Becket — 
 
 Becket should crown him were he 
 crown'd at all : 
 
 But, since we would be lord of our own 
 manor, 
 
 This Canterbury, like a wounded deer. 
 
 Has fled our presence and our feeding- 
 grounds. 
 John of Oxford. Cannot a smooth 
 tongue lick him whole again 
 
 To serve your will ? 
 
 Henry. He hates my wiU, not me. 
 John of Oxford. There's York, my 
 
 Uege. 
 Henry. But England scarce would 
 hold 
 
 Young Henry king, if only crown'd by 
 York, 
 
 And that would stilt up York to twice 
 himself. 
 
 There is a movement yonder in the 
 crowd — 
 
 See if our pious — ■ what shall I call him, 
 John? — 
 
 Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn suze- 
 rain. 
 
 Be yet within the fleld. 
 
 John of Oxford. I will. [Exit] 
 
 Henry. Ay ! Ay I 
 
 Mince and go back ! his politic Holiness 
 
 Hath all but climb 'd the Roman perch 
 again. 
 
 And we shall hear him presently with 
 clapt wing 
 
 Crow over Barbarossa — at last tongue- 
 free 
 
 To blast my iftalms with excommunica- 
 tion 
 
 And interdict. I must patch up a 
 peace — 
 
 A piece in this long-tugged-at, thread- 
 bare-wom 
 
 Quarrel of Crown and Church — to rend 
 again. 
 
 His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' 
 shoals. 
 
 Nor I. The citizen's heir hath con- 
 quer' d me 
 
 For the moment. So we make our 
 peace with him. 
 
 [Enter Louis] 
 
 Brother of France, what shall be done 
 
 with Becket? 
 Louis. The holy Thomas ! Brother, 
 
 you have traffick'd 
 Between the Emperor and the Pope, 
 
 between 
 
372 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The Pope and Antipope — a perilous 
 
 game 
 For men to play with God. 
 
 Henkt. Ay, ay, good brother, 
 
 They call you the Monk-King. 
 
 Louis. Who calls me? she 
 
 That was my wife, now yours? You 
 
 have her Duchy, 
 The point you aim'd at, and pray God 
 
 she prove 
 True wife to you. You have had the 
 
 better of us 
 In secular matters. 
 
 Henry. Come, confess, good brother. 
 You did your best or worst to keep her 
 
 Duchy. 
 Only the golden Leopard printed in it 
 Such hold-fast claws that you perforce 
 
 again 
 Shrank into Prance. Tut, tut ! did we 
 
 convene 
 This conference but to babble of our 
 
 wives? 
 They are plagues enough in-door. 
 
 Louis. We fought in the Bast, 
 
 And felt the sun of Antioch scald our 
 
 mail, 
 And push'd our lances into Saracen 
 
 hearts. 
 We never hounded on the State at 
 
 home 
 To spoil the Church. 
 
 Henry. How should you see this 
 
 rightly ? 
 Louis. Well, well, no more! I am 
 
 proud of my 'Monk-King,' 
 Whoever named me; and, brother. 
 
 Holy Church 
 May rook, but will not wreck, nor our 
 
 Archbishop 
 Stagger on the slope decks for any rough 
 
 sea 
 Blown by the breath of kings. We do 
 
 forgive you 
 For aught you wrought against us. 
 
 [Henby holds up his hand] 
 
 Nay, I pray you. 
 
 Do not defend yourself. You will do 
 
 much 
 To rake out all old dying heats, if you 
 At my requesting, wiU but look into 
 The wrongs you did him, and restore his 
 
 kin. 
 Reseat him on his throne of Canterbury, 
 Be, both, the friends you were. 
 
 Henry. The friends we were ! 
 
 Co-mates we were, and had our sport 
 
 together, 
 Co-kings we were, and made the laws 
 
 together. 
 The world had never seen the like before. 
 
 You are too cold to know the fashion of 
 
 it. 
 Well, well, we will be gentle with Mm, 
 
 gracious — 
 Most gracious. 
 
 [Enter Becket, after him, John of Ox- 
 ford, Roger of York, Gilbert 
 FoLioT, Db Broc, Pitzurse, etc.] 
 
 Only that the rift he made 
 May close" between us, here I am wholly 
 
 king. 
 The word should come from him. 
 Becket [kneeling]. Then, my dear 
 
 hege, 
 I here deliver all this controversy 
 Into your royal hands. 
 
 Henry. Ah, Thomas, Thomas, 
 
 Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. 
 Becket [rising]. Saving God's 
 
 honour ! 
 Henry. Out upon thee, man ! 
 Saving the Devil's honour, his yes and 
 
 no. 
 Knights, bishops, earls, this London 
 
 spawn — by Mahound, 
 I had sooner have been born a Mussul- 
 man — 
 Less clashing with their priests — 
 I am half-way down the slope — will no 
 
 man stay me? 
 I dash myself to pieces — I stay my- 
 self — 
 Puff — ■ it is gone. You, Master Becket, 
 
 you 
 That owe to me your power over me — 
 Nay, nay — 
 Brother of France, you have taken, 
 
 cherish'd him 
 Who thief-like fled from his own church 
 
 by night. 
 No man pursuing. I would have had 
 
 him back. 
 Take heed he do not turn and rend you 
 
 too : 
 For whatsoever may displease him — 
 
 that 
 Is clean against God's honour — a shift, 
 
 a trick 
 Whereby to challenge, face me out of all 
 My regal rights. Yet, yet — that none 
 
 . may dream 
 I go against God's honour — ay, or 
 
 himself 
 In any reason, choose 
 A hundred of the wisest heads from 
 
 England, 
 A hundred, too, from Normandy and 
 
 Anjou : 
 Let these decide on what was custo- 
 mary 
 
Becket 
 
 373 
 
 In olden days, and all the Church of 
 
 France 
 Decide on their decision, I am content. 
 More, what the mightiest and the 
 
 holiest 
 Of aU his predecessors may have done 
 Ev'n to the least and meanest of my 
 
 own, 
 Let him do the same to me — I am 
 
 content. 
 LoTJis. Ay, ay! the King humbles 
 
 himself enough. 
 Becket. [Aside] Words ! he will 
 
 wriggle out of them like an eel 
 When the time serves. [Aloud] My 
 
 lieges and my lords. 
 The thanks of Holy Church are due to 
 
 those 
 That went before us for their work, 
 
 which we 
 Inheriting reap an easier harvest. 
 
 Yet — 
 Louis. My lord, will you be greater 
 
 than the Saints, 
 More than St. Peter? whom — what 
 
 is it you doubt? 
 Behold your peace at hand. 
 
 Becket. I say that those 
 
 Who went before us did not wholly clear 
 The deadly growths of earth, which 
 
 Hell's own heat 
 So dwelt on that they rose and darken'd 
 
 Heaven. 
 Yet they did much. Would God they 
 
 had torn up all 
 By the hard root, which shoots again; 
 
 our trial 
 Had so been less ; but, seeing they were 
 
 men 
 Defective or excessive, must we follow 
 AU that they overdid or underdid? 
 Nay, if they were defective as St. Peter 
 Denying Christ, who yet defied the 
 
 tyrant. 
 We hold by his defiance, not his defect. 
 good son Louis, do not counsel me. 
 No, to suppress God's honour for the 
 
 Of any king that breathes. No, God 
 
 forbid ! 
 Henet. No ! God forbid ! and turn 
 
 me Mussulman ! 
 No God but one, and Mahound is his 
 
 prophet. 
 But for your Christian, look you, you 
 
 shall have 
 None other God but me — me, Thomas, 
 
 son 
 Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. 
 
 Out ! [Exit 
 
 I hear no more. 
 
 Louis. Our brother's anger puts 
 
 Mm, 
 Poor man, beside himself — not wise. 
 
 My lord. 
 We have claspt your cause, believing 
 
 that our brother 
 Had wrong'd you ; but this day he 
 
 proffer'd peace. 
 You will have war; and tho' we grant 
 
 the Church 
 King over this world's kings, yet, my 
 
 good lord. 
 We that are kings are something in this 
 
 world. 
 And so we pray you, draWgyourseU from 
 
 under 
 The wings of France. We shelter you 
 
 no more. [Exit] 
 
 John of Oxford. I am glad that 
 
 France hath scouted him at last : 
 I told the Pope what manner of man he 
 
 was. [Exit] 
 
 Roger of York. Yea, since he 
 
 flouts the will of either realm. 
 Let either cast him away like a dead 
 
 dog ! [Exit] 
 
 FoLiOT. Yea, let a stranger spoil his 
 
 And let another take his bishopriek ! 
 
 [Exit] 
 Db Bboc. Oiir castle, my lord, be- 
 longs to Canterbury. 
 I way you come and take it. [Exit] 
 
 FiTZUESB. When you will. [Exit] 
 Bbckbt. Cursed be John of Oxford, 
 Roger of York, 
 And Gilbert FoHot! cursed those De 
 
 Brocs 
 That hold our Saltwood Castle from our 
 
 see! 
 Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of 
 
 them 
 That sow this hate between my lord 
 and me ! 
 Voices from the Crowd. Blessed 
 be the Lord Archbishop, who hath with- 
 stood two Kings to their faces for the 
 honour of God. 
 Bbckbt. Out of the mouths of babes 
 and sucklings, praise ! 
 I thank you, sons ; when kings but hold 
 
 by crowns. 
 The crowd that hungers for a crown in . 
 
 Heaven 
 Is my true king. 
 Herbert. Thy true King bade thee 
 be 
 A fisher of men ; thou hast them in thy 
 net. 
 Becket. I am too like the King 
 here ; both of us 
 
374 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Too headlong for our office. Better 
 
 have been 
 A fisherman at Bosham, my good Her- 
 bert, 
 Thy birthplace — the sea-creek — the 
 
 petty rill 
 That falls into it — the green field — 
 
 the gray church — 
 The simple lobster-basket, and the 
 
 mesh — 
 The more or less of daily labour done — 
 The pretty gaping bills in the home-nest 
 Piping for bread — the daily want sup- 
 
 pUed — 
 The daily pleasure to supply it. 
 
 Herbert. Ah, Thomas, 
 
 You had not borne it, no, not for a day. 
 Becket. Well, maybe, no. 
 Herbert. But bear with Walter 
 
 Map, 
 For here he comes to comment on the 
 
 time. 
 
 [Enter Walter Map] 
 
 Walter Map. Pity, my lord, that 
 you have quenched the warmth of 
 France toward you, tho' His HoUness, 
 after much smouldering and smoking, 
 be kindled again upon your quarter. 
 
 Becket. Ay, if he do not end in 
 smoke again. 
 
 Walter Map. My lord, the fire, 
 when first kindled, said to the smoke, 
 'Go up, my son, straight to Heaven.' 
 And the smoke said, 'I go;' but anon 
 the North-east took and turned him 
 South-west, then the South-west turned 
 him North-east, and so of the other 
 winds ; but it was in him to go up 
 straight if the time had been quieter. 
 Your lordship affects the unwavering 
 perpendicular ; but His Holiness, pushed 
 one way by the Empire and another by 
 England, if he move at all. Heaven stay 
 him, is fain to diagonahse. 
 
 Herbert. Diagonalise! thou art a 
 word-monger. 
 Our Thomas never will diagonalise. 
 Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. 
 Diagonalise ! 
 
 Walter Map. Is the world any the 
 worse for my verses if the Latin rhymes 
 be rolled out from a fuU mouth ? or any 
 harm done to the people if my jest be 
 in defence of the Truth? 
 
 Becket. Ay, if the jest be so done 
 that the people 
 Delight to wallow in the grossness of it, 
 Till Truth herself be shamed of her 
 
 defender. 
 Non dejeworibm istis, Walter Map. 
 
 Walter Map. Is that my case? so 
 if the city be sick, and I cannot call the 
 kennel sweet, your lordship would sus- 
 pend me from verse-writing, as you sus- 
 pended yourself after sub-writing to the 
 customs. 
 Becket. I pray God pardon mine 
 
 infirmity. 
 Walter Map. Nay, my lord, take 
 heart ; for tho' you suspended yourself, 
 the Pope let you down again ; and tho' 
 you suspend FoUot or another, the Pope 
 will not leave them in suspense, for the 
 Pope himself is always in suspense, hke 
 Mahound's coffin hung between heaven 
 and earth — always in suspense, hke the 
 scales, tiU the weight of Germany or the 
 gold of England brings one of them 
 down to the dust — always in suspense, 
 hke the tail of the horologe — to and 
 fro — tick-tack — we make the time, we 
 keep the time, ay, and we serve the 
 time ; for I have heard say that if you 
 boxed the Pope's ears with a purse, you 
 might stagger him, but he would pocket 
 the purse. No saying of mine — 
 Jocelyn of Salisbury. But the King 
 hath bought half the College of Redhats. 
 He warmed to you to-day, and you 
 have chilled him again. Yet you both 
 love God. Agree with him quieUy 
 again, even for the sake of the Church. 
 My one grain of good counsel which 
 you will not swallow. I hate a split 
 between old friendships as I hate the 
 dirty gap in the face of a Cistercian 
 monk, that will swallow anything. 
 FareweU. [Exit] 
 
 Beckbt. Map scoffs at Rome. I all 
 
 but hold with Map. 
 Save for myself no Rome were left in 
 
 England, 
 All had been his. Why should tbs 
 
 Rome, this Rome, 
 StiU choose Barabbas rather than the 
 
 Christ, 
 Absolve the left-hand thief and damn 
 
 the right ? 
 Take fe^s of tyranny, wink at saon- 
 
 lege,' 
 Which even Peter had not dared? con- 
 demn 
 The blameless exile ? — 
 
 Herbert. Thee, thou holy Thomas! 
 I would that thou hadst been the Holy 
 
 Father. 
 Becket. I would have done my 
 
 most to keep Rome holy, 
 I would have made Rome know she 
 
 stiU is Rome — 
 Who stands aghast at her eternal self 
 
Becket 
 
 375 
 
 And shakes at mortal kings — her 
 
 : vacillation, 
 Avaiioe, craft — O God, how many an 
 
 innocent 
 Has left his bones upon the way to 
 
 Rome 
 Unwept, uncared for. Yea — on mine 
 ' own self 
 The King had had no power except for 
 
 Rome. 
 'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine 
 
 exile. 
 But Rome, Rome, Rome ! 
 
 Herbebt. My lord, I see this Louis 
 Returning, ah! to drive thee from his 
 realm. 
 Becket. He said as much before. 
 Thou art no prophet. 
 Nor yet a prophet's son. 
 
 Hebbebt. Whatever he say, 
 
 Deny not thou God's honour for a king. 
 The King looks troubled. 
 
 [Re-enter King Louis] 
 
 Louis. My dear lord Archbishop, 
 I learn but now that those poor 
 
 Poitevins, 
 That in thy cause were stirr'd against 
 
 King Henry, 
 Have been, despite his kingly promise 
 
 given 
 To our own self of pardon, evilly used 
 And put to pain. I have lost all trust in 
 
 him, 
 The Church alone hath eyes — and 
 
 now I see 
 That I was blind — suffer the phrase — 
 
 surrendering 
 God's honour to the pleasure of a man. 
 Forgive me and absolve me, holy father. 
 
 [Kneels] 
 Becket. Son, I absolve thee in the 
 
 naine of God. 
 Louis [rising]. Return to Sens, w;here 
 
 we will care for you. 
 The wine and wealth of all our France 
 
 are yoiu's ; 
 Rest in our realm, and be at peace with 
 
 aH. [Exeunt] 
 
 Voices from the Crowd. Long live 
 the good King Louis! God bless the 
 great Archbishop ! 
 
 [Re-enter Henry and John of Oxfoed] 
 
 Henry [looking after King Louis and 
 
 Becket]. Ay, there they go — 
 
 both backs are turn'd to me — 
 
 Why then I strike into my former path 
 
 For England, crown young Henry there, 
 
 and make 
 
 Our waning Eleanor all but love me ! 
 
 John, 
 Thou hast served me heretofore with 
 
 Rome — and well. ' 
 They call thee John the Swearer. 
 
 John of Oxford. For this reason, 
 That, being ever duteous to the King, 
 I evermore have sworn upon his side, 
 And ever mean to do it. 
 
 Henry [claps him on the shoulder]. 
 
 Honest John ! 
 
 To Rome again ! the storm begins again. 
 
 Spare not thy tongue ! be lavish with 
 
 our coins. 
 Threaten our junction with the Emperor 
 
 — flatter 
 And fright the Pope — ■ bribe all the 
 
 Cardinals — leave 
 Lateran and Vatican in one dust of 
 
 gold — 
 Swear and unswear, state and misstate 
 
 thy best! 
 I go to have young Henry crown'd by 
 
 York. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene First. — The Bower. 
 
 [Henry and Rosamund] 
 
 Hbnby. AJl that you say is just. I 
 cannot answer it. 
 Till better times, when I shall put 
 away — 
 Rosamund. What wiU you put 
 
 away ? 
 Henry. That which you ask me 
 TiU better times. Let it content you 
 
 now 
 There is no woman that I love so well. 
 Rosamund. No woman but should 
 
 be content with that — 
 Heney. And one fair child to fondle ! 
 Rosamund. O yes, the child 
 
 We waited for so long — ■ heaven's gift at 
 
 last — 
 And how you doted on him then ! To- 
 day 
 I almost fear'd youc kiss was colder — ■ 
 
 yes — 
 But then the child is such a chUd. 
 
 What chance 
 That he should ever spread into the man 
 Here in our silence? I have done my 
 
 best. 
 I am not learn'd. 
 
 Heney. I am the King, his father. 
 And I will look to it. Is our secret ours ? 
 Have you had any alarm? no stranger? 
 
376 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Rosamund. No. 
 
 The warder of the bower hath given 
 
 himself 
 Of late to wine. I sometimes think he 
 
 When he should watch; and yet what 
 
 fear? the people 
 Beheve the wood enchanted. No one 
 
 comes, 
 Nor foe nor friend ; his fond excess of 
 
 wine 
 Springs from the loneUness of my poor 
 
 bower, 
 Which weighs even on me. 
 
 Heney. Yet these tree-towers, 
 
 Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles, — 
 
 the voice 
 Of the perpetual brook, these golden 
 
 slopes 
 Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that was 
 
 your saying, 
 All pleased you so at first. 
 
 RosAMTJND. Not now so much. 
 
 My Anjou bower was scarce as beautiful. 
 But you were oftener there. I have 
 
 none but you. 
 The brook's voice is not yours, and no 
 
 flower, not 
 The sun himself, should he be changed 
 
 to one, 
 Could shine away the darkness of that 
 
 gap 
 Left by the lack of love. 
 
 Henkt. The lack of love ! 
 
 Rosamund. Of one we love. Nay, I 
 would not be bold. 
 Yet hoped ere this you might — 
 
 [Looks larnestly at him] 
 Henry. Anything further? 
 
 Rosamund. Only my best bower- 
 maiden died of late, 
 And that old priest whom John of SaUs- 
 
 bury trusted 
 Hath sent another. 
 
 Henhy. Secret? 
 
 Rosamund. I but ask'd her 
 
 One question, and she primm'd her 
 
 mouth and put 
 Her hands together — thus — and said, 
 
 God help her. 
 That she was sworn to silence. 
 
 Henby. What did you ask her? 
 
 Rosamund. Some daily something- 
 nothing. 
 Henry. Secret, then? 
 
 Rosamund. I do not love her. Must 
 you go, my Uege, 
 So suddenly? 
 
 Henry. I came to England sud- 
 denly. 
 And on a great occasion sure to wake 
 
 As great a wrath in Becket — 
 
 Rosamund. Always Becket! 
 
 He always comes between us. 
 
 Henry. — And to meet it 
 
 I needs must leave as suddenly. It is 
 
 raining. 
 Put on your hood and see me to the 
 bounds. [Exeunt] 
 
 Margery [singing behind scene]. 
 
 Babble in bower 
 
 Under the rose ! 
 Bee mustn't buzz, 
 
 Whoop — but he knows. 
 
 Kiss me, little one, 
 
 Nobody near ! 
 Grasshopper, grasshopper, 
 
 Whoop — you can hear. 
 
 Kiss in the bower. 
 
 Tit on the tree 1 
 Bird mustn't tell, 
 
 Whoop — he can see. 
 
 [Enter Margery] 
 
 I ha' been but a week here and I ha' 
 seen what I ha' seen, for to be sure it's 
 no more than a week since our old 
 Father Phihp that has confessed our 
 mother for twenty years, and she was 
 hard put to it, and to speak truth, nigh 
 at the end of our last crust, and that 
 mouldy, and she cried out on him to put 
 me forth in the world and to make me a 
 woman of the world, and to win my own 
 bread, whereupon he asked our mother 
 if I could keep a quiet tongue i' my head, 
 and not speak till I was spoke to, and I 
 answered for myself that I never spoke 
 more than was needed, and he told me 
 he would advance me to the service of a 
 great lady, and took me ever so faraway, 
 and gave me a great pat o' the cheek for 
 a pretty wench, and said it was a pity to 
 blindfold such eyes as mine, and such to 
 be sure they be, but he blinded 'em for 
 all that, and so brought me no-hows as 
 I may say, and the more shame to Mm 
 after his promise, into a garden and not 
 into the world, and bade me whatever I 
 saw not to speak one word, an' it 'ud be 
 well for me in the end, for there were 
 great ones who would look after me, and 
 to be sure I ha' seen great ones to-day — 
 and then not to speak one word, for 
 that's the rule o' the garden, tho' to be 
 sure if I had been Eve i' the garden I 
 shouldn't ha' minded the apple, for 
 what's an apple, you- know, save to a 
 child, and I'm no child, but more a 
 
Becket 
 
 377 
 
 woman o' the world than my lady here, 
 and I ha' seen what I ha' seen — tho' 
 to be sure if I hadn't minded it we 
 should all on us ha' had to go, bless the 
 Saints, wi' bare backs, but the backs 'ud 
 ha' countenanced one another, and be- 
 like it 'ud ha' been always summer, and 
 aayhow I am as well-shaped as my lady 
 here, and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, and 
 what's the good of my talking to myself, 
 for here comes my lady [enter Rosa- 
 mund], and, my lady, tho' I shouldn't 
 speak one word, I wish you joy o' the 
 King's brother. 
 
 Rosamund. What is it you mean ? 
 
 Margery. I mean your goodman, 
 your husband, my lady, for I saw your 
 ladyship a-parting wi' him even now i' 
 the coppice, when I was ar-getting o' 
 bluebells for your ladyship's nose to 
 smell on — and I ha' seen the King once 
 at Oxford, and he's as hke the King as 
 fingernail to fingernail, and I thought at 
 first it was the King, only you know the 
 King's married, for King Louis — 
 
 Rosamund. Married ! 
 
 Margery. Years and years, my 
 lady, for her husband. King Louis — 
 
 Rosamund. Hush ! 
 
 Margery. , — A.nd I thought if it 
 were the King's brother he had a better 
 bride than the King, for the people do 
 say that his is bad beyond all reckoning, 
 and — 
 
 Rosamund. The people lie. 
 
 Margery. Very like, my lady, but 
 most on 'em know an honest woman and 
 a lady when they see her, and besides 
 they say, she makes songs, and that's 
 against her, for I never knew an honest 
 woman that could make songs, tho' to be 
 sure our mother 'Dl sing me old songs by 
 the hour, but then, God help her, she 
 had 'em from her mother, and her 
 mother from her mother back and back 
 for ever so long, but none of 'em ever 
 made songs, and they were aU honest. 
 
 Rosamund. Go, you shall tell me of 
 her some other time. 
 
 Margery. There's none so much to 
 tell on her, my lady, only she kept the 
 seventh commandment better than 
 some I know on, or I couldn't look your 
 ladyship i' the face, and she brew'd the 
 best ale in all Glo'ster, that is to say in 
 her time when she had the ' Crown.' 
 
 Rosamund. The crown ! who ? 
 
 Margery. Mother. 
 
 Rosamund. I mean her whom you 
 eaJl — fancy — my husband's brother's 
 wife. 
 
 Margery. Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, 
 my lady; and tho' I be sworn not to 
 speak a word, I can teU you all about 
 her, if — 
 
 Rosamund. No word now. I am 
 faint and sleepy. Leave me. Nay — 
 go. What ! will you anger me ? 
 
 [Exit Margery] 
 He charged me not to question any of 
 
 those 
 About me. Have I ? no ! she ques- 
 
 tion'd me. 
 Did she not slander him? Should she 
 
 stay here ? 
 May she not tempt me, being at my side, 
 To question her f ,Nay, can I send her 
 
 hence 
 Without his kingly leave ? I am in the 
 
 dark. 
 I have lived, poor bird, from cage to 
 
 cage, and known 
 Nothing but him — happy to know no 
 
 more, 
 So that he loved me — and he loves me 
 
 — yes. 
 And bound me by his love to secrecy 
 Till his own time. 
 
 Eleanor, Eleanor, have I 
 Not heard Ul things of her in Prance? 
 
 Oh, she's 
 The Queen of France. I see it — some 
 
 confusion. 
 Some strange mistake. I did not hear 
 
 aright. 
 Myself confused with parting from the 
 
 King. 
 Margery [behind scene]. Bee mustn't 
 buzz. 
 
 Whoop — but he knows. 
 Rosamund. Yet her — what her ? he 
 
 hinted of some her — • 
 When he was here before — 
 Something that would displease me. 
 
 Hath he stray'd 
 From love's clear path into the common 
 
 bush. 
 And, being scratoh'd, returns to his true 
 
 rose. 
 Who hath not thorn enough to prick 
 
 him for it, 
 Ev'n with a word? 
 Margery [behind scene]. Bird mustn't 
 tell. 
 
 Whoop — he can see. 
 Rosamund. I would not hear him. 
 
 Nay — there's more — he frown'd 
 'No mate for her, if it should come to 
 
 that' — 
 To that — to what? 
 
 Margery [behind scene]. Whoop — 
 but he knows. 
 
378 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Whoop — but he knows. 
 Rosamund. O God! some dreadful 
 truth is breaking on me — 
 Some dreadful thing is coming on me. 
 
 [Enter Geoffrey] 
 
 Geoffrey ! 
 Geoffrey. What are you crying for, 
 
 when the sun shines? 
 RosAMtTND. Hath not thy father left 
 
 us to ourselves? 
 Geoffrey. Ay, but he's taken the 
 rain with him. I hear Margery: I'U 
 go play with her. [Exit Geoffrey] 
 
 Rosamund. 
 
 Rainbow, stay. 
 Gleam upon gloom. 
 Bright as my dream. 
 Rainbow, stay ! 
 But it passes away. 
 Gloom upon gleam, 
 Dark aa my doom — 
 O rainbow, stay. 
 
 Scene Second. — Outside the Woods near, 
 Rosamund's Bower. 
 
 [Eleanor. Fitzurse] 
 
 Eleanor. Up from the salt lips of 
 the land we two 
 Have track'd the King to this dark 
 
 inland wood ; 
 And somewhere hereabouts he vanish'd. 
 
 Here 
 His turtle builds ; his exit is our adit : 
 Watch ! he wUl out again, and presently. 
 Seeing he must to Westminster and 
 
 crown 
 Young Henry there to-morrow. 
 
 Fitzurse. We have watoh'd 
 
 So long in vain, he hath pass'd out again, 
 And on the other side. 
 
 [A great horn mnded] 
 
 Hark ! Madam ! 
 
 Eleanor. Ay, 
 
 How ghostly sounds that horn in the 
 
 black wood ! 
 
 [A countryman flying] 
 Whither away, man? what are you 
 flying from ? 
 Countryman. The witch ! the witch ! 
 she sits naked by a great heap of gold in 
 the middle of the wood, and when the 
 horn sounds she comes out as a wolf. 
 Get you hence ! a man passed in there 
 to-day : I holla'd to him, but he didn't 
 hear me: he'll never out again, the 
 witch has got him. I daren't stay — I 
 daren't stay ! 
 
 Eleanor. Kind of the witch to give 
 
 thee warning tho'. [Man flies] 
 
 Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's 
 
 fear 
 Our woodland Circe that hath witeh'd 
 the King? 
 
 [Horn sounded. Another flying] 
 Fitzurse. Again! stay, fool, and 
 
 tell me why thou fliest. 
 Countryman. Fly thou too. The 
 King keeps his forest head of game here, 
 and when that horn sounds, a score of 
 wolf-dogs are let loose that wiU tear 
 thee piecemeal. Linger not tiU the 
 third horn. Fly ! [Exit] 
 
 Eleanor. This is the Ukelier tale. 
 We have hit the place. 
 Now let the King's fine game look to 
 itself. [Horn] 
 
 Fitzurse. Again ! — 
 And far on in the dark heart of the 
 
 wood 
 I hear the yelping of the hounds of hell. 
 Eleanor. I have my dagger here to 
 
 still their throats. 
 Fitzurse. Nay, Madam, not to- 
 night — the night is faUin^. 
 What can be done to-night? 
 
 Eleanor. Well — ■ well — away. 
 
 Scene Third. — Traitor's Meadow at 
 Friteval. Pavilions and tents of the 
 English and French Baronage. 
 
 [Becket and Herbert of Bosham] 
 
 Becket. See here ! 
 Herbert. What's here? 
 
 Becket. A notice from the priest. 
 To whom our John of SaHsbury coni- 
 
 mitted 
 The secret of the bower, that our wolf- 
 Queen 
 Is prowling round the fold. I should be 
 
 back 
 In England ev'n for this. 
 
 Herbert. These are by-things 
 
 In the great cause. 
 
 Becket. The by-things of the Lord 
 Are the wrong' d innocences that will cry 
 From all the hidden by-ways of the 
 
 world 
 In the great day against the wronger. I 
 
 know 
 Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, before 
 The Church should suffer wrong ! 
 
 Herbert. Do you see, my lord. 
 
 There is the Kling talking with Walter 
 Map? 
 Becket. He hath the Pope's last 
 letters, and they threaten 
 
Becket 
 
 379 
 
 The immediate thunder-blast of inter- 
 dict : 
 
 Yet he can scarce be touching upon 
 those, 
 
 Or scarce would smile that fashion. 
 Hbebert. Winter sunshine ! 
 
 Beware of opening out thy bosom to it, 
 
 Lest thou, myself, and aU thy flock 
 should catch 
 
 An after ague-fit of trembling. Look ! 
 
 He bows, he bares his head, he is coming 
 hither. 
 
 Still with a smile. 
 
 [Enter King Henbt and Walter Map] 
 
 Henry. We have had so many hours 
 together, Thomas, 
 So many happy hours alone together, 
 That I would speak with you once more 
 alone. 
 
 Becket. My hege, your wiU and 
 happiness are mine. 
 
 [Exeunt King and Becket] 
 
 Herbert. The same smile still. 
 
 Walter Map. Do you see that great 
 black cloud that hath come over the sun 
 and cast us all into shadow? 
 
 Herbert. And feel it too. 
 
 Walter Map. Ajid see you yon side- 
 beam that is forced from under it, and 
 sets the church-tower over there aU 
 a-hell-flre as it were? 
 
 Herbert. Ay. 
 
 Walter Map. It is this black, beU- 
 silencing, anti-manying, burial-hinder- 
 ing interdict that hath squeezed out this 
 side-smile upon Canterbury, whereof 
 may come conflagration. Were I 
 Thomas, I wouldn't trust it. Sudden 
 change is a house on sand ; and tho' I 
 count Henry honest enough, yet when 
 fear creeps in at the front, honesty 
 steals out at the back, and the King at 
 last is fairly soared by this cloud — • 
 this interdict. I have been more for 
 the King than the Church in this mat- 
 ter — yea, even for the sake of the 
 Church: for, truly, as the case stood, 
 you had safelier have slain afl arch- 
 bishop than a she-goat : but our re- 
 coverer and upholder of customs hath 
 in this crowning of young Henry by 
 York a,nd London so violated the im- 
 memorial usage of the Church, that, 
 like the gravedigger's child I have 
 heard of, trying to ring the bell, he 
 hath half-hanged himself in the rope 
 of the Church, or rather pulled all the 
 Church with the Holy Father astride 
 of it down upon his own head. 
 
 Herbert. Were you there? 
 
 Walter Map. In the church rope? 
 — no. I was at the crowning, for I 
 have pleasure in the pleasure of crowds, 
 and to read the faces of men at a great 
 show. 
 
 Herbert. And how did Roger of 
 York comport himself ? 
 
 Walter Map. As magnificently and 
 archiepiscopaUy as our Thomas would 
 have done : oidy there was a dare-devil 
 in his eye — I should say a dare-Becket. 
 He thought less of two Hngs than of one 
 Roger the king of the occasion. FoUot 
 is the holier man, perhaps the better. 
 Once or twice there ran a twitch across 
 his face as who should say what's to 
 follow? but Salisbury was a calf cowed 
 by Mother Church, and every now and 
 then glancing about him like a thief at 
 night when he hears a door open in the 
 house and thinks ' the master.' 
 
 Herbert. And the father-king? 
 '■' Walter Map. The father's eye was 
 so tender it would have called a godse off 
 the green, and once he strove to hide 
 his face, like the Greek king when his 
 daughter was sacrificed, but he thought 
 better of it : it was but the sacrifice of a 
 kingdom to his son. a smaller matter; 
 but as to the young crownling himself, he 
 looked so malapert in the eyes, that had 
 I fathered him I had given him more of 
 the rod than the sceptre. Then followed 
 the thunder of the captains and the 
 shouting, and so we came on to the 
 banquet, from whence there puffed out 
 such an incense of unctuosity into the 
 nostrils of our Gods of Church and 
 State, that Lucullus or Apicius might 
 have sniffed it in their Hades of heathen- 
 ism, so that the smell of their own roast 
 had not come across it — ■ 
 
 Herbert. Map, tho' you make your 
 butt too big, you overshoot it. 
 
 Walter Map. — For as to the fish, 
 they de-miracled the miraculous draught, 
 and might have sunk a navy — 
 
 Herbert. There again, Goliasing 
 and Goliathising ! 
 
 Walter Map. — And as for the 
 fiesh at table, a whole Peter's sheet, 
 with all manner of game, and four-footed 
 things, and fowls — 
 
 Herbert. And aU manner of creep- 
 ing things too ? 
 
 Walter Map. — ■ Well, there were 
 Abbots — but they did not bring their 
 women; and so we were duU enough 
 at first, but in the end we flourished out 
 into a merriment ; for the old King 
 would act servitor and hand a dish to 
 
380 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 his son ; whereupon my Lord of York — 
 Ms fine-eut face bowing and beaming 
 with all that courtesy which hath less 
 loyalty in it than the backward scrape 
 of the clown's heel — 'great honour,' 
 says he, 'from the King's self to the 
 King's son.' Did you hear the young 
 King's quip ? 
 
 Heebeet. No, what was it? 
 
 Walter Map. Glancing at the days 
 when his father was only Earl of Anjou, 
 he answered : — ' Should not an earl's 
 son wait on a king's son?' And when 
 the cold corners of the King's mouth 
 began to thaw, there was a great motion 
 of laughter among us, part real, part 
 childlike, to be freed from the dulness 
 — part royal, for King and IringUng both 
 laughed, and so we could not but laugh, 
 as by a royal necessity — part childlike 
 again — when we felt we had laughed 
 too long and could not stay ourselves — 
 many midriff-shaken even to tears, as 
 springs gush out after earthquakes — 
 but from those, as I said before, there 
 may come a conflagration — tho', to 
 keep the figure moist and make it hold 
 water, I should say rather, the lacryma- 
 tion of a lamentation; but look if 
 Thomas have not flung himself at the 
 King's feet. They have made it up 
 again — for the moment. 
 
 Herbert. Thanks to the blessed 
 Magdalen, whose day it is. 
 
 [Re-enter Henry and Becket. {Dur- 
 ing their conference the Baeons and 
 Bishops of France and England 
 come in at back of stage.] 
 
 Becket. Ay, King ! for in thy king- 
 dom, as thou knowest, 
 The spouse of the Great King, thy 
 
 King, hath fallen — 
 The daughter of Zion hes beside the 
 
 way — 
 The priests of Baal tread her under- 
 foot — 
 The golden ornaments are stolen from 
 her — 
 Henry. Have I not promised to re- 
 store her, Thomas, 
 And send thee back again to Canter- 
 bury? 
 Becket. Send back again those 
 exiles of my kin 
 Who wander famine-wasted thro' the 
 World. 
 Henry. Have I not promised, man, 
 
 to send them back? 
 Becket. Yet one thing more. Thou 
 hast broken thro' the pales 
 
 Of privilege, crowning thy young son by 
 
 York, 
 London and Salisbury — not Canter- 
 bury. 
 Henry. York crown'd the Con- 
 queror — not Canterbury. 
 Becket. There was no Canterbury 
 
 in William's time. 
 Henry. But Hereford, you know, 
 
 crown'd the first Henry. 
 Becket.' But Anselm crown'd this 
 
 Henry o'er again. 
 Henry. And thou shalt crown my 
 
 Henry o'er again. 
 Becket. And is it then with thy 
 goodwill that I 
 Proceed against thine evil councillors, 
 And hurl the dread ban of the Church 
 
 on those 
 Who made the second mitre play the 
 
 first, 
 And acted me ? 
 
 Henbt. Well, well, then — have thy 
 way! 
 It may be they were evil councillors. 
 What more, my lord Archbishop? 
 
 What more, Thomas? 
 I make thee full amends. Say all thy 
 
 say. 
 But blaze not out before the Frenchmen 
 here. 
 Becket. More? Nothing, so thy 
 
 promise be thy deed. 
 Henry [holding out his hand]. Give 
 me thy hand. My Lords of France 
 and England, 
 My friend of Canterbury and myself 
 Are now once more at perfect amity. 
 Unkingly should I be, and most un- 
 
 knightly. 
 Not striving still, however much in vain, 
 To rival him in Christian charity. 
 Herbert. All praise to Heaven, and 
 
 sweet St. Magdalen ! 
 Henet. And so farewell until we 
 
 meet in England. 
 Becket. I fear, my liege, we may 
 
 not meet in England. 
 Henry. How, do you make me a 
 
 traitor? 
 Becket. No, indeed ! 
 That be far from thee. 
 
 Heney. Come, stay with us, then, 
 Before you part for England. 
 
 Becket. I am bound 
 
 For that one hour to stay with good 
 
 King Louis, 
 Who helpt me when none else. 
 
 Herbert. He said thy life 
 
 Was not one hour's worth in England 
 save 
 
Becket 
 
 381 
 
 King Henry gave thee first the kiss of 
 
 peace. 
 Henby. He said so? Louis, did he? 
 
 look you, Herbert, 
 When. I was in mine anger with King 
 
 Louis, 
 I sware I would not give the kiss of 
 
 peace. 
 Not on French ground, nor any ground 
 
 but English, 
 Where his cathedral stands. Mine old 
 
 friend, Thomas, 
 I would there were that perfect trust 
 
 between us. 
 That health of heart, once ours, ere 
 
 Pope or King 
 Had come between us ! Even now — 
 
 who knows ? — 
 I might deUver aU things to thy hand — 
 If . . . but I say no more . . . fare- 
 well, my lord. 
 Becket. Farewell, my Uege 1 
 
 [Exit Henry, then the Babons 
 
 and Bishops] 
 
 Walter Map. There again! when 
 
 the fuU fruit of the royal promise might 
 
 have dropt into thy mouth hadst thou 
 
 but opened it to thank Mm. 
 
 Becket. He fenced his royal promise 
 
 with an if. 
 Walter Map. And is the King's if 
 too high a stile for yovtr lordship to over- 
 step and come at all things in the next 
 Held? 
 Becket. Ay, if this if be Uke the 
 
 Devil's 'if 
 Thou wilt faE down and worship me.' 
 
 Hebbbbt. Oh, 'Thomas, 
 
 I could fall down and worship thee, my 
 
 Thomas, 
 For thou hast trodden this wine-press 
 
 alone. 
 Becket. Nay, of the people there 
 
 are many with me. 
 Walter Map. I am not altogether 
 with you, my lord, tho' I am none of 
 those that would raise a storm between 
 you, lest ye should draw together like 
 two ships in a calm. You wrong the 
 King: he meant what he said to-day. 
 Who shall vouch for his to-morrows? 
 One word further. Doth not the few- 
 ness of anything make the fulness of it in 
 estimation? Is not virtue prized mainly 
 for its rarity, and great baseness loathed 
 as an exception? for were all, my lord, 
 as noble as yourself, who would look up 
 to you ? and were all as base as — who 
 shall I say — Fitzurse and his following 
 — who would look doWn upon them? 
 My lord, you have put so many of the 
 
 King's household out of communion, 
 that they begin to smile at it. 
 Becket. At their peril, at their 
 
 peril — 
 Walter Map. — For tho' the drop 
 may hollow out the dead stone, doth not 
 the hving skin thicken against perpetual 
 whippings? This is the second grain of 
 good counsel I ever proffered thee, and 
 so cannot suffer by the rule of frequency. 
 Have I sown it in salt ? I trust not, for 
 before God I promise you the King hath 
 many more wolves than he can tame in 
 his woods of England, and if it suit 
 their purpose to howl for the King, and 
 you stm move against him, you may 
 have no less than to die for it ; but God 
 and his free wind grant your lordship a 
 happy home-return and the King's kiss 
 of peace in Kent. Farewell! I must 
 follow the King. [Exit] 
 
 Herbert. Ay, and I warrant the 
 
 customs. Did the King 
 Speak of the customs ? 
 
 Becket. No ! — To die for it — 
 
 I hve to die for it, I die to hve for it. 
 The State wiU die, the Church can never 
 
 die. 
 The King's not like to die for that which 
 
 dies; 
 But I must die for that which never 
 
 dies. 
 It will be so — my visions in the Lord : 
 It must be so, my friend ! the wolves of 
 
 England 
 Must murder her one shepherd, that the 
 
 May feed in peace. False figure. Map 
 would say. 
 
 Earth's falses are heaven's truths. 
 And when my voice 
 
 Is martyr'd mute, and this man dis- 
 appears. 
 
 That perfect trust may come again be- 
 tween us. 
 
 And there, there, there, not here I shall 
 rejoice 
 
 To find my stray sheep back within the 
 fold. 
 
 The crowd are scattering, let us move 
 away! 
 
 And thence to England. [Exeunt] 
 
 ACT rv 
 
 Scene First. — The outskirts of the 
 Bower. 
 
 Geoffrey [coming out of the wood]. 
 Light again! light again! Margery? 
 
382 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 no, that's a finer thing there. How it 
 ghtters ! 
 
 Eleanor [entering]. Come to me, 
 little one. How earnest thou hither? 
 
 Geopprey. On mjr legs. 
 
 Eleanor. And mighty pretty legs 
 too. Thou art the prettiest child I 
 ever saw. Wilt thou love me? 
 
 Geoffrey. No ; I only love mother. 
 
 Eleanor. Ay; and who is thy 
 mother? 
 
 Geoffrey. They call her — But 
 she Uves secret, you see. 
 
 Eleanor. Why? 
 
 Geoffrey. Don't know why. 
 
 Eleanor. Ay, but some one comes 
 to see her now and then. Who is he? 
 
 Geoffrey. Can't tell. 
 
 Eleanor. What does she call him ? 
 
 Geoffrey. My hege. 
 
 Eleanor. Pretty one, how earnest 
 thou? 
 
 Geoffrey. There was a bit of yellow 
 silk here and there, and it looked pretty 
 hke a glowworm, and I thought if I 
 followed it I should find the fairies. 
 
 Eleanor. I am the fairy, pretty one, 
 a good fairy to thy mother. Take me 
 to her. 
 
 Geoffrey. There are good fairies 
 and bad fairies, and sometimes she 
 cries, and can't sleep sound o' nights 
 because of the bad fairies. 
 
 Eleanor. She shall cry no more; 
 she shall sleep sound enough if thou 
 wilt take me to her. I am her good 
 fairy. 
 
 Geoffrey. But you. don't look hke 
 a good fairy. Mother does. You are 
 not pretty, hke mother. 
 
 Eleanor. We can't all of us be as 
 pretty as thou art — [aside] Uttle 
 bastard. Come, here is a golden chain 
 I will give thee if thou wilt lead me to 
 thy mother. 
 
 Geoffrey. No — no gold. Mother 
 says gold spoils all. Love is the only 
 gold. 
 
 Eleanor. I love thy mother, my 
 pretty boy. Show me where thou 
 oamest out of the wood. 
 
 Geoffrey. By this tree; but I 
 don't know if 1 can find the way back 
 again. 
 
 Eleanor. Where's the warder? 
 
 Geoffrey. Veiy bad. Somebody 
 struck him. 
 
 Eleanor. Ay? who was that? 
 
 Geoffrey. Can't tell. But I heard 
 say he had had a stroke, or you'd have 
 heard his hora befpre now. Come 
 
 along, then ; we shall see the silk here 
 and there, and I want my supper. 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 
 Scene Second. — Rosamund's Bower. 
 
 Robamttnd. The boy so late; pray 
 
 God, he be not lost. 
 I sent this Margery, and she comes not 
 
 back; 
 I sent another, and she comes not back. 
 I go myself — so many alleys, crossings. 
 Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, 
 
 now 
 The folds have fallen from the mystery, 
 And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 
 
 [Enter Geoffrey and Eleanor] 
 
 Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to ! 
 [Seeing Eleanor] 
 Ha, you ! 
 How came you hither? 
 
 Eleanor. Your own child brought 
 
 me hither ! , 
 
 Geoffrey. You said you couldn't 
 trust Margery, and I watched her and 
 followed her mto the woods, and I lost 
 her and went on and on tiU I found the 
 hght and the lady, and she says she can 
 make you sleep o' nights. 
 
 RosAMTJND. How dared you? Know 
 you not this bower is secret. 
 Of and belonging to the King of Eng- 
 land, 
 More sacred than his forests for the 
 
 chase ? 
 Nay, nay. Heaven help you ; get you 
 
 hence in haste 
 Lest worse befall you. 
 
 Eleanor. Child, I am mine own self 
 Of and belongmg to the King. The 
 
 King 
 Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belong- 
 
 Almost as many as your true Mussul- 
 man — 
 Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases 
 
 him 
 To call his wives; but so it chances, 
 
 child. 
 That I am his main paramour, his 
 
 sultana. 
 But since the fondest pair of doves wiU 
 
 jar, 
 Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of 
 
 late. 
 And thereupon he call'd my children 
 
 bastards. 
 
Becket 
 
 383 
 
 Do you believe that you are married to 
 
 him? 
 Rosamund. I should believe it. 
 Eleanor. You must not believe it, 
 Because I have a wholesome miedioine 
 
 here 
 Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, 
 
 beauty! 
 Do you believe that you are majried to 
 
 him? 
 Rosamund. Geoffrey, my boy, I saw 
 the ball you lost in the fork of the great 
 willow over the brook. Go. See that 
 you do not fall ill. Go. 
 
 Gboffbhy. And leave you alone 
 with the good fairy. She calls you 
 beauty, but I don't like her looks. 
 Well, you bid me go, and I'll have my 
 ban anyhow. Shall I find you asleep 
 when I come back ? 
 Rosamund. Go. [Exit GEorrREY] 
 Eleanor. He is easily found again. 
 
 Do you believe it ? 
 I pray you then to take my sleeping- 
 draught ; 
 But if you should not care to take it — 
 
 See ! [Draws a dagger] 
 
 What ! have I scared the red rose from 
 
 your face 
 Into your heart? But this wiU find it 
 
 there. 
 And dig it from the root for ever. 
 Rosamund. Help! help! 
 
 Eleanor. They say that walls have 
 
 ears ; but these, it seems. 
 Have none ! and I have none — to pity 
 
 thee. 
 Rosamund. I do beseech you — my 
 
 child is so young. 
 So backward too ; I cannot leave him 
 
 yet. 
 I am not so happy I could not die 
 
 myself. 
 But the child is so young. You ha,ve 
 
 children — his ; 
 And mine is the King's child ; so, if you 
 
 love him — 
 Nay, if you love him, there is great 
 
 wrong done 
 Somehow ; but if you do not — there 
 
 are those 
 Who say you do not love him — let me 
 
 go 
 With my young boy, and I wiU hide 
 
 my face. 
 Blacken and gipsyfy it; none shall 
 
 know me ; 
 The King shall never hear of me again. 
 But I will beg my bread along the world 
 With my young boy, and God will be 
 
 our guide. 
 
 I never meant you harm in any way. 
 See, I can say no more. 
 
 Eleanor. Will you not say you are 
 
 not married to him? 
 Rosamund. Ay, Madam, I can say 
 
 it, if you will. 
 Eleanor. Then is thy pretty boy a 
 
 bastard ? 
 Rosamund. No. 
 Eleanor. And thou thyself a proven 
 
 wanton ? 
 Rosamund. No. 
 I am none such. I never loved but one. 
 I have heard of such that range from 
 
 love to love. 
 Like the wild beast — if you can call it 
 
 love. 
 I have heard of such — • yea, even 
 
 among those 
 Who sit on thrones — I never saw any 
 
 such. 
 Never knew any such, and howsoever 
 You do misname me, match'd with any 
 
 such, 
 I am snow to mud. 
 
 Eleanor. The more the pity then 
 That thy true home — the heavens — 
 
 cry out for thee 
 Who art too pure for earth. 
 
 [Enter Fitzurbe] 
 
 FiTzuRSE. Give her to me. 
 
 Eleanor. The Judas-lover of our 
 passion-play 
 
 Hath track' d us hither. 
 
 FiTZURSE. Well, why not? I fol- 
 low'd 
 
 You and the child : he babbled all the 
 way. 
 
 Give her to me to make my honey- 
 moon. 
 Eleanor. Ay, as the bears love 
 honey. Could you keep her 
 
 Indungeon'd from one whisper of the 
 wind. 
 
 Dark even from a side glance of the 
 moon. 
 
 And oublietted in the centre — No ! 
 
 I follow out my hate and thy revenge. 
 PiTZUBSE. You . bade me take re- 
 venge another way — 
 
 To bring her to the dust. . . . Come 
 with me, love. 
 
 And I wUl love thee. . . . Madam, 
 let her hve. 
 
 I have a far-off burrow where the King 
 
 Would miss her and for ever. 
 
 Eleanor. How sayest thou, 
 
 sweetheart ? 
 
 Wilt thou go with him? he will marry 
 thee. 
 
384 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Rosamund. Give me the poison ; set 
 
 me free of him ! 
 
 [Eleanor offers the vial] 
 No, no ! I will not have it. 
 
 Eleanor. Then this other, 
 
 The wiser choice, because my sleeping- 
 draught 
 May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and 
 
 make 
 Thy body loathsome even to thy child ; 
 While this but leaves thee with a broken 
 
 heart ; 
 A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over 
 
 which 
 If pretty Geoffrey do not break his 
 
 own, 
 It must be broken for him. 
 
 Rosamund. O I see now 
 
 Your purpose is to fright me — a 
 
 troubadour 
 You play with words. You had never 
 
 used so many, 
 Not if you meant it, I am sure. The 
 
 child . . . 
 No . . . mercy ! No ! [Kneels] 
 
 Eleanor. Play ! . . . that 
 
 bosom never 
 Heaved under the King's hand with such 
 
 true passion 
 As at this loveless knife that stirs the 
 
 riot 
 Which it wiU quench in blood ! Slave, 
 
 if he love thee. 
 Thy life is worth the wrestle for it : 
 
 arise, 
 And dash thyself against me that I may 
 
 slay thee ! 
 The worm! shall I let her go? But 
 
 ha! what's here? 
 By very God, the cross I gave the King ! 
 His village darling in some lewd caress 
 Has wheedled it off the King's neck to 
 
 her own. 
 By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same! 
 
 I warrant 
 Thou hast sworn on this my cross a 
 
 hundred times 
 Never to leave him — and that merits 
 
 death. 
 False oath on holy cross — for thou 
 
 must leave him 
 To-day, but not quite yet. My good 
 
 Pitzurse, 
 The running down the chase is kindUer 
 
 sport 
 Ev'n than the death. Who knows but 
 
 that thy lover 
 May plead so pitifully, that I may spare 
 
 thee? 
 Come hither, man; stand there. [To 
 
 Rosamund] Take thy one chance ; 
 
 Catch at the last straw. KJneel to thy 
 
 lord Fitzurse ; 
 Crouch even because thou hatest him; 
 
 fawn upon him 
 For thy life and thy son's. 
 
 Rosamund [rising]. I am a CMfford, 
 My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
 I am to die then, tho' there stand beside 
 
 thee 
 One who might grapple with thy dagger, 
 
 if he 
 Had aught of man, or thou of woman; 
 
 or I 
 Would bow to such a baseness as would 
 
 make me 
 Most worthy of it ; both of us will die. 
 And I will fly with my sweet boy to 
 
 heaven, 
 And shriek to all the saints among the 
 
 stars : 
 'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of Eng- 
 land! 
 Murder' d by that adulteress Eleanor, 
 Whose doings are a horror to the east, 
 A hissing in the west ! ' Have we not 
 
 heard 
 Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle — 
 
 nay, 
 Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own hus- 
 band's father — 
 Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Salad- 
 
 deen — 
 Strike ! 
 
 I challenge thee to meet me before God. 
 Answer me there. 
 
 Eleanor [raising the dagger]. This in 
 
 thy bosom, fool, 
 And after in thy bastard's ! 
 
 [Enter Becket from behind. Catches 
 hold of her arm] 
 Becket. Murderess ! 
 
 [The dagger falls; they stare at 
 one another. After a pause] 
 Eleanor. My lord, we know you 
 proud of your fine hand, 
 But having now admired it long enough, 
 We find that it is mightier than it 
 
 seems ' — 
 At least mine own is frailer: you are 
 laming it. 
 Becket. And lamed and maim'd to 
 dislocation, better 
 Than raised to take a Ufe which Henry 
 
 bade me 
 Guard from the stroke that dooms thee 
 
 after death 
 To wail in deathless flame. 
 
 Eleanor. Nor you, nor I 
 
 Have now to learn, my lord, that our 
 good Henry 
 
Becket 
 
 385 
 
 Says many a thing in sudden heats, 
 
 which he 
 Gainsays by next sunrising — often 
 
 ready 
 To tear mmself for having said as much. 
 My lord, Fitzurse — 
 Becket. He too ! what dost thou 
 
 here? 
 Dares the bear slouch into the lion's 
 
 den? 
 One downward plunge of his paw would 
 
 rend away 
 Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from 
 
 thee. 
 Go, lest I blast thee with anathema. 
 And make thee a world's horror. 
 
 Fitzurse. My lord, I shall 
 
 Remember this. 
 
 Becket. I do remember thee ; 
 
 Lest I rem^imber thee to the Hon, go. 
 
 [Exit Fitzttrse] 
 Take up your dagger; put it in the 
 
 sheath. 
 Eleanor. Might not your courtesy 
 
 stoop to hand it me ? 
 But crowns must bow when mitres sit 
 
 so high. 
 Well — well — too costly to be left or 
 
 lost. [Picks up the dagger] 
 
 I had it from an Arab soldan, who. 
 When I was there in Antioch, marveE'd 
 
 at 
 Our unfamiliar beauties of the west ; 
 But wonder'd more at my much con- 
 stancy 
 To the monk-king, Louis, our former 
 
 burthen, 
 From whom, as being too kin, you know, 
 
 my lord, 
 God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd 
 
 us. 
 I think, time given, I could have talk'd 
 
 him out of 
 His ten wives into one. Look at the 
 
 hilt. 
 What excellent workmanship. In our 
 
 poor west 
 We cannot do it so well. 
 
 Becket. We can do worse. 
 
 Madam, I saw your dagger at her 
 
 throat ; 
 I heard your savage cry. 
 
 Eleanor. Well acted, was it ? 
 
 A comedy meant to seem a tragedy — 
 A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you 
 
 are known 
 Thro' all the courts of Christendom as 
 
 one 
 That mars a cause with over-violence. 
 You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak 
 
 not of mysfiB, 
 
 We thought to scare this minion of the 
 
 King 
 k froi 
 
 Back from her churchless commerce 
 
 with the King 
 To the fond arms of her first love, 
 
 Fitzurse, 
 Who swore to marry her. You have 
 
 spoilt the farce. 
 My savage cry? Why, she — she — 
 
 when I strove 
 To work against her license for her 
 
 good, 
 Barlrd out at me such monstrous 
 
 charges, that 
 The King himself, for love of his own 
 
 sons. 
 If hearing, would have spurn'd her; 
 
 whereupon 
 I menaced her with this, as when we 
 
 threaten 
 A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not. 
 That I was somewhat anger' d. Do you 
 
 hear me? 
 Believe or no, I care not. You have 
 
 lost 
 The ear of, the King. I have it. . . , 
 
 My lord Paramount, 
 Our great High-priest, will not your 
 
 Holiness 
 Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your 
 
 Queen ? 
 Becket. Rosamund hath not an- 
 swer' d you one word ; 
 Madam, I will not answer you one word. 
 Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. 
 
 Leave it, daughter ; 
 Come thou with me to Godstow nun- 
 nery. 
 And live what may be left thee of a life 
 Saved as by miracle alone with Him 
 Who gave it. 
 
 [Re-enter Geofpret] 
 
 GEOFrRBT. Mother, you told me a 
 great flb : it wasn't in the willow. 
 Becket. FoUow us, my son, and we 
 will find it for thee — ■ 
 Or something manlier. 
 
 [Exeunt Becket, Rosamund, and 
 Geoffrey] 
 Eleanor. The world hath trick'd 
 her — that's the King ; if so, 
 There was the farce, the feint — not 
 
 mine. And yet 
 I am all but sure my dagger was a feint 
 TiU the worm turn'd — not life shot up 
 
 in blood, 
 But death drawn in ; — [looking at the 
 
 vial] this was no feint then? no. 
 But can I swear to that, had she but 
 given 
 
386 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Plain answer to plain query? nay, me- 
 
 thinks 
 Had she but bow'd herself to meet the 
 
 wave 
 Of humiliation, worshipt whom she 
 
 loathed, 
 I should have let her be, scorn'd her too 
 
 much 
 To harm her. Henry — Becket tells 
 
 him this — 
 To take my life might lose him Aqui- 
 
 taine. 
 Too poHtio for that. Imprison me ? 
 No, for it came to nothing — only a 
 
 feint. 
 Did she not tell me I was plajdng on 
 
 her? 
 I'll swear to mine own self it was a 
 
 feint. 
 Why should I swear, Eleanor, who am, 
 
 or was, 
 A sovereign power? The King plucks 
 
 out their eyes 
 Who anger him, and shall not I, the 
 
 Queen, 
 Tear out her heart — kiU, kiU with knife 
 
 or venom 
 One of his slanderous harlots? 'None 
 
 of such?' 
 I love her none the more. Tut, the 
 
 chance gone, 
 She Uves — but not for him ; one point 
 
 is gain'd. 
 O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King 
 
 Louis, 
 Scorning his monkery, — I that wedded 
 
 Henry, 
 Honouring his manhood, — wiU he not 
 
 mock at me 
 The jealous fool balk'd of her will — 
 
 with him ? 
 But he and he must never meet again. 
 Reginald Fitzurse ! 
 
 [Re-enter Fitzurse] 
 
 FiTziTRSB. Here, Madam, at 
 
 your pleasure. 
 Eleanor. My pleasure is to have a 
 man about me. 
 Why did you shnk away so like a our? 
 Fitzurse. Madam, I am as much 
 man as the King. 
 Madam, I fear Churoh-oensures like 
 your King. 
 Eleanor. He grovels to the Church 
 when he's black-blooded. 
 But kinglike fought the proud arch- 
 bishop, — kinghke 
 Defied the Pope, and, Uke his kingly 
 sires. 
 
 The Normans, striving still to break or 
 
 bind 
 The spiritual giant with our island laws 
 And customs, made me for the moment 
 
 proud 
 Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which 
 
 Unk'd me with him 
 To bear him kingly sons. I am not so 
 
 sure 
 But that I love him still. Thou as 
 
 much man ! 
 No more of that ; we will to France and 
 
 be 
 Beforehand with the King, and brew 
 
 from out 
 This Godstow-Becket intermeddling 
 
 such 
 A strong hate-philtre as may madden 
 
 him — madden 
 Against his priest beyond all hellebore. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene First. — Castle in Normandy. 
 King's chamber. 
 
 [Henry, Roger op York, Foliot, 
 Jocelyn or Salisbury] 
 
 Roger of York. Nay, nay, my 
 
 Uege, 
 He rides abroad with armed followers. 
 Hath broken all his promises to thyself, 
 Cursed and anathematised us right and 
 
 left, 
 Stirr'd up a party there against your 
 
 son — 
 Henry. Roger of York, you always 
 
 hated him. 
 Even when you both were boys at Theo- 
 bald's. 
 Roger op York. I always hated 
 
 boundless arroganice. , 
 In mine own cause I strove against him 
 
 there. 
 And in thy cause I strive against him 
 
 now. 
 Henry. I cannot think he moves 
 
 against my son. 
 Knowing right well with what a tender- 
 ness 
 He loved my son. 
 Roger op York. Before you made 
 
 him king. 
 But Becket ever moves against a king. 
 The Church is all — the crime to be a 
 
 king. 
 We trust your Royal Grace, lord of more 
 
 land { 
 
Becket 
 
 387 
 
 Thaa any crown in Europe, ■will not 
 
 yield 
 To lay yoTir neck beneath your citizen's 
 
 heel. 
 Henry. Not to a Gregory of my 
 
 throning ! No. 
 FoLiOT. My royal liege, in aiming at 
 
 your love. 
 It may be sometimes I have overshot 
 My duties to our Holy Mother Church, 
 Tho' all the world allows I faU no inch 
 Behind this Becket, rather go beyond 
 In scoiu:gings, macerations, mortifyings, 
 Fasts, disoiphnes that clear the spiritual 
 
 eye. 
 And break the soxil from earth. Let aU 
 
 that be. 
 I boast not : but you know thro' all this 
 
 quarrel 
 I still have cleaved to the crown, in hope 
 
 the crown 
 Would cleave to me that but obey'd the 
 
 crown. 
 Crowning your son ; for which our loyal 
 
 service. 
 And since we Ukewise swore to obey the 
 
 customs, 
 York and myself, and our good Salisbury 
 
 here. 
 Are push'd from out communion of the 
 
 Church. 
 JocELYN OF Salisbury. Becket hath 
 
 trodden on us like worms, my liege ; 
 Trodden one half dead; one half, but 
 
 half-aUve, 
 Cries to the King. 
 Henry. [Aside] Take care o' thyself, 
 
 OKing. 
 JocELYN OP Salisbury. Being so 
 
 crush' d and so humiliated 
 We scarcely dare to bless the food we eat 
 Because of Becket. 
 Henry. What would ye have me do ? 
 Roger op York. Summon your 
 
 barons; take their counsel: yet 
 I know — could swear — as long as 
 
 Becket breathes, 
 Your Grace will never have one quiet 
 
 hour. 
 Henry. What? ... Ay . . . but 
 
 pray you do not work upon me. 
 I see your drift ... it may be so . . . 
 
 and yet 
 You know me easily anger'd. Will you 
 
 hence? 
 He shall absolve you . . . you shaD 
 
 have redress. 
 I have a dizzying headache. Let me rest. 
 I'll caU you by and by. 
 
 [Exeunt Roger op York, Foliot, 
 1 and JocBLYN OP Salisbury] 
 
 Would he were dead ! I have lost aU 
 
 love for him. 
 If God would take him in some sudden 
 
 way — 
 Would he were dead. [Lies down] 
 
 Page [entering]. My liege, the Queen 
 
 of England. 
 Henby. God's eyes ! [Starting up] 
 
 [Enter Eleanor] 
 
 EleanoH. Of England? Say of 
 
 Aquitaine. 
 I am no Queen of England. I had 
 
 dream'd 
 I was the bride of England, and a queen. 
 Henry. And, — while you dream'd 
 
 you were the bride of England, — 
 Stirring her baby-king against me? ha ! 
 "Eleanor. The brideless Becket is 
 
 thy king and mine : 
 I will go live and die in Aquitaine. 
 Henry. Except I clap thee into 
 
 prison here. 
 Lest thou shouldst play the wanton 
 
 there again. 
 Ha, you of Aquitaine ! O you of Aqui- 
 taine ! 
 You were but Aquitaine to Louis — no 
 
 wife; 
 You are only Aquitaine to me — no 
 
 wife. 
 Eleanor. And why, my lord, should 
 
 I be wife to one 
 That only wedded me for Aquitaine ? 
 Yet this no wife — her six and thirty 
 
 sail 
 Of Provence blew you to your English 
 
 throne ; 
 And this no wife has borne you four 
 
 brave sons, 
 
 And one of them at least is like to prove 
 
 Bigger in our small world than thou art. 
 
 Henry. Ay — 
 
 Richard, if he be mine — I hope him 
 
 mine. 
 But thou art Uke enough to make him 
 
 thine. 
 Eleanor. Becket is hke enough to 
 
 make all his. 
 Henry. Methought I had recover'd 
 
 of the Becket, 
 That aU was planed and bevell'd smooth 
 
 again. 
 Save from some hateful cantrip of thine 
 
 own. 
 Eleanor. I wiU go live and die in 
 
 Aquitaine. 
 I dream'd I was the consort of a king, 
 Not one whose back his priest 1ms 
 
 broken. 
 
388 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Henry. What ! 
 Is the end come ? You, wiU you crown 
 
 my foe 
 My victor in mid-battle ? I will be 
 Sole master of my house. The end is 
 
 mine. 
 What game, what juggle, what devilry 
 
 are you playing? 
 Why do you thrust this Becket on me 
 again ? 
 Eleanor. Why? for I am true wife, 
 and have my fears 
 Lest Becket thrust you even from your 
 
 throne. 
 Do you know this cross, my liege ? 
 Henry [turning his head]. Away ! 
 
 Not I. 
 Eleanor. Not ev'n the central dia- 
 mond, worth, I think. 
 Half of the Antioch whence I had it? 
 Henry. That? 
 
 Eleanor. I gave it you, and you 
 your paramour ; 
 She sends it back, as being dead to 
 
 earth. 
 So dead henceforth to you. 
 
 Henry. Dead ! you have murder'd 
 her. 
 Found out her secret bower and mur- 
 der'd her ! 
 Eleanor. Your Becket knew the 
 
 secret of your bower. 
 Henry [calling out]. Ho there! thy 
 
 rest of life is hopeless prison. 
 Eleanor. And what would my own 
 Aquitaine say to that? 
 First, free thy captive from her hope- 
 less prison. 
 Henry. O devil, can I free her from 
 
 the grave ? 
 Eleanor. You are too tragic : both 
 of us are players 
 In such a comedy as our coxirt of Pro- 
 vence 
 Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate Latin 
 
 lay 
 Of Walter Map : the lady holds the 
 
 cleric 
 LoveUer than any soldier, his poor 
 
 tonsure 
 A crown of Empire. Will you have it 
 again ? 
 
 [Offering the cross. He dashes it 
 down] 
 St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. 
 Then mine once more. [Puts it on] 
 
 Your cleric hath your lady. 
 Nay, what uncomely faces, could he see 
 
 you 
 
 FoaiDL at the mouth because JKing 
 Thomas, lord 
 
 Not only of your vassals but amours, 
 
 Thro' chastest honour of the Decalogue 
 
 Hath used the full authority of his 
 Church 
 
 To put her into Godstow nunnery. 
 Henry. To put her into Godstow 
 nunnery ! 
 
 He dared not — har ! yet, yet I remem- 
 ber — 
 
 I do remember. 
 
 He bade me put her into a nunnery — 
 
 Into Godstow, into HeUstow, Devilstow ! 
 
 The Church ! the Church ! 
 
 God's eyes ! I would the Church were 
 down in heU ! [Exit] 
 
 Eleanor. Aha ! 
 
 [Enter the four Knights] 
 
 FiTZURSB. What made the King cry 
 
 out so f lu-iously ? 
 Eleanor. Our Becket, who will not 
 
 absolve the Bishops. 
 I think ye four have cause to love this 
 
 Becket. 
 FiTZTjRSE. I hate him for his inso- 
 lence to all. 
 De Tracy. And I for all his insolence 
 
 to thee. 
 De Bhito. I hate him for I hate him 
 
 is my reason. 
 And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. 
 De Morville. I do not love him, 
 
 for he did his best 
 To break the barons, and now braves 
 
 the King. 
 Eleanor. Strike, then, at once, the 
 
 King would have him — See ! 
 
 [Re-enter Henry] 
 
 Henry. No man to love me, honour 
 
 me, obey me ! 
 Sluggards and fools ! 
 'The slave that eat my bread has kick'd 
 
 his King ! 
 The dog I cramm'd with dainties worried 
 
 me! 
 The fellow that on a lame jade came to 
 
 court, 
 A ragged cloak for saddle — he, he, he, 
 To shake my throne, to push into my 
 
 chamber — 
 My bed, where ev'n the slave is private 
 
 — he — 
 I'll have her out again, he shall absolve 
 The bishops — they but did my wiU — 
 
 not you — 
 Sluggards and fools, why do you stand 
 
 and stare? 
 You are no King's men — you — you — 
 
 you are Becket's men. 
 
Becket 
 
 389 
 
 Down with King Henry ! up with the 
 
 Archbishop ! 
 
 Will no man free me from this pestilent 
 
 priest ? [Exit] 
 
 [The Knights draw their swords] 
 
 Elbanok. Are ye king's men? lam 
 
 king's woman, I. 
 The Knights. King's men ! King's 
 men! 
 
 Scene Second. — A Room in Canter- 
 bury Monastery 
 
 [Becket and John of Salisbury] 
 
 Becket. York said so? 
 
 John of Salisbury. Yes : a man 
 
 may take good counsel 
 Ev'n from his foe. 
 
 Becket. York wiU say anything. 
 What is he saying now? gone to the 
 
 King 
 And taken our anathema with him. 
 
 York! 
 Can the King de-anathematise this 
 
 York? 
 John of Salisbury. Thomas, I 
 
 would thou hadst return' d to Eng- 
 land, 
 Like some wise prince of this world 
 
 from his wars. 
 With more of oUve-braneh and amnesty 
 For foes at home — thou hast raised 
 
 the world against thee. 
 Becket. Why, John, my kingdom is 
 
 not of this world. 
 John op Salisbury. If it were more 
 
 of this world it might be 
 More of the next. A poUcy of wise 
 
 pardon 
 Wins here as well as there. To bless 
 
 thine enemies — 
 Becket. Ay, mine, not Heaven's. 
 John of Salisbury. And may there 
 
 not be something 
 Of this world's leaven in thee too, when 
 
 crying 
 On Holy Church to thunder out her 
 
 rights 
 And thine own wrong so pitilessly? Ah, 
 
 Thomas, 
 The lightnings that we think are only 
 
 Heaven's 
 Flash sometimes out of earth against 
 
 the heavens. 
 The soldier, when he lets his whole 
 
 self go 
 Lost in the common good, the common 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. I 
 
 crave 
 Thy pardon — I have still thy leave to 
 
 speak. 
 Thou hast waged God's war against the 
 
 King ; and yet 
 We are self-uncertain creatures, and we 
 
 may. 
 Yea, even when we know not, mix our 
 
 spites 
 And private hates with our defence of 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 [Enter Edward Grim] 
 
 Becket. Thou art but yesterday 
 from Cambridge, Grim; 
 What say ye there of Becket? 
 
 Grim. / believe him 
 
 The bravest in our roll of Rrimates 
 
 down 
 From Austin — there are some — for 
 
 there are men 
 Of canker'd judgment everywhere — 
 
 Becket. Wlo hold 
 
 With York, with York against me. 
 
 Grim. Well, my lord, 
 
 A stranger monk desires access to you. 
 Becket. York against Canterbmry, 
 York against God ! 
 I am open to him. [Exit Grim] 
 
 [Enter Rosamund as a Monk] 
 
 Rosamund. Can I speak with you 
 Alone, my father? 
 
 Becket. Come you to confess? 
 
 Rosamund. Not now. 
 Becket. Then speak ; this 
 
 is my other self, 
 WTho like my conscience never lets me be. 
 Rosamund [throwing back the cowl]. I 
 know him ; our good John of Salis- 
 bury. ^ 
 Becket. Breaking already from thy 
 noviciate 
 To plunge into this bitter world again — ■ 
 These wells of Marah. I am grieved, 
 
 my daughter. 
 I thought that I had made a peace for 
 thee. 
 Rosamund. Small peace was mine 
 in my noviciate, father. 
 Thro' aU closed doors a dreadful whisper 
 
 crept 
 That thou wouldst excommunicate the 
 
 King. 
 I could not eat, sleep, pray : I had with 
 
 me 
 The monk's disguise thou gavest me for 
 my bower : 
 
390 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I think our Abbess knew it and allow' d 
 
 it. 
 I fled, and found thy name a charm to 
 
 get me 
 Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber 
 
 once, 
 I told him I was bound to see the Arch- 
 bishop ; 
 'Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I 
 
 pass'd 
 From house to house. In one a son 
 
 stone-blind 
 Sat by his mother's hearth : he had 
 
 gone too far 
 Into the King's own woods; and the 
 
 poor mother. 
 Soon as she learnt I was a friend of 
 
 thine, 
 Cried out against the cruelty of the 
 
 King. 
 I said it was the King's courts, not the 
 
 . King; \ 
 
 But she would not believe me, and she 
 
 wish'd 
 The Church were king : she had seen 
 
 ■ the Archbishop once. 
 So mild, so kind. The people love thee, 
 
 father. 
 Becket. Alas ! when I was Chan- 
 cellor to the King, 
 I fear I was as cruel as the King. 
 Rosamund. Cruel? Oh, no — it is 
 
 the law, not he ; 
 The customs of the realm. 
 
 Becket. The customs ! customs ! 
 
 Rosamund. My lord, you have not 
 
 excommunicated him? 
 Oh, if you have, absolve him ! 
 
 Becket. Daughter, daughter. 
 
 Deal not with things you know not. 
 
 Rosamund. I know him. 
 
 Then you have done it, and I oaU you 
 
 cruel. 
 John of Salisbury. No, daughter, 
 
 you mistake our good Archbishop ; 
 For once in France the King had been 
 
 so harsh,. 
 He thought to excommunicate him — 
 
 Thomas, 
 You could not — old affection master' d 
 
 you, 
 You falter'd into tears. 
 
 Rosamund. God bless him for it. 
 
 Becket. Nay, make me not a 
 
 woman, John of Salisbury, 
 Nor make me traitor to my holy of&ce. 
 Did not a man's voice ring along the 
 
 aisle, 
 ' The King is sick and almost unto 
 
 death'? 
 How could I excommunicate him then? 
 
 Rosamund. And wilt thou excom- 
 municate him now ? 
 Becket. Daughter, my time is short, 
 I shall not do it. 
 And were it longer — weE — I should 
 not do it. 
 Rosamund. Thanks in this Ufe, and 
 
 in the life to come. 
 Becket. Get thee back to thy 
 nunnery with all haste ; 
 Let this be thy last trespass. But one 
 
 question — • 
 How fares thy pretty boy, ' the little 
 
 Geoffrey? 
 No fever, cough, croup, sickness? 
 
 Rosamund. No, but saved 
 
 From all that by our solitude. The 
 
 plagues 
 That smite the city spare the solitudes. 
 Becket. God save him from all 
 sickness of the soul ! 
 Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns, 
 May that save thee ! Doth he remem- 
 ber me? 
 Rosamund. I warrant him. 
 Becket. He is marvellously like 
 
 thee. 
 Rosamund. Liker the King. 
 Becket. No, daughter. 
 
 Rosamund. Ay, but wait 
 
 TiU his nose rises ; he will be very king. 
 Becket. Ev'n so : but think not of 
 
 the King : farewell ! 
 Rosamund. My lord, the city is fuU 
 
 of armed men. 
 Becket. Ev'n so : farewell ! 
 Rosamund. I wUl but pass to 
 vespers, 
 And breathe one prayer for my liege- 
 lord the King, 
 His child and mine own soul, and so 
 return. 
 Becket. Pray for me too : much 
 need of prayer have I. 
 
 [Rosamund kneels and goes] 
 Dan John, how much we lose, we celi- 
 bates. 
 Lacking the love of woman and of child ! 
 John OF Salisbuby. More gain than 
 loss ; for of your wives you shall 
 Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems 
 Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it — 
 
 one 
 So charged with tongfue, that every 
 
 thread of thought 
 Is broken ere it joins — a shrew to boot, 
 Whose evil song far on into the night 
 TkriUs to the topmost tile — no hope 
 
 but death ; 
 One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the 
 hearth ; 
 
Becket 
 
 391 
 
 And one that being thwarted ever 
 
 swoons 
 And weeps herself into the place of 
 
 power; 
 And one' an uxor pauperis Ibyci. 
 So rare the household honeymaking bee, 
 Man's help ! but we, we have the blessed 
 
 Virgin 
 For worship, and our Mother Church 
 
 for bride ; 
 And all the souls we saved and father'd 
 
 here 
 Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. 
 What noise was that? she told us of 
 
 arm'd men 
 Here in the city. WiU you not with- 
 draw? 
 Becket. I once was out with Henry 
 
 in the day§ 
 When Henry loved me, and we came 
 
 upon 
 A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still 
 I reach'd my hand and touch'd ; she did 
 
 not stir ; 
 The snow had frozen round her, and she 
 
 sat 
 Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold 
 
 Look ! how this love, this mother, ruiis 
 
 thro' all 
 The world God made — even the beast 
 
 — the bird ! 
 John of Salisbukt. Ay, still a lover 
 
 of the beast and bird ? 
 But these arm'd men — wiU you not 
 
 hide yourself ? 
 Perchance the fierce De Brocs from 
 
 Saltwood Castle, 
 To assail our Holy Mother lest she 
 
 brood 
 Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, 
 
 and send 
 Her whole heart's heat into it, till it 
 
 break 
 Into young angels. Pray you, hide 
 
 yoursefi. 
 Becket. There was a little fair- 
 hair' d Norman maid 
 Lived in my mother's house : if Rosa- 
 mund is 
 The world's rose, as her name imports 
 
 her — she 
 Was the world's lily. 
 John of Salisbury. Ay, and what 
 
 of her? 
 Becket. She died of leprosy. 
 John of Salisbury. I Imow not why 
 You call these old things back again, my 
 
 lord. 
 Becket. The drowning man, they 
 
 gay, remembers all 
 
 The chances of his life, just ere he 
 dies. 
 John of Salisbury. Ay — but these 
 arm'd men — wiU you drown your- 
 self f 
 He loses half the meed of martyrdom 
 Who wiU be martyr when he might 
 escape. 
 Becket. What day of the week? 
 
 Tuesday ? 
 John op Salisbury. Tuesday, my 
 
 lord. 
 Becket. On a Tuesday was I bom, 
 and on a Tuesday 
 Baptized ; and on a 'Tuesday did I fly 
 Forth from Northampton ; on a Tues- 
 day pass'd 
 From England into bitter banishment ; 
 On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to ma 
 The ghostly warning of my martyrdom ; 
 On a Tuesday from mine exile I re- 
 
 tum'd, 
 And on a "Tuesday — 
 
 [Tracy enters, then Fitzurse, Db 
 Brito, and De Mohville. 
 Monks following] 
 — on a Tuesday — Tracy ! 
 
 [A long silence broken by Fitzurse 
 saying, contemptuously] 
 God help thee ! 
 
 John of Salisbury. [Aside] How 
 the good Archbishop reddens ! 
 He never yet could brook the note of 
 scorn. 
 Fitzurse. My lord, we bring a 
 message from the King 
 Beyond the water; will you have it 
 
 alone. 
 Or with these listeners near you? 
 
 Becket. As you will. 
 
 Fitzurse. Nay, as you will. 
 Becket. Nay, as you wUl. 
 
 John op Salisbury. Why then 
 
 Better perhaps to speak with them 
 
 apart. 
 Let us withdraw. 
 
 [All go out except the four Knights 
 and Becket] 
 Fitzurse. We are aU alone with 
 him. 
 Shall I not smite him with his own 
 cross-staff ? 
 De Morville. No, look! the door 
 
 is open : let him be. 
 Fitzurse. The King condemns your 
 
 excommunicating — 
 Becket. This is no secret, but a 
 public matter. 
 In here again ! 
 
 [John op Salisbury and Monks return] 
 Now, gjrs, tb^ King'§ gommands ! 
 
392 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 FiTZURSE. The Bang beyond the 
 
 water, thro' our voices, 
 Commands you to be dutiful and leal 
 To your young King on this side of the 
 
 water, 
 Not scorn him for the foibles of his 
 
 youth. 
 Wfiat ! you would make his coronation 
 
 void 
 By cursing those who crown'd him! 
 
 Out upon you ! 
 Bbcket. Reginald, all men know I 
 
 loved the Prince. 
 His father gave him to my care, and I 
 Became his second father : he had hife 
 
 faults, 
 For which I would have laid mine own 
 
 life down 
 To help him from them, since indeed I 
 
 loved him. 
 And love him next after my lord his 
 
 father. 
 Rather than dim the splendour of his 
 
 crown 
 I fain would treble and quadruple it 
 With revenues, realms, and golden prov- 
 inces 
 So that were done in equity. 
 
 FiTZTjRSE. You have broken 
 
 Your bond of peace, your treaty with 
 
 the King — 
 Wakening such brawls and loud disturb- 
 ances 
 In England, that he calls you oversea 
 To answer for it in his Norman courts. 
 Becket. Prate not of bonds, for 
 
 never, oh, never again 
 Shall the waste voice of the bond-break- 
 ing sea 
 Divide me from the mother church of 
 
 England, 
 My Canterbury. Loud disturbances! 
 Oh, ay — the bells rang out even to 
 
 deafening. 
 Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants 
 
 and hymns 
 In all the churches, trumpets in the 
 
 halls. 
 Sobs, laughter, cries : they spread their 
 
 raiment down 
 Before me — would have made my 
 
 pathway flowers. 
 Save that it was mid-winter in the 
 
 street. 
 But full mid-summer in those honest 
 
 hearts. 
 FiTZTJBSE. The King commands you 
 
 to absolve the bishops 
 Whom you have excommunicated. 
 
 Becket. I? 
 
 Not I, the Pope. Ask him for absolution. 
 
 FiTZURSE. But you advised the 
 
 Pope. 
 Becket. And so I did. 
 
 They have but to submit. 
 
 The Four Knights. The King com- 
 mands you. 
 We are all King's men. 
 Becket. King's men at least 
 
 should know 
 That their own King closed with me 
 
 last July 
 That I should pass the censures of the 
 
 Church 
 On those that crown'd young Hemry in 
 
 this realm. 
 And trampled on the rights of Canter- 
 bury. 
 FiTZURSE. What! dare you charge 
 the King with treachery ? 
 He sanction thee to excommunicate 
 The prelates whom he chose to crown 
 his son ! 
 Becket. I spake no word of treach- 
 ery, Reginald. 
 But for the truth of this I make appeal 
 To all the archbishops, bishops, prel- 
 ates, barons. 
 Monks, knights, five hundred, that were 
 
 there and heard. 
 Nay, you yourself were there: you 
 heard yourself. 
 FiTZURSE. I was not there. 
 Becket. I saw you there. 
 
 FiTztTRSE. I was not. 
 
 Becket. You were. I never forget 
 
 anything. 
 FiTZURSE. He makes the King a 
 traitor, me a Har. 
 How long shall we forbear him ? 
 
 John op Salisbury [drawing Becket 
 aside]. O my good lord, 
 
 Speak with them privately on this here- 
 after. 
 You see they have been reveUing, and I 
 
 fear 
 Are braced and brazen'd up with 
 
 Christmas wines 
 For any murderous brawl. 
 
 Becket. And yet they prate 
 
 Of mine, my brawls, when those, that 
 
 name themselves 
 Of the King's part, have broken down 
 
 our barns. 
 Wasted our diocese, outraged our ten- 
 ants, 
 Lifted our produce, driven our clerics 
 
 out — 
 Why they, your friends, those ruffians, 
 
 the De Brocs, 
 They stood on Dover beach to murder 
 me, 
 
Becket 
 
 393 
 
 They slew my stags in mine own manor 
 
 here, 
 Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter- 
 
 mule, 
 Plunder'd the vessel fuU of Gascon 
 
 wine. 
 The old King's present, carried off the 
 
 Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the other 
 
 half 
 In Pevensey Castle — 
 
 De Mqeville. Why not rather then, 
 If this be so, complain to your young 
 
 Kin^, 
 Not pumsh of your own authority? 
 Becket. Mine enemies barr'd all 
 access to the boy. 
 They knew he loved me. 
 Hugh, Hugh, how proudly you exalt 
 
 your head ! 
 Nay, when they seek to overturn our 
 
 rights, 
 I ask no leave of king, or mortal man. 
 To set them straight again. Alone I 
 
 do it. 
 Give to the King the things that are 
 
 the King's, 
 And those of God to God. 
 FiTZURSE. Threats! threats! 
 
 ye hear him. 
 Wliat! will he excommunicate aU the 
 world? 
 
 [The Knights come round Becket] 
 De "Tracy. He shall not. 
 De Bhito. Well, as yet — 
 
 I should be grateful — 
 He hath not excommunicated me. 
 Becket. Because thou wast born ex- 
 communicate. 
 I never spied in thee one gleam of grace. 
 De_ Bkito. Your Christian's Chris- 
 tian charity ! 
 Becket. By St. Denis — 
 
 De Brito. Ay, by St. Denis, now 
 win he flame out, 
 And lose his head as old St. Denis did. 
 Becket. Ye think to scare me from 
 my loyalty 
 To God and to the Holy Father. No ! 
 Tho' all the swords in England flash'd 
 
 above me 
 Ready to fall at Henry's word or 
 
 yours — 
 Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets upon 
 
 earth 
 Blared from the heights of all the 
 
 thrones of her kings. 
 Blowing the world against me, I would 
 
 stand 
 Clothed with the fuU authority of 
 Borne, 
 
 MaU'd in the perfect panoply of faith, 
 First of the foremost of their flies, who 
 
 die 
 For God, to people heaven in the great 
 
 day 
 When God makes up his jewels. Once 
 
 I fled — 
 Never again, and you — I marvel at 
 
 you^ 
 Ye know what is between us. Ye have 
 
 sworn 
 Yourselves my men when I was Chan- 
 cellor — 
 My vassals — and yet threaten your 
 
 Archbishop 
 In his own house. 
 
 Knights. Nothing can be between 
 us 
 That goes against oui f ealtjr to the King. 
 FiTZUHSE. And in his name we 
 charge you that ye keep 
 This traitor from escaping. 
 
 Becket. Rest you easy, 
 
 For I am easy to keep. I shall not fly. 
 Here, here, here wiU you find me. 
 
 De Morville. Know you not 
 
 You have spoken to the peril of your 
 life? 
 Becket. As I shall speak again. 
 FiTZUESE, De Tract, and De Brito. 
 To arms ! 
 
 [They rush out, De Morville 
 lingers] 
 Becket. De Morville, 
 
 I had thought so well of you ; and even 
 
 now 
 You seem the least assassin of the 
 
 four. 
 Oh, do not damn yourself for company ! 
 Is it too late for me to save your soul? 
 I pray you for one moment stay and 
 speak. 
 De Morville. Becket, it is too late. 
 
 [Exit] 
 Becket. Is it too late? 
 
 Too late on earth may be too soon in 
 hell. 
 Knights [in the distance]. Close the 
 great gate — ho, there — upon the 
 town. 
 Becket's Retainers. Shut the hall- 
 doors. [A pause] 
 Becket. You tear them, brother 
 John; 
 Why do you stand so silent, brother 
 John? 
 John op Salisbury. For I was mus- 
 ing on an ancient saw, 
 Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re, 
 Is strength less strong when hand-in- 
 hand with grace? 
 
394 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Graiior in pulchro corpore virtus. 
 
 Thomas, 
 Why should you heat yourself for such 
 as these? 
 Becket. Methought I answer'd mod- 
 erately enough. 
 John of Salisbury. As one that 
 blows the coal to cool the Are. 
 My lord, I marvel why you never lean 
 On any man's advising but your own. 
 Becket. Is it so, Dan John? well, 
 
 what should I have done ? 
 John op Salisbury. You should have 
 taken counsel with your friends 
 Before these bandits brake into your 
 
 presence. 
 They seek — you make — occasion for 
 your death. 
 Becket. My counsel is already 
 taken, John. 
 I am prepared to die. 
 
 John op Salisbury. We are sinners 
 aU, 
 The best of all not all-prepared to die. 
 Becket. God's wiU be done ! 
 John op Salisbury. Ay, well. 
 
 God's will be done I 
 Grim [re-entering]. My lord, the 
 knights are arming in the garden 
 Beneath the sycamore, 
 
 Becket. Good ! let them arm. 
 
 Grim. And one of the De Brocs is 
 with them, Robert, 
 The apostate monk that was with Ran- 
 
 dulf here. 
 He knows the twists and turnings of the 
 place. 
 Becket. No fear ! 
 Grim. No fear, my lord. 
 
 [Crashes on the hall-doors. The 
 Monks flee] 
 Becket [rising]. Our dovecote 
 flown! 
 I cannot tell why monks should all be 
 cowards. 
 John op Salisbury. Take refuge in 
 
 your own cathedral, Thomas. 
 Becket. Do they not fight the 
 Great Fiend day by day ? 
 Valour and holy life should go together. 
 Why should all monks be cowards ? 
 
 John op Salisbury. Are they so? 
 
 I say, take refuge in your own cathedral. 
 
 Becket. Ay, but I told them I would 
 
 wait them here. 
 Grim. May they not say you dared 
 not show yourself 
 In your old place? and vespers are 
 ginning. 
 
 [Bell rings for vespers till end of 
 scene] 
 
 You should attend the office, give them 
 
 heart. 
 They fear you slain : they dread they 
 know not what. 
 Becket. Ay, monks, not men. 
 Grim. I am a monk, my lord. 
 
 Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. 
 Some would stand by you to the death. 
 Becket. Your pardon. 
 
 John op Salisbury. He said, 'At- 
 tend the of&ce.' 
 Becket. Attend the office? 
 
 Why then — The Cross ! — who bears 
 
 my Cross before me ? 
 Methought they would have brain'd me 
 with it, John. [Grim takes it] 
 
 Grim. I ! Would that I could bear 
 
 thy cross indeed ! 
 Becket. The Mitre ! 
 John op Salisbury. WiU you wear 
 it ? — there ! 
 
 [Becket puts on the mitre] 
 Becket. The Pall! 
 
 I go to meet my Bang ! 
 
 [Puts on the ■pall] 
 
 Grim. To meet the King ! 
 
 [Crashes on the doors as they go out] 
 
 John op Salisbury. Why do you 
 
 move with such a stateliness? 
 
 Can you not hear them yonder Uke a 
 
 storm, 
 Battering the doors, and breaking thro' 
 the walls ? 
 Becket. Why do the heathen rage? 
 My two good friends. 
 What matters murder'd here, or mur- 
 
 der'd there? 
 And yet my dream foretold my martyr- 
 dom 
 In mine own church. It is God's will. 
 
 Go on. 
 Nay, drag me not. We must not seem 
 to fly. 
 
 Scene Third. — North Transept of Can- 
 terbury Cathedral. 
 
 [On the right hand a flight of steps leading 
 to the Choir, another flight on the left, 
 leading to the North Aisle. Winter 
 afternoon slowly darkening. Low 
 thunder now and then of an approach- 
 ing storm. Monks heard chanting 
 the service. Rosamund kneeling] 
 
 Rosamund. O blessed saint, glori- 
 ous Benedict, — 
 These arm'd men in the city, these 
 fierce faces — 
 
Becket 
 
 395 
 
 Thy holy follower founded Canter- 
 hury — 
 
 Save that dear head which now is Can- 
 terbury, 
 
 Save him, he saved my life, he saved 
 , my child, 
 
 Save him, his blood would darken 
 Henry's name ; 
 
 Save him till all as saintly as thyself 
 
 He miss the searching flame of purga- 
 tory. 
 
 And pass at once perfect to Paradise. 
 [Noise of steps and voices in the 
 
 Hark! Is it they? Coming! He is not 
 
 here — ■ 
 Not yet, thank heaven. O save him ! 
 [Goes up steps leading to choir] 
 Becket [entering, forced along by 
 John of Salisbtjey and Geim]. 
 No, I tell you ! 
 I cannot bear a hand upon my person, 
 Why do you force me thus against my 
 wiU? 
 Geim. My lord, we force you from 
 
 your enemies. 
 Becket. As you would force a king 
 
 from being orown'd. 
 John op Salisbtjey. We must not 
 force the crown of martyrdom. 
 [Service stops. Monks come 
 down from the stairs that lead 
 to the choir] 
 Monks. Here is the great Arch- 
 bishop ! He lives ! he lives ! 
 Die with him, and be glorified together. 
 Becket. Together? . . . get you 
 
 back ! go on with the offlce. 
 Monks. Come, then, with us to 
 
 vespers. 
 Becket. How can I come 
 When you so block the entry ? Back, I 
 
 say! 
 Go on with the of&ce. Shall not 
 
 Heaven be served 
 Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd the 
 
 minster-bells. 
 And the great deeps were broken up 
 
 ai^ain. 
 And hiss'd against the sun? 
 
 [Noise in the cloisters] 
 
 Monks. "The murderers, hark ! 
 
 Let us hide ! let us hide ! 
 
 Becket. What do these people fear? 
 
 Monks. Those arm'd men in the 
 
 cloister. 
 Becket. Be not such cravens ! 
 . I will go out and meet them. 
 
 Geim and Othees. Shut the doors I 
 We will not have him slain before our 
 face. 
 
 [They close the doors of the transept. 
 
 Knocking] 
 
 Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the 
 
 doors ! [Knocking] 
 
 Becket. Why, these are our own 
 
 monks who follow'd us ! 
 
 And wiU you bolt them out, and have 
 
 them slain? 
 Undo the doors : the church is not a 
 
 castle : 
 Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you 
 
 deaf? 
 What, have I lost authority among you ? 
 Stand by, make way ! 
 
 [Opens the doors. Enter Monks 
 from cloister] 
 Come in, my friends, come in! 
 Nay, faster, faster ! 
 
 Monks. Oh, my lord Archbishop, 
 A score of knights all arm'd with swords 
 
 and axes — 
 To the choir, to the choir ! 
 
 [Monks divide, part flying by the 
 stairs on the right, part by those 
 on the left. The rush of these 
 last bears Becket along with 
 them some way up the steps, 
 where he is left standing alone] 
 Becket. Shall I too pass to the choir. 
 And die upon the Patriarchal throne 
 Of all my predecessors ? 
 John op Salisbuet. No, to the 
 crypt ! 
 Twenty steps down. Stumble not in 
 
 the darkness. 
 Lest they should seize thee. 
 
 Geim. To the crypt ? no — no. 
 
 To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath the 
 roof! 
 John op Salisbuet [pointing upward 
 and downward]. That way, or this ! 
 Save thyself either way. 
 Becket. Oh, no, not either way, nor 
 any way 
 Save by that way which leads thro' 
 
 night to light. 
 Not twenty steps, but one. 
 And fear not I should stumble in the 
 
 darkness, 
 Not tho' it be their hour, the power of 
 
 darkness. 
 But my hour too, the power of Ught in 
 
 darkness ! 
 I am not in the darkness but the light, 
 Seen by the Church in Heaven, the 
 
 Church on earth — 
 The power of life in death to make her 
 
 free! 
 [Enter the four Knights. John op 
 Salisbitey flies to the altar of St. 
 Benedict] 
 
396 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 FiTzuRSB. Here, here, King's men! 
 [Catches hold of the last flying 
 Monk] 
 Where is the traitor Beeket? 
 
 Monk. I am not he ! I am not he, 
 
 my lord. 
 
 I am not he indeed ! 
 
 PiTzuRSB. Hence to the fiend ! 
 
 [Pushes him away] 
 
 Where is this treble traitor to the King ? 
 
 Db Tkacy. Where is the Archbishop, 
 
 Thomas Beoket? 
 Becket. Here. 
 
 No traitor to the King, but Priest of God, 
 Primate of England. 
 
 [Descending into the transept] 
 I am he ye seek. 
 What wotUd ye have of me ? 
 
 FiTZURSE. Your life. 
 
 De Tracy. Your life. 
 
 De Morvillb. Save that you wiU 
 
 absolve the bishops. 
 Becket. Never, — 
 
 Except they make submission to the 
 
 Church. 
 You had my answer to that cry before. 
 De Morvillb. Why, then you are a 
 
 dead man ; flee ! 
 Becket. I will not. 
 
 I am readier to be slain, than thou to 
 
 slay. 
 Hugh, I know well thou hast but half a 
 
 heart 
 To bathe this sacred pavement with my 
 
 blood. 
 God pardon thee and these, but God's 
 
 full curse 
 Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm 
 One of my flock ! 
 
 FiTZURSB. Was not the great gate 
 shut? 
 They are thronging in to vespers — half 
 
 the town. 
 We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him 
 
 and carry him ! 
 Come with us — nay — thou art our 
 prisoner — come ! 
 De Morvillb. Ay, make him pris- 
 oner, do not harm the man. 
 
 [FiTZURSE lays hold of the Arch- 
 bishop's pall] 
 Beckbt. Touch me not ! 
 Db Brito. How the good 
 
 priest gods himself ! 
 He is not yet ascended to the Father. 
 FiTZURSE. I will not only touch, but 
 
 drag thee hence. 
 Becket. Thou art my man, thou 
 art my vassal. Away ! 
 
 [Flings him off till he reels almost 
 to falling] 
 
 De Tracy [lays hold of the pall]. 
 Come; as he said, thou art our 
 prisoner. 
 Becket. Down ! 
 
 [Throws him headlong] 
 FiTZURSE [advances with drawn sword]. 
 I told thee that I should remember 
 thee! 
 Bbckbt. Profligate pander ! 
 FiTZURSE. Do you hear that? 
 
 strike, strike. 
 
 [Strikes off the Archbishop's mitre, 
 and wounds him in the forehead] 
 Bbckbt [covers his eyes with his hand]. 
 I do commend my cause to God, the 
 
 Virgin, 
 St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of 
 
 England, 
 And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. 
 [Grim wraps his arms about the 
 Archbishop] 
 Spare this defence, dear brother. 
 
 [Tracy has arisen, and ap- 
 proaches, hesitatingly, with his 
 sword raised] 
 FiTZURSE. Strike him, Tracy ! 
 
 Rosamund [rushing down steps from 
 
 the choir]. No, No, No, No ! 
 FiTZURSE. This wanton here. De 
 
 Morville, 
 Hold her away. 
 
 De Morville. I hold her. 
 Rosamund [held back by Db Mor- 
 villb, and stretching out her arms]. 
 Mercy, mercy. 
 As you would hope for mercy. 
 
 FiTZURSE. Strike, I say. 
 
 Grim. O God, O noble knights, 
 sacrilege ! 
 Strike our Archbishop in his own cathe- 
 dral! 
 The Pope, the King, will ctirse you — 
 
 the whole world 
 Abhor you ; ye will die the death of 
 
 dogs! 
 
 Nay, nay, good Tracy. [Lifts his arm] 
 
 FiTZURSE. Answer not, but strike. 
 
 Db Tracy. There is my answer 
 
 then. 
 
 [Sword falls on Gkim's arm, and 
 
 glances from it, wounding Becket] 
 
 Grim. Mine arm is sever'd. 
 
 I can no more — fight out the good 
 
 fight — die 
 Conqueror. 
 
 [Staggers into the chapel of St. 
 Benedict] 
 Bbckbt [falling on his knees]. At the 
 right hand of Power — 
 Power and great glory — for thy 
 Church, O Lord — 
 
Becket 
 
 397 
 
 Into Thy hands, O Lord — into Thy 
 
 hands ! — [Sinks prone] 
 
 Db Brito. This last to rid thee of a 
 
 world of brawls ! [Kills him] 
 
 The traitor's dead, and will arise no more. 
 
 FiTzuBSB. Nay, have we still'd him? 
 
 What ! the great Archbishop ! 
 
 Does he breathe? No? 
 
 De Thacy. No, Reginald, he is 
 
 dead. [Storm bursts '] 
 
 Db Mohville. Will the earth gape 
 
 and swallow us ? 
 Db Brito. The deed's done — 
 
 Away! 
 
 [Db Brito, De Tracy, Pitzursb, 
 rush out, crying 'King's men !' 
 De Morvillb follows slowly. 
 Flashes of lightning thro' the 
 Cathedral. Rosamund seen 
 kneeling by the body of Becket] 
 
 ' A tremendous thunderstorm actually broke over the Cathedral as the murderers were 
 leaving it. 
 
THE MASQUERADERS 
 
 (1894) 
 By Henry Arthur Jones 
 
HENRY ARTHUR JONES 
 
 When one is to consider a dramatist, it is perhaps a little inconsistent to spend 
 most of the time estimating him as a critic. But in the career of Henry Arthur 
 Jones, there is undoubtedly no characteristic more forcible than his attitude toward 
 the English drama, and none which gives him a greater right to lead in a move- 
 ment for its betterment. And, because the ideals of Jones, the critic, have always 
 been put into practice by Jones, the dramatist, it is not surprising to find that the 
 author of "Mrs. Dane's Defence" is more severely criticized by the public for his 
 moral attitude than any other of his immediate contemporaries. Take away from 
 Henry Arthur Jones his critical faculty, based upon live ideas, and he is still as 
 clever in technique as Pinero ; add to this stagecraft what you have taken away, 
 and you cannot but conclude that Henry Arthur Jones is the leading figure in the 
 EngUsh drama of his generation. 
 
 When "The Lie" (1915) was given its premigre in New York, one felt like re- 
 estimating Henry Arthur Jones, after a quarter of a century. For one detected 
 that this play was east in the mould of his early period, and gave us the portraiture 
 of a baronet who reflected some of Mr. Jones's philosophy of the changing times. 
 But even though he was out of date, he still proved himself to be a solid credit 
 to the English stage, however much his social conscience was the conscience of an 
 England only slightly touched by democratic problems. 
 
 In comparison with the dramatists of the "New Theatre", he is old-fashioned; 
 yet in the British dramatist's break from the past, we must not discount the con- 
 structive force of Jones. He never sacrificed sincerity for theatricaUsm. He has 
 always been interested in the moral philosophy of life. After reading "The Lie", 
 written with vigor and surety of technique, it is profitable to turn to Mr. Jones's 
 early dramas, like "The Middleman" (1889), "Judah" (1890), and "Michael and 
 His Lost Angel" (1896), which were accounted "advanced" when they were first 
 produced, and contrast them with the social problem dramas of the present. What 
 we must realize is that Henry Arthur Jones has his historical position, and that now, 
 rather than accept from him a wider range of sympathy, we necessarily get from him 
 a deeper expression of what he has held to be true in Ufe for many years. Even in 
 his later essays — for Mr. Jones is always writing prefaces and essays on the theatre 
 — he is pleading for permanent things, rather than for experimental things ; and he 
 is pleading in the same manner, though with a deeper and more authoritative tone, 
 recognized in the early days when he wrote the preface for "Saints and Sinners" 
 (1884). 
 
 Coming, as "The Lie" did, toward the end of the first year of the Great War, it 
 may be taken as marking a definite date in the career of Mr. Jones. But, as he 
 grows older, he does not seem to abate in the ease with which his pen writes dialogue. 
 One turns unreservedly to his delightful "Mary Goes First" (1913), an example 
 of the purest and best High Comedy the modern English drama has produced. 
 
 401 
 
402 Representative British Dramas 
 
 In the history of the English stage, Henry Arthur Jones has reached his position 
 after varied apprenticeship. Born September 28, 1851, he spent his first five years 
 in the village of Grandborough, Buckinghamshire, where his father, Sylvanus Jones, 
 worked a farm. At the grammar school of Winslow he received his education, and 
 when only about thirteen was placed with a commercial firm, even though his tastes 
 were decidedly Uterary at the time. 
 
 One can imagine the dif&culties under which he wrote his essays, poems, and 
 stories during this period — hone of which brought to him more than the comfort 
 of self-expression. 
 
 While visiting a London theatre, 4n 1870, his resolve to turn playwright was 
 formed, though the immediate activity resulting therefrom was a three-volume 
 novel which, it is said, took some three years to finish. The plot, in after time, 
 found its way into "The Silver King" (1882), a successful melodrama, written in 
 conjunction with Henry Herman. This play won him financial independence, 
 and he was able, thereafter, to turn his attention in other directions. 
 
 Jones's first piece, "It's Only Round the Corner" (1878), was produced at the 
 Theatre Royal, Exeter. But it was not until 1881 that he gave up business alto- 
 gether to devote himself to playwriting. 
 
 It is interesting to note that 1882 is the earhest date of any of the lectures and 
 essays in his volume, "The Renascence of the English Drama" ; and as Jones, the 
 dramatist, has allowed hardly a year to pass without a new play, so Jones, the critic, 
 has kept pace, and "The Renascence of the English Drama" was followed by 
 "The Foundations of a National Drama", with essays covering the period from 
 1896-1912. 
 
 As an actor Mr. Jones has figured in his own plays — in "A Clerical Error" 
 (1879), for example, with Miss Winifred Emery. As a manager, he presented his 
 "The Crusaders" (1891) at the Avenue Theatre, London. As a critic, he has de- 
 fended himself from critics — notably in the case of "Saints and Sinners" (1884), 
 the first of his plays to gain marked recognition, and in the facetious dedication to 
 the comedy, "The Case of Rebellious Susan" (1894). "Mrs. Dane's Defence" 
 (1900) marks the culmination of a certain perfection of style. But Jones went even 
 further in his technique, and "Mary Goes First" (1913) is a play whose plot and 
 characterization are less in accord with the demands of the commercial theatre, 
 and more in the rhythm of real literary attainment. 
 
 Mr. Jones, fortunately, has been a believer in the printed drama, and he has 
 pubUshed the larger number of his plays, sometimes going so far as to issue his 
 dramas before their actual production. This is the case of "The Divine Gift" 
 (1913) and of " The Theatre of Ideas" (1915), wherein is contained that very austere 
 little one-act play of North Cornish hfe, "Grace Mary", which affords an interest- 
 ing comparison with John Masefleld's "The Tragedy of Nan." 
 
 In the long list of his plays, there is but one adaptation — Ibsen's "A Doll's 
 House", called "Breaking a Butterfly" (1884), and given a happy ending. This 
 perpetration on his part was in accord with the demands of the EngUsh stage of the 
 time ; and Mr. Jones has repudiated what he was forced to do, in the introduction 
 to M. Filon's "The English Stage", wherein he has to say (1896) : 
 
 When I came up to London sixteen years ago, to try for a place among 
 English playwrights, a rough translation from the German version of "The 
 Doll's House" was put into my hands, and I was told that if it could be turned 
 
Henry Arthur Jones 403 
 
 into a sympathetic play, a ready opening would be found for it on the London 
 boards. I knew nothing of Ibsen, but I knew a great deal of Robertson and 
 H. J. Bjnron. From these circumstances came the adaptation called ' ' Breaking 
 a Butterfly." I pray it may be forgotten from this time, or remembered only 
 with leniency amongst other transgressions of my dramatic youth and igno- 
 
 Henry Arthur Jones has thrown his energies against the Philistine, and in all 
 of his plays we find only a slight variation of the same theme. He has Ukewise 
 created a gallery of non-conformist ministers, suggesting in their austerity some of 
 the spiritual atmosphere which he must have observed during his early youth. 
 Both in " Judah" (1890) and in "Michael and His Lost Angel" (1896) his clerical 
 types are definitely fixed in our minds — men with a stoic resolve to confess their 
 sins — for in each instance they are compromised, and in the end show their 
 conventional religious unfitness in their human thirst for life. In "The Hypo- 
 crites" (1906), a minister dominates the situation. Mr. Jones has repeated him- 
 self too often in his career. In "Judah" and in "The Rogue's Comedy" (1896) 
 we notice a peculiar similarity in the treatment of mental healing and clairvoyance. 
 In "Mrs. Dane's Defence" (1900), "Whitewashing Juha" (1903), and "Joseph 
 Entangles" (1904), he played upon the same string of gossip to show the evil conse- 
 quences of idle talk. Mrs Dane, with her past, was the tragical victim. The 
 heroine, in "Whitewashing Julia", was the culpable conqueror of conventional 
 tongues, and in "Joseph Entangled" an innocent situation was talked up to a point 
 of vital consequences. 
 
 It was George Bernard Shaw who wrote about the English drama in this 
 manner : 
 
 The conflict of individuals with law and convention can be dramatized like 
 all other human conflicts ; but they are piu-ely judicial ; and the fact that we 
 are much more curious about the suppressed relations between the man and 
 the woman than about the relations between both and our courts of law and 
 private juries of matrons, produces that sensation of evasion, of dissatisfac- 
 tion, of fundamental irrelevance, of shallowness, of useless disagreeableness, 
 of total failure to edify and partial failure to interest. . . . 
 
 Both Jones and Pinero are open to this criticism. But, it should be emphasized 
 more than once that ideas, logically followed, without having to resort to the 
 theatrical on all occasions, make Jones greater than Pinero. It is easier to move the 
 dramatis persona into situations than to have the striking situations come from 
 growth or weakness of character. "Mrs. Dane's Defence", while theatrically 
 effective, and dependent, very largely, upon the cross-examination scene of Sir 
 Daniel Cartaret, is, none the less, organically sustained, because it is a true exposi- 
 tion of psychology, rather than a theatric handling of stage emotion. We remember, 
 with partial agreement, what George Moore, in his "Impressions and Opinions", 
 said of Mr. Jones : 
 
 I am drawn to sympathize with Mr. Jones's talent because he desires the new. 
 He is in touch with modem Ufe and thought ; he says almost what he wants to 
 say, and he wants to say far more than any other dramatist, and having ob- 
 tained a remarkable mastery over that most obstinate vehicle of literary expres- 
 
404 Representative British Dramas 
 
 sion — the stage, one that seems to rebel against all innovation — he introduces 
 into his work far more personal observation of life than any other writer. 
 What, then, is wanting to complete a very real talent ? Taste : a vein of com- 
 monness degrades, if it does not wholly ruin, his best work. 
 
 In "The Theatre of Ideas", Mr. Jones estimates his own work. He speaks 
 of "Saints and Sinners" as the best that he could do at that time. And he claims 
 that he was saved through Matthew Arnold's generous advocacy. His popular suc- 
 cess, "The Dancing Girl" (1891), was followed by "The Crusaders" (1891), upon 
 which, as a producing manager, he lavished most of the fortune he had made in the 
 previous play, giving William Morris a free hand in supplying the scenery and fur- 
 niture. "The Bauble Shop" (1893) followed this. And it was in his mood of Ught 
 sentimental comedy that he wrote "The Masqueraders" (1894), just previous to 
 "The Case of Rebellious Susan." 
 
 Before giving facts regarding the play which has been selected for this volume, 
 it is just as well for us to get clearly in mind Mr. Jones's attitude toward the English 
 theatre. Without his strong stand taken against Philistinism and Mrs. Grundy, 
 the soil out of which more recent social drama in England has come would not have 
 been as well prepared to receive the new growth ; nor would the harvest have been 
 as rich. In Mr. Jones's prefaces and essays, we see a slow evolution of ideas. The 
 motto for his intense fight is found in Matthew Arnold's "Irish Essays." Arnold 
 is writing on the French play in London, and is making a plea for a Repertory 
 Theatre. He says, in the course of criticizing the French players, headed by Sarah 
 Bernhardt : 
 
 What then, finally, are we to learn from the marvellous success and attrac- 
 tiveness of the performances at the Gaiety Theatre? What is the consequence 
 which it is right and rational for us to draw ? Surely it is this : ' ' The theatre is 
 irresistible; organize the theatre." Surely, if we wish to stand less in our own 
 way, and to have clear notions of the consequences of things, it is to this 
 conclusion that we should come. 
 
 With this injunction sounding in his ears, Jones began writing on the Bnghsh 
 theatre. And we find him discussing fully the relation between the playhouse and 
 the mob, and the part religion should occupy in drama. He works himself up to 
 a sincere, frenzied moral attitude toward the theatre which we find Matthew 
 Arnold taking towards literature — weighing the right of the public to be amused 
 in the theatre. 
 
 I have fought [writes Mr. Jones] for a recognition of the distinction between 
 the art of the drama on the one hand, and popular amusement on the other. . . . 
 I have fought for the entire freedom of the modern dramatist, for his right 
 to portray all aspects of human life, all passions, all opinions ; for the freedom 
 of search, the freedom of phrase, the freedom of treatment, that are allowed 
 to the Bible and to Shakespeare, that must necessarily be allowed to every 
 writer and to every artist that sees humanity as a whole. I have fought for 
 sanity and wholesomeness, for largeness and breadth of view. I have fought 
 against the cramping and deadening influences of modern pessimistic realism ; 
 its littleness, its ugliness, its narrowness, its parochial aims. 
 
Henry Arthur Jones 405 
 
 In his ' ' The Renascence of the English Drama", Mr. Jones asks his readers : if they 
 expect a dramatist to portray, faithfully, a phase of life, should they deny him the 
 right to discuss the religious undercurrent of an age which makes, one way or the 
 other, for character? Because, he concludes, they either believe religion to have 
 become negative as a force, or they fear the consequences of the struggle between 
 challenge and belief. 
 
 Again he asks, what should we require in drama ? And thereupon he contrasts 
 amusement with fun : the amusement coming from life and the fun evolved from the 
 outward falsifications of life. This naturally brings him to the consideration of the 
 word "dramatic" as opposed to "theatrical." 
 
 Human life [he writes] is a larger thing than the theatre, and the theatre 
 can be powerful only in so far as it recognizes this, and allows the chief things 
 in a play to be not the cheap, mechanical tricks of the playwright, the efPec- 
 tive curtains, the machinery of cleverly devised situations, but the study 
 of life and character, the portraiture of the infinitely subtle workings of the 
 human heart. 
 
 It is because Mr. Jones has always wanted a wide and searching knowledge of 
 life that we may take the dramas he has written as representative of a new spirit, — 
 different and far more modern than the plays of Robertson or BjTon. The fact 
 of the matter is, so sincere has been Jones's search after the human qualities in men 
 and women, that he has never gone so far as Pinero in seeing permanent worth in 
 Robertson. He is more interested in conduct and character. He is more con- 
 cerned about life outside of the theatre, however much his problem has been to put 
 life into the theatre through dramatic form. He has always sought for rectitude. 
 But, Uke Pinero, he, too, has compromised. He, too, has declared himself belong- 
 ing to an older generation by the stand he has taken against the newer realism. 
 Yet his defence of Victorianism was that, however crude the Victorian drama, it 
 had life in it. 
 
 It is strange how critics disagree. Jones, while recognizing that Robertson drew 
 one vital tragi-comic figure in Eccles, declares that most of the Robertsonian char- 
 acters and scenes were as false as the falsities and theatricalities he [Robertson] sup- 
 posed himself to be superseding. P. P. Howe, in his "Dramatic Portraits", lodges 
 almost the same criticism against Jones : 
 
 The dramatist of "The Liars" [he declares], knew the names of all the 
 wines and sauces, but very little about the heart of man. 
 
 Every day has its fashion. But not every day creates its masterpiece ! 
 
 One will find it profitable to study Mr. Jones's position toward National Drama, 
 the Repertory Theatre, and Censorship, and to contrast his essays in ' ' The Founda^ 
 tions of a National Drama" with Archer and Barker's "Schemes and Estimates 
 for a National Theatre." 
 
 It cannot be said of Jones that he grew up impervious to the ideas of Ruskin, 
 William Morris, or Matthew Arnold. But he has never developed within himself 
 the deep social conscience that one now finds in Galsworthy. "The Middleman" 
 (1889) is not filled with the irony which would have shown Mr. Jones more in sym- 
 pathy with the philosophy of labour. He accepted Ruskin and Morris on their intel- 
 lectual, rather than on their practical, side, with the consequence that none of his 
 
406 Representative British Dramas 
 
 plays have the moral, social fervour of "Justice" or "The Silver Box." Despite his 
 vitality, Mr. Jones has never been able to escape the limitation of his own educa- 
 tion, and this limitation has marked him definitely as part of the social life of 
 England toward the latter part of the nineteenth century. 
 
 "The Masqueraders " is not Mr. Jones's best play; it is selected as representar 
 tive of a period when he was slowly developing his powers. It has been chosen, 
 not in preference to "Michael and His Lost Angel" or "Mrs. Dane's Defence" or 
 "Mary Goes First", but as bringing to the attention of the reader the comedy 
 manner of an earlier period, which iS every bit worth while studying. It may not 
 be as permanently representative of Mr. Jones as "The Case of Rebellious Susan", 
 but it has charm and grace, and is an excellent measure of the Jones of the earlier 
 nineties. 
 
 William Archer describes "The Masqueraders" as follows: 
 
 "The Crusaders" was a satirical, this is a sentimental, romance. A kindly 
 satire upon social idealisms was the main theme of the earlier play ; in the later 
 one, the main theme is an ecstatic love-story, upon which certain patches of 
 satire on social corruption are incidentally embroidered. 
 
 It is interesting from the very fact that in some places it is crude, and in other 
 places it has a distinction of style which forecasts the maturer technique of the 
 later plays. In contrast with the sentimental comedies of Robertson and Byron, 
 even of Grundy and Carton, there is, in this play, certain premonition of intellectual 
 independence to be found in Mr. Jones's later plays. 
 
 It cannot be claimed for Mr. Jones, the dramatist, that he is a force in drama in 
 the sense that Ibsen is. Though he has been conservative, he has rightly held a 
 brief against the realistic drama as opposed to reality in drama. He had been an 
 enemy to naturaUsm, as any lover of the ultimate triumph of art would be. He 
 has always shown the dignity of his art by revealing life as greater than the caprice 
 of the dramatist. As a critic, he has moved the dramatic idea forward. That is 
 more than can be said for Pinero. As a philosophical mind must always be some- 
 what in advance of its environment, so, in a dual r61e, Henry Arthur Jones, the 
 critic, has, throughout his career, always been preparing the road in advance of 
 Henry Arthur Jones, the dramatist. Jones has always been interested in the power 
 of ideas, but though he has fought for the independence of the English stage, he has 
 never been able to escape the limitations of his inherited prejudices and the preju- 
 dices of his age. 
 
THE MASQUERADERS 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 By henry ARTHUR JONES 
 
" I think we had better not tell this story in England, 
 for no one would believe it. — I myself was close to the 
 squadron, and distinctly saw what happened." 
 
 Lord Roberts, Forty-one Years in India. 
 
 Mt Dear George Alexander, 
 
 This is one of the many original plays of English 
 authorship that you have successfully produced during 
 your long and honoured management of the St. James' 
 Theatre. 
 
 May I gratefully recall our pleasant association during 
 its production, and your striking performance of David 
 Remon, by asking you to accept its dedication in its 
 present form? 
 
 Gratefully yours, 
 
 HENRY ARTHUR JONES. 
 
 Copyright, 1909, By Henry Arthur Jones. 
 
 Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement 
 with the author, and the publisher, Samuel French. 
 
ACT I 
 
 Scene — The Coubtyakd op the Stag Hotel and Assembly Rooms at 
 
 Ceandovek. 
 
 {Four years pass.) 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene — Drawing-Room at Lady Skene's. 
 
 {Nine months pass.) 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene — Private Sitting-Room at the Hotel Prince de Galles, Nice. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene — The Observatory on Mont Garidelli, Maritime Alps, near 
 
 Nice. 
 
 
-. DBA 
 
 MATIS PERSONS 
 
 /. i- 
 
 C^ 
 
 t 
 
 ./"f- 
 
 Produced by Mr. George 
 Alexander, St. James's 
 ,tA'T^C4fg'''6> London, April 
 28, 1894 
 
 Mr. Elliot 
 
 Mr. H. V. Esmond 
 
 David Remon .'.... Mr. George Alexander 
 
 Sib Bbice Skene ^Xz^ti^, • Mr. Herbert Waring 
 
 Montagu Lushington 
 
 Eddie Remon . . 
 
 The Earl of Cbandovbb, 
 
 Master of the Crandover Hunt Mr. Ian Robertson 
 Hon. Pebct Blanchploweb 
 Sib Winchmoee Wills, M.D. 
 George Copeland 
 
 Produced by Mr. Charles 
 Frohman, Empire 
 Theatre, New York, 
 December S, 1894 
 Mr. Henry Miller 
 Mr. William Faversham 
 Mr. J. E. Dodson 
 Mr. Joseph Humphreys 
 
 Fancoubt 
 Carteb . 
 Randall 
 Rodney . 
 Shabland 
 
 Mr. Guido Marburg 
 Mr. A. Vane-Tempest Mr. Robert Edeson 
 Mr. Graeme Goring Mr. W. H. Crompton 
 Mr. Ben Webster Mr. R. Weed 
 
 Mr. Arthur Royston Mr. Jameson Lee Finney 
 Mr. Guy Lane-Coulson Mr. Charles Crosby 
 
 Mr. J. A. Bentham 
 Mr. F. Kinsey Peile 
 Mr. A. Bromley- 
 Davenport 
 
 Mr. J. B. Hollis 
 Mr. Edgar Norton 
 
 Mr. J. P. Sorentz 
 
 Mr. Alfred HoUes 
 Mr. F. Loftus 
 Mr. Theo Stewart 
 
 JiMMT Stokes, an old hunts- 
 man Mr. William H 
 
 Bbinkler, proprieter of " The 
 Stag" 
 
 Thomson 
 
 A Sbbvant 
 
 DuLCiB Labondie .... 
 
 Helen Labondie, her sister . 
 
 Chablet Wishangeb, after- 
 wards Lady Shalford . . . 
 
 Lady Clabice! Reindean, 
 Lord Crandover' s daughter . 
 
 Lady Crandoveb .... 
 
 Day Mr. William H. Thompson 
 
 Mr. B. Y. Backus 
 Mr. James Whitman 
 Mr. Henry Damon 
 
 Mrs. Patrick Campbell Miss Viola AUen 
 
 Miss Granville 
 
 Miss Alice Fischer 
 
 Miss Irene Vanbrugh Miss Elsie de Wolfe 
 
 Miss Beryl Faber 
 Mrs. Edward Saker 
 
 Miss Ida Conquest 
 Miss Genevieve Reynolds 
 
 Guests, Dancers, Fox-hunters, Hotel Servants, and Waiters 
 
THE MASQUERADERS 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — The old courtyard of the Stag 
 Hotel and Assembly Rooms at Cran- 
 dover, roofed in to form a hall. 
 
 [Along right i^oriarzcounter, surmounted 
 by a glass casement and windows, 
 which open and shut down on to the 
 counter. In the middle of the 
 collnter is a lid, which lifts up and 
 forms doorway. At the back are 
 steps leading to the Crandover As- 
 sembly Rooms. On the left the large 
 old-fashioned gateway of the Inn. 
 Running all round are the old galler- 
 ies remaining from coaching times. 
 Plants and banners hung about the 
 hall. On the outside of bar is hung 
 a subscription list, in which the 
 words "Widow and Orphans" and 
 "Dick Ramsden" are discernible. 
 Dancing in the rooms beyond. 
 Amongst the company are Lord 
 Ceandovee, Lady Ceandovek, 
 Lady Clarice Reindean, Charley 
 WiSHANGEE. Montagu Lushing- 
 TON, a modern young man, is coming 
 downstairs] 
 
 Lord Ceandover [o jovial English 
 aristocrat of about fifty speaks to Brink- 
 lee]. Devilish rum start this of Miss 
 Larondie'sr-BriaHer. — 
 
 Brinkleh [with a grin]. Yes, my 
 lord. 
 
 Lord Crandover. Where is she ? 
 
 Bhinklbr [pointing^ff into the bar]. 
 In_tlie_bar-there. 
 
 [They all look off, and show great 
 interest. Montagu Lushing- 
 TON joins the group] 
 
 Charley [a very fast, mannish little 
 woman, to Montagu]. Not bad, eh? 
 
 Monty. Exquisite. That divine 
 poise of the arm as she draws the handle 
 of the beer machine^ is j-eally quite 
 
 BoBD Crandover. Does she bring 
 you much business, BrinMer? ' 
 
 Brinkler. Well, she's brought me 
 two good customers, my lord. 
 
 Lord Crandover. Who are they? 
 
 Brinkler. One of _themjs_Sir_Brice 
 SkenOj^my lord. 
 
 [Lady Crandover exchanges a 
 look with Lady Clarice] 
 
 Lady Crandover. Is Sir Brice often 
 here? 
 
 [Lady Clarice is showing in- 
 terest] 
 
 Brinkler. He's almost Uved here 
 lately, my lady. 
 
 Lady Clarice. [To Lady Cran- 
 dover, aside, bitterly] What did I tell 
 you? 
 
 Lord Crandover. Who's the othep 
 customer? 
 
 Brinkler. That mad gentleman that 
 lives at Gerard's Heath, Mr. Remon. 
 There he is in the bar now. 
 
 [They all look off, and show great 
 interest] 
 
 Monty. That pale individual who 
 is daJlyj^jvithjelarfitiii the comer? 
 
 "Brinkler. Yes; , thaPs sixty-nine 
 Mouton JRothschild. I get it specially 
 for~ him. Fancy drinling Mouton . 
 Rothschild ! 
 
 Charley. The man's looking at us. 
 
 [Sir Brice enters from balWoom, comes 
 down gradually to group] 
 
 Lord Crandover.., Helg_ an astron- 
 omer, isn't he? 
 
 BhinkEeb. I betJeve h e is something 
 in thatJin«,- myrilord. 5!hd he's got a 
 little^rother who is Ukewise touehed. 
 
 Monty. With the~stars, or the bar- 
 maid? 
 
 Brinkler. Miss Larondie isn't ex- 
 actly a barmaid, is she, my lord? 
 
 Lord Crandover. No ; her mother 
 was distantly related to -the.«S]s;ejies. 
 Her father came of a good old French 
 family. 
 
 Lady Crandover. The girl might 
 have done well for herself. We used 
 
 411 
 
412 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 to reeeivB-ier-family at the Court and 
 when her father died I interested my- 
 self to get her a situation as a governess 
 in a Christian family. But she be- 
 haved very badly. 
 
 Monty. ^ When one is a governess 
 in a Christian family, one is compelled 
 to behave badly _f or the sake M^he 
 higher morality. 
 
 Lady Crandovbr. Miss Larpndie 
 had thoroijghly lost caste. And I 
 should take it^as"argfeat favour if Mr. 
 Brinkler would see that she has no 
 chance of — of misconducting herself 
 with — ■ 
 
 [Sir Bhicb has come up, and Lady 
 Crandover stops embarrassed when 
 she sees him] 
 
 Sir Bbice. With whom? Is Miss 
 Larondie about -to-nuseonduct herself, 
 Brinkler? 
 
 Brinkler. No, Sir Brice, I trust 
 not. 
 
 Sib Bbice. [To Lady Crandovee] 
 Have you any reason for supposingjhat 
 Miss Lajgndie, is__about to misconduct 
 herself, Lady CranSbver? 
 
 Lady Crandover [embarrassed]. I — 
 I am surprised. Sir Brice — 
 
 Sir Brice. Have y^ou any -reasoji 
 for supposing that Miss Laroadie is 
 about to misconduct herseET 
 Lady Crandover. No. 
 Sir Bbice [politely]. Thank you. 
 
 [Goes off into the bar. In cross- 
 ing the bar he has to pass Lady 
 Clarice, he bows to~ herewith 
 extreme politeness, she bites her 
 lips, and returns his bow. Exit 
 Sir Bbice into bar] 
 Lady Clabice. [To her mother, aside] 
 Oh, I can't bear it ! 
 LadxjOb-a-ndovee. Hush ! 
 Lady Clarice. He has gone to 
 that girl. 
 
 [The next dance begins. The 
 stage gradually clears] 
 Charley. Our dance, Monty. 
 Monty [giving arm]. So your vestal 
 self is dedicate to matrimony and Sir 
 
 Digby-ShBTlf ord ? - 
 
 Charley. Yes; he's a trifle washed 
 out ; but we are frightfully hard up, and 
 you didn't ask me. 
 
 Monty. My dear Charley, marriage 
 is the last insult one offers to a woman 
 whom one respects: ' Love if -you 
 
 Charley. Thanks. We'll think 
 about it. By the way, you'll stand a 
 
 chance with Clarice now Sir Brice has 
 cut her. HeT' connections- woifld be 
 useful tojrou. 
 
 Monty. What would Crandover 
 settle on her? 
 
 Charley. Not much. Clarice would 
 tell me.^J'll ask her. What would 
 you-d'O it f or ? A^thousandayear ? 
 
 Monty [repfoachjully]. Hy dear 
 Charley, don't hurt my self-respect. 
 
 [TKey~go into the ball-room] 
 
 [Enter Eddie Remon, a delicate boy of 
 about twenty,' highly refined, over- 
 strung, unbalanced. He is followed 
 by Georg e C opeland. a bearded, 
 athletic man about forty] 
 
 Copeland. But what's he doing 
 here? 
 
 Eddie. §un-gazing. 
 
 Copeland.^ Sun-gazing? 
 
 Eddie. Yes. Look! Here's his sun. 
 She's drag^Bg-iHB^-thr-ough~^ace, and 
 where the devil they're going to, I 
 don't know. 
 
 [Enter Dulcie Larondie from bar] 
 
 DtTLCiE [speaking off into the outer 
 bar. She has a large key in her harid]. 
 I've forgotten the candle. Sir B rice, 
 would- -you — ^mind- bringing me^l3iat 
 candle ? 
 
 [David Remon enters from bar, with the 
 lighted candle in his hand. He is a 
 man of about forty, pale, studious, 
 philosophic-looking. \ Sib Brice fol- 
 lows quickly, and thejtwo men stand 
 facing each other] 
 
 Sib Bbice. Givejne that candle. 
 
 David. Miss Laron8iB'= 
 
 [Appealing to Dulcie] 
 
 DuLCiB [stands coquettishly looking at 
 
 both of them]. ' That o na-ghaJliight,iae 
 
 to the ceUar who ma Sfis—bi m g eli the 
 
 most ridiculousl5'Vlr_it, 
 
 David [coming towards her]. That 
 will be myself. 
 
 Sib Brice. Give me that candle. 
 DuLCiB. Sir Brice, Mr. Remon will 
 make himself far more ridiculous than 
 you. 
 
 Sir Bricb. Then let him Ught you. 
 [Exit into bar. Remon is carry- 
 ing the candle perfectly straight 
 in his hands. Dtilcie turns to 
 him] 
 Ditlcie. You're carrying that candle 
 on one side ; you're dropping the grease. 
 [He looks at her, holds it much on one side, 
 and drops the grease] That's better. 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 413 
 
 [She stands a moment or two looking him 
 up and down with comic inspection] 
 Yes, I-tWuk that will do. You look 
 very welT WoTii±-yOTr mind waiting 
 here tiE I come back ? • 
 
 [OrHvely blows out the candle, and 
 exit. David stands there. 
 Pause. CoPBLAND comes be- 
 hind _ him, cl aps him on the 
 shoulder] 
 CoPBLAND. Davy ! 
 David [turns round, cordially]. My 
 deariellow! [Very warm hand-shaking] 
 Ywre coining to stay ? 
 
 CoPELAND. ~No, to say good-bye. I 
 eateh the night mail back, and to- 
 moiTow_rm off to iQasfca: Tm sick 
 of tms' nineteenEE^oeSOTry civilisation. 
 I must do a bit of climbing, and get 
 myself re-oxidised. 
 David. What is it this time? 
 CopELAND. Mount Saint Ehas, 
 18,000 feet high, and snow at the sea- 
 level. 
 
 Eddie. Davy, your bottle of claret 
 is here in the bar. 
 
 David. But Miss Larondie has not 
 come back from the cellar. 
 
 Eddie. She came up the other 
 stairs. She's in the bar talking to 
 SitjBrice Skene. [The band strikes up 
 a very bright dance-tune. Eddie puts 
 his fingers in his ears] Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 Those wretched musicians ! 
 Copeland. What's the matter? 
 Eddie. They -a re playing ho rribly 
 in tune, as if the world were full of 
 harmony. I must get a tin kettle and 
 put them out. 
 
 [David goes up to the bar, shows 
 intense mortification, conquers 
 it. Exit Eddie into ball-room. 
 David calls "BrinMer"] 
 
 [Brinkler enters with a bottle and 
 
 David. Brinkler, my claret here. 
 [Brinkler brings bottle in cradle 
 and two glasses, puts them down 
 on the other side of stage] 
 
 Brinkler. Mouton Rothschild, 
 sixty-nine. 
 
 David. So I'm mad to drink the 
 finest vintages, eh Brinkler? [Brink- 
 ler looks surprised] I heard you say so. 
 
 Brinkler. Well, it is unusual, sir. 
 
 David. You're right. A man must 
 be mad who drinks the rarest wines 
 when he can get salted beer and doc- 
 tored gin. StiU, you must humour me, 
 Brinkler. [Brinkle;r seems puzzled] 
 
 Though what's the good of climbing 
 Mount-Blias,_LdQn!t know. 
 
 [Turning to Copeland] 
 Copeland. To get to the top of it. 
 David. But what's the good of 
 getting to the top of it? 
 
 Copeland. What's the good of get- 
 ting to the top of anything? You've 
 spent tie~Iast~aDzenr-3fefla's-0f your life 
 and nearly blinded yourself to solve 
 the mystery of sun-spots. 
 
 David. But sun-spots are practical. 
 Copeland. Practical ? 
 David. Who solves the mystery of 
 sun-spots may show the way to control 
 the future harvests of the world ; and 
 who controls the harvests of the world 
 will provide cheaper swipes and smaller 
 beer for Brinkler's grandchildren, eh, 
 Brinkler? 
 
 SkinkIjEB, [comes forward]. Sir? 
 David. I was saying that the elect 
 of the^ earth, and by the elect of the 
 earth r-meau'every maS~"wha has a 
 vote, may get cheaper swipes when I 
 have solved m:g_i M'obIem of sun-spots. 
 Brinkler. Sir? 
 
 David. Your grandchildren shall be 
 amply provided for, Brinkler. [Turns to 
 Copeland] Drink. [Exit Brinkler 
 puzzled] A prosperous voyage and a 
 safe return, old fellow. [Drinks] I've 
 drunk to your foUy, now drink to mine. 
 Copeland. Tell me aU about it, 
 Davy. It is folly, then? 
 
 David. No, if foUy is happiness, 
 folly is the greatest wisdom. 
 
 Copeland. You are happy, then? 
 David [nods]. Yes. AadJ-Wretched, 
 beyond xill telling. 
 Copeland. Why? 
 David. I shall never win her. 
 She'll never be mineTTSeargB: ffiad if 
 she were, :z=.th at might be the s addest, 
 thing of all. , 
 
 Copeland. How? 
 David. When the desired one -be- 
 comes the possessed one, hec.__beajity 
 fades. I love-heTjlGeOTger-and. I~want 
 to keep — on -kmiig- her. [Copeland 
 laughs] Laugh at me ! I laugh at my- 
 self. I was forty-two last August. 
 You know pretty much what my life 
 has been. Drink one glass, old boy, 
 to the days when we were twenty-five, 
 and to our old loves. 
 
 Copeland [drinks]. Our old loves. 
 Your last one, Davy? 
 
 David. Ah! She soured me, but 
 she didn't break my heart. And she 
 drove me to my sun-spots. So God 
 
414 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 b less h er ! God bless them all ! What- 
 ever I've Deep, in practice,- George, in 
 theory Fve always had the most per- 
 fect loyalty to womankind of any man 
 that ever breathed. [Copeland laughs] 
 Don't laugh, you rascal! I meant it! 
 I've always kept my reverence for 
 them, and I've always known that some 
 day or the other I should meet <»ne who 
 would make me worship_her with the 
 puresLlievation- a man , can_f||t2_for a 
 woman. 
 
 CoPELAND. And you have met^her? 
 
 David [nods, looking^ towards" bar]. 
 She's in Jhfaie^jGtoiiig-jritlLthe^hoicest 
 blaskguaEd^a-Eogland. 
 
 Copbland. You poor dear fool! 
 You always would pay half-a-crown for 
 anything you could get for twopence. 
 
 David. Yes, but I always knew what 
 a fool I was. Do you think I don't 
 know what a fool I am now? George, 
 it's not any empress, not any goddess, 
 but just that girl in the bar there that 
 owns m e body a nd soulT ~ 
 
 CoPELAND. Pack up your traps and 
 come to Alaska_aBd^forgetJier. 
 
 David [hand on Tns heart]. She's 
 packed herself here, and here she'll lie 
 snug and' warm tiU all grows cold. 
 [Looking over to har] And that black- 
 guard is talking to her ! 
 
 CoT-BLAND. Who is he ? 
 
 David. Sir-Briee-SSefie. 
 
 Copbland. The racing man ? 
 
 David. Yes, Efe^ - rich. George, 
 
 if he — 
 
 Copbland. If he — what ? 
 
 David. He shook hands with her 
 last night. When his finger-tips touched 
 hers, I felt I cgijld-JHll— hdin, George. 
 And if he = if Tie — No, I wrong her! 
 She's a good woman. And yet, damn 
 him, he has twenty thousand a year — 
 , Copbland. Is it a question of 
 money ? 
 
 David. What do you mean? 
 
 Copbland. I've not a single near 
 relation in the world. My father left 
 me, I suppose, from two to three hun- 
 dred thousand pounds. [Holds out 
 hand] Davy, say the word — 
 
 David. No, George. 
 
 Copbland. Why should you hesi- 
 tate? 
 
 David. I don't want it. I've just 
 enough for my wants. I've only Eddie 
 to provide for. And I've only one ex- 
 travagance. [Tapping the bottle] I lQ3!;e 
 good wine, and plenty — not too mucE" 
 — of it. 
 
 Copbland. But if you were rich — 
 perhaps she — ■ ^ 
 
 David. Thanks, George; I won't 
 buy her. 
 
 Copbland.- You're welcome. 
 
 David. I know it. 
 
 Copbland. By Jove, I've only just 
 time to catch the mail. Good-bye, 
 DavjE,.__Xr^ey^ stand hand, in hand for 
 some moments] I've- left, .a^couple of 
 thou sand at Coutts' in_yaur name. 
 
 David. TsharVTuse it. 
 
 Copbland. As you please. 
 
 David. How long shall you be 
 away ? | 
 
 Copbland. I sha'n't come back till 
 I've stoott-QuJMDiMit-SftinlHHlMter- Can 
 I do anything for you? 
 
 David. Yes. 'Tell me the quahty 
 of the moonshine on the top. 
 
 Copbland. Th« ^ame quality as 
 
 your moonshine here, and just as real. 
 
 David. I & anyt hin g rea l ?, [Look- 
 ing at the fox-hunters and dancers] I've 
 lived so long alone with only Eddie 
 that the world has grown quite spectral 
 to me. Look at these phantoms! 
 [Pointing^ to the fox-hunters and dancers] 
 Is anything real, George ? 
 
 Copbland. Yes ; that two thousand 
 at Coutts*. 
 
 David. And friendship. Friend- 
 ship is real, isn't it? [Shaking hands] 
 God bless you, George. I'll come to 
 the station with you. 
 
 [As he is going off Dulcie enters 
 from bar, Sib Beige Skene 
 following her] 
 
 David [sees her]. No ! [Shakes hands] 
 Don't break your neck over Mount 
 Saint Elias ! 
 
 Copbland. Don't break your heart 
 over a woman ! 
 
 David. Yes, I s^aU^ After all I'm 
 only playing at HMTand so I'll break 
 my heart over her — in play. 
 
 Copbland. Stick to your sun-spots ! 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 Sib Bbice [catching sight of the sub- 
 scription list]. What a confounded lot 
 of widows and orphans theEfi_aiEe_in the 
 world ! 
 
 David [sitting on the other side]. Miss 
 Larondie is an orphan, 
 
 DuLciB.- Yes, or X shouldn't be here. 
 I wonder why,ali-we__supepfluQUs^women 
 were sent into the world ! 
 
 Sir Bbice [leaning on the bar]. You 
 are not superfluous. You are indis- 
 pensable. 
 
 DuLCiE. To whom? 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 415 
 
 Sir Beice. fPfnaae. 
 
 DuLOiB [makes a 'profound mock 
 curtsy]. Yqu do me proud. [Calls to 
 David] Mr. "Eemoa, can you tell me 
 why I was sent into the world ? . 
 
 David. To be indispensable to Sir 
 Brice-Sk^ 
 
 Sib Beicb. [Aside to Dulcie] Why 
 do yautajk^tdihait fellow? 
 
 Dn&LCiE. [Aside to Sir Bhice] Oh, 
 hejamuses-mei — ]-«»iiw- jna,1ffl sunh a. f nnl 
 ofhim, and — I'm so sick of this. 
 
 Sir Brice. I'll send you my new 
 mare on Friday. Come to the meet. 
 
 DuLcTET — I daron ^. What would 
 
 everybody say? 
 
 SiE Beice. What does it matter? 
 I'll send you the mare. 
 
 ETuEenr: — Nor— They'd all cut me. 
 Would your sister chaperon me? You 
 know she wouldn^t^ ' 
 
 Sir Beice. My'dear — you've made 
 an awful mistake. 
 
 Dulcie. Don't caU. me your dear. 
 I won't have it. 
 
 Sib BeIce [with a little laugh]. My 
 dear, you've made an awful mistake, 
 and there's only one way out of it. 
 
 Dulcie. I don't wish to get out of 
 it. Let.J;hein-4augiij;tmej_and cut me. 
 I canJSeai_it. ~ 
 
 Sir Beice. Don't be a fool. If I 
 were to otter you • — • [In a low voice] 
 
 Dulcie [stops him]. No. Pray don't. 
 I sha'n't take it. 
 
 Sir Beice [bending nearer to her]. 
 But if I were to offer you — • 
 
 David. [To Sir Brice] WiE you 
 give me those matches, please? 
 
 Sir Beice. Take them. 
 
 [Enter Jimmy Stokes, an old huntsman 
 in an old hunting suit] 
 
 Dulcie. Oh, Jimmy Jimmy Stokes, 
 I'm so glad to segji»i*-! — How are you, 
 Jimmy Jinjmy-'Stokes ? 
 
 Jimmy [beaming old fellow of about 
 seventy]. Oh, I'm just tol-lol, miss, for 
 a hold 'un. How's yourself, miss ? 
 
 Dulcie. Oh, this isn't myself, 
 Jimmy. MyseU's dead and buried, 
 and when I come back to life I shall 
 find this queer creature has been play- 
 ing ali sorts'^fjnad-'pfanks in my ab- 
 sence. Sit down, Jimmy Jimmy Stokes, 
 and put a name on it. 
 
 Jimmy. Well, just a little wee drop 
 of gin, miss, if I ain't intruding. 
 
 Dulcie. Intruding, Jimmy? You 
 ought to be welcome at any meet of the 
 Crandover. 
 
 Jimmy. Head whip five-and-thirty 
 years, I was. And thinksLIll look in 
 to-nigh t^ So I wa shegiffviaB up. putts 
 on my old whip's coat, and here I be as 
 bold as brass. You see, miss, I be a 
 privileged party, I be. Thank you, 
 miss — Woa, woa, miss — woa ! 
 
 [Sib Brice and David have been 
 sitting at table, looking at each 
 other] 
 Sir Brice. You spoke? 
 David. No. 
 
 [The look is continued for some 
 moments] 
 Sir Brice [folds his arms over the 
 table, leans over them to David]. What 
 the devil do you mean ? 
 
 David [folds his arms over the table 
 so that they meet Sir Brice's, leans over 
 them so that the two men's faces almost 
 touch]. I iBfian to kiU you if y ou dis- 
 honour her. 
 •Sir BHrc'E. You'll kill me ? 
 David. I'U kill you^,.. 
 Sir Brice. I'U 'have her one way or 
 the other. " 
 
 Uavid.'~ You're warned. 
 
 [Sir Brice rises, goes towards 
 Dulcie, is about to speak to her. 
 David turns round and looks 
 at him. Sib Brice stops, calls 
 out to Dulcie, who is talking 
 over the bar to Jimmy Stokes] 
 SiE Beice. Miss Larondie, I'll send 
 you the mare on PViday. 
 
 [Dulcie shakes her head. Sir 
 Beice looks at David and exit] 
 Jimmy. Well, here's luck to you, 
 miss, and T TCisb-4-coul'd"'see you going 
 acro^the country with the C. H. as 
 you used — that's all the harm I wish 
 you, for you was a sweet, pretty figure 
 on horseback, you was, and you rode 
 straight, you and your father, wire and 
 aU — you rode straight. 
 
 Dulcie. Don't remind me of old 
 times, Jimmy. [Turns to David mis- 
 chievously] Mr. Remon, it's getting 
 late. Isn't it time you were going? 
 David [rises]. Good-night. 
 Dulcie. Good-night. [As he is 
 passing out to door she calls out to him 
 again] Mr. JRgjnoir=^ [David stops] 
 I've-soSTStlung to say to you. 
 
 David [coming to her]. What is it? 
 Dulcie [tapping her forehead impa- 
 tiently]. It^s gone! Would you mind 
 waitingjthere tilL-Lihink-wlia;t--it is? 
 David. Certainly. 
 Dulcie. That's so __gorML of ^ you. 
 [Looks him up and down a little while 
 
416 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 mischievously] Can I give you a book 
 whil e you wait? Here's "Bradshaw," 
 the ■'■'■ Turf' Guide," this week's "Sport- 
 ing Times." 
 
 David. I shouldn't understand it. 
 
 I'll look-al-^iau. 
 
 DuLCiE. Do you understand me? 
 David. Perfectly. 
 DuLCiB. ^dpnlLunderstand you. 
 David. Tou will some day. 
 
 [The dance has finished, and a crowd of 
 young men da7icers, Fancoukt, Car- 
 ter, Randall, Rodney, Sharland, 
 come chattering and laughing to the 
 bar, and shout for drinks together] 
 
 Fancourt. I say. Miss Larondie, 
 I'm dying for a whisky and soda. 
 Carter. Xemon squash. 
 Randall. A baby bottle of jump. 
 Rodney. Brandy and soda. 
 Fanoourt. Don't serve him. Miss 
 Larondie. He's three parts squiffy 
 already. 
 
 Rodney. Shut up, Fan. 
 Shahland. a gin cocktail. Miss La- 
 rondie, and I'll show you how to mix it. 
 Fancotirt. Don't trust him, miss. 
 He wants to sneak a sample of your 
 spirits for the pubUo analyst. 
 
 Rodney. Serve me first. Miss Laron- 
 die, and I'll give you a guinea for Dick 
 Ramsden's widow. 
 
 [General. hubbub-aiidclatter] 
 DuLciE. Order, order, geSElemen! 
 Jimmy Stokes, take this gentleman's 
 guinea and go round with this list, and 
 see what you can get for poor Dick's 
 family. 
 
 [Jimmy takes the subscription list, 
 
 and is seen to go round with it 
 
 to several of the bystanders, and 
 
 talk to them in dumb show] 
 
 Fancourt. I'll go behind and help 
 
 you, miss. 
 
 [Lifts up the lid of the counter, 
 and tries to push in] 
 Rodney [pushing him back]. Sling, 
 you animal ! I'm going to be under- 
 barmaid here. 
 
 [They both push in behind the bar] 
 Fancouet. No, you don't. Now, 
 gents, your orders, and no larking with 
 us poor unprotected females— ^ 
 
 [Putting his arm round Dulcie's 
 waist] 
 
 [Helen Larondie enters and stands 
 watching Dtjlcie] 
 
 Dttlcie [indignantly to Fancourt]. 
 How dare you? 
 
 Rodney [on the other side, puts his 
 arm round her 'waist — to Fancourt]. 
 Ho^~daTer-jrou ? 
 
 DuLOiE [disengaging herself indig- 
 nantly].. Pa ss o utL DjQ, you hear? 
 Pass out! [Showing them the way out. 
 Sees Helen standing there, shows great 
 shame] Nell ! 
 
 Fancourt [seizes Rodney by the collar 
 and runs him out]. Pass out ! Do you 
 hear ? Pass out ! 
 
 [Runs him out of the bar] 
 
 Brinkler. Gentlemen ! Gentlemen ! 
 If you please ! gentlemen ! If you 
 please ! 
 
 Dulcie. Mr. Brinkler, my sister has 
 come for me. Would-yxm-mindj^aiting 
 on these g entlemen? 
 
 [They clamour round Brinkler, 
 repeating their orders for drinks. 
 Dulcie goes to her sister] 
 
 Dulcie. Nell ! [Kisses her] 
 
 Helen. My dear. 
 
 Dulcie. G&me~and _talk to me. 
 [ Takes her up to where David is stand- 
 ing. She^catches—sigM__ofJDA-viT), who 
 has been^w^cm/iigJiie sce newii K_a mixture 
 of -bitterness and amusement. Seeing 
 David] Mr. Remon — • I had forgotten 
 yojl. 
 
 David. You had such pleasant com- 
 panions. 
 
 Dulcie. I have wasted your time. 
 
 David. Ijils of no value. 
 
 Dulcie. But I'm afraid I've made 
 you rather foolish. 
 
 David. In a world of fools it's a 
 distinction to play the fool for you. 
 In a world of shadows, what does it 
 matter what part one plays? Good- 
 night. 
 
 Dulcie. No, jiome again. 
 
 David. It's nearly closing time. 
 
 Dulcie. But we shall be late to- 
 night. Come again by and by. 
 
 David. By and by. [Exit] 
 
 Helen. Who is that? 
 
 Dulcie. His name's Remon. He 
 has haunted the place for the last 
 month. He's in love with me. I can 
 make him do ailylfoolish thing I please. 
 [Brinkler serves the young men with 
 drinks. The music strikes up again, and 
 they gradually go off, leaving the stage 
 with only Dulcie and Helen on it] 
 Nell, I'm so glad — what makes you 
 come so late ? 
 
 Helen [o soft-voiced, gentle woman 
 of about thirty, in a nurse's dress]. I've" 
 just had a tel«gram_±a go and nurse a 
 t5:Bhoid^afifi_.at-MQ!2brow, so I sha'n't 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 417 
 
 see you for a few weeks. You still like 
 TtrttBTB*— — "- 
 
 DuLCiB [rather defiantly]. Yes. It's 
 lii'nljfir tharii hpirirjTjfTY°rTi°FF| and it 
 isn't so horrid as nursing typhoid. 
 
 Helen [smiling]. Dear, there's noth- 
 ing horrid about nursing. It's just like 
 a mother and her baby. 
 
 Dtjlcib. How awful sweet that must 
 be. [Looking at her sister] How pa- 
 tiently you_^take_our_comgdswn, Nell. 
 Instead of rebelling and hatmg every- 
 body as I do, you've just gone and nuxsed 
 all these dirty people and made your- 
 self quite happy over it. 
 
 Helen 
 ofliving^ 
 DrrLCiE 
 Helen. 
 yourself. 
 
 I've found out the secret 
 
 What's that? 
 
 Forget _ yjoui-self. Deny 
 Renoun ce you rself. It's out 
 of the_iashiorr-Jlist now. But some 
 daj_Jte_jmrM-Jsvill---h«ar^jthatr:fiiessage 
 agam. - 
 
 DuLCiE [looking at Helen with ad- 
 miration]. I wish I was good like you, 
 Nell. No, I don't. I don't want to 
 deny myself, or renounce myself, or 
 forget myself. I want to enjoy myself, 
 and to see Ufe. That's why I screwed 
 up my courage and answered Brinkler's 
 advertisement, and came here. 
 
 Helen. And are you enjoying your- 
 self? 
 
 Dulcie [defiantly]. Yes, after a fash- 
 ion. I wish I was a^ man, o Fottg-of-feose 
 girls-upslaii's. Wl^ should: they have 
 all the pleasure and happiness of life? 
 
 Helen. You're sure they have all 
 the pleasure and happiness of life? 
 
 Dulcie. At any rate they've got 
 what Iwaat: Oh, how I long for hfe ! 
 How Icould enjoy it ! Hark ! [Dance 
 music swells] Isn't that dance mad- 
 dening ? I must dance ! [Begins] Oh, 
 NeU, I was made for society! Oh, for 
 Londo^! for^lBasureL, To be some- 
 body- in the- world ! - Hos_I_would wor- 
 ship any man who would raise me to a 
 position! And wouldn't I repay him? 
 What parties I'd give! I'd have all 
 London at my feet ! I could do it ! I 
 know I could ! Oh, is there anybody 
 who will take me out of this dead-alive 
 hole and give me the life I was made for ? 
 [Flings herself wildly round, half 
 dancing, and drops her head 
 into Helen's lap sobbing] 
 
 Helen [stroking Dulcie's hair very 
 softly]. My poor Dulcie ! I knew you 
 weren't happy here. 
 
 Dulcie. I hate ibi- I hate it ! NeU, 
 
 don't be surprised if I do something 
 despefatVb efuie l u n g. — 
 
 Helen. Dulcie, you'll do nothing 
 
 wrong. ___ — 
 
 [Lifting up Dulcie's head, look- 
 ing keenly at her] 
 
 Dulcie. What do you mean ? Nell, 
 you know-t wouldn't. — Kiss me, ducky. 
 Sa3C..SQU.^nowX.WOuldn't. 
 
 Helen [kisses her]. I don't think you 
 would, "but — when I came in and saw 
 those two men — 
 
 Dulcie [quickly]. Boys. They 
 meant nothinig. OM-Jias. to put up 
 witTi a good deal here. Men aren't 
 nice creatures. 
 
 Helen. Dulcie, you must come 
 away from this. 
 
 Dulcie. Where? What can_I_do? 
 I wish somebody would marry me. 
 What woul4n't~i give 'to cut- Lady 
 Clarice as she^cutjn.e jp-iiight ! 
 
 Selen. Did she out you ? 
 
 Dulcie. Yes. She gave me one 
 look — NeU, if she looks .at me again 
 like that, I don't care what happens, I 
 shaU box her ears. 
 
 Helen. Dulcie ! 
 
 Dulcie. But if she cuts me. Sir 
 Brice has cut her. And he pays me 
 no end of attention. 
 
 Helen. You're not growing friendly 
 witE~Bif BriceT 
 
 Dulcie. No — ■ yes — he's always 
 pajdng me compUments, and asking me 
 to take-j«!eafints. 
 
 Helen. Y"ou haven't taken his 
 presents ? 
 
 Dulcie. No. Donlt fear, Nell,_I'U 
 
 were reaUy fond of me^ I'd marry him, 
 NeU. ^ 
 
 Helen. No, -dea*— no. —He's not a 
 good- man. 
 
 ■Dulcie. NeU, there ain/t any good 
 men^ left— Trr~tiiB — worW: The race~is 
 extinct. I daresay Sir Brioens "BSgood 
 as the rest, and if he were to ask me I 
 should say "yes." [Helen shakes her 
 head] Yes, I should, NeU. And I 
 should make him a goad wifer-NeUrfor 
 there are the makings of a good wife 
 in me. I should say "yes," and oh, 
 wouldn't I Uke to see Lady Clarice's 
 face when she hears the news. 
 
 Helen. I~hope he won't ask you, 
 Dulcie. 
 
 Dulcie. Stranger things have hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Helen. I must be going. I've to 
 watch a fever case to-night. 
 
418 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 DuLCiE [tmninp Helen's arms round 
 her neck]. I wish^ I could ^aye a 
 fever. 
 
 Helen. Duloie ! 
 
 DtTLCiB. It would be so lovely to be 
 nursed by_TOU.- [Hugging her] I shall 
 never lovgji. man-TCrTTovS' ^uu, NeU. 
 But I suppose that's a different kind 
 of love. [Helen sighs] What makes 
 you sigh? 
 
 Helen. Good-bye, Dulcie. • 
 
 DuLCiB. Good-bjre, you dear, nice, 
 soft, warm, comforting thing. You're 
 as gocnras aTioa, or a muff, or a poultice 
 to me. I'll let you out this way. It's 
 nearer for you. 
 
 [Exeunt Helen and Dttlcie 
 through bar] 
 
 [Sir Brice enters from ball-room, followed 
 by Lady Ckandover, Lady 
 Clarice following. Lady Clar- 
 ice goes and sits down quite apart] 
 
 Lady Cbandoveb. Sir Brice ! [Sir 
 Brice Jwj-Bs, sto;s?- Lady Crandoveb 
 somewhat embarrassed]. Do you know 
 what peogle^ate-saying of you? 
 
 Si"r"Brice. I haven't an idea. But 
 whatever it is, doo^'i.siap them. 
 
 Lady Crandoveb. Sir Brice. AU 
 through the season you have paid the 
 most marked attention to Clarice. 
 
 Sir Brice. I admire Lady Clarice 
 immensely. I have a very ingenuous 
 nature, and perhaps I allowed it to be- 
 come too apparent. 
 
 Lady Crandovbr. You allowed it 
 to become so apparent that every one 
 in the county supposed as an honour- 
 able man — 
 
 Sib Brice. Ah, that's a nice point, 
 isn't it? If Crandover thinks I have 
 behaved dishonourably, the English- 
 man's three remedies are open to him 
 — he can write a letter to the "Times," 
 or he can bring an action, or — he can 
 horsewhip me. Personally, I'm in- 
 different which course he takes. Excuse 
 me. [Goes off into the bar] 
 
 Lady Crandoveb [enraged and almsst 
 in tears, goes to Clabice]. My dear, 
 he's a bruteJ'* What-an-asfullife his 
 wife win Tiave ! ~~~ 
 
 Lady Clabice. Then why did you 
 run after him? Why did you let me 
 encourage him ? 
 
 Lady Cbandoveb. Clarice, he has 
 twenty thousand a year. 
 
 Lady ClariciJV Biit everybody says 
 he'll run through it in a few years. &e 
 
 lost fifty thousand on the Leger 
 alone. 
 
 Lady Crandovbr. I know. Oh yes, 
 he'U soon get through it. Well, now 
 you've, lost him, iVs a great comfort to 
 think what a perfect brute he is. You've 
 had a iupky escape. 
 
 [Dulcie re-enters from bar. Jimmy re- 
 enters with subscription list] 
 
 Lady Clarice [watching Dulcie]. 
 Yes, but I don' t like being thrown aside 
 for that miss th^fe; "^"^ 
 
 Dulcie. What luck, Jimmy? [Jimmy 
 shakes his head. Dulcie takes the sub- 
 scription list from him] Oh, Jimmy 
 Jimmy Stoke§i_when we keep a Pwich 
 and Judy show, ~H1— Jievet^send you 
 round with the hat. 
 
 Jimmy. Ah, miss, we know how you 
 could get a peck of money for 'em — 
 don't we, Mr. Pan<5ourt? 
 
 Pancoubt. By Jove, yes. Jimmy 
 has made a sple ndid suggestion. M iss 
 Larondie. Thc ggly question is, wilF 
 you agree .tQJt ? 
 
 ITuLCiB. -What is it, Jimmy? 
 
 Jimmy. You back me up, miss, that's 
 all, will you? 
 
 Dulcie. COTtainly. Anything to 
 keep Mrs. Ramsden aiifl~Tier chicka- 
 biddies out of the workhouse. I always 
 feel, you know, Jimmy, that it was 
 through me that Dick was killed. 
 
 Pancoubt. Through you, Miss Lar 
 rondie ? 
 
 Dulcie. I was leading across Dnib- 
 hiU. I took the drop into the road. 
 Dick was next behind. His horse 
 stumbled and [shudders] they picked 
 him up dead. 
 
 [All the young fellows have crowded 
 around and listen] 
 
 Jimmy. 'Twas me as picked him up, 
 if you remember, miss, and took him 
 home, I did, ah, it's three years ago 
 last February, yes, and I broke the 
 news to his wife, I did, and what's 
 more, I helped to lay D ick nut , T (ji d. 
 and I says to his wite, "Don't take on 
 now, you fooUsh woman," I says, 
 "why," I says, "it might have been 
 felo-de-se." But it were a nasty drop 
 jump, miss, a nasty drop jump. 
 
 Dulcie. And if I hadn't taken it, 
 perhaps Dick might have been alive 
 now. ~ . - 
 
 Jimmy. Not he, _^not he. Diok'd 
 have drunk himself todeath before this. 
 He was a royal soul, Dick was. And if 
 you'll only back me up, we'll raise a 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 419 
 
 little fortune for Mrs. Ramsden in no 
 tiuie^, — 
 
 Dtjlcie. Very well, Jimmy. But 
 what is this plan, eBrMT.Tancotirt ? 
 
 Fancourt. - Tell her, Jimmy. You 
 stetedjt. 
 
 Jimmy. Well, miss, seeing all these 
 yo ung g ents here, it struck me as, 
 human nature-being-wiat-it -is, and no 
 getting over it, no o ffence I hope to 
 anybttdy, b ulrfl: you was t o o ffer to sel l 
 on e,-aL%d~vou. only one, of your kisses 
 to the highest bidder — 
 D viX^'^dignantly] . What ? 
 Monty. A very excellent and origi- 
 nal suggestion! 
 
 DuLciE. The idea! What non- 
 sense ! 
 
 Pancourt. Nonsense? I call it a 
 jolly good idea. 
 
 Shabland. Splendid-!— By Jove, we'll 
 carry jtijut-too-;^ 
 
 DuLCiE. Indeed we won't. Jimmy, 
 give me that hst. [Takes the subscrip- 
 tionjistfrom Jimmy] Mr. Fancourt will 
 giyfi_me-soiaethiagr'I'Tn sure. 
 
 Fancotjrt. I should be delighted, 
 but [nudging Sharland] fact is, I've 
 promised Sharland I wouldn't give 
 anytlungexoOTl on the conditions 
 JimlnyStoEeShas just laid down. 
 Dtjlcie. Mr. Sharland. 
 Sharland. Very sorry. Miss Laron- 
 die, but fact is [nudging Fancourt] I've 
 promised Fancourt-t^wouldn't give any- 
 thing except on the conditions Jimmy 
 Stokes -has-laid down. 
 
 [DtfLCiE turns away indignantly, 
 sees Lady Crandover and 
 Lady Clarice, hesitates a mo- 
 ment, then goes somewhat de- 
 fiantly to them] 
 Dtjlcie. Lady Crandover, may I 
 beg you for a small subs«riptroTrt3"'Dick 
 Rnm^dnri'i wirin-nr ,i,nd phitdrnri ? 
 
 Lady Crandover [very coolly]. I 
 alwa ys leave such things to Lor d Cran* 
 dover. [TurltS'nwayi^ 
 
 DuLCiB. Perhaps Lady Clarice — . 
 Lady Crandover. I thought I heard 
 some one propose a way in which you 
 could raise^some money. 
 
 Sir Brice [coming from bar]. Raise 
 some money ? WhatlsJihematter here ? 
 Fancourt. Jimmy Stokes has just 
 proposed that Miss Lar ondie should 
 benefi t the DieE Ram sden fund by 
 sel" 
 
 __ _ rkiss by auo ti^T' 
 Sir Brice. What does Miss Laron- 
 die say? 
 DuLCiB. Impossible! 
 
 Monty. Not in the least. If you 
 will— allow me, gentlemen, I will con- 
 stitute~my^ elf a uct io neer.^- [ To Dulcie] 
 I beg you will place yourself entirely 
 in my hands. Miss Larondie. Trust to 
 my tact to bring this affair to a most 
 successful issue. After all, it's not so 
 indelicate as slumming. 
 DuLciE. No, no I 
 
 Monty. Allow me. A rostrum. 
 Rodney, you are my clerk. That wine 
 case. [A wine case is brought forward 
 from side] And that barrel, if please. 
 A hammer. [A large mallet, such as is 
 used for hammering bungs in beer barrels 
 is given to him]. Thank you. [He 
 mounts] Ladies and- gentlemen. 
 [Chorus of "Hear, hear"]- We must all 
 admit-^hat-thajB-ethods of raising the 
 wind for all sorts of worthless persons 
 and useless charities stand in need of 
 entire revision. Fancy fairs, amateur 
 theatricals, tableaux vivants, and such 
 grotesque futilities have had their day. 
 In the interests of those long-suffering 
 persons-^who-g»t— up charity entertain- 
 ments, and those yet more long-suffer- 
 ing persons who attend them, it is high 
 time to inaugurate a new departure. 
 [Cries of "Hear, hear"] Ladies and 
 gentlemen, there are three questions I 
 take it which we ask ourselves when 
 we raise a fiba ritaWg" " g trbscription. 
 Fi£§il>, hoiv ihjil wuUdveiTiise ourselves, 
 or amuse ourselves, as the case may be? 
 Se condly, how far ah ja.ll weJ ie able to 
 flee5§ our friends and ttie public? 
 Thirdlx>i sJthe charity a dg sfirvi-prr one? 
 — The only reauy vital question of the 
 three is ' ' How shall we amuse ourselves 
 in the sacred. cause of charity?" 
 
 [Cries of "Hear, hear"] 
 Lady Crandover. Lushington, stop 
 this nonsense before it goes any further ! 
 Do you hear ? 
 
 Monty. Ladies and gentlemen, I am 
 in your hands. Shall I go on? 
 
 [Loud cries of "Yes, yes — Go on, 
 — Go on, Monty — Go on, 
 Lushington"] 
 Lady Crandover. [To Lady Cla- 
 rice] Now she'jJ. disgrace herself. 
 
 Sir Brice [havinffrmerheOTd]. What 
 did you say, Lady Crandover? 
 
 Lady Crandover. Nothing, Sir 
 Brice. 
 
 Sir Brice. I understood you to say 
 that Miss Larondie would disgrace her- 
 self. 
 
 Dulcie [with shame]. Oh, Sir Brice, 
 please let me go ! 
 
420 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [David Rbmon enters. Dulcie going o§ 
 comes face to face with him — stops] 
 
 Sir Bbice. No, stay. Don't take 
 any notice of what has been said. 
 
 David. What has been: said ? 
 
 Sir Bbice. What business is it of 
 yours ? Miss J^j!QadieJsa connection 
 of my family. Go onTTSIsBington — 
 Go on. We'll have this auction — it's 
 in the cause j)f charity, j^nlt it ? - Go on ! 
 
 David. ' [To Montagu] What auc- 
 tion? What charity? 
 
 Monty [soothingly]. Gentlemen, gen- 
 tlemen, we are taking this far too seri- 
 ously. Pray be calm and allow me to 
 proceed. [Cries of "Hear! — Go on, 
 Monty 1 "] In an age when, as all good 
 moralists lament, love is so often 
 brought into the market, the marriage 
 market — and other markets — and is 
 sold to the highest bidder, it would, I 
 am convinced, require a far more alarm- 
 ing outrage on propriety than that 
 which we are now about to commit, 
 to cause the now obsolete and un- 
 fashionable blush of shame to mount 
 into the now obsolete and unfashion- 
 able cheek of modesty^ Gentlemen, 
 withquLJurther" adTr"I~offep--,f2j your 
 competition — one_kiss Jrom-Miss La- 
 rondie. [Movement on the part of 
 David. Sib Bricb and he stand con- 
 fronting each other] One kiss from Miss 
 Laronme^What-shall-Fsayv gentlemen? 
 
 Pancotjrt. a sovereign. , 
 
 Monty. A sovereign is offered. I 
 will on my own account advance ten 
 shillings. Thirty shiUings is offered, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Sharland. Thirty-flye. shilUngSj 
 
 Monty. I cannQLJake_an advance 
 of less than ten shillings on~T;his lot. 
 Shall I say two pounds? 
 
 [Shabland nods] 
 
 Sib Bricb. A fiver. 
 
 [David steps forward towards Sir 
 Bricb] 
 
 Monty. Thank you. A fiver. You 
 are trifiing, gentlemen. 
 
 Fancoubt. Six. 
 
 Monty. Six guineas — guineas only. 
 Six guineas is offered. Gentlemen, if 
 you do not bid up, in justice to my client 
 I must withdraw the lot. 
 
 Shahland. Seven. 
 
 Sir Bbice. Ten. 
 
 Monty. Ten guineas. Gentlemen, 
 
 only ten guineas — only ten guineas for 
 this rare and genuine, this highly de- 
 sirable — 
 
 David. TwMity_guineas. 
 
 Monty. Twenty guineas. Thank 
 you, sir. This^ gentleman sees the 
 quahty of the article Tam submit- 
 ting — 
 
 Sir Bbicb. Thirty. 
 
 Monty. Thirty guineas. Gentle- 
 men, is the age of chivalry dead? Mr. 
 rancourt, you are credited with some 
 small amount of prowess among help- 
 less ladies — 
 
 Shabland. Cut in. Pan. 
 
 Pancotjrt. Thirty-one. 
 
 Monty, (^annot take advances of less 
 than five gfuineas. Thirty-five guineas. 
 Gentlemen, will you force me to ex- 
 patiate further on this exquisite — 
 
 David. Forty. 
 
 Sib Bbice. JCifty. 
 
 [David anS Sir Bricb are getting 
 nearer to each other] 
 
 Lord Cbandoveb. Lushington, this 
 is enough. This is getting beyond a joke. 
 
 Monty. Then if ?r~tfie" only thing 
 in life that^vOTjJidr-so^we'U continue. 
 Bid up, gentlemen, bid up. I am as- 
 sured, gentlemen, by my ehent, the 
 vendor, that on no account will this 
 lot ever be duphoated. I am therefore 
 offering you a unique opportunity of 
 purchasing what I will venture to de- 
 scribe as the most — 
 
 David. Sixty. 
 
 Sib Brice. Seventy. 
 
 Lord Crandovbr. Enough — enough ! 
 Stop this jest. 
 
 Monty. Jest? I presume you are 
 in earnest, -gentlemen, about the pur- 
 chase of this lot ? 
 
 David. I am. 
 
 Sir Bbice. Go on, go on. 
 
 Monty. Seventy guineas, seventy 
 guineas. Gentlemen, you have not all 
 done ? Mr. Pancourt, faint heart — 
 
 Shabland. Have another shy, Pan. 
 
 Pancoubt. Seventy-five. 
 
 Monty. Seventy-five. Going at 
 seventy-five guineas — the only chance ; 
 going at seventy-five guineas. 
 
 Pancotjrt. I say, Brioey, don't let 
 me in. 
 
 Sir Bbice. Eighty. 
 
 [Looking at David] 
 
 David. Ninety. 
 
 Sib Bbice. A hundred. 
 
 [Getting close to David] 
 
 David. Two hundred. 
 
 Sib Bbice. Three hundred. 
 
 LoBD Cbandoveb. Skene, come 
 away, do you hear? Come away. 
 
 ■ [Trying to drag Sib Bricb away] 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 421 
 
 Sib Beice. Let me be. What's the 
 last bidding, Lushington ? 
 
 Monty. Three hundred guineas. 
 
 Sir Bricb. Five. 
 
 David. Ajthousand. 
 
 Sir Bricb.' "Fifteen hundred. 
 
 David. Two thousand. 
 
 Sir Bkice. Thfee~ and [growling] be 
 damned to you! [Pause] Knock it 
 Amum Ti u shin gton. 
 
 [Long pause. David shows dis- 
 appointment] 
 
 Monty. Threfii-thousand guineas is 
 offered, gentlemen. [Pause] No further 
 bid ? — &3iEg at three thousand. Going, 
 going. [Knocks it down] Sir Bricfi^ the 
 lotgs^jours at three thousand.guinea'S. 
 
 Sir Bricb. ""BrtnHer, pens, ink, and 
 pap er and a sta mp. [Stepping towards 
 bmfeC. David comes to him] You've no 
 further business here. 
 
 David.— Yes, I think. 
 
 [Pens, ink, and paper are brought 
 to Sir Beice ; he hastily dashes 
 off the cheque, gives it to Mon- 
 
 TAfi2] 
 
 Monty'T Thank you. Miss Laron- 
 die, a cheque fOTTB rggtSbusa nd guineas. 
 You^have seeurM an annm^'fOf Jfour 
 protSgies. ' 
 
 Dtjlcie [refusing the cheque]. No. 
 Sir Bhice. Miss Larondie. [David 
 looks at him] It will perhaps save any 
 furthet-Jjdsconstruction if I tell these 
 ladies and gentlemen that an hour ago 
 I asked_you to do m e the h onour to 
 beco me m y wife. [Veneral surprise] 
 
 DuLciE. Sir Brice — 
 SiE Beice. WiU you do me the 
 favour to take -that -cheque-Jor your 
 charity, and the further-farvrmr of be- 
 comiBg-Ijady-Sbenef—^ 
 
 ■ [Montagu offers the cheque. A 
 
 pause. DuLCiB looks rotind, 
 
 looks at Lady Claeice, takes 
 
 the cheque] 
 
 DuLCiB. Thank you. Sir Brice. I 
 
 shall be yfiry_^oud. 
 
 [DavidsAows quiet despair. Goes 
 to back. Half the guests crowd 
 round Sir Beice and Dulcib, 
 congratulating. The others show 
 surprise, interest, and amaze- 
 ment] 
 Lady Ceandovbr [in a very loud 
 voice]'. My carriage_at once. 
 
 Lord Crandover [in o low voice to 
 her]. We'd better stay and make the 
 best of it. 
 
 Lady Crandovee. No, my carriage. 
 Come, Clarice. 
 
 [Goes off. A good many of the 
 
 guests follow her] 
 [Exeunt Lady Clarice and Lord 
 Ceandovee] 
 Sir Brice. [To Fancouet] The 
 Crandovers have gone off in a huff. 
 Bet you-a-tBmrBr-thByil-dinewith me 
 befofe-three months? 
 Fancotibt. Done ! 
 Sib Brice. [To Dulcib] If you 
 wi]J_aJiow me, j!j!riU~plaee.-yflajLjiLJ]cly 
 sisterjs care. She's in the ball-room. 
 
 "Dulcib [looking at her dress]. . No, 
 Sir Brice, not yetj — IiKe_one_of my old 
 evening jiresses upstairs. .May I put 
 it on? 
 
 SiE Brice. Yes, if you Uke. I'll 
 wait for ygu at the ball-room door. 
 DuLCi?;. Iwon't be a moment. 
 
 [Running off upstairs with great 
 excitement and delight] 
 Monty. [To Sie Beice] Congratu- 
 late you heartily, Sir Brice. 
 
 [Offering hand] 
 Sie Beice [taking it]. On, I suppose 
 it's aU. right. 
 
 SSAEtAND. [To Sie Beice] Your 
 wooing was charmingly fresh and orig- 
 inal. Sir Brice. 
 
 Sie Beice. Think so? 
 Charley. [To Monty] What on 
 earth does he want to marry the girl 
 
 for? — 
 
 Monty. Somebodyjtas bet him a 
 guinea he wouldn't. 
 
 [Exeunt Charley and Montagu 
 into the ball-room] 
 Fancourt. Bravo, Bricey, my boy ! 
 This'U make up to you for losing the 
 Leger. 
 
 ■Sib Beicb. Think so? I'U go and 
 
 get a smoke outside. [Exit at gates] 
 
 Sharland. [To Fancourt] Just 
 
 Uke Bricey to do a silly fool's trick hke 
 
 this. 
 
 Fancourt. I pity the girL___Bricey 
 will iaake-a-s.wseJL±mngJn-husbanHs. 
 
 Sharland. By Jove, yes, Herhfe'U 
 be a regular beno, and no mistake. 
 
 [Exeunt. David is left alone sit- 
 ting at back] 
 
 [Enter Eddie. David drinks and laughs 
 rather bitterly to himself] 
 
 Eddie. What's gone wrong, Davy? 
 
 David. IVfjss Larondie._is..^oijlg.to 
 m arry Si r Bnce'Skene." 
 r~Ett)lEr""'Ohrthen the solar system is 
 aU out of joint 1 Poor old big brother I 
 
 David. I won't feel it, Eddie, I won't 
 feel it. 
 
422 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Eddie. Yes, you will, Davy. Yes, 
 yo!i_JadlL_5Ehy_ werenLt. you tumbled 
 into Mars, or Jupiter, or Saturn, or into 
 any world but this ? 
 
 ID AVID. Why? 
 
 Eddie. This is the very worst world 
 that ever_sgun round, for a man who 
 has a heart. Look at all the heartless 
 and stupid people ; what a paradise this 
 is for them ! 
 
 David. I'll forget her and plunge 
 into iny workt— - Xhare are million s of 
 new^ yorig s To discover. 
 -^ Eddie.- "Fei, but are they all like 
 this? because if they are, what's the 
 use of discovering millions more of them ? 
 Oh, Davy, istft there one perfect world 
 out of all the millions — just one — 
 where everything goes right, and fiddles 
 never play out of tune? 
 
 David. There isn't one, Eddie, not 
 one of all the millions. They're all 
 ahke. 
 
 Eddie. And breaking hearts in all 
 of them? Oh, let's pretend there's just 
 one perfect star somewhere, shall we? 
 
 David. Oh, very well ; let's pretend 
 there's one in the nebula of Andromeda. 
 It's a long way off, and it does no harm 
 to pretend. Besides, it makes the im- 
 broglio of the universe complete if there 
 is one perfect world somewhere in it. 
 
 [Sir Bhice enters smoking, throws away 
 his cigarette, looks at David rather 
 insolently, goes into the ball-room] 
 
 David. If he doesn't treat her well 
 — what does it matter? It's all a 
 farceibutif he doesn't treat her well, I ^ 
 feel, Eddie, I could put a' murder into 
 the farcej, just Jor Jfun. 
 
 "Eddie. Come home, Davy. 
 
 David. Let me be, my boy. It's 
 only a pinprick. I shaU get over it. 
 
 Eddie. I 'wislrT'couIdT" bear it for 
 you, Davy. 
 
 David. That would only mean your 
 heart breaking instead of mine. 
 
 Eddie. Don't you think I'd break 
 my heart for you, Davy ? 
 
 DuLCiE [her voice heard off]. Thanks I 
 I can't wait! Sir Brice is waiting for 
 me! 
 
 Eddie. Poor old big brother! 
 
 [Exit] 
 
 [Enter Dtjlcib down the stairs in eve- 
 ning dress, excited, radiant] 
 
 Dtjlcie [seeing David]. I thought 
 you'd gone. Did you hear? I'm to 
 be Lady Skfiiifii_JBo I. look nice? 
 
 [Very excited] I beg your pardon — I 
 don't know what I'm s aying. [Looks 
 round] I -wish Lhtil'fe was a looking- 
 glass here. I wonder where Sir Brice 
 is — I'm to be -Lady Skene — won't 
 you congratulate me ? 
 
 David." XJope^you will be happy. 
 DuLciE. No, coHgrartnlarte-me. 
 David. I hope you will be happy. 
 DuLCiE. Air, you think I sha'n't be 
 happy ? Then I will, just to spite you ! 
 David. Ah, -do ~spitB^~me and be 
 happy. 
 
 Dtjlcie [fidgeting with her dress]. I'm 
 sure my dress isn't right. Wasn't that 
 a jest about the kiss? 
 David. A great jest. 
 DiTLCiE. You wouldn't have really 
 given two thousand-guineas -for a kiss 
 from me? 
 
 David [nods] Why not? Sir Brice 
 gave fifty thousand for the pleasure 
 of losing the Leger. 
 
 Dtjlcib. But he stood to win. 
 So did I. 
 What? 
 Thfi-Eiss. 
 Btit you wouldn't really 
 have given two thousand guineas for it ? 
 David [nods]. I think highly of 
 women. It's a pleasing delusion of 
 miner- -DQnlt_diaturb it. 
 
 Dtjlcie [looking at him, after a little 
 pause]. You are the strangest creature, 
 bu ^ what a splendid friendlyou'd ..make I 
 I'nl keejilllg' SU' Brice waiting. [Turns 
 round, sees that the lace on the skirt of her 
 dress is hanging loose] Look at that 
 lace! What can I do? [Giving kirn a 
 pin] Would you mind pinning that 
 lace on my skirt? 
 
 DXTTD-fOKes tTie pin, kneels, and pins 
 the lace, unseen by Dtjlcie, kisses the 
 skirt] Willthatdo? 
 
 Dtjlcib. Thank you so much. Do 
 I look nice ? 
 
 [He looks up at her imploringly, 
 like a dumb creature; she glances 
 swiftly round to see that they 
 are alone, suddenly bends and 
 kisses him; runs up the ball- 
 roomr steps. A burst of dance- 
 music] 
 
 [Three years and a half pass between 
 Acts I and II] 
 
 David. 
 
 Dtjlcie. 
 
 David. 
 
 DULCIE. 
 
The Masqvsraders 
 
 423 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene. — Reception-room at Lady 
 Skene's. A great crowd in farther 
 room. Discover Lady Ckan- 
 DOVER, Lady Clabicb, Charley 
 WisHANGEB [now Lady Shalford], 
 Montagu, Fancottrt, Sharland, 
 and the young men of the first Act. 
 Among the guests in farther room 
 Sir Winchmorb Wills and the 
 Hon. Percy Blanchflower. 
 
 Lady Crandover. It's astounding. 
 
 Charley. What is ? 
 
 Lady Crandover. The way every 
 one riin s af ter th is woman. SJtte!s_ggt 
 everybody he re a^ai n to-nigEt. 
 
 Lady Clarice" Kdfessor Rawkin- 
 son and the Bishop of Malmesbury were 
 fighting to get her an ice. 
 
 Charley. What is the secret of her 
 popularity ? 
 
 Monty. Why did you come here 
 to-night ? 
 
 Charley. I? Oh, I came because 
 everybody els e comes . Why did you? 
 
 Monty. "Because "WeryBody else 
 comes. I)Q_,wfi-..ever Jiass- any- other 
 reason for going anywhere, admiring 
 anything, saying anything, or doing 
 anything? The secret of getting a 
 crowd to your room is, "Entice a bell- 
 wether." The flock wiU follow. 
 
 Charley. Who was bell-wether to 
 Lady Skene? 
 
 Monty. The old Duchess of Nor^ 
 wioh. 
 
 Lady Crandover. I suppose the 
 Duchess knows al l about Lady Skene's 
 anteoedentKf '~~~ 
 
 Monty. What does it matter about 
 anybody's antecedents to-day? 
 
 Lady Crandover. We must draw 
 the hne somewhere. * 
 
 (Monty. . On the contrary, my dear 
 Lady Crandover, we must not draw the 
 hue anywhere. We have yet got to 
 learn what democracy means. 
 
 Lady Clarice. .What does democ- 
 racy mean ? 
 
 Monty. That there is no Hne to be 
 drawn, either socially, morally, pe- 
 cuniarily, politically, reUgiously, or 
 _ anywhere. 
 
 Lady Clarice. How horrid ! 
 
 Monty [continuing]. Who are 
 interesting people hara—tctnight ? 
 course ' there's a crowd of respectable 
 nonentities — But who are the attrac- 
 tions"? Attraction number one: a 
 
 the 
 Of 
 
 financier's wife — the most charming 
 woiiian in -the world — gives the very 
 best dinners in London — had an ex- 
 tensJTB"" -acqiiaintanee" amottgst the 
 ofiBcers' at Aldershot fifteen years ago. 
 
 [The Hon. Percy Blanchflower, a 
 fussy, huzzy, mincing, satirical little 
 creature, with a finicking, feminine 
 manner and gestures, has overheard, 
 comes up to the group] 
 
 Blanchflower. What's this ? — eh ? 
 
 — hum? No scandal, I trust? 
 Monty. NST' Blanchflower ; no 
 
 scandal — only the plain, unvarnished 
 truth about all our friends. 
 
 Blanchflower. Ah, then I'll stay 
 and listen. Go on ! 
 
 Monty. Attraction number two : 
 1p.a.Hin,g temperanc e and social purity 
 orator — can move an audience of ten 
 thoijsand. to tears — leads the loosest 
 of lives ^r7and~-is~ suspected of having - 
 poisoned his wife. 
 
 Blanchflower. But she had a 
 fearful cockney accent. And he's very 
 kind to his aged aunt and pretty niece 
 
 — eh? — hum? Give him his due. 
 Monty. My dear Blanchflower, I'm 
 
 not blaming the man for poisoning his 
 wife. It may have been a necessity of 
 his position ; and if she had a cockney 
 accent, it was a noble thing to do. 
 Attraction number three : pretty little 
 lady_ w ho h as just emagflsL-tiiumph- 
 antlJTroffl^^^ro^Divorce Court, without 
 a sj^Tupon her pretty little character. 
 AttrsSSaimunTbBr four — 
 
 [Lady Clarice rejoins the group] 
 
 Blanchflower [interrupting]. No ! 
 No 1 Skip number four ! We know all 
 about her. Attraction number five. 
 And mind, I shall thoroughly scold 
 you all — when Lushington has got 
 through his Ust. 
 
 ' Monty [proceeding]. Attraction num- 
 ber five : impressionist artist, novelist, 
 and general dirty mSdern'dabbler"^^ is 
 cdnsuminately " clever ^^— a conBistent 
 scoundrel in every relation of life — 
 especially to women — a Uar, a cheat, 
 and drunkard — • and a great personal 
 friend of my own. 
 
 Blanchflower. Oh, this is too 
 shocking! This is really too shock- 
 ing! 
 
 Lady Clarice. You've omitted the 
 chief attraction to-night — our famous 
 asEfonomer. 
 THTSNtt. ^emon ? 
 
 Blanchflower. Of course. Since 
 
424 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 his great discovery we've only one as- 
 tronomer in England. 
 
 Chaeley. What was Ms great dis- 
 eay^ry I "^ 
 
 Blanchplower. Don't know. Some 
 new spots on Vemis. I believ e. 
 
 Monty. JSJo. I'nat she wanted a 
 new belt to hide the manners of her 
 inhabitants, which were distinctly visi- 
 ble through his new large telescope, 
 and if constantly observed would tend 
 to the corruption of London society. 
 
 Blanchplower. You naughty per- 
 son! You're not to look through that 
 telescope ! 
 
 Monty. My dear Blanchflower, I 
 have ; and I assure you we have noth- 
 ing to fear. But I tremble for the 
 morals of Venus if they get a telescope 
 as large as Remon's and begin to look 
 at us. 
 
 Blanchplower. Tell me, this friend- 
 ship of the astronomer with Lady Skene 
 
 — TBlrT^huni? ^^uite innocent- — eh? 
 Monty. I have never known any 
 
 friendship between a man and a mar- 
 ried woman that was not innocent. 
 How can it be guilty, unless the woman 
 is ugly? ■ 
 
 Lady Clarice. Poor dear Lady 
 Skene is fearfull y ill-used. T ^™'' 
 [Sir Winchmore Wills, a fashionable 
 ■middle-aged physician, has come up and 
 joined the group] I've heard that Sir 
 Brice gets drunk and — then — dread- 
 fuTthihgs' happen. 
 
 ""Blanchplower. But that can't be 
 true — eh? hum? — Sir Winchmore 
 
 — eh? 
 
 Sir Winchmore. I have never 
 treated Sir Brice for alcohohsm, nor 
 Lady Skene for bruises. 
 
 BlanchplowSS. No, of course, no 
 
 — but you've heard — hum ? eh ? 
 
 Sir Winchmore. Singularly enough, 
 I have never heard or seen anything in 
 the lea^t disoredi-table to any one of my 
 patients. 
 
 [Eddie enters and talks to guests] 
 
 Charley. I know for a fact Sir 
 Brice came a4;errific cropper last week 
 at Epsom, and doesn't know how he 
 stands. 
 
 [Eddie is listening attentively] 
 
 Blanchplower. And — hum — the 
 astronomer — hum? eh? hum? — is 
 there any truth — eh ? 
 
 Monty. Well, we know that our 
 astronomer succeeded a few months 
 ago to an immense fortune left him by 
 a mountaineering friend in Canada. 
 
 We know that Sir Briee neglects his 
 wife_ and is pra, f,tina,l lY ruined- We 
 knowi that'Lad y Skenecontinu es her 
 parties, her household, her carriages, 
 and we know iha,t our aStTHnomer pays 
 [Pause] the..gfeiUiest attentions to Lady 
 Skene. Of course " this doesn't abso- 
 lutely prove Lady Skene's guilt — yet 
 why should we deprive ourselves of the 
 pleasure of behaving and circulating a 
 spicy story— about— our~fEiends_ merely 
 because there is iinly-fehe-^very-slightest 
 fouAdaliflHjor it? 
 
 [Eddie rises rather indignantly and 
 comes a little nearer to the group 
 without being noticed by them] 
 
 Blanchplower. Oh, this is very 
 naughty of us. We are actually talk- 
 ing scandal about -otjul hostess. We 
 ought to be ashamed of ourselves ! 
 
 Lady Crandover. Really, it's time 
 somebody made a stand, or society will 
 be ruined. Hereas.a. woman who was 
 actually ^a barmaid at a public-house — 
 her name is in everybody's mouth in 
 connection with" tliis"astfOnomer,' and 
 yet — 
 
 Monty. And yet we crush to her 
 receptions.^ At least you do. Lady 
 CrandovefT 
 
 Lady Ckandover. Oh, we aje all 
 to blame for lowering the moral tone 
 of society as" we are doing!" 
 
 Blanchplower. Oh, my dear Lady 
 Crandover, please, please, please, do 
 not make things unpleasant by drag- 
 ging in morality. But where is the 
 astronomer? — eh? hum? 
 
 Eddie. My brother wiU be coming by 
 andby. I'U tell him he's wanted here. 
 
 -"^ [Exit. Blanchplower looks 
 aghast and stares round at all 
 the rest, who show some slight 
 discomfiture. Pancotjrt and 
 Sharland join the group] 
 
 Blanchplower. Dear me! 'That's 
 the astronom^s— brother. Have we 
 said anything-? hum? eh? 
 
 M^'nty. My dear Blanchflower, 
 what does it matter what hes we tell 
 about each other when none of our 
 friends think any the worse of us if 
 they are trtteM 
 
 Blanchplower. Oh, but it's very 
 wrong to tell Ues, very wrong indeed. ' 
 I've not seen Sir Brice to-night. Where 
 is.^e? eh? 
 
 FaScottrt. Bricey doesn't generally 
 stay very long athiswife^sjBeeptions. 
 
 Sharland. "BricSy'i latest little 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 425 
 
 hobby is t eaohine; the girls at the 
 FoH y-TfagstTe to Jtpx. 
 
 Fancourt. "Yes. Last Tuesday he 
 was in CTeat force at the Ducks and 
 Drakes Club egging on Betty Vignette 
 to fight Sylvia Vernon. 
 
 Sharland. Oh, that's coming off — 
 two hundred a side, on Sunday night 
 week. 
 
 Fancourt [cautiously winking at 
 Shakland, in a warning way]. I say, 
 old chap, keep it quiet. I wonder 
 where Bricey is to-night. 
 
 Monty. What does it matter 
 whether he is playing baccarat with 
 the pot-boy at the eornerrT5r"'EIaSdes- 
 tinely taMng his mu'se-girl to the 
 Alhambra on the pretence that it is 
 a missionary meeting? We may be 
 quite sure that Bricey is doing some- 
 thing equally vicious, stupid, disrepu- 
 table, and — original. 
 
 Charley. [To Monty] Come here, 
 you monster. Have you heard the 
 news? 
 
 [During the conversation of Char- 
 ley and Monty the other group 
 put their heads together and 
 whisper] 
 
 Monty. What ? 
 
 Charley. Sii_ .Joseph— is— going- to 
 leave the MarcEmoore.^iliatea.to.Clarioe. 
 
 Monty [glancing at Lady Clarice]. 
 Sure? 
 
 Charley. Fact. The wiU is to be 
 
 so in confidence. 
 MoNTYr~TEinks. 
 
 [Strolls cautiously up to Lady 
 
 Clarice, hovers about her till 
 
 he gets a chance of speaking to 
 
 her. A general laugh fiOm the 
 
 group] 
 
 Blanchplower [who has been in 
 
 centre of group]. Oh, this is very shoc k- 
 
 ing! We are actually tallang scandal 
 
 about Our host. And he has his good 
 
 poiffts. He hasn't strangled his_baby, 
 
 has he. Sir WtSolimerB? 
 
 Sir Winchmobb. Sir Brice has the 
 greatest consideration for the welfare 
 of his offspring. [Dulcib comes from 
 other room magnificently dressed, restless, 
 pale, nervous, excited] H5~n&ver— goes 
 ^ear it. 
 
 ■ [An awkward little pause as they 
 
 see Dtjlcie. Lady Clarice 
 goes up to her] 
 Lady Clarice. Wbat a lot of in- 
 teresting-folks you always have, dear. 
 Who is thatTSdyTBriJate"bhiB ? ~ 
 
 Dtjlcie. Mrs. Chalmers. 
 
 Lady ClaricST 'The lady who has 
 figuifid., so much, in the newspapers 
 lately? What a singular gift you have 
 of attracting. jiiL sorts of nfiQple, dear. 
 
 Dulcie. HaveT? That's sometimes 
 a misfortune. 
 
 Lady Clarice. Yes, it does involve 
 one in undesirable acquaintances and 
 relationships. 
 
 Dulcie. Still it must be rather 
 annoying to be without it. 
 
 [Goes restlessly to Sir Winchmore. 
 Lady Clarice shows slight 
 mortification. Monty, who has 
 been watching the scene, goes up 
 to her] 
 
 Monty. Lady _Clarice, let me give 
 you some supper. 
 
 DVlcib Xtuking Sir Winchmore a 
 little aside].- Sir Winchmore — so kind 
 of you to_cqme. [In a half whisper] 
 Th"at~sree'ping draught's no use — you 
 mvtst send ine a strougSLAne- 
 
 SiS Winchmore [shakes his head]. 
 Lady Skene — 
 
 Dulcie [impetuously]. Yes, yes, 
 please — I must have it — I^re not 
 sle pt for three nigh ts. 
 
 Sir WtNCHMOHte. Lady Skene, let 
 me beg you — 
 
 Dulcie. No, no, no, — you must 
 p atch me up aad—kaep-me going some- 
 how tul the end of the season, then you 
 shall ^~ what you liEe with me. 
 
 Sir Winchmore. But, Lady Skene 
 
 Dulcie [intense suppressed nervous- 
 ness]. But — [Imploringly] Oh, 
 don't contradict me. — When any one 
 speaks to me I feel I must shriek out 
 ■'^^Yaii; yah, yaET^'" [Blanchplower 
 has overheard the last speech. Dulcie 
 sees that Blanchplower is looking at 
 her, controls herself after an immense 
 effort, puts on society smile. To Blanch- 
 plower] The Bishop was talking to 
 me just now about Ms_inissiQn. to con- 
 vert-tbBrWBStrBsa ^-London.,-, and I 
 could scarcely keep from shrieking out 
 to him "Yah, yah, yah!" Isn't it 
 strange ? 
 
 Blanchplower. Not at all. Clergy- 
 men always produce that effect upon 
 me. 
 
 _ Dulcie [turning to Sir Winchmore]. 
 Sir Winchmore, you'll run up to the 
 nursery .and- see -Rosy before you gp, 
 won't you? 
 
 Sir Winchmore. What's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
426 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 DuLCiE. Nettling, only a little tum- 
 ble and a bruise. My sister Nell is 
 with her, but you'll just see her? 
 
 Sib Winchmore. Certainly. 
 
 Dtjlcie. I'm so foolish about her. 
 [Imploringly] She is strong and healthy, 
 isn't she? 
 
 Sir Winchmore. A magnificent 
 child. 
 
 [Sib Bbice has entered through other 
 room. He looks coarser and more 
 dissipated than in first Act, and is 
 more brutalised. There is a slight 
 movement of all the guests away 
 from him. Shabland enters] 
 
 DuLCiE [not seeing Sir Bhicb. To 
 Sir Winchmore]. Really? Really? 
 
 Sib Winchmore. Really. Sir Brioe 
 and you may: SKelL.be p^oud of her. 
 
 [Sib Brice's entrance has caused 
 an awkward pause amongst the 
 
 Sir Winchmore. We were talking 
 of your youthful daughter, Sir Brice. 
 
 Sir Bbice. I hate brats. 
 
 [Another awkward pause] 
 
 DuLCiB [to cover it, rattles away with, 
 forced gaiety]. We shall see you at 
 Aseot, of eaurser-M-r. Blanchflower. — 
 Sir Winchmore, what are these fright- 
 ful new waters that you are sending all 
 your patients to ? —"That reminds me. 
 Lady Shalford, how is Sir Digby's 
 gout? 
 
 [Slight continued movement of the 
 guests away from Sib Bbice] 
 
 Chablby. Terrible. I pack him off 
 to Aix on Thursday. 
 
 DuLciE [same tone]. So sorry he 
 couldn't come to-night. 
 
 Chablet. My dear, I'm very glad, 
 and so I'm sure is everybody who 
 knows him. If Aix doesn't cure him, 
 I shall try something drastic. 
 
 SiB Bbice. Serve him as I did my 
 trainer Burstow. 
 
 DuLCiE [noticing the guests' repulsion, 
 slightly frowns at Sib Bbicb unobserved 
 by the guests, and goes on speaking to 
 change the subject]. We shall go to 
 Homburg again — 
 
 Sib Bbice [speaks her down. To 
 Chablby]. Burstow had the gout. I 
 treated him myself. [Coarse little 
 chuckle] 1 gave him a bottle of port, 
 champagne at intervals, and brown 
 brandy ad lib. A tombstone now marks 
 Burstow's precise position, which is 
 longitudinal. I wrote his epitaph, but 
 
 the vicar wouldn't pass it. So the 
 vicar and I have a law-suit on. 
 
 [Another coarse little chuckle. 
 Another awkward little pause] 
 Dtjlcie [to cover it, continues]. Mr. 
 
 FancjQurt, did you —jnaJse inquiries 
 
 about the house-boatior us ? 
 
 Sir Brice. We sha'n't go to Henley. 
 DuLciB. [To F'ANCoijBT] — Then of 
 course you needn't make inquiries. 
 
 Fancoijbt. But ^I've arranged it. 
 My brother_wil]^Jbe awfuUyndelighted if 
 you'll -SSoept the~~laBir of_hisfor^ the 
 Henley-weefc You and Srr^BHce will 
 be awfully pleased, with it. 
 
 Sir Brice [rnore decidedly]. We shall 
 not go to Henley. 
 
 DuLciE [another covered frown at Sir 
 Bbice, again controlling herself with im- 
 mense effort and speaking very calmly]. 
 Will you thank your brother and say 
 we shall not be going. 
 
 [Awkward pause. Sib Brice puts 
 
 his hands in his pockets and 
 
 yawns. Dtjlcie engages the 
 
 group in conversation, and they 
 
 crowd round her] 
 
 Sib Bbice. Percy, come and have 
 
 a little game of^ poker in the smpldng- 
 
 room, ' 
 
 Shabland. Very sorry, Bricey, 
 haven't so much as a fiver with me. 
 
 Sib Bricb. You can borrow. Can't 
 you borrow, eh? 
 
 Sharland. Very sorry, dear old 
 chap ; never borrow or lend. 
 
 [Exit. Sir" Bbice stands and 
 
 yawns, looks sulky and vicious, 
 
 then calls out] 
 
 Sib Bbicb. Fancourt. [Fancottrt 
 
 glances but does not come] Fan — Fan, 
 
 I say — [At length Fancotjrt comes] 
 
 We're getting up .a little hand at poker 
 
 just to wind up this infernally dull 
 
 evening. 
 
 Fancourt [shakes his head and laughs]. 
 Not good enough, Bricey — not good 
 enough. 
 
 [Remon enters. At his entrance guests 
 show marked interest, and the conver- 
 sation stops. Sib Bbice watches 
 with a sulky expression. Dtjlcie 
 shows Qre qi pleasuT& ,.,jgoes to meet 
 Remon] 
 
 DuLCiE. I'm so glad you've come. 
 You hayB_sojma^lfingag&ments. 
 
 [Shakes hands] 
 
 David. None^nLora^pleasing than 
 this. ^ 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 427 
 
 Blanchflower. I insist on know- 
 ing Mr. Bemon — somebody introduce 
 me — int roduce m e 
 
 DtrESiS Mr. Remon — Mr. Percy 
 Blanchflower. 
 
 Blanchfloweb. I'm so delighted 
 to know you. We want to look at 
 Venus through that large telescope of 
 yours. 
 
 David. It's in the South of Ftasce. 
 
 Blanchfloweb. " I go there every 
 winter. We were talldng about your 
 wonderful disooverles'-^Tium? eh? We 
 want to know all about them. 
 
 David. Oh, spare me, or rather, 
 yourselves. [Sir Beice laughs] 
 
 Fancoijet. You seem to have got 
 something good all to yourself, Bricey. 
 
 SiE Beice. Yes, I have. [Laughs] 
 
 Blanchflowee. [Aside, to Sie Winch- 
 more] What is Remon's discovery? 
 eh? 
 
 Sir Winchmoee. Haven't the least 
 idea — something about Saturn, I fancy. 
 
 Blanchfloweb [buzzes up to Remon]. 
 Your last discovery now — about Sat- 
 urn, wasn't it — hum? eh? 
 
 [All through David's conversation 
 vdth the guests, he adopts the 
 same light, frivolous tone through- 
 out, and speaks without the 
 least suggestion of seriousness. 
 This gives a contrast to the 
 scenes with Dulcie] 
 
 David [amused, very light and chaffing 
 tone]. About Saturn? Oh yes. My 
 conjecture is that bad folks wh en they 
 die are sent-to-Sarturn to Sttidy~ourrent 
 theology, and if at the end of five hun- 
 dred years they know anything about 
 it, their probation is complete. 
 
 [General laugh. David turns to 
 group. Sir Beice laughs] 
 
 Fancourt. What is it, Bricey? 
 
 Sie Beice. La dy Skene is making a 
 howling fuss wiffiT^all of yoir to-night. 
 She'U make-ar howling fuss"of another 
 kind next week. I can't stand that 
 astaa^omer fdlojE. 
 
 BlanCHI'low^. But do tell us. 
 Lady Skene, what is Mr. Remon's great 
 specialty — hum? eh? 
 
 Dulcie. T^Bilieve Mr. Remon has 
 devoted a great deal of time to thejtudy 
 qf,sun-spotsr " 
 
 Blanchfloweb. Oh — ah, yes — 
 hum. Now [to David] what is the 
 special function of sun-spots — hum? 
 eh? What do they do? 
 
 David [still amused, chaffing, mysteri- 
 ous], I've long had a suspicion that 
 
 there is a very subtle connection be- 
 tween sun-spots_.and-polities — • in fact, 
 I am convinced that. Jhe present de- 
 cadence' of political manners and morals 
 is entirely caused by the persistence of 
 a certain sun-spot. As soon as we can 
 remove it, the natural ingrained hon- 
 esty and patriotism of our politicians 
 will reassert themselves. 
 
 [General laugh] 
 
 Sib Beice [pushes a little forward with 
 a rather insolent manner to David]. My 
 character is always puzzling me. Can 
 you tell me whether its present develop- 
 me nt is due to sun-s pots ? 
 
 David [is about To reply rather an- 
 grily, is checked by a look from Dulcie, 
 speaks very politely]. You might not 
 think me pohte. Sir Brice. 
 
 Sie Beice [persisting], 1 should like 
 to have a scientific examination made 
 _ofm;^^charaoter. 
 
 David [still controlling himself]. I 
 fear I should not make a sympathetic 
 operator. 
 
 "Sie "Beice [still persisting]. But — 
 
 Dulcie [who has been watching very 
 apprehensively, to Sie Beice]. My 
 dear. Lady Franklin wants to ask you 
 something about a horse for Ascot. 
 She was here a moment ago. [Looking 
 around, drawing Sir Bbice away from 
 the group, who close up round Remon. 
 Dulcie is getting Sib Beice away] For 
 God's sake keep away from us ! [A 
 guest is just passing, Dulcie turns to her 
 with a forced society smile and manner] 
 How do you do ? What a sweet frock ! 
 [Shakes hands with guest, who 
 passes on] 
 
 Sie Beice [sulkily]. What's the 
 matter? [Approaching her] 
 
 Dulcie. Don't go near any one. 
 Y ou smell o f. brandy. 
 
 ~ [All this under breath with great 
 terror and apprehension] 
 
 Sir Bbice [getting a little nearer her]. 
 I rather like the smeU of brandy. 
 
 Dulcie [terrified, under breath]. Keep 
 away — keep away — if you come 
 a step n earer, t," m a I shall shriek 
 ou"? B^iofe everybody."^ You nearly 
 drove .me-out-flf. my, mindthis morning. 
 Oh," for Heaven's sake — ■ 'do go — do 
 go! 
 
 Sie Beice. WeU, as it's infernally 
 slowJiOTe I will go — but — you may 
 as wellKfoWj—there will be no Ascot, 
 no Henley, no Goodwood, no Homburg, 
 no anything. We shall be sold up 
 within a month. [Dulcie is staggering 
 
428 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 for a moment]. Ta ta ! — my blessing 
 
 — I'm going to the Club. 
 
 " [Exif. DuLCiE stands over- 
 whelmed for a moment, tries to 
 pull herself together, staggers a 
 little. David, who has been 
 watching her and Sir Beicb, 
 leaves the group and comes to 
 her, speaks with great feeling, 
 very softly, his tone and manner 
 to her in great contrast to his 
 tone and manner with the guests] 
 David. Lady^ Skene, yj)u_ are in 
 
 trouble — you are ill. 
 
 DuEciE [again with the forced society 
 
 smile]. No, only _the_ fatigiae of the 
 
 season, and the roomsare so crowded, 
 
 aren't they? 
 
 [A group of guests begin little 
 gestures and significant glances 
 and whispers, watching David 
 and Dulcie] 
 
 [Eddie re-enters, and unnoticed looks 
 from one group to the other] 
 
 David. I'U teU Sir Winchmore. 
 
 Dulcie. No, don't take any notice. 
 If I can only get through this evening ! 
 [With a st^den instinct, appealing to 
 him with gfeoTentTeaty] -Tell me some- 
 thing that.will cajry me through this 
 next hour till theyZBaye all ^oner'^Give 
 mp that i6rt-of-m.«dioine ! 
 
 David [with the utmost tenderness 
 and feeling, in u, low voice, bending over 
 her. The glances and whispers con- 
 tinued] Youj trouble isn't real. This 
 societyLKorld of yours isn't a realwgrld. 
 There's one" Tittle stajr~iirtLnafo)E5gda 
 ■Brhere_fis:erything is real. You've wan- 
 dered down Tiere amongst these shadows 
 "when you should have stayed at home. 
 
 DtTLCiE [pleased, lending herself to his 
 suggestions]. Aren't, iheagxeal inen and 
 women? 
 
 David. No. They are only mas- 
 queradingr"-Gk>od God, I think we are 
 aU masquerading ! Look at them ! If 
 you touched them with reaUty they 
 would vanish. And so with your 
 trouble of to-night. Fly back to An- 
 dromeda, and you wiU see what a dream 
 all this is. 
 
 TDuLCiE. How strange ! I was half 
 dead a moment ago, and you've made 
 me so well and happy. But you — do 
 you BslOng-to' Andromeda, — or to this 
 world ? 
 
 [Eddie has been watching and 
 comes down nearer to them] 
 
 David. To j5Qt33,f_.BJit- th«' httle 
 star in Andromeda jg, my home. I'm 
 only wandering wiffi you amongst these 
 phantoms. 
 
 [They have become for the moment 
 quite absorbed. Eddie, who has 
 been watching the whispers and 
 smiles, comes up to them, speaks 
 rather sharply] 
 Eddie. La dy S kene — that lamp- 
 shade — [Poirmng~ off] Won^ lit catch 
 fire? [Taking David's arrn^ dragging 
 him away] I wan t to" ta lk— to you, 
 Davy. 
 
 [Ditlcie turns to manservant, 
 
 points to the lamp-shade, and 
 
 gives him directions concerning 
 
 it] 
 
 David [turns savagely on Eddie, 
 
 growls]. Why th e devQ did you come 
 
 between us? ' 
 
 Eddie. Don't jrou care for her, 
 
 Davy ? 
 
 David. Care for her? 
 
 [DxjLCiE, having given manservant 
 instructions, goes to guests] 
 Eddie. Do you know what these 
 folks_axe_ saying ? That Sir- Briee is 
 ruine£L_and_that. you have lately come 
 into a fortune. 
 David. WeU? 
 
 Eddie. And that she continues her 
 parties, her dresses, he r house, beca use 
 you — 
 
 [Stops, looks at David] 
 
 David [looks around at guests 
 
 savagely. Stands for a moment or two 
 
 reflecting, his face then assumes a look 
 
 of great resolve] 
 
 Eddie [watching him]. I wasLright 
 to tell you, Davy? 
 
 David [shakes Eddie's hand in reply. 
 Another little pause]. Go and teU her, 
 Eddie, that I must see her for a few 
 miijutes by and by — to-night — when 
 everybodyus .gone. 
 
 EBdST What are you going to do, 
 Davy? 
 
 David. We'U get away south to- 
 morr ow. old b Sy! Tlnr'bbservatory's 
 neaHy finished, andj^ there's no tittle- 
 tattle between the snows and the stars. 
 Go and tell hgr^I m ust see h er, and bring 
 me back.ier answer. 
 
 Eddie. [To Dulcie] You've not 
 been dawB-ta^supper, Lady S kene. 
 Dttlcib. I reaHy-Ti5n't want any. 
 Eddie. But I've a message for you. 
 Dulcie. A message? 
 Eddie. From Andromeda- 
 
 [.BxewTiJ Dulcie and Eddie] 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 42^ 
 
 Lady Clarice. You are really too 
 dreadful. 
 
 -Blanchflower \buzzing round Re- 
 mon]. That's a charming theory of 
 yours about the effect of sun-spots on 
 morality. 
 
 David. Yes. It isn't true, but it's 
 very eonsoUng. That's "why I invented 
 it. 
 
 Monty. If it's charming and oon- 
 sohng, why should it be true? 
 
 David. Why should it? and put 
 everything else out of focus. 
 
 Blanchplowbr. Out of focus! Ah! 
 I'm afraid you're a dreadful, dreadful 
 pessimist. 
 
 David. No ; but I'm as willing to 
 play that part as any other, since it's 
 only in jest. "■ 
 
 Charley. In jest? What do you 
 mean? 
 
 David. I have to spend so much 
 time alone amongst the stars, that when 
 I come back"TDtcrthe TvorM"!" am quite 
 at a loss. I find mysetfamon^t crowds 
 of shadows — very cBSfSiing"' shadows 
 they are — playing at money-making, 
 playing at religion, playing at love, at 
 art, at politics, at all sorts of odd games, 
 and so for the time, I join in the game, 
 and pretend to take an interest in it; 
 and a very pleasant game it is, so long 
 as we don't mistake it for reality. 
 
 Charley. But surely we are reali- 
 ties ! — ,_ 
 
 David. With the profoundest re- 
 spect in the world, Lady Shalford, I 
 cannot bring myself to believe that you 
 are. Still, I won't spoil your game by 
 staying out. 
 
 Blanchflowee [with a little affected, 
 mincing earnestness]. Oh, but surely, 
 surely there is Something real Some- 
 where. Oh, yes — surely, surely — we 
 must believe that there is — hum? eh? 
 — a Kind of — eh? — a Sort of a 
 Something — Somewhere, eh? 
 
 David. If you like to believe there 
 is a kind of a sort of a something — 
 somewhere — ;• and you find it consoling, 
 I'm as wiUing to pretend to believe that 
 as anything else. 
 
 Blanchflower [stiU with the same 
 affected earnestness]. Oh, but surely, 
 when you look into your own heart — 
 hum? eh? — 
 
 David. I always wear_amask over 
 my heart. I ne ver dare l ooS~into it. 
 
 ^4oNTY." — f-ftnd this world a remark- 
 ably comfortable and well-arranged 
 place. I always do exactly as I like. 
 
 If I want anythmg I buy it^ whether I 
 pajf-^or-itr or ho. If I see a woman I 
 admire I make love to her, whether she 
 belongs to another man or no. If a lie 
 wiU answer my purpose, I tell it. I 
 can't remember I ever denied myself 
 one single pleasure in life ; nor have I 
 ever put myself out to oblige a feUow- 
 creature. I am consistently selfish and 
 I find it pays ; I credit everybody else 
 with the same consistent selfishness, 
 and I am never deceived in my esti- 
 mate of character. These are my prin- 
 ciples, and I always act up to them. 
 And I assure you I find this world the 
 pleasantest possible place. 
 
 David. A fairy palace! An en- 
 chanted spot! Only t ake care! While 
 you arajiaaein^thereiTnay be a volcano 
 underneath. 
 
 Monty. If there is, surely dancing 
 is the pleasantest preparation for the 
 general burst-up. 
 
 Eddie. Davy — 
 
 David {goes to him]. Well? 
 
 Eddie. Shglll__sfia,^ you to-night. 
 Comejaaek-here when-they-'ve all gone. 
 
 Blanchflower. [To Monty] How 
 charmingly frank you are, Monty. 
 
 Monty. Why not? We have one 
 supreme merit in this generation — we 
 have ceased to render to virtue the 
 homage of hypocrisy. 
 
 David. And our moral evolution is 
 now complete. Good-night! 
 
 [Exeunt David and Eddie] 
 
 Monty [coming down with Lady 
 Clarice]. Of course I know there is 
 something wretchedly philistine and 
 provincial about marriage, but I wiU 
 take care this aspect of it is never pre- 
 sented to you. 
 
 Lady Clarice. I wonder what 
 makes marriage so unlovely and so 
 uninteresting? 
 
 Monty. The exaggerated notion 
 that prevails of its duties and respon- 
 sibilities. Once do away with that, 
 and it becomes an ideal state. Lady 
 Clarice, you'd find me the most agree- 
 able partner in the world. 
 
 Lady Clarice. You'd be like most 
 otihOThusbands, I suppose. 
 
 rMoNTTT No"; I should be unique. 
 Hus bands , as a r ule, are foolish, jealous 
 brutes, who insist that men shall have 
 aU-the rights and women all the duties, 
 — men shall have all the sweets and 
 women all the sours of the marriage 
 state. We would start on an entirely 
 new plan. The sours we would nat- 
 
430 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 urally equally avoid, and the sweets, — 
 if there are any, — we would naturally 
 do our best to secure. 
 
 Lady Clarice. Separately, or to- 
 gether? 
 
 - Monty. According to our tastes. 
 If you do me the honour to accept me, 
 I pledge you_my_word I wHLneverhave 
 the offensively bad taste to speaEof a 
 husband's rights.' There 'shall be no 
 "lord and master" nonsense. 
 
 Lady Clarice. It sounds very well 
 in theory. I wonder how it would 
 work; 
 
 MoNTT. Let us try. If we succeed 
 we shall solve the vexed xtuestion of 
 the ager a-nd-m»ke ourselves happy in 
 showing mankind the road tojiappiuess. 
 
 Lady Clarice. But if we fail? 
 
 Monty. We shall have sacrificed 
 ourselves for the benefit of our species. 
 But we can't fail, the plan is perfect. 
 
 Lady Clarice. If I spoke of rights 
 and duties — if I were jealous — 
 
 Monty. Ah! then you would be 
 departing Jromjihe- plan. Its charm is 
 that it is a patent, self-a|djusting,_self- 
 repairing,-safety-valYe planT-with-double 
 escapement action suited to all climates 
 and dispositions. No rights, no duties, 
 no self-assertion, no quarrels, no jeal- 
 ousy. 
 
 Lady Clarice. And no love? 
 
 Monty. Love is a perverted animal 
 instinct, which is really a great bar to 
 soUd happiness in marriage. Believe 
 me, you yill like me and-xaspect me 
 in the end for not pretending To~any 
 such outworn impulses. You see I am 
 frank. 
 
 Lady Clarice. You are indeed. 
 [Looking at him very closely, watching 
 him] You know. — [Pause]' — my 
 father cannot make any great settle- 
 ments, and — [Watching him closely] 
 I have no^jaxpectations. 
 
 TSIonty [stands it without flinching]. 
 So I am aware. Fm frightfully in debt, 
 and I have ho expe'ctatrong: But there 
 is a house in Grosvenor Place — it 
 would suit us exactly. 
 
 Lady Clarice [watching hirn]:~Sut 
 — without money ? 
 
 Monty. I cannot afford to be 
 economical. I have" ~arcted — on that 
 principle~ElSottghDTit-'lrfe7 and I haye 
 always had the very best of everything. 
 I do not see we need change it. 
 
 Lady Clarice. You are perfectly 
 atrocious — -i— dt)Blt,,caTe for you in the 
 least. ~ 
 
 Monty [with great politeness]. My 
 plan is precisely adapted to such cases. 
 
 Lady Crandover. Come, Clarice — 
 everybody is going. [Exit] 
 
 Monty. I s hall call on Lord Cran- 
 dovef to-morroS?: Ytnr~dOTi'-t~Bpeak._ 
 Does silence give consent ? * 
 
 Lady Clarice. I can't help your 
 calhng. 
 
 [Exit. Monty stands in slight 
 deliberation. Charley comes 
 out from the conservatory behind 
 him. She has been watching 
 the last part of the scene from 
 the conservatory] 
 
 Charley. Well ? 
 
 Monty. Landed, I think. You're 
 sure about Sir Joseph and the estate? 
 
 Charley. Quiiej — But it's not to be 
 known yet. I'm a,pet, ain't I? 
 
 Monty. You are. [Kisses her hand] 
 
 Charley. 1 must be going. That 
 creature at homrf will be raising furies. 
 
 Monty. When do you pack him 
 to Aix? 
 
 Charley. Thursday, praise the 
 Lord! 
 
 Monty. When shall I call ? 
 
 Charley. Friday? ' 
 
 Monty. What time? 
 
 Charley. Come to lunch? 
 
 Monty. Yes. 
 
 Charley. Friday at two. [Ex- 
 change looks full of meaning] Bye-bye. 
 
 Monty. Bye-bye. 
 
 Charley. Oh dear, am I the last? 
 Good-bye, deal [XissesDuLciE]. Monty, 
 come and'iee^me.to my carriage. 
 
 Monty. Good-bye, Lady Skene. 
 
 Dttlcie. Good-bye. 
 
 [Exit Monty and Charley] 
 
 DuLCiB. [To Servant] Thomson, I 
 expect Mr. Remon. Show him in here. 
 
 Servant. Yes, my lady. 
 
 [Exit. Helen appears at door, 
 stUl in nurse's costume] 
 
 Helen [peeps in]. They have all 
 gone, dear. 
 
 DuLciE. I've got such a fever, Nell. 
 Put-5aMir_mce cold hand on my fore- 
 head. That's right. ' Hold it. tight — 
 tight. Why didn't you dress and come 
 into my party ? 
 
 Helen. I was^p_±ried and bored at 
 the last, and I wante d to be with Rosy. 
 
 DuLCiE. She's alt~right? 
 
 Helen. Yes. She was awake a 
 moment ago. 
 
 DuLCiE [suddenly]. Fetch her! I 
 must see her! Oh, you're right, Nell; 
 it's been a hateful evening, with only 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 431 
 
 one bright spot in. it — when he oame 
 and whispered something so sweet. 
 
 Helett 'l-suS3enly\. JJuloie, you're 
 sure of yourself ? 
 
 DuLCiB. I'm sure of him. 
 
 Helen. He has never spoken — of 
 — oi— 
 
 DtTLCiE. Of love? Never. What 
 does thaiLgiaittBr-?-_I_^ow he loves me. 
 
 Helen. Duloie, you shouldn't say 
 that — even to yourself. 
 
 DuLCiE. Ohi that's all nonsense, 
 Nell; as if there was ever a woman in 
 this world thai,^didn't know when she 
 was loved! ' 
 
 Helen. Dulcie ! 
 
 DtiLCiE [provokingly]. He loves me! 
 He loves me! He loves me, and I'm 
 not ashamed of it, and I don't care w ho 
 knows 4tr '[TKromng Ker arms round 
 Helen's neck] NeU, I'm so happy. 
 
 Helen. Why?'" ' "^ — 
 
 DtJLOIE. HeV p.nmiTi£j__hB^ coming. 
 Brice says we are utterl^ruineH? We're 
 ruined, BufTwoixTfeeTit to-night. I'U 
 feel it to-morrow. I'U be_happy for 
 one minute to-night. Hi is coming.' 
 
 Helen. Mr. Reinbn? ^ - 
 
 Dulcie. Yes. Don't look shocked, 
 Nell. Li sten; this is true. Mr . Re- 
 mon a,nd~l have never saia one~word 
 to each other that all the world might 
 not have heard. [Pause] I'm glad all 
 the world hasn't heard itTThoUgh. 
 
 [Thomson comes in, announces Mh. 
 Rbmon] 
 
 Ddlcie. [To Helen] Go and fetch 
 Rosy. Yes ! Yes ! 
 
 [Exit Helen. David has entered; 
 Servant has gone off] 
 [To David] I'm so glad you've come. 
 I w;ant you to see'RtSBy. She's awake. 
 You* ve nSrer seeiTher. 
 
 [All this very excited] 
 
 David. I shaU^be very pleased. 
 
 [Looking at her] 
 
 Dulcie. You're thinking about me. 
 
 David. I was thinking tJiat a mother 
 is the most beautifuLtMng_oiijBarth. 
 
 Dulcie. OE^ you don't know! You 
 can't imagine! She's over two years 
 old, and I ha ven't go t over remember- 
 ing CtHat~sll5*§ miris: — Every time I 
 think of her I feel a httle catch here in 
 the very middle of my heart, a delicious 
 httle stab , as if som eji.Tig'el parnt^ behind 
 me and— tfhispereSTo rae, "God has 
 made you a present of, ten hundred 
 thousand million pounds all your own." 
 Oh, she m akes up to me for everything. 
 
 [David is approaching her with great 
 tenderness when Helen enters with 
 Rosy, the two-year-old baby, in her 
 arms in nightclothes] 
 
 Dulcie [rushes to Helen]. There 1 
 There ! You may look at her ! 
 
 Helen. Hush ! She's asleep ! 
 
 Dulcie. I must kiss her if it kills 
 her! [Hugging the baby, kisses her, lifts 
 the nightgown, kisses the baby's feet, 
 croons over it — points her finger mock- 
 ingly at Rbmon in childlike mockery and 
 laughter] There! There! There, Mr. 
 Philosopher from Andromeda! You 
 can't say-a-moAer'-s-iovBnsirt reaU 
 
 David. I never did. It's the one 
 thing _that-Shpwswhat_a sham the rest 
 of the world is. That Tittle star in 
 Andromeda is crowded with mothers. 
 They've all been there once in their 
 lives. 
 
 [Bends over the baby for a mo- 
 ment] 
 
 Dulcie [excited, feverish]. Nell, Mr. 
 Remon has an odd notion that this 
 world isn'tr-real. 
 
 Helen. The cure for that is to earn 
 half^a-Bro-wn-a-day-and-live on it. 
 
 David. Oh yes, I know. Work is 
 real. [Bends over the baby] 
 
 Dulcie. [To David] What are you 
 looking at? [Scrutinizes him carefully; 
 then suddenly, with savage earnestness, 
 half despair, half entreaty] She's like 
 me f She's like me ! ! [crescendo, tiger- 
 ish, frenzied] Say she's hke me ! ! ! 
 
 David [very quietly]. She is like you. 
 [Kisses the child reverently] She is 
 whoUy hke you ! 
 
 Dulcie [stands absorbed, very quietly]. 
 Take her back again to the nursery, 
 Nell. , „ 
 
 Helen. Good-night, Mr. Remon. 
 
 David. Good-night. 
 
 [Goes towards the door with her] 
 
 Helen. [To David, smiling] I've 
 just remagibered__som ething else th at 
 is real. " 
 
 ■ T)avid. What's that? 
 
 Helen. Du.t}^ 
 
 [Exit with baby. A summer sun- 
 rise shines pink through the 
 conservatory, and lights up the 
 room with summer morning 
 light. David returns to Dul- 
 cie, who sits absorbed] 
 
 David. Ladj^ Skene, I asked to see 
 you because — it is .neoiMsarx^ for jne 
 to jeavaJEs gland y gry soon. 
 
 Dulcie. No — -no! 
 
432 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 David. ^ Yes 7— yes. I never use the 
 word "honour" about my conduct, be- 
 cause every scamp has used it until it's 
 the most counterfeit word in the lan- 
 guage. But I've just learned that if I 
 stay in JSngland._I,.shaU injure very 
 deeply a friend of mine, so naturally 
 I'm going away. 
 
 Dttlcib. But — tell me — [Pause] 
 
 — what — 
 
 David. If I stay I cannot continue 
 an honest man. WiU you let it rest 
 th'ere? 
 
 DuLCiE. If you wish — ■ 
 
 David [after a little pause, with some 
 embarrassment]. I have just heard — 
 I scarcely know how to mention it — 
 that you may be placed in a position of 
 some difficulty. 
 
 DuLCiB. You mean that Sir Brice 
 is ruined._ _ In one. jway it's a rehef , 
 because at any rate it wiU break up this 
 hfe, and I'm so tired of it. 
 
 David. Yet you thought you would 
 like it on that night of the Hunt Ball. 
 
 Dulcie'. Yes. I longed for it. Is 
 life hke that all through ? 
 
 David. Like what? 
 
 Dtilcie. To long for a thing very 
 much and to find it worthless, and then 
 to long for something else much more 
 
 — to be sure that this is worth having 
 
 — to get it, and then to find that that is 
 worthless too. And so on, and so on, 
 and so on? 
 
 David. I'm afraid life is very much 
 like that on this particular planet. 
 
 DuLOiB. Oh, but that would be 
 awful if I found-out ihat — [Stops] 
 
 David. What? 
 
 Dulcie. Nothing. You remember 
 that night of the Hunt Ball? 
 
 David [nods]. It was the last time 
 I saw my friend George Copeland. He 
 died in Alaska six months after. 
 
 D-ULCiB. And you went' away for 
 over a year. 
 
 David. No — only for a few weeks. 
 After Copeland' s funeral I went to the 
 Mediterranean to choose a site for my 
 observatory, and I was back in England 
 within less than three months. 
 
 Dulcie. But we never saw you till 
 last season. Where were you ? 
 
 David. When you were in the 
 country, I was there; when you-were 
 in town I was in town toor 1 have 
 never -been far away from you. I have 
 kept an acoount-of— every time I have 
 seen you for the last three years. 
 
 DuLCiB [looks at him as if suddenly 
 
 struck with a thought]. Tell me — where 
 were you two years ago last March? 
 
 Davidt -"At- Q-erscni^- HSSth — near 
 you. 
 
 Dulcie [suddenly]. Did you — the 
 night Rosy was_-zr-llmean the night of 
 the second — it was a dreadful snow- 
 storm — 
 
 David. I remember. 
 Dulcie. One of my nurses said she 
 saw sorne pne_in,the garden. 
 
 [Looks at him] 
 David. It was I. Your life was in 
 danger. I passed — those two nights 
 outside your window. 
 
 [Dulcie viith great affection, in- 
 voluntarily puts her hand on 
 his arm. He raises her hand 
 and is about to kiss it. Helen 
 re-enters. David rises] 
 Helen. Sir Brice has just come 
 back and is in the smoking-room down- 
 stairs. ' 
 
 DuLciB [turning]. Look ! It's morn- 
 ing. 
 
 David. Good-bye. 
 Dulcie [suSSenly]. No — I must 
 have another. word with you. Wait 
 here a moment. Here is Sir Brice. 
 Nell, take Mr. Remon_pn to the- balcony 
 for a niihute"orTwo and wait there with 
 him till^ir Brice hjts. ggae-u-pstairs. 
 
 [Exeunt David and Helen 
 through conservatory and on to 
 balcony] 
 
 [Sir Bbice enters, looking a little flushed 
 and dissipated] 
 
 Sir Brice [staring at Dulcie ; after 
 a pause]. Well? 
 
 Dulcie. Well? 
 
 Sib Brice [drops into a chair; whistles]. 
 Got rid of your friends? 
 
 Dulcie. All except Mr. Remon. 
 He's on the balcony with Nell. 
 
 Sib Bbice. Oh! [Pause. Whistles; 
 takes some change out of his pocket — 
 three shillings and threepence; places 
 the coins very -carefuUy' and elaborately 
 in a longitudinal position on the palm of 
 his left hand, arranging the three shillings 
 and the three pennies in a line, whistling 
 carelessly] That's our net fortune, my 
 ^T\.^~[Holdmg~lKefn' lip under her face] 
 That is our precise capital — three 
 shilUngs and threepence. [Whistles] 
 Not another farthing. And some thou- 
 sand pounds' worth of debts. 
 
 DuLCiB [unconcerned]. Indeed. 
 
 Sir Brice [with a sudden little burst of 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 433 
 
 brutality — not too marked]. Look here ! 
 can't you get some money? 
 DtiLCiE. What do you mean? 
 SiE Bbicb. Gel some moneyj^ That's 
 plain Enghsh, isST it ? "~" 
 DuLCiE. 1 don't understand you. 
 Sir Bhicb. This fellow Remon is 
 devilish Jfiai.of_ysjjnr:i^e't yojL_get 
 some money from him? 
 
 DuLCiB. Hush ! Borrow money from 
 him! 
 
 Sir Brick [suggestively]. You needn't 
 borrow. [Dulcie looks at him inquir- 
 ingly] Now_^ n't you g gl^ome ? 
 
 [Dtjlcie toofcs athim for a mo- 
 ment; she raises her fan to 
 strike him; sees David, who 
 has entered from conservatory. 
 Helen stands at conservatory 
 door] 
 David. Lady Skene, I have been 
 obUged to overhear what has just been 
 said. To-moi Tow morning I leave for 
 the ■Seatb—ofTrance, and" I shall be 
 quite inaccessible for some years. My 
 bankersjEill_liaKej3Eders-t€>-send you a 
 cheque-book and to honour, jour^igna/- 
 ture t^^Shy extent' that'you are-likely 
 to require. [Dulcie makes a protest] 
 If you please — if you please. As I 
 shall be away from England there can- 
 not be the least slur upon you in accept- 
 ing it. Miss Larondie, you will be with 
 your sister, always. She will be in 
 your care — always. _ [Shakes hands with 
 Helen] Be very kind to her. Never 
 leave her. Good-bye. 
 
 Dulcie. But I — cannot — take — • 
 David .[siJe^wang^/ierJ. If you please 
 — It is my last request. Good-bye. 
 
 [Sib Brice, who has been sitting 
 
 all the while, listening, rises. 
 
 David looks at him for half a 
 
 moment; looks at Dulcie.] 
 
 Good-bye. [Exit] 
 
 [Nine months pass between Acts II and 
 III] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 the 
 
 Scene. — Private sitting-room at 
 Hdtel Prince De Galles, Nice. 
 
 A rather handsome modern room fur- 
 nished in French hotel fashion. Two 
 long windows, right, curtained. 
 Door at back. Door left. Small card 
 table down stage, left, viith several 
 packs of cards loosely on it. The 
 
 whole floor round the table strewn 
 with cards. Discover Sib Brice in 
 evening dress seated left of table, 
 aimlessly and mechanically playing 
 with the cards. After a few seconds 
 Dulcie, in dinner dress, enters 
 from door at back, crosses to the win- 
 dow and stands looking out, having 
 taken no notice of Sib Brice. As she 
 enters he leaves off playing with the 
 cards for a moment, looks at her. 
 
 Sib Bbice [in rather a commanding 
 tone, a little brutal]. Come here. 
 
 [Dulcie takes no notice. A little 
 pause] 
 SiB.BnicE [louder]. D'ye hear? Come 
 here. / 
 
 [Dulcie comes down to him, does 
 
 not speak. He looks up at her. 
 
 Her face is quite blank, looking 
 
 indifferently in front of her] 
 
 Sir Brice [begins playinq with cards 
 
 again]. I've lost over six hundred 
 
 pounds. 
 
 [Dulcie takes no notice] 
 Sib Bbice [dashes the pack of cards 
 under his feet, stamps on them]. Damn 
 and damn the cards ! 
 
 [Dulcie takes no notice. Slight 
 pause] 
 Sir Bbice [roars out]. The hotel 
 people have sent up their bill again 
 with a request for payment. 
 
 [Slight pause. Dulcie goes back 
 to the window, stands there look- 
 ing out. Pause] 
 Sib Bbice [roars out furiously]. Why 
 the devil don't you get something for 
 that deafness of yours ! [Suddenly jumps 
 up, goes up to her, seizes her hands, turns 
 her round] Now look here — 
 
 [Hotel Servant enters, with letter on 
 tray. Sib Bbice desists. The 
 Hotel Sebvant brings the letter to 
 Dulcie, who crosses and takes it. 
 Exit Sebvant. Dulcie opens letter, 
 reads it] 
 
 Sib Brice. Well? [Dulcie rings 
 bell] WeU? 
 
 [Servant enters] 
 
 Dulcie [in cold, equable tone, to Sir 
 Brice]. Mr. Edward Remon wishes 
 to see me. He asks me to excuse his 
 being in fancy dress. He's going to 
 the Opera Ball. Shall I see him here 
 or in the hall? 
 
 Sir Bbice. Here. 
 
 Dulcie. [To Sebvant] Show Mr. 
 Remon here. [Exit Sebvant] 
 
434 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Sib Beice. [To Dtjlcie] Where's 
 his brother, the astronomer? 
 
 Dtjlcie. At his observatory, I sup- 
 pose. I've not seen him since the night 
 we began to live upon him. 
 
 [Hotel Servant opens door, announces 
 Mb. Edward Remon. Eddie enters, 
 dressed as Pierrot for the fancy dress 
 ball. Exit Servant] 
 
 Eddie [all through the Act very ex- 
 cited]. How d'ye do? [To Dulcie; 
 shakes hands with her. To Sir Brice] 
 How d'ye do ? 
 
 Sir Bhicb. How d'ye do? 
 
 [Looks meaningly at Dulcie and 
 exit left] 
 
 Eddie. So good of you to excuse 
 this dress. 
 
 Dulcie. Your brother? 
 
 Eddie. He's_down in the Luwu with 
 me to-night . We'v& -b con dia ifig at the 
 Gaffe de Paris. I've taken three glasses 
 of champagne — anything more than 
 a spoonful makes me tipsy, and so, with 
 Jihat.and this_^ess^ AadjJur-4our-H«y ,to 
 
 Dulcie. Africa ! 
 
 Eddie. We start early to-morrow 
 morning to the deadliest place on the 
 West Coast. 
 
 Dulcie. Not your brother ? 
 
 Eddie. Yes. We're going to watch 
 the transitjof^ Venus, and as there was a 
 jolly lot of fever--there~alljhe other 
 astronomers rather funked it. So Davy 
 Jmg— flttfiiL_Qiit— an expe^itiaa_himself. 
 [IJuLCiE shows gfeafconcern. ^EIdtwe 
 rattles on] I'm going to have a spree 
 to-night. I've never been drunk in 
 my hfe, and I thought I should hke to 
 try what it's like — because — [tossing 
 up a coin] it's heads we come back alive 
 and prove Davy's theory about sun- 
 spots — and it's tails we leave our bones 
 and all our apparatus out there. It's 
 tails — we're as dead as door-nails. 
 [Sees Dulcie's pained face] Lady Skene 
 — I'm so sorry — 
 
 Dulcie. We!:Efi--bg en three week s 
 in Nice. Why hasn't" your brother 
 come to see me? 
 
 Eddie. A mistaken sense_oL^uty. 
 Davy has the~"oddBstjotions— about 
 duty; He thinks onT ought to do it 
 when it's unpleasant. So do I when 
 I'm in my right clothes, and my right 
 senses, but now I'm half tipsy, and have 
 got a fool's cap on, I can see quite plainly 
 that duty's all moonshine. Duty"_ is 
 doing exactly what one Ukes, and_it's 
 
 And the 
 
 iart for a 
 
 ng 
 
 fool is— just— breai 
 sigETof yflji.. Shall 
 hinr?-' 
 
 Dulcie. Where is he? 
 
 Eddie. He's in the town getting 
 everything ready for to-morrow. Shall 
 I find him? 
 
 Dulcie [looking at her watch]. Quarter 
 to eleven. I may be alone \nJ lpntM~ii.n 
 hour.^^ Yes, bringTiim t" rnp hero 
 
 Eddie; Hurrah ! — Au revoir. 
 
 [Sir Brice appears at the same door, looks 
 after Eddie, who exits, saying 
 "Adieu." Sir Brice shuts door; 
 enters] 
 
 Sir Brice. [To Dulcie] Well? 
 [Dulcie does not reply, goes to 
 her room at back. Sir Brice 
 follows her, the door is closed 
 in his face and a lock is heard 
 to turn. Sir Bbice shakes the 
 door handle, kicks the door, looks 
 vicious and spiteful, comes down 
 a step or two, kicks a hassock] 
 
 [Servant enters, announcing Mr. Lush- 
 iNQT0NT~1^e2d!*fei«a:.__toi Beige 
 nods] 
 
 Monty. Well, dear «hum! [Look- 
 ing round at the cards on the floor] Did 
 you give Fancourt_his revenge ? 
 
 Sir Brice. Damn the cards. 
 
 Monty. By all mea ns. How's Lady 
 Skene? — -^ ^ 
 
 Sir Brice [mutters]. — mn Lady 
 Skene. 
 
 Monty. By all means. 
 
 Sir Brice. You're married, Lush- 
 ington — ■ 
 
 Monty. I am three- moBths-a-brid.e- 
 groom. 
 
 Sir Beice. Why the devil did you 
 get married ? 
 
 Monty. Because I ascertained that 
 my wife would have seve n thousand a 
 year. Why did -you-? 
 
 Sib Beice. Because I was a silly 
 fool. ^ : 
 
 ■Monty. Well, there couldn't be two 
 better reasons for getting majried. 
 
 Sib Beice [furious with his cards]. 
 — mn everything and everybody. 
 
 Monty. By all means. And now 
 we've reached flnahty and are utterly 
 the sport of destiny, will you do me a 
 good turn? 
 
 Sib Beice. What? 
 
 Monty. I'm going to take a lady 
 to the Opera ^Baflr ahrT"lBar Lady 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 435 
 
 Clarice will be <tull_jQr- 
 
 I shou ld say 
 
 iiTTny— absence. I know you 
 win be going to the Cerole d'Amerique 
 to wreck your farthing chance of eternity 
 at poker. 
 
 SirBbice. Well? 
 
 Monty. It would momentarily rein- 
 state vour ^.elesti al hopes if you would 
 tell Lady Sken e that I'm goiogjio the 
 Club wit.h— yqii, a.ni j^_ge rsuade h er to 
 spend the lond]j; _hours7ot her widow- 
 hood witirXaasi^C'laricie in huinber 
 oae-fourrthree 
 
 _ J X'larioe IrT 
 TEey'^'wiir doubtless 
 tear our characters to rags, but that will 
 keep them from the worse mischief of 
 interfering with us. 
 
 Sir Beice. Will you do me a good 
 twn? 
 
 Monty. Anything in my power. 
 
 Sib Beige, ^bend me a couple of 
 baadied-piHKids.' — 
 
 Monty. My dear Bricey. If my 
 I. 0. U., or my name, or my presence, 
 is good,: jor a nything at the Cercle 
 d'Ameyi(^e, yg a^-e-^^BlSSme ^ta-it. 
 
 SiE BbicS: — WilTyouTconie with me 
 and set me afloat for a quarter of an 
 hour? 
 
 Monty. Certainly. 
 
 Sir Bbicb. I'll ask Lady Skene. 
 [Goes up to the door at back, raps] Are 
 you there? [A little louder] Are you 
 there? 
 
 Monty. "Throw in a "my dear," 
 Bricey, or some such trifle. Its effect 
 will be in proportion to its scarcity. 
 
 Sib Bbice. My dear ! [Rapping still] 
 Mr. Lushington has called. [Rapping] 
 Do you hear, my love? [With a grim 
 sneer on the last word. The door is a little 
 opened] [Sir Bricb forces his way in] 
 Lady_XIlapiee~winrts-4o-kDtrw-if yoii will 
 go and sit with her wh ile — • 
 
 ~[Tfie remainder lif sentence is lost 
 by the closing of door after him] 
 
 [Lady Clarice enters door, with opera 
 cloak] 
 
 Monty [showing surprise, which he 
 instantly checks]. Where so gay and 
 fi:ee, my love? 
 
 Clarice \looking him straight in the 
 face very determinedly]. To-the-Opera 
 Ball. 
 
 Monty. Oh. 
 
 Clarice. J?iiuire-goillg~to-teke that 
 WQman^ 
 
 Monty. I know,_^any ladies, but 
 no women. 
 
 Charley [her voice heard . outside]. 
 Yes. See if Mr. JLushington is there, 
 
 and say a lady is waiting^ for him in the 
 hall — oh", he's in jheraj. T'lLgn in. 
 
 [Monty is going. Lady Clarice 
 makes a Utile movement to inter- 
 cept him] 
 
 Monty [in a low voice]. Don't be 
 foolish. 
 
 Charley [her voice at door, outside]. 
 Ar^Ityoujiearly ready, Monty ? [Ap- 
 pears at do or, sees LAD :g-€li.ARiCE. takes in 
 the situation at a glance, has a slight shock, 
 but instantly recovers herself. Runs to 
 Lady CjiAgiCE, brimming with affection] 
 Darling, are you going too ? So pleased ! 
 So charmed ! How sweet of you ! 
 
 [Offers to kiss Lady Clarice] 
 
 Clarice [indignantly]. How dare 
 you! 
 
 Monty [stepping between them]. 
 Hush! [To Clarice] What's the use 
 of having__a_xassL_hOTe, or anywhere? 
 For Heaven's sake, cTo be a good sen- 
 sible girl^andr-don't shatter the happi- 
 ness of our married life before — before 
 we know where we are. Charlgy^and 
 I ara_going_tothe Opera Ball, wUl you 
 come wTEETIs? " — ' 
 
 Clarice [indignant]. What! 
 
 Monty. Or go by yourself. Or go 
 with any Qne^wj_-please. Or go any- 
 where "or do anything in the world you 
 like. Only don't make a scene here. 
 
 Clarice. MyJather shall know. 
 
 Monty. Very well. Very well. 
 We'll discuss that by and by. But 
 do recognise once and for all the futility 
 of rows. You'd better come with us. 
 
 [Enter Sir Beice] 
 
 Clarice. Cpttaawith you? 
 Charley [begins]. My dear Clarice, 
 I assure you — 
 
 Monty [stops Charley with a warn- 
 ing look]. For Heaven's sake, Clarice, 
 whatever we do, do not let us make 
 ourselves ridiculous. [Monty snatches 
 up Lady Clarice's arm. She reluc- 
 tantly allows him to do so] All right, 
 Bricey. Sorry I can't come with you 
 to the Club„::::ibutJ!'ve per suaded L ady 
 Clarice ^nd Lady Shalfefd to come to 
 the Opera:' Ball "withnnBr^SyeT bye, 
 dear crony, 'our love to Lady Skene. 
 Hope you will have as pleasant an even- 
 ing as we shall — Ta! Ta ! . 
 
 [Exit with great animation, Lady 
 Clarice holding reluctantly and 
 aloof on one arm, Charley more 
 affectionate on the other. Sir 
 Beice goes to Dulcie's door. 
 
436 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 throws it wide open, stands 
 back, calls] 
 Sir Bbicb. Now, vnR jys>u-let us 
 understand each other once for all ? 
 
 [Dtjlcie ~eniers, looks at him without 
 speaking] 
 
 Sir Bhice. I want some money. 
 This feOow JJemon-Jias_DfEered. you his 
 puxse to ^ny__fixtfint. Get a few hun- 
 dredi"for me to gojm^with. 
 
 DULCIE. No. 
 
 Sir Bbice. You won't? Then why 
 did you (toggntotake hjsjnoney? 
 
 DuLciE. Because"! was~weak, be- 
 cause you bullied me, and because I 
 knew I was weloomer — 
 
 Sir Bbice. Very good. The same 
 reasons continue. You're weak, I'm 
 a bully, and you're welcome. Aren't 
 you welcome, eh ? Areh' t you^wdcome ? 
 
 DuLciE. I believe I am__seloome to 
 every penny he ha s in t he worU 
 
 Sir Bbice. He^lovea you ? 
 
 DuLCiE. Yes^ 
 
 Sib Bbice. Andjfou love him ? 
 
 DuLciE [looking straiglit'zdSiR Bbice 
 very fearlessly and calmly]. With all 
 my heart. '" 
 
 Sib Brige. And you aren't ashamed 
 fo tell me? 
 
 DuLCiE. Is there anything in your 
 past life that you have taken the 
 trouble to hide from- me? Have you 
 ever openly or secretly had an attach- 
 ment to any Uving creature that does 
 you as much credit and so little shame- 
 as my love for David Remon does to 
 me? 
 
 Sib Bbice. All right. Goon-loving 
 him. You needn't hesitate.^ He ex- 
 
 peets--a._£ais— esehange if—ne—hasn't 
 
 already got it. 
 
 Dulcie [very calmly]. That's a he, 
 and you know it is. 
 
 Sir Bbice. Very well. It's a lie. 
 I don't care one way or the other. Get 
 me some money. 
 
 Dulcie. You have had the last 
 farthing that you will evettouch of 
 David-Remon's money. 
 
 'Sir BiiicEy All right. , [Jumps up 
 very determinedly] Then you've seen 
 the Jast you will see of your child for 
 some years to~oome. — 
 
 Dulcie [aroused]. What! you wiU 
 hit me through my child ! 
 
 SikBhice. ri;hink my phildls health 
 requires a change for a few years — a 
 different climate from you affll myself. 
 
 We ,will go upon a little tour by our- 
 selves, shall we ? to — where the devil 
 shall-we go ? I don't care. I shall send 
 Rosy away to^-morrow-moming; D'ye 
 hear? 
 
 Dulcie. I hear. 
 
 Sir Brice.' If I don't see you again 
 to-ni^ht, get her_ready by to-morrow 
 moifiing. [Exit] 
 
 Dulcie [stands for a moment or two 
 quiet, then bursts into a fit of ironic laugh- 
 ter] Nell ! [Goes to the door at back, calls 
 out] Nell ! Nell ! Come here ! 
 
 [Helen enters] 
 
 Helen. What's the matter? 
 
 Dulcie. Nell, old g irl, .have you 
 got such a thing as a Church Service 
 about you ? ~ 
 
 Helen. Church Service? 
 
 Dulcie. I want you to tell me the 
 end and mean ing of m arriage. There's 
 something about it in~the Church Ser- 
 vice, isn't there? I did go through it 
 once, I know, but I've forgotten what 
 it's all about. What does it mean ? 
 
 Helen. Marriage ? 
 
 Dulcie. Yes. Oh, J[^ know lilt's 
 one of Mr. R.ernon/s .games. '^ 
 
 Helen. Games ? 
 
 Dulcie. Yes. He says men and 
 women are playing_a_lot_crf queer games 
 on earth that th ey e alLjel igion . love, 
 politics, and this and that and the 
 other — marriage must be one, and 
 it's the funniest of them all ! It's a 
 two-handed game like — like cribbage, 
 or tossing up. You choose your part- 
 ner — head's he's a good 'uHp^hen 
 you're in clover ; tailsTre^ a bad' un, 
 then, it's purgatory and inferno for you 
 for the rest of your life, unless you're 
 a man. It's all right if you're a man. 
 The same game as before, choose your 
 partner — heads she's a good 'un, then 
 you're in clover ; tails she's a bad 'un, 
 then you cut her, and toss up again and 
 again, until you do get a good 'un. 
 That's the game — that!s the game — 
 and it's a splendid gameJor a man. 
 
 [Blanchflower, in evening dress, pops 
 in] 
 
 Blanchflower. How d'ye do. Lady 
 Skene ? ^Arr) T jn the way, eh ? 
 
 Dulcie. Enter 1 Enter! Enter! 
 You're just in time.-^,^elp, us solve 
 this-»igWyqTrestion. 
 
 Blanchflower. Something impor- 
 tant, eh? 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 437 
 
 DuLciB. No, only marriage. 
 
 Blanchploweb. What about it ? 
 
 DuLciE. Well — ■ what about it? 
 Give us^jaiiir npininn^ — Th e re's s ome- 
 thing mystical about it^ , isn't there? 
 Nell, Where's "TiEal CEurch Service? 
 Something mystical ? 
 
 Blanchflower. Well, yes ; and — 
 hum ? eh ? [happy thought] — soniething 
 ideal — 
 
 DuLCiB. Mystical and ideal. Go 
 on, NeU. 
 
 Helen. lULrathOTnot. I don't like 
 to hear yfiH Jioeking'aFma rriage. 
 
 Dui^iE [laughing]. Mocking at mar- 
 riage! Oh, my God! is it women who 
 have married bad men that mock at 
 marriage? Make"1iaste, make" haste! 
 [Dashing her hands on the chair] Mar- 
 riage is a mystical, ideal state — isn't 
 there something in the Service about 
 phyacal? Go on, Nell, go on — help 
 us out. Go on ! What have we left out ? 
 
 Helen. The wife's duty. 
 
 Dtjlcie. Yah. Yah. Yah. 
 
 [This is very quiet and calm, with 
 a pause between each Yah, very 
 different from the excited Tah ! 
 Yah ! Yah ! Yah ! o/ the sec- 
 ond Act] 
 
 Helen. To_her husband to keep her 
 vows. To herself to keep herself pure 
 and stainlgsg; beca use it is her glory, 
 as it is a man's glory to be brave and 
 honest. 
 
 DuLciB [same position, same tone]. 
 Yah. Yah. Yah. 
 
 Helen. And to society, to her 
 nation, because no nation has ever 
 survived whose women have been im- 
 moral. '' 
 
 DuLciE [suddenly springing up, sitting 
 up upright in the chair]. And the men? 
 
 Helen. I don't . know whether it's 
 a man's duty_to_be_moiail. jl!m_sure 
 it's a womanlg. 
 
 Dtjlcie. Oh, then marriage is a 
 moral state, eh — at least for women, 
 eh, Mr. Blanchflower? 
 
 Blanchflower [who has shown symp- 
 toms of great discomfort through the inter- 
 view]. Ye — es — decidedly marriage 
 is — or — a — should be a moral state. 
 
 DuLCiB [jumping up vigorously]. Ah, 
 now we've got it! Now we can go 
 ahead ! MarriagejsaLphysioairBiystical, 
 ideal, nroral— game. Oh, I hate these 
 words, moral, idai. How if it isn't 
 ideal? Suppose it's horribly, horribly 
 real. How if it isn't moral? Suppose 
 it's horribly, horribly immoral ! Moral ! 
 
 Moral ! ! Moral ! ! ! Is there anything 
 under God's sun so immoral, ah — 
 guess it — guess it — to be married to a 
 man one hates ! And you go on plaster- 
 ing it and poulticing it and sugaring it 
 over with "moral" and "ideal" and 
 "respectable," and all those words that 
 men use to cheat themselves with. It 
 isn't ^moral to be married to a man one 
 hates^! It isn' t i'dearH-HEHstft mystical ! 
 It's hateful ! It's martyrdom ! 
 
 [A long pause] 
 
 Blanchflower [calm, with a real 
 touch of feeling]. My dear Lady Skene, 
 I won't pretend to offer you advice — 
 
 DuLCiB [has recovered from her out- 
 hurst, now speaks in a very calm, indiffer- 
 ent, matter-of-fact lone]. It doesn't mat- 
 ter .You^re^gping to ttie^ball? 
 
 Blanchflower^ T was going — but 
 if I can help you in any way — 
 [Struck with the idea] My unole,^anon 
 Buttgifi eld, is her e for the w ihterT He 
 suffOTs from iiver, and has written a 
 book on Socinianism. If you want any 
 spiritual advice, I^_sijxe-^«)u couldn't 
 do better. * " 
 
 DuLCiB. What is -Socinianism? Is 
 it anythingto do witlLmarriage? 
 
 Blanchflower. Well — ah — no. 
 Shall I send him? 
 
 DtTLCiE. No, I won't trouble you. 
 I'll think this out for myself. 
 
 BL*NCHFjyOWBR. Well, if you ever 
 do need a clergyman^donltJcrget my 
 uncle. — You-eaii't'Tio^'Bitter. Or if at 
 any time I can be of any use — 
 
 Dtjlcie. Thank you. Good-night. 
 
 Blanchflower [shaking hands very 
 sympathetically]. Good-bye. [Exit] 
 
 DuLciE [suddenly]. Nell! [Helen 
 comes to her] Take Rosy up at on ce, 
 dress her, get 'out~Df-i±(S~ho^lb2_the 
 SOTvaaffl;j^tyL-go---fe g~"yoTr~doS Tmeet 
 Sir' Brice — taEeTiOTToySUoIBigaiilieu 
 to theJieLtfiLdes_AnglaisT-aiid_wait there 
 till io-morrow morning. I'U send you 
 a message what to do. 
 
 [Servant enters, announces Mb. Remon 
 
 — Mb. Edwabd Remon. Enter 
 
 David and Eddie, still in Pierrot's 
 
 dress. Helen shows some surprise] 
 
 [Exit Servant] 
 
 Dtjlcie. Quiok,--Nell,, do_ as I tell 
 you. ^ 
 
 " "Helen" [Joofcinj at David and Eddie]. 
 Promise me — 
 
 Dtilcie. What? 
 
 Helen. You'll take no .step till 
 you've seenjne. 
 
438 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 DuLCiB. I promise. Make haste. 
 Come here and teli me "when 'Rosy' s 
 ready. 
 
 Helen [comes to David, shakes hands 
 with him]. You heard her promise. 
 David. ghe-shaU-kaep it. 
 
 [Exit Helen at back] 
 Eddie. I've brought him, Lady 
 Skene. I'm off to the_ baU. j^m not 
 so tipsy now as I was, but rm going to 
 have my flingT - It's my only chance of 
 going to the devil. Dayy^_whgEe shall 
 I meet-yoQ-? 
 
 David. I'll come to the Opera 
 House for-you^ Wait for me there. 
 
 Eddie. Come as "soon as you can, 
 wonlt you ? You come too. Lady Skene. 
 You can't think how. jolly it is to have 
 no duty and no conscience and no faith 
 and no future, no anything but pleasure 
 and Ufel Do come! Let's all be fools 
 for once in our hves ! Let's be monkeys 
 again 1 Come on 1 Come on ! 
 
 [Exit. As soon as he has gone, 
 David and Dttlcie, who^have 
 been standing on opposite sides 
 of the room, go to each other 
 very calmly. They meet in the 
 middle of the room, take each 
 other's hands. He raises hers 
 to his lips. David's appear- 
 ance has changed since the last 
 Act; he is more worn and 
 spiritual, a little greyer, very 
 calm at first, an unearthly look 
 in his face. They stand looking 
 at each other for some moments] 
 DuLciE. You're changed! You're 
 not well! 
 
 David. Quite well. So well, I feel 
 no ill can ever happen to me. 
 
 Dtjlcib. Why did you not come to 
 me before ? 
 
 David. I'd been able to do you a 
 service. I didn't wish you to think 
 that I had any claim on you. 
 
 Dttlcie. Ah, you shouldn't mis- 
 understand me. I could never mis- 
 understand you like that. I've taken 
 your money. I knew I was welcome, 
 because — if I were rich and you were 
 poor, I would-give you a-H-Ihad. 
 David. Ah ! Take all I have ! 
 DuLCiE. Not another farthing. 
 David. Why not ? 
 Dttlcie. I would be proud to owe 
 all my,happinfiss,_all-^my^^mfort to 
 you. I ^ve been proud3lLesaJast six 
 months to'thint that'my^child's very 
 bread came^fom you. 
 
 David. Ah! [Coming nearer to her] 
 
 DuLCiE. I would o nly li a.vfl taken 
 just sufficient foj:_necessaries — but he 
 forced me. -I— was — -weak. Now the 
 end has come. I won't waste any 
 more of your, money jajhisjpoiraiirej to 
 the cards] and racing, and — I don't 
 know what. 
 
 David. Tell it all. 
 
 DuLCiE. 'Thmgs can't go on as 
 they are. [Smiling] Do you remem- 
 ber the Scotc hman jaAe-lost his mother- 
 in-law and"^s aunt and three cousins, 
 all in one epidemic? He said it was 
 "just reedeeolous." Things are "just 
 reedeeolous " with me. [Laughing] Sir 
 Brice has tb jeatened to t,a,k RRnsy away 
 fromjne. 
 "David. No ! 
 
 DuLOiE. Yes! I'm sending NeU to 
 BeauU eu with her to-ni ght I don't 
 know wEaTwil Lhappe n. I don't think 
 I care mtrah. ' It doesn/tmatter. Tooth- 
 ing matters. [SmzRng. Then with sud- 
 den alarm] Yes-^ tb" 
 toAfdoa. Myst-you go ? 
 "TJavid. I must. Ilxe_befin waiting 
 for years for this chanae. If I succeed, 
 it will crown all myjife's work. 
 
 DuLciE. But it's dangerous. 
 
 David. I take- a doctor and drugs. 
 Besides, I beaf^-oharmedJife. 
 
 DrLciB. But this fever, — Eddie 
 says it is deadly. 
 
 David [with great calmness, looking 
 away]. It will pass me. But if it kills 
 me, I must go. 
 
 DuLCiE. No, no, no. 
 
 David. Yes, yes, yes. I'm pledged. 
 All my world, the Uttle^world that takes 
 an interest in nie^iswatohiiig me. 
 There's the hope of a great^prize. It's 
 my one chance of~saartcllmg the poor 
 Uttle laurel-wreath that we mortals 
 call immortality. 
 
 DuLciE. But can't you go some 
 other time? 
 
 David. I must be at my post, es- 
 pecially as it is ^iJittla_daagerous, — 
 that makes itthe post of honour. I've 
 delayed everything till the last mo- 
 ment that I might be near you tilllJ iB 
 very end. 
 
 DuLCiE. The end! Then this is 
 the end? I shall nevfin-Sfifi_you again. 
 
 David. Yes. When I return. 
 
 DuLciE [shaking her head]. You will 
 not retm-n. [Looking at him very keenly 
 and closely] Tell me, in your heart of 
 hearts do you not know ^hat you will 
 never come back ? [Cavid^ is about to 
 speak] Ah no — tell me the truth ! 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 439 
 
 David [slowly and fatejully]. I wonder 
 how it is that when one has carefully 
 weeded out all the old superstitions 
 from, one's mind, a crop of new super- 
 stitions springs up more foolish than 
 the old ones. I've lived up there so 
 long I've grown morbid. I've an attack 
 ot the silhest form of superstition — a 
 presentiment. 
 
 DtTLCiE. Ah, I knew it ! 
 
 David. In six months-I-shall-laugh 
 at it. We will latiglranrinogether. 
 
 DuLciE [determinedly]. You shall not 
 go! 
 
 David. I must. I'm warMflg-with 
 my comrad es aU over the worl d. I've 
 undertaken this part of the work. If 
 I don't carry it out I break faith with 
 them and spoil their work too. All the 
 good fellows who are going with me 
 and sharing in my dangers are waiting 
 for me at^-Marseilles. I can't leave 
 them in the liu:ch — I can't — you 
 would not have me do itl Say you 
 wouldn't have jne^stamp^ myself a 
 coward, a deserter. 
 
 Dtjlcie. No, no. But I don't want 
 you to go. [Approaching him] If I 
 asked you-to-stay — 
 
 David. You will not — [Going 
 towards her]" Youwiirnot [a little nearer] 
 ask me to _stay. [She looks at him — 
 gradually they go closer to each other, and 
 his manner changes from a calm, dreamy, 
 fateful tone to a fierce, hoarse, passionate 
 tone] Do'you know what it means if I 
 sta y? Dulc ie!" ^ 
 
 JJuLCiE. You never called me that 
 before. 
 
 David [clasping her]. I've never been 
 so near to you. Dulcie I [Witfrmidden, 
 mad abandonment, clasping her passion^ 
 ately] Yes, I'll, st ay! I'll stay ! TeU 
 me to stay because.=:=U3ficause — you 
 love me. 
 
 DuLoiE. Stay — because — ah, you 
 know I love you ! 
 
 David. Eddie's right. Let's be fools 
 to-night! Let's live to-night ! I'm 
 hungry for you! Dulcie, tell me once 
 again that you love me. 
 
 DuiiCiE. No — no. Forget it. 
 What have I said? What shall we 
 do? 
 
 David. I don't know. What does 
 it matter? We will go to this ball- 
 any thing — anywhere ! Our lives are 
 in our own hands. Come with me. 
 
 [Sir Bhice enters. He shuts the door, 
 stands against it, his feet a little 
 
 sprawling, his hands in his pockets, 
 looking at them maliciously. Long 
 pause. Helen enters at the other 
 door. Another pause. She beckons 
 Dtjlcie] 
 
 Helen. Dulcie I 
 
 [Indicates the inside room. Dtjl- 
 cie goes up to her] 
 [Exit Helen. Dulcie at the door 
 looks at the two men. Exit 
 Dulcie. The two men are left 
 alone. Another slight pause. 
 SiH Beice walks very deliber- 
 ately up to David. The two 
 men stand close to each other 
 for a moment or two] 
 Sir Beice. You've come to settle 
 your little account, I su ppose? 
 David, "i owe you nothing. 
 SiE Brice. " But I owe you six 
 thousand pounds. I haven't a penny 
 ih*the world. I'll cut ^ouYor it, double 
 or quits. 
 
 David. I don't play cards. 
 SiE Brice. You'd better begin. 
 
 [Rapping on the table with the 
 cards] 
 David [very firmly]. I don't play 
 oards_witb you. 
 
 SiE Beice. And I say you shall. 
 David [very stern and comtemptuous]. 
 I don't play cards with you. 
 
 [Going towards door] 
 SiE Beice. You refuse? 
 David. I refuse. 
 
 SiE Beice. Once for all, will you 
 give me a chance of paryaiag. back-the 
 six thousand pounds tha t Lady Skene 
 has borrowed fr^m you? Yes or no? 
 
 David: — Nu: ~- 
 
 Sir Brice. No? 
 
 David [very emphatically]. No. 
 [Goes to door, suddenly turns round, 
 comes up to him] Yes. [Comes to the 
 table] I do play cards with you. You 
 want my money. Very well. I'll give 
 yqu_a chance of winning all I have in 
 the world. 
 
 Sir Brice [after a look of astonish- 
 ment]. Good. I'm your man. Any 
 game ye«-liker-£tnd"any stakes. 
 
 David [very calm, cold, intense tone all 
 through]. The stakes on my side are 
 s ome tw o JosSiSxBd^ thousand -pounds. 
 The stakes on your side are — your 
 wife and^MM, 
 
 Sir Brice [taken obocfcj: My wife 
 an d chil d! 
 
 -"David. Your wife and child. Come 
 — begin ! [Points to the cards] 
 
440 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Sir Brice [getting flurried]. My wife 
 aad ohil^? [Puts his hands restlessly 
 tWrSugh his hair, looks intently at David. 
 Pause] AE right. [Pause. Cunningly] 
 I value my -3Eite and ohild yery liighly. 
 
 David. Ivulue tlieiir"3t~ail I liave 
 in the world. [Pointing to cards] Begin ! 
 
 SiH Brice. You seem in a hurry. 
 
 David. I believe I haven't six 
 months to live. X want to make the 
 most of those six months. If I have 
 more I want to make the most of all 
 the years. Begin 1 
 
 Sir Brice [wipes his face with his 
 handkerchief]. This is the first time 
 I've played this game. We'd better 
 arrange-eomditiDns. 
 
 David. There's only one condition. 
 We play, till- lUiuJieggared- of every 
 fartEmg I have, or tiU you're beggared 
 of them. Sit down ! 
 
 Sir Brice [sits down]. Very well. 
 [Pause] What^am^e? 
 
 David. The shortest. 
 
 Sir Brice. " Simple cutting? 
 
 David. What you please. Begin ! 
 
 Sir Brice. There's no hurry. I 
 mean to have a night's" fun out of 
 this. 
 
 David. Look at me. Don't trifle 
 with mel I want to hav e done w ith 
 you. I want theml _io "-have-inbae 
 with you. I want to get them away 
 from you. Quick 1 I want- to kffow no w 
 — now — this very moment -^ whetner 
 they are yours pr^mine. Begin. 
 
 Sir Brice [shuffles the cards]. All 
 right. What do we cut for? 
 
 David. Let one cut settle it. 
 
 Sir Brice. No. It's too much to 
 risk on one throw. 
 
 David. One cut. Begin. 
 
 Sir Brice. It's~t"oo big. I can't. 
 I like high play, but that's too high for 
 me. [David remains at table, very calm; 
 does not stir through all the scene; Sir 
 Brice walking about] No, by Jove I 
 I'U tell you what I'll do. Three cuts 
 out of five. Damn it alll I'm game! 
 Two out of three. By Jove, two out 
 of three 1 Will that-do? 
 
 David. So be it ! Sit down ! Shuffle. 
 [Sir Brice sits down; begins 
 shuffling the cards. All through 
 the scene he is nervous, excited, 
 hysterical, laughing. David as 
 cold as a statue] 
 
 Sir Brice [having shuffled]. Now 
 then. Who cuts fu-st? 
 
 [The two men stare fixedly at each 
 other] 
 
 [Dtti/Cie enters at back] 
 
 Dulcie [surprised]. Mr. Remon! 
 No ! No 1 Not that 1 Not that I 
 
 David [coming down, warning her off 
 with a motion of his hand]. If you 
 please. Stand asida-for-a moment. 
 
 [Offers the cards to Sir Brice to 
 cut] 
 Sir Brice. Ace counts lowest. 
 David. As you will. Cut ! 
 
 [Sir Brice cuts] 
 
 Sir Brice. King! By Jove! Kingl 
 
 Cut ! [David cuts] 
 
 Sir Brice. Nine ! One to me ! By 
 
 Jove ! one to me ! [To Dulcie] Give 
 
 us up some of those,cards, will you? 
 
 [David by a gesture stops her; 
 takes up the pack that Sir Brice 
 has broken and shuffles them] 
 Sir Brice. Shufffejup. By Jove! if 
 I win — 
 
 Dulcie. Mr. Remon, you'll not 
 play any more? 
 
 David [very gently]. Stand aside, 
 
 Sir Brice. No. Let her shuffle for 
 us. She's in it, isn't^e? 
 
 Dulcie. What do you mean? What 
 are you playing to ? 
 
 Sir Brice. You'd like to know, 
 would you? What are we playing for? 
 I'U teU you. We'fe^glajingLfwP-you and 
 your child! 
 
 Dulcie [suddenly]. What? [Shows 
 great horror and astonishment] Mr. 
 Remon! It's not so? It's not so? [To 
 David] WhaTt 'afe^gou playing for ? 
 
 David. He has saldT F^you and 
 your child. If I wi n, wi UjfflU-abide by 
 the bargain? ^7 ' 
 
 [Very long pause — she looks from 
 one to the other] 
 
 Dulcie. J^jss. 
 
 David [puts cards on table]. Cut. 
 
 [They both shuffle cards] 
 
 Sir Brice [very excited, laughing, 
 nervous]. You'ye.got to_ffiiiiJtloth now. 
 You know that? 
 
 David. I know. 
 
 Sir BricE" [cuts]. Ten. Not bad. 
 You've got to heatjt. Cut! [David 
 cuts] Queen! One each! Now for 
 the final, d'ye hear? ,JIliia_is final. If 
 I win — [Walking about excitedly; pours 
 out a glass of brandy — drinks] I'll 
 out first! Nol Damn it all! you 
 cut first ! [Holding cards. David cuts] 
 Six. [To David, suddenly] Suppose I 
 win — you'll pay. me ? Ynii mean to 
 pay me? 
 
The MdLsqueraders 
 
 441 
 
 David. I shall pa y you every far- 
 tlung. 
 
 Sir Bhice. What security do you 
 give me? 
 
 David. My viTiCtl i" th" ri""?*""" of 
 the woman I love. 
 
 Sir Brice [walks about]. Let me be 
 a moment. 
 
 David. Cut. 
 
 Sir Brice. [To Dulcie]. You're 
 anxious, are yo u? I 'm going to winl 
 I mean it 1 "Tl-HW-going to win ! [To 
 David] Now! [David holds cards; 
 Sir Br[ce cuts] My God! I've los t I 
 
 David [throws down tne card-table; 
 leaps at him; catches hold of him by the 
 throat]. Yes, vou've lost 1 She'.s mine I 
 [Gets him dowh~cmr~%is Knees] You've 
 cheated me of her all these years 1 
 You've cheatefine "of"Eer~iove, c heated 
 me of the' fatherhood oi her child, 
 you've dragged her down,youVe_dis- 
 honoufed JisJ—^She's ,my _^Bjaow — 
 my wife and'' child 1 Talie your oath 
 you'll never lay..£laJLiiL to them again 1 
 Swear it 1- [Shaking him] 
 
 Sir Brice. She's yours I Take her 1 
 I'll never see her or her child again 1 
 1 swear it 1 Take them 1 
 
 David. Dare to break your word — 
 daretflJay_a.flnge.E-On her or her child — 
 darfe^to sKowyour face in the home that 
 my love shall give to her — ■ and what- 
 ever laws mgn-haye-siade-to bind you 
 and her together, iTl break them and 
 rid her of you,! D'ye hear? She's 
 mine! She'j. . -mine 1 She's mine! 
 [Throws Sir Brice back on the floor. To 
 Dulcie] My wife ! My child ! Come ! 
 You're mine! 
 
 [DAViDj.eizes Dulcie in his arms 
 and falls against door. Curtain 
 begins to descend when Sir 
 Brice thrown down] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene. — The Observatory on Mount 
 Garidelli in the Maritime Alps, near 
 Nice. 
 
 A door, right. A large fireplace, with 
 pine cones and pine logs ready laid, 
 above door, right. At the back, seen 
 through a large curtained doorway, 
 is the circular Observatory with large 
 telescope. This room is vaguely 
 seen, the telescope being lighted by 
 a shaft of moonlight at the beginning 
 
 of the Act. On the left side, slants 
 wise, a large window, with terrace 
 outside, giving scenery of the Mari- 
 time Alps. A large armchair above 
 the fireplace. On table and scattered 
 about the room are a number of scien- 
 tific books and astronomical instrvr- 
 ments and apparatus. The window 
 is curtained with Eastern curtains. 
 As curtain rises the whole scene is 
 dark except for the shaft of moon- 
 light that falls on the telescope. 
 
 [Enter David and Dulcie] 
 
 David. Come ,in! Come to your 
 ho m-e ! Mv wife ! ~ 
 
 Dulcie [cold, shuddering]. Ah no — 
 don't call me that — at least not yet. 
 
 David. You're shivering! Let me 
 give you some wine. 
 
 [Goes to cupboard, brings out 
 bottle and glass, which he fills, 
 places them on table] 
 Dulcie. No, no, teU me — 
 
 [Goes to him, looks into his face] 
 David [with great tenderness]. Dul- 
 cie! Dulcie! What is it, dear? How 
 
 ooldi-you are I'll light the fire. 
 
 [Lights fire, which is already laid with 
 large pine cones and logs and quickly 
 blazes up] I'm your servant now. I've 
 nothing to do all my life but wait on 
 you. We shall soon have a blaze with 
 these .^pine logs. My servants left me 
 last nigKr~r~thought I should have 
 no further use for them. I thought my 
 life here was ended. Ended! My life 
 has only begun this-last- hour. [Clasp- 
 ing her] Dulcie ! -Do you know where 
 you are? "YoU-aEein y our home. Ta.k e 
 off your ■Eaxand cloak, aear. [Gently 
 removes her cloak -OKSTpuXS "it on chair] 
 There! [Seats her at the fire in large 
 chair] This is your own hearth, dear, 
 your own fireside. You are my bride! 
 No bride was ever so welcome as you. 
 Poor hands so cold. [Takes her hands 
 in his, rubs them; as he does so, they 
 both at one moment see her wedding-ring. 
 Dulcie withdraws her hand in shame. 
 They look at each other horrified. A 
 pause] Give me your hand. 
 
 [She holds it out. He takes off the 
 ring, goes to window, draws 
 aside the curtains, opens win- 
 dow, throws away the ring, 
 comes back to ftgr. The dawn 
 ouiside begins and gradually 
 rises into a full sunrise during 
 progress of Act] 
 
442 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Ddicie [as he returns to her]. Oh, 
 you'll be^yery kind -to me? 
 
 David. I have no life, no ambition 
 away from you. The world has gone 
 from me. This journey to Africa — 
 it was the object of my life — it's less 
 than nothing to me now. I've thrown 
 it away, I've forgotten it, because you 
 asked me. 
 
 DuLCiB. Ah no, you mustn't do 
 that. Oh, I'm selfish to take you from 
 your comrades, from, your work. You 
 must go and make this great discovery. 
 
 David. I've made the one great 
 discovery there was^to make. It's the 
 cunnihgiMt of them allT"~ We astrono- 
 mers have been puzzling aU our lives 
 to find out what gravitation is. I've 
 found it out. Gravitation is love. It's 
 loye that-bol^ g together all this universe. 
 It'sTove thaT drives every httle atom 
 in space to rush to every other little 
 atom. There's love, at the centre of 
 the system. There's love at the centre 
 of aU things. No astronomer ever 
 made a discovery equal to that! Dul- 
 cie, look at me ! What ails you ? What 
 are you thinking of ? 
 
 DiriiCiE. JifeU and Rosy. They'll be 
 here soon. 
 
 David. Yes. They can't be long. 
 Don't think of them. Think only of 
 ourselves. 
 
 DuLCiE. Why wouldn't you come 
 with me to Beaulieu and bring them_up 
 here? 
 
 David. I was afraid your sister 
 would take you from jne. I wanted to 
 have you all to myself. When she 
 comes here I wanted her to find you 
 already ijj. your home. 
 _D«c6iE. It's so strange. 
 What is strange? 
 ■ To be here with you — 
 
 David. 
 
 DULCIE 
 
 alone. 
 David, 
 
 It's not strange to me. 
 You've been here so often already. In 
 my loneliness I've pictureTl~y6u here 
 hundreds of times. I at my work in 
 there, you in this chair by the fire. 
 Rosy playing' about the floor. 
 
 DuLCiB. Rosy. 
 
 David. She is my child now, as you 
 are my wife. Dulcie, say you know we 
 have .dan£Hght. 
 
 VvTA^tSryiistracted]. Right ! Yes — 
 yes — I suppose so ! What else could 
 we do? What else could I^o! 
 
 David. Say you know we have done 
 right. 
 
 Dtjlcie. Yes — yes — I can't think 
 
 now. [Returning and throwing her arms 
 round him] I only_^now_LlQy6 you. 
 
 David [claspingher madly]. Dulcie, 
 this is your home, this is our wedding- 
 day. My bride ! 
 
 Dulcie [tearing herself from him]. 
 No, no — not now — not yet ! My 
 promise to Nell — I promised her I 
 would take no step_ tiUXiad seen her. 
 
 David [pursuing her, fiercely clasping 
 her] You've taken the step. You're 
 mine — , 
 
 Dulcie. No, no. [Repulsing him 
 again] Let me think. Wait tiU Nell 
 comes. Ah^ don't-think T doalii-Iove 
 you. There'll, nothing I wpiild Ti't do 
 or suffer -f.0E.yjC«lC~TE^e's not a thought 
 in my heart that isn't yours. Say you 
 know it! Sayj2Ji-JH"iw it! 
 
 David. I know it. What then? 
 Tell me ,whatIsJnjX2U£„^eart. 
 
 Dulcie. Ican'fc CaSTyou guess? 
 
 David. Guess — ■ what ? 
 
 Dulcie. Oh, it was horrible with 
 him. There was_no_heme, no family, 
 no love. It seemed like a blasphemy 
 of home to live with him. But this — ■ 
 I can't tell you how I feel — I don't 
 think any man can understand it. It's 
 only a woman, and not all women — 
 not many women perhaps — but I feel 
 it. I can't get rid of it. Te-JiKe with 
 you iririaiLinrirti hnrribln than thti nthnr 
 rcannotTrircaiiiiot4 — I-oannat ! 
 
 David [very calmly, very sweetly, very 
 soothingly]. Dearest, you mustn't talk 
 like this. Heaven bear me witness you 
 will come to me as pure as if I took you 
 from your motherVsideTas pure as if 
 you had never known any kiss but 
 your sister's. 
 
 [Attempting to embrace her] 
 
 Dulcie. Ah ! [Shrinking from him] 
 Don't I tell you, a man can't understand 
 my feelings. — -^ — 
 
 [Looks at him half-loving, half- 
 horrified; stands looking at 
 him. A little pause] 
 
 David. [Same soft, tender tone, very 
 persuasive, very low, very sweet] Dulcie, 
 in a very htlle wh ile you wi ll grow to 
 think of me asH I were your very^hus- 
 band — as I shall be ; and with you, 
 and your sister, and_^Eddiej_and_Rosy. 
 we shall make one happyTOT^Timtsd 
 family. [Approaching her] 
 
 Dulcie. Ah! that's it. I feel — 
 
 David [clasping her again]. What? 
 
 D.ULciE. We^arnlt-hfi_a_family that 
 way. There's 63y_one5a^-oPbeing a 
 family. 
 
The Masqueraders 
 
 443 
 
 And that? 
 By tbie-inftmage_aa4Jove 
 
 David. 
 
 DULCIE. _ _ 
 
 of husband and wife. 
 
 David. It is naaniage I offer you. 
 Duloie, you must see there's no future 
 for you away from me. Say you'll give 
 yourself ,to_me willingly. [Pause] I 
 will not tSftee^ou else. Give yourself 
 to me! 
 
 DuLCiE [after a pause]. I amyours. 
 
 David. No. Give yourself tSThe — 
 wholly, freely, willingly. 
 
 Dulcib. Oh! don't you see? I 
 would -gtsja_x£aj_iasafi!f — a thousand 
 selves if I could. What is there in me 
 that is worth~gfPing, or worth your 
 taking now? ■ — - 
 
 David. Everything, everything. Give 
 yourself to me ! 
 
 Dulcib. If I give you myself I 
 
 give vnn t.Via In.gt.-tnin- yagrfj Tjyjth 7^0 
 
 They are part of me. I shall only feel 
 that I can never get rid of them. I 
 cannot get rid of them. Every time 
 you kiss me I shall sea -Iiim beside u s! 
 
 I cannot 1 1 narvftnt-l T ^.fliTlpnt. I I 
 
 cannot ! 
 
 [Pause. Eddie looks in at win- 
 dow] 
 Eddie. Ho, ho, Davy! Ho, ho! 
 Here we are ! 
 Dtjlcie [goes to window, goes up to 
 
 him]. My. ajator a.nf] KiOSy, l^'-'i' th°y 
 
 with you? 
 
 Eddie [pointing down below]. Quite 
 safe. Herethey _ a.re. Lo ok alive, 
 Davy ! We've no^me to waste. I 
 shall be ready~~nr a twinkling. I'm 
 half a fool, and half a wise man just 
 now. In two minutes I shal^be in my 
 right _ senses — or in as many "as "I've 
 got — and tEen — '~ [Passes by] 
 
 David. [To Dulcie] Dulcie, your 
 sister is here. Tell her that henceforth 
 
 youaje.myLwife7~ — 
 
 TBulcieT I am your slave, your dog, 
 your anythingi Take mTtf^our-will — 
 take me! But kill me after. If you 
 don't I shall kUTmysehT 
 
 [Helen enters at door, stands for a mo- 
 ment looking at one and then at the 
 other] 
 
 Helen. DuJcie. ' 
 
 [Dulcie goes to her, saying, 
 
 "Nell"] 
 
 Dulcie. Rosy — vthere is she? 
 Helen [pointing off]. She 's there.. 
 [Dulcie is going. Helen stops her] 
 Let me look at you. [Dulcie looks 
 
 frankly at her. Helen smiles, kisses 
 her] Go to yoiu r^baby. [Exit Dulcie. 
 Helen shuts the door after Dulcie] 
 You've taken JifiEjrom him? 
 ' [David nods] 
 
 Eor good and aU? 
 
 For good. and. aU. 
 
 Why have you brought her 
 
 Ta.maJie_hflE_[as:_ssife. 
 Your wife? That is 
 
 Helen. 
 
 David. 
 
 Helen. 
 here? 
 
 David. 
 
 Helen. 
 possible .uiiless 
 
 David. Unless ? 
 
 Helen. Unless her husband divorces 
 her and takes her.£]3ild fr om he r. 
 ""David. I've won herlrOHl him, her 
 and the child. Don't come between 
 us. Give them to me ! 
 
 Helen [stops him]. She is not mine 
 to give. She is not yours to take. 
 Your brother fells me you^fe~going on 
 this expedition to Africa this morning. 
 
 David. I'm not going. 
 
 Helen. Not going ? But you have 
 looked f orward_ toJLaJI yaurJife 1 
 
 David^ I've wasted all my life in 
 such dreams and shadows as_work and 
 duty. What has it availed me? Now 
 I see one chance of happiness before 
 me, don't take it from me ! Give them 
 to me! [She stop^:'~ktm]- 1 will have 
 them 1 
 
 [Eddie enters dressed ready to start] 
 
 Eddie. Davy, old bQy,.iaQi alive! 
 The men have got everything on the 
 mules. We've not a mom;ent^o waste. 
 
 David. I'm not going. 
 
 Eddie. Not_going? But they are 
 all waiting for us. If we don't go, all 
 the expefetons—gyerx Fhere will be a 
 failure. Davy;-y5uaren't gDifig~to sell 
 them all Uke a — Uke a — They'll call 
 you a — well, you fill in the word. 
 
 David. I'm not going. 
 
 Eddie. But what excuse can we 
 make? 
 
 David. Any excuse you like — I've 
 ehanged^y ffimd'. 
 
 HBLEiTtwii^i quiet sarcasm]. Is that 
 a good excuse for a soldier to make just 
 as he''^ "SPdered into battle ? 
 
 David. I'm not a soldier. 
 
 Helen. Yes, you are. We are all 
 soldjers^onjMs-earthV bound to be loyal 
 to" every one of our _eDinrades,— bound 
 to obey^e"^eat-T^les of life, whether 
 they are easy or hard. Yes, and aU the 
 more bound when they are hard, when 
 they may cost us our very life. You'll 
 
444 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 go — you'll go, and leave her to me and 
 Rosy? 
 
 David. I love her ! I love her ! 
 
 Helen. Then save her for her gjtiild. 
 Save her to be a good mother to that 
 little helpless creature she has brought 
 into the world, so that when her girl 
 grows up and she has to guide her, she'll 
 not have to say to her child, "You can 
 give yourself to this man, and if you 
 don't like him you can give yourself to 
 another, and to another, and so on. It 
 doesn't matter. It was what I did ! " 
 
 David [same tone]. I love herl I 
 love her! I love her! You sha'n't 
 reason me out of my tfappiness ! 
 
 Helen [stopping him]. I oanLt-reason 
 at all. I can only feel, JJid I know my 
 instinct is rigEL I know the woman 
 who gives herself to another man while 
 her husband is alive betrays her sex, 
 and is a bad woman. 
 
 David. I love her ! I love her ! 
 
 [Going towards door] 
 
 Helen [stopping him]. Then make 
 your love the best thing in her life, and 
 the best thing in youi's7._Jfouhave loved 
 her so well. You have made so many 
 sacrifices for her. Make_ thig.jyie last 
 sacrifice. Keep her pure for her child. 
 
 Eddie. That's God's voi'SS' speak- 
 ing to you now, Davy. 
 
 [Dulcie enters very quietly, looking off] 
 
 Dulcie. [To David] She's asleep. 
 Go and look at her. 
 
 [Exit David. Dttlcie is about to 
 follow. Helen stops her] 
 Helen. Dulcie. 
 Dttlcie. What ? 
 
 Helen. He's given his word to his 
 comrades. Don't make- him play the 
 coward. 
 
 [David re-enters, much calmer] 
 
 David. Miss Larondie, I'U write to 
 you from Marseilles. I have left every- 
 thing in order for her. If by any chance 
 I should not return — 
 ' DtTLCiE. Ah ! [Goes to him] 
 
 David. Take care of -her -while I'm 
 away. 
 
 Dulcie. But if you do not return? 
 
 David [very calm, very hitter, very 
 tender, with a little smile]. Then — we 
 shall have played our parts -w-eU-ia this 
 little puppet-show, shall we not ? Don't 
 cry," ray dear, why should you? If I 
 were a soldier, you would telLme to go. 
 We shall not be absent from each other 
 
 long. Do_n't cry, dear. It's my duty 
 to go, Dulcie. Be brave. Tell me to 
 go. 
 
 Dulcie [bows her head]. Go. Go. 
 
 David [going from her some steps]. 
 I've played-this._CTeat game of love like 
 a fool, as men, would/sSy." Perhaps I've 
 played the great game of life Hke a fool, 
 too. If we are sacrificing ourselves for 
 a shadow we are only doing what earth's 
 best creatures have done before us. If 
 duty is. r eaUty, w e have done right. 
 Right — wrong — duty^ they may be 
 all shadows, but my love for you is real. 
 [Dulcie is sobbing, he comes to her] 
 Hush ! Hush, dear ! We shall never 
 know satiety. Our love wiU never 
 grow stale and commonplace, will it? 
 Dulcie, we've only thrown away the 
 husks. We've kept the immortal part 
 of our love — ■ if there is an immortal 
 part. Look! this is my mother's 
 wedding ring. [Taking a very thin gold 
 ring from~fM little finger] Shg_gave it 
 to me as.sh9_:Kas_£[ying. It has never 
 left my finger since. I give it-^xm. in 
 exchange for the_one I tootiroHLyou. 
 Give me youTiiand^ [Dulcie gives it] 
 With this^ingJ_ihge_JEed. As she that 
 bore me was pureTsoIleayey ou pur e, 
 dear. Kiss— me-onee — I^re^ild you 
 sacred! [She kisses him] Good-bye. 
 No, stay. [Pours out a glass of wine, 
 gives it to her] Drink with me. [She 
 takes the glass, drinks some of it. He 
 takes it from her, drains it, dashes the 
 glass on the floor, where it is shivered to 
 atoms; he then turns very brightly and 
 gaily to Eddie] Now Eddie — our 
 
 work! 
 
 Eddie. 
 
 David. 
 from now 
 
 Ready, big brother ! 
 [To Dulcie] In six months 
 come to ineet me,jax_wife, 
 and bring our child."" Or,'~trmay be a 
 little later — but come and meet me — 
 my wife — a httle later. 
 Dulcie. Where? 
 
 David. In that litt le star in An drom- 
 eda. All's real there. 
 
 [Exeunt Eddie and David through 
 window] 
 
 Curtain 
 
 [7/ curtain is called up, show a picture of 
 David outside the window, in the 
 full morning sunlight, the mountains 
 covered with snow behind hirn; 
 Eddie is beside him drawing him 
 away] 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 
 
 {1895) 
 By Oscab Wilde 
 
OSCAR WILDE 
 
 (1856-1900) 
 
 1 
 Wilde was the epitome of the fin de sihcle spirit, and the fin de sibcle spirit was a 
 
 pose. Wilde himself was a pose; and his art, however much it may have been 
 perfect in form and beautiful in expression, was, likewise, a pose. Critics have 
 declared that the sincerity which should have gone into his art was put into his 
 life. But Wilde's sincerity was of the self-indulgent kind, and his pose gave pleas- 
 ure to himself, rather than covered any real tragedy of the soul. One might readily 
 measure Wilde's life by the antithetical demands made by him upon it. For in- 
 stance, he said: 
 
 The two great turning-points of my life were when my father sent me to 
 Oxford, and when Society sent me to prison. 
 
 This is true, in so far as both events resulted in the exact soundings of Wilde's 
 character. While he was at Oxford he came under the influence of Ruskin, and 
 what he then learned of art and what he then sensed of soeiahsm proved of vary- 
 ing influence in the years to follow. 
 
 After having served his term in prison, and after having poured his repentance 
 into "De Profundis", Wilde, stiU addicted to the briUiant phrase, for the first time 
 used his briUiancy to cover the tragedy of a broken Ufe. 
 
 He is representative of a period in English life and letters, interesting because 
 of its inconsequence, because of its studied freedom which seems to have been 
 framed solely to break through the shams of Victorian prudishness. The conse- 
 quence is, this period of art and of literature was essentially one of neuroticism, not 
 deserving the entire censure of Max Nordau, but still having its roots deep down 
 in that nervous tissue which Max Nordau's scientific observation unerringly in- 
 dicated. The MaeterUnck of this same period, in France, surrounded himself 
 with a group of young men who burned themselves out in their art, and openly 
 defied society. But MaeterUnck escaped the fumes which rose from the mood of 
 the time, and came out into a healthier atmosphere. Oscar Wilde, under the same 
 pernicious influences, succumbed to the mood which was not a new creation in 
 literature, but which was a direct reflection of the mood of his Ufe. Gaining for 
 himself, as he did, the reputation of being the most briUiant exponent of what was 
 eaUed the "fleshly school of Uterature ", Oscar Wilde infused into the British drama 
 of his time a briUiancy which it had not known since the days of Sheridan. It 
 was a brilUancy all the more to be accounted a distinct contribution, because it 
 was based upon an unerring sense of Ufe which Oscar Wilde had to such an extent 
 that it reacted upon himself. He wrote in "De Profundis" : 
 
 I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilUancy, intel- 
 lectual daring : I made art a philosophy and philosophy an art : I altered the 
 
 447 
 
448 Representative British Dramas 
 
 minds of men and the colours of things : there was nothing I said or did that 
 did not make people wonder. I took the drama, the most objective form 
 known to art, and made of it as personal a mode of expression as the lyric or 
 the sonnet ; at the same time I widened its range and enriched its characteriza- 
 tion. Drama, novel, poem in prose, poem in rhyme, subtle or fantastic dia- 
 logue, whatever I touched, I made beautiful in a new mode of beauty : to truth 
 itself I gave what is false no less than what is true as its rightful province, and 
 showed that the false and the true are merely forms of intellectual existence. 
 I treated art as the supreme reality and life as a mere mode of fiction. . . . 
 I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend 
 around me. I summed up all systems in a phrase and all existence in an 
 epigram. 
 
 Had Oscar Wilde exerted his genuine powers in other directions than in trying 
 to sum up existence in an epigram, his name would not in itself conjure up so much 
 that is unhealthy in English letters. There is no doubt, as he indicated, that it 
 takes a genius to know how to live ; but to burn up one's genius in Wilde's kind of 
 living is bound sooner or later to result in disillusionment. Had that genius been 
 combined with the talent which he confesses he put into his work, we would have 
 had a greater art than remains to us of Wilde's making. 
 
 One of the truest things ever written about him is contained in an essay by 
 Archibald Henderson. It was to the effect that "the crux of his mania was blind- 
 ness to the truth that the man who is the lackey of his passion can never be the 
 master of his fate." 
 
 A thorough reading of Wilde as a poet, as a novelist, as an essayist, and as a 
 dramatist, will only accentuate the undoubted truth that his interest in life was 
 far greater than his interest in art. His taste lay, not in his reticence of expres- 
 sion, but in passionate self-gratification. There is no more tragic incident of 
 carelessness and waste than in Oscar Wilde's prostitution of his talent. And the 
 tragedy is made all the more poignant by his reaUzation, too late, that his life had 
 been ill-spent. Confession is good for the soul, but Oscar Wilde's confession, in 
 "De Profundis", came too late. 
 
 The atmosphere which fostered Wilde has been brilMantly treated in Holbrook 
 Jackson's "The Eighteen-Nineties." 
 
 "The Eighteen-Nineties" [he wrote] were so tolerant of novelty in art and 
 ideas that it would seem as if the declining century wished to make amends 
 for the several decades of intellectual and artistic monotony. 
 
 Coming, as he did, in an era of pose, — after he left Oxford, where he had 
 shown his flexibility of spirit and his wide diversity of interest, Wilde began on his 
 long career of the worship of beauty. And like all worshippers he became a fanatic. 
 He tried to externalize that worship in peculiarity of expression, to say nothing of 
 peculiarity of dress. How he was received in England is reflected in the cartoons 
 and satires of Du Maurier, Burnand, and Gilbert, whose "Patience'' is commen- 
 tary on the aesthetic movement in the English art of the day. Wilde entered the 
 decadent literary world, after having shown great aptitude for the classics, and a 
 peculiar interest in the socializing of art, as championed by Ruskin. 
 
 To gain some idea of London's attitude toward Wilde in the period of the early 
 
Oscar Wilde 449 
 
 eighties, one must turn to Punch and examine the series of cartoons headed "Nin- 
 compoopiana." The reputation he made for himself in England preceded him 
 on his first visit to America, whither he went, in 1882, to lecture, and where, on his 
 arrival, he made the startling announcement at the custom-house that he had 
 nothing to declare except his genius. While in the United States, he lectured in 
 the spirit of being the High Priest of the new ^stheticism. When he went to 
 Paris, he was received by De Goncourt, Daudet, Hugo, and Bernhardt. In 1883, 
 he finally resided in London. And the following year he married Constance Mary 
 Lloyd, settling in Tite Street, in a house decorated by Whistler. The relation 
 between Wilde and Whistler is one of those strange histories that is an art in itself. 
 
 Between 1884 and 1892 Wilde wrote "The Picture of Dorian Gray", "The 
 Happy^^Em'^sss and Other Tales", "The House of Pomegranates", "The Soul of 
 Man under"~SooiaUsm", and "Intentions." 'His dramatic ability was largely 
 compressed between the years 1892 and 1895, although in 1882 he had written 
 "Vera; or, the Nihilists", and, in 1891, "The Duchess of Padua." His brilliant 
 comedies, however, fpUow each other in rapid succession. "Lady Windermere's 
 Fan" was given at the St. James's Theatre, on February 22, 1892, by George Alex- 
 ander. "A Woman/ of No Importance" was produced by Beerbohm Tree, at the 
 Haymarket Theatre, on April 19, 1893. "An Ideal Husband," under the manage- 
 ment-rf-iewis-Waller, was given at the Haymarket, on January 3, 1895, and the 
 following month, on February 14, "The Importance of Being Earnest" was per- 
 formed at the St. James's. His "Salom6", refused in 1893 by the British oensor, 
 was produced, in 1894, in Paris, having been written in French for Sarah Bern- 
 hardt. His other two dramatic endeavours are fragments, "La Sainte Courtisane" 
 and "A Florentine Tragedy." 
 
 Wilde would have been a greater dramatic artist had he not taken the work of 
 the theatre so lightly. Reading his plays in succession, one is struck by several 
 predominant characteristics : the carelessness with which the plot is constructed, 
 the triviality with which the character is conceived, and the briUianoy with which 
 the style of the entire dialogue is embroidered with his wit. Structurally, Wilde 
 invented no better than the average playwright in the France and the England 
 of his day. We have selected for inclusion in the present volume "The Importance 
 of Being Earnest" because it is more reckless in the youthfulness of its situation, 
 and more fantastical in its combination of wit and situation than his other plays. 
 
 At times, when reading Wilde's dramas, one is impressed by the almost trivial 
 way in which the dialogue is written, reflective of the French Conversations, — 
 a style in vogue in the language books of the period. One is also impressed by the 
 tendency, on the part of Wilde, to be more interested in his side interpretations, 
 than in attempting to relate his dialogue to the characters with which he is dealing. 
 Whenever he means to be sincere, as in parts of " Lady Windermere's Fan " and 
 "A Woman of No Importance", one feels the lack of sincerity with which the at- 
 tempt is made. A scoffer at sentimentality, he often feU into the most sentimental 
 attitudes. One would expect not quite the perfect piece of work "The Impor- 
 tance of Being Earnest" assuredly is, because of the fact that its pivot — upon 
 which the plot moves — is a pun. Wilde's dramatic excellence is uneven and sur- 
 prising. "He who runs may read" might be changed, in the case of Oscar Wilde, 
 to "he who runs, interprets." The larger part of "A Woman of No Importance" 
 is given over to Wilde's trivial commentary on life — an unexpected commentary. 
 
450 Representative British Dramas 
 
 His social satires are intellectual feats. They strike one as being essentially youth- 
 ful in their generalizations. Shaw caught the Wilde spirit in "You Never Can 
 Tell", but the difference between Shaw and Wilde is this: that, whereas the latter 
 flourished during the period known as the Oxford Movement, and during an era 
 characterized by the .^Esthetic Movement, he was never a passionate believer in 
 either ; the consequence being that, however sincerely he may have himself felt 
 toward vital forces surrounding him, his reaction toward them was essentially in- 
 consequent, if not trivial. On the other hand, Shaw's philosophy is deep-grounded, 
 however casual his expression of it. 
 
 The mere details in the hfe of Oscar Wilde are too well known to need repeat- 
 ing. If he believed what he said when he wrote to Whistler, — "Be warned in 
 time, James ; and remain, as I do, incomprehensible. To be great is to be mis- 
 understood," — he had his wish consummated. No man has been more reviled, more 
 misrepresented, more under- and over-estimated than Oscar Wilde. He was the gal- 
 vanic shock which did infinite harm to himself, but a great deal of good to the Vic- 
 torian era. His is the type of genius that will probably become more recognized 
 as time separates it from the pernicious influence of his life. Instinctively, he 
 prophesied many things that were to happen in the dramatic world. He was the 
 forerunner of Gordon Craig in his upholding of the " mask." One cannot say that, 
 without Wilde, Shaw would not have been ; but one can say that had Oscar Wilde 
 possessed Shaw's social conscience, his plays would not have rung false. No 
 matter how far we advance in moral questions, there still will remain in the uni- 
 verse a detestation of the "fleshly" in literature, and there seems to be more than 
 ever a tendency to keep art attached to life rather than to support art for art's 
 sake alone. That is why we still receive a physical repulsion in reading "Salome." 
 It is fundamentally neurotic and cannot be excused in the name of its undoubted 
 art. Therefore, as a dramatist, whatever the limitations of Oscar Wilde's comedies, 
 structurally, they will live because of their universality of wit. 
 
 "Wilde gave English Drama style," says the critic, P. P. Howe, "and robbed 
 English Drama of its sincerity." 
 
 But on the whole Wilde's influence has not been very great on the English 
 playwright, however much one may detect his style in Shaw, and note the imita- 
 tion of his style in some of the comedies of W. Somerset Maugham. 
 
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 By OSCAR WILDE 
 
To 
 
 Robert Baldwin Ross 
 
 In Appreciation 
 
 In Affection 
 
 The acting rights to "The Importance of Being Earnest" are hold by Charles 
 Frohman (Inc.). Empire Theatre Building, New York City, to whom application 
 must be made for the right to perform, either by amateurs or professionals. 
 
The Scenes of the Play 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Alqbbnon Moncrieff's Flat in Half Moon Street, W. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The Garden at the Manor House, Woolton. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Drawing-room of the Manor House, Woolton. 
 Time — The Present 
 Place — London 
 
CASTS OF INITIAL PERFORMANCES OF THE IMPORTANCE 
 OF BEING EARNEST 
 
 St. James's Theatre, 
 London, February 
 14, 1895 
 John Worthing, J. P., ofiheManor 
 
 House, Woolton, Hertfordshire Mr. George Alexander 
 Algernon Moncriefp, his friend Mr. Allen Aynesworth 
 Rev. Canon Chasuble, D. D., 
 
 rector of Woolton . . . Mr. H. H. Vincent 
 
 Merhiman, butler to Mr. Worthing Mr. Frank Dyall 
 Lane, Mr. Moncrieff's manr- 
 
 servant Mr. F. Kinsey Peile 
 
 Hon. Gwendolen Fairfax . Miss Irene Vanbrugh 
 Lady Bracknell, her mother . Miss Rose Leclercq 
 Cecily Cardew, John 
 
 Worthing's ward Miss Evelyn Millard 
 
 Miss Prism, her governess . . Mrs. George Canninge 
 
 Empire Theatre, New 
 York, April 22, 
 1895 
 
 Mr. Henry Miller 
 Mr. William Faversham 
 
 Mr. W. H. Crompton 
 Mr. J. P. Whitman 
 
 Mr. E. Y. Backus 
 Miss Viola Allen 
 Miss Ida Vernon 
 
 Miss Agnes Miller 
 Miss May Robson 
 
THE IMPOETANOB OF BEING EARNEST 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — Morning-room in Algebnon's 
 flat in Half Moon Street. The room 
 is luHuriously and artistically fur- 
 nished. The sound of a piano is 
 heard in the adjoining roqm. 
 
 [Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the 
 table, and after the music has ceased, 
 Algernon enters] 
 
 Algernon. Did you hear what I 
 was plajdng, Lane ? 
 
 Lane. I didn't think it poUte to 
 listen, sir. 
 
 Algernon. I'm sorry for that, for 
 your sake. I don't play accurately — 
 anyone can play accurately — but I 
 play with wonderful expression. As 
 far as the piano is concerned, sentiment 
 is my forte. I keep science for Life. 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir. 
 
 Algernon. And, speaking of the 
 science of Life, have you got the cucum- 
 ber sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell ? 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir. 
 
 [Hands them on a salver] 
 
 Algernon [inspects them, takes two, 
 and sits down on the sofa]. Oh! . . . 
 by the way. Lane, I see from your book 
 that on 'Thursday night when Lord 
 Shoreman and Mr. Worthing were 
 dining with me, eight bottles of cham- 
 pagne are entered as having been 
 consumed. 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir; eight bottles and 
 a pint. 
 
 Algernon. Why i is it that at a 
 bachelor's establishment the servants 
 invariably drink the champagne? I 
 ask merely for inforniation. 
 
 Lane. I attribute it to the superior 
 
 quaUty of the wine, sir. I have often 
 
 ■observed that in married households 
 
 the champagne is rarely of a first-rate 
 
 brand. 
 
 Algernon. Good heavens ! Is mar- 
 riage so de^^oraUsing as that? 
 I Lane. I beUeve it is a very pleasant 
 I state, sir. I have, had very httle ex- 
 
 perience of it myself uj) to the present. 
 I have only been married once. That 
 was in consequence of a misunderstand- 
 ing between myself and a young person. 
 
 Algernon [languidly]. I don't know 
 that I am much interested in your 
 family life. Lane. 
 
 Lane. No, sir; it is not a very 
 interesting subject. I never think of 
 it myself. 
 
 Algernon. Very natural, I am sure. 
 That win do, Lane, thank you. 
 
 Lane. Thank you, sir. 
 
 [Lane goes out] 
 
 Algernon. Lane's views on mar- 
 riage seem somewhat lax. ReaUy, if 
 the lower orders don't set us a good 
 example, what on earth is the use of 
 them? They seem, as a class, to have 
 absolutely no sense of moral respon- 
 sibility. 
 
 [Enter Lane] 
 Lane. Mr. Ernest Worthing. 
 [Enter Jack] 
 
 [Lane goes out] 
 
 Algernon. How are you, my dear 
 Ernest? What brings you up to town? 
 
 Jack. Oh, pleasiu-e, pleasure ! What 
 else should bnng one anywhere? Eat- 
 ing as usual, I see, Algy ! 
 
 Algernon [stiffly]. I believe it is 
 customary in good society to take 
 some sUght refreshment at five o'clock. 
 Where have you been since last Thurs- 
 day? 
 
 Jack [sitting down on the sofa]. In 
 the coimtry. 
 
 Algernon. What on earth do you 
 do there? 
 
 Jack [pulling off his gloves]. When 
 one is in town one amuses oneself. 
 When one is in the country one amuses 
 other people. It is excessively boring. 
 
 Algernon. And who are the people 
 you amuse? 
 
 455 
 
456 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Jack [airily]. Oh, neighbours, neigh- 
 bours. 
 
 Algebnon. Got nice neighbours in 
 your part of Shropshire? 
 
 Jack. Perfectly horrid ! never speak 
 to one of them. 
 
 Algeenon. How immensely you 
 must amuse them! [Goes over and 
 takes sandioich] By the way, Shrop- 
 shire is your county, is it not? 
 
 Jack. Bh? Shropshire? Yes, of 
 course. Hallo ! Why all these cups ? 
 Why cucumber sandwiches ? Why such 
 reckless extravagance in one so young? 
 Who is coming to tea? 
 
 Algernon. Oh! merely Aunt Au- 
 gusta and Gwendolen. 
 
 Jack. How perfectly deUghtful ! 
 Algernon. Yes, that is all very 
 well ; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta 
 won't quite approve of your being here. 
 Jack. May I ask why? 
 Algernon. My dear fellow, the 
 way you flirt with Gwendolen is per- 
 fectly disgraceful. It is almost as bad 
 as the way Gwendolen flirts with you. 
 
 Jack. I am in love with Gwendolen. 
 I have come up to town expressly to 
 propose to her. 
 
 Algernon. I thought you had come 
 up for pleasure? ... I call that busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Jack. How utterly unromantic you 
 are! 
 
 Algernon. I really don't see any- 
 thing romantic in proposing. It is 
 very romantic to be in love. But there 
 is nothing romantic about a definite 
 proposal. Why, one may be accepted. 
 j-One usually is, I believe. Then the 
 ' excitement is all over. The very essence 
 of romance is imcertainty. If ever I 
 get married, I'U certainly try to forget 
 JJlfi fact. 
 
 Jack. I have no doubt about that, 
 dear Algy. The Divorce Court was 
 specially invented for people whose 
 memories are so curiously constituted. 
 
 Algernon. Oh! there As no use 
 speculating on that subject, r Divorces 
 are made in Heaven — [Jack puts 
 out his hand to take a sandwich. Alger- 
 non at once interferes] Please don't 
 touch the cucumber sandwiches. They 
 are ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. 
 [Takes one and eats it] 
 Jack. Well, you have been eating 
 them all the time. 
 
 Algernon. That is quite a different 
 matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate 
 from below] Have some bread and 
 
 butter. The bread and butter is for 
 Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to 
 bread and butter. 
 
 Jack [advancing to table and helping 
 himself]. And very good bread and 
 butter it is too. 
 
 Algernon. Well, my dear fellow, 
 you need not eat as if you were going 
 to eat it all. You behave as if you were 
 married to her already. You are not 
 married to her already, and I don't 
 think you ever will be. 
 
 Jack. Why on earth do you say 
 that? 
 
 Algernon. Well, in the first place, 
 girls never marry the men they flirt 
 with. Girls don't think it right. 
 
 Jack. Oh, that is nonsense ! 
 
 Algernon. It isn't. It is a great 
 truth. It accounts for the extraordi- 
 nary number of bachelors that one sees 
 aU over the place. In the second place, 
 I don't give my consent. 
 
 Jack. Your consent ! 
 
 Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwen- 
 dolen is my first cousin. And before I 
 allow you to marry her, you wiU have 
 to clear up the whole question of CeoUy. 
 
 [Rings bell] 
 
 Jack. Cecily ! What on earth do 
 you mean? What do you mean, Algy, 
 by Cecily? I don't know anyone of 
 the name of Cecily. 
 
 [Enter Lane] 
 
 Algernon. Bring me that cigarette 
 case Mr. Worthing left in the smoking- 
 room the last time he dined here. 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir. [Lane goes out] 
 
 Jack. Do you mean to say you 
 have had my cigarette case aU this 
 time? I wish to goodness you had 
 let me know. I have been writing 
 frantic letters to Scotland Yard about 
 it. I was very nearly offering a large 
 reward. 
 
 Algernon. Well, I wish you would 
 offer one. I happen to be more than 
 usually hard up. 
 
 Jack. There is no good offering a 
 large reward now that the thing is 
 found. 
 
 [Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a 
 salver. Algernon takes it at once. 
 Lane goes out] 
 
 Algernon. I think that is rather 
 mean of you, Ernest, I must say. 
 [Opens case and examines it] However, 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 467 
 
 it makes no matter, for, now that I look 
 at the inscription inside, I find that the 
 thing isn't yoiirs after aJl. 
 
 Jack. Of coiu:se it's mine. [Mov- 
 ing to him] You have seen me with it 
 a hundred times, and you have no ri^ht 
 whatsoever to read what is written in- 
 side. It is a very ungentlemanly thing 
 to read a private cigarette case. 
 
 Algernon. Oh! it is absurd to 
 have a hard-and-fast rule about what 
 one should read and what one shouldn't. 
 More than half of modern culture de- 
 pends on what one shouldn't read. 
 
 Jack. I am quite aware of the fact, 
 and I don't propose to discuss modern 
 culture. It isn't the sort of thing one 
 should talk of in private. I simply want 
 my cigarette case back. 
 
 Algebnon. Yes ; but this isn't your 
 cigarette case. This cigarette case is a 
 present from someone of the name of 
 Cecily, and you said you didn't know 
 anyone of that name. 
 
 Jack. Well, if you want to know, 
 Cecily happens to be my aunt. 
 Algbenon. Your aunt ! 
 Jack. Yes. Charming old lady she 
 is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells. 
 Just give it back to me, Algy. 
 
 Algernon [retreating to back of sofa]. 
 But why does she call herself little 
 Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at 
 Tunbridge Wells? [Beading] 'From 
 little Cecily with her fondest love.' 
 
 Jack [moving to sofa and kneeling 
 upon it]. My dear fellow, what on 
 earth is there in that? Some aunts are 
 tall, some aunts are not tall. That is a 
 matter that surely an aunt may be 
 allowed to decide for herself. You 
 seem to think that every aunt should 
 be exactly like your aunt! That is 
 absurd! For Heaven's sake give me 
 back my cigarette ease. 
 
 [Follows Algernon round the 
 
 room] 
 
 Algernon. Yes. But why does 
 
 your aunt call you her uncle. 'From 
 
 little Cecily, with her fondest love to 
 
 her dear Uncle Jack.' There is no 
 
 objection, I admit, to an aunt being a 
 
 small aunt, but why an aunt, no matter 
 
 what her size may be, should call her 
 
 own nephew her uncle, I can't quite 
 
 make out. Besides, your name isn't 
 
 Jack at all ; it is Ernest. 
 
 Jack. It isn't Ernest ; it's Jack. 
 
 Algernon. You have always told 
 
 me it was Ernest. I have introduced 
 
 you to everyone as Ernest. You answer 
 
 to the name of Ernest. You look as 
 if your name was Ernest. You are 
 the most earnest looking person I ever 
 saw in my hfe. It is pertectly absurd 
 your saying that your name isn't Ernest. 
 It's on your cards. Here is one of 
 them. [Taking it from case] 'Mr. 
 Ernest Worthing, B 4, The Albany.' 
 I'll keep this as a proof your name is 
 Ernest if ever you attempt to deny it 
 to me, or to Gwendolen, or to anyone 
 else. [Puts the card in his pocket] 
 
 Jack. Well, my name is Ernest in 
 town and Jack in the country, and the 
 cigarette ease was given to me in the 
 country. 
 
 Algernon. Yes, but that does not 
 account for the fact that your small 
 Aunt Cecily, who lives at Tunbridge 
 Wells, calls you her dear uncle. Come, 
 old boy, you had much better have the 
 thing out at once. 
 
 Jack. My dear Algy, you talk 
 exactly as if you were a dentist. It is 
 very vulgar to talk like a dentist when 
 one ' isn't a dentist. It produces a 
 false impression. 
 
 Algernon. Well, that is exactly 
 what dentists always do. Now, go on! 
 Tell me the whole thing. I may men- 
 tion that I have always suspected you 
 of being a confirmed and secret Bun- 
 burylst ; and I am quite sure of it now. 
 Jack. -J^'"''blirv'°t •* What on earth 
 do you mean by a Bunbursdst ? 
 
 Algernon. I'll reveal to you the 
 meaning of that incomparable expres- 
 sion as soon as you are kind enough to 
 inform me why you are Ernest in town 
 and Jack in the country. 
 
 Jack. Well, produce my cigarette 
 case first. 
 
 Algernon. Here it is. [Hands 
 cigarette case] Now produce your ex- 
 planation, and pray make it improbable. 
 [Sits on sofa] 
 Jack. My dear fellow, there is 
 nothing improbable about my explana- 
 tion at all. In fact it's perfectly or- 
 dinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who 
 adopted me when I was a little boy, 
 made me in his will guardian to Ms 
 grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. 
 Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle 
 from motives of respect that you could 
 not possibly appreciate, hves at my 
 place in the country under the charge 
 of her admirable governess, Miss Prism. 
 Algernon. Where is that place in 
 the country, by the way? 
 
 Jack. That is nothing to you, dear 
 
458 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 boy. You are not going to be invited. 
 ... I may tell you candidly that the 
 place is not in Shropshire. 
 
 Algernon. I suspected that, my 
 dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all 
 over Shropshire on two separate oc- 
 casions. Now, go on. Why are you 
 Ernest in town and Jack in the coun- 
 try? 
 
 Jack. My dear Algy, I don't know 
 whether you will be able to understand 
 my real motives. You are hardly 
 serious enough. When one is placed 
 rTn the position of guardian, one has to 
 adopt a very high moral tone on all 
 subjects. It's one's duty to do so. 
 And as a high moral tone can hardly 
 be said to conduce very much to either 
 one's health or one's happiness, in order 
 to get up to town I have always pre- 
 tended to have a younger brother of 
 the name of Ernest, who lives in the 
 Albany, and gets into the most dreadful 
 scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the 
 whole truth pure and simple. 
 
 Algernon. The truth is rarely t)ure 
 and never simple. Modern life would 
 be very tedious if it were either, and 
 modern Uterature a complete impossi- 
 biUty ! 
 
 Jack. That wouldn't be at all a bad 
 thing. 
 
 Algernon. Literary criticism is not 
 your forte, my dear fellow. Don't try 
 it. You should leave that to people who 
 haven't been at a University. They do 
 it so well in the daily papers. What 
 you really axe is a Bunburyist. I was 
 quite right in saying you were a Bun- 
 buryist. You are one of the most ad- 
 vanced Bunburyists I know. 
 
 Jack. What on earth do you mean ? 
 
 Algernon. You have invented a 
 very useful younger brother called 
 Ernest, in order that you may be able 
 to come up to town as often as you like. 
 I have invented an invaluable permar 
 nent invahd called Bunbury, in order 
 that I may be able to go down into the 
 country whenever I choose. Bunbury 
 is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn't 
 for Bunbury' s extraordinary bad health, 
 for instance, I wouldn't be able to dine 
 with you at Willis's to-night, for I have 
 been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for 
 more than a week. 
 
 Jack. I haven't asked you to dine 
 with me anywhere to-night. 
 
 Algernon. I know. You are ab- 
 surdly careless about sending out in- 
 vitations. It is very foohsh of you. 
 
 Nothing annoys people so much as not 
 receiving invitations. 
 
 Jack. You had much better dine 
 with your Aunt Augusta. 
 
 Algernon. I haven't the smallest 
 intention of doing anything of the kind. 
 To begin with, I dined there on Mon- 
 day, and once a week is quite enough to 
 dine with one's own relations. In the 
 second place, whenever I do dine there 
 I am always treated as a member of 
 the family, and sent down with either 
 no woman at all, or two. In the third 
 place, I know perfectly well whom she 
 will place me next to, to-night. She 
 will place me next Mary Parquhar, 
 who always flirts with her own husband 
 across the dinner-table. That is not 
 very pleasant. Indeed, it is not even 
 decent . . . and that sort of thing is 
 enormously on the increase. The 
 amount of women in London who 
 flirt with their own husbands is per- 
 fectly scandalous. It looks so bad. 
 It is simply washing one's clean Unen 
 in pubUe. Besides, now that I know 
 you to be a confirmed Bunburyist I 
 natiirally want to talk to you about 
 Bunburying. I want to tell you the 
 rules. 
 
 Jack. I'm not a Bunburjast at all. 
 If Gwendolen accepts me, I am going 
 to kill my brother, indeed I think I'll 
 kill him in any case. Cecily is a little 
 too much interestefi in him. It is 
 rather a bore. So I am going to get 
 rid of Ernest. And I strongly advise 
 you to do the same with Mr. . . . with 
 your invalid friend who has the absurd 
 name. 
 
 Algernon. Nothing will induce me 
 to part with Bunbury, and if you ever 
 get married, which seems to me ex- 
 tremely problematic, you will be very 
 glad to know Bunbury. A man who 
 marries without knowing Bunbury has 
 a very tedious time of it. 
 
 Jack. That is nonsense. If I marry 
 a charming girl like Gwendolen, and she 
 is the only girl I ever saw in my life that 
 I would marry, I certainly won't want 
 to know Bunbury. 
 
 Algernon. "Then your wife will. 
 You don't seem to realise, that in mar- 
 ried life three is company and two is 
 none. 
 
 Jack [sententiously]. That, my dear 
 young friend, is the theory that the 
 corrupt French drama has been pro- 
 pounding for the last fifty years. 
 
 Algernon. Yes; and that the 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 459 
 
 happy English home has proved in 
 half the time. 
 
 Jack. For Heaven's sake, doii't try 
 to be cynical. It's perfectly easy to be 
 cynical. 
 
 Algernon. My dear fellow, it isn't 
 easy to be anything now-a-days. There's 
 such a lot of beastly competition about. 
 [The sound of an electric bell is heard] 
 Ah! that must be Aunt Augusta. 
 Only relatives, or creditors, ever ring 
 in that Wagnerian manner. Now, if I 
 get her out of the way for ten minutes, 
 so that you can have an opportunity 
 for proposing to Gwendolen, may I 
 (hne with you to-night at Willis's? 
 
 Jack. I suppose so, if you want to. 
 
 Algernon. Yes, but you must be 
 serious about it. I hate people who 
 are not serious about meals. It is so 
 shallow of them. 
 
 [Enter Lane] 
 
 Lane. Lady Bracknell and Miss 
 Fairfax. 
 
 [Algernon goes forward to meet them. 
 Enter Lady Bracknell and Gwen- 
 dolen] 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Good afternoon, 
 dear Algernon, I hope you are behaving 
 very well. 
 
 Algernon. I'm feeling very well, 
 Aunt Augusta. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. That's not quite 
 the same thing. In fact the two things 
 rarely go together. 
 
 [Sees Jack and bows to him with 
 icy coldness] 
 
 Algernon. [To Gwendolen] Dear 
 me, you are smart ! 
 
 Gwendolen. I am always smart! 
 Aren't I, Mr. Worthing ? 
 
 Jack. You're quite perfect. Miss 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Gwendolen. Oh ! I hope I am not 
 that. It would leave no room for de- 
 velopments, and I intend to develop in 
 many directions. 
 
 [Gwendolen and Jack sit down 
 together in the corner] 
 
 Lady Bracknell. I'm sorry if we 
 are a little late, Algernon, but I was 
 obhged to call on dear Lady Harbury. 
 I hadn't been there since her poor hus- 
 band's death. I never saw a woman so 
 altered; she looks quite twenty years 
 younger. And now I'll have a cup of 
 tea, and one of those nice cucumber 
 sandwiches you promised me. 
 
 Algernon. Certainly, Aunt Au- 
 gusta. [Goes over to tea-table] 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Won't you come 
 and sit here, Gwendolen? 
 
 Gwendolen. Thanks, mamma, I'm 
 quite comfortable where I am. 
 
 Algernon [picking up empty plate in 
 horror]. Good Heavens ! Lane ! Why 
 are there no cucumber sandwiches? I 
 ordered them specially. 
 
 Lane [pravely]. There were no cu- 
 cumbers in the market this morning, 
 sir. I went down twice. 
 
 Algernon. No cucumbers ! 
 
 Lane. No, sir. Not even for ready 
 money. 
 
 Algernon. That will do. Lane, 
 thank you. 
 
 Lane. Thank you, sir. [Goes out] 
 
 Algernon. I am greatly distressed. 
 Aunt Augusta, about there being no 
 cucumbers, not even for ready money. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. It really makes 
 no matter, Algernon. I had some 
 crumpets with Lady Harbury, who 
 seems to me to be living entirely for 
 pleasure now. 
 
 Algernon. I hear her hair has 
 turned quite gold from grief. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. It certainly has 
 changed its colour. From what cause 
 I, of course, cannot say. [Algernon 
 crosses and hands tea] Thank you. 
 I've quite a treat for you to-night, 
 Algernon. I am going to send you 
 down with Mary Farquhar. She is 
 such a nice woman, and so attentive to 
 her husband. It's dehghtful to watch 
 them. 
 
 Algernon. I am afraid. Aunt Au- 
 gusta, I shall have to give up the 
 pleasure of dining with you to-night 
 after aU. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [frowning]. I hope 
 not, Algernon. It would put my table 
 completely out. Your uncle would 
 have to dine upstairs. Fortunately he 
 is accustomed to that. 
 
 Algernon. It is a great bore, and, 
 I need hardly say, a terrible disap- 
 pointment to me, but the fact is I have 
 just had a telegram to say that my poor 
 friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Ex- 
 changes glances with Jack] They seem 
 to think I should be with him. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. It is very strange. 
 This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer from 
 curiously bad health. 
 
 Algernon. Yes ; poor Bunbury is a 
 dreadful invalid. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Well, I must say, 
 Algernon, that I think it is high time 
 that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind 
 
460 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 whether he was going to live or to die. 
 This shilly-shallying with the question 
 is absurd. Nor do I in any way ap- 
 prove of the modern sympathy with 
 invalids. I consider it morbid. Ill- 
 ness of any kind is hardly a thing to be 
 encouraged in others. Health is the 
 primary duty of life. I am always 
 telling that to your poor uncle, but he 
 never seems to take much notice . . . 
 as far as any improvement in his ail- 
 ments goes. I should be much obUged 
 if you would ask Mr. Bunbury, from 
 me, to be kind enough not to have a 
 relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to 
 arrange my music for me. It is my last 
 reception and one wants something that 
 will encourage conversation, particu- 
 larly at the end of the season when 
 everyone has practically said whatever 
 they had to say, which, in most cases, 
 was probably not much. 
 
 Algernon. I'll speak to Bunbury, 
 Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious, 
 and I think I can promise you he'll 
 be all right by Saturday. Of course 
 the music is a great difBculty. You 
 see, if one plays good music, people 
 don't listen, and if one plays bad music 
 people don't talk. But I'U run over 
 the programme I've drawn out, if you 
 wiU kindly come into the next room 
 for a moment. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Thank you, Al- 
 gernon. It is very thoughtful of you. 
 [Rising, and following Algernon] I'm 
 sure the programme will be delightful, 
 after a few expurgations. French songs 
 I cannot possibly allow. Peoi)le always 
 seem to think that they are improper, 
 and either look shocked, which is vulgar, 
 or laugh, which is worse. But German 
 sounds a thoroughly respectable lan- 
 guage, and indeed, I believe is so. 
 Gwendolen, you will accompany me. 
 
 Gwendolen. Certainly, mamma. 
 [Lady Bracknell and Alger- 
 non go into the music-room, 
 Gwendolen remains behind] 
 
 Jack. Charming day it has been, 
 Miss Fairfax. 
 
 Gwendolen. Pray don't talk to 
 me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. 
 Whenever people talk to me about the 
 weather, I always feel quite certain that 
 they mean something else. And that 
 makes me so nervous. 
 
 Jack. I do mean something else. 
 
 Gwendolen. I thought so. In fact, 
 I am never wrong. 
 
 Jack. And I would hke to be allowed 
 
 to take advantage of Lady Bracknell's 
 temporary absence . . . 
 
 Gwendolen. I would certainly ad- 
 vise you to do so. Mamma has a way 
 of coming back suddenly into a room 
 that I have often had to speak to her 
 about. 
 
 Jack [nervously]. Miss Fairfax, ever 
 since I met you I have admired you 
 more than any girl ... I have ever 
 met since ... I met you. 
 
 Gwendolen. Yes, I am quite aware 
 of the fact. And I often wish that in 
 public, at any rate, you had been more 
 demonstrative. For me you have al- 
 ways had an irresistible fascination. 
 Even before I met you I was far from 
 indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her 
 in amazement] We Uve, as I hope you 
 know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. 
 The fact is constantly mentioned in the 
 more expensive monthly magazines, 
 and has reached the provincial pulpits 
 I am told : and my ideal has always been 
 to love some one of the name of Ernest. 
 There is something in that name that 
 inspires absolute confidence. The mo- 
 ment Algernon first mentioned to me 
 that he had a friend called Ernest, I 
 knew I was destined to love you. 
 
 Jack. You really love me, Gwen- 
 dolen? 
 
 Gwendolen. Passionately ! 
 
 Jack. Darhng! You don't know 
 how happy you've made me. 
 
 Gwendolen. My own Ernest ! 
 
 Jack. But you don't really mean 
 to say that you couldn't love me if my 
 name wasn't Ernest? 
 
 Gwendolen. But your name is 
 Ernest. 
 
 Jack. Yes, I know it is. But sup- 
 posing it was something else? Do you 
 mean to say you couldn't love me 
 then? 
 
 Gwendolen [glibly]. Ah! that is 
 clearly a metaphysical speculation, and 
 hke most metaphysical speculations has 
 very little reference at all to the actual 
 facts of real life, as we know them. 
 
 Jack. Personally, darling, to speak 
 quite candidly, I don't much care 
 about the name of Ernest ... I don't 
 think the name suits rcie at all. 
 
 Gwendolen. It suits you perfectly. 
 It is a divine name. It has a music 
 of its own. It produces vibrations. 
 
 Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I 
 must say that I think there are lots of 
 other much nicer names. I think Jack, 
 for instance, a charming name. 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 461 
 
 Gwendolen. Jack? . . . No, there 
 is very little music in the name Jack, 
 if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. 
 It produces absolutely no vibrations. 
 ... I have known several Jacks, and 
 they all, without exception, were more 
 than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a 
 notorious domesticity for John! And 
 I pity any woman who is married to a 
 man called John. She would probably 
 never be allowed to know the entranc- 
 ing pleasure of a single moment's 
 solitude. The only really safe name is 
 Ernest. , 
 
 Jack. Gwendolen, I must get chris- 
 tened at once — I mean we must get 
 married at once. There is no time to 
 be lost. 
 
 Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worth- 
 ing? 
 
 Jack [astounded]. WeU . . . surely. 
 You know that I love you, and you led 
 me to believe. Miss Fairfax, that you 
 were not absolutely indifferent to me. 
 
 Gwendolen. I adore you. But ^ou 
 haven't proposed to me yet. Nothing 
 has been said at all about marriage. 
 The subject has not even been touched 
 on. 
 
 Jack. WeU . . . may I propose to 
 you now? 
 
 Gwendolen. I think it would be 
 an admirable opportunity. And to 
 spare you any possible disappointment, 
 Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell 
 you quite frankly beforehand that I am 
 fully determined to accept you. 
 
 Jack. Gwendolen ! 
 
 Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, 
 what have you got to say to me ? 
 
 Jack. You know what I have got to 
 say to you. 
 
 Gwendolen. Yes, but you don't 
 say it. 
 
 Jack. Gwendolen, will you marry 
 me? [Goes on his knees] 
 
 Gwendolen. Of course I wiU, dar- 
 ling. How long you have been about 
 it! I am afraid you have had very 
 Uttle experience in how to propose. 
 
 Jack. My own one, I have never 
 loved anyone in the world but you. 
 
 Gwendolen. Yes, but men often 
 propose for practice. I know my 
 brother Gerald does. AH my girl 
 friends tell me so. What wonderimly 
 blue eyes you have, Ernest! They 
 are quite, quite blue. I hope you will 
 always look at me just like that, es- 
 pecially when there are other people 
 present. 
 
 [Enter Lady Bbacknbll] 
 
 Ladt Bhacknell. Mr. Worthing! 
 Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent 
 posture. It is most indecorous. 
 
 Gwendolen. Mamma! [He tries to 
 rise; she restrains him] I must beg 
 you to retire. This is no place for 
 you. Besides, Mr. Worthing has not 
 quite finished yet. 
 
 Ladt Bracknell. Finished what, 
 may I ask? 
 
 Gwendolen. I am engaged to Mr. 
 Worthing, mamma. 
 
 [They rise together] 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Pardon me, you 
 are not engaged to anyone. When 
 you do become engaged to someone, 
 I, or your father, should his health 
 permit him, wiU inform you of the fact. 
 An engagement should come on a young 
 girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, 
 as the case may be. It is hardly a mat- 
 ter that she could be allowed to arrange 
 for herself. . . . And now I have a 
 few questions to put to you, Mr. Worth- 
 ing. _ While I am making these in- 
 quiries, you, Gwendolen, will wait for 
 me below in the carriage. 
 
 Q-wtitiooijBN [reproachfully]. Mamma! 
 
 Ladt Bracknell, fn the carriage, 
 Gwendolen! [Gwendolen goes to the 
 door. She and Jack blow kisses to each 
 other behind Lady Bracknell's back. 
 Ladt Bracknell looks vaguely about 
 as if she could not understand what the 
 noise was. Finally turns round] Gwen- 
 dolen, the carriage ! 
 
 Gwendolen. Yes, mamma. 
 
 [Goes out, looking back at Jack] 
 
 Lady Bracknell [sitting down]. You 
 can take a seat, Mr. Worthing. 
 
 [Looks in her pocket for note-book 
 and pencil] 
 
 Jack. Thank you. Lady Bracknell, 
 I prefer standing. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [pencil and note- 
 book in hand]. I feel bound to tell you 
 that you are not down on my list of 
 eligible young men, although I have the 
 same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton 
 has. We work together, in fact. How- 
 ever, I am quite ready to enter your 
 name, should your answers be what a 
 really affectionate mother requires. Do 
 you smoke? 
 
 Jack. Well, yes, I must admit I 
 smoke. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. I am glad to 
 hear it. A man should always have 
 an occupation of some kind. There 
 
462 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 are far too many idle men in London 
 as it is. How old are you? 
 
 Jack. Twenty-nine. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. A very good age 
 to be married at. I have always been 
 of opinion that a man who desires to 
 get married should know either every- 
 thing or nothing. Which do you know ? 
 
 Jack [after some hesitation]. I know 
 nothing, Lady Bracknell. 
 
 Lady Beacknell. I am pleased to 
 hear it. I do not approve of anything 
 that tampers with natural ignorance. 
 I Ignorance is hke a deUcate exotic fruit ; 
 r touch it and the bloom is gone. The 
 whole theory of modern education is 
 radically unsound. Fortunately in Eng- 
 land, at any rate, education produces 
 no effect whatsoever. If it did, it 
 would prove a serious danger to the 
 upper classes, and probably lead to 
 acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. 
 What is your income ? 
 
 Jack. Between seven and eight thou- 
 sand a year. 
 
 Lady Bbacknell [makes a note in her 
 hooh]. In land, or in investments? 
 
 Jack. In investments, chiefly. 
 
 Lady Bbacknell. That is satis- 
 factory. What between the duties ex- 
 pected of one during one's lifetime, and 
 the duties exacted from one after one's 
 death, land has ceased to be either a 
 profit or a pleasure. It gives one posi- 
 tion, and prevents one from keeping it 
 up. That's all that can be said about 
 land. 
 
 Jack. I have a country house with 
 some land, of course, attached to it, 
 about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; 
 but I don't depend on that for my real 
 income. In fact, as far as I can make 
 out, the poachers are the only people 
 who make anything out of it. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. A country house ! 
 How many bedrooms? Well, that 
 point can be cleared up afterwards. 
 You have a town house, I hope? A girl 
 with a simple, unspoiled nature, like 
 Gwendolen, could hardly be expected 
 to reside in the country. 
 
 Jack. Well, I own a house in Bel- 
 grave Square, but it is let by the year 
 to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can 
 get it back whenever I hke, at six 
 months' notice. 
 
 Lady Bbacknell. Lady Bloxham? 
 I don't know her. 
 
 Jack. Oh, she goes about very Httle. 
 She is a lady considerably advanced 
 in years. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Ah, now-a;-days 
 that is no guarantee of respectability of 
 character. What number in Belgrave 
 Square ? 
 
 Jack. 149. 
 
 Lady Bbacknell [shaking her head]. 
 The unfashionable side. I thought 
 there was something. However, that 
 could easily be altered. 
 
 Ja^k. Do you mean the fashion, or 
 the side? 
 
 Lady Bracknell [sternly]. Both, if 
 necessary, I presume. What are yoiu* 
 poUtics ? 
 
 Jack. Well, I am afraid I really 
 have none. I am a Liberal Unionist. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Oh, they count as 
 Tories. They dine with us. Or come in 
 the evening, at any rate. Now to minor 
 matters. Are your parents living? 
 
 Jack. I have lost both my parents. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Both? . . . That 
 seems hke carelessness. Who was your 
 father ? He was evidently a man of 
 some wealth. Was he born in what the 
 Radical pajjers call the purple of com- 
 merce, or did he rise from the ranks of 
 the aristocracy ? 
 
 Jack. I am afraid I really don't 
 know. The fact is. Lady Bracknell, I 
 said I had lost my parents. It would 
 be nearer the truth to say that my 
 parents seem to have lost me ... I 
 don't actually know who I am by birth. 
 I was . . . well, I was found. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Found ! 
 
 Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, 
 an old gentleman of a very charitable 
 and kindly disposition, found me, and 
 gave me the name of Worthing, because 
 he happened to have a flrst-class ticket 
 for Worthing in his i)Ocket at the time. 
 Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a 
 seaside resort. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Where did the 
 charitable gentleman who had a flrst- 
 class ticket for this seaside resort find 
 you? 
 
 Jack [gravely]. In a hand-bag. 
 
 Lady Bbacknell. A hand-bag? 
 
 Jack [very seriously]. Yes, Lady 
 Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag — a 
 somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, 
 with handles to it — an ordinary hand- 
 bag in fact. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. In what locality 
 did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew 
 come across this ordinary hand-bag? 
 
 Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria 
 Station. It was given to him in mistake 
 for his own. 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 463 
 
 Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room 
 at Victoria Station ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. The Brighton line. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. The line is im- 
 material. Mr. Worthing, I confess I 
 feel somewhat bewildered by what you 
 have just told me. To be born, or at 
 any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether 
 it had handles or not, seems to me to 
 displajr a contempt for the ordinary 
 decencies of family life that remind 
 one of the worst excesses of the French 
 Revolution. And I presume you know 
 what that unfortunate movement led 
 to? As for the particular locality in 
 which the hand-bag was found, a cloak- 
 room at a railway station might serve to 
 conceal a social indiscretion — has prob- 
 ably, indeed, been used for that purpose 
 before now — but it could hardly be 
 regarded as an assxired basis for a 
 recognised position in good society. 
 
 Jack. May I ask you then what you 
 would advise me to do ? I need hardly 
 say I would do anything in the world 
 to ensure Gwendolen's happiness. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. I would strongly 
 advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and 
 acquire some relations as soon as possi- 
 ble, and to make a definite effort to 
 produce at any rate one parent, of 
 either sex, before the season is quite 
 over. 
 
 Jack. Well, I don't see how I could 
 possibly manage to do that. I can 
 produce the handrbag at any moment. 
 It is in my dressing-room at" home. I 
 really think that should satisfy you, 
 Lady BrackneU. 
 
 Ladt Bracknell. Me, sir! What 
 has it to do with me? You can hardly 
 imagine that I and Lord BrackneU 
 would dream of allowing our only 
 daughter — a girl brought up with the 
 utmost care — • to marry into a cloak- 
 room, and form an alliance with a 
 parcel ? Good morning, Mr. Worthing ! 
 [Ladt Bracknell sweeps out in 
 majestic indignation] 
 
 Jack. Good morning! [Algernon 
 from the other room, strikes up the Wed- 
 ding March. Jack hoks perfectly furious 
 and goes to the door] For goodness' sake 
 don't play that ghastly tune, Algy! 
 How idiotic you are ! 
 [The music stops and Algernon enters 
 
 cheerily] 
 
 _ Algernon. Didn't it go oft aU 
 
 right, old boy? You don't mean to 
 
 say G-wendolen refused you? I know 
 
 it is a way she has. She is always re- 
 
 fusing people. I think it is most iU- 
 natured of her. 
 
 Jack. Oh, Gwendolen is as right as 
 a trivet. As far as she is concerned, we 
 are engaged. Her mother is perfectly 
 unbearable. Never met such a Gorgon 
 ... I don't really know what a Gorgon 
 is hke, but I am quite sure that Lady 
 BrackneU is one. In any case, she is a 
 monster, without being a myth, which 
 is rather unfair. ... I beg your par- 
 don, Algy, I suppose I shouldn't talk 
 about your own aunt in that way before 
 you. 
 
 Algernon. My dear boy, I love 
 hearing my relations abused. It is the 
 only thing that makes me put up with 
 them at aU. Relations are simply a 
 tedious pack of people, who haven't got 
 the remotest knowledge of how to Uve, 
 nor the smaUest instinct about when to 
 die. 
 
 Jack. Oh, that is nonsense ! 
 
 Algernon. It isn't ! 
 
 Jack. WeU, I won't argue about 
 the matter. You always want to argue 
 about things. 
 
 Algernon. That is exactly what 
 things were originaUy made for. 
 
 Jack. Upon my word, if I thought 
 that, I'd shoot myself ... [A pause] 
 You don't think there is any chance of 
 Gwendolen becoming Uke her mother in 
 about a hundred and fifty years, do 
 you, Algy? 
 
 Algernon. AU women become Uke 
 their mothers. That is their tragedy. 
 No man does. That's his. 
 
 Jack. Is that clever? 
 
 Algernon. It is perfectly phrased! 
 and quite as true as any observation in 
 civiUsed life should be. 
 
 Jack. I am sick to death of clever- 
 ness. Everybody is clever now-a-days. 
 You can't go anywhere without meeting 
 clever people. The thing has become 
 an absolute pubUo nuisance. I wish to 
 goodness we had a few fools left. 
 
 Algernon. We have. 
 
 Jack. I should extremely Uke to 
 meet them. What do they talk about? 
 
 Algernon. The fools? Oh! about 
 the clever people, of course. 
 
 Jack. What fools ! 
 
 Algernon. By the way, did you 
 tell Gwendolen the truth about your 
 being Ernest in town, and Jack in the 
 country? 
 
 Jack [in a very patronising manner] 
 My dear feUow, the truth isn't quite 
 the sort of thing one teUs to a nice, 
 
464 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 sweet, refined girl. What extraordi- 
 nary ideas you have about the way to 
 behave to a woman ! 
 
 Algbenon. The only way to be- 
 have to a woman is to make love to 
 her, if she is pretty, and to someone 
 else if she is plain. 
 
 Jack. Oh, that is nonsense. 
 
 Algernon. What about your 
 brother? What about the profligate 
 Ernest? 
 
 Jack. Oh, before the end of the 
 week I shall have got rid of him. I'll 
 say he died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots 
 of people die of apoplexy, quite sud- 
 denly, don't they ? 
 
 Algernon. Yes, but it's hereditary, 
 my dear feUow. It's a sort of thing 
 that runs in families. You had much 
 better say a severe chiU. 
 
 Jack. You are sure a severe chiU 
 isn't hereditary, or anything of that 
 kind? 
 
 Algernon. Of course it isn't ! 
 
 Jack. Very weE, then. My poor 
 brother Ernest is carried ofi suddenly 
 in Paris, by a severe chill. That gets 
 rid of him. 
 
 Algernon. But I thought you said 
 that . . . Miss Cardew was a Uttle 
 too much interested in your poor 
 brother Ernest? Won't she feel his 
 loss a good deal? 
 
 Jack. Oh, that is all right. Cecily 
 is not a sUly, romantic girl, I am glad 
 to say. She has got a capital appetite, 
 goes long walks, and pays no attention 
 at all to her lessons. 
 
 Algernon. I would rather like to 
 see Cecily. 
 
 Jack. I will take very good care 
 you never do. She is excessively 
 pretty, and she is only just eighteen. 
 
 Algernon. Have you told Gwen- 
 dolen yet that you have an excessively 
 pretty ward who is only just eighteen? 
 
 Jack. Oh! one doesn't blixrt these 
 things out to people. Cecily and 
 Gwendolen are perfectly certain to be 
 extremely great friends. I'll bet you 
 anytjiing you like that half an hour 
 after they have met, they wiU be call- 
 ing each other sister. 
 
 Algernon. Women only do that 
 when they have called each other a 
 lot of other things first. Now, my dear 
 boy, if we want to get a good table at 
 Willis's, we really must go and dress. 
 Do you know it is nearly seven? 
 
 Jack [irritably]. Oh! it always is 
 nearly seven. 
 
 Algernon. Well, I'm hungry. 
 
 Jack. I never knew you when you 
 weren't. . . . 
 
 Algernon. What shall we do after 
 dinner? Go to a theatre? 
 
 Jack. Oh, no ! I loathe hstening. 
 
 Algbenon. Well, let us go to the 
 Club? 
 
 Jack. Oh, no ! I hate talking. 
 
 Algernon. Well, we might trot 
 round to the Empire at ten ? 
 
 Jack. Oh, no ! I can't bear locking 
 at things. It is so siUy. 
 
 Algernon. Well, what shall we do ? 
 
 Jack. Nothing ! 
 
 Algernon. It is awfully hard work 
 doing nothing. However, I don't mind 
 hard work where there is no definite 
 object of any kind. 
 
 [Enter Lane] 
 
 Lane. Miss Fairfax. 
 
 [Enter Gwendolen. Lane goes out] 
 
 Algernon. Gwendolen, upon my 
 word ! 
 
 Gwendolen. Algy, kindly turn your 
 back. I have something very par- 
 ticular to say to Mr. Worthing. 
 
 Algbenon. Really, Gwendolen, I 
 don't think I can allow this at all. 
 
 Gwendolen. Algy, you always 
 adopt a strictly immoral attitude 
 towards life. You are not quite old 
 enough to do that. 
 
 [Algernon retires to the fireplace] 
 
 jACi. My own darling ! 
 
 Gwendolen. Ernest, we may never 
 be married. From the expression on 
 mamma's face I fear we never shall. 
 Few parents now-a-days pay any re- 
 
 »gard to what their children say to them. 
 The old-fashioned respect for the young 
 is fast dying out. Whatever influence 
 I ever had over mamma, I lost at the 
 age of three. But although she may 
 prevent us from becoming man and 
 wife, and I may marry someone else, 
 and marry often, nothing that she can 
 possibly do can alter my eternal devo- 
 tion to you. 
 
 Jack. Dear Gwendolen ! 
 
 Gwendolen. The story of your 
 romantic origin, as related to me by 
 mamma, with unpleasing comments, 
 has naturally stirred the deeper fibres 
 of my nature. Your Christian name 
 has an irresistible fascination. The 
 simpUoity of your character makes you 
 exquisitely incomprehensible to me. 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 465 
 
 Your town address at the Albany, I 
 have. What is your address in the 
 country ? 
 
 Jack. The Manor House, Woolton, 
 Hertfordshire. 
 
 [Algernon, who has been carefully 
 listening, smiles to himself, and 
 writes the address on his shirt- 
 cuff. Then picks up the Rail- 
 way Guide] 
 
 Gwendolen. There is a good postal 
 service, I suppose? It may be neces- 
 sary to do something desperate. That, 
 of course, will require serious considera- 
 tion. I win communicate with you 
 daily. 
 
 Jack. My own one ! 
 
 Gwendolen. How long do you re- 
 main in town ? 
 
 Jack. Till Monday. 
 
 Gwendolen. Good ! Algy, you may 
 turn round now. 
 
 Algernon. Thanks, I've turned 
 round already. 
 
 Gwendolen. You may also ring the 
 bell. 
 
 Jack. You will let me_ see you to 
 your carriage, my own darling? 
 
 Gwendolen. Certainly. 
 
 Jack. [To Lane, who now enters] I 
 will see Miss Fairfax out. 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir. 
 
 [Jack and Gwendolen go off. 
 Lane presents several letters on 
 a salver to Algernon. It is to 
 he surmised that they are bills, as 
 Algernon, after looking at the 
 envelopes, tears them up] 
 
 Algernon. A glass of sherry. Lane. 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir. 
 
 Algernon. To-morrow, Lane, I'm 
 going Bunburying. 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir. 
 
 Algernon. I shall probably not be 
 back tin Monday. You can put up 
 my dress clothes, my smoking jacket, 
 and all the Bunbury suits . . . 
 
 Lane. Yes, sir. [Handing sherry] 
 
 Algernon. I hope to-morrow will 
 be a fine day. Lane. 
 
 Lane. It never is, sir. 
 
 Algernon. Lane, you're a perfect 
 pessimist. 
 
 Lane. I do my best to give satis- 
 faction, sir. 
 
 [Enter Jack. Lane goes off] 
 
 Jack. There's a sensible, intellectual 
 girl! the only girl I ever cared for in 
 my hfe. [Alqeenon is laughing im- 
 
 moderately] What on earth are you 
 so amused at ? 
 
 Algernon. Oh, I'm a little anxious 
 about poor Bunbury, that is all. 
 
 Jack. If you don't take care, your 
 friend' Bunbury will get you into a 
 serious scrape some day. 
 
 Algernon. I love scrapes. They 
 are the only things that are never 
 serious. 
 
 Jack. Oh, that's _ nonsense, Algy. 
 You never talk anything but nonsense. 
 Algernon. Nobody ever does. 
 
 [Jack looks indignantly at him, 
 and leaves the room, Algernon 
 lights a cigarette, reads his shirt- 
 cuff and smiles] 
 act-drop 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene. — Garden at the Manor House. 
 A flight of gray stone steps leads up 
 to the house. The garden, an old- 
 fashioned one, full of roses. Time 
 of year, July. Basket chairs, and a 
 table covered with books, are set under 
 u, large yew tree. 
 
 [Miss Prism discovered seated at the table. 
 Cecily is at the back watering 
 flowers] 
 
 Miss Prism [calling]. Cecily, Cecily ! 
 Surely such a utilitarian occupation as 
 the watering of flowers is rather Moul- 
 ton's duty than yours? Especially at 
 a moment when inteUeetual pleasures 
 await you. Your German grammar is 
 on the table. Pray open it at page fif- 
 teen. We will repeat yesterday's lesson. 
 
 Cecily [coming over very slowly]. But 
 I don't hke German. It isn't at all a 
 becoming language. I know perfectly 
 well that I look quite plain after my 
 German lesson. 
 
 Miss Prism. Child, you know how 
 anxious your guardian is that you 
 should improve yourself in every way. 
 He laid particular stress on your Ger- 
 man, as he was leaving for town yester- 
 day. Indeed, he always lays stress on 
 your German when he is leaving for 
 town. 
 
 Cecily. Dear Uncle Jack is so very 
 serious ! Sometimes he is so serious 
 that I think he cannot be quite well. 
 
 Miss Prism [drawing herself up]. 
 Your ^ardian enjoys the best of health, 
 and ms gravity of demeanour is es- 
 
466 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 pecially to be commended in one so 
 comparatively young as he is. I know 
 no one who has a higher sense of duty 
 and responsibihty. 
 
 Cecily. I suppose that is why he 
 often looks a little bored when we three 
 are together. 
 
 Miss Prism. Cecily ! I am sur- 
 prised at you. Mr. Worthing has many 
 troubles in his life. Idle merriment and 
 triviality would be out of place in his 
 conversation. You must remember his 
 constant anxiety about that unfortu- 
 nate young man, his brother. 
 
 Cecily. I wish Uncle Jack would 
 allow that unfortunate young man, his 
 brother, to come down here sometimes. 
 We might have a good influence over 
 him. Miss Prism. I am siire you cer- 
 tainly would. You know German, and 
 geology, and things of that kind in- 
 fluence a man very much. 
 
 [Cecily begins to write in her 
 diary] 
 
 Miss Prism [shaking her head]. I do 
 not think that even I could produce any 
 eflect on a character that according to 
 his own brother's admission is irre- 
 trievably weak and vacillating. Indeed 
 1 am not sure that I would desire to 
 reclaim him. I am not in favour of 
 this modern mania for turning bad 
 people into good people at a moment's 
 notice. As a man sows so let him reap. 
 You must put away your diary, Cecily. 
 I really don't see why you should keep 
 a diary at all. 
 
 Cecily. I keep a diary in order to 
 enter the wonderful secrets of my life. 
 If I didn't write them down I should 
 probably forget all about them. 
 
 Miss Prism. Memory, my dear 
 Cecily, is the diary that we aU carry 
 about with us. 
 
 Cecily. Yes, but it usually chroni- 
 cles the things that have never hap- 
 pened, and couldn't possibly have 
 happened. I beUeve that Memory is 
 responsible for nearly all the tlu"ee- 
 volume novels that Mudie sends us. 
 
 Miss Prism. Do not speak sUght- 
 ingly of the three-volume novel, Cecily. 
 I wrote one myself in earlier days. 
 
 Cecily. Did you really. Miss Prism ? 
 How wonderfully clever you are! I 
 hope it did not end happily? I don't 
 like novels that end happily. They 
 depress me so much. 
 
 Miss Prism. The good ended hap- 
 pily, and the bad unhappily. That is 
 what Fiction means. 
 
 Cecily. I suppose so. But it seems 
 very unfair. And was your novel ever 
 published ? 
 
 Miss Prism. Alas ! no. The manu- 
 script unfortunately was abandoned. I 
 use the word in the sense of lost or 
 mislaid. To your work, child, these 
 speculations are profltless. 
 
 Cecily [smiling]. But I see dear 
 Dr. Chasuble coming up through the 
 garden. 
 
 Miss Prism [rising and advancing]. 
 Dr. Chasuble ! This is indeed a pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 [Enter Canon Chasttble] 
 
 Chasuble. And how are we this 
 morning? Miss Prism, you are, I 
 trust, well? 
 
 Cecily. Miss Prism has just been 
 complaining of a slight headache. I 
 think it would do her so much good to 
 have a short stroll with you in the 
 Psirk, Dr. Chasuble. 
 
 Miss Prism. Cecily, I have not 
 mentioned anything about a headache. 
 
 Cecily. No, dear Miss Prism, I 
 know that, but I felt instinctively that 
 you had a headache. Indeed I was 
 thinking about that, and not about my 
 German lesson, when the Rector came in. 
 
 Chasuble. I hope, Cecily, you are 
 not inattentive. 
 
 Cecily. Oh, I am afraid I am. 
 
 Chasuble. That is strange. Were 
 I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism's 
 pupil, I would hang upon her lips. 
 [Miss Prism glares] I spoke meta^ 
 phorically. — ■ My metaphor was drawn 
 from bees. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, I 
 suppose, has not returned from town 
 yet? 
 
 Miss Prism. We do not expect him 
 tin Monday afternoon. 
 
 Chasuble. Ah yes, he usually hkes 
 to spend his Sunday in London. He is 
 not one of those whose sole aim is en- 
 joyment, as, by all accounts, that un- 
 fortunate young man, his brother, 
 seems to be. But I must not disturb 
 Egeria and her pupil any longer. 
 
 Miss Prism. Egeria? My name is 
 LsBtitia, Doctor. 
 
 Chasuble [bowing]. A classical allu- 
 sion merely, drawn from the Pagan 
 authors. I shall see you both no 
 doubt at Evensong? 
 
 Miss Prism. I think, dear Doctor, 
 I will have a stroll with you. I find 
 I have a headache after all, and a walk 
 might do it good. 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 467 
 
 Chasuble. With pleasure, Miss 
 Prism, with pleasure. We might go 
 as far as the schools and back. 
 
 Miss Pbism. That Would be de- 
 Ughtful. Cecily, you will read your 
 PoUtical Economy in my absence. 
 The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee 
 you may omit. It is somewhat too 
 sensational. Even these metallic prob- 
 lems have their melodramatic side. 
 
 [Goes down the garden with Dr. 
 Chasuble] 
 
 Cecily [picks up books and throws 
 them back on table]. Horrid Political 
 Economy! Horrid Geography ! Horrid, 
 horrid German ! 
 
 [Enter Mbrbiman with a card on a 
 salver] 
 
 Mbrbiman. Mr. Ernest Worthing 
 has just driven over from the station. 
 He has brought his luggage with him. 
 
 Cecily [takes the card and reads it], 
 'Mr Ernest Worthing, B 4, The Al- 
 bany, W.' Uncle Jack's brother ! Did 
 you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town? 
 
 Meekiman. Yes, Miss. He seemed 
 very much disappointed. I mentioned 
 that you and Miss Prism were in the 
 garden. He said he was anxious to 
 speak to you privately for a moment. 
 
 Cecily. Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing 
 to come here. I suppose you had better 
 talk to the housekeeper about a room 
 for him. 
 
 Meebiman. Yes, Miss. 
 
 [Mbeeiman goes off] 
 
 Cecily. I have never met any really 
 wicked person before. I feel rather 
 frightened. I am so afraid he will 
 look just like everyone else. 
 
 [Enier Algeenon, very gay and dibon- 
 naire] 
 
 He does ! 
 
 Algeenon [raising his hat]. You are 
 my httle cousin Cecily, I'm sure. 
 
 Cecily. You are under some strange 
 mistake. I am not little. In fact, I 
 believe I am more than usually taU for 
 my age. [Algeenon is rather taken 
 aback] But I am your cousin Cecily. 
 You, I see from your card, are Uncle 
 Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest, my 
 wicked cousin Ernest. 
 
 Algeenon. Oh! I am not really 
 wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You 
 mustn't think that I am wicked. 
 
 Cecily. If you are not, then you 
 
 have certainly been deceiving us all 
 in a very inexcusable manner. I hope 
 you have not been leading a double 
 life, pretending to be wicked and being 
 really good all the time. That would 
 be hypocrisy. 
 
 Algeenon [looks at her in amaze- 
 ment]. Oh! of course I have been 
 rather reckless. 
 
 Cecily. 1 am glad to hear it. 
 
 Algeenon. In fact, now you men- 
 tion the subject, I have been very bad 
 in my own small way. 
 
 Cecily. I don't think you should 
 be so proud of that, though I am sure it 
 must have been very pleasant. 
 
 Algeenon. It is much pleasanter be- 
 ing here with you. 
 
 Cecily. I can't understand how you 
 are here at all. Uncle Jack won't be 
 back till Monday afternoon. 
 
 Algeenon. That is a great disap- 
 pointment. I am obliged to go up by 
 the first train on Monday morning. I 
 have a business appointment that I am 
 anxious ... to miss. 
 
 Cecily. Couldn't you miss it any- 
 where but in London? 
 
 Algbknon. No : the appointment is 
 in London. 
 
 Cecily. Well, _ I know, of course, 
 how important it is not to keep a busi- 
 ness engagement, if one wants to retain 
 any sense of the beauty of life, but still 
 I think you had better wait till Uncle 
 Jack arrives. I know he wants to 
 speak to you about your emigrating. 
 
 Algernon. About my what? 
 
 Cecily. Your emigrating. He has 
 gone up to buy your outfit. 
 
 Algernon. I certainly wouldn't let 
 Jack buy my outfit. He has no taste 
 in neckties at all. 
 
 Cecily. I don't think you will re- 
 quire neckties. Uncle Jack is sending 
 you to Australia. 
 
 Algernon. Australia! I'd sooner 
 die. 
 
 Cecily. Well, he said at dinner on 
 Wednesday night, that you would have 
 to choose between this world, the next 
 world, and Australia. 
 
 Algernon. Oh, well ! The accounts 
 I have received of Australia and the 
 next world are not particularly en- 
 couraging. This world is good enough 
 for me, cousin CeeUy. 
 
 Cecily. Yes, but are you good 
 enough for it? 
 
 Algernon. I'm afraid I'm not that. 
 That is why I want you to reform me. 
 
468 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 You might make that your mission, if 
 you don't mind, cousin Cecily. 
 
 Cecily. I'm afraid I've no time, this 
 afternoon. 
 
 Algernon. Well, would you mind 
 my reforming myself this afternoon? 
 
 Cecily. It is rather Quixotic of 
 you. But I think you should try. 
 
 Algernon. I will. I .feel better 
 already. 
 
 Cecily. You are looking a little 
 worse. 
 
 Algernon. That is because I am 
 hungry. 
 
 Cecily. How thoughtless of me. 
 I should have remembered that when 
 one is going to lead an entirely new Uf e, 
 one requires regular and wholesome 
 meals. Won't you come in? 
 
 Algernon. Thank you. Might I 
 have a button-hole first? I never have 
 any appetite unless I have a button- 
 hole first. 
 
 Cecily. A MarSchal Niel? 
 
 [Picks up scissors\ 
 
 Algernon. No, I'd sooner have a 
 pink rose. 
 
 Cecily. Why? [Cuts a jlower] 
 
 Algernon. Because you are like a 
 pink rose, cousin Cecily. 
 
 Cecily. I don't think it can be 
 right for you to talk to me like that. 
 Miss Prism never says such things to 
 me. 
 
 Algernon. Then Miss Prism is a 
 short-sighted old lady. [Cecily puts 
 the rose in his buttori-hole] You are the 
 prettiest girl I ever saw. 
 
 Cecily. Miss Prism says that all 
 good looks are a snare. 
 
 Algernon. They are a snare that 
 every sensible man would like to be 
 caught in. 
 
 Cecily. Oh ! I don't think I would 
 care to catch a sensible man. I 
 shouldn't know what to talk to him 
 about. 
 
 [They pass into the house. Miss 
 Prism and Dr. Chasuble 
 return] 
 
 Miss Prism. You are too much 
 alone, dear Dr. Chasuble. You should 
 get married. A misanthrope I can 
 understand — a womanthrope, never ! 
 
 Chasuble [mth a scholar's shudder]. 
 Believe me, I do not deserve so neol- 
 ogistic a phrase. The precept as well 
 as the practice of the Primitive Church 
 was distinctly against matrimony. 
 
 Miss Prism [sententiously]. "That is 
 obviously the reason why the Primitive 
 
 Church has not lasted up to the present 
 day. And you do not seem to reaUse, 
 dear Doctor, that by persistently re- 
 maining single, a man converts himself 
 into a permanent public temptation. 
 Men should be more careful ; this very 
 celibacy leads weaker vessels astray. 
 
 Chasuble. But is a man not equally 
 attractive when married? 
 
 Miss Prism. No married man is 
 ever attractive except to his wife. 
 
 Chasuble. And often, I've been 
 told, not even to her. 
 
 Miss Prism. That depends on the 
 intellectual sympathies of the woman. 
 Maturity can always be depended on. 
 Ripeness can be trusted. Young women 
 are green. [Dr. Chasuble starts] I 
 spoke hortieulturally. My metaphor 
 was drawn from fruits. But where is 
 Cecily? 
 
 Chasuble. Perhaps she followed us 
 to the schools. 
 
 [Enter Jack slowly from the hack of the 
 garden. He is dressed in the deepest 
 mourning, with cr6pe hat-band and 
 black gloves] 
 
 Miss Prism. Mr. Worthing ! 
 
 Chasuble. Mr. Worthing? 
 
 Miss Prism. This is indeed a sur- 
 prise. We did not look for you till 
 Monday afternoon. 
 
 Jack [shakes Miss Prism's hand in a 
 tragic manner]. I have returned sooner 
 than I expected. Dr. Chasuble, I hope 
 you are well? 
 
 Chasuble. Dear Mr. Worthing, I 
 trust this garb of woe does not betoken 
 some terrible calamity? 
 
 Jack. My brother. 
 
 Miss Prism. More shameful debts 
 and extravagance? 
 
 Chasuble. StiU leading his^ life of 
 pleasure? 
 
 Jack [shaking his head]. Dead ! 
 
 Chasuble. Your brother Ernest 
 dead? 
 
 Jack. Quite dead. 
 
 Miss Prism. What a lesson for 
 him ! I trust he will profit by it. 
 
 Chasuble. Mr. Worthing, I offer 
 you my sincere condolence. You have 
 at least the consolation of knowing that 
 you were always the most generous and 
 forgiving of brothers. 
 
 Jack. Poor Ernest! He had many 
 faults, but it is a sad, sad blow. 
 
 Chasuble. Very sad, indeed. Were 
 you with him at the end? 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 469 
 
 Jack. No. He died abroad; in 
 Paris, in fact. I had a telegram last 
 night from the manager of the Grand 
 Hotel. • 
 
 Chasuble. Was the cause of death 
 mentioned? 
 
 Jack. A severe chiU, it seems. 
 
 Miss Pbism. As a man sows, so 
 shall he reap. 
 
 Chasuble [raising his hand]. Char- 
 ity, dear Miss Prism, charity ! None 
 of us are perfect. I myself am peculi- 
 arly susceptible to draughts. Will the 
 interment take place here? 
 
 Jack. No. He seemed to have ex- 
 pressed a desire to be buried in Paris. 
 
 Chasuble. In Pafis ! [Shakes his 
 head] I fear that hardly points to any 
 very serious state of mind at the last. 
 You would no doubt wish me to make 
 some slight allusion to this tragic 
 domestic afiliction next Sunday. [Jack 
 presses Ms hand convulsively] My ser- 
 mon on the meaning of the manna in 
 the wilderness can be adapted to almost 
 any occasion, joyful, or, as in the 
 present case, distressing. [All sigh] 
 I have preached it at harvest celebra- 
 tions, christenings, conflrtnations, on 
 days of humiliation and festal days. 
 The last time I delivered it was in the 
 Cathedral, as a charity sermon on be- 
 half of the Society for the Prevention 
 of Discontent among the Upper Orders. 
 The Bishop, who was present, was much 
 struck by some of the analogies I drew. 
 
 Jack. Ah! that reminds me, you 
 mentioned christenings I think. Dr. 
 Chasuble? I suppose you know how 
 to christen all right? [De. Chasuble 
 looks astounded] I mean, of course, you 
 are continually christening, aren't you? 
 
 Miss Pbism. It is, I regret to say, 
 one of the Rector's most constant duties 
 in this parish. I have often spoken to 
 the poorer classes on the subject. But 
 they don't seem to know what thrift is. 
 
 Chasuble. But is there any par- 
 ticular infant in whom you are inter- 
 ested, Mr. Worthing? Your brother 
 was, I believe, unmarried, was he not? 
 
 Jack. Oh, yes. 
 
 Miss Peism [Utterly]. People who 
 live entirely for pleasure usually are. 
 
 Jack. But it is not for any child, 
 dear Doctor. I am very fond of chil- 
 dren. No! the fact is, I would like 
 to be christened myself, this afternoon, 
 if j'ou have nothing better to do. 
 
 Chasuble. But surely, Mr. Worth- 
 ing, you have been christened already? 
 
 Jack. I don't remember anything 
 about it. 
 
 Chasuble. But have you any grave 
 doubts on the subject ? 
 
 Jack. I- certainly intend to have. 
 Of course, I don't know if the thing 
 would bother you in any way, or if you 
 think I am a little too old now. 
 
 Chasuble. Not at all. The sprin- 
 kling, and, indeed, the immersion of 
 adults is a perfectly canonical practice. 
 
 Jack. Immersion ! 
 
 Chasuble. You need have no ap- 
 prehensions. Sprinkling is all that is 
 necessary, or indeed I think advisable. 
 Our weather is so changeable. At 
 what hour would you wish the ceremony 
 performed ? 
 
 Jack. Oh, I might trot round about 
 five if that would suit you? 
 
 Chasuble. Perfectly, perfectly ! In 
 fact I have two similar ceremonies to 
 perform at that time. A case of twins 
 that occurred recently in one of the 
 outlying cottages on your own estate. 
 Poor Jenkins the carter, a most hard- 
 working man. 
 
 Jack. Oh ! I don't see much fun in 
 being christened along with other babies. 
 It would be childish. Would half-past 
 five do ? 
 
 Chasuble. Admirably! Admirably! 
 [Takes out watch] And now, dear Mr. 
 Worthing, I will not intrude any longer 
 into a house of sorrow. I would merely 
 beg you not to be too much bowed 
 down by grief. What seem to us bitter 
 trials are often blessings in disguise. 
 
 Miss Peism. This seems to me a 
 blessing of an extremely obvious kind. 
 
 [Enter Cecily from the house] 
 
 Cecily. Uncle Jack! Oh, I am 
 
 £ leased to see you back. But what 
 orrid clothes you have got on! Do 
 go and change them. 
 Miss Peism. Cecily ! 
 Chasuble. My child ! my child ! 
 [Cecily goes toward Jack; he 
 kisses her brow in a melancholy 
 manner] 
 Cecily. What is the matter, Uncle 
 Jack? Do look happy! You look as 
 if you had toothache, and I have got 
 such a surprise for you. Who do you 
 think is in the dining-room? Your 
 brother ! 
 Jack. Who? 
 
 Cecily. Your brother Ernest. He 
 arrived about half an hour ago. 
 
470 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Jack. What nonsense ! I haven't 
 got a brother. 
 
 Cecily. Oh, don't say that. How- 
 ever badly he may have behaved to 
 you in the past he is still your brother. 
 You -couldn't be so heartless as to dis- 
 own him. I'U tell him to come out. 
 And you will shake hands with him, 
 won't you, Uncle Jack? 
 
 [Runs back into the house] 
 
 CHAStTBLE. These are very joyful 
 tidings. 
 
 Miss Phism. After we had all been 
 resigned to his loss, Ms sudden return 
 seems to me peculiarly distressing. 
 
 Jack. My brother is in the dining- 
 room ? I don't know what it aU means. 
 I think it is perfectly absurd. 
 
 [Enter Algernon and Cecily hand in 
 hand. They come slowly up to Jack] 
 
 Jack. Good heavens ! 
 
 [Motions Algernon away] 
 
 Algernon. Brother John, I have 
 come down from town to tell you that 
 I am very sorry for all the trouble I 
 have given you, and that I intend to 
 lead a better life in the future. 
 
 [Jack glares at him and does not 
 take his hand] 
 
 Cecily. Uncle Jack, you are not 
 going to refuse your own brother's 
 hand? 
 
 Jack. Nothing will induce me to 
 take his hand. I think his coining 
 down here disgraceful. He knows per- 
 fectly well why. 
 
 Cecily. Uncle Jack, do be nice. 
 There is some good in everyone. Ernest 
 has just been telling me about his poor 
 invahd friend Mr. Bunbury, whom he 
 goes to visit so often. And surely there 
 must be much good in one who is kind 
 to an invalid, and leaves the pleasmres 
 of London to sit by a bed of pain. 
 
 Jack. Oh! he has been talking about 
 Bunbury, has he? 
 
 Cecily. Yes, he has told me all 
 about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his terri- 
 ble state of health. 
 
 Jack. Bunbury ! Well, I won't have 
 him talk to you about Bunbury or 
 about anything else. It is enough to 
 drive one perfectly frantic. 
 
 Algernon. Of course I admit that 
 the faults were all on my side. But I 
 must say that I think that brother 
 John's coldness to me is peculiarly 
 painful. I expected a more enthusiastic 
 welcome, especially considering it is the 
 first time I have come here. 
 
 Cecily. Uncle Jack, if you don't 
 shake hands with Ernest, I will never 
 forgive you. 
 
 Jack. Never forgive me ? 
 
 Cecily. Never, never, never ! 
 
 Jack. Well, this is the last time I 
 shaU ^ver do it. 
 
 [Shakes hands with Algernon 
 and glares] 
 
 Chasuble. It's pleasant, is it not, 
 to see so perfect a reooncihation ? I 
 think we might leave the two brothers 
 together. 
 
 Miss Prism. Cecily, you will come 
 with us. 
 
 Cecily. Certainly, Miss Prism. My 
 httle task of reocfnciliation is over. 
 
 Chasuble. You have dohe a beau- 
 tiful action to-day, dear child. 
 
 Miss Prism. We must not be pre- 
 mature in our judgments. 
 
 Cecily. I feel very happy. 
 
 [They all go off] 
 
 Jack. You young scoundrel, Algy, 
 you must get out of this place as soon 
 as possible. I don't allow any Bunbury- 
 ing here. 
 
 [Enter Merriman] 
 
 Meeriman. I have put Mr. Ernest's 
 things in the room next to yours, sir. 
 I suppose that is all right? 
 
 Jack. What? 
 
 Merriman. Mr. -Ernest's luggage, 
 sir. I have unpacked it and put it in 
 the room next to your own. 
 
 Jack. His luggage? 
 
 Merriman. Yes, sir. Three port- 
 manteaus, a dressing-case, two hat- 
 boxes, and a large luncheon-basket. 
 
 Algernon. I am afraid I can't stay 
 more than a week this time. 
 
 Jack. Merriman, order the dog-cart 
 at once. Mr. Ernest has been suddenly 
 called back to town. 
 
 Merriman. Yes, sir. 
 
 [Goes back into the house] 
 
 Algernon. What a fearful liar you 
 are. Jack. I have not been called back 
 to town at all. 
 
 Jack. Yes, you have. 
 
 Algernon. I haven't heard anyone 
 call me. 
 
 Jack. Your duty as a gentleman 
 calls you back. 
 
 Algernon. My duty as a gentle- 
 man has never interfered with my pleas- 
 ures in the smallest degree. 
 
 Jack. I can quite understand tha/t. 
 
 Algernon. Well, Cecily is a darling. 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 471 
 
 Jack. You are not to talk of Miss 
 Cardew like that. I don't like it. 
 
 Algernon. Well, I don't like your 
 clothes. You look perfectly ridiculous 
 in them. Why on earth don't you go 
 up and change ? It is perfectly childish 
 to be in deep mourning for a man who 
 is actually staying for a whole week with 
 you in your house as a guest. I call it 
 grotesque. 
 
 Jack. You are certainly not staying 
 with me for a whole week as a guest or 
 anything else. You have got to leave 
 ... by the four-five train. 
 
 Algernon. I certainly won't leave 
 you so long as you are in mourning. It 
 would be most unfriendly. If I were 
 in mourning you would stay with me, 
 I suppose. I should think it very un- 
 kind ft you didn't. 
 
 Jack. Well, will you go if I change 
 my clothes ? 
 
 Algernon. Yes, if you are not too 
 long. I never saw anybodjr take so 
 long to dress, and with such little result. 
 
 Jack. Well, at any rate, that is 
 better than being always over-dressed 
 as you axe. 
 
 Algernon. If I am occasionally a 
 little over-dressed, I Inake up for it by 
 being always immensely over-educated. 
 
 Jack. Your vanity is ridiculous, 
 your conduct an outrage, and your 
 presence in my garden utterly absurd. 
 However, you have got to catch the 
 four-five, and I hope you wiU have a 
 pleasant journey back to town. This 
 Bunbuiying, as you call it, has not 
 been a great success for you. 
 
 [Ooes into the house] 
 
 Algernon. I think it has been a 
 great success. I'm in love with Cecily, 
 and that is everything. [Enter Cecily 
 at the hack of the garden. She picks up 
 the can and begins to water the flowers] 
 But I must see her before I go, and 
 make arrangements for another Bun- 
 bury. Ah, there she is. 
 
 Cecily. Oh, I merely came back to 
 water the roses. I thought you were 
 with Uncle Jack. 
 
 Algernon. He's gone to order the 
 dog-oart for me. 
 
 Cecily. Oh, is he going to take 
 you for a nice dnve? 
 
 Algernon. He's going to send me 
 away. 
 
 Cecily. Then have we got to part? 
 
 Algernon. I am afraid so. It's a 
 very painful parting. 
 
 Cecily. It is always painful to part 
 
 from people whom one has known for a 
 very brief space of time. The absence 
 of old friends one can endure with 
 equanimity. But even a momentary 
 separation from anyone to whom one 
 has just been introduced is almost un- 
 bearable. 
 
 Algernon. Thank you. 
 
 [Enter Merriman] 
 
 Merriman. The dog-cart is at the 
 door, sir. 
 
 [Algernon looks appealingly at 
 Cecily] 
 
 Cecily. It can wait, Merriman . . . 
 for . . . five minutes. 
 
 Merriman. Yes, Miss. 
 
 [Exit Merriman] 
 
 Algernon. I hope, Cecily, I shall 
 not offend you if I state quite frankly 
 and openly that you seem to me to be 
 in every way the visible personification 
 of absolute perfection. 
 
 Cecily. I think your frankness 
 does you great credit, Ernest. If you 
 will allow me I wiU copy your remarks 
 into my diary. 
 
 [Ooes over to table and begins writ- 
 ing in diary] 
 
 Algernon. Do you really keep a 
 diary? I'd give anything to look at 
 it. May I? 
 
 Cecily. Oh, no. [Puts her hand 
 over it] You see, it is simply a very 
 young girl's record of her own thoughts 
 and impressions, and consequently 
 meant for publication. When it ap- 
 pears in volume form I hope you will 
 order a copy. ' But pray, Ernest, don't 
 stop. I delight in talang down from 
 dictation. I have reached 'absolute 
 perfection.' You can go on. I am 
 quite ready for more. 
 
 Algernon [somewhat taken aback]. 
 Ahem ! Ahem ! 
 
 Cecily. Oh, don't cough, Ernest. 
 When one is dictating one should speak 
 fluently and not cough. Besides, I 
 don't know how to spell a cough. 
 
 [Writes as Algernon speaks] 
 
 Algernon [speaking very rapidly]. 
 Cecily, ever since I first looked upon 
 your wonderful and incomparable 
 beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, 
 passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. 
 
 Cecily. I don't think that you 
 should teE me that you love wildly, 
 passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. 
 Hopelessly doesn't seem to make much 
 sense, does it? 
 
 Algernon. Cecily ! 
 
472 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Enter Mekeiman] 
 
 Meeriman. The dog-cart is wait- 
 ing, sir. 
 
 Algeenon. Tell it to come round 
 next week, at the same hour. 
 
 Merkiman [looks at Cecily, who 
 makes no sign] Yes, sir. 
 
 [Meeriman retires] 
 * Cecily. Uncle Jack would be very 
 much annoyed if he knew you were 
 staying on till next week, at the same 
 hour. 
 
 Algernon. Oh, I don't care about 
 Jack. I don't care for anybody in the 
 whole world but you. I love you, 
 Cecily. You will marry me, won't 
 you? 
 
 Cecily. You silly boy! Of course. 
 Why, we have been engaged for the 
 last three months. 
 
 Algernon. For the last three 
 months ? 
 
 Cecily. Yes, it will be exactly three 
 months on Thursday. 
 
 Algernon. But how did we become 
 engaged? 
 
 Cecily. Well, ever since dear Uncle 
 Jack first confessed to us that he had 
 a younger brother who was very wicked 
 and bad, you of course have formed the 
 chief topic of conversation between my- 
 self and Miss Prism. And of course a 
 man who is much talked about is always 
 very attractive. One feels there must 
 be something in him after all. I dare- 
 say it was foolish of me, but I feU. in 
 love with you, Ernest. 
 
 Algernon. DarUng! And when 
 was the engagement actually settled? 
 
 Cecily. On the 4th of February 
 last. Worn out by your entire ignorance 
 of my existence, I determined to end the 
 matter one way or the other, and after 
 a long struggle with myself I accepted 
 you under tms dear old tree here. The 
 next day I bought this httle ring in your 
 name, and this is the Uttle bangle with 
 the true lover's knot I promised you 
 always to wear. 
 
 Algernon. Did I give you this? 
 It's very pretty, isn't it? 
 
 Cecily. Yes, you've wonderfully 
 good taste, Ernest. It's the excuse 
 I've always given for your leading such 
 a bad life. And this is the box in 
 which I keep all your dear letters. 
 
 [Kneels at table, opens box, and 
 produces letters tied up with 
 blue ribbon] 
 
 Algernon. My letters ! But my 
 
 own sweet Cecily, I have never written 
 you any letters. 
 
 Cecily. You need hardly remind 
 me of that, Ernest. I remember only 
 too well that I was forced to write 
 your letters for you. I wrote always 
 three times a week, and sometimes 
 oftener. 
 
 Algernon. Oh, do let me read them, 
 Cecily? 
 
 Cecily. Oh, I couldn't possibly. 
 They would make you far too con- 
 ceited. [Replaces box] The three you 
 wrote me after I had broken off the 
 engagement are so beautiful, and so 
 badly spelled, that even now I can 
 hardly read them without crying a 
 Uttle. 
 
 Algeenon. But was our engage- 
 ment ever broken off? 
 
 Cecily. Of course it was. On the 
 22nd of last March. You can see the 
 entry if you like. [Shows diary] 'To- 
 day I broke off my engagement with 
 Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. 
 The weather still continues charming.' 
 
 Algernon. But why on earth did 
 you break it off? What had I done? 
 I had done nothing at all. Cecily, I am 
 very much hurt indeed to hear you 
 broke it off. Particularly when the 
 weather was so charming. 
 
 Cecily. It would hardly have been 
 a reaUy serious engagement if it hadn't' 
 been broken off at least once. But I 
 forgave you before the week was out. 
 
 Algernon [crossing to her, and kneel- 
 ing]. What a perfect angel you are, 
 Cecily. 
 
 Cecily. You dear romantic boy. 
 [He kisses her, she puts her fingers 
 through his hair] I hope yoiu: hair 
 curls naturally, does it ? 
 
 Algernon. Yes, darling, with a 
 little help from others. 
 
 Cecily. I am so glad. 
 
 Algernon. You'll never break off 
 our engagement again, Cecily? 
 
 Cecily. I don't think I could break 
 it off now that I have actually met you. 
 Besides, of course, there is the question 
 of your name. 
 
 Algernon. Yes, of course. 
 
 [Nervously] 
 
 Cecily. You must not laugh at me, 
 darhng, but it had always been a girlish 
 dream of mine to love someone whose 
 name was Ernest. [Algernon rises, 
 Cecily also] There is something in 
 that name that seems to inspire absolute 
 confidence. I pity any poor married 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 473 
 
 woman whose husband is not oaEed 
 Ernest. 
 
 Algernon. But, my dear child, do 
 you mean to say you could not love me 
 if I had some other name ? 
 
 Cecily. But what name? 
 
 Algernon. Oh, any name you like 
 — Algernon — for instance . . . 
 
 Cecily. But I don't like the name 
 of Algernon. 
 
 Algernon. Well, my own dear, 
 sweet, loving little darhng, I really 
 can't see why you should object to the 
 name of Algernon. It is not at all a 
 bad name. In fact, it is rather an 
 aristocratic name. Half of the chaps 
 who get into the Bankruptcy Court 
 are called Algernon. But seriously, 
 Cecily . . . [Moving to her] ... if my 
 name was Algy, ooiUdn't you love me? 
 
 Cecily [rising]. 1 might respect 
 you, Ernest, I might admire yotu: char- 
 acter, but I fear that I should not be 
 able to give you my undivided attention. 
 
 Algernon. Ahem! Cecily! [Pick- 
 ing up hat] Your Rector here is, I sup- 
 pose, thoroughly experienced in the 
 practice of all the rites and ceremonials 
 of the Church? 
 
 Cecily. Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is 
 
 I a most learned man. He has never 
 written a single book, so you can im- 
 agine how much he knows. 
 
 Algernon. I must see him at once 
 on a most important christening — I 
 mean on most important business. 
 Cecily. Oh ! 
 
 Algernon. I sha'n't be away more 
 than half an hour. 
 
 Cecily. Considering that we have 
 been engaged since February the 14th, 
 and that I only met you to-day for the 
 first time, I think it is rather hard that 
 you should leave me for so long a 
 period as half an hour. Couldn't you 
 make it twenty minutes? 
 
 Algernon. I'U be back in no 
 time. 
 
 [Kisses her and rushes down the 
 garden] 
 Cecily. What an impetuous boy 
 he is ! I like his hair so much. I must 
 enter his proposal in my diary. 
 
 [Enter Merriman] 
 
 Merriman. a Miss Fairfax has 
 just called to see Mr. Worthing. On 
 very important business Miss Fairfax 
 states. 
 
 'Cecily. Isn't Mr. Worthing in his 
 hbrary? 
 
 Merriman. Mr. Worthing went over 
 in the direction of ihe Rectory some 
 time ago. 
 
 Cecily. Pray ask the lady to come 
 out here; Mr. Worthing is sure to be 
 back soon. And you can bring tea. 
 
 Mbhbiman. Yes, Miss. [Goes out] 
 
 Cecily. Miss Fairfax ! I suppose 
 one of the many good elderly women 
 who are associated with Uncle Jack in 
 some of his philanthropic work in 
 London. I don't quite like women 
 who are interested in philanthropic 
 work. I think it is so forward of them. 
 
 [Enter Merriman] 
 
 Merriman. Miss Fairfax. 
 
 [Enter Gwendolen] 
 
 [Exit Merriman] 
 
 Cecily [advancing to meet her]. Pray 
 let me introduce myself to you. My 
 name is Cecily Cardew. 
 
 Gwendolen. Cecily Cardew? [Mov- 
 ing to her and shaking hands] What a 
 very sweet name ! Something tells me 
 that we are going to be great friends. I 
 like you alreadjr more than I can say. 
 My first impressions of people are never 
 wrong. 
 
 Cecily. How nice of you to like 
 me so much after we have known each 
 other such a comparatively short time. 
 Pray sit down. 
 
 Gwendolen [still standing wp]. I 
 may call you Cecily, may I not? 
 
 Cecily. With pleasure ! 
 
 Gwendolen. And you will always 
 call me Gwendolen, won't you? 
 
 Cecily. K you wish. 
 
 Gwendolen. Then that is aU quite 
 settled, is it not? 
 
 Cecily. I hope so. 
 
 [A pause. They both sit down 
 together] 
 
 Gwendolen. Perhaps this might 
 be a favourable opportunity for my 
 mentioning who I am. My father is 
 Lord Bracknell. You have never heard 
 of papa, I suppose ? 
 
 Cecily. I don't think so. 
 
 Gwendolen. Outside the family cir- 
 cle, papa, I am glad to say, is en- 
 tirely unknown. I think that is quite 
 as it should be. The home seems to 
 me to be the proper sphere for the'man. 
 And certainly once a man begins to 
 neglect his domestic duties he becomes 
 painfully effeminate, does he not? 
 And I don't like that. . It makes men 
 
474 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, 
 whose views on education are remark- 
 ably strict, has brought me up to be 
 extremely short-sighted ; it is part of 
 her system ; so do you mind my looking 
 at you through my glasses ? 
 
 Cecily. Oh ! not at aU, Gwendolen. 
 I am very fond of being looked at. 
 
 Gwendolen [after examining Cecily 
 carefully through a lorgnette]. You are 
 here on a short visit, I suppose. 
 
 Cecily. Oh no ! I live here. 
 
 Gwendolen [severely]. Really ? 
 Your mother, no doubt, or some fe- 
 male relative of advanced years, resides 
 here also? 
 
 Cecily. Oh no ! I have no mother, 
 nor, in fact, any relations. 
 
 Gwendolen. Indeed ! 
 
 Cecily. My dear guardian, with 
 the assistance of Miss Prism, has the 
 arduous task of looking after me. 
 
 Gwendolen. Your guardian ? 
 
 Cecily. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing's 
 ward. 
 
 Gwendolen. Oh! It is strange he 
 never mentioned to me that he had a 
 ward. How secretive of him! He 
 grows more interesting hourly. I am 
 not sure, however, that the news in- 
 spires me with feelings of unmixed 
 delight. [Rising and going to her] I 
 am very fond of you, Cecily ; I have 
 liked you ever since I met you ! But 
 I am bound to state that now that I 
 know that you are Mr. Worthing's 
 ward, I cannot help ex;pressing a wish 
 you were — well just a little older than 
 you seem to be — and not quite so very 
 alluring in appearance. In fact, if I 
 may speak candidly — 
 
 Cecily. Pray do ! I think that 
 whenever one has anything unpleasant 
 to say, one should always be quite 
 candid. 
 
 Gwendolen. Well, to speak with 
 perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that 
 you were fuUy forty-two; and more than 
 usually plain for your age. Ernest has 
 a strong upright nature. He is the 
 very soul of truth and honour. Dis- 
 loyalty would be as impossible to him 
 as deception. But even men of the 
 noblest possible moral character are 
 extremely susceptible to the influence 
 of the physical charms of others. 
 Modern, no less than Ancient History, 
 supplies us with many most painful 
 examples of what I refer to. If it were 
 not so, indeed, History would be quite 
 unreadable. 
 
 Cecily. I beg your pardon, Gwen- 
 dolen, did you say Ernest? 
 
 Gwendolen. Yes. 
 
 Cecily. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest 
 Worthing who is my guardian. It is his 
 brother — his elder brother. 
 
 Gwendolen [sitting down again]. 
 Ernest never mentioned to me that he 
 had a brother. 
 
 Cecily. I am sorry to say they 
 have not been on good terms for a long 
 time. 
 
 Gwendolen. Ah ! that accounts 
 for it. And now that I think of it I 
 have never heard any m^an mention 
 his brother. The subject seems dis- 
 tasteful to most men.' Cecily, you 
 have lifted a load from my mind. I 
 was growing almost anxious. It would 
 have been terrible if any cloud had 
 come across a friendship hke ours, 
 would it not ? Of course you are quite, 
 quite sure that it is not Mr. Ernest 
 Worthing who is your guardian? 
 
 Cecily, ^uite sure. [A pause] In 
 fact, I am going to be his. 
 
 Gwendolen [enquiringly]. I beg 
 your pardon? 
 
 Cecily [rather shy and confidingly]. 
 Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason 
 why I should make a secret of it to you. 
 Our little county newspaper is sure to 
 chronicle the fact next week. Mr. 
 Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to 
 be married. 
 
 Gwendolen [quite politely, rising]. 
 My darling Cecily, I trunk there must 
 be some shght error. Mr. Ernest 
 Worthing is engaged to me. The an- 
 nouncement will appear in the 'Morn- 
 ing Post' on Saturday at the latest. 
 
 Cecily [very politely, rising]. I am 
 afraid you must be under some mis- 
 conception. Ernest proposed to me ex- 
 actly ten minutes ago. [Shows diary] 
 
 Gwendolen [examines diary through 
 her lorgnette carefully]. It is certainly 
 very curious, for he asked me to be his 
 wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. If 
 you would care to verify the incident, 
 pray do so. [Produces diary of her 
 own] I never travel without my diary. 
 One should always have something sen- 
 sational to read in the train. I am so 
 sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disap- 
 pointment to you, but I am afraid / 
 have the prior claim. 
 
 Cecily. It would distress me more 
 than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if 
 it caused you any mental or physio&l 
 angniish, but I feel bound to point out 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 475 
 
 that since Ernest proposed to you he 
 clearly has changed his mind. 
 
 Gwendolen [meditatively]. If the 
 poor fellow has been entrapped into 
 any foolish promise, I shall consider it 
 my duty to rescue him at once, and 
 with a Orm. hand. 
 
 Cecily [thoughtfully and sadly]. 
 Whatever unfortunate entanglement my 
 dear boy may have got into, I will never 
 reproach him with it after we are mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Gwendolen. Do you allude to me. 
 Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? 
 You are presumptuous. On an occasion 
 of this kind it becomes more than a 
 moral duty to speak one's mind. It 
 becomes a pleasure. 
 
 Cecily. Do you suggest. Miss Fair- 
 fax, that I entrapped Ernest into an 
 engagement? How dare you? This is 
 no time for wearing the shallow mask of 
 manners. When I see a spade I call it 
 a spade. 
 
 Gwendolen [satirically]. I am glad 
 to say that I have never seen a spade. 
 It is obvious that our social spheres 
 have been widely different. 
 
 [Enter Merriman, followed by the foot- 
 man. He carries a salver, table 
 cloth, and plate stand. Cecily is 
 about to retort. The presence of the 
 servants exercises a restraining in- 
 fluence, under which both girls chafe] 
 
 Merriman. Shall I lay tea here as 
 usual. Miss? 
 
 Cecily [sternly, in a calm voice]. Yes, 
 as usual. 
 
 [Merriman begins to clear and 
 lay cloth. A long pause. 
 Cecily and Gwendolen glare 
 at each other] 
 Gwendolen. Are there many in- 
 teresting walks in the vicinity. Miss 
 Cardew? 
 
 Cecily. Oh! yes! a great many. 
 From the top of one of the hills quite 
 close one can see five counties. 
 
 Gwendolen. Five counties ! I don't 
 think I should like that. I hate crowds. 
 Cecily [sweetly]. I suppose that is 
 why you live in town? 
 
 [Gwendolen bites her lip, and 
 
 beats her foot nervously with her 
 
 parasol] 
 
 Gwendolen [looking around]. Quite 
 
 a well-kept garden this is. Miss Cardew. 
 
 Cecily. So glad ypu like it. Miss 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Gwendolen. I had no idea there 
 were any flowers in the country. 
 
 Cecily. Oh, flowers are as common 
 here. Miss Fairfax, as people are in 
 London. 
 
 Gwendolen. Personally I cannot 
 understand how anybody manages to 
 exist in the country, if anybody who is 
 anybody does. The country always 
 bores me to death. 
 
 Cecily. Ah ! This is what the news- 
 papers call agricultural depression, is it 
 not? I believe the aristocracy are suf- 
 fering very much from it just at present. 
 It is almost an epidemic amongst them, I 
 have been told. May I offer you some 
 tea, Miss Fairfax? 
 
 Gwendolen [with elaborate politeness]. 
 Thank you. [Aside] Detestable girl ! 
 But I require tea ! 
 
 Cecily [sweetly]. Sugar? 
 
 Gwendolen [superciliously]. No, 
 thank you. Sugar as not fashionable 
 any more. 
 
 [Cecily looks angrily at her, takes 
 up the tongs and puts four 
 lumps of sugar into the cup] 
 
 Cecily [severely]. Cake or bread 
 and butter? 
 
 Gwendolen [in a • bored manner]. 
 Bread and butter, please. Cake is rarely 
 seen at. the best houses iiow-a-days. 
 
 Cecily [cuts a very large slice of cake, 
 and puts it on the tray]. Hand that to 
 Miss Fairfax. 
 
 [Merriman does so, and goes out 
 with footman. Gwendolen 
 drinks the tea and makes a 
 grimace. Puts down cup at 
 once, reaches out her hand to 
 .the bread and butter, looks at 
 it, and finds it is cake. Rises 
 in indignation] 
 
 Gwendolen. You have filled my 
 tea with lumps of sugar, and though 1 
 asked most distinctly for bread and 
 butter, you have given me cake. I 
 am known for the gentleness of my 
 disposition, and the extraordinary sweet- 
 ness of my nature, but I warn you, 
 Miss Cardew, you may go too far. 
 
 Cecily [rising]. To save my poor, 
 innocent, trusting boy from the mach- 
 inations of any other girl there are no 
 IcMths to which I would not go. 
 
 Gwendolen. From the moment I 
 saw you I distrusted you. I felt that 
 you were false and deceitful. I am 
 never deceived in such matters. My 
 first impressions of people are invariably 
 right. 
 
476 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Cecily. It seems to me, Miss Fair- 
 fax, that I am trespassing on your 
 valuable time. No doubt you have 
 many other calls of a similar character 
 to make in the neighbourhood. 
 
 [Enter Jack] 
 
 Gwendolen [catching sight of himi. 
 Ernest ! My own Ernest ! 
 
 Jack. Gwendolen ! Darling ! 
 
 [Offers to kiss her] 
 
 Gwendolen [drawing back]. A mo- 
 ment! May I ask if you are engaged 
 to be married to this young lady ? 
 
 [Points to Cecily] 
 
 Jack [laughing]. To dear little 
 Cecily! Of course not! What could 
 have put such' an idea into your pretty 
 Uttlehead? 
 
 Gwendolen. Thank you. You 
 may. [Offers her cheek] 
 
 Cecily [very sweetly]. I knew there 
 must be some misunderstanding, Miss 
 Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm 
 is at present around your waist is my 
 dear guardian, Mr. John Worthing. 
 
 Gwendolen. I beg your pardon? 
 
 Cecily. This is Uncle Jack. 
 
 Gwendolen [receding]. Jack! Oh! 
 
 [Enter Algernon] 
 
 Cecily. Here is Ernest. 
 
 Algernon [goes straight over to Cecily 
 without noticing anyone else]. My own 
 love ! [Offers to kiss her] 
 
 Cecily [drawing back]. A moment, 
 Ernest! May I ask you — are you 
 engaged to be married to this young 
 lady? 
 
 Algernon [looking around]. To what 
 young lady? Good heavens! Gwen- 
 dolen ! 
 
 Cecily. Yes ! to good heavens, 
 Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen. 
 
 Algernon [laughing]. Of course not ! 
 What could have put such an idea into 
 your pretty Uttle head? 
 
 Cecily. Thank you. [Presenting 
 her cheek to be kissed] You may. 
 
 [Algernon kisses her] 
 
 Gwendolen. I felt there was some 
 slight error, Miss Cardew. The gen- 
 tleman who is now embracing you is 
 my cousin, Mr. Algernon MoneriefE. 
 
 Cecily [breaking away from Alger- 
 non]. Algernon Monerieff ! Oh! 
 
 [The two girls move towards each 
 other and put their arms round 
 each other's waist as if for pro- 
 tection] 
 
 Cecily. Are you called Algernon? 
 
 Algernon. I cannot deny it. 
 
 Cecily. Oh ! 
 
 Gwendolen. Is your name really 
 John? 
 
 Jack [standing rather proudly]. I 
 could deny it if I liked. I could deny 
 anything if I liked. But my name 
 certainly is John. It has been John 
 for years. 
 
 Cecily. [To Gwendolen] A gross 
 deception has been practised on both 
 of us. 
 
 Gwendolen. My poor wounded 
 Cecily ! 
 
 Cecily. My sweet wronged Gwen- 
 dolen ! 
 
 Gwendolen [slowly and seriously]. 
 You wiU call me sister, wiU you not? 
 
 [They embrace. Jack and Al- 
 gernon groan and walk up 
 and down] 
 
 Cecily [rather brightly]. There is 
 just one question I would like to be 
 allowed to ask my guardian. 
 
 Gwendolen. An admirable idea! 
 Mr. Worthing, there is just one ques- 
 tion I would Uke to be permitted to 
 put to you. Where is your brother 
 Ernest? We are both engaged to be 
 married to your brother Ernest, so it 
 is a matter of some importance to us to 
 know where your brother Ernest is at 
 present. 
 
 Jack [slowly and hesitatingly]. Gwen- 
 dolen — Cecily — it is very painful for 
 me to be forced to speak the truth. It 
 is the first time in my life that I have 
 ever been reduced to such a painful 
 position, and I am really quite inex- 
 perienced in doing anything of the kind. 
 However, I will tell you quite frankly 
 that I have no brother Ernest. I have 
 no brother at aU. I never had a brother 
 in my Mfe, and I certainly have not the 
 smallest intention of ever having one 
 in the future. 
 
 Cecily [surprised]. No brother at 
 aU? 
 
 Jack [cheerily]. None ! 
 
 Gwendolen [severely]. Had you 
 never a brother of any Innd? 
 
 Jack [pleasantly]. Never. Not even 
 of any Mnd. 
 
 Gwendolen. I am afraid it is quite 
 clear, Cecily, that neither of us is en- 
 gaged to be married to anyone. 
 
 Cecily. It is not a very pleasant 
 position for a young girl suddenly to 
 find herself in. Is it ? 
 
 Gwendolen. Let us go int6 the 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 477 
 
 house. They will hardly venture to 
 come after us there. 
 
 Cecily. No, men are so cowardly, 
 aren't they? 
 
 [They retire into the house with 
 scornful looks] 
 
 Jack. This ghastly state of things 
 is what you call Bunburying, I suppose ? 
 
 Algernon. Yes, and a perfectly 
 wonderful Bunbury it is. The most 
 wonderful Bunbury I have ever had 
 in my hfe. 
 
 Jack. Well, you've no right what- 
 soever to Bunbury here. 
 
 Algebnon. That is absurd. One 
 has a right to Bunbury anywhere one 
 chooses. Every serious Bunburyist 
 knows that. 
 
 Jack. Serious Bunburyist! Good 
 heavens ! 
 
 Algernon. Well, one must be seri- 
 ous about something, if one wants to 
 have any amusement in life. I happen 
 to be serious about Bunburying. What 
 on earth you are serious about I haven't 
 got the remotest idea. About every- 
 thing, I should fancy. You have such 
 an absolutely trivial nature. 
 
 Jack. Well, the only small satisfac- 
 tion I have in the whole of this wretched 
 business is that your friend Bunbury is 
 qtiite exploded. You won't be able 
 to run down to the country quite so 
 often as you used to do, dear Algy. 
 And a very good thing too. 
 
 Algernon. Your brother is a little 
 off colour, isn't he, dear Jack? You 
 won't be able to disappear to London 
 quite so frequently as your wicked 
 custom was. And not a bad thing 
 either. 
 
 Jack. As for your conduct towards 
 Miss Cardew, I must say that your 
 taking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl 
 like that is quite inexcusable. Tp say 
 nothing of the fact that she is my 
 ward. 
 
 Algernon. I can see no possible 
 defence at all for your deceiving a 
 brilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced 
 young lady hke Miss Fairfax. To say 
 nothing of the fact that she is my cousin. 
 
 Jack. I wanted to be engaged to 
 Gwendolen, that is aU. I love her. 
 
 Algernon. Well, I simply wanted 
 to be engaged to Cecily. I adore her. 
 
 Jack. There is certainly no chance 
 of your marrying Miss Cardew. 
 
 Algernon. I don't think there is 
 much likelihood. Jack, of you and Miss 
 Fairfax being united. 
 
 Jack. Well, that is no business of 
 yours. 
 
 Algernon. If it was my business, 
 I wouldn't talk a'bout it. [Begins to eat 
 muffins] It is very vulgar to talk 
 about one's business. Only people like 
 stock-brokers do that, and then merely 
 at dinner parties. 
 
 Jack. How you can sit there, calmly 
 eating muffins when we are in this hor- 
 rible trouble, I can't make out. You 
 seem to me to be perfectly heartless. 
 
 Algernon. Well, I can't eat muf&ns 
 in an agitated manner. The butter 
 would probably get on my cuffs. One 
 should always eat muffins qmte calmly. 
 It is the only way to eat them. 
 
 Jack. I say it's perfectly heartless 
 your eating muffins at aU, under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 Algernon. When I am in trouble, 
 eating is the only thing that consoles 
 m.e! Indeed, when I am in really great 
 trouble, as any one who knows me in- 
 timately wiU tell you, I refuse every- 
 thing except food and drink. At the 
 present moment I am eating muffins 
 because I am unhappy. Besides, I am 
 particularly fond of muffins. [Rising] 
 
 Jack [rising]. Well, that is no reason 
 why you should eat them all in that 
 greedy way. 
 
 [Takes muffins from Algernon] 
 
 Algernon [offering tea-cake]. I wish 
 you would have tea-cake instead. I 
 don't like tea-cake. 
 
 Jack. Good heavens ! I suppose a 
 man may eat his own muffins in his own 
 garden. 
 
 Algernon. But you have just said 
 it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins. 
 
 Jack. I said it was perfectly heart- 
 less of you, under the circumstances. 
 That is a very different thing. 
 
 Algernon. That may be. But the 
 muffins are the same. 
 
 [He seizes the muffin-dish from 
 Jack] 
 
 Jack. Algy, I wish to goodness you 
 would go. 
 
 Algernon. You can't possibly ask 
 me to go without having some dinner. 
 It's absurd. I never go without my 
 dinner. No one ever does, except 
 vegetarians and people like that. Be- 
 sides I have just made arrangements 
 with Dr. Chasuble to be christened at 
 a quarter to six under the name of 
 Ernest. 
 
 Jack. My dear fellow, the sooner 
 you give up that nonsense the better. 
 
478 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I made arrangements this morning with 
 Dr. Chasuble to be christened myself 
 at 5.30, and I naturally will take the 
 name of Ernest. Gwendolen would 
 wish it. We can't both be christened 
 Ernest. It's absurd. Besides, I have 
 a perfect right to be christened if I like. 
 There is no evidence at all that I ever 
 have been christened by anybody. I 
 should think it extremely probable I 
 never was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. 
 It is entirely different in your case. 
 You have been christened already. 
 
 Algernon. Yes, but I have not been 
 christened -for years. 
 
 Jack. Yes, but you have been 
 christened. That is the important 
 thing. 
 
 Algbbnon. Quite so. So I know 
 my constitution can stand it. If you 
 are not quite sure about your ever 
 having been christened, I must say I 
 think it rather dangerous your venturing 
 on it now. It might make you very 
 unwell. You can hardly have forgotten 
 that someone very closely connected 
 with you was very nearly carried ofl 
 this week in Paris by a severe chiU. 
 
 Jack. Yes, but you said yovrseU 
 that a severe chiU was not hereditary. 
 
 Algernon. It usen't to be, I know 
 — but I daresay it is now. Science is 
 always making wonderful improvements 
 in things. 
 
 Jack [picking up the muffin-dish]. 
 Oh, that IS nonsense; you are always 
 talking nonsense. 
 
 Algernon. Jack, you are at the 
 muffins again! I wish you wouldn't. 
 There are only two left. [Takes them] 
 I told you I was particularly fond of 
 muffins. 
 
 Jack. But I hate tea-cake. 
 
 Algernon. Why on earth then do 
 you allow tea-cake to be served up for 
 your guests? What ideas you have of 
 hospitaUty ! 
 
 Jack. Algernon ! I have already 
 told you to go. I don't want you here. 
 Why don't you go ? ■ 
 
 Algernon. I haven't quite finished 
 my tea yet ! and there is still one muffin 
 left. 
 
 [Jack groans and sinks into a 
 chair. Algernon still con- 
 tinues eating] 
 
 act-drop 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene. — Mornirig-room at the Manor 
 House. 
 
 [Gwendolen and Cecily are at the 
 window, looking out into the garden] 
 
 Gwendolen. The fact that they 
 did not follow us at once into the house, 
 as anyone else would have done, seems 
 to me to show that they have some sense 
 of shame left. 
 
 Cecily. They have been eating 
 muffins. That looks like repentance. 
 
 Gwendolen [after a pause]. They 
 don't seem to notice us at all. Couldn't 
 you cough? 
 
 Cecily. But I haven't a cough. 
 
 Gwendolen. They're looking at us. 
 What effrontery ! 
 
 Cecily. They're approaching. That's 
 very forward of them. 
 
 Gwendolen. Let us preserve a dig- 
 nified silence. 
 
 Cecily. Certainly. It's the only 
 thing to do now. 
 
 [Enter Jack, followed by Algernon. 
 They whistle some dreadful popular 
 air from a British opera] 
 
 Gwendolen. This dignified silence 
 seems to produce an unpleasant effect. 
 
 Cecily. A most distasteful one. 
 
 Gwendolen. But we will not be the 
 first to speak. 
 
 Cecily. Certainly not. 
 
 Gwendolen. Mr. Worthing, I have 
 something very particular to ask you. 
 Much depends on your reply. 
 
 Cecily. Gwendolen, your common 
 sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff, 
 kindly answer me the following ques- 
 tion : • Why did you pretend to be my 
 guardian's brother? 
 
 Algernon. In order that I might 
 have an opportunity of meeting you. 
 
 Cecily. [To Gwendolen] That 
 certainly seems a satisfactory explana- 
 tion, does it not? 
 
 Gwendolen. Yes, dear, if you can 
 believe him. 
 
 Cecily. I don't. But that does 
 not affect the wonderful beauty of his 
 answer. 
 
 Gwendolen. True. In matters of 
 grave importance, style, not sincerity 
 is the vital thing. Mr. Worthing, what 
 explanation can you offer to me for 
 pretending to have a brother? Was 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 479 
 
 it in order that you might have an 
 opportunity of coming up to town to 
 see me as often as possible? 
 
 Jack. Can you doubt it, Miss Fair- 
 fax? 
 
 Gwendolen. I have the gravest 
 doubts upon the subject. But I intend 
 to crush them. Tms is not the mo- 
 ment for German scepticism. [Mov- 
 ing to Cecily] Their explanations ap- 
 pear to be quite satisfactory, especially 
 Mr. Worthmg's. That seems to me 
 to have the stamp of truth upon it. 
 
 Cecily. I am more than content 
 with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His 
 voice alone inspires one with absolute 
 credulity. 
 
 Gwendolen. Then you think we 
 should forgive them? 
 
 Cecily. Yes. I mean no. 
 
 Gwendolen. True! I had forgot- 
 ten. There are principles at stake that 
 one cannot surrender. Which of us 
 should tell them? The task is not a 
 pleasant one. 
 
 Cecily. Could we not both speak 
 at the same time ? 
 
 Gwendolen. An excellent idea! I 
 nearly always speak at the same time 
 as other people. Will you take the 
 time from me ? 
 
 Cecily. Certainly. 
 
 [Gwendolen beats time with up- 
 lifted finger] 
 
 Gwendolen and Cecily [speaking 
 together]. Your Christian names are 
 stiU an insuperable barrier ! That is all ! 
 
 Jack and Algebnon [speaking to- 
 gether]. Our Christian names ! Is that 
 all? But we are going to be christened 
 this afternoon. 
 
 Gwendolen. [To Jack] For my 
 sake you are prepared to do this terrible 
 thing? 
 
 Jack. I am. 
 
 Cecily. [To Algernon] To please 
 me you are ready to face this fearfxil 
 ordeal? 
 
 Alqehnon. I am ! 
 
 Gwendolen. How absurd to talk 
 of the equality of the sexes ! Where 
 questions of self-sacrifice are concerned 
 men are infinitely beyond us. 
 
 Jack. We are. 
 
 [Clasps hands with Algernon] 
 
 Cecily. They have moments of 
 physical courage of which we women 
 know absolutely nothing. 
 
 Gwendolen. [To Jack] Darling ! 
 Algernon. [To Cecily] DarUng! 
 [They fall into each other's arms] 
 
 [Enter Merriman. When he enters he 
 coughs loudly, seeing the situation] 
 
 Merriman. Ahem ! Ahem ! Lady 
 Bracknell ! 
 Jack. Good heavens ! 
 
 [Enter Lady Bracknell. The couples 
 separate in alarm. Exit Merri- 
 man] 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Gwendolen ! 
 What does this mean? 
 
 Gwendolen. Merely that I am 
 engaged to be married to Mr. Worth- 
 ing, mamma. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Come here. Sit 
 down. Sit down immediately. Hesi- 
 tation of any kind is a sign of mental 
 decajr in the young, of physical weak- 
 ness in the old. [Turns to Jack] Ap- 
 prised, sir, of my daughter's sudden 
 flight by her trusty maid, whose con- 
 fidence I purchased by means of a small 
 coin, I followed her at once by a lug- 
 gage train. Her unhappy father is, I 
 am glad to say, under the impression 
 that she is attending a more than 
 usually lengthy lecture by the Uni- 
 versity Extension Scheme on the In- 
 fluence of a Permanent Income on 
 Thought. I do not propose to undeceive 
 him. Indeed I have never undeceived 
 him on any question. I would con- 
 sider it wrong. But of course, you will 
 clearly understand that all communi- 
 cation between yourself and my daugh- 
 ter must cease immediately from this 
 moment. On this point, as indeed on 
 all points, I am firm. 
 
 Jack. I am engaged to be married 
 to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell ! 
 
 Lady Bracknell. You are nothing 
 of the kind, sir. And now, as regards 
 Algernon ! . . . Algernon ! 
 
 Algernon. Yes, Aunt Augusta. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. May I ask if it 
 is in this house that your invaUd friend 
 Mr. Bunbury resides ? 
 
 Algernon [stammering]. Oh! No! 
 Bunbtiry doesn't Live here. Bunbury 
 is somewhere else at present. In fact, 
 Bunbury is dead. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Dead! When 
 did Mr. Bunbury die ? His death must 
 have been extremely sudden. 
 
 Algernon [airily]. Oh! I killed 
 Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor 
 Bunbury died this afternoon. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. What did he die 
 of? 
 
480 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Algernon. Bunbury? Oh, he was 
 quite exploded. 
 
 Lady Beaoknell. Exploded ! Was 
 he the victim of a revolutionary outrage ? 
 I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was 
 interested in social legislation. If so, 
 he is weU punished for his morbidity. 
 
 Algernon. My dear Aunt Augusta, 
 I mean he was found out ! The doctors 
 found out that Bunbury could not Uve, 
 that is what I mean — so Bunbury 
 died. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. He seems to 
 have had great confidence in the opinion 
 of his physicians. I am glad, however, 
 that he made up his mind at the last to 
 some definite course of action, and acted 
 under proper medical advice. And 
 now that we have finally got rid of this 
 Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, 
 who is that young person whose hand 
 my nephew Algernon is now holding in 
 what seems to me a peculiarly unneces- 
 sary manner? 
 
 Jack. That lady is Miss Cecily Car- 
 dew, my ward. 
 
 [Lady Bracknell bows coldly to 
 Cecily] 
 
 Algernon. I am engaged to be 
 married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. I beg your par- 
 don? 
 
 Cecily. Mr. Moncrieff and I are 
 engaged to be married. Lady Bracknell. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [with a shiver, cross- 
 ing to the sofa and sitting down]. I do 
 not know whether there is anything 
 peouharly exciting in the air of this 
 particular part of Hertfordshire, but the 
 number of engagements that go on 
 seems to me considerably above the 
 proper average that statistics have laid 
 down for oxii guidance. I think some 
 preliminary enquiry on my part would 
 not be out of place. Mr.. Worthing, is 
 Miss Cardew at aU connected with any 
 of the larger railway stations in London ? 
 I merely desire information. Until 
 yesterday I had no idea that there were 
 any famiUes or persons whose origin 
 was a Terminus. 
 
 [Jack looks perfectly furious, but 
 restrains himself] 
 
 Jack [in a clear, cold voice]. Miss 
 Cardew is the granddaughter of the late 
 Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149, Belgrave 
 Square, S.W. ; Gervase Park, Dork- 
 ing, Surrey ; and the Sporran, Fif eshire, 
 N.B. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. That sounds not 
 unsatisfactory. Three addresses always 
 
 inspire confidence, even in tradesmen. 
 But what proof have I of their authen- 
 ticity? 
 
 Jack. I have carefully preserved 
 the Court Guides of the period. They 
 are open to your inspection, Lady 
 Bracknell. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [grimly]. I have 
 known strange errors in that publica- 
 tion. 
 
 Jack. Miss Cardew's family soUc- 
 itors are Messrs. Markby, Markby, and 
 Markby. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Markby, Markby, 
 and Markby? A firm of the very 
 highest position in their profession. 
 Indeed I am told that one of the Mr. 
 Markbys is occasionally to be seen at 
 dinner parties. So far I am satisfied. 
 
 Jack [very irritably]. How extremely 
 kind of you. Lady Bracknell! I have 
 also in my possession, you will be pleased 
 to hear, certificates of Miss Cardew's 
 birth, baptism, whooping cough, regis- 
 tration, vaccination, confirmation, and 
 the measles ; both the German and the 
 Enghsh variety. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Ah! A Ufe 
 crowded with incident, I see; though 
 perhaps somewhat too exciting for a 
 young girl. I am not myself in favour 
 of premature experiences. [Rises, looks 
 at her watch] Gwendolen! the time 
 approaches for our departiu:e. We 
 have not a moment to lose. As a 
 matter of form, Mr. Worthing, I had 
 better ask you if Miss Cardew has any 
 little fortune ? 
 
 Jack. Oh! about a hundred and 
 thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. 
 That is all. Good-bye, Lady Bracknell. 
 So pleased to have seen you. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [sitting down again]. 
 A moment, Mr. Worthing. A hundred 
 and thirty thousand pounds ! And in 
 the Funds ! Miss Cardew seems to 
 me a most attractive young lady, now 
 that I look at her. Few girls of the 
 present day have any really soMd quaU- 
 ties, any of the qualities that last, and 
 improve with time. We Uve, I regret 
 to say, in an age of surfaces, [To 
 Cecily] Come over here, dear. 
 [Cecily goes across] Pretty child! 
 yoiu- dress is sadly simple, and ^our 
 hair seems almost as Nature might 
 have left it. But we can soon alter all 
 that. A thoroughly experienced French 
 maid produces a really marvellous result 
 in a very brief space of time. I re- 
 member recommending one to young 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 481 
 
 Lady Lancing, and after three months 
 her own husband did not know her. 
 
 Jack, [^side] And after six months 
 nobody knew her. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [glares at Jack for 
 a few moments. Then bends, with a 
 practised smile, to Cecily]. Kindly 
 turn round, sweet child. [Cecily turns 
 completely round] No, the side view is 
 what I want. [Cecily presents her 
 profile] Yes, quite as I expected. 
 There are distinct social possibihties in 
 your profile. The two weak i)oints in 
 our age are its want of principle and 
 its want of profile. The chin a little 
 higher, dear. Style largely depends on 
 the way the chin is worn. They are 
 worn very high, just at present. Al- 
 gernon ! 
 
 Alqeenon. Yes, Aunt Augusta ! 
 
 Lady Bracknell. There are distinct 
 social possibilities in Miss Cardew's 
 profile. 
 
 Algernon. Cecily is the sweetest, 
 dearest, prettiest girl in the whole 
 world. And I don't care twopence 
 about social possibilities. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Never speak dis- 
 respectfully of Society, Algernon. Only 
 people who can't get into it do that. 
 [To Cecily] Dear child, of course you 
 know that Algernon has nothing but 
 his debts to depend upon. But I do 
 not approve of mercenary marriages. 
 When I married Lord Bracknell I had 
 no fortune of any kind. But I never 
 dreamed for a moment of allowing that 
 to stand in my way. WeU, I suppose 
 I must give my consent. 
 
 Algernon. Thank you. Aunt Au- 
 gusta. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Cecily, you may 
 kiss me ! 
 
 Cecily [kisses her]. Thank you. 
 Lady Bracknell. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. You may also 
 address me as Aunt Augusta for the 
 future. 
 
 Cecily. Thank you. Aunt Augusta. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. The marriage, I 
 think, had better take place quite soon. 
 
 Algernon. Thank you, Aunt Au- 
 gusta. 
 
 Cecily. Thank you, Aunt Augusta. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. "To speak frankly, 
 I am not in favour of long engagements. 
 They give people the opportunity of 
 finding out each other's character before 
 marriage, which I think is never ad- 
 visable. 
 
 Jack. I beg your pardon for inter- 
 
 rupting you. Lady Bracknell, but this 
 engagement is quite out of the question. 
 I am Miss Cardew's guardian, and she 
 cannot marry without my consent until 
 she comes of age. That consent I 
 absolutely decline to give. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Upon wha,t 
 grounds, may I ask? Algernon is an 
 extremely, I may almost say an osten- 
 tatiously, ehgible young man. He has 
 nothing, but he looks everything. What 
 more can one desire ? 
 
 Jack. It pains me very much to 
 have to speak frankly to you. Lady 
 Bracknell, about your nephew, but the 
 fact is that I do not approve at aU of 
 his moral character. I suspect him of 
 being untruthfid. 
 
 [Algernon and Cecily look at 
 him in indignant amazement] 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Untruthful ! My 
 nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is 
 an Oxonian. 
 
 Jack. I fear there can be no possible 
 doubt about the matter. "This after- 
 noon, during my temporary absence in 
 London on an important question of 
 romance, he obtained admission to my 
 house by means of the false pretence of 
 being my brother. Under an assumed 
 name he drank, I've just been informed 
 by my butler, an entire pint bottle of 
 my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, '89; a wine I 
 was specially reserving for myself. 
 Continuing his disgraceful deception, he 
 succeeded in the course of the after- 
 noon in alienating the affections of my 
 only ward. He subsequently stayed to 
 tea, and devoured every single muffin. 
 And what makes his conduct aU the 
 more heartless is, that he was perfectly 
 well aware from the first that I have no 
 brother, that I never had a brother, and 
 that I don't intend to have a brother, 
 not even of any kind. I distinctly told 
 him so myself yesterday afternoon. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Ahem ! Mr. 
 Worthing, after careful consideration 
 I have decided entirely to overlook my 
 nephew's conduct to you. 
 
 Jack. That is very generous of you. 
 Lady Bracknell. My own decision, 
 however, is unalterable. I decline to 
 give my consent. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. [To Cecily] 
 Come here, sweet child. [Cecily goes 
 over] How old are you, dear? 
 
 Cecily. Well, I am really only 
 eighteen, but I always admit to twenty 
 when I go to evening parties. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. You are per- 
 
482 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 fectly right iu makiiig some slight al- 
 teration. Indeed, no woman should 
 ever be quite aopurate about her age. 
 It looks so' calcxilating. ... [In a 
 meditative manner] Eighteen, but ad- 
 mitting to twenty at evening parties. 
 Well, it will not be very long before 
 you are of age and free from the re- 
 straints of tutelage. So I don't think 
 your guardian's consent is, after all, a 
 matter of any importance. 
 
 Jack. Pray excuse me. Lady Brack- 
 nell, for interrupting you again, but it 
 is only fair to tell you that according 
 to the terms of her grandfather's will 
 Miss Cardew does not come legally of 
 age till she is thirty-five. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. That does not 
 seem to me to be a grave objection. 
 Thirty-five is a very attractive age. 
 London society is full of women of the 
 very highest birth who have, of their 
 own free choice, remained thirty-five 
 for years. Lady Dumbleton is an in- 
 stance in point. To my own knowledge 
 she has been thirty-five ever since she 
 arrived at the age of forty, which was 
 many years ago now. I see no reason 
 why our dear Cecily should not be even 
 still more attractive at the age you men- 
 tion than she is at present. There will 
 be a large accumulation of property. 
 
 Cecily. Algy, could you wait for 
 me till I was thirty-five? 
 
 Algernon. Of course I could, 
 Cecily. You know I could. 
 
 Cecily. Yes, I felt it instinctively, 
 but I couldn't wait all that time. I 
 hate waiting even five minutes for any- 
 body. It always makes me rather cross. 
 I am not punctual myself, I know, but 
 I do like punctuality in others, and 
 waiting, even to be married, is quite 
 out of the question. 
 
 Algernon. Then what is to be 
 done, Cecily? 
 
 Cecily. I don't know, Mr. Mon- 
 criefl. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. My dear Mr. 
 Worthing, as Miss Cardew states posi- 
 tively that she cannot wait till she is 
 thirty-five — a remark which I am 
 bound to say seems to me to show a 
 somewhat impatient nature — I would 
 beg of you to reconsider your decision. 
 
 Jack. But my dear Lady Bracknell, 
 the matter is entirely in your own hands. 
 The moment you consent to my mar- 
 riage with Gwendolen, I will most 
 gladly allow your nephew .to form an 
 .aUiaijce with niy ward. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [rising and draiv- 
 ing herself up]. You must be quite 
 aware that what you propose is out of 
 the question. 
 
 Jack. Then a passionate oeUbaoy is 
 all that any of us can look forward to. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. That is not the 
 destiny I propose for Gwendolen. 
 Algernon, of course, can choose for 
 himself. [Pulls out her watch] Come 
 dear ; [Gwendolen rises] we have al- 
 ready missed five, if not six, trains. To 
 miss any more might expose us to 
 comment on the platform. 
 
 [Enter Dr. Chasitble] 
 
 Chasuble. Everything is quite 
 ready for the christenings. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. The christenings, 
 sir ! Is not that somewhat prematiu-e ? 
 
 Chasuble [looking rather puzzled, and 
 pointing to Jack and Algernon]. Both 
 these gentlemen have expressed a desire 
 for immediate baptism. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. At their age? 
 The idea is grotesque and irreligious! 
 Algernon, I forbid you to be baptised. 
 I wiU not hear of such excesses. Lord 
 BrackneU would be highly displeased 
 if he learned that that was the way in 
 which you wasted your time and 
 money. 
 
 Chasuble. Am I to understand 
 then that there are to be no christen- 
 ings at all this afternoon ? 
 
 Jack. I don't think that, as things 
 are now, it would be of much practical 
 value to either of us. Dr. Chasuble. 
 
 Chasuble. I am grieved to hear 
 such sentiments from you, Mr. Worth- 
 ing. They savour of the heretical views 
 of the Anabaptists, views that I have 
 completely refuted in four of my un- 
 published sermons. However, as yom* 
 present mood seems to be one peculiarly 
 secular, I will return to the church at 
 once. Indeed, I have just been in- 
 formed by the pew-opener that for the 
 last hour and a half Miss Prism has 
 been waiting for me in the vestry. 
 
 Lady Bracknell [starting]. Miss 
 Prism! Did I hear you mention a 
 Miss Prism? 
 
 Chasuble. Yes, Lady Bracknell. 
 I am on my way to join her. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Pray allow me 
 to detain you for a moment. This 
 matter may prove to be one of vital 
 importance to Lord Bracknell and my- 
 self. Is this Miss Prism a female of 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 483 
 
 repellant aspect, remotely connected 
 with education ? 
 
 Chasuble [somewhat indignantly]. 
 She is the most cultivated of ladies, 
 and the very picture of respectability. ' 
 
 Lady Bracknell. It is obviously 
 the same person. May I ask what 
 position she holds in your household ? 
 
 Chasuble [severely]. I am a celibate, 
 madam. 
 
 Jack [interposing]. Miss Prism, Lady 
 Bracknell, has been for the last three 
 years Miss Cardew's esteemed governess 
 and valued companion. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. In spite of what 
 I hear of her, I must see her at once. 
 Let her be sent for. 
 
 Chasuble Rooking off]. She ap- 
 proaches ; she is nigh. 
 
 [Enter Miss Prism hurriedly] 
 
 Miss Prism. I was told you ex- 
 pected me in the vestry, dear Canon. 
 I have been waiting for you there for 
 an hour and three-quarters. 
 
 [Catches sight of Lady Brack- 
 nell, who has fixed her with a 
 stony glare. Miss Prism grows 
 pale and quails. She looks 
 anxiously round as if desirous 
 to escape] 
 Lady Bracknell [in a severe, judicial 
 voice]. Prism! [Miss Pmsm bows^ her 
 head in shame] Come here. Prism ! 
 [Miss Prism approaches in a humble 
 manner] Prism! Where is that baby? 
 [General consternation. The Canon starts 
 hack in horror. Algernon and Jack 
 pretend to be anxious to shield Cecily 
 and Gwendolen from hearing the de- 
 tails of a terrible public scandal] Twenty • 
 eight years ago. Prism, you left Lord 
 Bracknell's house. Number 104, Upper 
 Grosvenor Street, in charge of a peram- 
 bulator that contained a baby, of the 
 male sex. You never returned. A 
 few weeks later, through the elaborate 
 investigations of the Metropolitan 
 poUce, the perambulator was discov- 
 ered at midnight, standing by itself 
 in a remote corner of Bayswater. It 
 contained the manuscript of a three- 
 volume novel of more than usually 
 revolting sentimentality. [Miss Prism 
 starts in involuntary indignation] But 
 the baby was not there! [Everyone 
 looks at Miss Prism] Prism ; where is 
 that baby? [A pause] 
 
 Miss Prism. Lady Bracknell, I 
 admit with shame that I do not know. 
 I only wish I did. The plain facts of 
 
 the case are these. On the morning of 
 the day you mention, a day that is for 
 ever branded on my memory, I pre- 
 pared as usual to take the baby out 
 in its perambulator. I had also with 
 me a somewhat old, but capacious 
 hand-bag in which I had intended to 
 place the manuscript of a work of 
 Action that I had written during my 
 few unoccupied hours. In a moment 
 of mental abstraction, for which I never 
 can forgive_ myself, I deposited the 
 manuscrijjt in the bassinette, and placed 
 the baby in the hand-bag. 
 
 Jack [who has been listening atten- 
 tively]. But where did you deposit the 
 hand-bag? 
 
 Miss Prism. Do not ask me, Mr. 
 Worthing. 
 
 Jack. Miss Prism, this is a matter 
 of no small importance to me. I insist 
 on knowing where you deposited the 
 hand-bag that contained that infant. 
 
 Miss Prism. I left it in the cloak- 
 room of one of the larger railway stations 
 in London. 
 
 Jack. What railway station? 
 
 Miss Prism [(juite crushed]. Victoria. 
 The Brighton line. [Sinks into a chair] 
 
 Jack. I must retire to my room for 
 a moment. Gwendolen, wait here for 
 me. 
 
 Gwendolen. If you are not too 
 
 long, I will wait here for you all my life. 
 
 [Exit Jack in great excitement] 
 
 Chasuble. What do you think this 
 means, Lady Bracknell? 
 
 Lady Bracknell. I dare not even 
 suspect. Dr. Chasuble. I need hardly 
 tell you that in families of high position 
 strange coincidences are not supposed 
 to occur. They are hardly considered 
 the thing. 
 
 [Noises heard overheard as if 
 someone was throwing trunks 
 about. Everyone looks up] 
 
 Cecily. Uncle Jack seems strangely 
 agitated. 
 
 Chasuble. Your guardian has a 
 very emotional nature. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. This noise is 
 extremely unpleasant. It sounds as if 
 he was having an argument. I dislike 
 arguments of any kind. They are 
 always vulgar, and often convincing. 
 
 Chasuble [looking up]. It has 
 stopped now. [The noise is redoubled] 
 
 Lady Bracknell. I wish he would 
 arrive at some conclusion. 
 
 Gwendolen. This suspense is ter- 
 rible. I hope it will last. 
 
484 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Enter Jack vnth a hand-bag of black 
 leather in his hand] 
 
 Jack [rushing over to Miss Prism]. 
 Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism? 
 Examine it carefully before you speak. 
 The happiness of more than one life 
 depends on your answer. 
 
 Miss Prism [calmly]. It seems to 
 be mine. Yes, here is the injury it 
 received through the upsetting of a 
 Gower Street omnibus in younger and 
 happier days. Here is the stain on the 
 lining caused by the explosion of a 
 temperance beverage, an incident that 
 occurred at Leamington. And here, 
 on the lock, are my initials. I had 
 forgotten that in an extravagant mood 
 I had had them placed there. The 
 bag is undoubtedly mine. I am de- 
 lighted to have it so unexpectedly re- 
 stored to me. It has been a great 
 inconvenience being without it all these 
 years. 
 
 Jack [in a pathetic voice]. Miss 
 Prism, more is restored to you than this 
 hand-lsag. I was the baby you placed 
 in it. 
 
 Miss Prism [amazed]. You? 
 
 Jack [embracing her]. Yes . . . 
 mother ! 
 
 Miss Prism [recoiling in indignant 
 astonishment]. Mr. Worthing ! I am 
 unmarried ! 
 
 Jack. Unmarried ! I do not deny 
 that is a serious blow. But after all, 
 who has the right to oast a stone against 
 one who has suffered ? Cannot repent- 
 ance wipe out an act of foUy? Why 
 should there be one law for men, and 
 another for women ? Mother, I forgive 
 you. [Tries to embrace her again] 
 
 Miss Prism [still more indignant]. 
 Mr. Worthing, there is some error. 
 [Pointing to Lady Bracknell] There 
 is the lady who can teU you who you 
 really are. 
 
 Jack [after a pause]. _ Lady Bracknell, 
 I hate to seem inquisitive, but would 
 you kindly inform me who I am? 
 
 Lady Bracknell. I am afraid that 
 the news I have to give you will not 
 altogether please you. You are the 
 son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, 
 and consequently Algernon's elder 
 brother. 
 
 Jack. Algy's elder brother! Then 
 I have a brother after all. I knew I 
 had a brother! I always said I had a 
 brother ! Cecily, — how could you 
 have ever doubted that I had a brother ? 
 
 [Seizes hold of Algernon] Dr. Chas- 
 uble, my unfortunate brother. Miss 
 Prism, my unfortunate brother. Gwen- 
 dolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy, 
 you young scoundrel, you will have to 
 treat me with more respect in the future. 
 You have never behaved to me like a 
 brother in all your life. 
 
 Algernon. Well, not till to-day, 
 old boy, I admit. I did my best, how- 
 ever, though I was out of practice. 
 
 [Shakes hands] 
 
 Gwendolen. [To Jack] My own! 
 But what own are you? What is your 
 Christian name, now that you have be- 
 come someone else? 
 
 Jack. Good heavens ! . . . I had 
 quite forgotten that point. Your de- 
 cision on the subject of my name is 
 irrevocable, I suppose? 
 
 Gwendolen. I never change, ex- 
 cept in my affections. 
 
 Cecily. What a noble nature you 
 have, Gwendolen ! 
 
 Jack. Then the question had better 
 be cleared up at once. Aunt Augusta, 
 a moment. At the time when Miss 
 Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I 
 been Christened already ? 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Every luxury 
 that money could bu3r, including chris- 
 tening, had been lavished on you by 
 your fond and doting parents. 
 
 Jack. Then I was christened! 
 That is settled. Now, what name 
 was I given? Let me know the worst. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Being the eldest 
 son you were naturaEy christened after 
 your father. 
 
 Jack [irritably]. Yes, but what was 
 my father's Christian name? 
 
 Lady Bracknell [meditatively]. I 
 cannot at the present moment recall 
 what the General's Christian name was. 
 But I have no doubt he had one. He 
 was eccentric, I admit. But only in 
 later years. And that was the result 
 of the Indian climate, and marriage, 
 and indigestion, and other things of that 
 kind. 
 
 Jack. Algy! Can't you recollect 
 what our father's Christian name was? 
 
 Algernon. My dear boy, we were 
 never even on speaking terms. He died 
 before I was a year old. 
 
 Jack. His name would appear in 
 the Army Lists of the period, I suppose. 
 Aunt Augusta ? 
 
 Lady Bracknell. The General was 
 essentially a man of peace, except in his 
 domestic life. But I have no doubt 
 
The Importance of Being Earnest 
 
 485 
 
 his name would appear in any military 
 directory. 
 
 Jack. The Army Lists of the last 
 forty years are here. These delightful 
 records should have been my constant 
 study. [Rushes to bookcase and tears 
 the books out] M. Generals. . . . Mal- 
 1am, Maxbohm, Magley, what ghastly 
 names they have — Markby, Migsby, 
 Mobbs, Moncrieff! Lieutenant 1840, 
 Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, 
 General 1869, Christian names, Ernest 
 John. [Puts book very quietly down and 
 speaks quite calmly] I always told you, 
 Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn't 
 I ? Well, it is Ernest after all. I mean 
 it naturally is Ernest. 
 
 Lady Bracknell. Yes, I remember 
 that the General was called Ernest. I 
 knew I had some particular reason for 
 dishking the name. 
 
 Gwendolen. Ernest ! My own 
 Ernest! I felt from the first that you 
 could have no other name ! 
 
 Jack. Gwendolen, it is a terrible 
 
 thing for a man to find out suddenly 
 that all his life he has been speaking 
 nothing but the truth. Can you for- 
 give me? 
 
 Gwendolen. I can. For I feel that 
 you are sure to change. 
 
 Jack. My own one ! 
 
 Chasuble. [To Miss Pbism]. Lseti- 
 tia! [Embraces her] 
 
 Miss Prism [enthusiastically]. Fred- 
 erick ! At last ! 
 
 Algernon. Cecily ! [Embraces her] 
 At last ! 
 
 Jack. Gwendolen! [Embraces her] 
 At last ! 
 
 Lady Bracknell. My nephew, you 
 seem to be displaying signs of triviality. 
 
 Jack. On the contrary. Aunt Au- 
 gusta, I've now realised for the first 
 time in my life the vital Importance 
 of Being Earnest. 
 
 Tableau 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
THE GAY LORD QUEX 
 
 {1899) 
 By Aethuk Wing Pineko 
 
ARTHUR WING PINERO 
 
 How curious it is to re-read Pinero in the full light of Ibsen, Shaw, and Gals- 
 worthy. Manners and customs and morals change, but human nature remains 
 constant. It is because Pinero, in the past, leaned so lightly upon manners and 
 customs and morals of the '80's and '90's, and leaned upon nothing else, that now, 
 in 1918, after twenty-five years, he does not seem to have added as much to the 
 renaissance of the British stage as one has been led to expect by the numberless 
 substantial and interesting successes he has had. 
 
 There are two supreme characteristics about Pinero which still make us accept 
 him as a leading figure in the British drama — one is his unfailing ability to interest 
 an audience in his story ; and the other is the never-faiUng perfectness of his tech- 
 nique, which often surmounts any weakness of intellectual reasoning or psychologi- 
 cal analysis his plays might have. After twenty-five years, we come to regard 
 Pinero in historical perspective. We are able, with justice, to claim that while 
 he did much to revive the fast declining drama of England in the '80's, he was a 
 follower rather than a leader. In this respect his claim to permanence in the history 
 of modern British drama is not as secure, nor as justly important, as that of Henry 
 Arthur Jones. He far exceeds the latter in his originahty of invention, in his variety 
 of character, in his exuberance of form. Like Jones, Pinero has consciously defied 
 the sedateness of Mrs. Grundy, only in the end to make concessions to pubUo sen- 
 sitiveness. But by inheritance, Jones, a farmer's son, aimed his shafts at a society 
 to which he could lay no claim, except as an observant outsider, whereas Pinero, 
 sprung from an Anglo-Portuguese stock of social position, levelled his satire at a 
 circle on which he had some inside hold. 
 
 On re-examining the early plays of Pinero and the early plays of Jones, it is not 
 too much to say, after twenty-five years, that the conscience of the farmer's son was 
 always stronger and more sensitive than the conscience of the London solicitor's 
 son. It is because of that, it is because Jones, in his preface to "Saints and Sin- 
 ners" (1881), and in his interesting book on "The Renascence of the EngUsh 
 Drama", showed that what the British stage of his early day most needed was an 
 unhampered outlook upon life, where life was greater than society, that he is en- 
 titled to a place above that of Pinero. 
 
 Had Arthur Wing Pinero not been a dramatist, he would have been a very 
 excellent novelist; not a story-teller of the Meredith type, nor of the Hardy 
 type, even though critics at one time accused him of depending upon Hardy's 
 "Far from the Madding Crowd " in the writing of his comedy, "The Squire", given 
 at the St. James's Theatre, in December, 1881. In the same way that Pinero has 
 never been able quite to overcome his inheritance from Tom Robertson — an 
 inheritance which he has never wanted to repudiate — so would hfe never have 
 been able, had he been a novelist, to shake off his debt to Charles Dickens. This 
 
 489 
 
490 Representative British Dramas 
 
 influence can be seen in his plays. He has the same method of character portrayal 
 — a character portrayal which attaches itself to a trick of phrase, as an identi- 
 fying mark ; such a trick, for example, as Frayne's exclamation that every- 
 thing is "alluring", in "The Gay Lord Quex" (1899), or Sir William's reiterant ex- 
 clamation, "Have we no cheers!" in "Trelawny of the 'Wells'" (1898). Put 
 such tricks by the side of Uriah Heep, with his clammy hands and his humble grin, 
 of Newman Noggs, and his cracking finger joints, of Micawher, with his "something 
 turning up", of Mantalini, with his "Dem. it I Bless its little heart 1" Were it 
 not for the fact that Pinero is supreme as a technical artist, these little theatrical 
 tricks of his would, from the very beginning, have been monotonous and often 
 irritating. For he has always been inclined to shape his play, even to force its shape, 
 for its legitimate theatrical cUmax, rather than to measure and weigh every logical 
 step in his position. 
 
 It is only after twenty-five years, when one has read, in rapid succession, the 
 numerous pubhshed plays by Pinero, that one discovers his repetition of situation 
 and idea, and his very slight variation of character. The inference is forced upon 
 us that Pinero's art is a dominantly "clever" one, where he can claim the interest 
 of an audience in "The Profligate" (1889), and then, a few years after, hold that 
 same interest with a similar motive in "The Gay Lord Quex" (1899) ; where he 
 can arouse sympathy through a drama Uke "Iris" (1901), and play reminiscent 
 themes of the same moral tone in "Mid-Channel" (1909). Even "The Second 
 Mrs. Tanqueray" (1893) suggests certain similarities with "His House in Order" 
 (1906), which A. B. Walkley very interestingly declares should have been called 
 ' ' The Second Mrs. Jesson. ' ' Like the noveHst also, Pinero becomes interested in his 
 people to such an extent that he develops the type to greater proportions, as when 
 Agatha in "The Magistrate" (1885) becomes Georgina Tidman in "Dandy Dick" 
 (1887) ; or he uses the same character over again, the Lady Egidia Drumdurris, in 
 " The Cabinet Minister " (1890), appearing in "The Amazons" (1893), in the course 
 of Lady Castlejordan's conversation. 
 
 This power of giving his plays new cuts from old material has always charac- 
 terized Pinero. Even in the days of his Court Farces, when "The Magistrate" 
 (1885), "The School-Mistress" (1886), and "Dandy Dick" (1887) helped to estab- 
 lish his career, it was his exuberance of dialogue, his easy skill in light character- 
 sketching, that enriched the slight framework of his invention. For, in those 
 early days, Pinero was not able to disguise the clever manipulation of his technique. 
 He applied the methods of the "well-made play", of the artificial comedy, to a 
 theory of farce which has thus been described by one of his critics : 
 
 He claims for it a wider scope and more comprehensive purpose than have 
 ever been associated with farce of the old Adelphi type, or the modern genus of 
 the Palais Royal. He has openly expressed his opinion that farce must gradu- 
 ally become the modern equivalent of comedy, since the present being an age 
 of sentiment rather than of manners, the comic playwright must of necessity 
 seek his humour in the exaggeration of sentiment. 
 
 After twenty-five years, however, the only claim that such plays as "The Hobby 
 Horse" (1886), "The Cabinet Minister" (1890), "The Times" (1891), and "The 
 Amazons" (1893), might have upon our attention would be their vivacity rather 
 than their permanence of comedy character or situation. They are many degrees 
 
Arthur Wing Pinero 491 
 
 superior to the artificiality of Boucicault's "London Assurance" (1841). They are 
 in no way of the perennial class with Sheridan's "The School for Scandal" (1777). 
 Not only that, but it might readily be claimed that Pinero, in his handling of the 
 Ughter forms of comedy, has never approached the excellence of Henry Arthur Jones, 
 in his play of High Comedy manners; "Mary Goes First" (1913). 
 
 In English drama, Pinero has figured since 1877. He came at a time when the 
 British stage was at its lowest ebb, when there had been no tremendous reaction 
 in the wake of Tom Robertson's insistence on a certain type of reality for the 
 theatre. Of Portuguese-Jewish extraction — his family originally spelled their 
 name Pin-heiro — he was born in London, on the old Kent Road, May 24, 1854. 
 Well-grounded in a common-school education, he was persuaded by his father to 
 read law with him in Lincoln's Fields. This legal training, even though it was not 
 called into service as a livelihood, was a good education for a dramatist of his type. 
 His love for the theatre becoming dominant, he joined a company headed by Mr. 
 and Mrs. R. H. Wyndham, Edinburgh managers, and was given by them small 
 parts and a smaller salary. He played in Wilkie Collins's "Miss Gwilt ", produced 
 in London in 1876, and for five years was with Sir Henry Irving, assuming such parts 
 as Guildenstern or the King in "Hamlet", and Salarino in "The Merchant of 
 Venice." 
 
 In October, 1877, he wrote a small piece entitled "Two Hundred a Year", fol- 
 lowed by a number of curtain-raisers, which Irving produced and in which Irving 
 appeared. The casts of some of his early dramas show the names of R. C. Carton, 
 Henry V. Esmond, and Myra Holme, who afterwards became Lady Pinero. It 
 was in November, 1880, that he definitely launched his career as a dramatist, with a 
 play entitled "The Money Spinner." 
 
 We mention this play because it brought Pinero into association with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Kendal and John Hare, and was the beginning of that long series of special 
 easts which marked most of the Pinero productions, and which undoubtedly influ- 
 enced him in the selection of his dramatis personce while writing. 
 
 In the first volume of the definitive edition of Pinero's play, edited by Mr. Clay- 
 ton Hamilton, "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" (1893) and "The Notorious Mrs. 
 Bbbsmith " (1895) challenge reconsideration. It is a reconsideration in the light of 
 Ibsen, and after our social conscience has been awakened through the Fabian ideas 
 of Bernard Shaw and the ironical methods of Galsworthy. Our psychology has 
 grown more acute in the last twenty-five years, and this will undoubtedly affect our 
 re-reading of Pinero's serious plays. 
 
 It might be said that when "The Profligate" was presented, in 1889, Pinero be- 
 gan to get his stride. But with the perversity which has always marked his develop- 
 ment, he could never be relied upon to take the same length of step each time, hav- 
 ing always turned, at will, from farce to sentiment, from sentiment to satire, from 
 tragedy to comedy. Yet undoubtedly, "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" and "The 
 Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith" mark a well-defined period in the development of 
 Pinero. They represent the effect Ibsen had upon hitn, an effect produced in the 
 English playwright after he had witnessed the first London production of ' ' Ghosts ' ', 
 at J. T. Grein's Independent Theatre, on March 13, 1891. 
 
 In the application of the word "social" to Pinero, critics approach the very 
 weakest side of his talent as a playwright, and of his claim to position in the British 
 drama as a thinker. In his introduction to one of his first printed plays, "The 
 
492 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Times" (1892), he shows a reflection of attitude, a reaction of response toward 
 the Ibsen philosophy, when he writes : 
 
 At this particular moment in the struggling existence of our drama, a 
 playwright ought perhaps to offer an apology for a work which, he entreats, 
 may be considered unpretentious. Yet, even at a time when the bent of the 
 dramatic taste is, we are assured, deliberately severe, there may be some to 
 whom the spectacle of the mimic castigation of the lighter faults of humanity 
 may prove entertaining — nay, more, to certain simple minds, instructive. 
 There may be stiU those who consider that the f oUies, even the vices, of the age 
 may be chastised as effectually by a sounding blow from the hollow bladder of 
 the jester as by the fierce apphcation of the knout ; that a moral need not in- 
 variably be enforced with the sententiousness of the sermon or the assertive- 
 ness of the tract. 
 
 This, seemingly, is Pinero's criticism of the early "bold" Mr. Jones and the sUghtly 
 later "daring" Mr. Shaw. In view of our having lived since the '80's through a, 
 period of keenly critical social philosophy, it does not seem that Pinero has changed 
 much in the case he holds against the thesis drama. It is not reticence of charac- 
 ter that has made him so loath to go deep in his criticism of English society. It 
 is a fault of character which indicates in him the absence of social sympathy. The 
 inability of Pinero to shift his social vision is, therefore, one of his shortcomings, 
 and he finds himself in these present days as specifically dated in the history of 
 British drama as though he were no longer creating. 
 
 Yet it is because of his retention of that creative faculty to an almost even 
 height, that a play by Arthur Wing Pinero, in these days, twenty-five years after 
 "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" and "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith", raises 
 expectancy and speculation. As an important craftsman he has, since the ap- 
 pearance of these two dramas, advanced far and matured unerringly. "The 
 Second Mrs. Tanqueray" and "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith" read well. Their 
 dialogue has literary character to it. Their psychology is still theatrically inter- 
 esting. Yet, put by the side of Paula Tanqueray the figure of Hedda Gabler (1890), 
 and by the side of Agnes Ebbsmith the figure of Rebecca West (1886), and say — Look 
 upon Pinero, and then on Ibsen. Even the unerring surface photographs of Lord 
 Dangars, in "The Profligate", the Duke of St. Olpherts, in "The Notorious Mrs. 
 Ebbsmith", and the gay Lord Quex, invite comparison with Doctor Rank in "A 
 Doll's House." Mr. Hamilton refers to Pinero as being a forward-looking drama- 
 tist ; nevertheless he claims that when he discussed " The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith" 
 with Pinero, the latter told him much about the early life of Agnes, and about her 
 inheritance from her father and her mother. None of this antecedent influence is 
 overpoweringly impressed upon us in the text of the play, as Nora's antecedents 
 are made vital in "A DoU's House.'' Bernard Shaw had a right to sneer at the 
 social philosophy of Pinero, who tried to make his heroine a Hyde Park free-speech 
 woman, and sought to impress us with her modern fearlessness. Pinero was en- 
 tirely too forward-looking in the writing of this play, because he undoubtedly 
 shaped everything to culminate in Agnes's Bible-burning scene — a scene, again, 
 which, in its organic character, offers contrast with Hedda Gabler's burning of 
 Eilert Lovborg's manuscript ; not that these two scenes are comparable in their 
 
Arthur Wing Pinero 493 
 
 motives, but in their technical placing as inherent parts of the drama they do form 
 a most significant technical contrast. 
 
 After twenty-five years, the interest in "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" is still 
 strong. In the reading of all Pinero's plays, however, to the time of "His House 
 in Order", we detect that great faiUng of his — the inabihty to write dialogue which 
 fuUy accords with the character destined to speak it ; he is still old-fashioned in 
 that he is inclined to be a little bombastic in his speech, a little platitudinous in 
 sentiment, and often given to the "aside." As Walkley so acutely suggests, Pinero 
 is devoid of any fastidious feeling for realism in language. 
 
 Yet, considering historically the time in which "Tanqueray" and "Ebbsmith" 
 were written, we cannot but feel that they are mile-posts of a most significant order 
 in the history of the modern British drama. Pinero's technique has advanced 
 beyond them. No one will gainsay the fact that, in point of artistry, "His House 
 in Order" (1906), " The Thunderbolt " (1908), "Mid-Chanhel" (1909), "The 'Mind 
 the Paint' Girl" (1912), are far better in their literary character than "The Benefit 
 of the Doubt" (1895), "The Princess and the Butterfly" (1897), and "Iris" (1901). 
 Yet, these latter plays have lost none of their fascination as expert pieces of drama- 
 turgy, and as interesting examples of the story-teller's art. Who could gainsay 
 the pictorial charm of "Trelawny of the 'Wells'", with its character portrait 
 of Tom Robertson's alias Tom Wrench? 
 
 Pinero is not interested in the individual, except as a god in the machine which 
 he is creating. And he creates it so perfectly, so exactly, that he finds himself 
 in turn governed by the machine ; that is why Mr. Hamilton is right in calling 
 Pinero the playwright's playwright, in the same sense that for all time Spenser will 
 be known as the poet's poet. As Pinero has grown older, he has not reUnquished 
 any of the" tricks" which were practised by him in earUer years. Cayle Drummle, 
 in "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray", is a foreshadowing of the Hon. Peter Mottram 
 in "Mid-Channel." The Bible-burning scene in "Ebbsmith" suggests a method 
 later used in "Iris", when Maldinado upsets the furniture. The only period that 
 Pinero seems to have outgrown is his "Sweet Lavender" (1888) years, a character- 
 istic mood which fiowered and matured in "The Princess and the Butterfly", and 
 seems, more or less, to have died out. 
 
 As a dramatist of the serious, Knero becomes a student of the individual, of the 
 special, rather than of the type. It may be that had Ibsen been born in London, 
 his Nora (1881), his Hedda, his Ellida (1888), and his Hildamight have been sub- 
 jected to an environment which would have left them less intellectually diseased. 
 They would also have had less brains. They would have been more apt to be moved 
 by English circumstances, as in the case of Iris, than by the universal laws of hered- 
 ity, as in the case of Nora. 
 
 In "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" and in "The Profligate", the woman and 
 the man are subjected to the fate of their past sins, but these sins are marked by cir- 
 cumstance, not by heredity. Lechmere, in "Letty" (1903), for example, when car- 
 ried to the verge, cries out that he is a victim of past generations. But Pinero fails, 
 in any of his plays, to have character disturbed by an active past. Even in "His 
 House in Order", the first Mrs. Jesson is not as vitally present as is Mrs. Rosmer 
 in "Rosmersholm." It may be that this is the difference between what we call 
 Ibsen realism and Pinero seriousness. "Iris''' is not a study of sin; it is a study 
 of innate weakness of character, subject to time and place. In other words, Pinero's 
 characters either conquer or are conquered by circumstance. 
 
494 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The technique of a dramatist who has attained such perfect execution invites 
 close study. Throughout his career, Pinero has been reticent regarding the analy- 
 sis of himself ; much more reticent than Henry Arthur Jones, who has written many 
 books which might be quoted in criticism against himself. Of his dramatic theory, 
 Pinero does not often write. His famous lecture on Stevenson, issued in brochure 
 by the Dramatic Museum of Columbia University, is the only guide we have to 
 what he considers playwriting to be. During the course of this lecture he asks : 
 
 What is dramatic talent? Is it not the power to project characters, and 
 to cause them to tell an interesting story through the medium of dialogue? 
 This is dramatic talent ; and dramatic talent, if I may so express it, is the raw 
 material of theatrical talent. Dramatic, like poetic, talent is born, not made ; 
 if it is to achieve success on the stage it must be developed into theatrical 
 talent by hard study, and generally by long practice. For theatrical talent con- 
 sists in the power of making your characters not only tell a story by means of 
 dialogue, but tell it in such skilfully-devised form and order as shall, within 
 the Umits of an ordinary theatrical representation, give rise to the greatest 
 possible amount of that peculiar kind of emotional effect, the production of 
 which is the one great function of the theatre. 
 
 That Pinero possesses a dominant theatrical talent is not to be denied. He has 
 learned his technique through a long life of association in the theatre. And, as 
 one critic said, his position would have been higher "if he could but forget to show 
 off his technical skill by bedeviling . . . his main theme with a glittering con- 
 geries of inessential things." He has made actors, and actors have made him. 
 In this respect his counterpart in American drama is Clyde Fitch. His career is 
 intimately associated with the development of John Hare ; Quex, Heron, in "Lady 
 Bountiful" (1891), Dangars, in "The Profligate", the Duke of St. Olpherts in 
 " Bbbsmith ", were as assuredly shaped for the talents of Hare as was Mrs. Ebbsmith 
 for the pecuUar style of Mrs. Patrick Campbell, after her first success in "Tan- 
 queray." 
 
 Perhaps no British dramatist is personally so little known to the public as 
 Pinero. His name is attached to many documents of public interest, probably 
 because, being a Dean among members of the new school, it is the proper thing for 
 him to do. His plays have appeared with regularity, and each has been received 
 on its own merit ; and no dramatist of his generation — unless it be Jones — has 
 challenged so much enthusiastic support and so much contrary criticism. He is an 
 experimenter, not only in stage technique, but in showing how far technique can be 
 appUed to the governing of character. His "Iris" was unjustifiably brutal in its 
 solution, his interest being to see how far down in the scale of life he could drag a 
 woman when the machinery of his invention showed that, at any moment, he could 
 have saved her if he had so wished. 
 
 It seems strange that a quarter of a century back any manager should have 
 hesitated to give Pinero's "social" dramas. Both George Alexander and Daniel 
 Frohman hesitated when brought face to face with "Tanqueray." 
 
 We are told that Pinero's stories come to him first, that the characters arise out 
 of the plot he has selected. One writer has declared that "Pinero must see his 
 scenes. He went and had a good look at the Albany before placing there the 
 
Arthur Wing Pinero 495 
 
 chambers of Aubrey Tanqueray. For the later scenes he visited Haslemere which 
 he called Willowmere, and Mrs. Cortleyon's house was one which he had actually 
 been in as the ^est of Mrs. Humphry Ward." 
 
 Being a man of the theatre he leaves nothing to the haphazard choice of his 
 players. He draws his ground-plan for his stage carpenter. He sketches his 
 scene for the painter. According to Daniel Frohman, whose name is so closely 
 associated with Pinero's in the American career of the latter, the Pinero script is 
 filled with minute stage directions — "so complete and thorough in detail that it 
 was not dififioult to rehearse them from the author's point of view. In ' The Ama- 
 zons ' (1893), for instance, the play was so surcharged with business that one-half 
 of the humourous effect lay in the interrelated action of the characters." 
 
 However enthusiastic our admiration for the body of Pinero's work, there is no 
 denying the fact, as Shaw says, that no one would guess he was a contemporary 
 of Ibsen, Tolstoi, Meredith, or Sarah Grand. With him, thought is but a part of 
 the situation. It does not go deep. It has no very great partisan feeling. His 
 plays are clever sketches rather than reaUstic paintings of social conditions. In 
 his usual humourous way of stating things, Shaw writes: "It is significant of the 
 difference between my temperament and Mr. Pinero's, that when he, as a little 
 boy, first heard 'Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming', he wept; whereas at the same 
 tender age I simply noted with scorn the obvious plagiarism from 'Cheer, boys, 
 cheer.'" 
 
 In other words, Shaw would arrive at the same conclusion reached by Mario 
 Borso, that Pinero's power is entirely emotional. 
 
 Not strange, therefore, that in this re-statement of Pinero, we cannot place 
 him in that development, so excellently outlined by Holbrook Jackson in " The 
 Eighteen Nineties." For, as Mr. Jackson has said, Pinero was a pioneer of the 
 new movement only by way of compromise. 
 
 Those social elements which are to be noted in the rise in influence of the Fabian 
 Society had no interest for him when he was a young man. The deeper social sense, 
 which has been behind Shaw and Brieux, Galsworthy and Barker, has claimed none 
 of his concern. As a technical expert, he came into the dramatic horizon when 
 EngUsh drama was at its lowest ebb. The critic, P. P. Howe, in his "Dramatic 
 Portraits", claims that the final estimate of Pinero will be that despite his defects 
 he kept the theatres open at a time when they threatened to shut down. 
 
 In the re-reading of the Pinero plays, one is still impressed by the freshness of 
 his stories. They have not staled after a quarter of a century, though we may be 
 able to see more of the machinery in "Tanqueray" than we did when it was first 
 produced. What fate wiE overtake Pinero during the next quarter of a century is 
 hard to determine, especially in this onrush of democratic taste. It is economics 
 and sociology, not technique, that have made him a Uttle old-fashioned, that have 
 taken from him his special claim to distinction. The vitality of Paula and Agnes 
 is greater than the vitahty of Camille. These plays may yet find their way into a 
 national repertory as permanent examples of a period drama, but they have no 
 direct place in that renaissance which immediately preceded the present war, and 
 which is represented by Galsworthy's "The Silver Box" (1906), "Justice" (1910), 
 and "The Pigeon" (1912), or by Barker's "The Madras House" (1910), "Waste"' 
 (1907), and "The Voysey Inheritance" (1905). Throughout Pinero's career, there 
 has been a peeuUar lack of any of the poetry of life, of any of the fundamental re- 
 
496 Representative British Dramas 
 
 lationships which remain, no matter how time and place may change. Neverthe- 
 less, considering the period which has elapsed since 1893 and 1895, it is surprising 
 how well the framework of "Tanqueray" and "Ebbsmith" holds its own. This 
 permanence of framework is due, not to the mental Pinero, but entirely to his one 
 tremendous claim on our attention — his worth technioaUy as a dramatic artist. 
 
 "The Gay Lord Quex" has been selected as representative of the technical 
 qualities of Pinero in characterization and in story-telling. It may be true, as Howe 
 says in his "Dramatic Portraits", that it took Pinero two acts to get Quex into a 
 bedroom, and two acts to get him out ; but there is something more to "The Gay 
 Lord Quex" than that. It is, as Max Beerbohm proclaimed it, when it was first 
 given at the Globe Theatre, London, on April 8, 1899, a technical coup. At the time 
 of its presentation, both in England and New York, it was probably one of the most 
 talked-about pieces on the current stage. In the character of Sophy and in the 
 character of Quex, Pinero's whole interest seems to have centred. He gives us 
 genre pictures. His technique is deft and definite. But even here, as Arthur 
 Symons wrote, when the play was revived at the Duke of York's Theatre, in 1902, 
 "He has no breadth of view, but he has a clear view. He suggests nothing ; he tells 
 you all he knows." 
 
 The play was brought to America by Mr. Hare, and was given at the New York 
 Criterion Theatre, on November 12, 1900. A revival was seen in New York during 
 the season of 1917, the text being revamped by Pinero to accord with the chang- 
 ing styles of architeettire and fashion. In other words, "The Gay Lord Quex" 
 was sprinkled with up-to-date electrical contrivances and automobiles. In its 
 technique the play was in part old-fashioned, but still showed the masterly hand 
 of the seasoned dramatist. ' 
 
THE GAY LORD QUEX 
 
 (1899) 
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 By ARTHUR W. PINERO 
 
COPTHIQHT, 1900, 
 
 By ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL 
 
 All rigJUe reserved 
 Entered at Stationers* Hall, London, England 
 
 This play is fully protected by the copyright law, all requirements of which 
 have been complied with. In its present printed form it is dedicated to the read- 
 ing public only, and no performances of it may be given without the written per- 
 mission of Daniel Frohman, owner of the acting rights, who may be addressed in 
 care of the publisher. 
 
 Reprinted by permission of Sir Arthur Wing Pinero, and by special arrangement 
 with William Heinemann, London, and Walter H. Baker and Company, Boston. 
 
 
^ a^^^^^j^-^^ ^ ^^' 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Establishment of Sophy Fullgarnet, Manicurist and Dispenser of 
 Articles for the Toilet, 185 New Bond Street. 
 
 {Afiemoon) 
 
 ACT II 
 At Lady Owbhidqe's. The " Italian Garden," Fauncet Court, Richmond. 
 
 (^Evening) 
 
 ACT III 
 
 A Boudoir and Bedroom at Fauncey Court. 
 
 {J<ligU) 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 In Bond Street Again. 
 
 (TAe Following Day) 
 
 The action of the Play is comprised within the space of twenty-four hours. 
 
THE CAST FOR THE FIRST ENGLISH PRODUCTION 
 
 The Mabquess of Qtjbx 
 Sib Chichester Fraynb 
 
 a Professional Palmist 
 
 Governor of Uumhos, 
 West Coast of Africa 
 
 Captain Bastlinq 
 
 "Valma", otherwise 
 
 Fbank Pollitt . . . 
 The Duchess of Steood . . 
 Julia, Countess of Owbbidge 
 Mrs. Jack Eden . 
 Muriel Eden . . 
 Sophy Fullgarney 
 Miss Moon 
 Miss Huddle 
 Miss Clabidge 
 Miss Limbird 
 
 her sister-in-law 
 a Manicurist 
 
 her assistants 
 
 A Young Lady and Other Patrons op Miss Full- 
 
 GABNEY 
 
 Sebvants at Fauncby Coubt 
 
 Globe Theatre, London, 
 
 April 8, 1899 
 Mr. John Hare 
 
 Mr. Gilbert Hare 
 Mr. Charles Cherry 
 
 Mr. Frank GUbnore 
 Miss Forteseue 
 Miss Fanny Coleman 
 Miss Mona K. Drain 
 Miss Mabel Terry-Lewis 
 Miss Irene Vanbrugh 
 Miss Laura M'Gilvray 
 Miss Doris Templeton 
 Miss Victoria Addison 
 Miss Marion Dolby 
 Miss K. Carpenter 
 Mrs. Copleston 
 Miss B. Coleman 
 Mr. Richard Lambart 
 Mr. Hubert Evelyn 
 Mr. Abbot and Mr. Lennox 
 
 [This play was first produced in America, at the Criterion Theatre, New York, on 
 November 12, 1900, with Mr. Hare as Quex.] 
 
THE GAY LORD QUEX 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The scene represents a manicure estab- 
 lishment in New Bond Street. It 
 is a front room upon the first floor 
 with three Frenchr-windows affording 
 a view of certain buildings on the east 
 side of the street. On the left, furthest 
 from the spectator, is a wide, arched 
 opening, apparently leading to an- 
 other apartment, in which is the door 
 giving entrance to the rooms from 
 the staircase. Nearer, there is an- 
 other French-window, opening on to 
 an expanse of "leads" and showing 
 the exterior of the wall of the further 
 room above-mentioned. From the 
 right, above the middle window, runs 
 an ornamental partition, about nine 
 feet in height, with panels of opaque 
 glass. This partition extends more 
 than half-way across the room, then 
 runs forward for some distance, turns 
 off at a sharp angle, and terminates 
 between the arched opening and the 
 window on the left. That part of the 
 partition running from right to left 
 is closed on its left side and forms, 
 therefore, a separate room or compart- 
 ment. Facing the audience, on the 
 right, is a door admitting to this 
 compartment; and, on the left, also 
 in the partition opposite the windows 
 on the right, is an opening with a 
 looped-back portibre. The space be- 
 tween this opening and the further 
 room forms a narrow ante-room, con^ 
 taining articles of furniture visible 
 through the opening. Mirrors are 
 affixed to the right wall, between the 
 lower and the middle window and 
 between the middle window and the 
 partition, while on the left, between 
 the window and the partition, is 
 another mirror. A number of busi- 
 ness cards are stuck in the frames of 
 the mirrors. On the right, before 
 each of the two lower windows, turned 
 from the spectators, is a capacious 
 arm-chair, made in cane open-work. 
 
 The 
 [On 
 
 501 
 
 Attached to the arms of these chairs 
 are little screens — ' also made of cane 
 — shielding, in a measure, the occur- 
 pants of the chairs from observation. 
 Upon both the right and left arms of 
 these chairs are circular frames in 
 cane, shaped to receive bowls of water. 
 Above each of the screen-chairs stands 
 a smaller chair, set to face the larger 
 «ne; and beside the small chair, on 
 its right hand, is a low table upon 
 which are arranged the instruments 
 and toilet necessaries employed in 
 the process of manicure. On the 
 right, between the window and the 
 partition, is a three-cornered what- 
 not, on which are set out packets of 
 soap and of powder and other articles 
 of the toilet. At the further end of 
 the room, in the centre, stands a desk 
 laden viith accountr-books ; and, above 
 the desk, its back against the partition, 
 is a chair. On the right is a hat-and- 
 umbrella stand. Nearer, in the 
 centre, is a large circular table on 
 which are displayed bottles of scent 
 and liquid soap, cases of instru- 
 ments for manicure, and some wooden 
 bowls of bath-soap with lather brushes. 
 On the right and left are ordinary 
 chairs. Placed against the partition 
 on the left, and facing the audience, 
 is a cabinet, making a display similar 
 to that upon the what-not. Nearer, 
 on the left, there is another screen- 
 chair set to face the audience ; below 
 it is a smaller seat and, by the side 
 of the smaller seat, another little table 
 with manicure tools, etc. Some 
 framed photographs of ladies hang 
 against the wood-work of the partition 
 and in the wall-spaces; and in the 
 lower and middle windows, on the 
 right, bird-cages are suspended, 
 light is that of a bright day in June, 
 the right Miss Claridgb and Miss 
 Huddle are in the final stages of 
 manicuring two smart-looking men. 
 
502 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The men occupy the screen-chairs; 
 the manicurists — comely girls in 
 blcMk frocks — sit, facing the men, 
 upon the smaller seats. On the left 
 Miss Moon is rougeing and varnish- 
 ing the nails of a fashionably-dressed 
 young lady whose maid is seated at 
 the table in the centre. Miss Lim- 
 BiRD is at the desk, deep in accounts] 
 
 [To 
 
 the young lady] 
 
 ' , will you ? 
 
 Not too red — nicely 
 
 Miss Moon. 
 You w on't liav( 
 YouNQ Lady 
 flushed. 
 
 First Gentleman [examining his 
 nails critically as he rises]. I say though, 
 that's a vast improvement 1 
 
 Miss Clahidge. Getting more 
 shapely, aren't they? 
 
 First Gentleman. Thanks awfuUy. 
 
 [He pays Miss LimbieDj^ stands 
 
 talking to her fof'TfTvhile, and 
 
 ultimately strolls away through 
 
 the opening in the partition. 
 
 After putting her table in order. 
 
 Miss Claridge goes out the 
 
 same way, carrying her bowl 
 
 of water and towel] 
 
 Miss Moon. [To the young lady] 
 
 Have you had your hand read yet, 
 
 madam, hy-any_flfjthese palmists? 
 
 Young Lady^ H eavTmKT-yRs 1^ I've 
 
 been twice to that' woman Bernstein, 
 and I don't know how often to Chiron. 
 
 Miss Moon. A h, you ought to try 
 Vahna^^ 
 
 Young Lady. ValmaX, 
 
 Miss Moon. HeTSie latest. Ladies 
 are flocking to him. 
 
 Young Lady. Really? 
 
 Miss Moon. Yes. Such taking 
 manners. 
 
 Young Lady. Where does he ? 
 
 Miss Moon. 186 ^ r- next dq or. [In- 
 dicating the window' on the left] You 
 can see his waiting-room from that 
 
 window. '■ ~ 
 
 Is he a guinea or half 
 
 Young Lady. 
 a guinea? 
 Miss Moon. 
 Young Lady. 
 Miss Moon. 
 
 Oh, he's a guinea. 
 That's a bore. 
 Ah, but consider, 
 madam — • his . rooms are Jraped_ from 
 ceiling to floorjii_blue-j!Blvet. Blue 
 velvet! fancy I lfot-that-Pve4iad the 
 privilege of viewing them myself ; Miss 
 F. is our authority. 
 Young Lady. Miss F. ? 
 Miss Moon. I beg your pardon — 
 Miss FuUgarney. Vahna is quite neigh- 
 bourly with Miss FuUgarney. 
 
 [A door-gong sounds — as it does 
 every time any one enters or 
 quits the establishment — sig- 
 nifying that the first gentleman 
 has departed] 
 Second Gentleman [rising]. Much 
 obliged. [Putting a tvpAnto Miss Hud- 
 dle's hand] For yourself. 
 Miss Huddle. Mu$!h-obliged.to you. 
 Second Gentleman. You're a fresh 
 face here? 
 
 Miss Huddle. Yes; I used to be 
 with Mossu _ and Madame ^Roget in 
 Mortimer Street. 
 
 Second Gentleman. I'U ask for you 
 next timsv What name ? 
 
 Miss Huddle. Miss Huddle. 
 Second Gentleman. Huddle? 
 Miss Huddle. Well, p'r'aps you'd 
 better ask for Miss Hud-deUe ; I fancy 
 Miss FuUgarney is goingjto alter me to 
 that. ~~~ — ' "" 
 
 Second Gentleman [with u, nod]. 
 Goo' bye. 
 
 Miss Huddle. Good-day, sir. 
 
 [He pays Miss Limbird and goes 
 
 out. The maid rises and hands 
 
 the young lady her gloves] 
 
 Miss Moon [taking a card from the 
 
 mirror]. Would you Uke a card of 
 
 Valma's, madam, just to remind you? 
 
 YhwsJ3- liASY— [accepting the card and 
 reading it]. "Valma. Palmist. Pro- 
 fessor of the Sciences of Chiromancy 
 and Chirognomy. 186, New Bond 
 Street." [Giving the card to her maid] 
 Keep that. [The door-gong sounds] 
 
 Miss Moon [opening a window]. 
 Look, madam. That's one of his 
 rooms ; the window there — the open 
 
 one 
 
 Young Lady. Yes, I see. Thanks. 
 Good morning. 
 Miss Moon. Good morning. 
 
 [The young lady pays Miss Lim- 
 bird and goes, followed by her 
 m,aid] 
 Miss Huddle. [To Miss Moon] 
 What time isntrdear? 
 
 Miss Moon [putting her table in order]. 
 Half-past one. LundiJiime..^ 
 
 Miss Huddle. Thought so ; I've 
 seoh a vacancy. 
 
 [Miss Huddle goes out, carrying 
 her bowl and towel, as Frank 
 PoiAATr — "Valma" — ap- 
 pearsat the window on the left — 
 a well, if rather showily, dressed 
 young fellow, wearing a frock 
 coat, white waistcoat, and patents 
 leather boots. He is handsome 
 
The Gay Lord Qimx 
 
 503 
 
 in ^ a __common^place way and, 
 though siiUeSlcndsdfieonscious, 
 earnest in speech and-bearing] 
 
 PoLLiTT [looking in] . Excuse me 
 
 Miss Moon \startled ]. Oh I oh, Mr. 
 Vahna! 
 
 PoLLiTT [entering]. Is Miss Full- 
 garney in the way ? 
 
 Miss MooNJigaiing_atJiim in modest 
 admiration]. She!a_with-a-laidy in the 
 private roo^^MrTValma. 
 
 "[TJiedbofin the partition opens] 
 Sophy [from the jnivate room]. Oh, 
 no, madam, T promis e T won't forget. 
 Certainly ~not. 1 tate too much in- 
 terest in your daughter's nails for that. 
 Miss Moon. 'This is her. 
 
 [A middle-aged lady enters from 
 the private room followed by 
 Sophy Fullgahney. The cus- 
 tomer pays at the desk while 
 Sophy rattles on. So phy i s a 
 pretty, elegant, innocently vul- 
 gar, fascinating young woman 
 of six-andr-twenty] 
 Sophy [with the air of the proprietress 
 of a prosperous establishment]. Oh, yes, 
 it did slip my memory to eome on Thurs- 
 day, didn't it? T he truth is I had a 
 most racking headrarthmg 1 never have 
 — well, I oughtn't to say ifever~have, 
 ought I? [To Miss Limbied] Now, 
 Miss Limbird, see that two pots of 
 OrSme de Mimosa are posted to Mrs. 
 Arment^^Carlos Place; and book me, 
 please — me =- you Jihotoughly^under- 
 stand ? — to attend upojLMisa Arment 
 to-naorrow^vemngji^even, [Accomr- 
 panying the customer, who now withdraws] 
 To-morrow evening at seven — without 
 fail. [Raising her voice] The door, 
 Miss Claridge. Good morning, madam. 
 Good afternoon. 
 
 [The door-gong sounds] 
 Sophy. Come, girls, you can get to 
 your lunches. 
 
 [Miss Limbird leaves her desk 
 and goes out] 
 Miss Moon. Here's Mr. Valma, 
 Miss FuHgarney. 
 
 SoPHT [with a little ffogp]. Mr. 
 Vallnal [Approaching hirn] How do 
 yojLjda?^ 
 
 PoLLiTT [advancing]. Pardon me for 
 the libettyjjiasce-taken. in again_<a;oss- 
 ing the,leads. 
 
 Sophy Jj,ooking away from him]. No 
 liberty-ataU. 
 
 PoLLiTT. I desire a few words with 
 you. Miss FullgameVr-and it str uck me 
 that artErs~JTme of the day 
 
 Sophy. Yes, there's nothing doing 
 here just at lunch-time. 
 
 PoLLiTT. Perhaps you would gra- 
 ciously allow me to converse with you 
 
 while you 
 
 Sophy [regaining her self-possession]. 
 Oh, I had my lunch an hour ago; I 
 came over so ravenous. [Goin^ to 
 Miss Moon, who is still lost in adrhira- 
 tion of PoLLiTT — in a whisper] Be 
 off, child. JDon't^stand staring at Mr. 
 Valma; 
 
 Miss Moon [in Sophy's ear]. Lthink- 
 Pvg ^got him another 1 
 Sophy: Shut up f" 
 
 [Miss Moon withdraws, with her 
 bowl and towel] 
 Sophy. [To Pollitt] Did you catch 
 what she said? Oh, it doesn't matter 
 if you did ; you know we are aUjgorldng 
 forj^tnijjikeniggers. 
 "PoLLiTT \lenSefly]. Ah I 
 Sophy. Not a customer leaves my 
 place_wrthoutha3dllg_heard your name 
 mentione37 "]My7 girls~a3^ — ^regular 
 bricks. 
 
 PoLLiTT [approaching her]. And what 
 are.yQU? 
 
 Sophy [looking away again]. Oh, I 
 do no more than any of the others. 
 
 PoLLiTT. Do you expect me to be- 
 lieve that?— yoUr-theip-queen 1 No, it is 
 you who have helped me to steer my 
 barkjito-t ho flowing w aftars-of-popu- 
 larity. 
 
 Sophy [nervously]. Extremely pleased, 
 I — I'm sure. [He is dose beside her; 
 a cork is drawn loudly. They part, 
 startled and disturbed. She goes to the 
 opening in the-^artUion, raising her 
 voice slightly] Girls, can't you draw 
 your_s2Eks_a--shade-€[«ietw4'— ^ice if 
 somebody was coming upstairs I 
 
 Miss LiMBiBD [in the distance]. Very 
 sorry. Miss Fullgamey. 
 
 Sophy. [To Pollitt, as she toys with 
 the articles upon the circular table] 
 Everything is so up this weather. It's 
 
 theirfeae-julce champagne. 
 
 'TrmtiePt—iby — her^side again — sud- 
 denly]. I love yo uj-' 
 
 Sophy. O h, Mr. Vahn gi-I 
 PoLLiTT. 1 Jojffi_youT_EyOT_since I 
 had the honour of bein g prese nted to 
 you T)y TSIrrSalmonrTEe picture-dealer 
 next door, I have thought of you, 
 dreamt of you, constantly. [She brushes 
 past him; he follows her] Miss Full- 
 gamey, you will accord me permission 
 to pay you iny addresses ? 
 
 Sophy [in a flutter]. I — I am highly 
 
504 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 flatter ed antL jeo mplim o a ted, Mr. Val- 
 
 ma,TJy yourj^Hpoial^ 
 
 '^PoTAATfJtaking her hand]. Flattered 
 
 — no! 
 
 Sophy [withdraioing her hand]. Oh, 
 but please wait ! 
 
 POLLITT. Wait I 
 
 Sophy. I mean, I certainly couldn't 
 dream of aceepting-the^-attentions of 
 anyman^ until £e fully unders tood — — ■ 
 
 PoLLiTT. TJnderstood whatTT 
 
 Sophy [summoning all her dignity]. 
 Oh, I'll be perfeotly,Btraight with you 
 
 — until he fully understood that^what- 
 ever my station in life may^be now, I 
 haye jrisen. from rather — well, 1 may 
 say very small beginnings. " 
 
 PoLiiiTTr What matters that? 
 Sophy. Oh, but I beg your pardon 
 
 — it does. [Relaxing] I am sure 1 
 can depend on you not to give me 
 away all over the place ? 
 
 PoLLiTT. Miss Pullgarney ! 
 
 Sophy [after a cautious glance round]. 
 You know, Mr. Valma, I was always a 
 self-willed, independent sort. ol_a girl — 
 a handfuITTihey used to call me ; and 
 when father died I determined to have 
 done with my stepmotheE^^iidjto come 
 to London at any ^grice. I wus "Seven- 
 teen then> '" 
 
 PoLLiTT. Yes ? 
 
 Sophy. Oh, it's nothing to be 
 ashamed of, really; still, I did begin 
 life in toviiL Ji/with-an uneasy little laugh 
 and a toss of the head] — you'd hardly 
 beUeve it ! — asLiunursery-maid. 
 
 PoLLiTT. ' 'EL'to. ! I am aware that is 
 not considered 
 
 Sophy. I should think not ! Oh, of 
 course, in time I rose to be Useful 
 Maid, and then Maid. I've been lady's- 
 maid in some excellent houses. And 
 when I got sick of maiding I went to 
 Dundas's opposite, and served three 
 years at the hairdressing ; that's an 
 extremely refined position, I needn't 
 say. And then some kind friends 
 routed^ me out [surveying the room 
 proudly] and put me into this. 
 
 PoLLiTT. Then why bestow a second 
 thought upon your beginnings ? 
 
 Sophy. No, I suppose I oughtn't to. 
 Nobody can breathe a word against my 
 respectability. All the same, I am quite 
 aware that it mightn't be over-pleasant 
 for a gentleman to remember that his 
 wife was once — [sitting in the screen^- 
 chair] well, a servant. 
 
 PoLLiTT [by her chair]. It would not 
 weigh on my mind if you had been 
 
 kitchen-maid [pointing out of the window] 
 at Fletcher's Hotel. [Looking about 
 him] It's this business I don't care 
 for. 
 
 Sophy. This business ! 
 
 PoLLiTT. For you. H^ypu_d'd no 
 more than -glida' about "your rooms, 
 superinte'ndingyour young ladies I [Sit- 
 ting, facing Mr] But I hate the idea 
 of your sitting here, or there, holding 
 some man's hand in yours ! 
 
 SopBy [smfdenly 'aUaze]. Do you I 
 [Pointing out of the window] Yet you 
 sit there, day after day, and hold 
 women's hands in yours ! 
 
 PoLLiTT [eagerly]. You are jealous 
 of me? 
 
 Sophy [panting]. .^Jittle. 
 
 PoLLiTT [going down upon one knee]. 
 Ah, you do love me ! 
 
 Sop'aY~[faMtly]. Fondly. 
 
 PoLLiTT. And you will b ejny wife? 
 
 Sophy. Yes^_ 
 
 PoLLiTT [embracing her]. My dearest! 
 
 Sophy. Not yet! suppose the girls 
 sa w you ! 
 
 PoEEiTT. Let all the world see us! 
 
 Sophy [submissively, laying^ her cheek 
 upon his brow] Oh, but I wish— and 
 yet I doiTt wish — — 
 
 POLLITT. What? 
 
 Sophy. That you were not so much 
 niy superior in every way. 
 
 ForcLTrT-fwrTiTr-aftered voice]. Sophy. 
 
 Sophy [in a murmur, her eyes closed]. 
 Eh-h-h? 
 
 PoLLiTT. I have had my early 
 strusgIes.-4op. 
 
 Sophy. You, love? 
 
 PoLLiTT. Yes^H you should ever 
 hear — ■ — ■ 
 
 Sophy. Hear ? 
 
 PoLLiTT. That until recently I was 
 
 a soheitor]selert 
 
 ^S©i>HY ^Ughtly surprised]. A solic- 
 itor's clerk? 
 
 PoLLiTT. You would not turn against 
 me? 
 
 Sophy. Ah, as if ! 
 
 PoLLiTT. You know my real name 
 is Pollitt^ Frank TolemaaPpllitt? 
 
 Sophy. I've heard it isn't really 
 Valma. [With a little shiver] Never 
 mind that. 
 
 PoLLiTT. But I shall be Frank to' 
 you henceforth, sha'n't I? 
 
 Sophy. Oh, no, no ! always Valma 
 to me — [dreamily] my Valma. [Th^r 
 lips meet in a prolonged kiss. Then the 
 door-gong sounds] Get up ! [They rise 
 in a hurry. She holds his hand tightly] 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 605 
 
 Wait and see who it is. Oh, don't go 
 for a DunuteLstay a minute ! 
 
 jThey separate; ke'SCands looking 
 out upon the leads. Miss 
 Claeidqe enters, preceding the 
 Mahquebs J3P Qttex and Sik 
 Chicesteb Fbatne. -Lord 
 QuBiJQ i s for ty-e ight, ke en-faced 
 and bnght-eyed', faultless In 
 dress, in manner debonair and 
 charming. Frayne is a genial 
 wreck of about five-and-forty — 
 the lean and shrivelled remnant 
 of a once good-looking man. 
 His face is yellow and puckered, 
 his hair prematurely silvered, his 
 mustache palpably touched-up] 
 Quex [perceiving Sophy and approach- 
 ing her]. ^ How are you, Miss Full- 
 garney ? 
 
 Sophy [respectfully bui icily]. Oh, 
 hgw- do you-do, -my-ford ? 
 
 [Miss Ci/ARiDGB withdraws. 
 Frayne comes foward, eye- 
 ing Sophy with interest] 
 Quex. My aunt — L ady Owbridge 
 — has as ked me to meet her here at 
 two.J3lcIqoki Her ladyship is lunching 
 at a teashop close by — bunning is a 
 more fitting expression — with Mrs. 
 Eden and Miss Eden. 
 Sophy [gladly]. Miss Muriel ! 
 Quex. Yes, I believe Miss Muriel 
 will place her pretty feigg-ttps i n your 
 charge^ [porJ^u to FbayneJ whieT^gScort 
 Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack to view 
 this new biblical i)icturB"=-fzOT*fe-B ges- 
 ture] a few doors up. What is the sub- 
 ject? — Moses in the Bulrushes. [To 
 Frayne] Cbme withus. Chick. 
 
 Sophy. It's not quite two, -my lord ; 
 if .you Uke, you've justjime tn-jun in 
 next-door and-have yourjjalm-Efiad. 
 
 Quex. My palm ? 
 
 Sophy. By^this extraordinary palm- 
 ist. £verybodv is talking about — Valm a. 
 Quex [pleasantly\. One of these for- 
 tune-telling fellows, eh? [Shaking his 
 heaS] I prefer ttie gijjsy on Epsom race- 
 course. 
 
 Sophy [under her breath]. Oh, indeed ! 
 [Curtly] Please take a seat. 
 
 [She flounces up to the desk and 
 busies herself there vindictively] 
 Frayne. [To Quex] Who's that 
 gal? whatlaJieFname? 
 
 QuE:gr Fullgarney ; a prot6g6e of the 
 Edens. Her-firthw-was bailiff to old 
 Mr. Eden, at their place in Norfolk. 
 
 Frayne. Bather alluring — eh, 
 what?. 
 
 Quex [wincing}. — D o n 't , C hick! 
 
 Frayne. My dear Harry, it is per- 
 fectly proper, now that you are affianced 
 to Miss EdenriaEd^havc-fSormea, all 
 tEat ~sofr pf^^ tttng -— it is p erfectly 
 proper that you should no longerTrbserve 
 pretty women too narrowly. 
 
 Quex. ObviouslyT"' ' 
 
 Frayne. But do bear in mind that 
 your old friend is not so pledged. 
 Recollect_that_J„haveJ3Beir "Stuck for 
 the"lasT;"eigEFyears, with-inter-vals of 
 leave, on the West Coast of Africa, 
 nursing malaria 
 
 Quex [severely]. Only malaria? 
 
 Frayne [mournfully]r~ TbereTTnoth- 
 ing else to nurse, dear Harry, on the 
 West vCoast—of— Africa. [Glancing at 
 Sophy] Yes, by gad, that gal is allur- 
 ing! 
 
 Quex [walking away]. Tssh ! you're 
 a bad companion. Chick ! 
 
 [He goes to the window and looks 
 into the street. Frayne joins 
 him. Sophy, seizing her op- 
 portunity, comes down to PoL- 
 litt] 
 
 Sophy. [To Pollitt] Valma, dear, 
 you see that man? 
 
 Pollitt. Which of the two ? 
 
 Sophy. The dark one. That's Lord 
 Quex-: ^ the wickedest man in Lon don. 
 
 Pollitt! He loots it. [Jealously] 
 Have you ever cut his nails? v 
 
 Sophy. No, love, no.. Oh, Jive 
 heacd.-suchJialfia_aboutiim ! 
 
 Pollitt. What tales ? 
 
 Sophy. I'll tell you [demurely] when 
 we!re married..^-Aad_the^ worst of it is, 
 he is engag ed to Miss Eden . ' 
 
 Pollitt; Who is she ? 
 
 Sophy. Miss Muriel Eden, my 
 fost er-sister ; Jhe-dearest-Jri^n^L I^harve 
 in-tte;;^^:^— exoepJi you,_Sj?.eetheart. 
 It wasMunerand her brother Jack who 
 put me into this business. And now 
 my darling is to be sacrificed to that 
 
 gay old thing ! 
 
 [The door-gong sounds; Quex 
 turns expectantly] 
 
 Pollitt. ,._If Miss Eden is your 
 foster-sister — — 
 
 Sophy. Yes, of course, she's six- 
 and-tyenty. But the poor girl has 
 been worried into it hj her_.sister-in- 
 law, Mrs. Jack, whose one ideals Title 
 and Position. Title and Position with 
 that~old rake^_her side ! 
 
 [Miss Limbibd enters, preceding Cap- 
 tain Basiling — a smart, soldierly- 
 
506 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 looking man of about eight-and- 
 iwenty. Miss Limbird returns to 
 her seat at the desk] 
 
 _ Sophy [seeing Bastling]. My gra- 
 cious ! 
 
 PoLLiTT. What's the matter ? 
 
 QuEX [recognizing Bastling and greet- 
 ing him]. Hallo, Napier ! how are you ? 
 
 Bastling [shakirig~h:and's~wtth-QvBx]. 
 Hallo, Quex! 
 
 QtTEX. What are you doing here? 
 
 Sophy. [To Pollitt] Phew ! I hope 
 to goodness Lord Quex Tginlt lumble to 
 anything; 
 
 PotLiTT. Tumble — to what ? 
 
 [Quex introduces Bastling to 
 Frayne] 
 
 Sophy. You don't understand ; it's 
 Captain Bastling — the maiu- Murie l is 
 really-feud^of.. 
 
 Pollitt. What, while she's en- 
 gaged ? ""^ 
 
 .^OPHY [with clenched hands]. Yes, 
 and sh e shall inarry Mm too , my darling 
 shall.TI^LcajiJiet p'to~brin'g~rt-afaoB tr~ 
 
 Pollitt. You? 
 
 Sophy. Bless 'em, I don't know how 
 they'd eontrive without me ! 
 
 Pollitt. Contrive ? 
 
 Sophy [fondly]. You old stupid! 
 whenever Muriel is coming to be mani- 
 cured ^hesends_Cajilain_Eastlingaw5in- 
 ing overnight [squeezing Pollitt s arm, 
 roguishlyT^^^s kind of thing — "My 
 heart js_Jieaj!:y_ and m y nails are long. 
 To-morrow — ^tEree^Mrtyr^'-'TIa, ha, 
 ha! 
 
 Pollitt. Dearest, let me advise 
 you 
 
 Sophy [her hand upon his lips]. Ah, 
 don't lecture ! [Bastling saunters for- 
 ward to attract Sophy's attention] 
 
 Oh ! [To Pollitt, hurriedly] Go 
 
 now. Pop in again by-and-by. [Ca- 
 _ \ Um-m-m ! my love ! 
 [Pollitt goes out by the vnndow] 
 
 Sophy [joining Bastling — formally]. 
 Good-day, Captain Bastling. 
 
 Bastling. Good-afternoon, Miss 
 Fullgarney. 
 
 Sophy [dropping her voice], She,'lL-be 
 here in,_a. minutg;^^ 
 
 Bastling [inTow tones — making a 
 show of-examiming- the' articles on the 
 circular table]. Yes, I had a note from 
 her this morning. [Glancing at Quex] 
 Confounded nuisance 1 
 
 Sophy [pretending to display the arti- 
 cles]. -It!s_-al]r^RgJat,u_Jlfils_got— to-take 
 Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack Eden to 
 
 look at Moses in the Bulrushes — a 
 picture 
 
 Bastling. Sophy — I've bad news. 
 
 Sophy. No! what? 
 
 Bastling. Mxjegimentjs ordered 
 to Hong-Kong. 
 
 Sophy. Great heavens! when are 
 you off? 
 
 Bastling. ,In a, fortnight. 
 
 Sophy. Oh, my poor darling I 
 
 Bastling. I must see her again to- 
 morrow. I'jaa_something serious to 
 pro pose to her. 
 
 Sophy [half in eagerness, half in fright] 
 HavejcQU ? 
 
 Bastling. But to-morrow it must 
 be, alone, Sophy; I can't say what I 
 have to say in"arfew h asty whispers , with 
 all your girls flittitlgla&flut — and per- 
 haps~a: cuatomeE,Qr_tKO hOTe^ Alone ! 
 
 Sophy. Without me ? 
 
 Bastling. Surely you oanjrust us. 
 To-morrow at-tacelve. Yo.u!ll manage 
 
 Sophy. How can J — alone ? 
 Bastling. You're our only friend. 
 Think! 
 
 Sophy [glancing suddenly toward the 
 left]. Valma's rooms ! 
 
 [Frayne has wandered to the back 
 
 of the circular table, and, through 
 
 his eyeglass, is again observing 
 
 Sophy. Qtjex now joins him] 
 
 Bastling [perceiving them — to 
 
 Sophy]. Look-out ! 
 
 Sophy [taking a bottle from his hand — 
 raising her voice]. Yojulll— Eeceisfe— the 
 gOT£ume injhe course ofTEe^ afternoon. 
 [Replacing the bottle upon the table] 
 Shall I do your naUs ? 
 Bastling. Thanks. 
 
 [They move away. He takes his 
 place in the screen-chair ; she 
 sits facing him. During the 
 process of manicuring they talk 
 together earnestly] 
 Frayne [eyeing Sophy]. SUm but 
 shapely. Slim but shapely. 
 
 [Miss Moon enters, with a bowl 
 of water. Having adjusted the 
 bowl upon the arm of the screen- 
 chair, she retires] 
 Frayne. 'There's another of 'em. 
 Plain. [Watching Miss Moon as she 
 goes out] I don't know— rather allur- 
 ing. [Finding Quex by his side] Seg 
 your pardon. 
 
 Quex. Didn't hear you. 
 Frayne. Glad- of it. At the saine 
 time, old friend, you will forgive me for 
 rematking.that a man's virtuoiis resolu- 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 507 
 
 tions must be — ha, ha ! — somewhat 
 feeble,Jie3F?-=-when he flinches at the 
 mere admiration, of beauty on the part 
 of a pal, connoisseur though that pal 
 undoubtedlyi&. 
 
 Quex. ~Od^ my dear Chick, my 
 resolutiong_are Arm enough. 
 
 Feayne [iubiously]. H'm! 
 
 Qttex. And my prudery is consistent 
 with the most laudable intentions, I 
 assure you. But the fact is, dear chap, 
 I go in fear and trembling 
 
 Feayne . Ah ! 
 
 Quex. No, no, not for my strength 
 of mind — fear lest any trivial act of 
 mine^however guilde^jliJiejpost inno- 
 cent gliSBSllcffiB^^ectloiiof a decent- 
 looMnglwomain should be misinter- 
 preted by the good ladies in whose hands 
 I have placed myself — especially Aunt 
 JuUa. You remenibOTj Lady Owb ridge? 
 
 Feayne. 'why'SiflT^ou mtrust your- 
 self ? 
 
 Quex. My_ one chance ! [Taking 
 Fbayne to the tabled- against which they 
 hoth lean ahgulder to shoulder — his voice 
 falling intojistrain of tenderness] Chick, 
 when I fell in Inve^ith^ Miss Eden 
 
 Feayne [in sentirneniaL retrospection]. 
 Fell in love ! what memoriaB. are awak- 
 ened by the dear old phrase ! 
 
 QirEX~{A^^T— YSs^ Win you talk 
 about your love-affairs, Chick, or shall 
 I ? """" '■ 
 
 Feayne. Certainly — you. Go on, 
 Harry. 
 
 Quex. When I proposed marriage 
 to Miss Eden — it wa s a. t tha hj mt-bfl.ll 
 at^tfwridge 
 
 Feayne [his eyes sparkling]. Did you 
 select a retired corner — with flowers — 
 by any,ehance ? 
 
 Quex. Ttipre .iiare-flowers. 
 
 Feayne. I know — I know ! Nearly 
 twenty years ago, and the faint scent of 
 the Qardenia~-£lQii^aTemains in my 
 nostrils ! ~ 
 
 Quex. Quite so. Would you like 
 to ? 
 
 Feayne [sitting]. No, no — you. 
 Excuse me. You go on. 
 
 Quex [sitting on the edge of the table, 
 looking down upon Feayne]. When I 
 proposed to ItosJ3den I was certain — 
 even-wWte^T^TstiiffiunOTmg it out — I 
 was -eertaitrtEat"myl3ernal evil char- 
 acter 
 
 Feayne. Ah, yes. I've always been 
 a doooed deal more artful than you, 
 Harry, over my little amours. [Chuck- 
 ling] Ha, ha ! devihsh cunning ! 
 
 Quex. And I was right. Her first 
 words -Tgare,_li3]hink nf ygurjife ; how 
 can you ask th is of m e?" — her first 
 words aMTiBrtas?, that evening. I was 
 
 desperate^- Chick, for I well, I'm 
 
 hit, you know. 
 
 Feayne; What did you do? 
 
 Quex. Came to town by the first 
 train in the morning — drove straight 
 off JoJEUchmond^o-jgjLpious aunt. 
 Found her in bed with asthmaT~~f got 
 her lip. And I almost went down on 
 my knees to her. Ch i ck . 
 
 Feayne! Not really? 
 
 Quex. I did — old man as I am ! 
 no, I'm not old. 
 
 Feayne. Forty-eight. Ha, ha ! I'm 
 only forty-flve. 
 
 Quex. Bi^^u've had malaria 
 
 Feayne. '"Dry up, Harry ! 
 
 Quex. So we're qtiits. Well, down 
 on my marrow-bones I went, meta- 
 phorically, and there and then I made 
 my vows to old Aunt Julia,, and craved 
 her help ; and she dropped tears on me. 
 Chick, like a mother. And the result 
 was that within a. month.I^becamelfin- 
 gaged to MissEdeg. 
 '"Prayne. The ^young lady soon 
 waived her 
 
 Quex [getting off the table]. I beg 
 your pardon — the young lady did 
 nothing^of the kind. But with Aunt 
 Juha^'jid J^showed 'em aU that it was 
 a gSSmne case of done w ith the iild. life 
 — a reair genmne mstance. [Balancing 
 upon the back of the chair] I've sold my 
 house-ia-Norf ^k St reet. 
 
 Feayne. You'll want one. 
 
 Quex [gravely]. Not that one — for 
 Muriel. [Brightly] And I'm Uving se- 
 datel yat Riehmondt under Aunt Julia's 
 wing. Muriel is staying at~-l'anmcey 
 Court too just now; she's up from 
 Norfdtf^fQt the Season, chaperoned by 
 Mrst~Jack. [Sitting, nursing his knee, 
 with a sigh of content] Ah ! after aU, 
 it's very_plea|gat_tgJ>e_a^ood^oy. 
 
 Prayne. \Vhen Is it to take place? 
 
 Quex. At the end of the year; 
 assuming, .of p.nurse — — 
 
 ■^EAYNE. That you continue to be- 
 have prettily? [Quex assents with a 
 wave of the hand] 'The shghtest lapse on 
 your part ? 
 
 Quex. Impossible. 
 
 Feayne. But it would ? 
 
 Quex [a little impatiently]. Naturally. 
 
 Frayne. WeU, six months pass 
 quickly — everx:w-here- but on the West 
 Coast ofAffica. 
 
508 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 QuEx. And then — you shall be my 
 best man, C hick, if you're still hom e. 
 
 Prayne '\rising\. Hah ! I never 
 thought 
 
 Qtjex [rising]. No ; I who always 
 laughed at marriage as a dull depravity 
 permitted to^the respectable classes! 
 I who- always maintained that man's 
 whole duty to woman — meaning his 
 mistresses — that a man's duty to a 
 woman is liberally discharged when he 
 has made a settlement on her.or^uck 
 her into his WiU! [Blowing the ideas 
 from him] Phugh ! 
 
 [He goes to the little table, and ex- 
 amines the obJ£cis-upoxLjt] 
 
 Pratne [following him]. Talking of 
 — ah — mistresses, I suppose you've 
 
 QuEx. Oh, yes, they're all 
 
 Featne. Made happy and comfort- 
 able? 
 
 QuEx. I've done my utmost. 
 
 Fraynb. Mrs. ? 
 
 QuEX [rather irritably]. I say, all of 
 them. 
 
 Fraynb. No trouble with Lady ? 
 
 QuEX. No, no, no, no. 
 
 Fraynb. What about the little 
 Duchess ? [Qtjex pauses in his examina- 
 tion of a nail-clipper] Eh? 
 
 QtTEX [turning to him, slightly em- 
 barrassed]. Odd that you should men- 
 tion her. 
 
 Fraynb. Why? 
 
 Qtjex. She's staying at Pauncey 
 Court also. 
 
 Prayne. The Duchess ! 
 
 QuBX. She propTJsed herself for a 
 visit. I dared not raise any obj ection, 
 for her reputation's sake; ffie ladies 
 would have suspected at once. You're 
 on e of the few. Chick, who^evergot an 
 inkling oPthat business. _ 
 
 Feayne. Very awkward ! 
 
 QuEX. No. She's behaving admi- 
 rably. [Thoughtfully — with a wry face] 
 Of course she was always a Httle ro- 
 mantic and sentimenial. 
 
 Feayne. By gad, though, what an 
 allTiring woman ! 
 
 QuEX [shortly]. Perhaps. 
 
 Fraynb. Ho, come ! you don't mean 
 to tell me ? 
 
 QuEX [with dignity]. Yes, I do — 
 upon my honour j_ I've forgotten. -[The 
 door-gong sounds] This must be the 
 ladies. 
 
 [Mttribl Eden enters, followed by Miss 
 Claridge. Mtjeiel is o toK, /j-esA- 
 
 looking, girlish young woman, prettily 
 Sophy rises and meets her] 
 
 Muriel [behind the circular table — 
 to Sophy, breathlessly, as if from the 
 exertion of running upstairs] Well, 
 Sophy! [Looking round] Is Lord 
 
 Quex ? [Sophy glances toward 
 
 Quex, who advances] Oh, yes. [To 
 Quex] Lady 0Ti5[brid,ge and Mrs. Jack 
 won't fag upstairs just now. They're 
 waiting for you in the carriage, they 
 asked me to say. 
 
 Quex [in tender solicitation]. Moses 
 in the Bulrushes? You stUl elect to 
 have your naUs cut? 
 
 Muriel. Thanks, I [with an effort] 
 
 — I've already seen the pictTore. 
 Quex. And its merits. are not 
 
 sufficient ? 
 
 Muriel [guiltily]. I thought the 
 bulrushes rather well done. 
 
 QuEx'^ May I present my old friend. 
 Sir Chichester Prayne ? 
 
 Muriel. [To Feayne] How do 
 you do? 
 
 Quex. [To Fraynb] WiU you come. 
 Chick? [To 'Mueibl] We shall be 
 back very soon. 
 
 [Muriel nods to Quex and 
 
 Feayne and turns away to the 
 
 window, removing her gloves. 
 
 Sophy joins her] 
 
 Feayne. [To Quex] As I suspected 
 
 — the typical, creamy English girl. We 
 all do it ! we aU come^to-thafr, sooner or 
 later. 
 
 Quex [looking from Muriel to 
 
 'Frayne, proudly]. Well ? 
 
 Feayne [in answer, kissing his finger- 
 tips to the air]. AllHliug! 
 
 Quex. Ha! [Jfastilyl We're keep- 
 ing the ladies waiting. 
 
 [He goes out. Feayne is follow- 
 ing Quex, when he encounters 
 Miss Claeidge. He pauses, 
 gazing at her admiringly. The 
 door-gong sounds] 
 Miss Claridge [surprised]. Do you 
 wish anything, sir? 
 
 Prayn5TiK(K a little sigh of longing]. 
 Ah — h! 
 
 Miss Claridge [coldly]. Shall I cut 
 yourjiails ? 
 
 Feayne [wofully]. Thai's . it, dear 
 young lady— SBU can' tT 
 
 Miss ChAnioGBlwith hauteur]. Reely ! 
 Why not, sir? 
 
 Feayne. I regret to say IJatalem. 
 [He goes out. Miss Claeidge 
 titters loudly to Miss Limbied] 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 509 
 
 Sophy. [To MissClaridgje, reprov- 
 ingly] Miss Claridge F"! don't require 
 
 you^at preseiit. ^ 
 
 [Miss Claeidge mthdraws] 
 Sophy [going to Miss Limbird]. Miss 
 Limbird, wiU^n o_blige in e ? hot wa ter, 
 please. 
 
 [Miss LiMBiED goes out. At once 
 Sophy gives a signal to Bast- 
 ling and Muriel, and keeps 
 guard. Bastling and Muriel 
 talk in low, hurried tones] 
 BASTLiNQ~[bn TMTtJ"^ of the circular 
 table]. How are you? 
 
 Muriel ~[on~Wie other side, giving him 
 
 her hand across the table]. I don't ■know. 
 
 [Withdraunng her hand] I hate myself ! 
 
 Bastling. Hate yourself? 
 
 Muriel. For_-this sort of thing. 
 
 [Glancing round apprehensively]. Oh ! 
 
 Bastling. Don't be frightened. 
 Sophy's there. 
 
 Muriel. I'm nervous — shaky. 
 When I wrote to you last night I thought 
 I should_Jbej;ble to sneak up to 'town 
 this morning only^wtthrarTiraidr And 
 you Ve met QueX_toor! — 
 
 Bastling. "None of them sus- 
 pect ? 
 
 Muriel. No. Oh, but go now ! 
 Bastling. Already ! ^ ma jrT not sit 
 and watch you? 
 Muriel. Not to-day. 
 Bastling. You must hear my news, 
 
 then, from_Spph3r:; shs'll tell ynn 
 
 M&hibl. News ? 
 
 Sophy [turning to them sharply]. Hsst ! 
 Muriel. Good^^by ! 
 Bastling [grasping her arm]. 'Haven't 
 you_one lovingjittle-speeeb-fonne ? 
 ^OPHY [behind the table]. Gar — ^r — ^rh ! 
 [He releases Muriel and picks up 
 a large wooden bowl of bath- 
 soap, just as Miss Limbird 
 re-enters with the hot water. 
 Muriel moves away, hastily] 
 Sophy. [To Bastling, taking the 
 soap from him — - raising her voice] 
 Thank^jcoucr- much obUged. [Trans- 
 ferring the soap to Miss Limbird and re- 
 lieving _ her— of the bowl of water] For 
 CagtainBasifling, wijh^_a . bottle of 
 Meur aeLilaS; 
 
 [Miss Limbird returns to her 
 desk; Sophy deposits the bowl 
 of water upon the arm of the 
 screen-chair; Bastling fetches 
 his hat, and- gives some direc- 
 tions to^Miss Limbird] 
 Muriel. [To Sophy, in a whisper] 
 Sophy^^j^e ge extra vagances on his 
 
 part! I am the caus e of th em ! he is 
 n ot'in the leaitrw etl'Tigl '^ — 
 
 Sophy. Don't worry ; it's all booked. 
 Ha, ha! bless him, he'll never get his 
 account -from— me-! — [Bastling, vnth a 
 parting glance in the direction of Muriel 
 and Sophy, goes out] He's gone. 
 
 [Miss Limbird also goes out, 
 carrying the bowl of bath-soap] 
 
 Muriel [with a sigh of relief]. Oh ! 
 
 Sophy [coming to her]. We're by our- 
 selyes^ fox. a juituJte. Give me a good 
 hug,, [Embracing her] My dear! my 
 darling! ha, ha, ha! you shall be the 
 flr^tto hear of it — • I'm engaged. 
 
 Muriel. Sophyi' to whom? 
 
 Sophy. To -Mr._Yalma, ~~thfi..areat 
 palmist. "^ 
 
 Muriel. What, the young man 
 you've talked to me about — next 
 door? [Kissing her] I hope you are 
 doing well fQ_r yourself , dear. 
 
 Sophy. He's~srmp'ly perfect ! he's — ! 
 oh, how can I be such a brute, talking 
 
 of my own happiness ! [In an al- 
 
 tered'tone] Darling, Captain Bastling's 
 regiment is going to be sent off to 
 Hong-Kong. 
 
 MuBTSI, [after a pause — ■ command- 
 ing herself]. Khen? 
 
 Sophy. In aboutAiortnight. 
 
 Muriel [frigtdXy]. Is this what yoU 
 had to tell me, from him? 
 
 Sophy. Yes, and that he must see 
 you to-mo rrowr alone.- I'U arrange 
 it. "Can you-tnaii3g@~'to''lbe.^Se' at 
 t!i::felve? 
 
 Muriel. I daresay, somehow. 
 
 Sophy [looking at her in surprise]. 
 I th ought you'd be _mgrfijpaet. 
 
 MP5iEir[Jo7cm^''SoPH?s hand]. The 
 truth is, Sophy "zi^ 'm gla d. 
 
 Sophy. Gladl ' 
 
 Muriel. Awfully glad the chance 
 has come of putting an end to. a ll this. 
 OKTve beeirtfeating hiin shockingly'! 
 
 Sophy. '"inmr^ ~- ■ 
 
 Muriel. Lord Quex. 
 
 Sophy [impatiently]. Oh! pooh! 
 
 Muriel [leaving Sophy]. Yes, after 
 to-morrow he sha'n't find me looking 
 a gail-ty^oql whenever he speaks to me 
 — ■ by~3'ove, Iie~sEa:Vt1 — fHjBlteveTie 
 guessed I haven't seen Moses in the 
 Bulrushes ! 
 
 Sophy. But, dear, how do you know 
 what CaptaJn^astUng means to-say"to 
 you toSOTfow? 
 
 Muriel [pausing in her walk]. To 
 say? — good-by._^ 
 
 Sophy. Suppose he asks you to put 
 
510 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 -marry Mm 
 
 Then I 
 word is 
 
 Given ! 
 just for 
 of being 
 tSiraan 
 
 him out of his misery 
 directly, on the quiet ? 
 
 MtrBiBi. YaTlUtle unsteadily]. 
 shall tell him finally — • my 
 given to Lord Quex. 
 
 Sophy [coming to her again]. 
 — wrung out of you. And 
 that you'll lose the chance 
 happy ^ all yduFrlire — witE" 
 
 you 
 
 [She turns away, and sits, on the 
 right of the circular table, blow- 
 ing her nose] 
 
 Muriel [at Sophy's side, desperately]. 
 But I teU you, Sophy, I love Lo rd 
 Qiiex. " 
 
 Sophy. You may tell me. 
 
 Mttribl. I do — I mean, I'm get- 
 ting to. [Defiantly] At any rate, I am 
 proud of him. 
 
 Sophy: — -Proud! 
 
 Muriel. Certainly — - proud that he 
 has mended his ways_for_.my sake. 
 
 Sophy [between tears and anger]. 
 Mended his ways ! with those eyes of 
 Ms! 
 
 Muriel [looking down upon Sophy, 
 wonderingly]. His eyes ? why, they are 
 considered Ms best feature. 
 
 Sophy, /never saw wickeder eyesj 
 AU my girls say the same. 
 
 Muriel [with rising indignation]. I 
 am sure you have never detected Lord 
 Quex looking at anybody in a way he 
 should not. 
 
 Sophy. Oh, I admit he has always 
 behaved in a gentlemanly manner 
 toward me and -my -girls. 
 
 Muriel [haughtily]. Toward you and 
 
 your ! Sophy, pray remember 
 
 Lord Quex's ranki- - 
 
 Sophy [in hot scorn]. His rank! ha! 
 do jrou think Ms lordsMp has^ ever Jet 
 
 that interfere ? 
 
 [She checks herself, finding 
 Muriel staring at her] 
 
 Muriel [in horror]. Sophy ! 
 
 Sophy [discomposed — rising]. Br — 
 
 if I'm to do anything to your nails 
 
 [As Sophy is moving toward the 
 manicure-table, Muriel inter- 
 cepts her] 
 
 Muriel. You are surely not sug- 
 gesting that Lofd__Qugx_has__g5!BEl3e- 
 scended ? 
 
 Sophy [hastily]. No, no, no. [Brush- 
 ing past Muriel and seating herself 
 before the screen-chair] Come ; they'U 
 aU be here directly., 
 
 Muriel [sitting in the screen-chair]. 
 Sophy, you have heard some.stery 
 
 Sophy [examining Muriel's hands]. 
 A little vamisMngjs all you need to-day. 
 
 Muriel. You shall teE me ! 
 
 Sophy [proceeding with her work 
 methodically]. It's notMng much ; I'm 
 sorry I 
 
 Muriel [imperatively]. Sophy ! 
 
 Sophy [reluctantly]. Oh, well — • well, 
 when I was. -at- JVLi:__E^iUB.oint's in 
 Grosvenor Street 
 
 MuiiiEL. Yes.' 
 
 Sophy. A Lady Pumphrey came to 
 stay there with- a goodiahJuoMfigLmaid 
 — Edith_SiiiitlLh6r name was 
 
 Muriel. Never mind her name! 
 
 Sophy. And they'djalely met Lord 
 Quex in a country-house in Worcester- 
 shire. Well, he had kis§fld her — • Smith 
 admitted it. 
 
 Muriel. Elissed whom — Lady 
 PumpMsey ? 
 
 Sophy. Oh, of course he'd kissed 
 Lady PumpMey ; but he kissed Smith 
 afterward, whe n^ he tipped herr — She 
 told men^hat Jie~said. 
 
 Muriel. What did he say? 
 
 Sophy. He said, "There's a little 
 sometMng for^yourself, my girl." 
 
 Muriel [starting to her feet and walk- 
 ing away]. My heavens ! a Maid ! 
 what next am I to hear — Ms blanchis- 
 seuse ? [Sinking into a chair] Oh ! oh, 
 dear! 
 
 Sophy [turning in her chair to face 
 Muriel]. It's one tMng I always 
 meant to keep to myself. 
 
 Muriel [bitterly]. StiU, I have 
 promised to forgive-Mm-for -so -much 
 already! Aadj_aJter_ai]j_tMs occurred 
 a long wMle ago! 
 
 Sophy_ [thoughtfully]. ' Ye — e — es. I 
 suppose if you did find Mm up to any- 
 tMng of that sorT now, "yott^ — what 
 would you do ? 
 
 Muriel. Doj [With all her heart] 
 Marry Napier-Bastling. 
 
 Sophy [rising — a mischievous light in 
 her eyes]. Ah — ! I almost wish- it 
 
 Muriel. Sophy ! 
 
 Sophy [leaning against the edge of the 
 circular table, gripping Muriel's hand]. 
 Just for your sake.daEling. [In a low 
 voice] I., alinost wi di / could come 
 across Mm To. _soiae_qiniat_httle shady 
 spot 
 
 Muriel [looking up at Sophy, horri- 
 fied]. What ! 
 
 Sophy. In one of those greeny nooks 
 you've told me-o£,-a±JE!auncey Court. 
 [Between her teeth] If heeV^er tried to 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 511 
 
 kiss me, and I told you of it, you'd take 
 my word for it, wouldn^tyou? 
 
 Mtjbibl [starting to' her feet]. For 
 shame ! how dare you^ letsuoh an idea 
 enter 'your head? you, a_respeolable 
 girl, just engaged_yauraelf ^^ — T 
 
 Sophy [wilK'a quick look toward the 
 window]. Oh, yes! hush! [Clapping 
 her hand to her mouth] Oh, what would 
 Valma say if he kneseJCd-talked in this 
 style ! [The door-gong sounds] 
 
 "MURIEL. Here they are. 
 
 Sophy [as they hastily return to their 
 chairs]. Darling, I was only thinking 
 of you and the pool- Captain. [With 
 anotherjlance toward the-rmndow] Phew ! 
 if my Valma knew ! 
 
 [They resume their seats, and the 
 manicuring is continued] 
 
 [Miss LiMBiRD enters, preceding Lord 
 QuEX and the CouNTEas of Ow- 
 bridgb, Mrs. Jack Eden, and 
 Frayne. Miss Moon follows. 
 Lady Owbridge is a ver'y old lady 
 in a mouse-coloured wig, with a pale, 
 anxious face, watery eyes, and no 
 eyebrows. Mrs. Eden is an ultra- 
 fashionably-dressed woman of about 
 thirty, shrill and maniiri] 
 
 QuEX. [To Lady Owbridge, who is 
 upon his arm]. Yes, a curious phase of 
 modern life/jVEany— people come to 
 these plaeSTor rest. 
 
 Lady Owbridge [looking about her 
 shrinkingly]. For-rest, Henry? 
 
 Qtjex. Certainly. I know a woman 
 — I knew a woman who used to declare 
 that her sole. jepflgfi_duiing -the Season 
 was the haJth.our jffiith JJie_manicurist. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. How are you, Sophy ? 
 
 Sophy. How are you to-day, Mrs. 
 Eden? 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Lady Owbridge, this is 
 Miss FuUgamey, whom you've heard 
 aheut. 
 
 [Sophy rises, makes a bob, and 
 sits again] 
 
 Lady Owbridge [seated]. I hope 
 you're,_q;uite-weU, my dear. 
 
 Sophy [busy over Muriel's nails]. 
 Thanks, my-kdy; I hope you're the 
 same. 
 
 Mrs. Eden [sitting]. What is your 
 opinion of the picture, Lady Owbridge ? 
 
 Lady Owbridge [not hearing]. Eh? 
 
 Qtjex. Moses in the Bulrushes — 
 what d'xe_thint!rfij? 
 
 Lady OwbbidSb [tearfully]. They 
 treat puoh subjects nowadgys with too 
 little reverence. 
 
 Prayne [thoughtlessly]. Too much 
 Pharaoh's daughter and too little Moses. 
 
 QuEX [frowning him down]. Phsst ! 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Certainly the hand- 
 maidens remind one of t he youn g ladies 
 in the ballet at " t"hel E5npu'e. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. The Empire? 
 
 Mrs. Eden [checking herself]. 
 Oh^— !• 
 
 QuEX. Popular place of entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. Ah? The only 
 place of Jhat ,ynd I have visited for 
 some years is the lmpefiar TrgT:it"t,p 
 
 [Mrs. Eden nses, laughing to 
 herself, and joins Sophy and 
 Muriel. Fraynb is now estab- 
 lishing cordial relations between 
 himself and Miss Moon] 
 
 Mrs. Eden. [To Sophy] Well, 
 Sophy, and how's your business getting 
 along? 
 
 Lady Owbridge. [To ' Quex, after 
 ascertaining that Frayne is not near her] 
 Oh, Henry, I have asked Sir Chichester 
 to. drive- d.03cn_ to jis -to««niglitZi(uffine. 
 
 Quex [watching Pkayne with appre- 
 hension]. Ah,, .yes, delightful. [Trying 
 to gain FraYne's attention — warningly] 
 Phsst! phsst! 
 
 Lady Owbridge [plucking at Quex's 
 coat] I feel that Sir_ Chichester is a 
 
 very ■arhrApsmma ftnonH fr.it you, Henry. 
 
 QuE^T Very. Phsst! 
 Lady Owbridge. What is the name 
 of thfi. .West-AfricanHplaee^ — Uumbos 
 — ^IJumbos seems to have improved 
 him vastly. 
 
 Quex [in a low voice]. Chichester! 
 Lady Owbridge. And it is our wish 
 that you should associate for the future 
 only with gray.haired men. 
 
 [Miss Moon ru)w withdraws, with 
 
 Frayne at her heels] 
 
 Muriel [rising and coming to Lady 
 
 Owbridge]. I'm ready, deac„ Lady 
 
 Owbridge. Look! you can see your 
 
 face in them. 
 
 [Lady Owbridge rises; Muriel 
 dispiays-her nails. Lady Ow- 
 bridge shakes her head gravely, 
 while Quex bends over Mu- 
 RiBL's.ftjOiads gallantly] 
 Mrs. Eden. [To SoPhy] My hands 
 need trimming-up desperately badly. 
 That niaiiiJinuiiais_a_fo^at fingers. 
 Sophy. Can't you stay now? 
 Mrs. Eden [with an impatient move- 
 ment of the head toward Lady Owbridge]. 
 Oh, lord, no. [Suddenly] I say, I wish 
 you'd run down to Richmond, to 
 
512 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Faunoey Court, and do me. Could 
 you 7 '"" •" 
 
 Sophy [innocently]. Ok-,--yes. 
 
 Mes. Eden. To-night, beforejjpner ? 
 
 Sophy. I tEirilTI can. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. [To Lady Owbridqe]. 
 Lady Owbiidge, Miss Fullgarney is 
 coming down to Richmond this even- 
 ing iiO maniour e me. Do, do, 'do let her 
 give your naits the fashionable cut. 
 [Ooing to QuEX dn3' MtTRiEr]' Every- 
 body is wearing pointed nails this 
 Season. 
 
 Lady Owbridge [advancing to Sophy]. 
 Ah, no, no. These practices are some- 
 what shnc lnng t.n a.n old woman. [To 
 Sophy] But I don't blame you. [Lay- 
 ing her hand upon Sophy's arm, hindly] 
 So you'-re-Miss^ Eden's foster-sister, eh? 
 
 Sophy. I'velEat'honour, my lady. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. You look a little 
 thin. Come down to Pauncey Court 
 to-day, as soon as your duties will re- 
 lease you. * Spend as many iou^jthere 
 as yovi can. 
 
 Sophy. Oh, my lady ! 
 
 Lady Owbridge. Run about the 
 grounds — go wherever you please ; 
 and get the air into your lungs. [With 
 gracious formality] Remember, I in- 
 vite you. 
 
 Muriel [innocently]. How good of 
 you. Lady Owbridge! 
 
 Sophy. Thank you, my lady. 
 
 [Fraynb returns — accompanied 
 hy Miss Moon, who carries a 
 neat package — and settles an 
 account with Miss Limbied at 
 the desh] 
 
 Lady Owbridqe. [To Sophy] You 
 shall be well looked after. 
 
 [She shakes hands with Feayne] 
 
 Muriel [kissing Sophy]. We shall 
 meet by-and-by. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. Miu-iel — young 
 people — — 
 
 [Muriel joins Lady Owbridge ; 
 they go out together] 
 
 Mrs. Eden [nodding to Sophy]. This 
 evening, Sophy. 
 
 Sophy [in a flutter of simple pleasure]. 
 Yes, Mrs. Eden. 
 
 Mrs. Eden [shaking hands unth 
 
 Feayne]. "TiU dinner 
 
 [She goes out] 
 
 QuBX. [To Sophy] Good-by, Miss 
 Fullgarney. 
 
 Sophy [tripping across the room]. 
 Good-day, myLlord. 
 
 QXTE-x. [joining Fraynb]. Are you 
 coming. Chick? 
 
 Frayne [taking the parcel from Miss 
 Moon — and turning to Qubx, rather 
 bitterly]. I say, that gal has made me 
 buy something I don't want. They 
 stifflTyou herem^rtftdiy — — 
 
 QuEX. Ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 
 [They go out together] 
 
 Sophy [adjusting her hair at the mirror]. 
 Come, girls ! look aUve ! no more work 
 for me to-liay ! I'm ofi home to^ change 
 my frock. rya,got an_inviie_down_to 
 Richmond, ""^y hat and coat ! 
 
 [The door-gong sounds. Miss 
 Moon disappears at the door 
 in the partition. Miss Huddle 
 erders] ' 
 
 Sophy. Miss Hud-delle, please run 
 nexj door, and ask Mr. V alma -to step 
 this way for a moment. 
 
 Tiliss Huddle. He[s, on , the leads. 
 Miss PuUg^r-ney, smofing a cigarette. 
 
 Sophy [running across to the window]. 
 Get my bag -o£ tools ready ! sharp ! 
 [Miss Huddle and Miss Limbird go 
 out; Sophy opens the window and calls] 
 Valma ! Valma ! Valma 1 
 
 [Miss Moon returns with Sophy's 
 hat, coat, gloves, and umbrella] 
 
 Miss Moon. Your things. Miss 
 FuUgajney. 
 
 S6¥SY[taking them from her]. Send 
 for, a hansom — a^smart one. 
 
 [Miss Moon ^rurCs out as Valma 
 enters at the window] 
 
 Sophy [breathlessly]. _ Valma — : Valma 
 Ipve ! I've got aninvitg_downJia_Rioh- 
 mond — Lady OwBHSge — she's asked 
 me speelallyX. I'm going homaJa-my 
 place to smarteit-up. Isiffit jolly? 
 [In an outbiifst] Oh, love, you might 
 give-ugjsr to-day, aid take me down ! 
 ^-VaxmaT May I ? 
 
 Sophy. May you ! Your hat -^ get 
 
 your^hat ! _yQilL.flad- me~airtade in a 
 
 cab. [He hurries away] 
 
 [Miss Limbird, carrying a leather 
 
 bag, enters, followed by Miss 
 
 Claridge and Miss Huddle] 
 
 Sophy [as she, with the aid of her girls, 
 pins on her hat and ^scrambles into her 
 coat]. You know, girls, many a- silly, 
 person's head would be turned at "being 
 as ked to a Pl a^e b'ka Fa.nncey Cnurt — 
 as a guest, bear uunind. But there, the 
 hoSi^s— F-ve-'been in ! — it's nothing to 
 me. Still, specially.- invited by the 
 Countess of Owbridge herself — ! [Put- 
 ting her feet in turn upon a chair and 
 hitching up her stockings] I shall just 
 make rather a favour of manicuring 
 Mrs. Jack. Onie doesnT." go visiting 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 513 
 
 to out Mrs. Jack's claws. Gloves! 
 Thank goodness, the evenings are long 1 
 they say it's simplj^heavenl2;.at-Eauncey 
 
 Court — simply heaveH"- [She breaks 
 
 off abruptly, staring straight before 
 her. Under her breath] Oh — ^! Faun- 
 cey Court — Lord Quex ! 
 
 Miss Clabidge. What's the matter, 
 Miss Fullgarney? 
 
 Sophy. N^ — n — nothing. 
 
 Miss Moon [entering]. Cab, Miss 
 Fullgarney ! 
 
 Sophy [in an altered voice]. Bag. 
 [She takes^her bag from Miss Limbikd 
 and walks aw ay, rathe r_sLowly, with her 
 head down. Quietly, without turning] 
 See you in the morning, girls. 
 
 The Four Gihls. Good-afternoon, 
 Miss FuUgSrney. [Sophy goes out] 
 
 END OP THE FIRST ACT 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The scene represents a portion of an Eng- 
 lish garden laid out in Italian 
 fashion. At the extreme back — 
 upon ground slightly raised — two 
 dense cypress hedges, about sixteen 
 feet high, form an alley running from 
 right to left. In the centre of the 
 hedge which is nearer the spectator 
 there is an opening, and at this 
 opening are three or four steps con- 
 necting the higher with the lower level. 
 Beyond the alley nothing is seen but 
 the sky and some tree-tops. In ad~ 
 Vance is an enclosure formed by a 
 dwarf cypress-hedge, about four feet 
 in height, also broken in the centre 
 by an opening, and running off 
 right and left at a sharp angle. On 
 the outside of the dwarf hedge is a 
 walk; and beyond, on the right and 
 left, are trees. Within the enclosure, 
 on the left, is a small fountain ; fac- 
 ing the fountain, on the right, a piece 
 of old, broken sculpture. Other bits 
 of antique sculpture are placed in 
 different parts of the garden. In the 
 foreground, on the right toward the 
 centre, stands a stone bench, on the 
 left of which is a table upon which 
 are the remains of "afternoon tea," 
 with a garden-chair. A similar 
 stone bench stands opposite. 
 
 The light is that of a very fine evening. 
 
 [Lady Owbridge is in the garden^chair 
 asleep, an open book in her lap. 
 
 Quex and Muriel stand, talking 
 together, by the fountain. On the 
 right-hand stone bench the Duchess 
 OP Strood and Mrs. Eden are 
 seated. The Duchess is a daintily 
 beautiful doll of about seven-and- 
 thirty — a poseuse, outwardly digni- 
 fied and stately when upon her guard, 
 really a frail, shallow little creature 
 full of extravagant sentimentality. 
 Until Lady Owbridge wakes, the 
 conversation is carried on in subdued 
 tones] 
 
 Mrs. Eden [indicating Muriel and 
 Quex]. They make a fascinating 
 couple, donltthgXi_Duchess ? 
 
 Duchess [with ^acid melancholy]. 
 To see two people on the threshold of 
 wedlock is always painfully interesting. 
 
 MSs. Eden. I am quite triumphant 
 about it. It is, suc h a delightful en- 
 gagem:eiit,' now_ thajCthe , iaa33~3iffipul- 
 ties are-smoothed-oway. 
 
 Duchess. Yes, you were teUing me 
 of some sad^pb§tacles ■ 
 
 Mrs. Eden. I nearly perished of 
 theiBr! — [Very confidentially] There's no 
 doubt, jou know, that his, jast has been 
 exceptionally naugEty. 
 
 Duchess. Really? Ah! don't be 
 surprised that I am not more deeply 
 shocked. In these surroundings it is 
 hard to realize thateve^_aspect-of 
 life is-TIot a,s']ov6ly~Ss~Wointing to the 
 /oMa^ir=-th© tones of those exquisite, 
 deep greens, for example. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. However, the dear 
 thing is going to be so good in the future. 
 [Turning~ro~'the'^BvcKT!iss] I keep for- 
 getting — Lord Quex is a very old 
 friend of yours ? 
 
 Duchess [serenely]. An acquaint- 
 ance of many years' standing. But 
 since his Grace has been an invalid we 
 have lived much abroad, or in seclusion, 
 and gossip has not reached us. Alas, 
 you find me a ready subject A disillusion- 
 ner ! [Rising] We are in the sun. 
 Shall we walk? 
 
 Mrs. Eden [sympathetically, as they 
 walk]. Is his Grace still very unwell? 
 
 Duchess [smiling sadly upon Mrs. 
 Eden]. He is still over seventy. 
 
 [They wander away, through the 
 trees, as Quex and Muriel 
 leave the fountain] 
 
 Quex [with tender playfulness, first 
 glancing at the sleeping Lady Owbridge]. 
 And so all these good things are to 
 befall me after to-morrow ? 
 
514 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 MuEiBL [in a low voice]. After to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Qtjex. When I approach, I shall no 
 longer seQ_ you_ skLDxla5Kay_Ultfi .the far 
 vista of these alleys, or shrink back into 
 the shadows of the corridors [prosaically] 
 — after to-morrow. 
 
 MuKiEL. No — not after to-morrow. 
 
 PuEX. In place of a cold word, a 
 chilling phrase, a warm one — after 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Muriel. I am going to try. 
 
 Qtjex. If I touol|. your hand, you'll 
 not slip it behind your back in_a^urry 
 [touching her hanS]—--? — — "^ 
 
 Muriel [withdrawing it]. Not after 
 to-mprrffis;, 
 
 [She sits; he stands behind the 
 stone bench, leaning over the 
 back of it] 
 
 QuBX. But whyrmayJLask,_ia_this 
 bUss reserved tiU after to^-morrom-P- 
 
 JMjibiel I hsar'rather you did not 
 
 ask me, Quex. 
 
 "^'Qttex: No? I see, I am a day too 
 
 soon in putting even Jhat-little question. 
 
 Mtjeiel. Ah, I'll tell you this — I 
 am going to turn over a new leaf, after 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Quex. You ! your^pages^ are all 
 milk-white. What can you detect upon 
 one of them to induce you to turn if ? 
 
 Muriel [gazing into space]. I — I've 
 been scribbling^ there — ^ serawhng — 
 drawing pictures 
 
 Quex. Pictures — of what ? 
 
 Muriel. You shall ^ow, perhaps, 
 some day. 
 
 Quex. After to-morrow? 
 
 Muriel. Y.es,_^ueXj but — after 
 many to-morrows. 
 
 [Two men-servants — an old man 
 and a young one — ■ descend the 
 steps and proceed to remove the 
 teor-things] 
 
 Ladt Owbeidge [waking]. Eh — ? 
 [Seeing Muriel and Quex] Ah, my 
 dears — ! I am reading such an absorb- 
 ing book. — " " 
 
 Muriel [by her side, taking the book]. 
 May I—? 
 
 Lady Owbridge. You should study 
 the Dean of St. Olpherts' sermons — 
 and you, Henry. 
 
 Quex [taking the book from Muriel 
 and turning its pages]. Yes, I_HU^t — - 
 I must 
 
 Lady Owbridge. By the way, has 
 S-nything been seen ofthat nice voung 
 manicure girlj^^Miss— Sophyu=^ some- 
 thing — ? 
 
 Muriel. Sophy Fullgarney — she 
 arrived at about_half-pasL.four, and I 
 asked "Mrs. GFregor-y to show her -qxot 
 the house. T thought-yett^wauld not 
 object. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. Object ! it pleases 
 me. 
 
 Muriel. She is roving about the 
 grounds- no^. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. An exceedingly 
 
 prepossessing young woman, of her class. 
 
 [The servants have gone up the 
 
 steps, carrying the teor-things] 
 
 The Elder Servant [looking down 
 
 the alley toward the left]. I see the yoimg 
 
 person, m y lady. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. I'll speak to her, 
 Bristow. 
 
 '" \The elder servant goes off toward 
 the left; the younger one, bear- 
 ing the tray, to the right. The 
 Duchess and Mrs. Eden re- 
 twrn, above the low cypress 
 hedge; Quex meets them] 
 Muriel. I would not have left her, 
 but the young man she- is engaged to 
 brought her down, and- 1- took it upon 
 myself to give him permission to remain. 
 Lady Owbridge. Oh, is Miss Full- 
 garney engaged? 
 
 Muriel. To Mr. Vabna, the 
 pajfflist. 
 
 Mrs. Eden [approaching]. Valma, 
 the palmist ! 
 
 Lady Owbridge. What is a palmist, 
 
 pray? 
 
 Muriel. He jeads your past and 
 your future in the hnes of your hands. 
 It's his profession,' dear Lady Owbridge. 
 Mrs. Eden. Oh, do let us have him 
 into the drawing-room__ af ter dinner! 
 I heat-h&Ja_simp]y-«feaiming. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. Charming! [Ris- 
 ing] What are our ladies coming to! 
 Dear, dear me ! in my day such f oUies 
 and superstitions were entirely restricted 
 to the kitchen. 
 
 [Muriel joins the Duchess. 
 Quex is dutifully looking into 
 the book of sermons. The ser- 
 vant returns, followed by Sophy, 
 and then retires ; _ Sophy comes 
 forward, beamingly. She is 
 prettily dressed, but in sober 
 colors] 
 Sophy. [To Lady Owbridge] Here 
 I am, my lady. I'm having such a 
 good time ! - 
 
 Lady Owbridge. That's right. 
 Sophy. Oh, this garden! they maj 
 well call it heavenly. 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 515 
 
 Lady Owbridge. They ought not to 
 call it that, my dear. But it is indeed 
 fuU of earthly solace. 
 
 Sophy. It must be. And what a 
 place fOT^aW^cle 1 
 
 MTBkiel ^reprovingly]. Bicycles are 
 not allowed to enter ihsse grounds, 
 Sophy. 
 
 Sophy [sobered]. Oh 1 
 
 Lady Owbridge. Miss Eden tells 
 me you are accompanied by the young 
 man to whom you are .engaged to be 
 married. ^ 
 
 Sophy. I hope I haven't taken too 
 great a Uberty 
 
 Lady Owbridge [looking round]. I 
 don't see him. 
 
 Sophy. He_ has run ba ck to the 
 station^ _I'yje_iust-icHHKt-»u*-i left my 
 bag in the fly thatJannjglit us here. So 
 stupid ofme f 
 
 LadyTwbridgb. Mrs. Gregory wiU 
 give you, both, dinner. 
 
 Sophy. Thank you, my lady. , 
 
 [The Duchess is now seated in the 
 garden-chair. The younger of 
 the two servants enters, carrying 
 Sophy's bag and the evening 
 papers] 
 
 Servant [handing the bag to Sophy]. 
 The cabman ha s brought y our bag 
 back.^jmss. 
 
 Sophy. There now! Much obhged. 
 [To Mrs. Eden] gooiLMr. Valma will 
 have his tramp for nothing^ won 't he? 
 "~' [Sophy and Mrs. Ldbn talk to- 
 gether] 
 
 Lady Owbridge. The evening 
 papers, Morgan? 
 
 Servant [who has laid the papers upon 
 the table]. Yes, my lady. 
 
 [The servant retires] 
 
 Lady Owbridge. So late? we must 
 go in and dress. 
 
 DtJCHESs [who has been occupied in 
 observing Quex]. I'U foUow you, dear 
 Lady Owbridge. 
 
 [Lady Owbridge moves away 
 and is joined by Mrs. Eden] 
 
 Mrs. Eden [as she ascends the steps 
 with Lady Owbridge]. Sophy, I shall 
 be ready for you in a quarter of an 
 houE^. 
 
 Sophy. All right, Mrs. Eden. 
 
 [Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Eden 
 disappear] 
 
 Muriel [crossing to Sophy]. Wouldn't 
 j'ou like ito wa lk to the gates to meet 
 Mr. Vahna? ~'~-- " 
 
 Sophy. Thanks,- dear, I _-think I 
 would. 
 
 Muriel. I can show you a nearer 
 way-thaa-bji-goiag-baGk-to-the house. 
 [Pointing into the distance] Follow this 
 hedge and take th e second alley — not 
 the first — on yovLF left. When you 
 
 reach the big fountain 
 
 [Quex, still dipping into the ser- 
 mons, has come down to the 
 back of the table. He now 
 throws the book upon the table 
 and picks up a newspaper] 
 Quex. I beg your pardon. Duchess 
 — I didn't see you. 
 
 Duchess [in a whisper]. Harry 
 
 Quex [startled]. -Eh? 
 DtfCHESs. JLlwill h5jrEy_iato my 
 gojwn and return. Be~Eere in a .quarter 
 of an hour. 
 
 Quex. May I ask — the reason? 
 DucheSs [o newspaper in her hand — 
 talking to him, in undertones, over the 
 top of it]. For a week, only the merest 
 common^aces have passed between us. 
 I guistreHeve my heart ; it jf Vmrgting ! 
 Quex." I'en'ffeat you to consider my 
 position. 
 
 Duchess. Yours! have I no repu- 
 tation to endanger? [Rising — laying 
 the paper aside] What a pitiably small 
 re.au.est! you will^ant it? 
 
 Quex. If you could see your way 
 
 to excuse me 
 
 Duchess. In memory of the past — ! 
 Iidemand it ! 
 
 Quex [unth a stiff bow]. Oh — oh, 
 certainly. 
 
 Duchess [leaving him]. Thank you. 
 Quex. [To himself] JDamn! 
 
 [He turns on his heel and walks 
 away] 
 Duchess [joining Muriel]. You are 
 ooming_to dress ? 
 
 Muriel [after smiling assent, present- 
 ing Sophy]. Miss Fullgarney was my 
 flj§t-playmate. Duchess. 
 
 Duchess [looMng upon Sophy gra- 
 ciously]. Ah? [To Muriel] The sou- 
 venirs of childhood axe sweet, are they 
 noti. 
 
 [She slips her arm through Mu- 
 riel's, and they ascend the steps 
 and go away together. Sophy 
 comes to the stone bench on the 
 left, upon which she deposits her 
 bflg. She opens the bag, pro- 
 duces^ little mirror and a comb, 
 and puts her "fringe" in order 
 ■ — humming as she does so an 
 air from the latest comic opera. 
 Then she returns the comb and 
 mirror to the'bag, and — bag in 
 
616 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 hand — prepares to depart. 
 While this is going on Qttex 
 returns, above the low hedge. 
 He ascends the steps and looks 
 off into the distance, watching 
 the retreating figure of the 
 Duchess. After a moment or 
 two he shrugs Ms, shoulders in a 
 perplexed, troubled way, and, 
 coming down the steps, encoun- 
 ters Sophy] 
 Sophy [innocently]. Lovely evening, 
 my lord. 
 
 QuBX [passing her, with a nod and a 
 smile]. Very -rr.yery. 
 
 [At the table, he exchanges the 
 newspaper he carries for an- 
 other. She is going in the 
 direction indicated by Muriel. 
 Suddenly she pauses, above the 
 dwarf cypress hedge, and stands 
 looking at Quex vnth an ex- 
 pression in which fear and 
 
 determination ajr^Z mingled. 
 
 Having selected his newspaper, 
 QuBX crosses to the left and 
 sits, reading] 
 Sophy [coming to him]. I don't 
 think I sh all go , after all. 
 
 QwExJloweririglai paper]. Eh? 
 Sophy. I was just startingjifLdown 
 to the gat^s,- yoTi~know, to meef Mr. 
 Valma. 
 
 Quex [vnth amiable indifference]. Oh? 
 Sophy [her head upon one side, smil- 
 ing]. But it's too hot for walMngr-isn't 
 it? 
 
 Quex [resuming his reading]. It is 
 
 warm. , 
 
 Sophy [putting her bag upon the table 
 and removing her gloves]. Phew! 
 
 [She eyes him askance, undecided 
 as to a plan of action. He 
 lowers his paper again, discon- 
 certing her] 
 Quex. You don't Jeel_you-(m5f/E<-to 
 go and meet your — - Mr. Vabna? 
 
 Sophy [edging toward him]. I might 
 iniss him — mightn't I ? 
 
 Quex. Certainly — you might. 
 Sophy. Besides, it wouldn't do for 
 me to attend upon Mrs. Jack — Mrs. 
 Eden — all puffing and towzeUed; 
 [archly] now, would it ? 
 
 Quex [resuming his reading]. You're 
 the best judge. 
 
 Sophy. So I've a quarter of an hour 
 to fill in somehow. [A j>ause] I've a 
 quarter of an hour to fill in somehow. 
 
 Quex [behind his paper, beginning to 
 be extremely bored.] Indeed? 
 
 Sophy [quaking]. I — I wish there 
 were some quiet httle shady places to 
 ramble about in,-hfire.£^t Faunoe y Cou rt. 
 
 QuEX.^ There are several. 
 
 Sophy. Are there? . . . are there? 
 
 Quex [turning his paper]. Oh, yes, a 
 great many. 
 
 Sophy. You see, I'm a^tranger 
 
 Quex [kindly]. Well, youjun along; 
 you'U find 'eni.__ [Slie walks away slowly, 
 baffled. He glances at her over his paper, 
 slightly puzzled] Have you seen the 
 grotto? 
 
 Sophy [turning sharply]. No. 
 
 Quex [pointing toward the right]. It'-S 
 in thaLdireotion. 
 
 Sophy. Grotto? Dark, I suppose, 
 and lonelyish? 
 
 QuEX.~ You said you desired shade 
 and quiet. 
 
 Sophy. Yes, but not darkness. 
 Fancy me in-a-gr-ottQ_aU-by.myself . . . 
 by myself . . . ! 
 
 Quex [behind his paper again]. I'm 
 
 afraid 
 offer. 
 
 I have no further suggestion to 
 
 [There is another pause; then her 
 face lights up, and she comes 
 down to him swiftly] 
 
 Sophy [close to him]. Show me your 
 nails^mSLlord. 
 
 Quex [lowering his paper]. My nails ? 
 
 Sophy [taking his hand and examin-f 
 ing it]. Excuse me. Oh, my lord, for 
 shame ! 
 
 Quex. You take exception to them? 
 
 Sophy. This is h acki ng , not jaitting. 
 You ought never to be allowed within a 
 mile of a pair of scissors. 
 
 Quex [looking at his other hand]. Oh, 
 come ! they're hardly as bad as all that. 
 
 Sophy [examining that hand also]. 
 Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Quex [rising, somewhat abashed]. Ha ! 
 I confess I am a httle unskilful at such 
 operations. 
 
 Sophy. No gentleman should trust 
 to himself where his nails are concerned. 
 Why, a man's hand has lost him a 
 young lady's affections before this! 
 I've heard of heaps of- cases where 
 matches have been broken off 
 
 Quex [putting his hands behind hirn, 
 smiling]. Really? the results of mani- 
 curing are more far-reaching than I had 
 imagined. , " ~ 
 
 Sophy. You see, my lord, when a 
 man^ courtisg he .is free to look his 
 youngTady m. the face for as long as he 
 ehooses; it's considered proper and 
 attentive. But the- girl^is^ expected to 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 517 
 
 drop her eyes^ an d th en — what has 
 she toToiQlC^ at ? ' "Wftyra"well-trimmed 
 hand or an ugly one. [Taking off her 
 rings] Now then, I'll do wonders for 
 you in t_en-minutes. 
 
 QtiBX. Thank you ; I am not going 
 indoors just-yet. 
 
 Sophy. No need to go indoors. 
 [Depositing her rings upon the table and 
 opening her hag] I've got my bag here, 
 with' all my tools — s ee ! 
 
 Qtrix^ Ah, but 1 won't trouble you 
 this evening. Another ^ccaision 
 
 Sophy [arranging her manicure instru- 
 ments, etc., upon the table]. No trouble 
 at all, my lord — quite an honour. [7re- 
 
 dicating the stone bench] Elfiasfi sit 
 
 dowa-therje. [Producing a little brass 
 
 bowl] Water ? 
 
 [She runs to the fountain and fills 
 her bowl from its basin] 
 
 QtTEX [crossing, hesitatingly, to the 
 right — looking at his nails and speaking 
 in a formal manner]. You have been 
 bidden to Faunoey Court for rest and 
 relaxation, Miss-ffalig aL ' uey ; — tt- is most 
 obhgin^ of you t o allow y our .gleasure 
 to be disturbed in this way. 
 
 Sophy [returning to him]. Oh, don't 
 say that, my lord. [Putting the bowl 
 on the table and dragging the garden-chair 
 forward to face him] Business is a 
 
 ple asure, sonietim es. 
 
 [Her close proximity to him forces 
 him back upon the bench] 
 
 Qtjex [seated — stiffly]. You must, 
 j,t, least ; let nie open an account at y our 
 exo^lOTl establislmLeiit. [ ' 
 
 Sophy. Not I. [Seated — • taking his 
 right hand] One may work oooasionally 
 for lov^ I should hgpe ? [archly] ha, ha ! 
 just "for love, eh? 
 
 Qtjex [uncomfortably]. No, no, I 
 couldn~t- pe rmit it — I couldnit -P.ermit 
 it. - 
 
 Sophy [holding his hand almost caress- 
 ingly]. Well, well ! we'U see — we'U 
 see. [She clips his nails briskly and 
 methodically. While she does so she again 
 hums a song, looking up at him at inter- 
 vals enticingly, under her lashes. Break- 
 ing off in her song] My goodness ! what 
 a smooth;~yov mg ha nd you hav e! 
 
 Quex [his~d/iscornfwnncrecmng] . Er 
 —^ indeed ? 
 
 Sophy. Many a man of six-and- 
 twenty- would_.ie_^d to own such 
 hands, I. can tell you. ~\Pc^Bhg his hand 
 reprovingly] Keep still ! [It is now his 
 turn to hum a song, which he does, under 
 his breath, to disguise his embarrassment. 
 
 She looks up at him] But, then, you're 
 an awfully young man for your age, in 
 every -wayv-ai?efflit.you ? 
 
 Qtjex [gazing at the sky]. Oh, I don't 
 know about that. 
 
 Sophy [slyly]. You do know. [Wag- 
 ging her head at him] You do know. 
 
 Qtjex [relaxing slightly]. It may be 
 so, of course, with out one's bein g con- 
 scious of it. 
 
 Sophy. May be so ! ah, ha ! not 
 conscious of it ! ho ! [Slapping his 
 hand again, soundly] Artful ! 
 
 Qtjex [flattered and amused]. No, no, 
 I assure you ! ha, ha ! 
 
 [They laugh together. His con- 
 straint gradually diminishes. 
 After shaking~s3meliquid soap 
 from a bottle into the bowl, she 
 places the bowl beside him on 
 the bench] 
 
 Sophy [while doing this]. My young 
 ladies a,t a-hundred-!and=«ghty-five all 
 agree with me about you. 
 
 QtTEX. Do they? 
 
 Sophy. Yes, do they ! 
 
 Quex. ~Your.?QHilg_ladiea? 
 
 Sophy. My girls. 
 
 Quex. Ha, ha, ha! And what ter- 
 rible j)ronouneeme3t_has — ariwadred- 
 and-eightjK3.W3o3ass^upon-me ? 
 
 Sophy. Seven-and-thirty, you look 
 — not a day oldgcx Jhatls-what we say. 
 There, aiE.yflIULflngfirs in that, do ! 
 
 Quex. Intothis? 
 
 Sophy [thrusting his fingers into the 
 bowl]. Baby ! [The water splashes over 
 her dress arM~his-coail_Oh I 
 
 Quex. I beg yoTir pardon. 
 
 Sophy. Now what have you done? 
 [Wiping the ^dter from ~his coat] You 
 clumsy_bQyJ_ 
 
 Quex. Thanks, thanks. 
 
 [She commences operations upon 
 his left hand. He is now 
 thoroughly entertained by her 
 freedom and audacity] 
 
 Sophy. Ha, ha ! do you know what 
 / maintain? 
 
 Quex [laughing]. Upon my word, I 
 dread to thinkr- 
 
 Sophy. Why, _that every man who 
 lookg youngarlthaiL his yea,rs sho uld be 
 w a.tched b^iTthe- DQlice. 
 
 Qtjex. trood heavens, Sophy — Miss 
 FuUgarney ! 
 
 Sophy. Yes — as a dangerous 
 pensQiu- 
 
 Quex. Dangerous ! ho, come ! 
 
 Sophy [with the suggestion of a wink]. 
 Dangerous. jrhe,_manjadiQ_ is younger 
 
518 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 than he ought to be" is always no better 
 than he should be. 
 
 QuEX. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Sophy. Am I righti^ am i rights eh ? 
 [Putting her cfieek^near his lips — speak- 
 ing in a low voice, breathlessly, her eyes 
 averted] Tell me whether I'm right, my 
 lord. 
 
 [For the first time, a suspicion of 
 her designs crosses his mind. 
 He draws back slowly, eying her. 
 There is a pause] 
 
 QuEX [in an altered tone, hut keeping 
 her in play]. Ha, ha, ha, ha! [Look- 
 ing at his watch] I — I am afraid I 
 shall have to run away todress__for. 
 dinner vefysbon^: " ' ' ' 
 
 Sophy [resuming her work, disap- 
 pointed]. Not yet; you've plenty of 
 time. But there, ..dangerous or not 
 dangerous, in my heart I can't help 
 holding with what my lady-customers 
 are continually saying. 
 
 QuEX [watching her keenly]. No? 
 and what are your lady-customers con- 
 tinually saying ? 
 
 Sophy. Why, that the young fellows 
 of the day ai;e._such conceited, apish 
 creatures; no mail under forty-five is 
 worth wasting a iriimite's time over. 
 
 QuEX. Ho ! they say that, your 
 lady-customers ? 
 
 Sophy. Yes; and they're good 
 judges, they are. 
 
 QuBX. Good judges! none better — 
 none better. 
 
 Sophy [laying her clipper aside sud- 
 denly, and putting her hand to her eyes 
 with a cry of pain]._ Oh! 
 
 QtTEX [coolly]. What's the matter? 
 
 Sophy [rising]. A little splinter has 
 flown into my eye It often happens. 
 
 QiTEX [rising]. Extremely painful, I 
 expect? 
 
 Sophy [producing her handkerchief]. 
 Very. [Giving him her handkerchief] 
 Do you think you could find it ? 
 
 QuEX. Certainly, if "it's to be found. 
 
 Sophy [holding the lapels of his coat, 
 her head almost upon his shoulder, her 
 eyes closed].' Ah! please make haste 
 and look for it ! 
 
 Qtjex. Right or left ? 
 
 Sophy. The ri — the left. 
 
 Qttex [sharply]. Raise your head. 
 Stand up. 
 
 Sophy [releasing his coat and raising 
 her head]. Eh? 
 
 QuEX [sternly]. Open your eyes. 
 Both of them. [She opens her eyes and 
 stores at him. He returns her handker- 
 
 chief] There ! I have removed the 
 
 spHnter [She slowly backs away like a 
 
 whipped child. He follows her] Miss 
 FuUgarney, I understand you are en- 
 gaged to be married"^^ to this young 
 man, Valma ? 
 
 Sophy [tremblingly]. Yes, my lord. 
 
 QuEX. Do you care for him ? 
 
 Sophy [faintly]. Yes. 
 
 QuBX. In love with him ? 
 
 Sophy. Oh, yes, my lord, indeed. 
 
 Qtjex. And yet you still flirt? 
 
 Sophy. Y — es. 
 
 QuEX. Take my advice — be satis- 
 fied with the kisses your sweetheart 
 gives you. Don't try to get them from 
 other men, old or young. 
 
 Sophy. No — no • 
 
 Qtjex [sternly, hut kindly]. You little 
 fool! 
 
 [PoLLiTT enters, wearing a tall hat and 
 lemon-colored gloves] 
 
 PoLLiTT [jealously]. SophyJ 
 
 [QuEX walks away] 
 
 Sophy [falteringly]. The fly-man 
 brought back the bag, Vakoa. dear. 
 
 PoLLiTT. I am aware of that. [Low- 
 ering his voice] What are you doing 
 here with Lord Quex? 
 
 Sophy. I — ■ I've been manicuring 
 him. 
 
 [The YoTJNGER Servant comes down 
 the steps] 
 
 Servant. [To Sophy] Mrs. Eden is 
 qvdte ready for you.jmiss. 
 
 [She hurriedly replaces her mani- 
 cure instruments, etc., in the 
 hag, hands the bowl to the Serv- 
 ant, and, without looking at 
 PoLLiTT or Qtjex, goes swiftly 
 up the steps and disappears. 
 The Servant follows her, car- 
 rying the howl] 
 PoLLiTT. [To Quex] Excuse me, 
 my lord -z — 
 
 QtjeX [coming forward, and picking up 
 his newspaper]. Eh? 
 
 PoLLiTT. 'That young lady and I 
 are engaged to be married. 
 Quex. Mr. — Valma ? 
 PoLLiTT. Yes, my lord. [Hotl;y] 
 And I very much object to her mardcur- 
 ipg^BBtlemen. 
 
 Quex [dryly]. Well, there you have 
 a little soinething-to discuss at home — 
 before, and, perhaps, after marriage. 
 
 PoLLiTT. I consider the custom of 
 ladies manicuring gentlemen one that 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 519 
 
 may oocasionally lead to undue famil- 
 iaiity-,- my lord. 
 
 Quex. I am inclined to agree with 
 you, sir. 
 
 PoLLiTT. And I shall do ah I can to 
 persuade Miss FuUgarney to relinquish 
 active parffci£aJa£m^:te^be''bllsrEess. 
 
 QtTBX. The palmistry profession is a 
 flourishing one at present, eh, Mr. Valma? 
 
 PoLLiTT [loftily]. My engagement- 
 book is always fuJI. I have disap- 
 pointed, sevBBS&-lwiTes— b3f-«o.aaiiig_lLere 
 this afternoon. 
 
 QtJEX. Poor women ! Nevertheless, 
 pra2_be car ^ITio^ you slight the mani- 
 cure trade7~~Cfa;i5(SS diy, yOLi know — 
 nails grow. 
 
 PoLLiTT [tapping his breast]. I think 
 we have come to sta y, my lord . 
 
 QtTEx fKfftorJj]: Wisll, you're saUing 
 pretty close to the wind, remember, you 
 fellows. 
 
 PoLLiTT. My lord ! 
 
 Quex [replacing his newspaper upon 
 the table]. And if some day you should 
 find yourselves ip. the poUce-ooiu:t, 
 alonpiide a poor old woman whose hand 
 has been crossedTvith-a-iireepenny-bit 
 
 down an area 
 
 [The Duchess appears on the 
 further side of the low cypress 
 hedge. She is dressed for din- 
 ner. The sky is now faintly 
 rosy, and during the ensuing 
 scene it deepens into a rich 
 sunset] 
 
 Quex. We are going to have a flam- 
 ing sunset. Duchess. 
 
 Duchess. Superb. 
 
 PoLLiTT [haughtily]. I wish you good- 
 evening, my lord. 
 
 Quex. Oh, good-evening, Mr. Valma. 
 [To himself] Impudent beggar ! 
 
 [PoLLiTT walks away. After 
 watching his going, the Duchess 
 comes eagerly forward] 
 
 Duchess [her hand upon her heart]. 
 QhJ — I-am heceiHarry ! 
 
 Quex [in delicate~^protest]. Ah, my 
 dear Dttchess ! 
 
 Duchess. Fortunately I have been 
 able to dress qmeUr sdihouiusxdting 
 curiosity. My-ja^d" was summonad 
 away this afternoon, to her father who 
 is sick. [Sinking on to the bench] StiU,. 
 these risks are considerable enough. 
 
 Quex. And yet you dehberately 
 court them ! . . 
 
 Duchess. Great passions involve 
 great dangers. The history of the world 
 shows that. ' ' ' - 
 
 Quex. But why now — now that 
 circumstances are altered between us? 
 why, on .^rth, do you play these 
 hazardous tncks now? 
 
 Duchess. I was determined to meet, 
 to_JinDw,.J;he girl with whom you are 
 about to ranger yoursfiE^ZE^irry. 
 
 Quex. Even that could have been 
 arrived at in some safer way. 
 
 Duchess. Ah, but you fail to see; 
 it was the daying-of-this4)roceedi;ig that 
 attracted me — the romance of it I 
 
 Quex [raising his hands]. Romance! 
 StiU! 
 
 ITucHEss. Always. It is the very 
 blood in my veins. It keeps me young. 
 I shall die aromantro-giri.-however old 
 I may be. - • 
 
 Quex. You ought, you really ought, 
 to have flourished in the Middle Ages. 
 
 Duchess. You have frequently 
 made that observation. [Rising] I do 
 hve .;uJLhe.Mi-d.dle^Ages, in my imagina- 
 tion. I hve in evOTy'Sge^fi-wMoh Love 
 was not a cool, level emotion, but a 
 fierce, all-conquering flame — a flame 
 that grew in the heart of a woman, that 
 of a sudden spread through her whole 
 organism, that ht up her eyes with a 
 light more refulgent than the hght of 
 sun or moon! [Laying her hand upon 
 his arm] Oh, oh, tbispflor, thin, modern 
 sentiiftent jniaeallfedjjoye 1 
 
 'Quex [edging awayX" Sssh ! pray be 
 careful ! 
 
 Duchess. Ah, yes. But, dear 
 H3in:Xi_I^canaG±_fimiuEe the ordeal any 
 longer. 
 
 Quex. The ordeal? 
 
 Duchess. The prolonged discom- 
 fort, to which T have subjected myself, 
 of watohing_your wooing of Miss Eden. 
 I mu§t go. 
 
 ■ Quex [with ill-concealed relief]. Go ! 
 leave us ? 
 
 Duchess. I recognize how fitting it 
 is |hat you should bring your wild, 
 irregular career to a close; but af ter 
 to-morrow I shall cease to be a/spectator 
 of "these .preliHuaaries. 
 
 Quex [his eyes sparkling]. After to- 
 morrow ! 
 
 Duchess. Yes, I rejoin poor dear 
 Strood_on Friday. True, he has four 
 nurses ^^Te always had four nurses, 
 if you remember ? 
 
 Quex [sympathetically]. Three or 
 four. 
 
 Duchess. But then, nurses are but 
 nurses, [Nobly] I must not forget that 
 I am a wife, Harry. 
 
520 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 QuEX. No, no — you mustn't forget 
 that.^ 
 
 Duchess [gazing into his eyea]. And 
 so, between you and me [placing her 
 hands upon his shoulders], it is over. 
 
 QtTEx [promptly]. Over. 
 
 Duchess. Finally, irrevocably over. 
 
 QuBX [freeing himself]. Absolutely 
 over. [Taking her hand and howing over 
 it solemnly] Done with. 
 
 [He walks away] 
 
 Duchess [moving slowly]. That is — 
 almost over. 
 
 QVES^urning sharply]. Almost? 
 
 Duchess. We have yet to say good- 
 by, you know, 
 
 QuBX [returning to her, apprehen- 
 sively]. We — we have said good-by. 
 
 Duchess. Ah, no, no ! 
 
 Quex [again bowing over her hand — 
 loith simulated feeling]. Good-by. 
 
 Duchess [looking round]. What! 
 here ? 
 
 Quex [humouring her]. This romantic 
 old garden! [pointing to the statuary] 
 these silent witnesses — beholders, it 
 is Ukely, of many similar scenes ! the — 
 the — setting sun ! Could any situa- 
 tion be more appropriate ? 
 
 Duchess. But we are liable to be 
 interrupted at any moment. The joint 
 romance of our lives, Harry, _ought not 
 to end with a curt word and formal 
 hand-shake in an exposed ^'ot-t)f this 
 kind. [Sitting in the garden-chair] Oh, 
 it cannot, must not, end so ! 
 
 Quex [eying her uneasily]. Frankly, 
 I see nothing else for it. 
 
 Duchess. I can't credit it. Why, 
 what was the second reason for my 
 coming here? 
 
 Quex. Second reason? 
 
 Duchess. That oiir parting might 
 be in keeping with our, great attach- 
 ment ! 
 
 Quex. Impossible. 
 
 Duchess. Impracticable? 
 
 Quex. In every way, impossible. 
 
 Duchess [taking his hand]. Oh, don't 
 say that, dear Harry ! Ah, the auguries 
 teU me that what I ask will be. 
 
 Quex [omitting, in his anxiety, to 
 withdraw his hand]. The auguries? 
 
 Duchess. Fate — coincidence — 
 call it what you please — foreshadows 
 one more meeting between us. 
 
 Quex. Coincidence ? 
 
 Duchess [intensely, in a low voice]. 
 Harry, do you remejaber a particular 
 evening artrStoddiokn ? 
 
 Quex [hastily]. Stockholm? 
 
 Duchess. That evening upon which 
 we discovered how much our society 
 mean t to g aotL-otherJ 
 
 Qvix\uaguely, while he hastily recovers 
 possession of his hand]. At Stockholm 
 was it ? 
 
 Duchess. You were sailing with us 
 in th€L._gaitiajrr you must recollect? 
 Our ya(St haXput in at Stockholm : we 
 had. come to the Grand Hotel. Strood 
 had retiredv-and_ys3X_aBd I were sitting 
 out upon the balcony watching the 
 hghts of the cafe on the Norrbro and 
 the tiny steamboats that stole to and 
 fro across the harbor. Surely you 
 recollect ? 
 
 Quex. Yes, yes, of course. 
 
 Duchess. Well, do you remember 
 the brand of_the-champagne you sipped 
 whole yoii and I sat smoMng? 
 
 Quex. Good Lord, no ! 
 
 Duchess. "Felix PoubeUe, Carte 
 d'Or." You remarked that it was a 
 brand unknown to you. Have you ever 
 met it sincej_HaTry ? 
 
 Quex. "Not that I 
 
 Duchess. Nor I tiU last night, at 
 dinner. [Impressively] It is in this 
 very house. 
 
 '--Quex [with a slight shrug of the 
 shoulders]. Extremely probable. 
 
 Duchess. And do you remember 
 how I was clad, that evening at Stock- 
 holm? 
 
 Quex. I am afraid I don't. 
 
 Duchess. Couleur de rose garnie de 
 vert. I have just such another garment 
 with me. 
 
 Quex. Really? 
 
 Duchess. Do you remember in what 
 month we were*t^Stockholm? 
 
 Quex. No. 
 
 Duchess. June — this month. Nor 
 the day of the week? 
 
 Quex. ItnHT^be ten years ago ! 
 
 Duchess. Wednesday. There stands 
 the record in my diary. 
 
 Quex. Diary! good heavens, you 
 are not so indiscreet ! 
 
 Duchess. No, no — only the words, 
 "warm, evening." Yes, it was upon a 
 Wednesday. What is to^-day ? 
 
 Quex. Wednesday. 
 
 Duchess [rising]. Harry, I want to 
 see yga-SiEEing— that— brand of cham- 
 pagne onoemorei,jsiil« you andJ-,sit 
 facing one~SSaEher, silently, drearnily 
 smoking Arg3Topulos. 
 
 Quex [negatively]. Duchess 
 
 Duchess. To end as we began! 
 you have not thejieart^to refuse? 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 521 
 
 DtJCHESS. I 
 
 diminutive lace 
 first shock of t. 
 ment — for it 
 
 Quex. I 
 
 Duchess. You do refuse? 
 Quex. Ldo^ 
 
 [She passes him, and again sinks 
 upon the bench] 
 Duchess [her back toward him, her 
 shoulders heaving]. Oh! oh! 
 
 Quex. I — I am profoundly sorry 
 to be obliged, to _speak to you in this 
 fashion. 
 
 Duchess. Oh, then I cannot go on 
 Friday ! 
 Quex. Not ! 
 Duchess. No! no! no! 
 Quex. Believe me, it would be 
 better for you,, for me, Jor every- 
 body 
 
 cannot! [Producing a 
 handkerchief] In the 
 j_BfiffiSjrf_^ur engage- 
 wai a shock — one 
 thought consoled me; throughout the 
 time that has elapsed since then I have 
 fed upon this same thought — there will 
 be a parting in keeping with our great 
 
 attacluneatJ Aodjjow, you would rob 
 
 me even of that ! 
 
 Quex. But — but — but — a 
 solemn, deliberate leave-taking! the 
 ceremonyL^jaJl .othOTS, to be carefully 
 avoided ! 
 
 Duchess. Not by me, Harry — not 
 by me. I wish to carr y, in inv breast, 
 from this house the numb despair of a 
 piteous. climax. I cannot drive away 
 smugly from these gates with the simple 
 feelings of a woman yhoJiasJieen pay- 
 ing a mere visit — 1 cannot ! 
 
 Quex. My dear Sidonia ! 
 
 Duchess [decidedly]. I say I cannot! 
 Quex. [To himself, with a little 
 groan]. Oi-l-— Ehew ! 
 
 [He walks to and fro impatiently, 
 reflecting. Sophy, without her 
 hat, comes quickly down the 
 steps as if making for the table. 
 Seeing Quex and the Duchess, 
 she draws back inquisitively] 
 Quex [by the Duchess's side again, 
 
 helplessly]. Well, I — ha ! — I 
 
 Duchess [rising eagerly, laying a 
 hand upon his arm]. You will ? 
 
 [Sophy stoops down behind the 
 
 dwarf cypress hedge] 
 
 Quex. You are certain — certain 
 
 that this would effectually j :emove the 
 
 obstaele4o-ypttrjgj[aMng-^[«)itt a wave 
 
 of the hand] qn-Enday? 
 
 Duchess. Why, do you think I 
 would risk an anticlimax? [In an in- 
 tense whisper]' To-night! [Louder] To- 
 
 night ? [He hesitates a little longer — 
 then bows in assent, stiffly and coldly. 
 
 She - gives an ardent sigh] Ah ! 
 
 [He retreats a step or two. She draws 
 herself up with dignity] To-night 
 
 then 
 
 [She turns from him and glides 
 away through the trees. He 
 stands for a moment, a frown 
 upon his face, in thought] 
 
 Quex [suddenly, moving in the direc- 
 tion she has taken] No, no! Duch- 
 ess ! [A gong sounds in the dis- 
 tance. He pauses, looking at his watch, 
 angrily] Ptshah! [He turns up the 
 stage and discovers Sophy, who is now 
 standing^ behind the hedge] Hallo! 
 [Sophy advances, laughing rather fool- 
 ishly] What are you doing here? 
 
 Sophy. Looking for my rings. I 
 took them off before I began manicur- 
 ing.you. 
 
 Quex [pointing to the hedge]. You 
 didnXdrapJhemltheKe, did you ? 
 
 Sophy. No, I left them on the table. 
 
 Quex [looking toward the table]. 
 There's the-table. 
 
 Sophy [coming to the table and putting 
 on her rings]. Yea,_X-lffl«w. 
 
 Quex [after a short pause]. How 
 lo np- have ya u-betaubeEe ? 
 
 Sophy. I? Oh, I'd just come as 
 you spoke to me. 
 
 QvmiL [half-satisfied]. Oh ? 
 
 [He goes up the steps, gives her a 
 parting look, and disappears. 
 It is now twilight. Mrs. Eden, 
 Fhaynb, and Muriel — all 
 dressed for dinner — appear on 
 the side of the low hedge] 
 
 Mrs. Eden. [To Fkayne, walking 
 with him above the hedge] Delightful, 
 isn't it? It was planted by the late 
 Lord Owbridge's father a hundred 
 years ago. 
 
 Frayne [seeing Sophy]. Why, isn't 
 ^atthe_yQjjng manicure lady ? 
 ""MSiTEDEN. Yes. All these pieces 
 of sculpture are genuine old Italian. 
 This quaint little fountain came from 
 the Villa Marchotti 
 
 Fhayne [edgirtg toward Sophy]. A1- 
 Ipring. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. This is the fountain. 
 
 Feayne [returning to her]. Quaint 
 old fountain. 
 
 ' Sopht. [To Muriel, across the hedge 
 in a whisper] Darling ! 
 
 Mrs. Eden [looking into the distance]. 
 I think I see thjidear Duchess. 
 
 Frayne [alertly]. "Where? 
 
522 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mrs. Eden. There. 
 
 Fhaynb. I have the honour of know- 
 ing her Grace sUghtly. 
 
 Mrs."Edbn [moDing away]. What a 
 sweet woman ! 
 
 Frayne [following her]. Alluring! 
 [They disappear through the trees 
 as Muriel, coming from below 
 the hedge, joins Sophy] 
 
 Sophy. Daring ! 
 
 Muriel. What is it, Sophy? 
 
 Sophy. Lord, Quex and this — this 
 Duchess — they Jmow eaclLoiher very 
 well, _q£. course ? 
 
 Muriel, ^^hey are old acquaint- 
 ances, I understand. 
 
 Sophy. Ah 1 
 
 Muriel. Why do you ask? 
 
 Sophy. I've just seen them to- 
 gether, -taUd^ig. 
 
 Muriel. Talking? why not? 
 
 Sophy. Yes, but how ? 
 
 Muriel. How? 
 
 Sophy. I'U tell you. After you 
 went. indoors to dress, I took off my 
 rings and'put them on — that table. 
 [Looking away rather guiltily] Rings 
 fidget me, this hot weather — don't 
 they you? Well, just as I'd finished 
 with Mrs. Jack, it suddenly struck me 
 — my rings ! — and I hurried back to 
 fetch them. When I got here, I came 
 across Lord Quex and the Duchess. 
 
 Muriel [calmly]. Yes? 
 
 Sophy. I stooped down behind that 
 hedge there. 
 
 Muriel. You did not ! 
 
 Sophy. Oh, I suppose you consider 
 it mean ! 
 
 Muriel. Despicable ! 
 
 Sophy. Despicable, is it! I don't 
 care ! My goodness, I'd do the shabbi- 
 est thing a woman oould do to save j^ou 
 from him ! 
 
 Muriel [peering among the trees]. 
 Hush, hush, hush ! 
 
 Sophy [on the verge of tears]. Per- 
 haps you fancy I'm mean from choice? 
 Perhaps you imagine ? 
 
 MuBiBL. Be quiet, Sophy I 
 
 Sophy [giving a sniff and lowering her 
 voice]. Well, here they were, standing 
 exactly where you are, close to each 
 other. [Muriel changes her position] 
 I saw her touch his arm. Oh, I'm 
 positive there's something between 
 those two! "You will?" I heard her 
 say. And then he made a remark about 
 Friday — ■ Friday 
 
 Muriel. The Duchess goes^gi 
 day. ^-- 
 
 Sophy. That was it, of course! 
 And then she mumbled something I 
 couldn't catch ; and then — listen to 
 this! — then she said "to-night," quite 
 plainly. To-night! and in sush a tone 
 of voice! And then he bowed, and 
 out she came with "to-night" again 
 — " to-night j"-for tbe^second time — 
 and away she went. Now, what do you 
 think that "to-night" of hers means? 
 
 Muriel [coldly, seating herself upon 
 the bench]. Nothing — anything. 
 
 Sophy. Nothing 1 
 
 Muriel. A hundred topics of con- 
 versation would lead to such an ex- 
 pression. [Looking at Sophy steadily] 
 You are mistaken in the construction 
 you put upon it. 
 
 Sophy [quietly]. Mistaken, am I? 
 
 Muriel [unth clenched hands]. The 
 Duchess of Strood is a jnostjmmaeu- 
 late woman. [Suddenly] Oh, it would 
 be too infamous! 
 
 [The Duchess and Frayne, followed by 
 Mrs. Eden, reappear behind the 
 low hedge. Sophy retreats to the 
 back of the bench upon which Muriel 
 is sitting. The Duchess and 
 Frayne approach, talking, while 
 Mrs. Eden chats to Sophy across 
 the hedge] 
 
 Frayne. [To the Duchess, gal- 
 lantly]. I am fiattered by your remem- 
 brance of me. Duchess. When, we last 
 met I had "hardly a gray hair in my 
 head. [Running his hand through his 
 hair] Ha! The West Coast ! 
 
 Duchess. Is the cUmatejSo terrible? 
 
 Frayne. Deadly. But the worst 
 of it is [with a bow and a sigh], we have 
 no European ladies. 
 
 [Muriel — eying the Duchess 
 — rises, shrinkingly, and steals 
 away] 
 
 Frayne [looking after Muriel]. 
 Quex ! ha, thersis a lUcky dog, now ! 
 
 Duchess [sweetly]. You are de- 
 lighted,. naturaUy,. at your old friend's 
 approaching marriage ? 
 
 Frayne [kissing his finger-tips toward 
 the left]. Miss Eden — ! [Inquisitively] 
 And — and i/0M,-DuQhes§? 
 
 Duchess [raising her eyebrows]. I? 
 
 Frayne. You also approve - his 
 choice? 
 
 Duchess [blandly]. Approve? I am 
 scarcely-suffloiently intimate with either 
 party to express approval or disapproval. 
 
 Frayne [eying her askance]. Pardon. 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 523 
 
 I thought you had known Quex for — 
 ah — some years. 
 
 Duchess. Quite superficially. I 
 should describe -him rather as a great 
 friend of his Grace. 
 
 [Ladt Owbridge appears on the top of 
 the steps] 
 
 Ladt Owbhidge. Are you here, 
 Duchess ? 
 
 Duchess [turning to her]. Yes. 
 
 Lady Owbridge [coming down the 
 steps]. Oh, I am really very upset ! 
 
 Duchess. Upset? 
 
 Lady Owbridge. About your maid. 
 The circumstance has only just been 
 reported to me — you hayeJiost your 
 maid. [Seeing FrAyne] Is that Sir 
 Chichester? [Frayne advances and 
 shakes hands] I didn't observe you, 
 in the dusk. Ha^e„yQu_ seen .Henry ? 
 I wonder if he is waiting for us in the 
 drawing-room ? 
 
 Frayne. May I go and hunt for 
 him? 
 
 Lady Owbridge. It would be kind 
 olyou. 
 
 [Frayne goes up the steps and 
 away. Mrs. Eden comes to 
 the stone bench. Muriel re- 
 turns slowly, coming from 
 among the trees and appearing 
 on the further side of the low 
 hedge] 
 
 Duchess. [To Lady Owbridge] 
 Pra^ don't be in the least concerned for 
 me, dear Lady Owbridge ; the absence 
 of my maid is quite a te mporary m atter. 
 Poor Watson's fatES^is' unwd^H and I 
 packed her off to him this afternoon. 
 She will be back by mid-day to-morrow, 
 she promises me. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. But, dear me! in 
 the meantime my own woman shall 
 wait upon you. 
 
 Duchess. I couldn't dream of it. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Why not my Gilchrist 
 
 — or let us share her ? 
 
 Duchess. No, no; the housemaid 
 who assisted^me intothis gown ■ 
 
 Lady Owbridge. Chalmers? well, 
 there's Chalmers, certainly. But I 
 fear that Chalmers has hot hands. Or 
 Denham=-no, -Benham is suffering 
 from a bad knee. Of course, there's 
 Bruce ! Bruce is painfully near-sighted 
 
 — but would Bruce do? Or little 
 Atkins ? 
 
 Sophy [stepping from behind the bench, 
 and confronting Lady Owbridge — in a 
 quiet voice]. Or I, my lady ? 
 
 Lady Owbridge. You, my dear? 
 Sophy. Why shouldn't / attend 
 upon her Grace to-night and in the 
 morning? [With half a courtesy to the 
 Duchess] I should dearly like to have 
 the honour. 
 
 [Muriel comes forward, staring 
 at Sophy] 
 Mrs. Eden. Now, that's very proper 
 and good-natured of you, Sophy. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. But, Miss FuU- 
 
 garney 
 
 Sophy [modestly]. Oh, I never feel 
 like Miss FuUgarney out of my business, 
 my lady. _You._aee,- 1 was-maid for 
 yeajs, and it's secgiuLnature-to me. - Do 
 let me7 my lady — do, your Grace ! 
 Mrs. Eden. Duchess — — ^?" ^ 
 Duchess [hesitatingly]. Oh — oh, by 
 all means. [To Sophy] Thank you. 
 
 [The gong sounds in the distance 
 again, as Quex — now in even- 
 ing-dress — and Frayne return 
 together, above the hedge] 
 Lady Owbridge. HereJs Quex. 
 
 [The ladies, excepi Muriel, join 
 Frayne and Quex] 
 Muriel. [To Sophy] What are you 
 doing? 
 
 ^SopHY [breathlessly]. The house- 
 keeper showed me over the house. I 
 remember — her maid's room is at the 
 end of a passage leading from the 
 boudoir ! 
 
 Muriel. Sophy, you must not! 
 you sha'n'tl 
 
 'TStrPHf: Why, isn't it for the best? 
 If I was mistaken over what I Heard 
 just now,"T?llsWsee or hear anything 
 wicked to-night ; and that will satisfy 
 both of us — — ! 
 
 Lady Owbridge [calling]. Muriel ■ 
 
 [NLvniEh joins the group ; Sophy 
 slips away and disappears] 
 Lady Owbridge. [To the Duchess] 
 Shall we go in? 
 
 [Lady Owbridge and the Duch- 
 ess, and Mrs. Eden and 
 Muriel, ascend the steps and 
 go toward the house. Instead 
 of following the ladies, Quex 
 turns sharply and comes for- 
 ward with an angry, sullen look 
 upon his face] 
 Frayne [looking round for Quex]. 
 Hallo, Harry ! [Coming to Quex] Aren't 
 
 y-OJii_ ? 
 
 Quex. Hang dinner! I don't want 
 t o eat. 
 
 Frayne. Anything wrong, old man? 
 anyt^ag I ? 
 
524 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 QuBX [shaking himself up]. No, no ; 
 nothing — the hot weather. Come 
 along; we mustn't be late for grace. 
 [Boisterously] At any rate, a glass of 
 champagne — [slapping Fraynb on the 
 hack] a glass or two of Ffilix PoubeUe, 
 hey? Fmx PoubeUe, Carte d'Or! ha, 
 ha, ha! 
 
 [As they turn to go, they see 
 Sophy on the other side of the 
 low hedge, looking at them 
 
 Qtjex. [To Fbayne, quietly] Wait! 
 [They stand still, while Sophy 
 very demurely walks to tKe 
 steps, ascends them, and dis- 
 appears] 
 QuBX [in an altered tone]. Chick — 
 you see that hussy? 
 
 Prayne. Miss FuUgarney? 
 QuEx. I can't make her out. I be- 
 lieve she wants to-play some trick on me. 
 Peayne. Trick? 
 
 QtTBX. 'Pon my soul, I beUeve she's 
 prsring — spying on me. 
 Frayne. That nice gal ! 
 QtTBX. Oh, I daresay I'm wrong. 
 But if I found it so, I — I'd wring her 
 neck. 
 
 Praynb [loistfully]. It's an alluring 
 neck. 
 
 Qtjex. Possibly. But I'd wring 
 
 it 1 
 
 [They go up the steps together] 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT 
 
 ACT III 
 
 The scene represents two rooms — a bed- 
 room and a boudoir — • separated by 
 an arched opening across which a 
 portikre is hung. "^ The portihre is, 
 however, drawn aside, and the bed- 
 room, in which is a bed with an 
 elaborate canopy, is partly revealed. 
 The boudoir is nearest to the spec- 
 tator. Above the fireplace, with bare 
 hearth, on the right, is a broad 
 window running obliquely toward 
 the centre, concealed by heavy cur- 
 tains. On the left of the window, 
 facing the audience, is a door ad- 
 mitting to a long, narrow passage 
 in which a hanging lamp is burning; 
 and on the left of this door is the 
 arched opening dividing the bed- 
 room from the boudoir. Another 
 door opens into the boudoir on the 
 
 opposite side from a corridor or 
 landing. Beyond this door, against 
 the wall, is a cabinet, on top of 
 which is a clock. A chair stands 
 at each end of this cabinet. On the 
 left of the arched opening — placed 
 obliquely, the mirror turned from the 
 audience — is a cheval-glass ; and 
 on the right is a sculptured figure or 
 ornamental pillar supporting a 
 lighted lamp. Before the window 
 stands a large dressing-table. On 
 the table are a pair of candelabra 
 with lighted candles, a looking-glass, 
 toilet-bottles, and a hand-mirror. 
 A chair faces the dressing-table. 
 Nearer to the spectator are a writing- 
 table, with a heap of French novels 
 on it, and an arm-chair. Opposite 
 stand a circular table, an arm-chair, 
 and a settee. A silver box contain/- 
 ing cigarettes, an ash-tray, a match- 
 stand, and a lighted spirit-lamp are 
 on this table. 
 The rooms are richly furnished and deco- 
 rated, but in an old-fashioned and 
 formal manner. Everything is sub- 
 dued and faded in tone. There are 
 no pillows upon the chairs, nor on 
 the settee, nor any other signs of ease 
 and comfort. Keys are in the locks 
 of both the doors. 
 
 [The DucHBSs and Mrs. Eden are 
 seated — the Duchess in the arm- 
 chair, Mrs. Eden upon the settee — 
 smoking cigarettes. Mrs. Eden is 
 wearing a smart dressing-jacket; the 
 Duchess is still fully dressed. 
 Sophy, who has assumed an apron, 
 is engaged in bringing hair-brushes 
 and some toiletr-bottles from the bed- 
 room and in arranging them upon 
 the dressing-table. Her eyes are con- 
 stantly upon the Duchess] 
 
 Mrs. 
 pleasant 
 you 
 
 Eden. These 
 cigarettes. I 
 
 are awfully 
 didn't know 
 
 Duchess [plaintively]. My doctor 
 insists — for my neryes. 
 
 Mrs. Eden \blowing rings]. I love 
 sirioldngv-.-Sj!ich a bore, because women 
 are rather dropping-iil. [Examining 
 her cigarette] What are these? 
 Duchess. IjOTget. 
 Mrs. Eden. I see — Argyropulos. 
 [There is a knock at the door. 
 Sophy goes to the door and opens 
 it slightly; a note is handed to 
 her] 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 625 
 
 Sophy [looking at the note]. Oh, 
 thanks. [Closing the door] I beg your 
 pardon, your Grace — it's for me. 
 
 [She returns to the dressing-table, 
 reading the note] 
 
 Mes. Eden [jestingly]. Ah, Sophy! 
 you miigt_en£Qurage_jiQ_mflrB_.sweet- 
 hfiarta nawTj;emenihei< 
 
 Sophy. This is from him, Mrs. 
 Eden-=:rfrom Mr. Valma, saying good- 
 night. He's gOUB^to-bed. 
 ~Til"ES. Eden. Good gracious! how 
 dqj[OM_tau?'w ? 
 
 SophyT Mrs. Gregory, the house- 
 keeper, has:,allowed him to sleep here 
 to-night, so -that we may go back to- 
 gether iji the morning. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. ' "Ah, yes. 
 
 Dtjchess [taking off her bracelets]. 
 My jewel-case, Sophy. 
 
 [Sophy puts the note to her lips, 
 slips it into the bodice of her 
 dress, and re-enters the bed- 
 room] 
 
 Mrs. Eden. [To the Duchess] By- 
 the-by, what did VahnsL see in, your 
 h^nd,_ Duchess,, after dinner? Why 
 wouldn't you tell us ? 
 
 Dttchess. I was too vexed at the 
 moment. [With downcast eyes] He pro- 
 fessed ta discover that a number of men 
 are in love with me. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Yes, but what made 
 you angry? 
 
 Duchess. Why, that. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. That! 
 
 Duchess. They were shocking words 
 to hsten-tay-eveD_when s poke n by a mere 
 fortune-teller. And you ^^ wKy did you 
 not confide to us the result ofc-Mr. Val- 
 ma's reading ot your palm? 
 
 [Sophy comes from the bedroom, carrying 
 a jewel-case, which she deposits upon 
 the dressing-table] 
 
 Mrs. Eden. I was in a rage too. 
 Ha! there's only^one man in love with 
 rrw,-it appears. . 
 
 Duchess [with a shudder]. One is 
 sufficiently dreadful. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Horrid! [Making a 
 moue] Ifa-daefe— —"HjjF-hushand! 
 
 Duchess [reprovingly]. Hush, dear 
 
 Mrs. Eden ! Sophy [Sophy comes 
 
 to the Duchess. Languidly] I shall 
 read for ialf an hour before attempting 
 to sleep. Put me into somethjng loose. 
 
 Sophy. Yes, your Grace. 
 
 [Sophy again retires to the bed- 
 room] 
 
 Mrs. Eden [rising]. May I look at 
 your literature ? 
 
 [Mrs. Eden goes to the writing- 
 table and turns over the books 
 she finds there. The Duchess 
 glances at the clock, and eyes, 
 Mrs. Eden with impatience] 
 Mrs. Eden. " Le Calvaire d'une 
 vierge." "Lune de Miel." "Les Aien- 
 tures de Madame Plon." Oh, I've 
 heariL-of this 1 this is a little — h'm ! 
 
 — isn't it? 
 
 Duchess. I read those things for 
 the sake of their exquisitelyTJrttsbed 
 style;. -the subjects escape me. 
 
 Mrs. Eden [seating herself by the 
 writing-table and dipping into "Madame 
 Plon"] Ah, yes, the style — the style. 
 [Absorbed] We haven't much real liter- 
 ary style in England, have we ? 
 
 [Sophy returns, carrying a pink tea- 
 gown trimmed with green ribbons, 
 and a richly embroidered Man^ 
 darin's robe] 
 
 Sophy. Will your Grace put on one 
 of these? [With a curl of the lip] They're 
 both^i^ry. becoming, I should think. 
 
 Duchess [smiling sadly]. Becom- 
 ingX-a s. if that mattere d^luld ! 
 
 SophyI Which willySm- Grace ? 
 
 Duchess. [To herself, closing her 
 eyes] Couleur de rose — [To Sophy] er 
 
 — tbatpjnk rag. Take off my collar- 
 ette. ■ 
 
 [Sophy lays the tea-gown and the 
 robe over the back of the settee 
 and proceeds to unfasten the 
 Duchess's pearl collarette] 
 Mrs. Eden [startled by some passage 
 in the book she is reading]. Oh, I say ! 
 Duchess. What; dear Mrs. Eden? 
 Mrs. Eden [bethinking herself — 
 soberly]. Ah, yes, the style is excellent, 
 is iiH it ? 
 
 Duchess. [To Sophy, while the col- 
 larette is in pr ocess g f_x£3noval] Have 
 you everyliiing you require for the 
 nighCchildt 
 
 Sophy. Yes, thank you, yout_Grace. 
 Miss Gile^iali_M-i'a.— Bden^s-tnaid, has 
 lent me a night-gown and_j:_Bair of 
 
 slippers. ^ 
 
 Duchess [handing her bracelets to 
 Sophy]. Drop them into the case. 
 
 [Sophy puts the collarette and 
 bracelets in the jewel-case. The 
 Duchess, rising, again looks 
 at the clock and at Mrs. Eden. 
 Sophy returns to the Duchess, 
 who is now behind the settee] 
 
526 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Duchess. [To Sophy] It is very 
 good of you, Sophy, to attend upon me. 
 
 Sophy [averting her head]. Net at aU, 
 your Grace. 
 
 Duchess [taking up the Mandarin's 
 robe]. Here is a pretty thing for you. 
 [Giving the robe to Sophy] Wear it to 
 dress your iiaiLin,. in the morning. 
 
 Sophy [breathing shortly]. Oh, no, 
 your Grace — please ! 
 
 Duchess. Nonsense, child; take it. 
 [Sophy, somewhat out of counte- 
 nance, lays the robe over the back 
 of the chair] 
 
 Mes. Eden [looking up]. Well, you 
 are a lucky girl, Sophy ! 
 
 Sophy. Yes, I know it's very beauti- 
 ful ; [returning to the Duchess] but I — ■ 
 I thin kJId-iathCT-BOt 
 
 Duchess. Tsch, tseh! help me. 
 [The Duchess is standing before the 
 cheval-glass, which conceals her from the 
 audience. With Sophy's aid, she slips 
 out of her dress and puts herself into the 
 tea-gown, while she talks to Mrs. Eden] 
 Miss Eden is not well to-night, I am 
 afraid. She didn't come into the draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 [Mbs. Eden rises and goes to the 
 settee, upon which she partly 
 kneels while she chatters to the 
 Duchess] 
 
 Mhs. Eden. She complained of 
 headache and bolted upstairs. Muriel 
 is such an odd girl at times. 
 
 Duchess. A sweet one. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Perfectly adorable. 
 Only I wis^shejffiasnit so moody and 
 uncertain. 
 
 Duchess. B-Ut -3* headache — [sym- 
 pathetically] dear -ohiM! 
 
 Mrs. Eden. An engaged gjrl ought 
 not to hav-e..a_heada«be--=-no girl ought. 
 It's just one of those_thixigajthat make 
 a man ponder. 
 
 Duchess. Ponder. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Reflect. A man loves 
 to think a girl is like an angel — beauti- 
 ful pink and white right through, with 
 no clock-work. The m^oment she com- 
 plains of headache, or toothache, or a 
 chilblain on the-k^el, the angel game is 
 off, and she's, got to try and hold her 
 own as a simple"" m&rtal. And as a 
 mortal she's not in it with a man. No, 
 it's angel or nothing with us women. 1 
 remember my Mater sasdng to me when 
 I was engaged to Jack, "Sybil, now 
 mind ! enjoy the very best of health till 
 you have been married at least ten years ; 
 and then be sure you have an excellent 
 
 motive for craeking-up." [The clock 
 tinkles out the half-hour. She glances 
 at the clock]. Half-past eleven! the 
 dead of night for this house! [Rising] 
 I'll he off to my cat. 
 
 ISoPHY carries the Duchess's 
 dress into the bedroom] 
 
 Duchess [coming to Mes. Eden]. 
 Must you? Good-night. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. So nice of you to allow 
 me this gossip. 
 
 Duchess. Delighted. 
 
 [They kiss affectionately] 
 
 Mrs. Eden. We go shopping to- 
 gether to-morrow, do we not? 
 
 ■ Duchesb. Yes, yes. 
 
 Mrs. Eden [with exaggerated regret]. 
 To-morrow! your last day here! 
 niigfiEx! [At the door, finding she still 
 has^Madame Plan" in her hand] Oh! 
 do you happen to be on this one ? 
 
 Duchess. Not that one. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. I wonder whether you'd 
 lend it to me ? 
 
 Duchess. Gladly. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. As you say, there 
 is something about these French 
 writers 
 
 Duchess. Style. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. That's it — style. 
 [Opening the door] Ah ! lights out. 
 
 Duchess. Can you see? 
 
 Mes. Eden [jgoing out]. There's just 
 a glimmer [She disappears] 
 
 Duchess. I'U keep the door open 
 till you have turned the corner. 
 
 [Sophy comes back and stands 
 watching the Duchess. The 
 Duchess remains—at^the open 
 door for a little while, then kisses 
 her hand to Mrs. Eden and 
 closes the door] 
 
 Sophy. Shall I brush_your_Grace's 
 hair now? "" 
 
 Duchess [going to the writing-table and 
 taking up a book]. No. I wiU do it. 
 The exertion of brushing my hair, I 
 often find, encourages sleep. I'U put 
 myself tob^d. Run away. Don't let 
 me seeJof'EeaTarLStMng,of you till the 
 morni^. rEigEt^o^clook. .. [She reclines 
 upoTrvie~ 'settee' and' opens her book. 
 Sophy, eying, her keenly, is about to 
 withdraw] Oh — Sophy ! [Sophy re- 
 turns] "Do you— r bfiEevaJa-Mr^Val- 
 ma? 
 
 Sophy. Believe in him, your Grace? 
 
 Duchess. Believe that when he 
 reads a womanlsJiand-he-hasTeallyHie 
 power of divination --^ the power he 
 professes? " 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 527 
 
 Sophy. Ohry^s. 
 
 Duchess [looking away]. Then if he 
 tells a woman^ that a great many men 
 are deeply in' love with her, you — 
 you ? 
 
 Sophy. I'm sure he knows what he's 
 talking about. — — 
 
 Dtjchbss [with a little purr of content- 
 ment]. Ah! [Assuming indifference] 
 I heard recently of an jnstanop of his 
 Vi H.vi ng n on j ectur e d such a state of 
 affairs from the lines of a woman's 
 hand. [Severely] I could only hope 
 that his surmise was an incorrect one. 
 
 Sophy [her eyes flashing scornfully]. 
 You see, your Grace, if a woman is 
 pretty, and Valma finds Venus's girdle 
 well , marked— in—har palm; and if he 
 concludes from other signs that she's 
 vain andJight and loose ; it isn't much 
 to suppose that there are a few horrid 
 men uoking.-tli.eir lips at the thought of 
 her. 
 
 Duchess [shocked]. My good girl! 
 
 what curious expressions you make use 
 
 of ! [Resuming her reading] That's all. 
 
 [Sophy goes to the door and opens 
 
 it] 
 
 Sophy. I wish your Grace good- 
 night. 
 
 Duchess [raising her head for a mo- 
 ment]. Good-night. You are not tak- 
 ing your robe. 
 
 [Sophy looks at the robe and hesi- 
 tates; in the end she gathers it 
 up uneasily] 
 
 Sophy. I — I am veryjmuchjibJiged 
 to your Grace ^ 
 
 Duchess. Yes, you have thanked 
 me enough. Tur-n out the -lamp in that 
 
 SoPHT. Certainly, your Grace. 
 
 [Sophy disappears, shutting the 
 door after her. The Duchess 
 remains quite still for a mo- 
 ment, then rises promptly, re- 
 places her book, and — seating 
 herself at the dressing-table — 
 puts her hair in order. This 
 done, she takes up the hand- 
 mirror and smiles, frowns, and 
 looks caressingly at herself. 
 Then she lays the hand-mirror 
 aside, blows out the candles upon 
 the dressing-table, and poses 
 before the cheval-glass. Ulti- 
 mately, completely assured as 
 to her appearance, she cau- 
 tiously opens the door at which 
 Sophy has departed, and, going 
 a few steps along the passage, 
 
 listens with strained ears. The 
 passage is now in darkness. 
 Apparently satisfied, the Duch- 
 ess returns, and, closing the door 
 gently, turns the key in the lock. 
 Her next proceeding is to air- 
 tempt to tear one of the ribbons 
 from her tea^gown. Failing in 
 this, she detaches it with the aid 
 of a pair of scissors, and, opevr- 
 ing the door leading from the 
 corridor, ties the ribbon to the 
 outer door-handle. Whereupon 
 she closes the door and walks 
 about the room contentedly. 
 Suddenly she pauses, and, going 
 to the cabinet, produces a small 
 tray on which are a bottle of 
 champagne and a champagne 
 glass. Placing the tray on the 
 circular table, she regards the 
 single glass thoughtfully. Then, 
 as if struck by an idea, she dis- 
 appears into the bedroom. After 
 a brief interval, the door opens 
 softly and Quex enters, carry- 
 ing a lighted wax match. Being 
 in, he shuts the door silently and 
 looks about the room. Hearing 
 the Duchess in the adjoining 
 apartment, he frowns and blows 
 oui the match. Coming to the 
 circular table, he contemplates 
 the preparation for his reception 
 with distaste; then, flinging the 
 match into the ash-tray, he sits, 
 with a set, determined look upon 
 his face. After another short 
 pause, the Duchess returns, 
 polishing a tumbler with a 
 cambric handkerchief. Quex 
 rises] 
 Duchess [under her breath]. Ah! 
 [He bows stiffly. She places the tumbler 
 on the tray, tosses the handkerchief aside, 
 and — first motioning him to stand away 
 from the line of the door — opens the door, 
 removes the ribbon from the handle, closes 
 and locks it. Then she turns to him with 
 a long-drawn sigh] Ah — h — ^h ! 
 
 Quex [coming down gloomily]. Is it 
 all right? 
 
 Duchess. Quite. [Advancing to him 
 with outstretched hands] Welcome, 
 Harry ! oh, welcome ! 
 
 Quex [retreating a few steps — firmly]. 
 One moment: -I have something to ask 
 of yotrr-8idonia___[X,agfcinff round] You 
 
 are sure ? 
 
 Duchess. Yes,- yes. Qnlx don't 
 raise your voicej [glancing towards the 
 
528 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 door] my maid sleeps in a room at the 
 end of that passage. [Gracefully seating 
 herself upon the settee and motioning him 
 to sit beside her] Sit down. Oh, the 
 woe of this final meeting 1 the pathos 
 of it! 
 
 QuEX [bitterly, withdrawing the chair a 
 little further from the table]. Yes, I 
 agree with you — there is an element of 
 wofulness in this .meeting ; it is not 
 altogether without pathos. 
 
 Duchess. Not altogether 1 
 
 QtTEX [sitting, facing her]. But, for 
 yourself, my dear Sidonia — ■ well, I 
 have the consolation of believing that 
 directly you turn your back upon 
 Fauncey Court much of the wofulness 
 of your position will evaporate. 
 
 DtrcHEss. Harry ! 
 
 QuEX. Forgive me — you admit that 
 you deUght in colouring even the most 
 orainary events of life rather highly. If 
 I may put it^more roughly, you are dis- 
 posed, my dear Si3bma^=^^l;imes, per- 
 haps, a httle inopportunely — to burn 
 a good deal of red Are. [Leaning for- 
 ward] At any rate, I beg an especial 
 favour of you to-night. 
 
 Duchess. What^ — ? 
 
 QuEX [distinctly]. No red fire. 
 
 Duchess [chilled]. Islhis the some- 
 thing you had to ask^^Lme ? [He bows 
 in assent] ' I cannot remember ever hav- 
 ing seen you in this mood. 
 
 QuEX. This is oiu" first actual t&te-ct- 
 tUe since my engagement to Miss Eden. 
 
 Duchess. Oh, I understand. 
 
 QuEX. And now shall I teE you 
 where the wofulness and the pathos 
 most conspicuously^ display themselves 
 on this occasion? 
 
 Duchess. If you wish to. 
 
 QuEX. In the confounded treachery 
 of my being here at all. 
 
 Duchess. Treachery? 
 
 QuEx. You know I am imder a 
 bond of good behaviour to my old aunt 
 and to the Edens. 
 
 Duchess [with a slight shrug of the 
 shoulders]. Really? 
 
 QuEX. Yes. [Clenching his teeth] 
 And this is how I observe it. After all 
 my resolutions, this — this is how I 
 observe, it. 
 
 [He rises and paces up and down 
 the room] 
 
 Duchess [fretfully]. I am bound to 
 remark that your p resent b ghavjour 
 appears quitBTffliiHpeachable. ~ 
 
 QuEX. Unimpeachable! here — 
 alone — in your company ! 
 
 Duchess [covering her eyes with her 
 "_ Oh, cruel, cruel! 
 
 QuEX [paving]. Cruel ? 
 
 Duchess [with heaving bosom]. _ But 
 there ! if you deny me the possession of 
 real feeling,_wh^ should you hesitate to 
 rain -blows on me ? 
 
 QuEX [softening, coming to her]. My 
 dear SidoniaiiJ don't — I don't mean 
 to 
 
 Duchess [rising, and grasping his 
 hands]. Oh, Harry! 
 
 QuEX. TsohT please! [He releases 
 himself and she sinks back upon the 
 settee, her eyes closed. He regards her 
 uncomfortably for a moment; then, with 
 some hesitation, he produces from his 
 coat-tail pocket a small box.- covered with 
 a pretty brocade, with which he toys un- 
 easily] You expressed a wish to leave 
 here on Friday with a sensation of de- 
 spair at your heart, Sidonia. If your 
 feeling about our parting is reaUy a deep 
 one, heaven knows I have no desire to 
 make it more acute 
 
 Duchess [partly opening her eyes]. 
 What is in that box, Harry ? 
 
 QuEX. That is just what I was about 
 to — to — [lAftin^ the lid and closing it] 
 These are the Uttle souvenirs which have 
 passed from you to me at oddlimes. 
 
 Duchess [with reviving interest]. Ah, 
 yes. ., 
 
 QuEx. I have had no other oppor- 
 tunity — [Looking about him awkwardly 
 for a place to deposit the box] Will 
 you — ? shall I — ? what the devil's to 
 become of 'em? 
 
 Duchess [sitting upright and passing 
 her hand over her hack hair]. Were 
 there a fire, we could crouch over it and 
 watch the flames consume them one by 
 one. 
 
 QuEX. But there isn't a fire. 
 
 Duchess [rising, and taking the box 
 from him]. Letjis examine them. 
 
 QuEX. No, no, no. 
 
 Duchess. Yes, — yes. [Opening the 
 box and gazing1,nto it] Ai, poor Httle 
 objects ! dead, yetani mate ; silent, yet, 
 
 oh, how eloquent ! Don't go away 
 
 [She overturns the contents of the 
 box on to the table. They stand 
 opposite each other, looking 
 down upon the litter] 
 
 Duchess [she picks up a ring]. A 
 ring — [thoughtfully] turquoise and pearl. 
 [Recollecting] Stockholm ! You remem- 
 ber — that ni^tyau_aiid_L.sat-wftt»h- 
 ing the lights of ithe oafS on .the Norr- 
 bro 1 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 529 
 
 Quex [hastily]. Yes, yes; you've 
 recalled it already to-day. 
 
 Dtjchess [picking up a scarf-pin]. A 
 scarf-pin. Copenhagen! Ah, that 
 pretty -st£ite-room-of-Baine.oii the Irene! 
 
 Quex. Yes, yes, charming. 
 
 Duchess [taking up a locket]. A 
 locket — my name in brilliants. Genoa ! 
 Look, it. still contains my hair. 
 
 Quex [nodding]. H'm, um. 
 
 Duchess [taking up a white shoe]. 
 My shoe. Where ? 
 
 Quex [shaking his head]. I don't 
 
 Duchess. Mentone ! 
 
 Quex. Of covu-se — Mentone. 
 
 Duchess [discovering some object in 
 the shoe]. What is this? [Producing a 
 garter of pale-blue silk, with a diamond 
 buckley A — a — where — ? ah, yes. 
 [Replacing the things in the box] Oh, 
 the poor little objects ! dead, yet ani- 
 mate ; silent, yet, oht, how eloquent ! 
 
 [She passes him and slips the box 
 into the drawer af the writing- 
 table. The clock strikes a 
 quarter to twelve] 
 
 Quex [glancing at the clock]. By 
 Jove, it's late ! I — I'U leave you now, 
 Sidonia. 
 
 Duchess [turning]. No, no — not 
 yet, Haiay. — [Coming to the table and 
 taking up the box of cigarettes] Why, you 
 forMt — [offering him the box] Argyro- 
 pulor!^ 
 
 Quex [accepting a cigarette reluctantly]. 
 Thanks.^ [Again looking at the clock] 
 Well — three-MStttes. 
 
 Duchess [taking a cigarette, replacing 
 the box, and holding the spirit lamp while 
 he lights his cigarette from it] You were 
 not always so impatient. [In lighting 
 his cigarette, the flame of the lamp is 
 blown out] Ah! ' [After replacing the 
 lamp, she lights her cigarette from his, 
 gazing into his eyes] Argjrropulos. 
 [Dreamily] Once more — Argyropulos. 
 
 Quex. Yes, yes — capital tobacco. 
 [He gets away from her] 
 
 Duchess. And look ! you see, 
 Harry? 
 
 Quex [turning]. Eii-? 
 
 Duchess [pointing to the bottle of 
 champagne]. "F^lix PoubeUe, Carte 
 d'Or"! [Taking up the scissors which 
 she has left upon the table] "I^jgdrejs 
 already severed. ' 
 
 [She commences to cut the string. 
 He comes to her] 
 
 Quex [taking the scissors from her]. 
 Oh, permit me. 
 
 [Always intent upon avoiding hsc, 
 
 he moves away, the bottle in his 
 hand, cutting the string] 
 Duchess [following him]. Is it likely 
 to make a loud report ? 
 Quex. Hardly. 
 
 Duchess [frowning censoriously]. One 
 doesn't want a sound of that sort to 
 ring through the comdors. [Looking 
 about her impatiently] These -f-ormal, 
 frigid rooms !- 
 
 [She runs lightly into the bedroom, 
 snatches a pillow from the bed, 
 and returns to him] 
 Quex [his hand upon the cork]. What 
 is that for? 
 
 DncnuBS [enveloping his hand and the 
 bottle in the pillow — calmly]. It is 
 wiser to muflBe it. 
 
 [He pauses, looking at her fixedly] 
 Quex [in a low, grave voice]. 
 
 Dolly, 
 
 Duchess. DoUy! [Closing her eyes] 
 You give me my pet name again ! 
 
 Quex. Ah, Dolly, if only there 
 wasn't quite so much in one's fife — to 
 muffle! '[Re~puTls~th0-cork7- She tosses 
 the pillow on to the settee, a little irritably] 
 
 May I ? 
 
 [She inclines her head. He pours 
 vnne into the glasses; she takes 
 the champagne glass, he the 
 tumbler] 
 Duchess [sentimentally]. FfiUx Pou- 
 beUe, Carte d'Or! [Looking at him over 
 the brim of her glass] Eh bien ! aujoyeux 
 - 1 
 
 Quex. Non, non — it un avenir 
 meiUeur ! 
 
 Duchess. Que vous Stes prosaique 
 soil! [They drink] 
 
 [She sits with a sigh of dissatisfaction] 
 Ah! 
 
 Quex [leaning against the table, drink- 
 ing his wine]. Wonderful wine — really 
 exceptional. [Struck by a thought, turn- 
 ing to her] Forgive me — you must 
 have found some diffimilty in introdiin- 
 ing Monsieur. Felix Ppubelle..,toto this 
 hfJlowed apartment. 
 
 Duchess. No. [Sipping her vnne] 
 My m@,id thinksJtJs._liK_my_d.qctor'3 
 orders. 
 
 Quex. Your maid, yes — [sipping 
 his wine; then sitting upon the settee 
 glass in hand] — but my poor aunt musi 
 be highly scandalized. 
 
 Duchess [hef~gCass at her lips]. Deai 
 Lady Owbridge will not know. I told 
 the girl to coax it out of the butler, as i( 
 it were'for herself. These women hav« 
 a way of doing such things. 
 
530 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Qttbx [laughing rather sadly]. Ha, 
 ha, ha I who is beyond temptation? 
 Not even old Bristoy — sixty if he's 
 a day. 
 
 Duchess [shrugging her shoulders]. 
 Sixty or sixteen — when a girl is fas- 
 cinating 
 
 QuBX. Fascinating 1 your woman, 
 Watson ! — ■ ~ • 
 
 DiTCHEss. No, no — Watson has left 
 me for a few h ours . I am speaking of 
 SophyV 
 
 [There is a brief silence. Quex, 
 surprised in the act of drinking, 
 lowers his glass slowly] 
 
 QuBX [in a queer voice]. Sophy? 
 
 Duchess. Miss PuUgarney, the 
 manicurist. She was so good as to 
 offer to take Watson's place for to- 
 lught. 
 
 (JijEX [looking steadily before him]. 
 Oh? 
 
 [There is another pause. The 
 Duchess puts down her glass 
 ap,d, with her foot, pushes the 
 footstdol toward Quex] 
 
 Duchess [sliding from her chair on to 
 the footstool]. Oh, Harry, the bitterness 
 of this final meeting ! the dull agony of 
 it! 
 
 [He gets rid of his tumbler and 
 touches her arm] 
 
 Quex [quietly]. Duchess 
 
 Duchess [surprised]. Eh? 
 
 Quex. I am sorry to alarm you, but 
 this girl — Miss Eden's foster-sister 
 
 Duchess. What about her? 
 
 Quex. She's a cat. 
 
 Duchess. Cat ! 
 
 Quex [gathering his ideas as he pro- 
 ceeds]. A common hussy, not above 
 playing teioks — spying 
 
 Duchess.' Spying! 
 
 Quex. I caught her behind the 
 hedge this evening, in the Italian gar- 
 den, after you and I had been talking 
 together. 
 
 Duchess. Behind the hedge ! 
 
 Quex. She haji previously done her 
 be.si to_^aka-ajar-ass of me, while you 
 
 were dressing for dinner ! [Looking 
 
 toward the passage-door] Where do you 
 say her room is ? 
 
 Duchess. At the end of that pas- 
 sage. [They rise together, with very little 
 movement] Oh, but she is in bed, and 
 asleep ! 
 
 Quex. Is she? ^ 
 
 Duchess. Harry ! 
 
 Quex. Wait ! [He goes to the 
 
 door, and examines the key-hole. Then 
 
 he turns to the Duchess and beckons to 
 her. She joins him. He says, in a 
 whisper, pointing to the key-hole] Do 
 
 you notice ? 
 
 Duchess. What ? 
 Quex. The key is in the lock 
 horizontally. 
 
 She may have been peep- 
 [He nods. She is sick at 
 How inexcusably careless 
 
 Duchess. 
 ing at us? 
 the thought] 
 of me! 
 
 Quex [at 
 
 her elbow]. Listen. I'll 
 keep out of sight. Open the door 
 boldly and walk along the 
 See if there is any sign of movement 
 
 Duchess." Yesry^. [Sl^adying her- 
 self] Perhaps we are disturbmg our- 
 selves unnecessarily. 
 
 Quex [nodding reassuringly]. Perhaps 
 so. 
 
 [He draws back into the bedroom, 
 but so that he can put his head 
 out at the opening, and watch 
 the Duchess's proceedings. She 
 goes to the door and lays her 
 hand uponJtheJoey] 
 Duchess [faltering]. Oh! oh, great 
 heavens ! 
 
 Quex [encouragingly]. It's all right 
 — it's all right. Very likely I am mis- 
 taken." Now!" 
 
 [The Duchess opens the door sud- 
 denly, and Sophy, who is kneel- 
 ing at the key-hole, lurches for- 
 ward] 
 Duchess. Ah ! 
 
 [Sophy, enveloped in the Man- 
 darin's robe, gathers herself up 
 and^ without a word, flies away 
 along the passage. The Duch- 
 ess shuts the door and walks 
 unsteadily to the settee. Quex 
 comes down, his mouth set hard] 
 Quex. I was sure of it. 
 Duchess [aghast]. What wUl she do ? 
 will she tell? 
 
 Quex. Yes — sheUl-teU. 
 Duchess. Why do you speak so 
 positively ? 
 
 Quex. She is in Miss- Eden's con- 
 fidence — the truU. And she has al- 
 ways shown her. _teeth at me. now I 
 remember. [Drawing a deep breath] 
 Oh, yes, I see — Miss FuUgarney has 
 meant mischief throughout. 
 
 Duchess [sinking upon the settee]. 
 Oh! 
 
 Quex [quietly]. Well — I'rn done. 
 Duchess. Oh, my reputation ! 
 
 Quex. I'm -^^id on e . 
 
 Duchess. My reputation! I have 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 531 
 
 never ceased to guard that, as you 
 know. 
 
 QuBX. I've-I ost her . 
 
 Duchess. iR^reputaiion. ! 
 
 QuBX. Of course, I~~~(leserve it. 
 But [He sits, his head bowed] 
 
 Duchess [looleing up]. To think — 
 to think that I allowed Jhis plausible 
 creature to_ thrustjierself upon me ! 
 [He raises his'Tiedc^glaring fiercely. She 
 beats the pillow] Oh ! oh I my reputa- 
 tion in the hands of this low creature ! 
 
 QuBX.'^ Ah ! [With a half- 
 smothered cry he goes to the door and pulls 
 it open. The Duchess rtjns after him 
 and~seizes his arm] I said I'd wring her 
 
 rInmnoH nnplr T tnlH Frqypa go. 
 
 Duchess [pushing him away from the 
 door]. Don't ! don't ! violence will not 
 help us. [She closes the door; he stands 
 clutching the chair by the writing-table. 
 The dock strikes twelve] Midnight. 
 [Leaning upon a chair] At any rate, you 
 had better go now. 
 
 Quex [turning to her]. I beg your 
 pardon ; J^^sr-eUi aving lost control of 
 
 Duchess [miserably]. It has been a 
 wretohedly-disappGJJitmgjneeting. 
 
 Quex [heavily]. Let us see each 
 othej in the morning. [She nods] Be 
 
 wa.11ngy-iTrgre-grmiTirl5 T^j pjng 
 
 Duchess. Yes. [Rallying] After all, 
 Harry, there may be nothing behind this 
 woman's behaviour. It may have been 
 only the vulgafest curiosity on her part. 
 
 QvEK [incredulously]. Ha! However, 
 in that case 
 
 Duchess. JMoosy. 
 
 Quex. MoneyT^ 
 
 Duchess. I ought to soimd her 
 directly she presents herself at my 
 bedside, ought I not? 
 
 Quex. fiarher — before she has had 
 time to-get-ahautjhehouse. Stand at 
 nothing. If sh?s to be bought, she 
 shall ha.va_ whai.qver shn demands — 
 any sum ! ' 
 
 Duchess. How liberal of you ! 
 
 [Quex walks toward the door, then 
 turns to her] 
 
 Quex. One thing I hope I need 
 hardly say. Duchess? 
 
 BucHBSs. What ? 
 
 Quex [vnth dignity]. Worst come to 
 the worst, I shall defend you by every 
 means in my. power. 7'ot doner,- 1 feel 
 sxae'[drawing'Mmself up] ; but, of course, 
 I shall he for you like the devil. 
 
 DucHBSS [plaintively].' Thanks. And 
 I have dragged you into it all. , 
 
 Quex. Tsch ! [Bowing stiffly] Good- 
 night. 
 
 Duchess. Good-night. [She goes to 
 the table and prepares to remove the tray. 
 Having turned the key of the door, Quex 
 pauses. She says fretfully] Oh, why 
 donlt-ye u go , Harry ? 
 
 Quex [facing her sharply, a new light 
 in his eye]. No ! you go. 
 
 DucHEss'TijrasnjmsAmeni]. I ! 
 
 Quex [returning to her excitedly]. I 
 tell you I can't wait through a night of 
 suspense : Quick ! [Pacing the room] 
 Leave me to deal with her here, at 
 oaee.^ 
 
 Duchess. You ! 
 
 Quex [snapping his fingers]. By 
 Jove, yfisj 
 
 Duchess. What are you going to 
 do? 
 
 Quex. Give her a fair chance,, g-nd 
 then— spoU her tale against you, in 
 any event. ~ — 
 
 "TDucHESs. How? 
 
 Quex. Trust to me. [Impatiently] 
 Go, Duchess. 
 
 Duchess. But where? where can 
 I ? 
 
 Quex. Run away to Mrs. Jack — 
 asfc-her-fcaJgLyott-share-her room to- 
 night. [Pointing to the writing-table] 
 
 Ah — ! scribble a message 
 
 [The Duchess seats herself at the 
 writing-table and writes agi- 
 tatedly at his dictation] 
 
 Quex [dictating]. "The Duchess of 
 Strood has been seized_with_a- dreadful 
 fit of uOT-ves and.E^ gooatoMrs. Eden's 
 rooin. Come to her thSe at "*tght." 
 Lay that upon.theJaEait, [Indicating the 
 bedroom] Is there a door in there ? 
 
 Duchess [rising breathlessly]. Yes. 
 
 Quex. Locked? 
 
 Duchess. Yes. 
 
 Quex. The key. [Imperatively] 
 Give me the key. [She runs into the 
 bedroom and,^b!iv{ngj,mdthe written mes- 
 sage upon thebeSTdisappears for a mo- 
 ment. He refills his tumbler and drinks, 
 chuckling sardonically as he does so] 
 Ha, ha, ha! [She, returns with the key, 
 •phich he pockets] The bell that-fflflgs.in 
 
 your-BSfliidVTODm ? [She points to 
 
 the bell'rope hanging beside the passage- 
 door] Good. [Motioning to her to go] 
 
 Now [She is going toward the other 
 
 door; he detains her] Hist! [Thought- 
 fully] I£_^nsiJang unusual should 
 occur, remember tEa1nTO~Were simply 
 discussing' books--Trad~5^ures in the 
 Italian garden before HiMer." 
 
532 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Duchess [intently]. Books and pic- 
 tures — of course. [In an outburat] Oh, 
 you are certain you can save my repu- 
 tation? 
 
 Qtjex [politely]. Yours at least, my 
 dear Duchess. Sleep well. 
 
 [She is about to open the door 
 when a thought strikes her and 
 she again runs up to the bed] 
 
 Duchess. Ah ! 
 
 QuEX. Hey ? 
 
 [She returns, carrying her night- 
 dress case — a thing of white 
 satin with u, monogram and 
 coronet embroidered upon it. 
 She holds it up to him in ex- 
 planation; he nods, and she 
 lets herself out. He immediately 
 locks the door at which she has 
 departed and slips the key into 
 his waistcoat pocket. This 
 done, he pulls the belWope 
 communicating with the maid's 
 room and takes up^a position 
 against the wall so that the 
 opening of the passage door 
 conceals him from the view of 
 the person entering. After a 
 pause the door is opened and 
 Sophy appears. The frills of 
 her night-dress peep out from 
 under the Mandarin' s robe, and 
 she is wearing u, pair of scarlet 
 cloth slippers; altogether she 
 presents an odd, fantastic figure. 
 She pauses in the doorway 
 hesitatingly, then steadies her- 
 self and, with a defiant air, 
 stalks into the bedroom. Di- 
 rectly she has moved away, 
 QuEX softly closes the door, 
 locks it, and pockets the key. 
 Meanwhile SoFSY, looking about 
 the bedroom for the Duchess, 
 discovers the paper upon the bed. 
 She picks it up, reads it, and re- 
 places it, and, coming back into 
 the boudoir, encounters QuBx] 
 
 Sophy. Oh ! 
 
 QuEX [v)ith a careless nod]. Ah? 
 
 Sophy [recovering herself, and speak- 
 ing with a contemptuous smile]. So her 
 Grace ias-paoked— hosrsey— ofL-to—Mrs. 
 Eden's room. [Firmly] Who rang for 
 me, please? 
 
 QuEX. I rang. 
 
 Sophy. You? what for? 
 
 QuEX. Oh, you and I are going to 
 have a cosey little chat together. 
 
 Sophy [haughtily]. I don't under- 
 stand you. 
 
 QuEX. We'U understand one an- 
 other well efloughijn a minute. 
 
 [He lights another cigarette and 
 
 seats himself upon the settee. 
 
 She moves to the back of a chair, 
 
 eying him distrustfully] 
 
 QuEX. Now then! You've been at 
 
 the key-"hole, have you ? 
 
 Sophy [slightly embarrassed]. Y — yes. 
 
 QuEX [sharply]. Eh? 
 
 Sophy [defiantly]. Yes ; you know I 
 
 QuEX. Ai. And I should like to 
 know a Uttle more, while we are upon 
 the delicate subject _pf_ spying. When 
 I found you behind the cypress-hedge 
 this evening before dinner — — 
 
 Sophy. WeU? 
 
 QuEX. You had just at that mo- 
 ment returned to the Italian garden, 
 you said. 
 
 Sophy. Yes, so I said. 
 
 QuEX. As a matter of fact, you had 
 been there some time, I presume ? 
 
 Sophy. A minute or two. 
 
 QuEX. Heard anything?^ 
 
 Sophy [laughing maliciously]. Ha, ha, 
 ha ! I heard her Grace-say, i^ift-night ' ' 
 — [faintly mimicking the Duchess] "to- 
 night!" [With a curl of the lip] That 
 was enough for me. 
 
 QuBx. Quite so. You told a de- 
 hberate lie, then, when I questioned 
 you? 
 
 Sophy. Yes,_ 
 
 Quex. Barher in the evening, that 
 manicvu'e game of yours — nothing but 
 a damned cunning trick, eh? 
 
 I beg you won't use such 
 
 A trick, eh? 
 Certainly. 
 You wanted - 
 
 - what did you 
 A kisa. 
 
 Sophy. 
 language. 
 
 Quex. 
 
 Sophy. 
 
 Quex. 
 want? 
 
 Sophy [disdainfully]. A Msa, «r^a 
 squeeze of the waist — anyth ing of 
 that-so rt would have done. ~" 
 
 Quex. Oh, would it? You didn't 
 get what you wanted, though. 
 
 Sophy. No ; I suppose _ja)u__were 
 frightened. ~~ 
 
 Quex [angrily]. What ! 
 
 Sophy. 'Too many people about jor 
 you. 
 
 Quex [stifling his annoyance]. Tsch! 
 If I had — [u>ith a wave of the hand] what 
 course would you have taken, pray? 
 
 Sophy [loith an air of great propriety]. 
 Complained at once to LadyOwbridge. 
 
 Quex. As it is — whaFfeyou tEin^ 
 of doing^ow? 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 633 
 
 Sophy. About v ou and j ot Grace 1 
 
 Quex [scowVTng]. Yes. ' 
 
 Sophy. Oh, tell the ladies in the 
 morning, firstjhisg- ' 
 
 Quex \agmn putting a check upon 
 himself]. Ha, ha! Why do you be- 
 have in this contemptible way ? 
 
 Sophy. It isn't jcoatemptible. 
 
 Qtjex. Isn't it? 
 
 Sophy. Not under Iheciroumsljinces. 
 
 Quex. What circumstances ? 
 
 Sophy {hotly\. A wicked— Ba«n Uke 
 yoi4_jBngagfiiLiiia-.sHfieJL^ hke Miss 
 Muriel ! 
 
 Quex. I see. [Politely] You don't 
 approve of the en gagement? 
 
 Sopht: — ShouldthffiE' not ! 
 
 PuEX. Always done your best to 
 poison Miss" Eden's mind against me, 
 I expect ? 
 
 Sophy. -'Always let her know my 
 opinion of you AmLI was right! 
 
 Quex. Right? "^ 
 
 Sophy. This very day, poor thing, 
 she was saying how proud sheis_of-you 
 because you've' turned qverTa..new.j[eaf 
 for her sake ; and I told what your 
 promises are_woEth-.„.,yes, J. was right ! 
 AndTiow I can prove it ! 
 
 [He rises; she hastily places her- 
 self on the other side of the chair] 
 
 Quex. Look here ! [Leaning against 
 the table, the chair being between him and 
 Sophy] What will you take to hold 
 your t ongue ? 
 
 SoPHY^ Kothing. 
 
 QtTEX. Oh» but wait. „This isn't a 
 matter of a handful of sovOTeipS". I'U 
 give you a couple of thoitsatrctfounds to 
 keep quiet about this. 
 
 Sophy. No, thank you, my lord. 
 
 Quex. Four thousand. 
 
 Sophy [shaking her head]. No. 
 
 Quex. Five. 
 
 Sophy. No. 
 
 Quex. How much? • 
 
 Sophy. Not twenty thousand,.. _I!ift, 
 
 BYt.rATnoly ni-iTnf/yi-tqKly ^jfF, yny ]pj-rj ^ Knf. 
 
 if I wasn't I wouldn' t acce pt a penny of 
 your money. AH i wish is to save 
 Miss Muriel from marrying a^-a 
 gentleman who isn't fit for her. And 
 that's what I intend doing. 
 
 [They stand looking at each other 
 
 for a moment, silently; then he 
 
 walks away, thoughtfully] 
 
 Quex [in an altered tone]. Come-here. 
 
 Sophy [with an eye on the door]. Cer- 
 
 tainlf fl&ts_ 
 
 Quex. As jou_plea?e. Misg Full- 
 garney 
 
 Sophy. I hear you. 
 
 Quex. I should Like to settle this 
 business with you pleasant ly — if pos- 
 sible. '"AHow'me to say this. I don't 
 think I am quite such an' atrocious 
 person as you appear, to JjglieveT^ in 
 faotXcan^ssure^ou I am not. 
 
 Sophy [gatKenng her ro6e about her 
 and advancing a few steps]. You must 
 excuse me, my lord, but — [glancing 
 round the room] you evidently forget 
 where you are. 
 
 Quex. No, I don't ; Jm t I tell y ou 
 — I t ell you s incerely — that-myLjasit 
 to her_G race "to-nig ht was an innocent 
 ofie. """ "^ — " 
 
 Sophy [turning her head away, in great 
 disdain]. Really ! 
 
 Really. You won't accept 
 
 Quex. 
 money ? 
 Sophy. 
 
 "!UBX. 
 
 No, indegdjj^wilj not. 
 Vefy-'^'elL Ha ! it's an odd 
 attitude for a man Uke myseU ...to-adopt 
 towar3 —^indicating Sophy by a motion 
 of the hand] But I make an appeal to 
 you. • ~' 
 
 Sophy [elevating her eyebrows]. Ap- 
 peal? 
 
 Quex [with simplefeslimg and dignity]. 
 I love Miss Bden.~^^Tja3iild_lie-ar-good 
 husband to that "youagjadsc— Let me 
 off. 
 
 Let you off? 
 
 Don't tell on me. Don't 
 [iss Edeiu__Let me 
 
 Sophy. 
 
 Quex. 
 try to 
 off. ' 
 
 Sophy. 
 my lord. 
 
 Quex. 
 
 Sophy. 
 
 I'm sorry to say I can't. 
 
 You won't? 
 
 l^jsaon't.^ [With a slight in- 
 clination of the head Quex turns away 
 and stands leaning against the settee with 
 his back toward Sophy. The clock strikes 
 the quarter-of-an-hour. There is a short 
 silence] If your lordship has quite done 
 with me — ■ — ? [He makes no response. 
 She tosses her head] 1 wish you good- 
 night, my lord. [She goes to the passage- 
 door and turns the handle] It's locked. 
 This door's locked. [Looking at him] 
 The door's locked. [Rattling at the 
 door-handle] Where's the key ? [Search- 
 ing about on the floor near the door] 
 
 Where's the ? [Coming forward a 
 
 step or two] Has your lordship got the 
 key of this door? [Still obtaining no 
 answer, she stands staring at him for a 
 moment; then she goes quickly to the 
 other door and tries the handle. As she 
 rfoes so, Quex turns sharply and, leaning 
 uj>on the hack of the settee, watches her. 
 
534 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 After shaking the door-handle vigor- 
 ously, she wheels round and faces him, 
 indignantly] What's the meaning of 
 this? 
 
 QuEX [grimly]. Ah ! 
 
 Sophy. Oh ! [She sweeps round 
 
 to avoid him, and then runs into the bed- 
 room. When she has gone he seats him- 
 self in the chair by the writing-table in a 
 lazy attitude, his legs stretched out, his 
 hands in his pockets. After a moment 
 or two she returns breathlessly] I'm 
 locked in ! 
 
 QuBX. Yes. 
 
 SoPHT. You have locked me in ! 
 
 QuEx. Yes: - — .«-~-_™. 
 
 Sophy. How dare you ! 
 
 QuEX. . Why, you didn't think you 
 were going to have it all your own way, 
 did you, Sophy ? 
 
 SopiiY. I'll thank you to be less 
 familiar. Let me out. 
 
 QuEX. Not I. 
 
 Sophy. You let,me out directly. 
 
 QtTEX [poiriUng a~TfKffer at her]. 
 You'U gain nothing by raging, my good 
 girl. Ha! now you appreciate the 
 curiously awkward position "in which 
 you have placed yourself. 
 
 Sophy. I've placed myself in no 
 
 Qtjex. Oh, come, come ! Taking 
 me at my blackest, I'm not quite the 
 kind of man that a young woman who 
 prides herself upon her respectabiUty 
 desires to Tie' mixedr-np'-witE in this 
 fashion. 
 
 Sophy. Mixed up with ! 
 
 QuBX. Well — ■ [stretching out his 
 arms] here v/eaxe^jisa-^kiiox^ 
 
 Sophy. Hefewe are! 
 
 QuEx. You and I, dear Sophy. 
 [Putting his leg over the arm of his chair] 
 Now just sit down 
 
 Sophy. I s^/n^. 
 
 QtTEX. Whnel picture to you what 
 will happen in the^ormng. 
 
 Sophy. In the mofnilig? 
 
 QuBX. In a few hours' time. In the 
 first pIace^yfi]i_willr-be--calledL4n__yQiir 
 room. YTJu^wonVbeJihere. 
 
 Sophy. "Won'TTT 
 
 QtTEX. No. You won't be there. 
 A little later my man wiU oom.sJt,0-m.y 
 room. I sha'n't be JhM-e.' At about 
 the same hour, her Gocaee—BdU-require 
 your attendance: Where wiU you be? 
 She wiU then, naturally, desire to-return 
 to her own apartnients^ You are in- 
 telligent enonghrl fancy, to imagine 
 the rest. [After a brief pause, she breaks 
 into a peal of soft, derisive laughter] I am 
 
 ^deeply flattered by your enjoyment of 
 the prospect. 
 
 St^pby. Ha, ha, ha ! why, you must 
 take_me for a fool ! 
 
 QoEX. Why? 
 
 Sophy. Why, can't you see that our 
 being .faund together like this, here_ or 
 anywhere, would do for ^ow as well as 
 for me? 
 
 QtTEX [rising]. Of course I see it. 
 [Advancing to her] But, my dear Sophy, 
 / am-akeady- done for. You provide 
 for that. —Ajad.so, if I have to part with 
 my last shred of character, I will lose it 
 in association with a woman of your 
 class rather than, with a lady whom I, 
 with thff rest qf^ the world, hold in the 
 highest esteem. ' 
 
 Sophy [after a pause]. Ho ! oh, in- 
 deed? 
 
 QtTEX. Yes. Yes, indeed. 
 
 Sophy [vnth a shade less confidence]. 
 Ha, ha! if your lordship thinks to 
 frighten me, yotiVe got hold- of the 
 wrong^eustomeTT — Ha, haT^Ea! two or 
 three things you haven't reckoned for, 
 I vcan assure you. Here's one — ■ I told 
 Miss Muriel exactlyjwhat X-heard, be- 
 tween you and your Duchess, in the 
 gardffi^thiTeVBntafr" 
 
 QuEX [grinding his teeth]. ' You did! 
 [Involuntarily making a threatening move- 
 ment toward her] You did, you ! 
 
 Sophy [cowering over the settee]. Oh ! 
 
 QtJEX [recovering himself]. Oh, you 
 did, did,you?, 
 
 Sophy [facing him defiantly]. Yes, 
 I did. 
 
 QuEx [coolly]. Well ? and what then ? 
 You listen to a conversation carried on 
 in an open spot, from which your mis- 
 chievous ears manage to detach the 
 phrase "to-night." My explanation, 
 jf I am called upon to make one, will be 
 absurdjy^^ii^le. 
 
 Sophy [derisively]. Ha, ha ! will it ! 
 ha, ha, ha ! I daresay ! 
 
 QuEX. Yes. You see, I promised 
 her Grace th at_ I would sen d a book to 
 heiMTfOTl to-fi^ht — to-night. Mymg 
 
 had gone tcTbgd' r I brought it _tgyielf, 
 intenQii5g~to band it to Mrs. Watson, 
 her maid. In the meantime, the Duch- 
 ess had joined Mrs. Eden and I found 
 you here. 
 
 SophyV You couldn't tell such an 
 abominablaJie ! 
 "QuEX [imperturbably]. I found you 
 here. And then — what isthgjxbvious 
 sequel to the" stsry7 ISJirugging his 
 shoulders] I'm a wicked man, Sophy, 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 535 
 
 and you're arumdeniably-pretty girl — 
 and tie devil dared me. 
 
 Sophy. Oh ! 
 
 QnEX [taking up the bottle of cham- 
 pagne]. And an excellent banquet you 
 had chanced to provide for the occasion. 
 [Reading the label] "Ffilix Poubelle, 
 Carte d'Or." It will appear, I am 
 afraid, that you had been preparing for 
 the entertainment' of some amorous 
 footman. 
 
 Sophy [snapping her fingers at him]. 
 Puh ! bah ! On, the whole house shall 
 
 know that thatig ynnr PuchflBS'" "ti^-Tn- 
 pagne. 
 
 Quex. Excuse me — Mr. Brewster, 
 the butler, wJlL disprnvf) t ihjj.t t?!*^ You 
 wheedled this out_QLiilQ-^m your own 
 aoooUnt, remeinber. 
 
 Sophy [disconcerted]. Oh — ah, yes 
 — but 
 
 Quex. For yourself, my dear Sophy. 
 
 Sophy [falteringly]. Yes, but — but 
 she- ma4e_medo^ it. 
 
 Quex! SEe made you do it ! [Replac- 
 ing the bottle, sternly] And who, pray, 
 will accept your word, upon this or any 
 other point. -ag ainst that of a lad v of 
 
 the pnsitinn ^)f the. I Uicltiaaa nt St.rnnrf ? 
 
 [He walks away from her and 
 
 examines^- the books upon the 
 
 writingriaMe^_ She sits on the 
 
 settee, a blank expression upon 
 
 her face] 
 
 Sophy [after a little consideration, 
 
 wiping her brow with the back of her 
 
 hand]. At any rate, my darling — 
 
 Miss Muriel — wni ild q uicTflv see 
 
 through a hor rid trick of th is sort. 
 
 Quex.' — -I— bet you a dozen boxes of 
 glove^-taa casejaf jamc-magicure instru- 
 ments that she doesn't. 
 
 Sophy. I said to her to-day, at my 
 
 place, that I was certain, if I could meet 
 
 you alone in-some q,uiet spot I cinuld'^R'et 
 
 a EssjDUt of^you. 
 
 Quex {under his breath, glaring at 
 
 her]. You ! [Coolly] Oh, now I 
 
 understand. Yes, my dear, but Miss 
 Eden is scarcely li kely Jo beUeve that 
 a modest gu-l woulTcarry her devotion 
 
 to thi»,es±en±. ^Good -heavens ! ■ why, 
 
 your attire ! [She pulls her robe 
 
 about her sharply] And a woman who 
 compromises herself, recollect, is never 
 measured by her own character, always 
 by her companion's. 
 
 [She starts to her feet and paces 
 the room, uttering cries of anger 
 and indignation. He continues 
 to interest himself in the books] 
 
 Sophy. Oh! no, no! my darling 
 wouldn/t_jthink it of me! when I've 
 aBiiSiBd you so continually! 'she" surely 
 couldn't!- oh! oh! [With flashing eyes] 
 NoWjlook here, my lord! you don't 
 reallytmagine TEafl'tn-gSmf" to stick 
 ii^__t^_ room^with you patiently all 
 t&ougETtE'e mght, do^you? 
 
 Quex. How do you propose to 
 avoid it ? 
 
 Sophy [pointing to the passage-door]. 
 As true as I'm aUve, if you don't unlock 
 that door, I — I — ; I'll scream the place 
 down! 
 
 ' Quex; Why scream? [Pointing to 
 the bell-rope which hangs beside the door] 
 There's the bell. I daresay a servant 
 or two are still up and about. You'd 
 rouse the house quicker in that way. 
 
 Sophy. Much obliged to you for 
 
 the hint. I will — I wiU [She 
 
 goes to the bell-rope and grasps it; then 
 she looks round and sees him calmly turn- 
 ing the leaves of a book he has selected. 
 She stares at him, with sudden misgiving] 
 Ha, now we shall see how much your 
 grand scheme amounts to ! 
 
 Quex. We shaU: Ring the beU. 
 
 Sophy [blankly]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Quex. Pooh, my dear ! iing,_ring, 
 ring ! or yell ! You won-t-be-the first 
 semi-circumppeel young person who has 
 got herself into a scrape and then en- 
 deavoured to save herself by raising a 
 hullabaloo. 
 
 [She»slowly takes her hand from 
 the bell-rope and moves a step 
 or two toward him] 
 
 Sophy. Oh, that's what you'd try 
 to make out, is it? [He raises his eyes 
 from his book and gives her a significant 
 look. Leaning upon the arm of the 
 settee, she says faintly] You — you ! 
 
 Quex. Yes, I teU you again, my dear, 
 you ha ve B;ot yourself int o a shocking 
 messr Tou've got me into a mess, ana 
 you've got yourself in a mess. 
 
 Sophy [pulling lierSSlf'Up and advanc- 
 ing to him till she faces him]. You — 
 you are an awful-blaebguurd, ftiy"ldrd. 
 
 Quex. "Thank you, my dear. But 
 you'rejQotfa£wrong.i:=J^was a black- 
 guafSTiiU 1 met MissBdenTPand now, 
 losing Miss Eden, perhaps I'm going to 
 -ba a bigger- blackguard' than before. 
 At the same time, you know, there's not 
 much to choose between us ; for you're 
 a low^py, an impudent, bare-faced 
 liar, a common kitchen-cat who wriggles 
 into the best rooms, gets herself fondled, 
 and then spits. [Passing her and throw 
 
536 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 ing himself, full-length, upon the settee 
 and settling himself to read] Therefore 
 I've no compunction in making you pay 
 your share of this score, my dear Sophy 
 — none whatever. 
 
 [She walks feebly to the' passage- 
 door and stands rattling the 
 handle in an uncertain way. 
 At last she breaks down and 
 cries alitHe] 
 Sophy. Oh ! oh ! oh ! let me go, 
 my lord^ [He makes no response] Do 
 let nie go. — ^jlgase! will you? [Ap- 
 proaching hiin OTIS' wiping her eyes upon 
 the sleeve of her nightdress] I hope your 
 lordship wiU kindlyjgi.me go. 
 QuEX [shorUyl'. No. 
 Sophy [steadying herself]. I don't want 
 to^ouse the house at this time o' night 
 if I can help it — ^~ - 
 QuEx. Don't you? 
 Sophy. Though I am certain I can 
 make my story good anyway. But 
 I'd j:ather your lordship let me out 
 without the bother — [Piteously] Do ! 
 [He turns a leaf of his hook. She speaks 
 defiantly] Very weU! very well! here 
 I sit. .then! [Seating herself] We'U see 
 who tires first, you or I ! you or I ! 
 [Again^ snapping her fingers at him] 
 Bah ! you horror ! you — ■ horror ! 
 
 QuEX [raising himself on his elbow]. 
 Will you have this sofa? [She gives him 
 a fierce look] A glass of your wine ? 
 
 [She rises, with a stamp of the 
 foot, and once move paces the 
 room. He sips his wine and 
 resettles himself. She goes dis- 
 tractedly from one object to 
 another, now leaning upon a 
 chair, then against the pillar 
 of the cheval-glass. Ultimately 
 she comes to the bell-rope and 
 fingers it again irresolutely] 
 
 Sophy [faintly]. My lord ! [He 
 
 remains sUent. She releases the bell^ope] 
 Oh — h — ^h! [She pauses by the settee, 
 looking down upon him as though she 
 would strike him; then she walks away, 
 and, seating herself in the chair by the 
 bedside, drops her head upon the bed. 
 The clock tinkles the half-hour. There 
 is u. short silence. Suddenly she rises, 
 uttering a sharp cry, with her hand to her 
 heart] Oh ! [panting] oh ! ' oh ! 
 
 QtTEX [looking at her]. What now? 
 Sophy. Valma ! 
 QuEX. Valma? 
 
 Sophy. Mr. Valma! oh, you. know 
 he ia,in Jhe house ! , 
 'QuEx. "He ! what's he doing here ? 
 
 Sophy. The housekeeper gave him 
 permission^to sleep here. You know! 
 [Stamping her foot] TDon't- you know? 
 
 QuEx [sitting up, alertly]. Ho!_ my 
 jealous friend/the— palmist — ffe-is-en 
 th&^remises.ney ? 
 
 Sophy [distractedly]. Let me out! 
 oh, yes, he is jealous o f me ; . ^ is 
 jealous of me, and we've Ead-aie-w^words 
 about you as it is 
 
 QtTEX. Ah ! 
 
 Sophy. Oh, this would ruin me with 
 Valma! oh, if your l6rdsiup^ hasn't 
 any feeling for me, doii't~J^Vaisi» 
 think that I'm a — that I'm ! [Go- 
 ing down on her kneesrV^ofeliim] Oh, 
 I won't teH on you! ,J promise LacsSL*' 
 if"you'll only let me go ! I will hold my" 
 tongue about you and the" Duehess'! 
 I take my solemn oath I'U hold my 
 tongue ! 
 
 QuEX [rising]. Ha! [Calmly] No, 
 my dear Sophy, I wasn't aware that 
 your fianci is in the house. S6~i;he 
 situation "comes-^enM— to~you- a little 
 more poignantly now, dxkes it ? 
 
 Sophy \rising and going to the passage- 
 door]. Unlock the door! where's the 
 key? 
 
 puEX. Wait, wait, wait ! And you're 
 going to keep your mouth shut after dJl, 
 
 are you? 
 
 ' , Sophy [rattling the door-handle]. Yes, 
 yes. Unlock it ! 
 
 QuEX. " Don''t'be in such a hurry. 
 
 Sophy. I give you my sacred 
 word 
 
 QuEX [thoughtfully]. Tsch, tsch, tseh! 
 [Sharply, with a snap of the fingers] 
 Yes — by Jove — ! [Pointing to the 
 chair by the writing-table] Sit down. 
 [Imperatively] Sit down. [She sits, 
 wonderingly. He goes to the table, selects 
 a plain sheet of paper and lays it More 
 her. Then he hands her a pen] Write 
 as I tell you. 
 
 Sophy [tremblingly]. What? 
 
 QiTEX [pointing to the ink]. Ink. 
 [Dictating] "My lord." [She writes; 
 he walks about as he dictates] "My lord. 
 I am truly obliged to you " 
 
 Sophy. Yes. 
 
 QuBX. "For your great liberal- 
 ity " 
 
 Sophy [turning]. Eh? 
 
 QtTEX [sternly]. Go on. [She writes] 
 "For your great liberality, and in once 
 more availing myself of it I quite under- 
 stand " 
 
 Sophy [weakly]. Oh! [After writing] 
 Yes. 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 537 
 
 Quex. 
 Sophy. 
 Qttex. 
 Sophy. 
 Quex. 
 Sophy. 
 
 Qttex. "I quite understand that 
 our frigndeMp-eeBaes-to-an end." [She 
 rises'and faces him] Go on. 
 Sophy. Ojwjrigudahip ! 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Our — friendship ! 
 
 Yes. 
 I won't. 
 
 Very well. 
 
 How dare_ yoi u , try- tajmake 
 me write s urli" a. 1 ^i"fr ! [He turns from 
 her and, bookm hand, resumes his re- 
 cumbent position on the sofa. She ap- 
 proaches him, falteringly] What would 
 you do with that, if I did write it? 
 
 session, as security for your silence, 
 untU after_JB2_marriage with Miss 
 Eden; thenretufi 
 
 Sophy. Oh-, — wea%-'your lordship 
 trust me? 
 
 Qtjbx [contemptuously]. Trust you! 
 [After a pause, she returns to the writing- 
 table and takes up her pen again] Where 
 were_we? 
 
 Sophy [feebly]. "I quite under- 
 stand " 
 
 Quex. "That our friendship comes 
 to an end." [She writes. He rises and 
 looks over her shoulder] "'W MIe tha nk- 
 ing you agai^-ior _Eaat_a^_pres^nt 
 favours " 
 
 Sophy [groaning as she writes]. Oh! 
 oh! 
 
 Quex. "I undertake not to ap- 
 proach or annoy-yeflJnJihafuture " 
 
 Sophy. Oh ! 
 
 Quex. "Upon any pretext whatso- 
 ever. Yours respeotf^ly " [After 
 
 watching the completion of the letter] 
 Date it vaguely — [with a wave of the 
 hand] "Monday afternora." Blot it. 
 [Moving away] That's right. [She 
 rises, reading the letter with staring eyes. 
 Then she comes to him and yields the 
 letter, and he folds it neatly and puts it 
 into his breast-pocket] Thank you. I 
 think I need detaaa-jcew-atrfemger. 
 
 Sophy [loith a gasp]. AhJ_Z_a±ap-a 
 bit I no, I won't ! 
 
 Quex. What's the-m»ttac-ffiilh you? 
 
 Sophy [wildly]. Whyr-it-'sJikel^Jling 
 Muriel ! Just to get mys^-out-of-this, 
 I'm simply hanJliag^re^-ov«r~4o_you ! 
 I won't doTtrT^won't ! [She rushes to 
 the bell-rope and tugs at it again and again] 
 She sha'n't marry you ! she sha'n't ! 
 T'vB-sg.jH qltn aTij^,' n't, a.nfl she sha/ n't ! 
 [Leaving the bellrrope and facing him 
 fiercely] .Oh, let your precious Duchess 
 go scot ffeSi — AfteP-afir^wbait-Tioes it 
 
 matter who the woman is you've been 
 sporting with, so that Miss Muriel is 
 kept from falling into your clutches ! 
 Yes, I'll make -short- wQrk_pf you, my 
 lord. The ladies shall hear from my 
 mouth of the lively half-hour I've spent 
 with you, and how I've suddenly funked 
 the consequences and raised a hulla- 
 baloo ! Now. T n y 1nr( ynfiw then ! now 
 
 then ! ' — 
 
 [His astonishment has given way 
 to admiration; he gazes at her 
 as if spell-bound] 
 
 Quex [after a pause, during which she 
 stands before him panting]. By God, 
 you're a flue plucked 'un ! I've never 
 known a better. [Resolutely] No, my 
 girl, I'm damned if you shall suffer! 
 Quick ! listen ! pull yourself together ! 
 
 Sophy [hysterically]. Eh? eh? 
 
 Quex [taking her letter from his pocket 
 and thrusting it into her hand]. Here's 
 your letter ! take^it — I won't have it. 
 [Going quickly to We passage^^Sotyr;— un- 
 locking it, and throwing the-door -open] 
 There you are ! 
 
 Sophy [sobbing]. Oh! oh! 
 
 [There is a hurried, irregular 
 knocking at the door] 
 
 Quex [gripping her arm]. Hush ! 
 [In a whisper] Call out — wait ! 
 
 Sophy [raising her voice — unsteadily]. 
 Wait — one moment ! 
 
 Quex [in her ear, as he gives her the 
 key of the door]. Say the Duchess is 
 with Mrs. Jack; say sha waats-~her 
 letters brought to Tier in the morning ! 
 sayjuycthing 
 
 Sophy. Yes, yes. [Weeping and 
 shaking and gasping, she goes to the door 
 and unlocks it. He tip-toes into the bed- 
 room and turns out the light there. She 
 npe na the door ai(i inch or f^i^ff] "Vog? — 
 
 Two Voices [a man's and a woman's]. 
 What i s it ? wh atla. the matter? 
 
 Sophy [steadying herself with an effort] 
 Nothing. ^J&dy -her-Ghracchal^gOne to 
 Mrs^ Eden's room and wishes_her_letters 
 taken there" in the morning-mosV-paa-^ 
 tioularly — see ? 
 
 The Voices. What did you ring like 
 that for? Thought the place was aflre ! 
 
 Sophy. Oh, don't make a fuss about 
 
 tint.klnff. YpT j servants are, an o];i-_ 
 
 fashionedJjat__BQng_ssaiE.! 
 
 The Voices [angrily]. Oh, good- 
 iug.ht,_- - 
 
 Sophy. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 [She closes the door and totters away 
 from it, I sobbing hysterically, 
 as Quex comes to her] 
 
538 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 QuEX [kindly]^ Efi_off. jSo-tp bed. 
 Serve me how you please. Miss Pull- 
 gafneyTTipDirnry-isottl, I — I humbly beg 
 your pardon. 
 
 Sophy [passing him]. Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 [Turning to him] Oh, God bless you ! 
 You — you — you're a gentleman ! I'll 
 do what I can for.you ! 
 
 [She staggers~'to the passage-door 
 and disappears, closing the door 
 behind her. Then he extin- 
 guishes the remaining light, and 
 cautiously lets himself out at the 
 other door] 
 
 END OP THE THIRD ACT 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 The scene is the same, in every respect, 
 as that of the First Act. 
 
 [On the right Miss Claridge is manicur- 
 ing a young gentleman. On the left 
 Miss Moon is putting her mani- 
 cure-table in order, as if she has 
 recently disposed of a customer. 
 Miss LiMBiRD is again at her desk, 
 busy over accounts. The door-gong 
 sounds and, after u, short interval, 
 QuEX and Frayne enter, preceded 
 by Miss HtrDDLE. Frayne ap- 
 pears particularly depressed and un- 
 well] 
 
 QuEX [nodding to Miss Limbird]. 
 Good-morning. 
 
 Miss Limbikd. Morning. 
 
 QuEX. [To Miss Huddle] Miss 
 FuUgarne y has not yet arrived, you 
 say? 
 
 Miss Huddle. Not yet. 
 
 QuEX [looking at his watch]. Twenty 
 miautes to twelve. 
 
 Miss """Moon. ' Yes, we've never 
 known Miss FuUgarney to be sfljatte 
 at her businessr^ X do hope^Ee hasn't 
 been run over and injiired. - 
 
 Miss Huddle. Or murdered by 
 tramps. 
 
 QuEX. My^daar-jiMunglady ! 
 
 Miss Moon. WeU, one does read 
 such things in the ha'penny papers. 
 
 Miss Huddle. And she weat-d^wn 
 to Richmond ye&tepday-aftsfaooiv you 
 know — to Fauncey Court. 
 
 QuEX. Of course I know^^-and 
 slept there. 
 
 Miss Moon, Ohj__did-sha? 
 
 QuEX. And has come up to town 
 this morning. 
 
 Miss Huddle. Then she'll have 
 gone home, I expect, to change. 
 
 Miss Moon. That's what she's done. 
 [Slightly disappointed] Well, I should 
 have been soiTyjf anything had hap- 
 pened to her. 
 
 Quex. Naturally. 
 Miss Huddle. So should I, though 
 I'm quite new here. 
 
 Miss Moon. It never gives me any 
 I)leasure to hear of people having their 
 limbs crushed. 
 
 Miss Huddle. Or being murdered 
 by tramps. 
 
 Miss Moon. Won't your lordship 
 take a chair? [To Frayne, who has 
 
 wandered downJtoJhe wiadowi A.nd you, 
 
 sir? I 
 
 [The young gentleman, his mani- 
 curing being finished, has risen, 
 paid Miss Limbird and de- 
 parted, followed by Miss Cla- 
 ridge carrying her bowl and 
 towel. The door-gong sounds] 
 QuBX. Is that she? 
 Miss Moon^ No ; that young gen- 
 tlemaiL-legrving. 
 
 [Miss Moon, carrying her bowl 
 and towel, and Miss Huddle, 
 after exchanging a few words 
 withM.iss_ Limbird, withdraw] 
 Frayne. [To Qvb-x.,' biliously] How 
 revoltingly^judeous these gals look this 
 niOrHngT ~^ 
 
 '" Quex. Same as yesterday. You're 
 seedy— 
 
 Frayne [closing his eyes]. Oh, shock- 
 ingly seedy. [Sitting] I'm in for a go 
 
 of malariav I-fear-^ — 
 
 Quex. Shame of me to have routed 
 you out of bed and bothered you with 
 my 2s|faiEa. [Sitting] But you can 
 qmte understand. Chick, how con- 
 foundedly anxious I am as io-th«-«rtti- 
 tudeMiss FuUgarney -Hffll adoptjBward- 
 me to-day. 
 
 Frayne. Quite, quite. Harry 
 
 Quex. Yes? 
 
 Frayne. What champagne was it 
 we drank last night, at-Richmond? 
 
 Quex [with some bitterness]. Ha! 
 "F6Ux Poubelle, Carte d'Or." 
 
 Frayne [shaking his head]. I can't 
 take champagne. 
 Quex. Can't you ? 
 Frayne. I mean I oughtn't to. 
 Quex. Qh. — ^Refemng-40—kts~Vjatch 
 again] I've given you a pretty m inute 
 account of last night's tfagedyT'Chiok. 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 539 
 
 "I'll do what I can for y.ou" — those 
 ■were the " PnHgaafaej'^fi — words. Good 
 lord, they came at me hke a bolt from 
 the blue! Does she intend to act up 
 to them, eh? — that's the question. 
 Surely_ shfl!ll ant up-ta.thp.m>jChick ? 
 
 Frayne. Have you met the ladies 
 this morning ?- 
 
 Qttex. J2es — except Muriel, who 
 didn't show jjtbreakfast. 
 
 Fbayne. How did jrou find 'em? 
 
 QtJEX. Amiability itself ; they know 
 nolJiing. [Rising " ancT looking down' 
 upon Frayne] You see, Chick, all that 
 
 Miss Fiitlp-flrTipy hfl.g tq ^n — if she 
 
 hasn't ah-eSHy done it — is to tell a 
 trifling taradiddLa. to -Murid-oonoerning 
 the events of last night. Well, in effect, 
 she has promised to do that, hasn't she? 
 [Impatiently] Eh? 
 
 Frayne [gloomily]. Fbrankly, Harry, 
 I shouldn't be in the least surprised if 
 the jade sold-SOU- 
 
 QuBX [ftisjow/oHm?]. You wouldn't? 
 
 Frayne. No. 
 
 vQuEX. Phew! J should. [Warmly] 
 By Jove, I should ! 
 
 Frayne. I have conceived a great 
 aversion to her :r=-a. long, scraggy gal. 
 
 QnEX [mth enthusiasm]. As full of 
 courage as a thoroughbred ! 
 
 Frayne [closing his eyes]. I can 
 picture her elbows ; sharp, pointed 
 elbows — the barbed fence of the spite- 
 ful woman. 
 
 Qtjex. Pooh! yesterday she was 
 alluring. 
 
 Fbayne [rising paivjully]. Yester- 
 day ! [Gravely] Harry, ^do— you 
 
 know, there are mn mentB wh ffl I feel 
 that I am changing toward the sex; 
 when I fancy I can discern the skele- 
 ton, as it were, through the rounded 
 cheek? 
 
 Quex. You ! 
 
 Fbayne. Yes, this novel sentiment 
 is undoubtedly gaining possession of 
 your old friend — gradually, plerhaps, 
 but surely. 
 
 QtTEX [regarding him searchingly]. 
 Excuse me. Chick — did you turn into 
 the Beefsteak when you got back fro m 
 Richmond la'st'mgBf? " 
 
 Frayne. For an hour. Oh, a great 
 mistake. 
 
 Quex. What, a httle whiskey on the 
 top of champagne? 
 
 Frayne [gazing pathetically at Quex 
 with watery eyes]. A good deal of cham- 
 pagne undiBr»eatlL.aJ[otof_whisk^. 
 
 yPhe door-goKg sounds] 
 
 QtTEX. Who's this ? [He walks to the 
 entrance, and looks into the further room] 
 The Fullgarney. 
 
 [He returns to his former position, 
 as Sophy enters quickly, fol- 
 lowed by Miss Clabidge, Miss 
 Moon, and Miss Huddle. 
 Sophy — dressed as at the end 
 of the First Act — is pale, red- 
 eyed, and generally unstrung. 
 She comes to Quex, discon- 
 certed by his presence] 
 Sophy [confronting him]. Oh, good- 
 morning. 
 
 Quex. May I beg a few mo- 
 ments ? 
 
 "S'opHy. Er — certainly. I'll just 
 
 take-olLmy things 
 
 [He joins Frayne. She goes 
 across the room where she is 
 surrounded-by-het^-g4rls] 
 Miss Clabidge. Oh, Miss PuU- 
 garney^howjll you look ! 
 
 Miss MooN.^ You do seem queer ! 
 _ Miss Huddle. Tust as if you were 
 sickening for something. 
 
 Miss Limbibd [coming between Miss 
 Clabidge and Sophy]. Quite ghostly! 
 Sophy. I'm all right, girls; I've 
 had- a bad ajght, that's attT [Giving her 
 umbrella to^Aisk Clabidge and her bag 
 to Miss Moon, who passes it to Miss 
 Huddle] Here I hi ! take that beastly 
 bag. [To Miss Limbibd, who is remov- 
 ing her hat] Oh, dton't waggle my head, 
 whatever you do! [To MtssMcTon, 
 who is pulling at her jacket] Tear the 
 thing off. [Stripping off her gloves, and 
 speaking in a whisper] Girls, I don't 
 want to be disturbed for five minutes. 
 
 Miss LiMBrBD. ' Very ""weU, Miss 
 FuUgajney. 
 
 Sophy [glancing at Quex and Frayne, 
 who are now looking out of the window, 
 with their backs toward her]. If Miss 
 Eden should happen to turn up before 
 I'iar free, "jlist mention who J'th en- 
 gaged with, will you?""""" "" 
 Miss Moon. Yes, Miss Fullgarney. 
 Sophy. That'll do. [With sudden 
 fierceness] What are you aU staring at ? 
 Haven't any of you ever slept in a 
 
 stoangg'bed ? — — — -; 
 
 - [The girls retreat hastily, each 
 
 carrying an article belonging 
 
 to Sophy] 
 
 Quex [advancing a step or two]. I am 
 
 exceedingly sorry to see ^ -you looking 
 
 so fatigued. 
 
 SoPHt" [faimHy]:' Didrft -close my 
 eyes the whole night. [She drops the 
 
540 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 portibre over the entrance, and approaches 
 QuEx] Well, my lord? 
 
 QuEx. I have ventured to eaU upon 
 you, Miss Fullgarney, in the_Jiope of 
 ratifjdn^ the excellent understanding 
 with which we parted last night. ' 
 
 Sophy [pointing to Tbayne]. Well, 
 but — er 
 
 QuBx. Oh — oh, yes [To 
 
 Fhaynb, who has turned away] Frayne 
 
 [To Sophy] I have taken my old 
 
 and trusted friend. Sir ChichesTer 
 Frayne, into my confidence in this 
 regrettable business. ~~ 
 
 Sophy [dubiously]. Indeed? 
 
 QuBX. I thought it desirable there 
 should be a third jigrty 
 
 Sophy. P'r'aps you're right. [Cut- 
 tingly] One needs^ a Jhird_party_when 
 one has "the hQaQ33£_of_iaeetiiig your 
 lordship — [checking herself]. Excuse 
 me. 
 
 QuBX [pleasantly, with a slight bow of 
 acknowledgment]. Before we go further, 
 I may tell you that her„Grace_has.in- 
 f ormed nia of -wbat-passed^ between you 
 this morning. 
 
 Sophy. Nothing passed. 
 
 QuBx. Precisely. 
 
 Sophy. The lady beamed upon me, 
 for all the world as ifrs£e_Has--aa-..aiigel. 
 spending a_ ,^aturday-to-Monday here 
 belowT and I dressed~her hair for her 
 just as if I didn't want to tear it out by 
 the roots. And then she turned up her 
 eyes fl-rid^S aid she hnpftfl mim'y -Mppi- 
 ness would attend me, and went down- 
 stairs to prayers. 
 
 Qtjbx. Will you allow me to — to 
 thank you ? 
 
 Sophy [frigidly]. You needn't. [Ab- 
 ruptly] Oh, by-the-by, the lady gave 
 me a — a, keepsake, she called it. 
 [Endeavouring to extract some bulky object 
 from her pocket] I mean to burn the 
 thing, once I've found out what's inside 
 it. But I can't get it open. 'Heri 
 it is. 
 
 [She exhibits the little box, covered 
 with brocade, which Quex has 
 returned to the Dtjchbss in the 
 previous Act] 
 
 Quex [surprised]. By Jove ! 
 
 Sophy [simply]. Eh? 
 
 QuBx. Er — I was wondering, what 
 she. can -have- put in thai little box. 
 
 Sophy. Yes, I -wondeT7~"fPniUng at 
 the lid] It's locked. 
 
 QiTBX. I fancy it has one of those 
 Bramah locks which snapf I may have 
 a key [ffe-pr-odueesJiisJoey-nng^nd, 
 
 promptly selecting a key, unlocks the box] 
 Fortunate coincidence. 
 
 [She opens the box and lakes out 
 the first thing that presents itself 
 — the blue silk garter with the 
 diamond buckle] 
 
 Sophy [scandalized]. Oh, my gracious ! 
 I beg your ^rdon. 
 
 [She leaves him hurriedly and hides 
 the box in the cabinet] 
 
 QtTBX [quietly to Fbayne]. Chick, 
 she has passed the souvenirs on to Miss 
 PuUgarney! ~ ~ 
 
 Frayne [bitterly]. How like a 
 woman ! 
 
 Quex. Some women. 
 
 Frayne [in disgust]. Pah ! 
 
 Quex. Yesterday she was alluring. 
 
 Fbayne [waving the past from him]. 
 Yesterday — [u>ith a slight hiccup] hie ! 
 [Turning away apologetically] The heat 
 
 in this room 
 
 [He walks away, as Sophy returns 
 to Quex] 
 
 Quex. [To Sophy} Well, I- must not 
 detain you longer, Miss Fullgarney. 
 But "there is, of dourSerone pointjipon 
 which I sKStiM like to feel completely as- 
 sured. You -have seen_J/[iss Eden — ; — ? 
 
 Sophy. No ; nofsmoe last evening. 
 
 Qv^ji. [anxiously]. W^eiLdiQ-you: ? 
 
 Sophy [looking awayf. I'm rather ex- 
 pecting ,hCT^ to popinhOTe_during the 
 day. 
 
 Quex. Quite so. And — and 
 then ? 
 
 Sophy [facing him candidly]. Your 
 lordship told me last night that your 
 little visit to the Duchess was a per- 
 fectly -innooent one? 
 
 Quex. Absolujtelsr-rinnoeenti,,^ [Hesi- 
 tatingly]_ I fear I, j3aimot-_go_ further 
 than that. 
 
 Frayne [fanning himself with his 
 handkerchief]. By gad, why not, Harry ? 
 We are _ in 3^iss Fullgarney's hands. 
 [To Sophy] His Tordsflp went to her 
 Grace's apartment solely to return some 
 gifts which he. had accepted-from her in 
 the — ah — dim, distant past, and to 
 say adieu. 
 
 " Sophy, [vntheringly]. Ah, I knew she 
 was a double;^a^d__tHng [looking at 
 Quex relenlingly]; but p'r'aps one has 
 been a.littlejiown on you. 
 
 Quex [meekly]. You have it in your 
 power to atone for that amply. 
 
 Sophy [half feelingly, half sullenly]. 
 At any rater-you behaved, in the end, 
 Uke" a gentleman to .me Jast jjight. 
 And so — when I see Miss Munel 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 541 
 
 QtTEX. Yes ? 
 
 Sophy \deUberately]. I am going to 
 tell her a be. 
 
 ~QuBX [viith some emotion]. Miss Fuil- 
 garney, I — I 
 
 Sophy. Oh, I said I-d-de^what-I-can 
 
 for you. [ILacomfavtably]. — And this is 
 
 all I coa.dai_ 
 
 iQuEX [light-heartedly]. All ! 
 
 Sophy. Just t o give you a chang e. 
 
 Quex. Chance! [Drawing a deep 
 breath] You place my_Jiappiii©ss^be- 
 yond danger. 
 
 Sophy [impulsively, offering him her 
 hand]. Xjrast-you-luck, -my~lord-. 
 
 [He takes her hand and wrings it] 
 
 Feayne [who has opened the window 
 /orujid— JlaJlo-!-- 
 
 Sophy [turning nervously]. What 
 
 Fbayne [looking out].^ Isn't this 
 
 your friend»-Caiitain_Bastiiag ? 
 
 Qtjbx. Basiling? 
 
 Fbayne. At that -window?. 
 
 [Feayne OTowes away to the cir- 
 cular table and sniffs at a bottle 
 of scent. Quex goes to the 
 vrindow] 
 
 Qttex [looking out]. Yes. What's old 
 Napier up to there ? 
 
 SoFsr [guiltily]. I — I heard Captain 
 BastUng. TnBTi,tiio n t^at lis wi«? thinld ng 
 of having jiis hand read hy Mr. Y a.lTna, 
 some time or otiier. 
 
 Quex. No ! ha, ha, ha ! [Leaving the 
 window] He^tjnesxi't i sfte_ Tna; I won't 
 disturb him. [To Sophy, jocularly] 
 A convenient arrangementr — it is^juig- 
 sible to transfer oneVsetf-f*am_the mani- 
 ouristialhe.EgliBis±-wit]iauL thoJssuble 
 of putting on one's gloves. 
 
 Sophy. Ha, ha ! y — yes. 
 
 Quex [pausing on his way to the en- 
 trance]. Miss Fullgarney, may I„ask if 
 you and Mr. Valma have fixed upon the 
 date bfyoufmantECge f 
 
 Sophy. ^ Oh", we sha'n't get married 
 yet awhile — not for a year or more, I 
 fanbyv 
 
 Quex [graciously]. In that case, I 
 shall ho pe to have the plea sute. and 
 the ^ffvlleg6,_oi>-braag-pi«gent_at your 
 weddmg — with my wife. 
 
 Sophy [hanging her head]. Thank 
 y9Vl. — , 
 
 Quex. Chick — — [He goes out] 
 
 Feayne [turning to Sophy with dig- 
 nity]. Miss Fullgarney, -one— iMng- I 
 desire to. say. It is^that your behaviour 
 this morning completely obUterates — 
 the^™. 
 
 [He is cut short by another hiccup 
 and, with a bow, withdraws. 
 PoLLiTT appears at the window. 
 Sophy goes to the entrance, and 
 watches the departure 0/ Quex 
 and Feayne. Pollitt enters 
 the room. The door-gong 
 sounds] 
 Pollitt. ^ Sophy. 
 
 Sophy [turning]. Qh!_ Yalma, dear? 
 Pollitt [with a heavy brow]. Captain 
 BastUsg_is_waiting_at_ niy: place, for 
 Mis&-£4en. 
 
 Sophy [subdued]. Is he? 
 Pollitt. Dearest, during my brief 
 b^, I pride myself, honourable associa- 
 tion wjt.Vi pa.lmistey^tliia is t.lie first time 
 my rgoms have be en used for t his sort 
 of game. 
 
 Sophy. This sort of game ? 
 Pollitt. Other Professors have 
 stoope'd to it, but I;::::.ohi no, it is 
 jlS^TigrpaliHistry aTittleDit too low 
 
 ioPHY [unhappily]. Surely it's quite 
 
 harmless., lQYfij--a^tJOtrirte of young 
 
 people- meeting-to-say-goed?'by . 
 
 Pollitt. From what you've told 
 me, I greatly doubt that it will be 
 
 gofld-by- 
 
 Sophy. D — d — do you? 
 
 Pollitt [hotly]. Anyhow I resent 
 your being the go-between of this 
 gallant captain _and a giri_betrothed to 
 another man — you"who areTnaturally 
 such a^thorough lady ! 
 
 Sophy.' Oh — oh, Valma 1 
 
 [She drops her head upon his 
 shoulder and whimpers] 
 
 Pollitt. Dearest, wh at have I said ? 
 
 Sophy. Valma, I've made up my 
 mind._ I inten d to do exactly what you 
 wishV in the future,3aijceES±hiag. I'm 
 going to "give up' squatting down here 
 manieuring gentlemen -" — — - — ■— 
 
 Pollitt. Sophy ! 
 
 Sophy. And shall simply sail about 
 these. rooms,"6verlo3bng_ my .girls in 
 the plainest" of -silks: — ASH never again 
 will" T iaterf ere- in an underhand way 
 in other people's affairs on any-aedount 
 whatever. ^[Putting her arms round his 
 n^] Yes, you shall find me a lady — 
 a lady 
 
 Pollitt [tenderly]. Ah ! [The 
 
 door-gong sounds. She raises her head 
 and dries her eyes hurriedly] Js_that 
 Miss Eden? 
 
 [He crosses to the window as she 
 goes to the entranQe, Miss 
 liiMBiBD appears] 
 
542 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Miss LiMBiRD. [To Sophy] Here's 
 Miss Eden. 
 
 Sophy [mth a nod]. Give me half a 
 minute with her; then I'm at liberty. 
 [Miss Limbied disappears. Sophy comes 
 to Pollitt] I'.U, aend„_Mnr,iel across 
 directly. 
 
 [He departs. Miss Limbihd re- 
 turns and, holding the portiire 
 aside, admits Mttribl. Mu- 
 HiEL is wearing a veil. Miss 
 Limbihd withdraws. Sophy 
 meets Muriel; they kiss each 
 other undemonstratively] 
 Sophy [constrainedly]. Well, darling? 
 Muriel [in the same toaj/]. —Well, 
 
 Sophy? 
 Sophy. 
 Muriel. 
 Sophy. 
 
 You're here, then? 
 
 As. you see. 
 Agyjifflfiultyl 
 
 Muriel [in a hard voice]. No. The 
 Duchess and Mrs. Jack were coming to 
 town.^ shopping, and Lady Owbridge 
 proposed -that-...ghe ,.ajadJ[should^ tack 
 ourselves oil to them. ~-— — 
 
 Sophy. How have you got rid of 
 'em? 
 
 Muriel. Spoken the truth, for once 
 — my head really does throb terribly. 
 They think I've ru n in he re to sit quietly 
 with you while they ~^^-^ "[Suddenly] 
 OhJje-qiiie-brSophy ! 
 
 Sophy. Quick, dear? 
 
 Muriel. Whydanit-ywi-tell me? 
 
 Sophy. Tell yoii^ ? 
 
 Muriel. About last night — this 
 woman ' •-- ^" 
 
 Sophy. Her-Gsaee? 
 
 Muriel. Yes, yes. 
 
 Sophy. Ohi^^why, — I -hasEeuLt^ any- 
 thing to telirdarHng. ' 
 
 MuKiErr- HaveiJ't anything to ? 
 
 Sophy. You see, I CQuldiillielpre- 
 memberiTi g' wha.t, yn ii'd called~^B'^ 
 
 mean, and despicable7 and all the rest 
 of it; and the feeling came over me 
 that you were right,- that I. ha4 been 
 sneaky^ And so, after I'd -atten3ed.Jto 
 her Grace, I — -I went straight to bed. 
 
 Muriel [sitting]. Oh, yes. Then 
 you didn't aiteiapt to ■ to^atch? 
 
 Sophy. No. 
 
 Muriel [faintly]. Oh ! 
 
 Sophy. Aren't you glad? 
 
 Muriel. Glad ! 
 
 Sophy. Why, you were certain that 
 the word or two I'd overheard meant 
 nothing wrong. 
 
 Muriel. I said so. 
 
 Sophy. Said so ! 
 
 Muriel [turning to her with clenched 
 
 hands]. Yes, but at the same time you 
 put the digadful idea into my head, 
 SopEy,"and rve'"n5t bynu a'BIe to dis- 
 miss it for oneTnOBiBirt-sinee.- 
 Sophy [under her breath]. Oh! 
 
 [Sitting] 
 
 Muriel \lifting her veil]. There! 
 
 you can_ see what I've been going 
 
 through; 
 
 Sophy \loohing at her]. J!m_aQ_sorry. 
 
 Muriel [looking at Sophy]. You 
 
 look, rather- washed out too. — -HaxfiElt 
 
 yoii sle^t, either? 
 
 BovnYJturning her head away]. Not 
 over _wglL. ^.[FMteringly] Then, after 
 all, it would have been better if J_^od 
 spied on her?- 
 
 Muriel. Anything — e^en. that — 
 would have beeix-.prrferable_to2?his un- 
 certainty. 
 
 Sophy. [To herself, her jaw falling] 
 
 Oh ! 
 
 Muriel [looking toward the window]. 
 Has ie^ amvei? 
 Sophy. Y,es. 
 
 [Muriel rises, then Sophy] 
 
 Muriel [producing, from her pocket, 
 
 a jet^ejJ^fsjiassjmdJiowing it to Sophy]. 
 
 Do yotf like- this?- I've just boughtit, 
 
 over the way, at Gressier's. 
 
 Sophy. F^r Captain^Bflstling? 
 Muriel [w%th: a nod', opening the box]. 
 A solitaire- shiitrstud. 
 
 [iSiAe retains a neatly-folded piece 
 
 of paper which is enclosed in 
 
 the box and hands the box to 
 
 Sophy] 
 
 Sophy. Beautiful, [Glancing at the 
 
 piece of paper itTMuriel's hand] What's 
 
 that? ^ 
 
 Muriel [unfolding the paper care- 
 fully]. Tlus-goes-^witki.t. 
 
 [She holds the paper before Sophy] 
 
 Sophy [reading']. "To Napier " 
 
 Muriel [withdrawing the paper]. Ah, 
 no. 
 
 Sophy. Mayn't I? 
 Muriel [yielding the paper impul- 
 Yes, you may. 
 [Muriel turns away and stands 
 leaning upon the back of the 
 screen-chair, mth her face in 
 her hands. Sophy places the 
 jeweller's case upon the circular 
 table] 
 Sophy [reading with difficulty]. "To 
 
 Napier from Muriel. I only " 
 
 what ? You have blotted it. 
 M.VSXEI. [vnth a sob]. Havel? 
 Sophy. You've been crying over it. 
 Muriel. Yes. 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 543 
 
 it. 
 
 Sophy. "I only- 
 
 I can't read 
 
 Mtjhiel [through herteaTsL^__ _„ 
 "TonJ^Tmuw "■' WTTloveaTn vain : 
 I only feel— Farewell ! —'Farewell ! " 
 Sophy [in a low voice]. Very nice, 
 darling. [She lays the paper tenderly 
 upon the box and goes to Mubiel. Ey- 
 ing her keenly] You really are deter- 
 mine d, then, to -wn 'sh ^^^ gr>f»fi-v>y ? 
 
 MuKiEL {turning to her and weeping 
 
 upon her shoulder]. Qtu.Sa^ty!_Sopliy ! 
 
 Sophy. Th ere, there ! uTTsoon be 
 
 URIEL [raising her head]. Over! 
 y6|i_y6s ! ov er ! 
 
 Sophy. And — p'r'aps it's all for 
 the bestj yquJaiaw. 
 
 MoEiEL. For the best ! 
 
 Sophy. What I mean is, that very 
 
 likfily wa'vfl hnt.h pf ng hoan a .HtHe 
 
 cruel to poor Lord Quex — hard on 
 him— — '■ — 
 
 Muriel [indignantly]. You say this 
 to me! [Distractedly] You say this, 
 after having poisoned my mind and 
 given Bae-an awful—BJghfr-of—sleepless- 
 ness and doubt; —Yeatfiidaj!—!— was as 
 fi'"'^;" a rn^y ; — te-day-lraa^as weak as 
 water again. [Facing Sophy with flash-, 
 ing eyes] Ah, I tell you honestly you'd 
 better no t let meTg § |t Cap lain B asth ng 
 this-nn^ing ! you'd better not let me 
 see him ! 
 
 [The door-gong sounds. Bast- 
 ling appears at the window, 
 and looks into the room] 
 
 Sophy [whose back is toward the win- 
 dow, soothingly]. No, no, you sha'n't 
 go acrosg_tQ_Sahna's while you're like 
 thiST rU ma,ka_an excuse for you to 
 Captain Bas'thng ~"" ""= 
 
 Bastlinq [at the window]. Muriel ! 
 
 MURIEL [passing Sophy swiftly]. 
 Napier! 
 
 Sophy [holding her arm]. Darling — 
 
 Muriel [freeing herself]. RelSaSfe me, 
 
 SaphyX release me ! ah ^.! 
 
 [She jOTira^BxsTLiNG and they dis- 
 appear. As Sophy goes to the 
 window and looks out after 
 them, QxjiiX Anters, followed by 
 Fhayne] ^ 
 
 Quex [glancing round the room]. 
 Miss Fullgarney 
 
 Sophy [turning sharply]. Hey? 
 [Blankly] Oh — my Jord — — • ! 
 
 Quex. I. anBT" compelled to intrude 
 
 upon you again. I_havaji}stTnet~Jjady 
 
 Owbridge, with her Grace and Mrs. 
 Eden in SacEviUe— Street^^ My aunt 
 
 sends me with a message to Miss Eden. 
 
 Sophy [confused]. M — m — Miss 
 Edeal,. 
 
 Quex. Mrs. Eden has proposed a 
 lunch at Prince's, jproyided that Miss 
 Eden feels equal, to — [Looking about 
 him again] Where is Miss Eden? 
 
 Sophy. Where ? 
 
 Quex. She is here — with you. 
 
 Sophy. N — no. 
 
 Quex. No? 
 
 Sophy [unth a gulp]. I haven't seen 
 aH^,tMag-,Qlher. 
 
 Quex [in an altered tone]. ReaUy ? 
 
 Sophy. Nq;^_ 
 
 Quex [calnuyJT^ Siia^e. 
 
 [He walks awayan3~joins Fbayne. 
 Sophy stealthily closes and 
 fastens Jlkejoindow] 
 
 Quex. [In a low voice, to FrayneI 
 Chick — 
 
 Frayne. Eh? 
 
 Quex. Miss_Edenis here. Why is 
 the FuUgaMteytemng^STMsfaJsehood ? 
 
 Frayne^ YouT'wiirrenlBln'ber I was 
 positive she would sell you before she'd 
 done with you. 
 
 Quex [gripping Fbayne's arm]. 
 Don't ! [Advancing to Sophy — po- 
 litely] I understood from my aunt, 
 MissFullgarney, that her ladyship left 
 Miss^"ETien-aft!TeggiBr's^, the jewdier's, 
 less than half an hour ago. 
 
 Sophy [fussing urith the objects upon 
 the cabinet and the manicure table]. Oh? 
 
 Quex. Miss Eden had some Httle 
 commission, to dis^arge at Gressier's. 
 andjLotffided o6ming"'across~to you im- 
 mediately aTfefward. 
 
 SoPBY [quickly]. Ah, then she hasn't 
 finished her business at. Gxfisser's yet. 
 
 Quex. Yes, because I lookeS'in at 
 the shop on my way here. 
 
 Sophy. Funny. I can't imagine 
 where she's taken herself to. 
 
 Quex [earnestly]. Miss Fullgar- 
 ney 
 
 Sophy. My.loird? 
 
 Quex. I thought we had become 
 good friends, yomaadj ? 
 
 Sophy. So we have,' I hope. 
 
 Quex. And jthaJL-you_^E ere de sirous 
 of rendering me a service t' 
 
 Sophy. Well, aren't T,' my lord ? 
 
 Quex. Are you? You know that 
 Miss^Eden eamaJ;a-you_dirEetly she 
 left Gressier's. You know shedidr~ 
 
 Sophy [after a pause — drawing a 
 deep breath]. Yes, I — I own it. 
 
 Quex [reproachfully]. Ah, Miss FuU- 
 garney ! 
 
544 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Sophy. She has been in, and I have 
 done you the serviee I promised. 
 
 QuEX [calmiy]. Yonrbscver? 
 
 Sophy. Indeed I have, as true as I 
 stand here. [Steadying herself] But 
 the fact is_: — the fact is Miss Eden had 
 a purchase to rnalse that she didnH-wish 
 the ladies to interfere over, and — aSLd 
 ste has run but for ten minutes. If 
 your lordship must know where 'she is, 
 she's in the Biirlington." 
 
 QtJBX [very quietty]. Oh, she has run 
 out for a few minutes ? 
 
 Sophy. She might be a quarter of 
 an hour. 
 
 QtTEX. Not run out ; flown out, at 
 one of these windows. 
 
 Sophy '[family]. One of these win- 
 dows? 
 
 QuEX [pointing to the entrance]. She 
 has not gone out^by the door. 
 
 Sophy. " What do you mean? 
 
 QuEX. Your young ladies assured 
 me just now that Miss Eden was in 
 this room with "fou." [Frayne, pos- 
 sessed of an idea, has gone to the door in 
 the partition. He now raps at the door 
 gently] No, no, Chick — please ! we 
 are not policemen. 
 
 Frayne [opening the door a few inches]. 
 Miss Eden, I regret to learn you are 
 sufferingJrom headache. 
 
 Sophy [indignantly]. Well, of all the 
 liberties — — ! 
 
 QuEX [angrily]. Frayne ! 
 
 Frayne. May I leil"you of an un- 
 failing remedy — ? [He peeps into the 
 private room, then withdraws his head, 
 and says to QuEx] --ijo. 
 
 Sophy [flouncing up to Frayne, and 
 speaking volubly and violently]. Now, 
 look here, sir, I'm. ajjusy woman — as 
 busy and as hard-working a woman as 
 anjrin London. 'BecauseyDTrsBeTBings 
 a bit slack Ascot week, it doesn't Joflow 
 that my books, and a hundred little 
 matters,^ don't want attending to. 
 [Sitting a:t~tke~dBsk and opening and 
 closing the books noisily] And I'm cer- 
 tainly not going_to have gentlemen, 
 whoever they may be.TnSrqhing into 
 my place, and J;aking_p.ossession of it, 
 and doubting my word, and opening and 
 shutting doors, exactly as if they were 
 
 you to know that my establishment isn't 
 
 conducted on that principle. 
 
 [QuEX has been standing, with 
 compressed lips and a frown 
 upon his face, leaning upon the 
 back of the chair near the cir- 
 
 cular table. During Sophy's 
 harangue-his eyes-falL.ujM'' the 
 jeweller's case and the scrap of 
 paper lying open upon it. He 
 stares at the writixtg-for a mo- 
 ment, then comes to the table 
 and picks up both the case and 
 the paper] 
 Frayne. [To Sophy, while this is 
 going on] My, good lady, a little 
 
 candor on your part 
 
 Sophy. I don't understand what 
 you're hinting at by "a httle candor." 
 You've already been told where Miss 
 Eden is, and anybody who knows me 
 
 knows that-if I -say^-a thing 
 
 Frayne. But when your young ladies 
 
 declare • 
 
 Sophy. I'm really not responsible 
 for the sayings and doings of a parcel 
 of stupid girls. If they didn't 'See Miss 
 Eden go out they were asleep, and if 
 they weren't asleep they'renblind ; and 
 as I've explained till I'm hoarse, I'm 
 very busy this roprningj, and I should 
 be exteeni ely obliged tojoii^two gentle- 
 men ir^ou*d'"Mnaiy^'goaway~aitd--eafr 
 again a httle later. 
 QtTEX. Chick. 
 Frayne. Eh? 
 QtTEX. I want you. 
 
 [Frayne comes to Qttex, who 
 hands him the~]SWetlm' s case 
 andJ he slip of pape r] 
 Sophy [fussing over her books, ob- 
 livious of what is trans^ring]. As if 
 the diflculty of^eondufiting a business 
 of this kind" "isn't sufficient without 
 extra bothers and worries being brought 
 down on one's headJL_What_with orie's 
 enormous rent, and rottiia dsbts, it's 
 heartbreaking! Here's a woman here, 
 on my books, who runs an account for 
 fifteen months, with the face of an 
 angel, and no more intends to pay me 
 
 than to jump over St. Paul's 
 
 QuEX [who again has possession of the 
 jeweller's case and the paper]. Miss 
 
 FuUgarney 
 
 Sophy. What now, my lord ? Upon 
 
 my word, it is too bad ! 
 
 QtTEX. Please come here. 
 Sophy [coming forward — now on the 
 verge of tears]. After_siiei-a-jught as 
 I've had, too. I never coul d-do -gjthgut 
 
 my fuU eight hours 
 
 QuEx. Be silent ! 
 What! 
 
 Sophy. 
 
 QUEX. 
 
 hng 
 
 Sophy. 
 
 !NCs§JEldeH-€Hi4£!aptai.n Bast- 
 Ehl 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 545 
 
 QtjBX. They are acquaintances — 
 
 friends. [With , n.jstji.mp pf ^ft(i/nn/-|-.Thfiy 
 
 aiSTJiT terms o f 
 
 Sophy [faintly]. Oh ! 
 
 QuBX [pointing to the window]. She 
 is -with ialLM-tliis mQimeflL:;:^jyjere. 
 
 Sophy [unsteadily]. Whatever are 
 yousayingj^my lord? [Discovering that 
 he Kas the jeweUerT case and the paper] 
 Ah ! 
 
 Qdex. Yes, I found these upon the 
 
 table^ [&hti-adva;nces, to take them from 
 
 him] Miss Eden left _.them here — 
 forgot-them? 
 
 Sophy [in a murmur]. Yes. 
 
 [He gives thern to her. She puts 
 them into her pocket and sits] 
 
 Qdex. Coiae!teU me. 
 
 Sophy. Yotf^^TTJtTafre not-,the only 
 0fl£_in-the-fl6ld, my lofif. 
 
 Quex. So I conclude. 
 
 Sophy. ^asra_pi±y~on.herl 
 
 Qttex [sternly]. How dare you ! 
 
 Sophy. It's more _my fault than 
 h^s.„ , 
 
 QuBX. Continue. 
 
 Sophy. Stiehas.jjfaiated--to- stop it, 
 hating herselfjESTliieing deceitful, Jfeut I 
 — I've encouraged her, eggedTier on. 
 
 Quex." Yes." 
 
 Sophy. They've been in the habit 
 of meeting here a,t mx place. 
 
 Quex [clgain pointing to the window]. 
 In _t^s^ fellow's^ rooms — Mr. Val- 
 ma's — ^ 
 
 Sophy [rising]. No, no. They've 
 never met thereJilLihis morning. But 
 he — youngSastlin^ — EglFgoing away, 
 abroad, iri a fortmght or so, and he 
 wighe'(r to'say good-by to herqiaeily. 
 
 Quex [turning toward the window 
 fiercely]. Ah ! 
 
 Sophy [laying her hand upon his arm]. 
 Be careful, my lord ! 
 
 Quex [looking at her]. Careful? 
 
 Sophy [signi ficantly]. I know how 
 she feels "t o-da y^ 
 her to Hong-Kong ^wit 
 
 ling^ 
 
 [Quex hesitates for a moment, 
 then crosses to Prayne, to 
 whom he speaks apart] 
 
 Qv^x. Chick! how shall I act ? 
 
 Fraynb [MsmaU^. Dear old chap, 
 to bo quitifi Tiniqst .. ^^^ yo^h -*- ^^® "^"^ 
 
 whoUy cjtpti!iaitfid_b ^ M.jis~E den when 
 you presented me yesteMsiy. 
 
 QuBX. Tshah! What shaU I do? 
 wait? 
 
 Fbatnb. In any event, of course, 
 the man'^ead-has^ybg-p unchod. But - 
 
 it might be wise to delay doing it un- 
 til 
 
 QuBX. [To Sophy] You spoke, a 
 little while ago, of giving me "a chance." 
 I see n ow wh at was in your mind. 
 ThereVrnsE rtfaenrtterC th is good-by 
 maylnot' be SsWlT" ~~ 
 
 Sophy [stammeringly]. W— well, 
 I 
 
 Quex [shp,rply]. Eh? 
 
 Sophy [breaking down]. Oh, my 
 lordj__rscallect, „sh£!s--3iotmuch_jiMwe 
 than_a-girt1 
 
 Quex. No, she is not much more 
 than a girl ; but you — though you 
 and she are of the sa me age — - you are 
 a "ffioffian. You know yotir world, up- 
 s^irs a^d._ downstairs, "bmidoir and 
 kitcheC Yet you own you have en- 
 couraged her in this, made her clan- 
 destine- meetings with this, penniless 
 beggar possible. You — ! you de- 
 serve to be whipped, Miss Fullgamey — 
 whipped ! 
 
 Sophy [facing him]. Come, my lord ! 
 not so fastL—Aftec alW — remember. 
 Captain Bastling may be poor, but he's 
 Miss Eden's mMati-iiLetherways. 
 
 Quex. Match? 
 
 Sophy. Young, and good-looking. 
 Oh, and- isn't it natural ? 
 
 Quex. Quite nattirai — quite. 
 [Turning to Peayne] Chick, what an 
 ass I've been ; what fools wg_Qld_chaps 
 are, all of us ! Wky , if XTiaHlid/tEe' life 
 of a saint, it would only be necesiajry'for 
 a man Uke this Bastling to come.glong, 
 to knock me out., Goo3 lord, how 
 clear it is, when it's brought home to 
 you in this fashion ! _It isa't the scamp, 
 the rou6, a girl shies at; "it^s" the old 
 scamp, the old rou6. She'U take the 
 young one, the blaatguacd_jyith a 
 smooth skin and a bright eye, directly 
 he raises a hand — take him without a 
 murmur, mongy;hu nter tho ugh he may 
 be. Take iumlby^Jove, sheleaps into 
 his arms P 
 
 Fkayne. D'ye mean that Bast- 
 ling ? 
 
 QuBX. Napiet- BaatUng ! [Breaking 
 into a prolonged peal of laughter] Ha, 
 ha, ha, ha! CHick, he's just what / 
 was at eight-andr:l.wenty. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 what I was — and worse, damn him ! 
 — and,aheJe^s him. 
 
 Sophy [who has been listening with 
 wide-open eyes and parted lips]. It's 
 not trualjt isn^ true ! 
 
 Quex [turning to her]. Isn't it! 
 You think so, hey? No, I suppose 
 
546 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 you haven't experimentalized upon 
 him; you haven't spied on him, and 
 tempted him as you -tempted me. You 
 have never gotAi22i_iato_atJ}uiet corner 
 and— stuclT'yDQFTmpuSent face in his. 
 If you had 
 
 Sophy. 01? ! he wouldn't ! 
 
 [Prayne has walked away ; Qtjex 
 now joins him] 
 
 QuBX [os he goes]. Wouldn't he! 
 ha, ha, ha! [To Prayne, fiercely] 
 What the devil am I to_ do, CMck ? 
 
 Prayne. Punch his head. 
 
 Sophy [panting]. Oh ! oh ! [Bast- 
 LINQ, indistinctly seen through the muslin 
 blinds, appears at the window. He raps 
 gently upon the window frame. Sophy 
 glances at the window] Eh — ? [Un- 
 der her breath] Oh ! [She goes swiftly 
 to Qtjex and Pbaynb, seizes them by the 
 arms, and pushes them toward the door 
 in the partition, saying agitatedly] Wait 
 there ! don't com.e~Out,_ or make a 
 noise 
 
 QuEX. What are you up to now? 
 
 Sophy. Stay here till I find out 
 what's happened. Oh, I'll do what I 
 can for you ! 
 
 [They enter the private room and 
 she closes the door. Then she 
 returns to the window, un- 
 fastens it, and retreats. Bast- 
 ling pushes open the window 
 and comes in] 
 
 Basti/ING [advancing to her excitedly]. 
 Ah, .Sqj^J' ! [Looking round] Anyone 
 about 2. 
 
 Sophy [pointing to the left]. All my 
 giri§.ai;eiftJhere^_Where is she? 
 ^^Bastling. "" Mext <ioor-. — She's sit- 
 ting down, ~^ calming herself — ■ having 
 her cry out. "^ 
 
 Sophy. Crying ! 
 
 Bastling. She's all right — -awfully 
 happy. I., told her I'd come and tell 
 you. 
 
 Sophy. TeU me — ■ — ! 
 
 Bastling. It's settled. 
 
 Sophy. Settled ! 
 
 Bastling. She's minej, Sophy. 
 
 Sophy [with a gasp]. Yours ! 
 
 Bastling. We're going to be mar- 
 ried at once -^, next week. We shall 
 need your help still. Of cguESfi,-it must 
 be' a secret-marriage. SEe will -follow 
 me out by-and-by. 
 
 Sophy [nodding dully]. Oh, yes. 
 
 Bastling. Why, ar.en't you glad 
 about it? [Smilingly] Don't-you con- 
 gratulate us ? 
 
 Sophy. C — certainly. 
 
 Bastling. Good. And — [shaking 
 hands with her] thanks to you. [Releasing 
 her hand] Thanks. 
 
 Sophy [nerving herself for her task]. 
 Thanks ! 
 
 Bastling. A million of 'em. What's 
 the matter ?- 
 
 Sophy. Oh, nothing. 
 Bastling. Yes, there is. Come, out 
 with it. 
 
 Sophy. Well — ■ thanks ! [Tossing 
 her head] There isn't, much in thanks. 
 Bastling [piizzlM]'. Wot much in 
 thanks ? 
 
 Sophy [turning away, pouting]. I 
 think ngt-. 
 
 Bastling [smiling]. Oh, I know I 
 owe a tremendous deal to the pretty 
 manicurist, and I don't intend to forget 
 it. Just now I'm rather hard-up [glanc- 
 ing toward the window], but I shall be in 
 
 funds before long 
 
 Sophy [turning to him with genuine 
 indignation]. Oh ! 
 
 Bastling. What do yoji want, then ? 
 Sophy [after a moment's hesitation, 
 sidling up to him]. Not money. 
 Bastling. Not ? 
 
 Sophy. A little more than plain 
 thanks, .though- - 
 
 Bastling Rooking into her eyes, laugh- 
 ing softly]. Ha, ha, ha! 
 Sophy [slyly]. Ha, ha, ha! 
 Bastling. Thanks — differently ex- 
 pressed — ? [She plays with the lapel 
 of his codtlxnd giggles. He takes her chin 
 in his hand] HaTTia, ha ! Sophy ! 
 Sophy. Ha, ha ! 
 
 [Muriel appears at the open 
 window and enters the room 
 noiselessly^ Seeing Bastling 
 and Sophy together, she halts 
 in surprise] 
 Bastling [whose back is to the win- 
 dow], I say — mind, no tales. 
 
 Sophy [Zoofcire^UiiMTrRiEL steadily over 
 Bastling' s shoulder] Likely rd_split 
 on you, isn|t_it? "^ 
 
 Bastling! Honour bright ? 
 
 Sophy. Oh, if you've any doubt 
 
 [He raises her face to his and 
 kisses her- upon the lips warmly 
 and lingeringly^ She goesback 
 a step or two, still gazing fixedly 
 at Muriel] 
 
 Bastling. Eh ? 
 
 [Following the direction of her 
 eyes, he turns and encounters 
 Muriel. The three stand for a 
 moment or two without move- 
 jneat] 
 
The Gay Lord Quex 
 
 547 
 
 Bastling [after a pause, speaking in 
 a low voice, his eyes avoiding Muriel's]. 
 Well — - ha! — I suppose every man 
 makes a big mistake at least onoe in 
 Ms life.' I've made mmB^^-A^the same 
 
 time, 
 write. 
 
 I"=^r — Jlmrriedly]— oh, I'll 
 
 [With a slight, quick bow to Mu- 
 riel, he wheels round sharply 
 and goes out] 
 Sophy [wiping his kiss from her lips]. 
 The wretch ! the wretch ! 
 
 [The door-gong sounds] 
 Muriel [covering her eyes with her 
 hand and uttering a low moanL Oh-r:— — ■ ! 
 Sophy [hanging her head]. You see, 
 darhng, yesterdav a t Pauncey Court, 
 I — I tried it on with Lord Quex . and 
 he beha/ved/Jke_X|gentleman. __i5Q_tiie 
 notioiL_sSmEjKie3ESIl!d_ treat~j he 
 young man iE.±he_samiujsa£Zjust~to 
 see '-^laf he was ,fflade_Mi. -and — well, 
 I'm gTad you came in. You might 
 never have believed me. 
 
 Mtrawb-{irrS hard voice]. The shirt- 
 stud — the stuff I wrote — I left them 
 
 Twith yoji 
 
 Sophy [producing them]. I found 
 thenuaftai: you'd-gone. 
 
 [Muriel takes the piece of paper 
 
 and tears it into small pieces. 
 
 Sophy offers her the jeweller's 
 
 case] 
 
 Muriel [haughtily]. Take that back 
 
 to Gressier's this afternoon, please, and 
 
 tell thwn I've-ohangfid-jaxjniad. Say 
 
 I'll have a httle silver coUarJotJliy dog, 
 
 in its place. — — ' 
 
 [She sinks into the screen-chair, 
 
 with her eyes closed. Slipping 
 
 the case into her pocket, Sophy 
 
 tip-toes up to the door in the 
 
 partition; she opens it and 
 
 beckons tp Quex, who appears 
 
 with Fratne] 
 
 Sophy. [To Quex, in a whisper] 
 
 Phsst! It's all n icely se ttled. She's 
 
 said efpod-bv t6 hiih t or good. Wtertna 
 
 fuss you ingicia. abaut-Jie^hJQg-] 
 
 [SJQ points to the screen-chair; 
 he approaches Muriel. Sophy 
 and Prayne talk together] 
 
 Quex [softly]. Muriejj 
 
 Muriel [openin'g~Ker' eyes, startled]. 
 Quex! 
 
 QuEli \brightly]. I camejip_ta_tffwn 
 this morningwithSililliicEester. We've 
 just met ""AUnFT^ulisi,.. and- -the- rest of 
 'em, in Sackvilfe Street. Mrs. Jack 
 clamours for lunch at Princess. What 
 do you -say? 
 
 Muriel [rpassing her hand across her 
 5]. Thanks. Itjll be joUy. 
 
 Quex [gayly]. ABl~ 
 
 Muriel [laying her hand upon his 
 sleeve]. Quex 
 
 Quex. Eh? 
 
 Muriel [rising, and speaking in a 
 low, appealing voice]. Give, rneyour 
 word you have been loyal to mB.^Sa yn 
 to'j'wir-vBi'y thuu^hl, siuoe our engage- 
 ment. ^ ' 
 
 Quex [earnestly]. Muriel, I — — ■ 
 
 Muriel. Hush! [Giving him her 
 hand] I beheve you. [The door-gong 
 sounds] And, look here ! I haven't 
 been quite fair,^^eiigEOU6, to you, I am 
 afra.id. — But" I am going to Jw-^fter- 
 ent 
 
 Quex. After to-day ! 
 
 Muriel. Prom this moment. 
 Harry 
 
 Quex. Hey? 
 
 Muriel. I won't keep you t ill the 
 eii.d_pf the yeaj. Marry me. anfflSaye 
 done wrffi itjjdireetly_the seasou is oyer, 
 and takeTme away. 
 
 Quex [bending over her hand]. Good 
 heavens ! 
 
 [Miss Limbird holds the portibre aside 
 and admits Lady Owbridge, the 
 Duchess op Strood, and Mrs. 
 Eden. Miss Limbird then returns 
 to her desk. Quex goes to Lady 
 Owbridge, takes her arm, and leads 
 her forward] Aunt Julia! aunt! 
 my dear Aunt Julia ! 
 
 [The Duchess joins Prayne. 
 M rs. Ede n comes to Muriel 
 and receives the news of the 
 hastened marriage. Sophy 
 moves away to the window] 
 Quex [excitedly, to Lady Owbridge]. 
 Oh, my dear aunt ! 
 
 Lady OwBTiiDQE. What ails you, 
 Henry? 
 
 Quex. Muriel! she — she — she's 
 going -to macry-TOe ! 
 
 Lady Owbridge. liiope so. 
 Quex. But at the end of the season ! 
 a month hence}^ _£ MOnth^ a month, a 
 month! 
 
 Lady Owbridge. My dear boy! 
 Heaven prosper your union! Mu- 
 riel 
 
 Mrs. Eden. [To Lady Owbridge] 
 Isn't this glorious news, Lady Ow- 
 bridge? But I always thought it un- 
 wise to protract the engagement. You 
 nev er know what m av happen, do you ? 
 I /Bfust tell the dear Duchess 
 
548 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [She joins the Duchess and 
 Fbayne, and chatters to them] 
 
 Lady Owbridge. [To Muriel, in a 
 low voice] -MiirielV you are right. In 
 this life, iJf you have anythingJiQ pardon, 
 jpardon. quioMy. Slow forgiveness is 
 little better than no forgiveness. 
 
 Mrs. Eden [coming to Qubx]. Con- 
 gratulate you. 
 
 Quex. Thanks. 
 
 [Ladt Owbridge moves away, 
 joining the Duchess, as Mrs. 
 Eden returns to Muriel] 
 
 Mrs. Eden [kissing Muriel]. You 
 sensible girl ! 
 
 [Frayne comes to Quex] 
 
 Frayne. [To Quex, mournfully] 
 Old chap, this is shockingly sudden. 
 
 Quex. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Frayne. However, we must con- 
 trive, you and I, to pass one more even- 
 ing together before the event. 
 
 Quex. One ! many ! 
 
 Frayne. No, no, I mean a buster, 
 Harry ; a regular night of it 
 
 Quex. Good lord ! go away ! 
 
 [Mrs. Eden joins Lady Ow- 
 bridge as Frayne advances 
 to Muriel] 
 
 Frayne [taking Muriel's hand]. 
 Dear young lady, you are about to 
 become the wife' of one of. the best. 
 There are not many of us left ; we are 
 
 a dwindling band, -Miss Eden 
 
 [The Duchess comes to Quex] 
 
 Duchess. [To Quex, softly] Sin- 
 cere congratulations. [He bows stiffly] 
 At any time, you know, when you re- 
 turn to England" — — 
 
 Quex [eying her sternly]. Yes? 
 
 Duchess. JiltesL. your honey- 
 moon 
 
 Quex. Yes? 
 
 Duchess. _ Should you feel en- 
 nuyi 
 
 Quex. I ! 
 
 Duchess. The air at Burwarton 
 never failed to .exhilarate _ _you. So 
 pray doTaoTJorgeT 
 
 Quex [indignantly]. Duchess ! 
 
 Duchess [sweetly]. That- poor— djegx 
 Strood would be pleased to see you. 
 [Frayne joins Lady Owbridge and 
 Mrs. Eden as the Duchess advances 
 to Muriel] Dear Miss Eden, may your 
 
 married life be as beautiful, as serene, 
 as my own ! 
 
 Muriel [frankly]. Thank you. Duch- 
 ess. 
 
 Lady Owbridge. We shall be a 
 happy party at luncheon. Shall we go, 
 "Duchess? Muriel — ■ Henry — [Quex 
 joins Muriel. Sophy is eying Muriel 
 wistfully. Miss Limbird holds the por- 
 tihre aside, to allow the visitors to pass out] 
 Good-morning, Miss FuUgarney. 
 
 Sophy. Good-morning, my lady. 
 
 Duchess. Miss FuUgarney ■ 
 
 Sophy. Good-by^ your Grace. 
 
 [The Duchess and Lady Ow- 
 bridge go out] 
 
 Frayne [following them with Mrs. 
 Eden]. Good-day, Miss FuUgarney. 
 
 Sophy. Good-day, sir. 
 
 Mrs. Eden. Mamigg:^_SQEhy. 
 
 SoPHt-. Morning, Mrs. Eden. 
 
 [Frayne and Mrs. Eden go out] 
 
 Quex [following them with Muriel], 
 Good-morning, Miss FuUgarney. 
 
 Sophy \blankly]. G — good-morning, 
 my lord. [Quex and Muriel go out, 
 followed by Miss Limbird. Sophy stands 
 aghast, her bosom heaving] Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 [The door-gong sounds. Pollitt appears 
 at the window. Sophy is wringing her 
 hands] Oh -! 
 
 Pollitt [entering]. My love ! what's 
 the matter? 
 
 Sophy. She — she*sr-left— ttter-^with- 
 out a word ! 
 
 Pollitt. She? 
 
 Sophy. Muriet=_S!i^€Hit_so- much 
 
 as wishing,jae_geoijiiorning. [With a 
 
 sob] Oh ! jBrhen-t've^on^jidiat I j3an.lor 
 
 "lodyj 
 
 [The portihre is pulled aside and 
 
 Muriel returns, unaccorrv- 
 
 panied, and comes to Sophy's 
 
 side swiftly] 
 
 Muriel. [To Sophy] Forgive me. 
 You didJit-for-ti[5~best . . [Kissing her] 
 I'm sorry ^- — 
 
 Sophy [throwing her arms round Mu- 
 riel's neck] Oh ! my darUng — ! 
 [Muriel runs out. Sophy goes to Pol- 
 litt and drops her head upon his breast, 
 restfully] An ! that's aU right. 
 
 [The door-gong sounds finally] 
 
THE SILVER BOX 
 
 (1906) 
 By John Galsworthy 
 
JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 John Galsworthy is a dramatist with a tremendous sense of life. More than 
 any other English writer of the present generation, he has far-seeing vision, and he 
 is true to humanity. Unlike his contemporaries, he is not alone ooneerned with the 
 thesis drama, though a thesis interests him. Unlike his contemporaries, Granville 
 Barker most notably, he is not worried about a new literary form. It is the palpi- 
 tant matter that concerns him ; it is the life quality that he is after. 
 
 Galsworthy is a writer of power and of distinction. He is, at the same time, 
 a thinker and an artist. Because he thinks in an orderly fashion, people have 
 accused him, in his mere statement of facts, of being coldly judicial. Yet, always, 
 there is a special arrangement of these facts, which proclaims him to be an artist 
 with selective reticence. After reading "The Eldest Son" (1912) one feels that he 
 was writing in the old manner, not so far removed from the time of Robertson's 
 "Caste", even though the moral question is of the modern order. Compare 
 "The Eldest Son" with Stanley Houghton's "Hindle Wakes" (1912), both treating 
 the same theme, and you will reaUze the conventionality of Galsworthy. Never- 
 theless, though he finds it dif&oult to keep away from class discussion, his sym- 
 pathy has no conventional limitations. He is a man with prejudices, born of acute 
 observation ; and that, it seems, would answer the critics who say that Galsworthy 
 is almost aloof in his statement of an argument. He is a man of large conviction, 
 but, being an artist, primarily interested in the weighing and development of 
 character, he does not so far obtrude his convictions as to overshadow what his 
 characters themselves think. This is a characteristic which is not Shavian. 
 
 Galsworthy could never take English society, as it was before the War, content 
 only to paint a realistic picture. He could never have written Barker's "The 
 Madras House", — cleverly pictorial, and minute in its observation, — for the 
 simple reason that Galsworthy couples with his observation the spirit of a re- 
 former and the heart of a poet. He has glimpses of life far above and beyond Eng- 
 lish Ufe ; his dominant attitude is fearless facing of the facts. And there is in him 
 a high realization of a power above man — a power which places humanity in proper 
 relationship with the infinite. 
 
 As a man lives and thinks [says Galsworthy], so will he write. But it is 
 certain that to the makings of good drama, as to the practise of every other 
 art, there must be brought an almost passionate love of discipline, a white- 
 heat of self-respect, a desire to make the truest, fairest, best thing in one's 
 power ; and that to these must be added an eye that does not flinch. 
 
 This is measure of Galsworthy, the artist, and of Galsworthy the man. 
 
 The mere external facts of his Ufe are quickly stated. Bom in 1867, at Coombe, 
 in Surrey, he is steeped in the traditions of Devonshire. Those who know him per- 
 sonally say that in his early years he was earnest, sure, and sound. These char- 
 
 651 
 
552 Representative British Dramas 
 
 acteristios have deepened in his work. Some say that he was neither brilliant at 
 school, nor quick in his studies, but that whatever he learned, he learned thoroughly. 
 His plays and his novels lack a certain quaUty of brilliancy, but they abound in a 
 feeling characteristic of him, and they are never devoid of that authority which 
 comes from learning a subject thoroughly, weighing it deeply, and pondering it long. 
 His education was that of any English schoolboy of the day. From 1881 to 1886 
 he was at Harrow. Then followed three years of reading at New College, Oxford, 
 with the bestowal of an honour degree in law. Between that time and 1890, in which 
 year he was called to the Bar, Galsworthy continued his legal preparations, aided 
 and abetted by his father, who was of the same profession. 
 
 Disliking the law, and having money, the son travelled the world over. Early 
 in his adventures he met, on shipboard, the future novehst, Joseph Conrad, at that 
 time serving his apprenticeship as an ordinary seaman. Between these two there 
 sprang up a firm and lasting friendship, out of which came one of Galsworthy's most 
 significant essays, wherein he has revealed much of his philosophy of life, born of an 
 ironical sense of things. 
 
 It was in 1899 that Galsworthy published his first novel, ' ' Joeelyn. " As he him- 
 self has said, between then and 1904, he "acquired some first-hand knowledge of 
 the conditions of Capital and Labor." Later, these ideas were utilized in "Strife." 
 The habit of pondering over a theme must be characteristic of the mental habit of 
 the man. "Justice" was pondered over for two years before it was written, during 
 the months of August and September, 1906. 
 
 Any man who holds serious ideas concerning art and life, expresses them defi- 
 nitely and concretely at some time and in some place. There is not a page of 
 Galsworthy's novels that does not contain running commentary on the facts of 
 life, viewing economic and social conditions in relation to types of people who have, 
 on the one hand, gained his sympathies, or, on the other hand, excited his scorn. 
 He is equally as serious regarding his mission as an artist, and on many occasions 
 he has expressed opinions regarding the functions of his profession. 
 
 Nowhere is Pinero better reported concerning drama than in his essay on 
 Stevenson. He speaks therein of the feverish toil and mental tension of the 
 dramatist's work, in comparison with the work of the novelist. There is no feverish 
 tension in the work of John Galsworthy. There is a brooding sense which comes 
 with the spiritual tension of thinking. Galsworthy has compassion. Even his 
 irony has a certain amount of gentleness in its strength, and shows none of the hard, 
 crass sting of Shaw about it. There is a certain terrible meekness about Gals- 
 worthy's social criticism, distinctive of his temperament. He is, in his social phi- 
 losophy, an evolutionist rather than a revolutionist. In his essay on "Some Plati- 
 tudes Concerning Drama", contained in his volume, "The Inn of Tranquillity", 
 he has much to say concerning the harmony of the temperament of man, the 
 truthfulness of character and condition, the steadfastness of idea and purpose in 
 dramatic writing. But this essay does not contain as much of the inner spiritual 
 fervour of Galsworthy as does his critique on Conrad. Here he is much more con- 
 cerned with the cosmic spirit than with the irony of things — a philosophy of hfe 
 which permeates all his writing. 
 
 Prom first to last, one must say of Galsworthy that he is thoroughly sincere. 
 
 Sincerity bars no themes [he writes], it only demands that the dramatist's 
 moods and visions should be intense enough to keep him absorbed ; that he 
 
John Galsworthy 553 
 
 should have something to say so engrossing to himself that he has no need 
 to stray here and th«re and gather purple plums to eke out what was intended 
 for an apple tart. Here is the heart of the matter : you cannot get sincere 
 drama out of those who do not see and feel with sufBoient fervour ; and you 
 cannot get good, sincere drama out of persons with a weakness for short cuts. 
 There are no short outs to the good in art. 
 
 It is the fundamental closeness of Galsworthy to the universe that marks him as 
 superior to his fellow craftsmen in civic worth and influence. In fact, there are 
 some of Galsworthy's critics who claim that he is too superior a person ; that in his 
 mental attitude towards human problems, he often lacks the human quality himself. 
 He has the ability of seeing life in terms of other people, but he likewise has the abil- 
 ity of questioning life in terms of his own relation toward Life. Because he awakens 
 in us whatever social conscience we may possess, does not necessarily relieve Gals- 
 worthy of being responsible to his own social conscience. His is not a negative criti- 
 cism, in the sense that Matthew Arnold's criticism of life in his poetry is negative. 
 Whereas Matthew Arnold questions — "Wouldst thou be as these are, live as 
 they", and contents himself with the mere challenge without telling us how we 
 must live in order to be like the stars, Galsworthy makes his statement, and backs 
 it up with aU that social and economic irony characteristic of him. 
 
 So intent is he in his process of constructive criticism, that his novels are social 
 essays, wherein how the characters think, and what they think, are of more im- 
 portance than what the characters actually do, and what they say. This aloofness 
 of Galsworthy is exacting, not only on his reading public, but on himself. Note the 
 expression of it in one of his prayers, published in his volume 6f poems : 
 
 If on a spring night I went by, 
 
 And God was standing there. 
 
 What is the prayer that I would cry to hun? 
 
 This is the prayer : 
 
 " Lord of Courage grave, 
 
 O Master of this night of spring ! 
 
 Make firm in me a heart too brave 
 
 To ask Thee anything." 
 
 In what sense does Galsworthy's pessimism differ from Arnold's? There 
 is an eternal note of sadness in Arnold's questionings, with no sense of individual 
 responsibihty. There is a persistent note of irony in Galsworthy's questioning, 
 with an overpowering sense of individual responsibility. 
 
 His plays contain essence. They contain atmosphere which arises, not so much 
 from condition marking the outward picture, as from the condition of the inner life 
 of those most concerned with the problem. Yet, he is not obscure. At times one 
 might say he was incomplete. But none of his plays breaks off as incompletely as 
 Granville Barker's "The Voysey Inheritance", wherein the curtain falls just as we 
 want to know what the son will do with the fortune he has inherited. 
 
 Read John Galsworthy as he would have you read Joseph Conrad. Remember 
 that there is a scheme of things much larger, much more important than the scheme 
 of man's small life, and then some of Galsworthy's palpitant humanity will take its 
 proper proportion. He is always sounding the irony which shows the smallness 
 of man. Note in "The Freelands" this bit of nature description : 
 
554 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The fields and hills seemed to mock the scars of road and ditch and furrow 
 scraped on them, to mock at barriers of hedge and wall — between the green 
 land and the white sky was conspiracy to disregard those small activities. 
 
 It is the fear of seeing ourselves a mere drop in the scheme of the universe which 
 produces the irony of things. It is our self-suf&ciency which creates human misery 
 and human barriers. It is necessary, therefore, for us to enhghten ourselves on all 
 things pertaining to Ufe, that we may see clearly whither we are tending, and may 
 determine what we must aspire to be. 
 
 It is in the irony of things that Mr. Galsworthy, as an essayist, as a noveUst, 
 and as a dramatist, is groping for an expression of his own reUgious beUef. He 
 writes : 
 
 I cannot help thinking that historians, looking back from the far future, 
 will recall this age as the Third Renaissance. We who axe lost in it, working 
 or looking on, can neither tell what we are doing nor where standing ; but we 
 cannot help observing that, just as in the Greek Renaissance, worn-out Pagan 
 orthodoxy was penetrated by new philosophy ; just as in the ItaUan Renais- 
 sance, Pagan philosophy, reassertitig itself, fertilized again an already too in- 
 bred Christian creed ; so now Orthodoxy fertilized by Science is producing a 
 fresh and fuller cohception of life — a love of Perfection, not for hope of re- 
 ward, not for fear of punishment, but for Perfection's sake. . . . 
 
 And it [the Western World] began to see that this Perfection, cosmically, 
 was nothing but perfect Equanimity and Harmony ; and in human relations, 
 nothing but perfect Love and Justice. And Perfection began to glow before 
 the eyes of the western world hke a new star, whose Ught touched with glamour 
 all things as they came forth from Mystery, tiU to Mystery they were ready 
 to return. 
 
 This was written before August, 1914. 
 
 The following statement is explanation of what Galsworthy means by the irony 
 of things : 
 
 If men were not disharmonic, there would be no irony of things. We jut 
 out everywhere, and fail to see how we are jutting out. We seek solutions, 
 raise our flags, work our arms and legs loyally in the isolated fields that come 
 within our vision, but, having no feeling for the whole, the work we do is de- 
 partmental. The war of the departments is the game we understand ; we 
 spend our hves keeping up the bajl and taking down the score. The race of 
 men is a race of partisans feeding their pigeon-holes with contradictory reports 
 of life, and when a fellow comes and lays a summary on the desk, they look 
 at him askance ; but the future pays attention, for the impartial is all that 
 it has time for. 
 
 Does not this, in a way, show just wherein Galsworthy, educated in the atmos- 
 phere of class distinction, himself ceases to be departmental ? There are many who 
 say that when, in 1910, "Justice" appealed so strongly to the Home Secretary, the 
 Hon. Winston Churchill, as to reform the Bnghsh prison system, the dramatist 
 had set forth specifically to reform a particular evil. But we have, from the 
 author's own self, the confession that he aimed even higher : 
 
John Galsworthy -555 
 
 To present a picture of the general blindness of justice ... to elucidate 
 the true proportions of the problem of Society face to face with the erring 
 individual. 
 
 In "Strife", both Roberts and Anthony epitomize class ; they each have consum- 
 ing faults of character and of purpose ; in theii; different ways they hold out for 
 principles which are as nothing beside the human misery and want they create. 
 Neither man sees the irony of things — which once seen might have brought them 
 both to a compromise. So deeply ingrained is this ironical feeling for class, that we 
 are inclined to become a little impatient when we find Galsworthy continually using 
 the artificial barriers as a contrast — a contrast which was strictly characteristic of 
 him before the War. 
 
 In "The SUver Box" (1906), in "Strife" (1909), in "Justice" (1910), in "The 
 Eldest Son", in "The Fugitive" (1913), it is class idea against class idea, as per- 
 sistently upheld as it is in any of his novels. 
 
 He is not rich in varying idea. He is rich in attitude. One is surprised how 
 httle there is in the actual framework of a Galsworthy drama to mark it as big. 
 It is beneath the surface that Galsworthy's characters Uve and breathe, and it is 
 this which makes them aUve. Even in "The Eldest Son", so thoroughly English 
 in its conventional arrangements and contrast, there is a sense of hfe, and the 
 dramatis personae talk in consonance with their characters. 
 
 In handUng class, Galsworthy's aim is to show the futiUty of class in the scheme 
 of things. He paints both sides of the picture. In "The Silver Box", he adopts a 
 dramatic way of indicating that there is no one civil law for all people, but that 
 there are separate laws for each class, rich and poor. Essentially, Galsworthy is 
 democratic ; he has infinite sympathy for those struggling amidst the limitations 
 of class, and in consequence he has escaped into the free air with a clearer vision. It 
 is this democratic attitude toward hfe which made him, during 1917, refuse a 
 knighthood among the Birthday Honours of the King. 
 
 No one can understand Galsworthy who has not first read his poignant prose 
 sketches, contained in "The Motley." Subscribers to the London Nation had cause 
 to deUght in such bits of reaUty as "A Child", "Comfort", and "Fashion", com- 
 mentary notes afterwards worked, in larger strokes, into his novels, of which "A 
 Man of Property" — the epic of possession, "The Country House", — a picture 
 of the squire class, "Fraternity" — a record of culture and culture's class dis- 
 tinctions, and "The Patrician" — a satire on English aristocracy, are types. 
 
 The emotional quality which one detected in "The Dark Flower", and which 
 one felt to be harbouring a passionate note representing the unhealthy phase of Gals- 
 worthy's art, was tempered, in "The Freelands", by his social interest in the 
 claims of the new generation, and it was, to some extent, held in check, in his play, 
 "The Fugitive", by the tragedy of class education, which unfitted his heroine to 
 cope with life. But in his later novels, a strange element of emotionalism seems 
 to have developed more and more. 
 
 Since the outbreak of the War, Galsworthy has been working in the London 
 Intelhgence Office. He has visited the diflferent Fronts, and has commented on 
 the various social and spiritual phases of the conflict, showing his immense fairness, 
 and his ability to discover spiritual currents from the facts before him. There is 
 no doubt he is bringing to bear on the world's great upheaval that same sense of 
 
556 Representative British Dramas 
 
 the irony of^things wMoh lias previously dominated his work. For Galsworthy 
 has always been quickly observant and quickly responsive. 
 
 It is hard to beUeve that the man who wrote "Justice" could ever be accused 
 of over-sentimentaHsm, yet his reality has always been touched with kindness. 
 In his small detail, one would call him an impartial observer; but, judging the 
 whole effect, his vision is spiritually large. One never forgets his treatment. The 
 poor child, for instance, with its dull laugh, epitomizing "the laughter in a million 
 homes of the myriad unfed " ; the slavish father sitting "without the pain of looking 
 at a single thing" ; the comfortable people who are like pigeons in the thickness of 
 their down, but who, unlike them, "had no wings, — they never soared" ; the un- 
 seeing eyes of fashion passing by "all that is organic in the world ; aU that is living 
 and creating ; all that is striving to be free." 
 
 In other words, after reading the essays, novels, and plays of Galsworthy, one 
 reaUzes his fairness. He shows his social conscience in everything he writes. 
 His conclusions are often incomplete. Nothing could be more feminine in that 
 respect than "Joy" (1907) — a drama in which he did not quite succeed in depict- 
 ing the selfishness of a woman torn between the love of a man and the love of her 
 daughter by her first marriage. "Fraternity" ends almost abruptly — too pal- 
 pably a slice of Ufe. But the substance of his fervour is there. No writer has a 
 surer way of looking from his character's angle of vision, and of presenting his 
 character's case. This is well seen in "The Pigeon" (1912), which discusses the 
 problem of departmental charity. 
 
 "Fraternity" holds in germ nearly all of the characteristics found in Gals- 
 worthy's plays. There are parts of "Strife" in it, parts of "The Silver Box"; 
 there are hints of " Justice " and of " The Eldest Son ; " and, as far as the senti- 
 mental attitude toward the poor is concerned, as manifest in sentimental charity, 
 it foreshadows "The Pigeon." Situations repeat themselves in Galsworthy's plays 
 and novels. This is not so much due to a lack of imagination or originality, as to 
 an intensity of purpose resulting in the adoption of symbols to represent types and 
 conditions. It is Galsworthy's mannerism. 
 
 "The Pigeon" shows the author in a newer and softer Ught than one finds him 
 in "The Silver Box", "Strife", or "Justice. " It marks him as a little BarriSsque, 
 and we must remember that "Fraternity" was dedicated to the creator of "Peter 
 Pan. " In "The Pigeon" there is poignant truth, clear characterization, and social 
 warning. We find in it a diatribe against departmental evaluations. Here, also, 
 .lustioe goes its machine-made way, and sentiment is pitted against a theoretical 
 solution of poverty. 
 
 The poetical quality is uppermost in Galsworthy's nature. Refreshing beauty 
 springs up between stern reaUties. The lyricism in his novels is better than the 
 allegory in "The Little Dream", a dehcate fantasy of a longing soul which learns 
 of life's true measure and meaning. His poetry flashes red in the grey of life, as the 
 autumn leaf amidst dying things ; or else it comes out of an active soul, and finds 
 life in struggle. His style flows with vitaUty, as sap flows through the channels 
 of living things. There are inevitable expressions in his work ; he squeezes the 
 essence of existence out of the matter with which he deals. 
 
 He is essentially ahve on all topics, and he is in the current of social change. With 
 his deep-seated social sense, and with his sense of art so clearly defined, he was, 
 before the outbreak of the War, qne of the most deservedly prominent figures in 
 the "New Drama" of England. 
 
John Galsworthy 657 
 
 Yet, what Galsworthy does, though it may seem to be prompted entirely by 
 social fervour, nearly always starts from an interesting .character. Discussing 
 "Strife" at one time, he wrote: 
 
 My play . . . was regarded by many people as a deliberate plan to deal 
 with the problem of capital and labour. That was not the case. They were 
 two types of men that I had observed. Both were over strong-willed, and 
 when they met there was necessarily violence. . It happened tliat in the case 
 I observed, these types represented capital and labour. The play might just 
 as well have been political. 
 
 "The Silver Box" is selected for the present volume as representing technically 
 one of his best constructed pieces. "Justice" is not as firmly wrought. The sheer 
 sincerity and fairness of ' ' Justice ' ' are its dominant characteristics. In ' ' The Silver 
 Box" Galsworthy seems to have struck the very key-note of his s3Tnpathy with life. 
 And its irony is clearly defined in its definite class distinctions. 
 
Uj-t!,*!^ cU-.-.c^'^U^^ M^U^ cU^-iihfu^itki^ 
 
THE SILVER BOX 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 Bt JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 Copyright, 1909, 
 
 By JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 Reprinted by permJBsion of the Author, Mr. John Galsworthy, and the publishers, 
 
 Messrs. Charles Scribner'a Sons, New York. 
 
CASTS OF CHARACTERS 
 
 John Bahthwick, M.P., a 
 wealthy Liberal . . . . 
 Mbs. Barthwick, his wife 
 Jack Barthwick, their son . 
 Roper, their solicitor 
 Mrs. Jones, their charwoman 
 Marlow, their manservant . 
 Wheeler, their maidservant . 
 Jones, the stranger within their 
 
 Court Theatre, London, 
 September 25, 1906. 
 
 Empire Theatre, NewYork, 
 Season of 1907. 
 
 Mr. James Heam 
 Miss Frances Ivor 
 Mr. A. E. Matthews 
 Mr. A. Goodsall 
 Miss Irene Rooke 
 Mr. Frederick Lloyd 
 Miss Gertrude Henriques 
 
 Mr. Norman McKinnel 
 Mrs. Charles Maltby 
 
 Mrs. Seddon, a landlady . 
 
 Snow, a detective Mr. Trevor Lowe 
 
 JtrLiTTs HoLDBN, a Police 
 
 Magistrate Mr. Athol Forde 
 
 An Unknown Ladt, from be- 
 yond Miss Sydney Fairbrother 
 
 Two Little Girls, 
 
 Livens, their father . 
 Relieving Officer . 
 Magistrate's Clerk 
 
 Usher 
 
 Clerk op Court 
 Swearing Clerk 
 Constable .... 
 
 Mr. Edmund Gurney 
 Mr. Edmund Gwenn 
 Mr. Lewis Casson 
 Mr. Norman Page 
 
 Mr. Eugene Jepson 
 Miss Hattie Russell 
 Mr. Harrie Redding 
 Mr. WilHam Sampson 
 Miss Ethel Barrymore 
 Mr. WiUiam Evans 
 Miss Anita Rothe 
 
 Mr. Bruce McRae 
 Miss Fanny L. Burt 
 Mr. James Kearney 
 
 Mr. Forrest Robinson 
 
 Miss Mary Nash 
 ( Miss Dorothy Scherer 
 I Miss Helen Mooney 
 Mr. Soldene Powell 
 Mr. M. B. PoUock 
 
 Mr. Louis Eagan 
 Mr. John Adolfl 
 Mr. Harry Barker 
 
 Policemen, Clerks, and others 
 
 Time : The present. The action of the first two Acts takes place on Easter Tuesday; 
 the action of the third on Easter Wednesday week. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. Rockingham Gate. John Barthwick's Dining-room. 
 Scene II. The Same. 
 Scene III. The Same. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. The Jones's Lodgings, Merthyr Street. 
 Scene II. John Barthwick's Dining-room. 
 
 ACT III 
 A London Police Court. 
 
THE SILVER BOX 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene First. — The curtain rises on the 
 Bakthwicks' dining-^oom, large, 
 modern, and well furnished; the 
 window curtains drawn. Electric 
 light is burning. On the large round 
 dining-table is set out a tray with 
 whisky, a syphon, and a silver 
 Hgarette-box. It is past midnight. 
 
 [A fumbling is heard outside the door. 
 It is opened suddenly; Jack Barth- 
 wicK seems to fall into the room. 
 He stands holding by the door knob, 
 staring before him, with a beatific 
 smile. He is in evening dress and 
 opera hat, and carries in his hand a 
 sky-blue velvet lady's reticule. His 
 boyish face is freshly coloured and 
 clean-shaven. An overcoat is hang- 
 ing on his arm] 
 
 Jack. Hello ! I'jte— scdi_homfiall 
 ri — [Defiantly] Who says I si'd 
 never 've opened th' door without 'sist- 
 auce. [He staggers in, fumbling with 
 the reticule. A lady's handkerchief and 
 ■purse of crimson silk fall out] Serve her 
 ]oll' well right — everything droppin' 
 out. Th' eat. I'-ve -seoredr-hOT-ofl — 
 I've ^ot her bag. [He swings the reti- 
 cvlel Serves'lier joll' well right. [He 
 takes a cigarette out of the silver box and 
 puts it in his mouth] Never gave tha' 
 fellow anything ! [He hunts through all 
 his pockets and pulls a shilling out; it 
 drops and rolls away. He looks for it] 
 Beastly shilling! [He looks again] 
 Base ingratitude! Absolutely nothing. 
 [He laughs] Mus' tell him I've got 
 absolutely nothing. 
 
 [He lurches through the door and 
 down a corridor, and presently 
 returns, followed by Jones, who 
 is advanced in liquor. Jones, 
 about thirty years of age, has 
 hollow cheeks, black circles round 
 his eyes, and rusty clothes. He 
 
 looks as though he might be un- 
 employed, and enters in a hang- 
 dog manner] 
 Jack. Sh! sh! sh! Don't_you 
 mai]ia.,a-a oise, whatev ^^you do. Shu' 
 the door] an* Eavea drink. [Very 
 solemnly] You helpe^^me to open the 
 door — I've got nothin' for you. This 
 is my house. My father's name's 
 Barthwick; he's Member o f Parlia- 
 njPTiti — T jher al Member o f farha- 
 ment : I've told you that before. Have 
 a drink! [He pours out whisky and 
 drinks it up] I'm not drunk — 
 [Subsiding on a sofa] Tha's all right. 
 Wha's your name ? My name's Barth- 
 wick, so's my father's ; I'm a Liberal 
 too — wha're you? 
 
 Jones [in a thick, sardonic voice]. I'm 
 a bloomin'_,jCQB.ser3)oii»&r~ My name's 
 Jones! ^My wife works 'ere; she's the 
 char; she' works 'ere. —-^ 
 . Jack. Jones? [He laughs] There's 
 'nother Jones at College with me. I'm 
 not a Socialist myself ; I'm a Liberal — 
 there's ve-UH difference, because of 
 the principles of the Lib — Liberal 
 Party. We're all equal before the law 
 — tha's rot, tha's silly. [Laughs] Wha' 
 was I about to say? Give me some 
 T^hisky. 
 
 [Jones gives him the whisky he 
 desires, together with a squirt 
 of syphon] 
 Wha' I was goin' tell you was — I've 
 had- a row wi.tb-b£r. [He waves the reti- 
 cule] Have a drink, Jones — sh'd never 
 have got in without you — tha's why 
 tfti giving you a drink. Don' care who 
 knows I've scored her off. Th' cat! 
 [He throws his feet up on the sofa] Don' 
 you make a noise, whatever you do. 
 You pour out a drink — you make your- 
 self good long, long drink — you take 
 cigarette — you take anything you Uke. 
 Sh'd never have got, in -without-you. 
 [CTosing his eyes] You're a 'Tory — 
 you're a_ _Tory ^Socialist. I'm Liberal 
 
 561( 
 
562 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 myself — have a drink — I'm an ex- 
 cel'nt chap. 
 
 [His head drops back. He, smil- 
 ing, falls asleep, and Jones 
 stands looking at him; then, 
 snatching up Jack's glass, he 
 drinks it off. He picks the reti- 
 cule from off Jack's shirt-front, 
 holds it to the light, and smells 
 at it] 
 Jones. Been on the tiles and brought 
 'ome some of yer oat's fur. 
 
 [He stuffs it into Jack's breast 
 pocket] 
 Jack [murmuring]. I've scored you 
 off ! You cat ! 
 
 [Jones looks around him fur- 
 tively; he pours out whisky 
 and drinks it. From the silver 
 box he takes a cigarette, puffs at 
 it, and drinks more whisky. 
 There is no sobriety left in him] 
 Jones. Fat lot o' things they've got 
 'ere! [He sees the crimson purse lying 
 on the floor] More cat's fur. Puss, 
 puss ! [He fingers it, drops it on the 
 tray, and looks at Jack] Calf ! Fat 
 calf .! [He sees his own presentment in u, 
 mirror. Lifting his hands, with fingers 
 spread, he stares at it; then looks again at 
 Jack, clenching his fist as if to batter in 
 his sleeping, smiling face. Suddenly he 
 tilts the rest of the whisky into the glass 
 and drinks it. With cunning glee he 
 takes the silver box and purse and pockets 
 them] I'll score you off too, that's wot 
 I'll do ! 
 
 [He gives a little snarling laugh 
 and lurches to the door. His 
 shoulder rubs against the switch; 
 the light goes out. There is a 
 sound as of a closing outer door] 
 
 [The curtain falls] 
 
 [The curtain rises again at once] 
 
 Scene Second. — In the Barthwicks' 
 dining-room. Jack is still asleep; 
 the morning light is coming through 
 the curtains. The time is half-past 
 eight. Wheelek, brisk person, enters 
 with a dust-pan, and Mrs. Jones 
 more slowly with a scuttle. 
 
 Wheeler [drawing the^ curtains]. 
 That precious -taisband-of yours was 
 round for ypju^after yaiL'.d- gone-yester- 
 day, Mr§;j[ones^ Wanted your money 
 for drin^^^Tsuppose. He hangs about 
 
 the corner here half the time, 
 him outside the "Goat and 
 
 I saw 
 
 Bells" 
 
 when rwent to tiie pOaL last night. If 
 I were, you I wouldn^tjivewfl^ him. 
 I wouldn't live with aTman thatraised 
 his hand to me. I wouldn't put up 
 with it. Why don't you take your 
 children and leave him? If you put 
 up with 'im it'U only make him worse. 
 I never can see why, because a man's 
 married you, he shovdd knock you about. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. [Slim, dark-eyed, and 
 dark-haired; ovaUfaced, and with a 
 smooth^ soft^even_ voice;. . ^het maimer 
 patient,, her -way. of talking ^uite im- 
 personal; she wears a blue linen dress, 
 and boots with holes] It was nearly two 
 last night before Jb.0 .come-h»Baer-a.mL_he 
 wasn't himself. He made_jne_g©t up, 
 and~he knocked me about ; he didn't 
 seem to know what he was sasdng or 
 doing. Of course I would leave him, 
 but I'm reaUy afraid[jQ£_ssriiat he'd do 
 to me. He's such a violent, maa. when 
 ha's not himself. 
 
 Wheeler. Why don't you get him 
 locked up? You'll never have any 
 peace'unt'iryou get him locked up. If 
 I were you I'd go to the pohce court 
 to-morrow. That's what I would do. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Of course I ought to 
 go, because he does-treat me so badly 
 whgihe's not Hmself. But you see, 
 Beui£a7^~has'a very hard time — he's 
 
 been out of -wnrk t,wr» T^ nnthSj arid it 
 preys upon his^mindl When JieT~in 
 work he behaves~himself much better. 
 It's when he's out ofw^kJihat^he's so 
 viSlenfc ~ 
 
 Wheeler. Well, if you won't take 
 any steps you'll never get rid of him. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Of course it^- very 
 wearing to me ; I don't get my sleep at 
 nights. And it's not as if I were getting 
 help from him, because I have to do for 
 the children and a^^_Qf us. And he 
 throws such "dWSaiuTlhings up at me, 
 talks of my having men to follow me 
 about. Such a thing never happens ; 
 no man ever speaks to me. And of 
 course it's just the other way. It's 
 what he does that's wrong and makes me 
 so unhappy. And then he's always 
 threatenin' to cut my throat if I leave 
 him. It's rail- the_jldiik,— and things 
 preying on his m ind; he's not a bad 
 mgrjeaUy. Sometimes '"EeTI sp6ak 
 qmte kindr~to me, but I've stood so 
 much from him, I don't feel it in me to 
 speak kind back, but just keep myself 
 to myself. And he's aJl right with the 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 563 
 
 children too, except when he's not him- 
 self. 
 
 Whbelee. You mean when he's 
 drunk, the beauty. 
 
 Mbs. Jones. Yes. [Without change 
 of voice] There's the young gentleman 
 asleep on the sofa. 
 
 [They both look silently at Jack] 
 
 Mrs. Jones [at last, in her soft voice]. 
 
 He d0P°tl,'<" I n "^ r | ^iiit n-lww<ai4t 
 
 Wheeleb. He's a young limb, that's 
 what he is. Ilrs-^i£_belief_he_ssas_tjpsy 
 1^ nigkt, like your EusEand. It's 
 another kind of bein' out of work that 
 sets him to drink. I'LL go and teU Mar- 
 low. This is his job. [She goes] 
 [Mbs. Jones, upon her knees, 
 ■ begins a gentle sweeping] 
 Jack [waking]. Who's there? What 
 is it? 
 Mrs. Jones. It'? me, sir, Mrs. Jones. 
 Jack [sitting up and looking round]. 
 Where is it^^^wfertr=TP'hat~time is it ? 
 _Mks. Jones. It's getting on for 
 nine o'clock, sir. 
 
 Jack — F3C — nine! Why — ■ what! 
 [Rising, and loosening his tongue; put- 
 ting hand to his head, and staring hard 
 at Mrs. Jones] ' Look here, you, Mrs. 
 — Mrs^jJgngs. — dou'dr^you— say — you 
 caught jaS-asleep-here. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. No, sir, of course I 
 won't, sir. 
 
 Jack. It's quite^ an -aooidfin±4__ I 
 don't know h ow' it happen ed. I must 
 have forgotten to go to btsfl. It's a 
 queer thing. I've got a most beastly 
 headache. Mind you don't say any- 
 thing, Mrs. Jones. 
 
 [Goes out and passes Maelow in 
 the doorway. Marlow is young 
 and quiet; he is clean-shaven, 
 and his hair is brushed high 
 from his forehead in a coxcomb. 
 Incidentally a butler, he is first 
 a man. He looks at Mrs. 
 Jones, and smiles a private 
 smile] 
 
 won't be ttTe last. Looked a bit dicky, 
 eh, Mrs. Jones ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. He didn't look quite 
 himself. Of course I didn't take notice. 
 
 Maelow. You're used to them. 
 How's your old man? 
 
 Mrs. Jones [softly as throughout]. 
 WeU, IjB wa s very bad las t_iiight-; — he 
 didn't see'fflrto know what he was about. 
 He was very late, and he was most 
 abusive. But now, of course, he's 
 
 Maelow. That's his way of find- 
 ing a job, eh? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. As a rule, Mr. Mar- 
 low, he goes out early every morning 
 looking for_5EeAi__and_5QBietimes he 
 comes in it to3rop^ — and of course I 
 can't say he doesn't try to get it, be- 
 cause he does. Trade's very bad. 
 [She stands quite still, her pan and brush 
 before her, at the beginning and the end of 
 long vistas of experience, traversing them 
 with her impersonal eye] But he's not a 
 good husband t£ me — last night he hit 
 mB; and he was so dreaidfiiHy abusive. "^ 
 
 Marlow. Bank 'oliday, eh! He's 
 too fond of the " GtoaLand-BeJlBj'H^Ha't's 
 what's the matter with liim. I see 
 
 hangs about. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. He gets to feeling very 
 low walking about all day after work, 
 and being refused so often, and then 
 wheB-^h^egetsa drop in him it goes to 
 his head; Bui ho shuillJn't treat his 
 wife as he treats me. Sometimes I've 
 had to go and walk about at night, 
 when he wouldn't let me stay in the 
 room ; but he's sorry for it afterwards. 
 And he hangs about after me, he waits 
 for me in the street ; and I don't think 
 he ought to, because I've always been 
 a good wife to him. And I tell him 
 Mrs. Barthwick wouldn't like him com- 
 ing about the place. But that only 
 makes hinb. angry, and he says dreadful 
 things about the gentry. Of course it 
 was through me that he first lost his 
 place, through his not treating me right ; 
 and that's made him bitter against the 
 gentry. He hajd. a_ very .g^ad-pjace as 
 prnnmm f,j?B nniintry ; but it made Such 
 a g'SpToecause of course he didn't treat 
 me right. 
 
 Marlow. Got the sack? 
 
 _Mes. Jones. Yes; his employer 
 said he couldn't keep him, because 
 there_was a,_great.d«al-ofHialk; and he 
 said^t was such a bad example. But 
 it's very important for me to keep my 
 work here; I have the three children, 
 and I don't want him to come about 
 after me in the streets, and make a 
 disturbance as he sometimes does. 
 
 Mablow [holding up the empty de- 
 canter]. Not a draini Next tim e he 
 
 hits J l )^^ p;ai ~jt,~^*trm««- x r1 jr m ^-fiA-n^ tr.'^ 
 
 the court 
 
 Mrs. Jones. _Y°°j-T t^'T'k T'y a m^ dp , 
 up my mind." I thmk I ought to. 
 
 Marlow. That's right. Where's 
 the ciga ? 
 
564 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [He searches for the silver box ; he 
 looks at Mrs; Jones, who is 
 sweeping on her hands and 
 knees; he checks himself and 
 stands reflecting. From the 
 tray he picks two half-smoked 
 cigarettes, and reads the name 
 on them] 
 
 Nestor — where the deuce ? 
 
 [With a meditative air he looks 
 again at Mas. Jones, and, 
 taking up Jack's overcoat, 
 he searches in the pockets. 
 Wheeler, with a tray of break- 
 fast things, comes in] 
 Marlow. [Aside to Wheeler] Have 
 you se&H-4te_cigaEette-box ? 
 Wheeler. No. 
 
 Marlow. Well, it's gone. I put it 
 on the tray last night. And he's been 
 smoking. [Shomng her the ends of 
 cigarettes] It's -not— in — these— peekets. 
 He can't Jia.va t.a.lfBn it up stairs this 
 morning ! Have a good look in his 
 room when he comes, -d own. Whol s 
 
 beenJHriere? 
 
 Wheeler. Only me and Mrs. Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. I've finished here ; 
 shall I do the drawing-room now? 
 
 Wheeler [looking at her doubtfully]. 
 H ive you seen -^- Better do the boud- 
 wower first. 
 
 [Mrs. Jones goes out with pan 
 and brush. Marlow and 
 Wheeler look each other in 
 the face] 
 
 Marlow. It'll turn up. 
 
 Wheeler [hesitdiingTy]. You don't 
 think she ■ [Nodding at the door] 
 
 Marlow [stoutly]. I don't — I never 
 beheves anything-oLanybedy. 
 
 Wheeler. But the master'U have to 
 be told. 
 
 Marlow. You wait a bit, and see 
 if it don't turiTTip: — Suspicion's no 
 business of ours. Iset_my:_inind against 
 
 [The curtain falls] 
 
 [The curtain rises again at once] 
 
 Scene Third. — Barthwick and Mrs. 
 Barthwick are seated at the break- 
 fast table. He is a man between 
 fifty and sixty; quietly important, 
 with a bald forehead, and pince-nez, 
 and the "Times" in his hand. She 
 is a lady of nearly fifty, well dressed, 
 with greyish hair, good features, and 
 
 X 
 
 J^ a decided 
 other. 
 
 manner. They face each 
 
 Barthwick [from behind his paper]. 
 The Lab our man has got in at the by- 
 election foV Barnside, my^ar. 
 
 Mrs.^arthwick. Another Labour? 
 I can't think what on earth the country 
 is about. ~- — 
 
 Barthwick. J predicted it. It's 
 not a matter of vast importance. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Not? How can 
 you take it so calmly, John? To me 
 it's simply outrageous. And there you 
 sit, you Liberals, . and pretend to en- 
 courage these people ! 
 
 Barthwick [frowning]. The repre- 
 sentation of all parties is necessary for 
 any proper reform, for any proper social 
 policy. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I've no patience 
 with your talk of reform — all that 
 nonsense about social policy. We know 
 perfectly well what it is they want; 
 they want Jthingsjorthemselves. Those 
 Socialists andIjaBoilr"-Bi«n-_are_an ab- 
 solutely__selfishset of people. They 
 hgjj©— n«-«ens6--o£_pa;tli(I^sBir;4ike~th« 
 uj^CT—elasses ; they simply want what 
 we've got. 
 
 Barthwick. Want what we've got ! 
 [He stares into space] My dear, what 
 are you talking about? [With a con- 
 tortion] I'm no alarmist. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Cream? Quite 
 uneducated men! Wait imtil they 
 begin to tax our investments. I'm 
 convinced that when they once get a 
 chance they wiU tax everything — 
 they've no feeUng for the country. 
 You Liberals-ajid -Conservatives, you're 
 alLaUke-; you don.'t see an inch before 
 your noses. You've no imagination, 
 not a scrap of imagination between you. 
 You oua ^ht to loin hand s-aJMlnip it in 
 thg,bud'. 
 
 Barthwick. You're talking non- 
 sense! How is it possihla_jfor Liberals 
 and Conserva.tive.s -tn j nir f h ands, as 
 you oall'lt? That shows how absurd 
 it is for wonien — Why, the very 
 essence of a Liberg ] '° t" tT-nstJji-^ihR 
 people"! 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Now, John, eat 
 your breakfast. As if there were any 
 real difference between you and the 
 Conservatives. AH the upper classes 
 have the same interests to protect, and 
 the same principles. [Calmly] Oh! 
 you're sitting upon a volcano, John. 
 
 Barthwick. What ! 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 566 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I read a letter 
 in the paper yesterday. I forget the 
 man's name, but it made the whole 
 thing perfectly clear. Y du don't look 
 things-iH-th«4ace. 
 
 Barthwick. Indeed ! [Heavily] I 
 am a Liberal! Drop the subject, 
 please ! 
 
 Mrs. Babthwick. Toast? I quite 
 agree with what this man says : Educa- 
 tion is simply ruining the lower classes. 
 It unsettles them, and that's the worst 
 thing for us all. I see an enormous 
 difference in the manner of servants. 
 
 Barthwick [with suspicious empha- 
 sis]. I welcome any change that will 
 lead to something better. [He opens a 
 letter] H'm ! 'This is that affair of 
 Master~~tFa&k^s — again. "High Street, 
 Oxford. Sir. .We have receiv ed Mr. 
 John Bai'thwic^ Senior's, draft for 
 forty— pounds- ! " O h 1 — tha_Letter's to 
 him ! "We now e nclose the._ clieaue 
 
 you, cashed-with-us^wliish, as we stated 
 in oijj previous lettp ^-i T^g« "<><•. njpt, on 
 p resentation at^ your banE We are, 
 Sir, yoiu:s obediently, M^ss and Sous, 
 Tailors." H'mi — [iStaPmg at the cheque] 
 A pretty business altogether ! The boy 
 might have been prosecuted. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Come, John, you 
 know Jack didn'tmgaJi>-aF n y4hi n g 4 - he 
 only Qronghfehfflwas overdrawing. I 
 stUl think his bank ouglrttD have cashed 
 that cheque. They must know your 
 position. 
 
 Barthwick [replacing in the envelope 
 the letter and, the cheque]. Much good 
 that would have done him in a court 
 of law. 
 
 [He stops as Jack comes in, 
 fastening his waistcoat and 
 staunching a razor cut upon 
 his chin] 
 
 Jack [sitting down between them, and 
 speaking with an artificial joviality]. 
 SniT-y T'tti ]s>±k. [He looks lugubriously 
 at the disheS]-- T ea. plB asa, mntli er. 
 Any letters for me ? [Barthwick hands 
 iheAe tle i lu /re ro] — But look here, I say, 
 this has be en ope ned ! Idgjsish you 
 •ygg uldn't — — 
 
 Barthwick [touching the envelope]. I 
 supgose_I^m.fiiititled-te-this name. 
 
 TA.CK'~[sulkily]. Well, I can't help 
 having your name, father ! [He reads 
 the letter, and mutters] Brutes ! 
 
 Barthwick [eying him]. You don't 
 deserve to be so weU out of that. 
 
 Jack. HairBirt you 
 enough, dadT 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Yes, John, let 
 Jack have his breakfast. 
 
 Barthwick. If you hadn't had me 
 to , come to, where_ jyould . you have 
 been? H'sjEEeinerfist accident — sup- 
 pose you had.j3fieiL_the.soJi-of. a poor 
 man or a'clirk? Obtaining money with 
 a cheque you knew your bank could 
 not meet. It might have ruined you 
 for life. I can't see what's to become 
 of you if thesea^g your principles. 1 
 never "HTd anylEng of the sprt myself. 
 
 Jack. I expect you always had lots 
 of money. If you've got plenty of 
 moaey, of-eourse 
 
 Barthwick. On the contoax2iJ4p.ad 
 HQt your advantages. TStyrfeEneZiept 
 me yery short-of money. 
 
 Jack. How much had you, dad ? 
 
 Barthwick. It's not material. The 
 question is, do you feel the gravity of 
 
 what you did? 
 
 \ Jack. I don't know about the 
 gravity. Of ■ eoursg^rrm very sorry if 
 yo u think it was — wrong. Haven't I 
 saia so ! 1 should never have done it 
 at all if I hadn't been so jolly hard up. 
 
 Barthwick. How much of that 
 forty pounds have you got left. Jack ? 
 
 Jack [hesitating]. I don't know — 
 not much. 
 TBarthwick. How much? 
 
 Jack [desperately]. I haven.ltjiot^ny. 
 
 Barthwick. What ? 
 
 Jack. I know I've got the most 
 beastixJieadaahe. 
 
 [He leans his head on his hand] 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Headache? My 
 dear boy ! Can't you eat any break- 
 fast? 
 
 Jack [dravfing in his breath]. Too 
 jolly bad ! 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I'm so sorry. 
 
 Come. with m e. dear ; I'll give- you 
 
 something~that TviU take it away at 
 once. 
 
 [They leave the room ; ored Barth- 
 wick, tearing_v/p the letter, goes 
 to the fireplace and puts the 
 pieces in the fire. While he is 
 doing this Marlow comes in, 
 and looking round him, is 
 about quietly to withdraw] 
 
 Barthwick. What's that? What 
 d' you want? 
 
 Marlow. I was looking for Mr. 
 John, sir. 
 
 "Barthwick. What d' you want Mr. 
 John for ? 
 
 Marlow [with hesitation]. I thought 
 I should find him here, sir. 
 
566 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Barthwick [suspiciously]. Yes, but 
 what do you want hiiaJor ? 
 - Marlow — iVffKandedly]. There's a 
 lady called — asked to speak to him 
 
 for a minute, sir. ' -• 
 
 Barthwick. A lady, at this time 
 in the morning — What-sorLai-a4aidy? 
 
 Marlow [without expression in his 
 voice]. L can't tell,.sir ;__no_particular 
 sort^ She might be after charity. 
 SheTHightbe a Sister of Mercy, I shouy 
 think, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Is she dressed like one ? 
 Marlow. No, sir, she's in plain 
 clothes, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Didn't she say what 
 she wanted? 
 
 Marlow. No, sir. 
 Barthwick. Where did you leave 
 her? 
 
 Marlow. In theiaU, sir. 
 Barthwick. In the hall? How do 
 you know she's not a thief--^^=TKit_got 
 designs on the honsef 
 
 Marlow. No, sir, I don't fancy so, 
 sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Well, show her iiLh^re ; 
 I'll see hsp^niyself. 
 
 [Marlow goes out with a private 
 gesture of dismay. He soon 
 returns, ushering in a young 
 pale lady with dark eyes and 
 pretty figure, in a modish, black, 
 but rather shabby dress, a black 
 and white trimmed hat with a 
 bunch of Parma violets wrongly 
 placed, and fuzzy-spotted veil. 
 At the sight of Mr. Barth- 
 wick she exhibits every sign of 
 nervousness. Marlow goes out] 
 Unknown Lady. Oh!~taut= — I beg 
 pardon — there's . some — ^mistake — 
 
 I [She turns to fly] 
 
 Barthwick. Whom did you want 
 to see, madam ? 
 
 Unknown [stopping and looking back]. 
 It was Mr. John Barthw ick T -wantMci 
 to see. 
 
 Barthwick. I am John Barthwick, 
 madam. What can I have the pleasure 
 of doing for you ? 
 
 Unknown. Oh ! I — I don't 
 
 [She drops her eyes. Barthwick 
 scrutinizes her, and purses his 
 
 Barthwick. It was my son, per-. 
 haps, you_wished.Jo see? 
 
 Unknown [quictctyf:^ Yes, of course, 
 it',5_yQjin-S^. 
 
 Barthwick. May I ask whom I 
 have the pleasure of speaking to? 
 
 He took away my — 
 
 Unknown [appeal and hardiness upon 
 her face]. My name is — oh ! it doesn't 
 matter — I don't want to make any 
 fuss." I jiist want to see your son for a 
 minute. [Boldly] In fact, I must see 
 him. 
 
 Barthwick [controlling his uneasi- 
 ness]. My son is not very well. If 
 necessary, no doubt I could attend to 
 the 'matter; be sokahd as~to~let me 
 know 
 
 Unknown.__D1u1- — b«t — I — must see 
 him — I've come on'Trorpose — [She 
 bursts out nervously] I don't want to 
 make an3L.lu ss. but th e fact is^jast — 
 last night your son took a way — h e 
 took away my ' [a He stopt] 
 
 Barthwick [severely]. Yes, madam, 
 what? 
 
 Unknown. 
 my_reticulg. 
 
 Barthwick. Your reti ? 
 
 Unknown. I don't care about the 
 reticule ; it's not that I want -r- I'm 
 sure I don't want to make an^-fuss — 
 [her face is quivering] — but — but — all 
 my money_jiKas-in jii 
 
 Barthwick. In what — in what? 
 
 Unknown. In my purse,- in the 
 reticule. It was a p,rimgan_gj.l> purse. 
 Really, J. wouldn't have come — I don't 
 want to make any fuss. But I must 
 ggt my mfliifiy_hack.=jnustnit I ? 
 
 Barthwick. Do you tell me that 
 my son ? 
 
 Unknown. Oh ! well, you see, he 
 
 wasn.'t quite — I mean he was 
 
 [She smiles mesmerically] 
 
 Barthwick. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Unknown [stamping her foot]. Oh! 
 
 don!t ypu see tipsy! ^W»--had a 
 
 quarrel. 
 
 Barthwick [scandalised]. How? 
 Where?" 
 
 Unknown [defiantly]. At my-place. 
 We'd had supper at the — ■ .andlyQur 
 son 
 
 Barthwick [pressing the bell]. May I 
 ask how you knew this house? Did 
 he give you his name and address ? 
 
 Unknown [glancing sidelong]. I got 
 it out of his overcoat. 
 
 Barthwick [sardonically]. Oh ! you 
 got it out of his overcoat. And may I 
 ask if my son will know you by day- 
 hght? 
 
 Unknown. Know me? T sj ^milH 
 jo^yjz::-! mean, of p,nu£se he will ! 
 
 Barthwick. 
 down. 
 
 [Marlow comes in] 
 Ask Mr. - John-to-coiae 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 567 
 
 [Maelow goes out, and Baeth- 
 wicK walks uneasily about] 
 And how long have you enjoyed his 
 aequaintanoeship ? 
 
 Unknown. Only since — only since 
 'GooxLEEiday. 
 
 Baeth^ok. I am at a loss — I re- 
 peat I am at a loss 
 
 [He glances at this unknown lady, 
 who stands with eyes cast down, 
 twisting her hands. And sud- 
 denly Jack appears. He stops 
 on seeing who is here, and the 
 unknown lady hysterically gig- 
 gles. There is a silence] 
 Baethwick [portentously]. This 
 young ^=-er==4ad^says~tha£ias.t-iiight 
 
 — I thjhk you said last night, madam, 
 
 — you took away 
 
 Unknown [impulsively]. _ My ~-i:eli- 
 cule, and aUmy money was in a crimson 
 sillc purse. " ~ — 
 
 Jack. Reticule. [Looking round for 
 any chance to get away] I ,dpn't know 
 anything about it. 
 
 Baethwick [sharply]. Come, da.you 
 deny_seeing this youngladylasi night ? 
 
 Jack. Deny ? "NoTof conrseT'tT^Ws- 
 pering] Why did you give me away like 
 this ? What on earth didyou ooihe here 
 foj.? ■ =!_——____ 
 
 Unknown [tearfully]. I'm sure I 
 didn't wantta.:=-it^aat_iikely, is it? 
 You snsteHeJjt out-of-myiand — you 
 know yoii did — and the purse had all 
 my money in it. I didn't follow you 
 last night because I didn't want to make 
 a fus^lld-ifr^ra,■s"■SD^ate713Itd-y0^^ were 
 so 
 
 Baethwick. Come, sir, don't turn 
 youK-baok' on me — explain ! 
 Qaok [desperately]. I don't remem- 
 ber anything" about it. [In a low voice 
 to his friend] Why on earth couldn't 
 yoiiiiaYgjwritfei ? 
 
 Unknown [sullenly]. I want it now ; 
 I must haAreJt===JiEa_gstJQ-..Ea#-iQy 
 tBs t-ixr=dSCyr \She looks at Baethwick] 
 "They're only too glad to jump on people 
 whc ^are no t — not well off. 
 
 Jack^ i don't rernember anything 
 about it, really. „I^ d-0Jllt remember -amry- 
 thiag-;aSbut last "night at aU. [He puts 
 his hand -up to his head] It's all — 
 cloudy, and IVe got such a beastly 
 headaiehe:— " 
 
 Unknown. But you took it; you 
 know you did. You said you,' d_ score 
 me off. 
 
 Jack. Well, then, it must be here. 
 I remember now — I rememtrer some- 
 
 Why_jdid,- 1 take the beastly 
 Yes, why did you take 
 
 thing, 
 thing? 
 Baethwick. 
 
 theieastly 
 
 [He turns abruptly to the window] 
 Unknown [with her mesmeric smile]. 
 You, weren't quite — were .you ? 
 
 Jack [smiling pallidly]. I'm awfully 
 
 sorry. If there's any thing J can do 
 
 BABTHwicKr Do? You Can restore 
 this property, I suppose. 
 
 Jack. I'll go and have a look, but 
 I really don't think I've got it. 
 
 [He goes out hurriedly. And 
 Baethwick, placing a chair, 
 motions to the visitor to sit; 
 then, with pursed lips, he' 
 stands and eyes her fixedly. 
 She sits, 'and steals a look at- 
 him; then turns away, and, 
 drawing up her veil, stealthily 
 wipes her eyes. And Jack 
 comes back] 
 Jack [ruefully holding out the empty 
 reticule]. Is — that— tli£_thjng ? I've 
 looked all. over.;::rI,o^OadJilie4ajrse 
 anywhere. Are you sure_it_was there? 
 Unknown " [tearfully]. Sure ? Of 
 course I'm sure. A crimson silk purse. 
 It wasall -tha money I had_ " • 
 
 - Jack. \1 reaUy .am awfully sorry — 
 my head's so jolly bad. I've asked the 
 butler,^bilt^g_iasnll_se,en it. 
 
 Unknown. I must have my 
 .moneys"- — 
 
 Jack. Oh ! Of course — that'll be 
 all right; I'U. see-that--tbat^'ainigKt. 
 How^muioh? 
 
 Unknown [sullenly]. Seven -pou'Bds 
 — ^ tw;el.va;:^;^s_aILrye got _U]__iiie/ 
 world. 
 
 — htk. That'll be aU right; I'U — 
 send you a — cheque. 
 
 Unknown [eagerly]. No ; now, 
 pleasgi^Q-ive m e what was i n my purse ; 
 Fv^^pfTtJTjarjrBiy rent this morning. 
 They won't giye me another dajL;.J^ 
 & fortnight behind already. 
 
 Jack [blankly]. I'm awfully sorry; 
 I really haven't a penny in my pocket. 
 [He glances stealthily at Baeth- 
 wick] 
 Unknown \excitedly]. Come, I say 
 you must^^it's -my moneys and you 
 took it. I'm not going away without 
 it. They'll, turn me out at. my .place. ~ 
 Jack ^ta^pinglns head]. But I can't 
 give you what I haven't got. Don't I 
 tell ydu'l haven't a beastly cent? 
 
 Unknown [tearing at her handker- 
 chief]. Oh! _d.o^ve it me! [She puts 
 
568 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 her hands together in appeal; then, xvith 
 sudden fierceness] If you don't I'll 
 summons you. It's ste aling, j hat's 
 what "it is ! ' "■"---- " 
 
 Sa.hthwic'k [uneasily]. One moment, 
 please. As a matter of — er — prin- 
 ciple, I shalLset He this claim. \H e pro- 
 duces money] — Mere __is__eigM ^pounds ; 
 the extra wiU cover the value of "the 
 purse and your T^ah lares. - 1 need 
 mate no comment — no thanks are 
 necessary. 
 
 [Touching the bell, he holds the door 
 ajar in silence. The unknown 
 lady stores the money in her reti- 
 cule, she looks from Jack to 
 Barthwick, and her face is 
 quivering faintly with a smile. 
 She hides it with her hand, and 
 steals away. Behind her Barth- 
 wick shuts the door] 
 Barthwick [vnth solemnity]. H'm! 
 This is ?, nice tkiTig~tD-ha^pen ! 
 
 Jack [impersonally]. What awful 
 luck ! 
 
 Barthwick. So this is the way that 
 forty^QUndsJiaS-goneJ— One-thia&after 
 another! Once more I should UEe to 
 know where you'dhaye been ifit hadn't 
 • been for me ! You don't seemTo~have 
 any principles. You — you're one of 
 those who are a nuisance to society ; 
 you — ■ you're dangerous ! What your 
 mother would say I don't know. Your 
 conduct, as far as I can see, is absolutely 
 
 uniustiflabla^ It's — it's criaiinal. 
 
 Why, a poor man who behaved as 
 you've done . . . d'you think he'd 
 have any mercy shown him? What 
 you want is a good lesson. You and 
 your sort are — [he speaks with feeling] 
 — a nuisance to the community. Don't 
 ask me to help you next time. You're 
 
 not fltttrbe-helpedT 
 
 , Jack [turning upon his sire, vnth un- 
 expected fierceness]. AU right, I won't 
 then, and see how yau_Jake it. __You 
 wouldn't have helped me this tinie, I 
 know, if you hadn't been scared the 
 thing would get into the pape^l WEere 
 are the cigarettes? 
 
 Barthwick [regarding him uneasily]. 
 Well — I'll say nfljnora^bout it. [He 
 rings the bell] ' I'll pass it over for this 
 once, but — [Marlow comes in] You 
 can clear away. 
 
 [He hides his face behind the 
 "Times"] 
 Jack [brightening]. I say, Marlow, 
 where arejihe-eigarattes? 
 
 Marlow. I put the box out with 
 
 the whisky last night, sir, but this morn- 
 ing"I~can^t- find it-anywherer- 
 
 Jack. Didyo]i.lopk- in my roomJ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes7sir; I've looked all 
 
 over the _house. I-.found -twc^estor 
 
 ends in the tray this morning, so you 
 must have been jinnkin' la.st night, sir. 
 [HesitatingY Tm really afraid some 
 one's purloined the box. 
 
 Jack [uneasily]. Stolen it ! 
 
 Barthwick. What's that? The__ 
 cigaEeltfchaxL! Ig_aiiytMng else, miss- 
 
 ing.-' 
 
 No, sir ; I've been through 
 
 Was the house alLrigJit 
 None of the windows 
 
 Marlow. 
 the plate. 
 Barthwick. 
 
 this_^oEningX 
 open? 
 
 Marlow. No, sir. [Quietly to Jack] 
 You left your latch-key in the door last 
 night, -sir. 
 
 [He hands it back, unseen by 
 Barthwick] 
 
 Jack. Tst ! 
 
 Barthwick. Who's been in the 
 room this morning? 
 
 Marlow. Me and Wheeler, and 
 Mrs. Jones is_allj,_^g r, as far as I know. 
 
 Barthwick. Have you asked"Mrs. 
 Barthwick? [To Jack] Go and ask 
 your mother if she's had it ; ask her to 
 look and see if she's missed anything 
 else." [Jack goes upon this" mission] 
 Nothing is more disquieting than losing 
 things like this. 
 
 Marlow. No, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Have you any sus- 
 picions ? 
 
 Marlow. No, sir. 
 
 . Barthwick. 'TJiis — Mrs. Jones — 
 
 howJxmg has she b een w orking here?_ 
 
 Marlow] Only this^ last -me»th~, -sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Whafiort of person? 
 
 Marlow. I don't know much about 
 her,^ir^ -seems a-very-quiet, respeotable 
 woman. 
 
 Barthwick. Who did the room this 
 morning ? 
 
 Marlow. Wheeler and Mrs. Jones, 
 sir. 
 
 Barthwick [with his forefinger up- 
 raised]. Now, was this Mrs. Jones m 
 the room alone at any time ? 
 
 Marlow- [^xprtSstonless^ Yes, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. How do you know 
 that? 
 
 Marlow [reluctantly]. 1 found her 
 hare,- sir. 
 
 Barthwick. And has Wheeler been 
 in the room alone? 
 
 Marlow. No, sir, she's not, sir. 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 569 
 
 I shoilh3~S3y,-sirv- tlia,tJVlxs,-J©nes-seeBjs 
 a very honest 
 
 Barthwick [holding up his hand]. 
 I want to know this : Has this Mrs. 
 Jones been here the whole morning ? 
 
 Mablow. Yes, sir — no, sir — she 
 stepped over to the greengrocer's for 
 cook. 
 
 Babthwick. H'm ! Is she in the 
 house now ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Very good, .r I shall 
 mE|iajuiiQint--o£-cleajiag_lljigjlp. On 
 principle I shall make, a point of fixing 
 the responsibility ; it goes to the fotmda- - 
 tions of security. In all your in- 
 terests 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Babthwick. What—Sflrt of circum- 
 stances is this Mrs. Jones in? Is her 
 husb and in wg rb? 
 
 Marlow. 1 believe not, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Very well. Say noth- 
 ing about it to any one. Tel l Whe eto 
 npt to speak of it, and ask Mrs. Jones 
 to step up TiBre. 
 
 Marlow. Very good, sir. 
 
 [Marlow goes out, his face con- 
 cerned; and Barthwick stays, 
 his face judicial and a little 
 pleased, as befits a man con- 
 ducting an inquiry. Mrs. 
 Barthwick and her son come 
 in] 
 
 Barthwick. Well, my dear, you've 
 not-seeiritT-I-supporsef — 
 
 Mas. Barthwick. No. But what 
 an extraordinary thing, John ! Marlow, 
 of eourse,. is outtif'ffie question. I'm 
 certain none of the maids — ■ as for 
 cook ! 
 
 Barthwick. Oh,, eook ! 
 
 Mrs. Babthwick. Of course! It's 
 perfegliy^ detestable^ to _me^_to_ suspect 
 anyboHyT 
 
 Barthwick. It is not a question of 
 one's feelings. It's a questiorLjofjjs^- 
 
 tim. Qn p rincipl a 
 
 /MKs"Babthwick. I shouldn't be a 
 bit surprised if the c harwoman knew 
 something about it. lit was Liaura who 
 recommended her. 
 
 Babthwick [judicially]. I am ^oing 
 to have Mrs. -Jones up. Leave it to 
 me7""'^d — er — remember that no- 
 body is guilty uritil they're proved so. 
 I shalHsB' careful. I have no intention 
 of frighteniag— hfit-; — I shall give her 
 every"chanoe. I hear she's in poor cir- 
 cumstances. If we are not able to do 
 much for them we are bound to have 
 
 the greatest sympathy with the poor. 
 [Mrs. Jones comes in] [Pleasantly] Oh ! 
 good morning, Mrs. Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Jones [soft, and even, unem- 
 phaiic]. Good morning, sir ! Good 
 morning, ma'am ! 
 
 Barthwick. About your husband — 
 he's not in work,_Lhear? 
 
 Mes. Jones. No, sir ; of course he's 
 not in work just now. 
 
 Babthwick. Then I suppose he's 
 eamng nothing. 
 
 Mbs. Jones. No, sirj. he's not earn- 
 inguaoxylhingjusi now, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. And how many children 
 have you? 
 
 Mbs. Jones. Three children^^butof 
 course they don't eat very much.^irT' 
 " ' [A'liUle silence} 
 
 Babthwick. And how old is the 
 eldest? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Nine year s old, sir. 
 
 Babthwick. DoTHey^oTio-scliaol ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, .sic^they ?i,ll three 
 go to school every day. 
 
 Babthwick [seiierely]. And what 
 about their food when you're outsat 
 woskii:.. 
 
 Mbs. Jonbs. Well, sir, I have to 
 give t.hem_Jheir dinner to take-wilh 
 them.. Of coiifse I'm not always able 
 to give them anything; sometimes I 
 have ib send thern , without ; — but-m.y 
 husband is very Igood. about— the chil- 
 dren when he's in work. But when he's 
 not in work of course he's a very diffloult 
 man. ~ 
 
 Babthwick. He drinks, I. suppose? 
 
 Mbs. Jones. Yes, sir. - Of course I 
 can't say he doesn't drink, because he 
 does. 
 
 Babthwick. And I suppose he takes 
 all your money ? 
 
 Mbs. Jones. No, sir, he's very good 
 about my money, except when he's not 
 himself, and then, of course, he treats 
 me very badly. —-'"-"" -^ 
 
 Babthwjck. Now what is he — 
 your husband ? 
 
 Mbs. Jones. By profession, sir, of 
 course he's a groom. 
 
 Babthwick. A groom ! How came 
 he-to-los© his plaee.?_ 
 
 Mrs. Jones. He lost his place a 
 long time ago, sir, and he's never had a 
 very long job since ; and now, otxsoursfe, 
 the motor-cars flire-against" him. 
 
 Babthwick. When were you mar- 
 ried to him, Mrs. Jones ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Bight years ago, sir — 
 that was in 
 
570 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mes. Bahthwick [sharply]. Bight? 
 You said the eldest child was nine. 
 
 Mrs.- Jones.' — ¥eS7ma'am ; of course 
 that was why he lost his place. He 
 didn't treat me rightly, and of course 
 his employer said he couldn't keep him 
 because of the example. 
 
 Bahthwick. You mean he — 
 ahem 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir ; and of course 
 after he lost his place he married me. 
 
 Mrs. Bahthwick. You actually 
 mean to say you — you were 
 
 Bahthwick. My dear 
 
 Mrs. Bahthwick [indignantly]. How 
 disgraceful ! 
 
 Babthwick [hurriedly]. And where 
 are you Uving-^owv Mrs. Jones ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. We've not got-a home, 
 sir. Of course we've been obliged to put 
 away most of our things. 
 
 Barthwick. Put your things away ! 
 You mean to — to — •^r--Jo£awnthem ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. "Yes, SfTlo puETEem 
 away. We're living in Merth yr Stre et 
 — that is_olose by here,~str=?=^t JNo. ii4. 
 We just have the one room. 
 
 Barthwick. And what do you pay 
 a week ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. We pay six shilHngs a 
 w^ek7-8»r-for_a_fiJuraished room. 
 
 Barthwick] And i suppose you're 
 behind in the rent? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir, we're a Httle 
 behind in the rent. 
 
 Bahthwick. But you're in good 
 work, aren't you ? 
 
 Mrs. Jqnes. Well, sir,- 1 have a day 
 in Stamford Place .Thursdays. And 
 Monilays and Wednesdays and Fridays 
 I cqme_here. But to-day, of course, is 
 a haU-dayTbecause of yesterday's Bank 
 Holiday. 
 
 Barthwick. I see ; four days a 
 week, and you get half a crown a day, 
 is that if? 
 
 Mes. Jones. Yes, sir, and my din- 
 ner ; but sometimes it's only half a day, 
 and that's eighteenpence. 
 
 Barthwick. And when your hus- 
 band earns anything he spends it in 
 drink, I suppose? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Sometimes he does, 
 sir, and sometimes he gives it to mejor 
 the children. Of course he would wo rk 
 if he could get it, sirrbrtlrtt'seems there 
 are a great many people out of work. 
 
 Bahthwick. Ah ! Yes. We — er — 
 won't go into that. [Sympathetically] 
 And how about your work here? Do 
 you find it hard ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Oh! no, sir, not very 
 hard, sir^^xoept of course, when I don t 
 get my sleep at night. 
 
 Barthwick. Ah ! And joji help do 
 all the rooms? And sometimes, I sup- 
 pose, you go. out Jor. cook? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. And you've been out 
 this morning? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir, of course I 
 had to go to the greengrocer's. 
 
 Bahthwickt — ESacUy. So your hus- 
 band earns nothing? And he's a bad 
 character. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. No, sir, I don't say 
 that, sir. I think there^ a great^deal 
 of good in him ; though he does treat me 
 very bad sometimes. And of course I 
 don't like to leave him, but I think I 
 ought to, because really I hardly know 
 how to stay with him. He often raises 
 his hand to me. Not long ago he gave 
 me a blow here [touches her breast] and 
 I can feel it now. So I think I ought 
 to leave him, don't you, sir? 
 
 Barthwick. Ah ! I can't help you 
 there. It's a very serious thing to leave 
 your husband. Very serious thing. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir, of course I'm 
 afraid of what he might do to me if I 
 were to leave him; he can be so very 
 violent. 
 
 Bahthwick. H'm ! WeU, that I 
 can't pretend to say anything about. 
 It's the bad principle I'm speaking 
 of 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir; I know no- 
 body can help me. I know I must de- 
 cide for iSyself,-*nd- of -coiirsel know 
 that he ias a very harilife! AJid he's 
 fond of the oMldren, and it's very hard 
 for him to see them going without food. 
 
 Barthwick [hastily]. WeU — er — 
 thank you, I just wanted to hear about 
 you. I don't think I need detain you 
 any longer, Mrs. — Jones. 
 
 MhS. Jones. No, ^ir, thank you, sir. 
 
 Barthwick. Good morning, then. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Good morning, sir; 
 good morning, ma'am. 
 
 Barthwick [exchanging glances with 
 his wife]. By the way, Mrsj-Jojies — 
 I think it is only f air to tell you, a silver 
 cigaref te-box — er — is irngSingT 
 
 Mrs. Jones [looking from one face to 
 the other]. I am very sorry, sir. 
 
 Babthwick. Yes ; you have not 
 seenJtj J suppose ? 
 
 Mes. Jones [realising that suspicion is 
 upon her; with an uneasy movement] 
 Where was it, sir; if you please, sir? 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 571 
 
 Bakthwiok [evasively]. Where did 
 Majlow say ? Er — in t his room, yes, 
 irnHTroom. " — - 
 
 Mbs. Jones. No, sir, I haven't seen 
 it — of course if I'dseenitXahould have 
 n ntioed-it: ^ — ' 
 
 Barthwick [giving her a rapid glance]. 
 "Sou — you are sure of that? 
 
 Mrs. Jones, [impassively]. Yes, sir. 
 [With a slow nodding of her head] I have 
 not seen^it, and of course I don't know 
 whsfelt is. 
 
 [She turns and goes quietly out] 
 
 Barthwick. H'm ! 
 
 [The three Babthwicks avoid 
 each other's glances] 
 
 [The curtain falls] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene First. — The Jones's lodgings, 
 Merthyr Street, at half-past two 
 o'clock. 
 
 [The hare room, with tattered oilcloth and 
 
 damp, distempered walls, has an air 
 
 of tidy wretchedness. On the bed lies 
 
 Jones, half-dressed; his coat is 
 
 thrown across his feet, and muddy 
 
 !^boots are lying on the floor close by. 
 
 • He is asleep. The door is opened 
 
 and Mrs. Jones comes in, dressed 
 
 in a pinched black jacket and old 
 
 black sailor hat; she carries a parcel 
 
 .. 'Wrapped up in the "Times." She 
 
 ji;; puts her parcel down, unwraps an 
 
 ;, apron, half a loaf, two onions, three 
 
 .p'^'f'potoioes, and a tiny piece of bacon. 
 
 Taking a teapot ftom the cupboard, 
 
 she rinses it, shakes into it some 
 
 powdered tea out of a screw of paper, 
 
 puts 'it on the hearth, and sitting in 
 
 a wooden chair quietly begins to cry] 
 
 Jones [stirring and yawning]. That 
 yoi L? What's the time? 
 
 Mrs. JojfiES~\3fying her eyes, and in 
 her usual voice]. H alf-pagtJaro. 
 
 Jones. -W'haTyoirlBScEso soon for? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. I only had Jhe half 
 day jiifcday, Jem. 
 
 Jones [on his back, and in a drowsy 
 voice]. Got anything for dinner ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Mrs. BajtJti3EicKg.cook 
 gave maflJitllej2itjoW)acon. I'm going 
 to make a stew. [She prepares for cook- 
 ing] There's fourteen shillings owing 
 forrent, James, and of course I've only 
 
 got two and fourpenee. ^-TheyH be 
 eomiag-facjlLio='3»*Hr 
 
 Jones [turning towards her on his 
 elbow]. Let , 'em come awi^Shd my 
 suMaisfi_Backet-. I've had enough o' 
 this tryin' for work. Why should I go 
 round and round after a job like a 
 bloomin' squirrel in a cage. "Give us 
 a ^obj^ sir" — "T ake a man on" — 
 ""Got a wife ana three children." Sick 
 
 of it I am ! T'cLsnojier Ijfl hpra nnfl rot. 
 
 "Jones, you come and join the demon- 
 stration ; come and 'old a flag, and 
 listen to the ruddy orators, and go 'ome 
 as empty as you came." There's some 
 that seems to hke that — the sheep ! 
 When I go seekin' for a job now, and 
 see the brutes lookin' me up an' down, 
 it's hke a thousand serpents in me. 
 I'm not arskin' for any treat. A man 
 wants to sweat hisself silly and not 
 allowed — that's a rum start, ain't it? 
 A man wants to sweat his soul out to 
 keep the breath in him and ain't allowed 
 — that's justice — that's freedom and 
 all the rest of it! [He turns his face 
 towards the wall] You're so miller 
 mild ; you don't know what goes on 
 inside o' me. I'm done with the silly 
 game. If they want me;,. .let 'em come 
 for me ! [Mrs. Jones siops cooking and 
 stands unmoving at the table] I've tried 
 and done with it, I tell you. I've 
 never been afraid of what's before me. 
 You mark my words — if you think 
 they've broke my spirit, you're mis- 
 took. I'U he and rot sooner than arsk 
 'em again. What makes you stand 
 hke that — you long-sufferin'. Gawd- 
 forsaken image — that's why I can't 
 keep my hands off you. So now you 
 know. Work! You can work but 
 you haven't the spirit of a louse ! 
 
 Mrs. Jones [quietly]. You talk more 
 wild so inetime s when you're yourself, 
 Jafiei, than w-hen yoli're notr'H you 
 don't get work, hg^aLre jg~ to .ggL-SP ? 
 They won't let usstay'here; they're 
 looking to their money to-day, Ikgow. 
 
 Jones. I see this Barthwiek o' 
 yours every day goin' down to Pawly- 
 ment snug and comfortable to talk Ms 
 silly soul out ; an' I see that young calf, 
 his son, sweOin' it about, and goin' on 
 the razzle-dazzile. Wot 'ave they done 
 that makes 'em any better than wot I 
 am? They never did a day's work in 
 their lives. I see 'em day after day 
 
 Mrs. Jones. And I wish you 
 wouldn't come after me hke that, and 
 ha ^ about the_h i3ase ZQi]__don't 
 
672 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 seem able to keep away at all, and 
 whatever you do it for I can't think, 
 because of course they notice it. 
 
 Jones. I suppose I may go where I 
 like. Where may I go ? The other day 
 I went to a place in, the Edgware^oad. 
 "Gov'nor," -I says to the boss, "take 
 me on," I says. "I 'aven't done a 
 stroke o' work not these two months ; 
 it takes the heart out of a man," I says ; 
 "I'm. one to work; I'm not afraid of 
 anything you can give me!" "My 
 good man," 'e says, "I've had thirty 
 of you here this morning. I took the 
 iirst two," he says, "and that's aU I 
 want." "Thank you, then rot the 
 world!" I says. "Blasphemin'," he 
 says, "is not the way to get a job. Out 
 you go, my lad!" [He laughs sardon- 
 ically] Don't you raise your voice be- 
 cause you're starvin' ; ^ don't yer even 
 think of it ; take it lyin' down ! Take 
 it like a sensible man, carn't you? And 
 a little way down the street a lady says 
 to me: [Pinching his voice] "D' you 
 want to earn a few pence, my man ? ' ' and 
 gives me her dog to 'old outside a shop 
 — fat as a butler 'e was — tons o' meat 
 had gone to the makin' of him. It did 
 'er good, it did, made 'er feel 'erself 
 that charitable, but I see 'er lookin' at 
 the copper standin' alongside o' me, 
 for fear I should make ofi with 'er 
 bloomin' fat dog. [He sits on the edge 0/ 
 the bed and puts a boot on. Then looking 
 up] What's in that head o' yours? 
 [Almost pathetically] Carn't you speak 
 for once ? 
 
 [There is a knock, and Mbs. Sed- 
 
 DON, the landlady, appears, 
 
 an anxious, harassed, shabby 
 
 woman in working clothes] 
 
 Mrs. Seddon. I thought I 'eard 
 
 you comeJn,_ Mrs. Jones. I've spoke 
 
 to my 'usband, but he- says he reaUy 
 
 can't afford to wait another day. 
 
 Jones [with scowling jocularity]. 
 Never you mind what your 'usband 
 says, you go your own way like a proper 
 independent woman. Here, Jenny, 
 chuck her that. 
 
 [Producing a sovereign from his 
 trousers pocket, he throws it to 
 his wife, who catches it in, her 
 apron with a gasp. Jones re- 
 sumes the lacing of his boots] 
 Mbs. Jones [rubbing the sovereign 
 stealthily]. I'm very sorry we're so late 
 with it.,_iLHil-X)£_coursa„it!s_jfourteen 
 shillings, so if youVe got six that Will 
 be^rigkt. 
 
 [Mbs. Seddon takes the sovereign 
 and fumbles for the change] 
 
 Jones [with his eyes fixed on his boots]. 
 Bit of atj urprise for yer, ain't it ? 
 
 Mrs. SeddoK:: — ThaTik you, and I'm 
 sure I'm very rauoh oblig^. [She does 
 indeed appear surprised] I'U, bring you 
 the change. - 
 
 Jones [mockingly]. Don't mention 
 it. 
 
 Mrs. Seddon. Thank you, and I'm 
 sure Fm^very muoh^ obliged. 
 
 — ^gfi^g slides away] 
 [Mrs. Jones gazes at Jones who 
 is still lacing up his boots] 
 
 Jones. I've had__a___bit_jjf_ Juok. 
 [Pulling out the crimson purse and some 
 loose coins] Picked up a puj-s§-=vafi2£a. 
 poiind_and_more. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Oh, James ! 
 
 Jones. Oh, James ! What about 
 Ohjjames| I jpicked j.t_ up I JeU you. 
 ThisusHost property, this is ! 
 
 Mrs. Jones. But isn't there a name 
 in it, or something? 
 
 Jones. Name? No, there ain't no 
 name. This- don't belong to such as 
 'ave visitin' cards. This belongs to a 
 perfec' lidy. Tike an' smell it. [He 
 pitches her the purse, which she puts 
 gently to her nose] Now, you tell me 
 what I ought to have done. You teU 
 me that. You can always teU me what 
 I ought to ha' done, can't yer? 
 
 Mrs. Jones [laying down the purse\ 
 I can't say what you ought to have 
 done, James. Of course the money 
 wasn't yours; you've taken somebody 
 else's moneyT' 
 
 Jones. Finding's keeping. I'll take 
 it as wages for the time I've gone about 
 the streets asking for what's my rights. 
 I'll take it for what's overdue, d'ye hear? 
 [With strange triumph] I'yfiugotjnoney 
 in my pocket, my girl. [Mrs. Jones 
 goes on again mtlrthe preparation of the 
 meal, Jones looking at her furtively] 
 Money in iay__EQetet ! And I'm not 
 goin' to waste it. Wj th, ti^<i>'? '^re money 
 I'm goin' to~Canada^ I'll lefr-j^oa-have 
 a pound. [3 silence] You've often 
 talkeTof leavin' me. You've often told 
 me I treat you -badly — well I 'ope you'll 
 be'glad when I'm gone. 
 
 Mrs. SoN'BS-iimpassively]. You have 
 treated me very badly, James, and of 
 course I can't prevent -your-going ; but I 
 can't tell whether I shall b e glad when 
 you're gone. 
 
 Jones. It'll change my luck. I've 
 'ad nothing_but_bad_luek since I first 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 573 
 
 took up with you. [More softly] And 
 you've 'ad no bloomin' picnic. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Of course it would have 
 been better for us if we had never met. 
 We weren't jueant-for-each other. But 
 you're' set against me, that's what you 
 are, and you have been for a long time. 
 And you treat me so badly, James, 
 going after that Rosie and all. You 
 don't ever seem to think of the children 
 that I've had to bring into the world, 
 and of all the trouble I've had to keep 
 them, and what'lLbeoome af_them when 
 you're gon«. 
 
 Jones [crossing the room gloomily]. If 
 you think I want to leave the Uttle 
 beggars you're liloomin' well mistaken. 
 
 Mks. Jones. Of course I know you're 
 fond of them, 
 
 Jones [fingering the purse, half an- 
 grily]. Well, thea, you stow itr old 
 girl. The kids '11 get along better -^th 
 ymi tbiii ti whpfi' T 'm hfT f' If I'd ha' 
 known as much as I do now, I'd never 
 ha' had one o' them. What's the use 
 o' bringin' 'em into a state o' things like 
 this? It's a crime, that's what it is; 
 but you find it out too late ; that's 
 what's the matter with this 'ere world. 
 [He puts the purse hack in his 
 pocket] 
 
 Mrs.' Jones. Of course it would 
 have been better for them, poor little 
 things ', but tJiey're your own cnHdren, 
 and I wonder at you talMn' like that. 
 I should miss them dreadfully if I was 
 to lose them. 
 
 Jones [sullenly]. An' you ain't the 
 only one. If I make money out there 
 — [Looking up, he sees her shaking out 
 his coat — in a changed voice] Leave 
 that coat alone ! 
 
 [Tlie silver box drops fx.om the 
 
 • •poclcet,"s'cdlienng' the cigarettes 
 
 upon the bed. Taking up the 
 
 box she stares at it ; he rushes at 
 
 her and snatches th e-bvsr away] 
 
 Mrs. Jones [cowering 'Bacic against 
 the bed]. Oh, Jem ! oh, Jem ! 
 
 Jones [dropping the box on to the table]. 
 You mind what you're sayin' ! When 
 I-go"out_ I'll take and ehuck i t in the 
 water jJoag, wrtk iftat— tJxere_purse. I 
 'ad it when-I was inUauor. and for w hat 
 you,,d«-wJieii..you're Jn . liquor-jwu're 
 not "Eespoiisibla,=j)ad-' that's Gawd's 
 truth as you ought to know. I don't 
 
 want the-thing- J-Jvnn't, >in.va it. I 
 
 took it out o' spite. I'm no thief, I teU 
 you ; and don't you call me one, or it'll 
 be the worse for you. 
 
 Mrs. Jones [twisting her apron 
 strings]. It'8Mr."'Bart)hwieki&i., You've 
 taken away inyjeputation. ■ Oh, Jem, 
 whatever made you ? 
 
 Jones. What d' you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. It's been missed ; they 
 think it's me. Oh ! "whatever made you 
 do it, Jem? 
 
 Jones. IJjelLyou^ I wagjn liquor. I 
 don't want it ; what'sTEe good of it to 
 me? If I were to pawn it they'd only 
 nab me. I'm no thief. I'm no worse 
 than wot that young _EaEthwiakJa;_ he 
 brought 'ome that purse-that-t-picked 
 up Malady's purse — 'ad it off 'er in a 
 row, kept sayin' 'e 'd score J~'er~tF£f. 
 Weill I scored 'im off. Tight as an owl 
 'e was! And d'^QuJhink anything 'H 
 hapjpen tfihijn? 
 
 Mrs. Jones [as though speaking to 
 herself]. Oh, Jem! it's the bread out 
 of o ur mouths ! "^ 
 
 Jones. Is it then? I'll make it 
 hot for 'em yet*. What about that 
 purse? What about -vo njig Ttarthwick? 
 
 [Mrs. Jones comes forward to the table 
 and tries to take the box; Jones prevents 
 her] What do you want with that? 
 You drop it, I say ! 
 
 Mrs. Jones. I'H take it back and 
 tell them all about "it". "" 
 
 [She attempts to wrest the box from 
 him] 
 Jones. Ah, would yer? 
 
 [He drops the box, and rushes on 
 her with a snarl. She slips back 
 past the bed. He follows; a 
 chair is overturned. The door 
 is opened; SNOw--eoTOe«— in,- a 
 detecttve''in—plad3i,~-ehtkes and 
 bowler hat, with clipped mous- 
 taches. Jones drops his arms, 
 Mrs. Jones stands by the win- 
 do'iOi.gasjimg.; Snow, advancing 
 swiftly to the table, puts his 
 hand on the silver box] 
 Snow. Dbin'"a"bit o' skylarHn'? 
 F£mcy_thja is ^JaaA- I'm_^fter. J. B., 
 the^very same. [He getsback to the door, 
 scrutinizing the crest and cypher on the 
 box. To Mrs. Jones] I'm a police 
 offleer._^e .yau-Mrs J!anes ? 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir. 
 Snow. My instructions are to take 
 you on a charge o f stealing this box from 
 J. Barthwick, ITsquire.TarrT:, oTG, 
 Rockingham Gate. AnyIBSH^"yon say 
 may be used against you. Well, Missis ? 
 Mrs. Jones [in her quiet voice, still out 
 of breath, her hand upon her breast]. Of 
 course I_did»ioi take it, sir. I never have 
 
574 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 taken anything that didn't belgng to me ; 
 and'TJfTsourse'f "ki);o,TC,nothjjig^bout"it. 
 
 Sno'w. You ■were at the house this 
 morningj^ you didthe room in which 
 the Idox was left ; ybu'WBTB' alone in the 
 room. I find the box 'ere. You say 
 you didn't take it ? 
 
 Mbs; Jones. Yes, sir, of course I 
 say I did not take it, because I did not. 
 
 Snow. Then how'doesTlLS~biox come 
 to be here ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. I would rather not say 
 anything about it. 
 
 Snow. Is this your husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir, this is my 
 husband, sir. 
 
 Snow. Do you wish to say anything 
 before I take her? [Jones remains 
 silent, with his head bent down] Well 
 then. Missis. I'UJust trouble you to 
 come along with m6-(3puiS5_ 
 
 Mks. Jones [twisting her hands]. Of 
 course I wouldn't say I hadn't taken it 
 if I had — and I didn't take, it, indeed 
 I didn't. . Of course I know appearancps 
 are against me, and I can't tell you wEat 
 really happened. But my children are 
 at school, and they'll be coming home — 
 and I don't know what they'll do with- 
 out me ! 
 
 Snow. Your 'usband '11 see to them, 
 don't you worry. 
 
 [He takes the woman gently by 
 the arm] 
 
 Jones. You drop it ^T^-she'saJifflght ! 
 [Sullenly] I took the_.thing_mysglf. 
 
 Snow [eying Tiim]. There, there, it 
 does youore.dit. Come along. Missis. 
 
 Jones [passionately]. Drop it, I say, 
 you blooming teok. She's my wife; 
 she's a respectable woman. Take her 
 if you dare ! 
 
 Snow. Now, now. What's the good 
 of this? Keep a civil tongue, and it'U 
 be the better for all of us. 
 
 [He puts his whistle in his mouth 
 and draws the woman to the door] 
 
 Jones [mth a rush]. Drop her, and 
 put up your 'ands, or I'll soon make 
 yer. You leave her jajone, will yer ! 
 Don't IJiell yer,-I_took the-tMBg^yself ! 
 
 Snow [blowing his whistle]. Drop 
 your hands, or I'll take you too. Ah, 
 would you ? 
 
 [Jones, closing, deals him a blow. 
 A Policeman in uniform ap- 
 pears; there is a short strjiggle^ 
 and Jones is overpowered. MbsT 
 Jones raises her hands and 
 drops her face on tjieiai 
 [The curtain falls] 
 
 Scene Second. — ■ The Barthwicks' 
 dining-room the same evening. The 
 Barthwicks are seated at dessert. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. John ! [A silence 
 broken by_ the cracking of nuts] John ! . 
 
 Barthwick. 1 wish you'd speak 
 about the nuts — they're uneatable. 
 
 [He puts one in his mouth] 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. It's not the sea- 
 son for them. I called _,oji,..ihe. Holy- 
 roods. 
 
 [Barthwick fills his glass with 
 port] 
 
 Jack. Crackers, please, Dad. 
 
 [Barthwick passes the crackers. 
 His demeanour is reflective] 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Lady Holyrood 
 has got very stout. I've noticed it 
 coming for a long time. 
 
 Barthwick [gloomily]. Stout? [He 
 takes up the crackers — with transparent 
 airiness] The Holyroods had some 
 trouble with their servants, hadn't they ? ' 
 
 Jack. Crackers, please. Dad. 
 
 Barthwick [passing the crackers]. It 
 got into the papers. The cook, wasn't 
 it? 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. No, the lady's 
 maid. I was talking it over with Lady 
 Holyrood. The_girLjised-Ao-^ye her 
 young maiLto_see_her. ' "**~ 
 
 Barthwick [uneasily]. I'm not sure 
 they were wise 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. My dear John, 
 what are you talking about? How 
 could there be any alternative ? Think 
 of the effect on the other servants ! 
 
 Barthwick. Of course in principle 
 — I wasn't thinking of that. 
 
 Jack [maliciously]. Crackers, please, 
 
 Pad. 
 
 [Barthwick is corhpelled to pass 
 the crackers] 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Lady Holyrood 
 told me: "I had her-^ip ,." she said ; 
 "I said to her, ' You'll' leave my Jiouse 
 at once ; I think y our conduct dis- 
 gracefiul. J canlt_te1l7 L_don't~E5Dw, 
 and I don't wish to know, what you 
 were doing. I send vou a way on prin- 
 ciple ; you need not come to me for a 
 character.' And the girl said : 'If you 
 don't give me my notice, my lady, I 
 want a month's wages. I'm perfectly 
 respectable. I've doge , nothing.' " — 
 Done nothing! 
 
 Barthwick. H'm ! 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Servants have 
 too much license. They -hangjogether 
 so terribly youagvOT^can^-tell -what 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 575 
 
 they're really thinking ; it's as if _ they 
 were all in a conspiracy to keep you in the 
 dark. Eyen with Mari agi you fs^l 
 that he TSgver l eg~yoTikno w what's 
 realJy^ir"Ms 'min3r i hate that secre- 
 tiveness ; it destroys all confidence. I 
 feel sometimes I should like to shake 
 him. 
 
 Jack. MarlaffiLs_a^most decent chap. 
 It's simply beastly every one knowing 
 your affairs. 
 
 Bakthwick. The less you say aUout 
 that the better ! 
 
 Mrs. Baethwick. It goes all 
 through the lower classes. You can 
 not tell when they are speaking the 
 truth. "To-day when I was shopping 
 after leaving the Holyroods, one of 
 these vmemployed came up and spoke 
 to me. I suppose I only had„twenty 
 yards or so to walk to the, eSfnage, but 
 he seemed to spring up in the street. 
 
 Babthwick. Ah! You- must be 
 very careful whom you speak to in 
 these days. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I didn't answer 
 him, of course. But I could see at 
 once that he wasn't telling the truth. 
 
 Baethwick [cracking a nut]. There's 
 one very good rule — look at tl 
 
 Jack. Crackers, pfeasB7T5a3. 
 
 Barthwick [passing the crackers]. If 
 
 times ffve~tt t6m^ixpence. It's against 
 my^finSpl^sr-biirfrBTnost difftcult to 
 refuse. If you see that they're desper- 
 ate, and dull, and shifty-looking, as so 
 many of them are, it's certain to mean 
 drink, or crime, or something unsatis- 
 factory. 
 
 Mes. Barthwick. This man had 
 dreadful eyes. He looked as if he 
 could commit— ai—«iu*der. "I've 'ad 
 nothing to eat to-day," he said. Just 
 Uke thaj;. 
 
 Barthwick. What was William 
 about? He ought to have been wait- 
 ing. 
 
 Jack [raising his wine-glass to his nose]. 
 Is t his the '63. Dad? 
 
 [Barthwick, holding his loine- 
 glass to his eye, lowers it and 
 passes it before his nose] 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I,_Jaatg people 
 that can't speak the truth. [FdBier and 
 son exchange a look behind their port] 
 It's just as easy to speak the truth as 
 not. I've always found it easy enough. 
 It makes it impQgable to tefl. what is 
 genuine; onOeelslisTf" uue wepe con- 
 tinually being taken in. 
 
 Barthwick [sententiously]. ^ The 
 lower classes are their own enemies. If 
 they would only trust us, they would 
 get on so much DettBTr— . " 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. But even then 
 it's s o often their own faidt. Look-at 
 thajPSIrs. Jones tBiTmormng. 
 
 Barthwick. I only want to do 
 what's right in that matter. I had 
 occasion to see Baper- this afternoon. 
 I mentioned it to him. He's coming 
 in tMs evening. Jt _£(J1 depends on what 
 the detective" says. I've had my 
 doubts. I've been thinking it over. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. The womagAni- 
 pressedjaiesuiSL--uidaxoxixaMy. She 
 seemed to have no shame. That affair 
 she was talking about — she and the 
 man when they were young, so im- 
 moral! And before you and Jack! 
 I could have put her out of the room ! 
 
 Barthwick. Oh! I don't want to 
 excuse them, but in looking at these 
 matters-one^must^onsider 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Perhaps you'll 
 say the man's employer was wrong in 
 dismissing him ? 
 
 Barthwick. Of course not. It's 
 not there that I feel doubt. What I 
 askJ33jisel f . i a . \ 
 
 Jack. Port, please, Dad. 
 
 Baethwick [circulating the decanter in 
 religious imitation of the rising and setting 
 of the sun]. I ,ask myself whether we 
 are suffloientlj;_oareful . in,_niakiiig_iii.- 
 qnrngs^^aj^oiff, ponplpi before we engag e 
 them, especially asregai;di_moral_can- 
 
 duct. ■ ■ 
 
 "Tack. Pass the port, please. Mother ! 
 
 Mes. Barthwick [passing it]. My 
 
 dear boy, aren't you drinking too much? 
 
 [Jack fills his glass] 
 
 Maelow [entering]. — Deteciilg.^Snow 
 to see you, sir. 
 
 'B-arthwick [uneasily]. Ah ! say I'll 
 be with him in a minute. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick [without turning]. 
 Let him come in here, Marlow. 
 
 [Snow enters in an overcoat, his 
 bowler hat in hand] 
 
 Barthwick [half-rising]. Oh ! Good 
 even^g! 
 
 "Snow. Good evening, sir; good 
 evening, ma'am. I've called round to 
 report what I've done, rather late, I'm 
 
 affaid another- ease took me away. 
 
 [He takes the silver box out of his pocket, 
 causing a sensation in the Barthwick 
 family] This is the identical article, 
 I believe. 
 
 Barthwick. Certainly, certainly. 
 
576 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Snow. Havin' your crest and cypher, 
 as your described to nie,_sir,~T*d no hesi- 
 tation in the matter. 
 
 Bahthwick. Excellent. Will you 
 have a glass of [He glances at the waning 
 port] — er — sherry — [-pours out sherry]. 
 Jack, just give Mr. Snow this. 
 
 [Jack rises and gives the glass to 
 Snow ; then, lolling in his chair, 
 regards him indolently] 
 
 Snow [drinking off wine and putting 
 down the glass]. After seeing you I 
 went round to this woman's lodgings, 
 sir. It^s a low neighbourhood, and I 
 thought it as well to place a constable 
 below — and not without 'e was wanted, 
 as things turned out. 
 
 Barthwick. Indeed ! 
 
 Snow. Yes, sir, I 'ad some trouble. 
 I asked her to account for the presence 
 of the article. She could give me no 
 answer, except-ttrdreny—the theft ;^o I 
 took her into-ajstody ; then her hus- 
 band came for me, so I was obhged to 
 take him, too,^ for assault. He — was 
 very violent on the way to the station 
 
 — very violent — threatened you and 
 your son, and altogether he was a hand- 
 ful, I can tell yi3u. 
 
 Mbs. Barthwick. What a ruf&an 
 he must be ! 
 
 Snow. Yes, ma'am, a rough cus- 
 tomer. 
 
 Jack [sipping his wine, bemused]. 
 Punch the beggar's head. 
 
 Snow. Given to drink, as I under- 
 stand, sir. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. It's to be hoped 
 he wiU get a severe punishment. 
 
 Snow. The odd thing is, sir, that 
 he persists in sajdn' he -took- the -box 
 himselfr 
 ■ BabthwicS. Took the box himself ! 
 [He smiles] What does he think to gain 
 by that? 
 
 Snow. He says the young gentle- 
 man was^ - in.t,CHi;i cfl,ti;'.fl la.st. n^fr^^\t — 
 [Jack stops the cracking of a nut, and 
 looks at Snow. Barthwick, losing his 
 smile, has put his wine-glass down; there 
 is a silence — Snow, looking from, face to 
 face, remarks] — took him -4ntD~~-4he 
 house and gave him whisky^ - and under 
 the influence of an empty-stoinachjthe 
 man says he took the box. " ~~^ 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. The impudent 
 wretch ! 
 
 Barthwick. D' you mean that he 
 
 — er — intends to put thig^Jorwaji. 
 to-morrow 
 
 Snow. That'll be his line, sir; but 
 
 whether he's endeavouring to shield his 
 wife, or whether [he looks at Jack] 
 there's something.- in it^^ will b e for t he 
 magistrate to say. ~ ~~ 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick [haughtily]. Some- 
 thing in what ? I don't understand you. 
 As if my son would bring a man like 
 that into the house! 
 
 Barthwick [from the fireplace, with 
 an effort to he calm]. My son oanjSEgak 
 for nimself, no doubi..^^^^ Well, JacF, 
 what do you say? 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick [sharply]. What 
 does he say? Why, of course, he says 
 the whole story's stuff ! 
 
 Jack [embarrassed]. Well, of course, 
 I — of course, I don't knaffi_-aiijdJiiag 
 about it^ 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I should think 
 not, indeed ! [To Snow] The man is 
 an audacious rufQan ! 
 
 Barthwick [suppressing jumps]. But 
 in view of my son's sa ying there's noth- 
 ing in this — tEis~7aBle — will it be 
 necessary to proceed against the man 
 under the circumstances? 
 
 Snow. We shall liave to charge 
 him with the assault, sir. It would be 
 as well for your gonrto~ eome down t o 
 the Court. There-4M55^, remand, no 
 doubt. The queer thing is there was 
 quite a sum of money found on him, 
 and a crimson silk purse. [Barthwick 
 starts — Jack rises and sits down again] 
 I suppose the- lady hasn't- miasedlJaer 
 purse ? 
 
 Barthwick [hastily]. Oh, no ! Oh ! 
 No! 
 
 Jack. No ! 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick [dreamily]. No ! 
 [To Snow] I've been inquiring of the 
 servants. This , man does_, hang_ about 
 the, house. I shall feel much safer if 
 he gets a good long sentence; I do 
 think we ought to be protected against 
 such rufSans. 
 
 Barthwick. Yes, yes, of course, on 
 principle — but in this case we have a 
 number of things to think of. [To 
 Snow] I suppose, as you say, the man 
 must be charged, eh? 
 
 Snow. No question about that, sir. 
 
 Barthwick [staring gloomily at Jack]. 
 This prosecution goes very much-aaainst 
 the grain with" me. I ii^jm.^gre^tsypa.- 
 pathy with the" poor:- InmypSSition 
 I'm bound to recognise the distress there 
 is amongst them. 'I'he conditioh'of the 
 people leaves miichtojiadgsire^ D' you 
 foUbwme? -i^wish'X coulcl see my way 
 to drop it. 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 577 
 
 Mrs. Baethwick [sharply]. John! 
 it's simply not fair to other people. 
 It's putting property at the mercy of 
 any one who hkes to take it. 
 
 Babthwiok [trying to make signs to 
 her aside]. I'Bw-Bet-d,fifflnfiiTig him, not 
 at all. I'm_trying-to-look-art-the-matter 
 broadly. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Nonsense, John, 
 there's a time for everything. 
 
 Snow [rather sardonicall'^]. I might 
 point out, sir, that to withdrajL, the 
 charge of stealing- ^ould notJnaKe much 
 difference, Iseoause the facts_aiist-Gome 
 out [he looKs significah{ly~~at Jack] in 
 reference t o the ass ault: and as I said 
 that charge will h^«t° S" forward. 
 
 Barthwick [hastiVg]: — ¥bs, "Sh ! ex- 
 actly! It's entirely on —the woman's 
 account — ■ entirely a matter of my own 
 private^feeHnfs. 
 
 Snow. If I were you, sir, I should 
 let things take their course. It's not 
 likely thereHl, be much diffic ulty. These 
 thinggare very quick settled. 
 
 Barthwick [doubtfully]. You think 
 so — ■ you think so ? 
 
 Jack [rousing himself]. I say, what 
 shall^I_hars!B_ta.swear to? 
 
 Snow. That's best known to your- 
 self, sir. [Retreating to the door] Better 
 emplgviLjolidtorLsir^injiaaejaiixtiing 
 shoi33^rise." V^eshallJiajte-the-hutler 
 to prove the loss .of th&„arti,ole. You'll 
 excuse me goingjJTmrather pressed to- 
 night. The" case ~ may come on any 
 time after^filgyen. Good evening, sir; 
 good evening, ma'am. I shall have to 
 producB^he Dox in court to-morrow, so 
 if you'U excuse me, sir, I may as well 
 take it with me. 
 
 [He takes the silver box and leaves 
 
 them with a little bow] 
 [Barthwick makes a move to 
 follow him, then dashing his 
 hands beneath his coat tails, 
 speaks with desj>eration] 
 
 Barthwick. I do_wislL.xSu/d leave 
 nifijtELjnanage4iungs-iBjffielfrYoa mil 
 put your nose inta. mattOTs you know 
 nothing of. A pretty" ineSB — you've 
 made of this ! 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick [coldly]. I don't in 
 the least know what you're talking 
 about. If you can't stand up for your 
 rights, I can. I've no patience with 
 your principles, it's such nonsense. 
 
 Baethwick. Principles ! Good 
 Heavens! What have principles to do 
 with it for goodness sake? Danit-you 
 
 Jack. Dad ! 
 
 Mrs. Baethwick [in horror, rising]. 
 Jack! 
 
 Jack. Look here. Mother. — I had 
 supper. Everybody does. I "mean to 
 say — -"yoirTaiovr-wfaat-i- mean-=^t'3 
 absurd to call it being drunk. At Ox- 
 ford everybody gets a bit "on" some- 
 times 
 
 Mrs. Baethwick. Well, I think it's 
 most dreadful-! — If tha?t-i»- really what 
 you do at Oxford 
 
 'JXeK~[angrily] . Well,, w-hjt-did. you 
 send Bw-these? One must do as other 
 fellows do. It's such nonsense, I mean, 
 to caU it being drunk. Of course I'm 
 awfiilly sorry, fve had such a beastly 
 headache alt day. 
 
 Barthwick. Toha! If you'd only 
 had the common decency tOL remember 
 what happened when you came in. 
 Then'^e"sllOTdd-inB5w'Wba*-tfUtE'there 
 was in what this fellow says — as it is, 
 it's all the most confounded darkness. 
 
 Jack [staring as though at half-formed 
 visions]. I just get a — and then — 
 it's gone ■ 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Oh, Jack! do 
 you mesgajo jay_yQji,weEe,so,_tipsy you 
 
 can't even remember 
 
 ~J"ACK^ look here. Mother ! Of 
 course I remember I came — I must 
 have come ' " 
 
 Barthwick [unguardedly, and walk- 
 ing up and down]. Tcha! — and that 
 infernfl.L pu rse ! Q^ ind Heavens ! It'U 
 get "^into the papers., wno on earth 
 could have foreseen aTKngTike this? 
 Better to have Jost a JdoigST ci^ar ette- 
 boxesT-and- said nothing about it. [To 
 his wife] It's all— your— daing. I told 
 you so-fronrthB'^irst. _ I_wisH_to_good- 
 ness Rope r wou ld_comfiJ 
 
 .M^BSr'B:KBSwvncKjsharply]. I don't 
 know what you're talking about, John. 
 
 Baethwick [turning on her]. No, 
 you — you — you don't know anything ! 
 [Sharply] Where the devil is Roper? 
 If he can see a way out of this he's a 
 better man than I take him for. I defy 
 any one to see a way out of it. / 
 can't. 
 
 Jack. Look here, don't excite Dad 
 — I can simply say I was too beastly 
 tired, and don't remember anything 
 except that I came in and [in a dying 
 voice] went to bed the same as usual. 
 
 Barthwick. Went to bed? Who 
 knows where you went =--i'-ve lost ItU 
 cffla fldenee. For all I kn ow you slept 
 on tEe door. 
 
578 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Jack [indignantly]. I didn't, I slept 
 on the 
 
 Babthwick [sitting on the sofa]. 
 Who cares w;here you slept ; what does 
 it matter if he mentions the — the — a 
 perfect disgrace? 
 
 Mbs. Barthwick. What? [A si- 
 lence] I insist onJsnowing. 
 
 Jack. Oh ! nothing 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Nothing? What 
 do you mean by nothing, Jack? There's 
 your father in such a state about it 
 
 Jack. Itis oiily my^puise. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Your purse ! You 
 know perfectly weU you haven't got 
 one. 
 
 Jack. Well, it was somehasJy else's . 
 
 — it was all a joke — I didn't want the 
 beastly thing ~ 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Do you mean 
 that you had another person's purse, 
 and that this man took it too? 
 
 Barthwick. Toha! Of course he 
 took it too ! A man like that Jones will 
 make the moat-of-it— -It'll getrintb-the 
 papers. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I don't under- 
 stand. What on earth is aU the fuss 
 about? [Bending over Jack, and softly] 
 Jack now, tell me dear! Don't be 
 afraid. What is iT?"~-Geiqe ! 
 
 Jack. Oh, don't. Mother ! 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. But don't what, 
 dear? 
 
 Jack. It was pure sport. I don't 
 know how I got the thing. Of course 
 I'd had a bit of a row — I didn't know 
 what I was doing — I was — I was — 
 well, you know — I suppose I must have 
 pulled the bag -out ofiter-hand. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Out of her hand? 
 Whose hand ? What bag — whose bag ? 
 
 Jack. Oh ! I don't know — her bag 
 
 — it bel©Hged_tDL^^ [in a desperate and 
 rising voice] a-weman. 
 
 Mrs. Barmwick. A woman ? Oh 1 
 Jack ! No ! 
 
 Jack [jumping up]. You would have 
 it. I didn't want to teUjnu^ It's not 
 my fault. 
 
 [The door opens and Mablow 
 ushers in a man of middle age, 
 inclined to corpulence, in even- 
 ing dress. He has a ruddy, 
 thin moustache, and dark, quick- 
 moving little eyes. His eye- 
 brows are Chinese] 
 Mablow. Mr. RopeFr-ar-^ 
 
 [He leaves the room] 
 Roper [with a quick look round]. How 
 do you do ? 
 
 [But neither Jack nor Mes. 
 Barthwick make a sign] 
 
 Barthwick [hurrying]. Thank good- 
 ness__you^ve— e»m«7 — Raper. You re- 
 member wliat-LtoldlsaiU-this afternoon ; 
 we've just had the detective here. ' 
 
 RoPBB. Got the box ? 
 
 Barthwick. Yes, yes, but look 
 here — it wasn't the cha rwoman at all ; 
 her drunkOT^ loafer of ..a Jiusband, Jopk 
 theTMn^^— - he says that feUflw there 
 [He waves his hand at Jack, who, with his 
 shoulder raised, seems trying to ward off 
 a blow] let, him into the house last^ night. 
 Can you imagine, such a thing ! 
 
 [RoPEB laughs] 
 
 Babthwick [with excited emphasis]. 
 It's no -laughing- matter,- Roper. I told 
 yotf-about that business of Jack's too 
 — don't you see — the brute took 
 both the things — took that infernal 
 purse. It'll get into the papers. 
 
 Roper [raising his eyebrows]. H'm I 
 The purse ! Depravity in high life ! 
 What does your son say? 
 
 Barthwick. He remembers noth- 
 ing. D n ! Did you ever see such a 
 
 mess ? It'U get into the papers. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick [ivith her hand across 
 
 her eyes]. Oh ! it's not that 
 
 [Babthwick and Ropee turn and 
 look at her] 
 
 Barthwick. It's the^ idea- of that 
 
 woman ^ she's just_h^rd [Roper 
 
 nods. And Mrs. Barthwick, setting her 
 lips, gives a slow look at Jack, and sits 
 down at the table] What on earth's to 
 be doner-- Roper?.. A ruffian like this 
 Jones wiU make all the capital' he can 
 out of that purse. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I^donit- believe 
 that Jack took ^that purse. 
 
 Babth-wicS^ What — when the 
 woman came here foritjthis morning? 
 
 Mbs. "Babthwick. Here? She had 
 the impu4«Hee-? — -Why wasn't I told? 
 
 [She looks round from face to face 
 — no one answers her, there is 
 
 Barthwick [suddenly]. What's to be 
 done. Roper? 
 
 Roper [quietly to Jack]. I suppose 
 you didn't-leave"yDur- latoltkey^ in tie 
 door ? 
 
 Jack [sullenly]. Yes,-J-did!- 
 
 Barthwick. Good heavens! What 
 nBxt?~ 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. I'm certain you 
 never lertHtart-manJ nto the hous e. Jack, 
 it's a -wild invention. I'm sure there's 
 not a word of truth in it, Mr. Roper. 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 679 
 
 RoPEB [very suddenly]. Where did 
 
 yo u sleep'lagt n iglTIr?— ' ~ 
 
 "JACK [promptly]. Qruthe-sofa, there 
 
 — [hesitating] that is — I 
 
 Barthwick. On the sofa? D' you 
 
 m ean to say you didn't, go to bed ? 
 
 Jack [sullenly]. No. 
 
 Baethwick. If you don't remeinber 
 anythkigr-hosu-oan-yMULremember that? 
 
 Jack. Because I woEe~TIir"t'B.ere in 
 the morning. 
 'MrsTBabthwick. Oh, Jack ! 
 
 Barthwick. Good Gracious ! 
 
 Jack. And Mrs. Jones saw me. I 
 wi sh you voiildj^'t bait me 55: 
 
 RoperI Do you remember_giving 
 ang_o ne a drink ? ~~ 
 
 Jack! Ttv~^ny^, T H^i KBem, to re- 
 member a fellow with — a fellow with 
 
 — [He looks at Roper] I say, d' you 
 want me ? 
 
 Roper [quick as lightning]. With a 
 dirty face ? 
 
 Jack [with illumination]. I do — I 
 
 distinctly remember his 
 
 [Barthwiok moves abruptly; 
 Mrs. Barthwick looks at 
 RoPEE angrily, and touches her 
 son's arm] 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. You don't re- 
 member, it's ridiculous ! I don't beUeve 
 the man was ever here at aU. 
 
 Barthwick. You must._apeak the 
 truth , if it is the t ';"*^^^^,, 'R"-<^if you do 
 remember such a dirty business, I shall 
 wash my hands cJfyoUTdtogetiier. 
 
 Jack [glaring at them]. Well, what 
 the devil 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Jack ! 
 
 Jack. Well, Mother, I — I don't 
 know what you do want. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. We want you to 
 speak the truth andTHyyou never let 
 this low- man TfftoTne house. 
 
 Barthwick. Of course if you think 
 that_ymi rfially ga3ffi_jMg man whisky 
 
 in that disprajanf-ul-wa,^, ^r|d 1n.t tiim see 
 
 what yotfd been_ doing, and were in 
 such a disgusting condition that you 
 don't remembeLa word of it 
 
 RopEE [quick]. I've no memory my- 
 self — never had. 
 
 Barthwick [desperately]. I don't 
 know whatvou're to say. 
 
 RoPEE. [To Jack] Say nothing at 
 all ! Don't putjWBgelf ii a false posi- 
 tion. The manstQE.^g_tMngajar the 
 woman stole the .things, you had noth- 
 ing to do with it. You were asleep on 
 the sofa. 
 
 Mes. Barthwick. Your leaving the 
 
 latch-key in the door was quite bad 
 enoughr-therelsjio-aeaiLtomention any- 
 thing else. [Touching JPiS-' forehead 
 softly] My dear, how hot your head 
 is! 
 
 Jack. But I want to knQHJKhat.I'm 
 tf) do. [Passinnately] I won- 1 be badg- 
 ered .Eka-thift - 
 
 [Mrs. Baethwick recoils from 
 him] 
 
 Roper [very quickly]. You forget all 
 about it. You were asleep. 
 
 Jack. Must I go down to the Court 
 to-morrow ?. 
 
 Roper [shaking his head]. Ne. 
 
 Barthwick [in a relieved voice]. Is 
 tjiatso? 
 "Roper. Y^s. 
 
 • Barthwick. B^jt jfnp:n p;^, Roper. 
 
 Roper. Yes. 
 
 Jack [with wan cheerfulness]. Thanks, 
 awfuUjU — Se4eas ^s I do n't have to go. 
 [Putting his hand up to ' MS Head] I 
 think if you'll excuse me — I've had a 
 most beastly day. 
 
 [He looks from his father to his 
 mother] 
 
 Mes. Baethwick [turning quickly]. 
 Good-night, my boy. 
 
 Jack. Good-night, Mother. 
 
 [He goes out. Mes. Baethwick 
 heaves a sigh. There is a si- 
 lence] 
 
 Barthwick. ^e gets off too easily. 
 But Jot my money that woman would 
 have .prosecuted ffim... 
 
 Ropee. You find money useful. 
 
 Baethwick. I've my doubts whether 
 we ought to hide the truth 
 
 RopEE. There'U be a remand. 
 
 Barthwick. What! D' you mean 
 he'U\iL a.ve to avvear o n the remand. 
 
 RopeS; -xes: 
 
 Baethwick. H'm, I thought you'd 
 
 be able to Look here, Roper, ypu 
 
 nmst ke&Ti that mirsp nu t of the na nBTs . 
 [Roper fixes his little eyes on 
 him and nods] 
 
 Mes. Baethwick. Mr. Roper, don't 
 you think the magistrate ought to be 
 told what sort of people these Jones's 
 are ; I mean about their immorality 
 before they were married. I don't 
 know if John told you. 
 
 RoTBR. Afraid it's not material. 
 
 Mrs. Barthwick. Not material ? 
 
 Ropee. Purely private life ! May 
 have happened-to the magistrate. 
 
 Barthwick [with a movement as if to 
 shift a burden]. Then_yQ]i!ii_take the 
 thing into your hands? 
 
680 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 RoPEB. If the gods are kind. 
 
 [He holds his hand out] 
 
 Babthwick [shaking it dubiously]. 
 Kind — eh ? -What ?~:Equ going ? 
 
 RoPBH. Yes. I've anothe r ca se, 
 something -like_ yours — mogt^jnex- 
 peoted. 
 
 [He bows to Mrs. Babthwick, 
 and goes out, followed by Babth- 
 wick, talking to the last. Mes. 
 Babthwick at the table bursts 
 into smothered sobs. Babth- 
 wick returns] 
 
 Babthwick. [To himself] There'll 
 be a scandal ! 
 
 — MSsTTBabthwick [disguising her grief 
 at once] 1 simply can't imagine what 
 Ro per mea ns by making a joke of a thing" 
 like that T 
 
 Babthwick [staring strangely]. You ! 
 You can't imagine anything ! You've 
 no more imagination, than^ Jfly ! 
 
 Mrs. Babthwick [angruy]. You 
 dare to tell m,e_tiiat_Lharve-na -imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Babthwick [flustered]. I — I'm up- 
 set. From beginning to end, the whole 
 thing has been utterly— agaiogt, my 
 principles. 
 
 Mbs. Babthwick. Rubbish! You 
 haven't any ! Your principles are noth- 
 ing in the world but sheer - — frig^ht ! 
 
 Babthwick [walking to the window]. 
 I've never been frightened in my hfe. 
 You heaTd" what" Roper ^23id. It's 
 enough to upset one when a thing like 
 this happens. Everything one says 
 and does seems to turn in one's mouth 
 — it's — it's uncanny. It's not the 
 sort of thing I've been accustomed to. 
 [As though stifling, he throws the window 
 open. The faint sobbing of a child comes 
 in] What's that? [They listen] 
 
 Mbs. Babthwick [sharply]. I can't 
 stand that crying. I must send Maxlaw 
 to stop it. My nerves_a re all on ed ge. 
 [She rings tliebell] 
 
 Babthwick. I'LL n tint , t he windn w ; 
 
 vou'IL hear nothing ^ 
 
 [He shuts the window. There is 
 silence] 
 Mrs. Barthwick [sharply]. That's 
 no good! It's on my nerves. Nothing 
 upsets me like a child's crying. [Mab- 
 Low comes in] What's thai-^soisfl-of 
 crying, Marlow? It _saunds"^^^llEe a 
 
 child. -^ ' 
 
 Babthwick. It is a cliild. I can 
 see it against theLjaiUngs.— ^ — 
 
 ^ICTXBEtrw [opening the window, and 
 looking out — quietly]. It's Mrs. Jones's 
 
 Jittle boy, m a'am; he c ame here after 
 
 hi ss mot tter " 
 
 Mbs. Babthwick [moving quickly to 
 the window]. Poor little_0haBl__John, 
 we (Mightn't to P-n on with .this ! 
 
 Babthwick [sitting heavily in a chair]. 
 Ah ! but it's out of our hands ! 
 
 [Mbs. Babthwick turns her back 
 to the window. There is an ei- 
 pression of distress on her face. 
 She stands motionless, compress- 
 ing her lips. The crying begins 
 again. Babthwick covers his 
 ears with his hands, and Mab- 
 Low shuts the window. The 
 crying ceases] 
 
 [The curtain falls] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Eight days have passed, and the scene is 
 a London Police Court at one o'clock. 
 A canopied seat of Justice is sur- 
 mounted by the lion and unicorn. 
 Before the fire a worn-looking Magis- 
 TEATE is warming his coat-tails, and 
 staring at two little girls in faded blue 
 and orange rags, who are placed be- 
 fore the dock. Close to the witness- 
 box is a Relieving Officer in an 
 overcoat, and a short brown beard. 
 Beside the little girls stands u bald 
 Police Constable. On the front 
 bench are sitting Babthwick and 
 Roper, and behind them Jack. In 
 the railed enclosure are seedy-looking 
 men and women. Some prosperous 
 constables sit or stand about] ■ 
 
 Magistrate [in his paternal and 
 ferocious voice, hissing his s's],^ _ Now 
 let us dispose atJihesa-yotmg ladies. 
 
 UsHEB. Theresa Livens, Maud 
 Livens. [The bald Constable indicates 
 the little jirls, who remain silent, dis- 
 illusioned, inattentive] Relieving ofBcer ! 
 [The Relieving Opficee steps 
 into the witness-box] 
 
 Usher. The evidence you give to 
 the Court shall be the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth, so 
 help you God ! Bass the book ! 
 
 [The book is kissed] 
 
 Relieving Officer [in u, monotone, 
 pausing slightly at each sentence end, 
 that his evidence may be inscribed] About 
 ten o'clock this morning, your Worship, 
 I found these 4wg^ little girls in Blue 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 581 
 
 at.raBt.,JBulha.Tn, nry ing outsido «■ piihliV- 
 
 house. Asked where their home was, 
 they sai!LJJifiS_had_nQ..homfi__Mjither 
 hadgaae—away. Asked about their 
 father. Their f ather had no work. 
 Asked where'tEiy" slept last mgH. At 
 their aunt's. I've made inquiries, your 
 Worship. The wife has bro^n up the 
 home and^ona„aa_Jiiie_streets. The 
 husband is out of work and living in 
 common lodging-houses. The hus- 
 band's sister has eight children of her 
 own, and says she can't afford to keep 
 these little girls any longer. 
 
 Magistrate [returning to his seat be- 
 neath the canopy of Justice]. Now, let 
 me see. You say the mother is on the 
 streets; what evidence have you of 
 that? 
 
 Relieving Officer. I have the 
 husbajid here, your Worship. 
 
 ETagistbate. Very^^wSU; then let 
 us see him. [There are cries of 
 "Livens." The Magistrate leans 
 forward, and stares with hard compassion 
 at the little girls. Livens comes in. He 
 is quiet, with grizzled hair, and a muffler 
 for a collar. He stands beside the witness- 
 box] And you are their father? Now, 
 why don't you k«gpL yov^Jittle.gLds. at 
 home? JLow— i s it you le ave them to 
 wandfic abqut_ the stieetsJike this? 
 
 Livens. I've got no home, your 
 Worship. J.'_m living.- -from, — ^and- to 
 mouth . I Ve got nojorij-r-and nothin' 
 to keep"them on. 
 
 Magistrate. How is that ? 
 
 Livens [ashamedly]. My wife, she 
 broke my 'ome up, and pawned the 
 things. 
 
 Magistrate. But what made you 
 let her? 
 
 Livens. Your Worship, I'd no 
 chance to stop 'er ; s he did it when I 
 was-ou't4oofcrii^or worE 
 
 Magistrate. Did you ill-treat her? 
 
 Livens [emphatically]. I never raised 
 °i?-_!and to her in my Ufe, your Wor- 
 ship. 
 
 Magistrate. Then what was it — 
 di d .she drink ? 
 ""XiVENS. Yes, your Worship. 
 
 Magistrate. Was she loose in her 
 behaviour ? ■~- 
 
 Livens [in a low voice]. Yes, your 
 WersMp. 
 
 Magistrate. And where is she now ? 
 
 Livens. I don't know, your Worship. 
 She went off with a man, and after that 
 
 Magistrate. Yes, yes. Who knows 
 
 anything of her? [To the bald Con- 
 stable] Is she known here ? 
 
 Relieving Officer. Not in this 
 district, -your _ Worship; but I have 
 ascertained that she is well known 
 
 Magistrate. Yes — yes ; we'll stop 
 at that. Now [to the father] you say that 
 she has broken up your home, and left 
 these little girls. What provision can 
 yoTl make for them? You look a strong 
 man. 
 
 Livens. So I am, your Worship. 
 I'm wiUin' enough to work, but for the 
 life of me I can't get anything to do. 
 
 Magistrate. But have you tried ? 
 
 Livens. I've tried everything, your 
 Worship — I've.tried myiardeat. 
 
 Magistrate. Well, well 
 
 [There is a silence] 
 
 Relieving Officers — If- your Wor- 
 ship thinks it's^a -oaser my-people are 
 wDJing-ta take_thep. 
 
 Magistrate! Yes, yes, I know ; but 
 I've no evidence -that this- man- is-not 
 the proper guardian for his children. 
 
 [He rises and goes back to the fire] 
 
 Relieving Officer. The mother, 
 your^Worship, is able to get"access to 
 them. 
 
 Magistrate. Yes, yes ; the mother, 
 of course, is an improper person to have 
 anything to do with them. [To the 
 father] Well, now what do you say? 
 
 Livens. Your Worship, I can only 
 sayjhat if I could get work I should be 
 only ioo willing to provide, for them. 
 But what can I do, your Worship? 
 Here I am obliged to liv e from 'an d to 
 mouth in these 'ere common loHging- 
 houses. I'm a strong man — I'm will- 
 ing to work — I'm half as aUve again 
 as some of 'em — but you see, your 
 Worshipf my 'air's turned a bit, owing to 
 the fever — [touches his hair] — and 
 that^ agaiHst'me';' and I don't seem to 
 get a chance anyhow. 
 
 Magistrate. Yes — yes. [Slowly] 
 Well, I think it's a case. [Staring his 
 hardest at the Utile girls] JSIaw, ar«-you 
 willing that these Uttle^girls should be 
 sent to- aTiome?^==-— — 
 
 Livens. Y es, your Worship. I shoul d 
 be very wiUing. 
 
 MASIgTRATB7""Well, I'll remand them 
 for a week. Bring them again _^tp-day 
 week pttSsee- no reason against it'then, 
 I'll make an order. 
 
 Relieving Officer. To-day week, 
 your Worship. 
 
 [The bald Constable takes the 
 little girls out by the shoulders. 
 
682 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The father follows them. The 
 
 Magistrate, returning to his 
 
 seat, bends over and talks to his 
 
 Clerk inaudibly] 
 
 Barthwick [speaking behind his hand]. 
 
 A painful case, Roper ; very distressing 
 
 state of tilings. 
 
 Bdti;e. — Hundreds like this in the 
 Pchofe^ Courts. 
 
 Barthwick. Most distressing! The 
 more I see of it, the more important this 
 question of the oondition_flf the people 
 seems to become. I shall certainly 
 make a point of taking up the cudgels 
 
 in the House. I shall move 
 
 [The Magistrate ceases talking 
 to his Clerk] 
 Clerk. Remands ! 
 
 [Barthwick stops abruptly. There 
 is a stir and Mrs. Jones comes 
 in by the public door; Jones, 
 ushered by policemen, comes from 
 the prisoners' door. They file 
 into the dock] 
 Clerk. James Jones, Jane Jones. 
 Usher. Jane Jones ! 
 Barthwick [in a whisper]. The 
 purse — the- purse _22yis< be kept out 
 of it, Roper. Whateveffiffip^ens you 
 must keep that out of the papers. 
 
 [Roper nods] 
 Bald Constable. Hush! 
 
 [Mrs. Jones, dressed in her thin, 
 
 black, wispy dress, and black 
 
 straw hat, stands motionless 
 
 with hands crossed on the front 
 
 rail of the dock. Jones leans 
 
 against the back rail of the 
 
 dock, and keeps half turning, 
 
 glancing defiantly about him. 
 
 He is haggard and unshaven] 
 
 Clerk [consulting with his papers]. 
 
 This is the^case remanded from last 
 
 Wednesday, ^^^^ZUVhehr^-ot—a. silver 
 
 cigarette-box^aniassaiilt on'th« police ; 
 
 the two charges^ .were taken together. 
 
 Jane Jones! James Jones! -~- 
 
 Magistrate [staring]: Yes, yes ; I 
 remember. 
 
 Clerk. Jane Jones. 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, sir. 
 Clerk. Do you admit stealing a 
 silver cigarette-box _ valued at five 
 pounds, ten shillings, frojc theThouse of 
 John Barthwict, M. P., between the 
 hours of 11 P.M. on Easter Monday and 
 8.45 A.M. on Easter Tuesday last? 
 Yes, or no ? - _ 
 
 Mrs. Jones [in a low voice]. , No, sir, 
 
 I_do no_t^ir. 
 
 Clerk. James Jones? Do you 
 
 admit stealing a silver cigarette-box 
 
 valued at^ five pounds, ten shillings, 
 
 from the^'hbuse of John Barthwick, 
 M. P., between the hours of 11 p.m. on 
 Easter Monday and 8.45 a.m. on Easter 
 Tuesday last? And further making an 
 assault on the police "wheiLin .the execu- 
 tion of their duty at 3 p.m. on" Easter 
 Tuesday ? Yes or no ? 
 
 Jones [sullenly].^ Yea»_buLX-ve,^t 
 a lot to say aboutit- 
 
 Magistrate. [To the Clerk] Yes 
 — yes. ^But how coines_it that these 
 two people are chargeH WttiT" the 
 same offence? Are they Tifiisband and 
 wife? 
 
 Clerk. Yes, sir. You remember 
 you ordered a remand for further 
 evidence as to the story of the "male 
 prisoner. 
 
 Magistrate. Have they been in 
 custody sincej" 
 
 Clerk. ITou released the woman on 
 her own recognisances, sir. 
 
 Magistrate." Tes, yes, this is the 
 case of the silver box ; J!jeBi«aber now. 
 WeU? 
 
 Clerk. Thomas Marlow. 
 
 [The cry of "Thomas Marlow" 
 is repeated. Marlow comes in, 
 and steps into the untness-box] 
 
 Usher. The «videneeyou give to 
 the court shall be the truffi^ the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth, so 
 help you God. Kiss the book. 
 
 [The book is kissed. The silver 
 box is handed up, and placed 
 on the rail] 
 
 Clerk [reading from his papers]. 
 Your name is Thomas Marlow? Are 
 you butler to John Barthwick, M. P., 
 of 6, Rockingham Gate? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. Is that the box ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. And did you miss the. same 
 
 at 8.45 nn. thp fnllnTTrrinrr . mnn niTig, on 
 
 going to remove the tray ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. Is the female prisoner known 
 to yon? [Marlow nods] Is- she-the 
 charwoman employed- at-^rRoekLngham 
 Gate? [Again M-AWjOW nods] Did you 
 at the time of your missing the box find 
 her in the room alone ? 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. Did you afterwards com- 
 municate the loss to your employer, 
 and did he send you "txr the police 
 station? " ' 
 
 Marlow. Yes, sir. 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 583 
 
 Clbek. [To Mrs. Jones] Have you 
 anythijig_to-ask-Wia ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. No, sir, nothing, thank 
 you, sir. 
 
 Clerk. [To Jones] James Jones, 
 have you an ything to ask tEs witness 1 
 
 Jones. I don' t kHmr 'im.- - — "~ 
 
 Magistrate. Are you sure you put 
 the box in the place you say at the time 
 you say? '~' 
 
 Marlow. Y.es, your Worship. 
 
 Magistrate. Very well; then now 
 let us have the officer.. 
 
 [Marlow leaves the hex, and 
 Snow goes into it] 
 
 Usher. The evidence you give to 
 the court shall be the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth, so 
 help you God. [The book is kissed] 
 
 Clerk [reading from his papers]. 
 Your name is Robert Snow? You are 
 a detective in the X. B. -division of the 
 Metropolitan police force? According 
 to instructions received did you on 
 Easter Tuesday last proceed to the 
 prisoner's lodgings at 34, Merthyr 
 Street, St. Soames's? And did you on 
 entering see_the-box produced, lying on 
 the table? 
 
 Snow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. Is that the box? 
 
 Snow [fingering the box]. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. And did you thereupon take 
 poss ession of U. and charge the female 
 prisoner witETESft-of the box from 6, 
 Rockingham Gate-? -And„did-she,jieny 
 the same ? 
 
 Snow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. Did you take- her , into 
 custody-? — 
 
 Snow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Magistrate. What was her be- 
 haviour ? 
 
 Snow. Perfectly quiet, your Wor- 
 ship. She ~' persisted"' in thed.enial. 
 That's all. ~ ^^ 
 
 Magistrate. Do you know her? 
 
 Snow. No, 3^jnir Wfirihip 
 
 Magistrate. Is she.kBQwnJiere? 
 
 Bald Constable.-' No, your Wor- 
 ship, they're neither of them known, 
 we've nothing-againstthem at all. 
 
 Clerk. [To Mrs. JonBs] Have you 
 anything to ask the officer? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. No, sir, thank you, 
 I've nothing to ask him. 
 
 MAGiir^ATEl Very well then — go 
 on. 
 
 Clerk [reading from his paper]. And 
 while you were taking the female pris- 
 oner did the male prisoner interpose, 
 
 hinder you in 
 duty, and did 
 
 the 
 he 
 
 and endeavour to 
 execution of your 
 strike you a blow? 
 
 Snow. Yes, sir. 
 
 Clerk. And did he- say, " You- let 
 her go, I took the-box- myself " ? 
 
 Snow. He did. 
 
 Clerk. And did you blow your 
 whistle and obtain the assistance of 
 another oonstabter-and-tste him in-to 
 custody ? 
 
 Snow. I did. 
 
 Clerk. Was he violent on the way 
 to the station, and did he use bad lan- 
 guage, and-d-id~he.^eKeEal-4i-mes- repeat 
 thatlJie.- had -taken— the- box hifflself? 
 [SiTOW nods] Did you thereupon , ask 
 him,_injwhat manner. he-had-s.tolen':the 
 box ? And did you unde rstand hiin to 
 say he ha3 entered thehouse at 'the 
 invitation of young Mr. Bafthwick 
 [Barthwick, turning^ in his seat, frowns 
 at Roper] after midnight on Easter 
 Monday, and partaken of whiskv, a nd 
 thatuadfic- th e- iaflifono e o f-the whisky 
 he Ll&id ta kea^he-box ? 
 
 Snow. I did, sir. 
 
 Clerk. Andl was his demeanour 
 throughout Very violent? 
 
 SnOWT I t 'mas~vervj giolent. 
 
 Jones [breaking vn]. Violent — of 
 co p-se it was ! You jut your 'ands on 
 my^Jg^wES I keptJifiUuil-yoii-i-tlapk 
 tj^ thing myself. 
 
 Magistrate [hissing, with protruded 
 neck]. Now — you will have your 
 chance of sajang what you want to ^ay 
 presently. Have you anything to ask 
 the officer ? 
 
 Jones [sullenly]. No. 
 
 Magistrate. Very well then. Now 
 let us hear what the female prisoner has 
 to say first. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Well, your Worship, 
 of course I can only say what I've said 
 all along, that ! didn't tak e the box. 
 
 Magistrste:" 'ies, but didyou know 
 that it was taken? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. No, your Worship. 
 And ^ of co urse, to what my husband 
 says, your Wbi'yliijj-I -eaai-t-speak-of my 
 own~taro'wledge. Of course, I know that 
 he came home very late on the Monday 
 night. It was past one o'clock when 
 he came in, and he was not himself 
 at all. 
 
 Magistrate. Hadh e been drinld ng ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. YeCyour WorshipT' 
 
 Magistrate. And was he drunk? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes^- yomrWorship, fiS" 
 was almost quite drunk. " 
 
584 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Magistrate. And did he say any- 
 thing to you ? 
 
 Mas. Jones. No,, your Worship, 
 onlj' to oaU meLJiames.. And of course 
 in the mofning when I got up and went 
 to work he was asleep. And I don't 
 know anything more about it until I 
 came home again. Except that Mr. 
 Barthwick — ■ that's my employer, your 
 Worship — told me the^boxjvrasmiss- 
 ing. • " ~~"^ 
 
 Magistrate. Yes, yes. 
 
 Mrs. Jones. But of course when I 
 was shaking out my husba nd' c oo at the 
 cigarette-box fell "ou-t-and— alL_tha_sig- 
 arettes were SQattered- on the bed. 
 
 Magistrate. You say aU the cig- 
 arettes were scattered— on fte — bed? 
 [To Snow] Did you see the cigarettes 
 scattered on the^bied? 
 
 Snow. No, your Worship, I did not. 
 
 Magistrate. You see he says he 
 didn't see thftni. 
 
 Jones. Well,_they were there for all 
 that. 
 
 Snow. I can't say, your Worship, 
 that I had the opportunity of going 
 round the rooin ; I had all my work cut 
 out with the male prisoner. 
 
 Magistrate. [To Mrs. Jones] 
 Well, what more have you to say? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Of course when I saw 
 the box, your Worship, I was dread- 
 fully iipHBt|_aTid T p.milrlTi't. think why 
 he "had ,3o5i^uch_a_tMsS ! when the 
 officer came we wereriaving words 
 about it, because it is ruin to me, your 
 Worship, in my profession, and I have 
 three Kttle children dependent- on me. 
 
 Magistrate [protruding his neck]. 
 Yes — yes — but what did he say to 
 you?, 
 
 Mrs. Jones. I asked him whatever 
 came over him to do such a thing — 
 and he said it was the. drink. He said 
 he had had'too much to drink, and some- 
 thing came over him.-— Andof. course, 
 your Worship, he had hadT very little 
 to eat all day, andjhe. drinkLdoeg,go to 
 the head when yoii have not had enough 
 to eat. Your Worship may not know, 
 but it is the truth. And I would like 
 to say that all thrflugh. his married life, 
 I have never known him to do such a 
 thing before, though we have -passed 
 through great hardships axi3~{speaking 
 with soft emphasis] I am quite siire he 
 would not have done it if he had been 
 himself at the time. 
 
 Magistrate. Yes, yes. But don't 
 you know that that is no eKcuse? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, your Worship. 
 I know that it is no excuse. 
 
 [The Magistrate leans over and 
 parleys with his Clerk] 
 
 Jack [leaning over from his seat be- 
 hind]. I say, Dad 
 
 Barthwick. Tsst ! [Sheltering his 
 mouth he speaks to Roper] Roper, you 
 had batter- -get_ up now an d say that 
 considering-Jthe—ciroumstances 'and..the 
 poverty^ erf. _th.e prisoners, we have do 
 wish to-pfooeed any. further, and if.iie 
 magistrate would deal with the case as 
 one of disorder only on the part of 
 
 Bald Constable. Hssshh ! 
 
 [Roper shakes his head] 
 
 Magistrate. Now, supposing what 
 you say and what your husband says 
 i^ true,, what I have to consider is — • 
 ho^_did he obtaiiraccessT2liEOi.ouse, 
 and were yourin: aioy^ay aparty to his 
 obtaining access? You are the char- 
 woman employed at the house? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Yes, your Worship, 
 and of course if I had let hiin into the 
 house it would have been very wrong 
 of me ; and I have never done such a 
 thing in any of the houses where I- have 
 been employed. 
 
 Magistrate. Well — so you say. 
 Now let us hear what story the male 
 prisoner makes of it. 
 
 Jones [who leans with his arms on the' 
 dock behind, speaks in a slow, sullen 
 voice]. Wot I say is wot my wife says. 
 I've never been 'ad up in a police coiu:t 
 before, an' I can prove I took it-acken 
 in~liquflx. I told her, and she can tell 
 you the same, that I was goin' to throw 
 the thing intQ_the__waJgE_ sooiifit_then 
 'ave it on my mind. 
 
 Magistrate. But how did you get 
 into the house ? 
 
 Jones. I was passin'. I was goin' 
 'ome fronrtilff'^'^oat and' Bells." 
 
 MaqistBate. The " Goat and Bells," 
 — what is -that ? A- pubMc-house ? 
 
 Jones. Yes, at the corner. It was 
 Baqk 'oUday, an' I'd 'ad a drop to drink— 
 I see Trhis-young Mr. Seuviipm&k tryin' 
 to find the keyhole on thfi-Jgrong side 
 of the door. 
 
 Magistrate. Well? 
 
 Jones [slowly and with many pauses]. 
 Well — I 'elped 'im to find it — drunk 
 as a lord 'e was. He goes on," an' comes 
 back again, and says, " I've got nothin' 
 for you," 'e says, "but come in aul 'ave a 
 drink." SoLjjsBsatJn4uslLaB„.yjiU-inight 
 'ave dQne_yourseJf.„ We, 'ad_a_driiik.o' 
 whisky just as_jgujnig]iiJia3?B- 'ad, 'nd 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 585 
 
 young Mr. Barth.wick says to me, 
 "Take a drink 'nd a smoke. Take 
 anything you like," 'e says. And then 
 he went to sleep on the sofa. I 'ad 
 some more whis^ — ^ji'^Jsi-a-smoke 
 — and I '^ad-somelmore whis ky -^ an' 
 I oapiMi— teU -yer - what 'appened ' after 
 that. 
 
 Magisteate. Do you mean to say 
 that you were so drunk that you can 
 remember nothing ? 
 
 Jack [softly to his father]. I say, 
 thn. k'g BYa.p.t1v w}ia.t, =;= 
 
 Ba^thwick. Tssh ! 
 
 Jones. That's what I dpjiean. 
 
 Magistrate. And yet yoii say you 
 stole the feox ? 
 
 Jones. I nev-er stole— tha-Jjos^ I 
 tQSkik_ 
 
 Magistrate [hissing with protruded 
 nech]._ You did noi steal it -^ you 
 took iti_ D id it belo ngJjQ^you — what 
 is that but stealing/" 
 
 Jones. I took it. 
 
 Magistrate. You took it — you 
 took it awa g from thd r_house and you 
 took it to your house 
 
 Jones [sullenly breaking in]. I ain't 
 got a house. 
 
 MiaisTEATE. Very well, let us hear 
 what this young man Mr. — Mr. 
 Barthwick — has to say to your story. 
 [Snow leaves the iDitness-box. . The 
 Bald Constable beckons Jack, 
 who, clutching his hat, goes into 
 the witness-box, Rpeee moves 
 to the table set apart fox-his pro- 
 fession] 
 _ Swearing Cleek. The evidence you 
 give to the court shall be the truth, the 
 whole truth, and nothing but the truth, 
 so help you God. Kiss the book. 
 
 [The book is kissed] 
 
 Roper [examining]. What is your 
 name? 
 
 Jack [in a low voice]. John Barth- 
 wickr-Jufiior. 
 
 [The Clerk writes it down] 
 
 Ropip. Where do you lijre ? 
 
 Jack'. At 6, Rockingham Gate. 
 
 [All his answers are recorded by 
 the Clerk] 
 
 RoPBB. You are _lhfi__ san_pf the 
 owner? 
 
 Jack [in a very low voice]. Yes. 
 
 Roper. Speak -ttp,_please. Do you 
 know the prisoners ? 
 
 JACK-p5oKras o,i the Joneses, in a low 
 voice]. .I've seen Mrs. Jones. I — ■ [in 
 a loud voice] donAt-knowthe man. 
 
 Jones. Well, I know .you ! 
 
 Bald Constable. Hssh ! 
 
 Roper. Now, did you come in late 
 on the night of Easter Monday ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. - • 
 
 Ropeb. And did you by mistake 
 leave your latch-key inthejdoor ? 
 
 Jack. Yes7 " "~ 
 
 Magistrate. Oh! You left your 
 latchrkexin-tliedoor ? 
 
 RopbhT AnSTTs that all you can 
 remember about your coming in? 
 
 Jack [in a loud voice]. Yes, it is. 
 
 Magistrate. Now, you have heard 
 the male prisoner's story, what do you 
 say to that? 
 
 Jack [turning to the Magistrate, 
 speaks suddenly in a confident, straight- 
 forward voice]. The fact of the matter 
 is, ^ir,,. that I'd been ant to the theatre 
 that night, and had supper afterwards, 
 and I came in. late. 
 
 Magistrate. Do you remember this 
 man being outside when you came in? 
 
 Jack. No, sir^_ [He hesitates\ ldon't 
 think X do . """ 
 
 _ Magistrate [somewhat puzzled]. Well, 
 did he help, you to open the door, as he 
 says? Did ore£^one.help__sail-to--open 
 the doorT " 
 
 Jack. No, sir — -I don't think so, 
 sir — I don't know. 
 
 Magistrate. Y'ou don't know? 
 But you must know. It isn't a usual 
 thing.fdr you to have.the dopr opened 
 for you, is it? 
 
 Jack [uiith a shamefaced smile]. No. 
 
 Magistrate. Very weU, then 
 
 Jack [desperately]. The fact of the 
 matter is, sic, I'm afraid I'd had too 
 mu(A chamBftea ie that- nieht. 
 
 Magistrate [smiling]. Oh! you'd 
 had too much champagne? 
 
 Jones. May I ask the gentleman a 
 question? 
 
 Magistrate. Yes — ■ yes — you may 
 ask him what questions' you -Uke. 
 
 Jones. Don't you remember you 
 said you _was a, liberalT- same_aa_2pi'' 
 father, and yQU_asked me wot " 
 
 Jack [with his hancTagainst his brow]. 
 I seem to remember 
 
 Jones. ~ And I said to you, "I'm a 
 bloomin'. Conservaiiwe," I said;_flin^ou 
 said to me, "You look moieJike one 
 of these _'er&-Socialigts. Take sfptever 
 you like," jcau-saidv" 
 
 Jack [vnih sudden resolution]. No, I 
 don't. I don't remember anything of 
 the sort. 
 
 Jones. WeU, I do, an' my word's 
 as good as yours. I've never been had 
 
586 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 up in a police court before. Look 'ere, 
 dou't you remember-yoiLliaia sky-blue 
 bag in your 'and ^ — 
 
 [Barthwick jumps] 
 
 Roper. I submit to your Worship 
 that these^ questions are hardly to the 
 point, the prisoner havmg admitted 
 that he himself does not remember any- 
 thing. [There is a smile on the face of 
 Justice] It is a case of the blind lead- 
 ing the blind. 
 
 Jones [violently]. I've done no more 
 than wot he 'as. I'm a poor man ; I've 
 got no money an' no friends — he's a 
 toff ^— he can do w-atj can't. 
 
 Magistrate. Now, now! All this 
 won't help you — you must be quiet. 
 You say you took tMs-box ? Now, what 
 made you take it? Were you pressed 
 for mmney? 
 
 always^ pressed for 
 
 I'm 
 
 Was that the reason 
 
 Jones- 
 money. 
 
 Magistrate 
 you took it ? 
 
 Jones. No. 
 
 Magistrate. [To Snow] Was any- 
 thing found on him? 
 
 Snow. Yes, your Worship. There 
 was six j)ounds twel ve shiUin's fo und on 
 him, andrfhis^'purser''^ ~ 
 
 [The red silk purse is handed to 
 the Magistrate. Barthwick 
 rises in his seat, but hastily sits 
 down again] 
 
 Magistrate [staring at the purse]. 
 Yes, yes — let me .see — [There is a 
 silence] No,, no, I've nothing- before 
 me as to the purse. How did you come 
 by all that money? 
 
 Jones [after a long pause, suddenly]. 
 I decUnes to say. 
 
 Magistrate. But if you had all that 
 money, what made you take this box ? 
 
 Jones. I took it out of spite. 
 
 Magistrate [hissing, with protruded 
 neck]. You took it out of spite ? Well 
 now, that's.„somethingl— But do you 
 imagine you can go about the town 
 taking things out of spite? 
 
 Jones. If you had my life, if you'd 
 been out of work 
 
 Magistrate. Yes, yes ; I know — 
 because you're out of work you think 
 it's an excuse for everything. 
 
 Jones [pointing at Jack]. You ask 
 'im wQljnade-Iim-take-tha. 
 
 Roper [quietly]. Does your Wor- 
 ship require this witness in the box any 
 longer? 
 
 Magistrate [ironically]. J—Jhink 
 not ; he is hardly prsfitaHe.. 
 
 [Jack leaves the witness-box, and, 
 hanging his head, resumes his 
 seat] 
 
 Jones. You ask 'im wot made 'im 
 
 take the lady's 
 
 [But the Bald Constable catches 
 him by the sleeve] 
 
 Bald Constable. Sssh ! 
 
 Magistrate [emphatically]. Now 
 listen to me. I've nothing to do with 
 what he may or may not have taken. 
 Why did you -resist the police in the 
 execution of their duty ? ■ 
 
 Jones. It w^ n't their duty to take 
 my wife, a respectablazEfifflan, that 
 'adn't done nothing. 
 
 MTagistratb: ~ But I say it was. 
 What made you strike the ofl&cer a 
 blow? 
 
 Jones. Any man would a struck 
 'im a blow. I'd strike 'im again, I 
 would. 
 
 Magistrate. You are not making 
 your case any better by violence. How 
 do you suppose we covld get on if every- 
 body behaved like you ? 
 
 Jones [leaning forward, earnestly]. 
 Well, wot about 'er ; who's to make up 
 to 'er for this ? Who's to give 'er b ack 
 'er good name ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones. Your Worship, it's the 
 children that's -preying on-~ffl«-inirid, 
 because of course I've lost my w-ork. 
 And I've had to find another-Toom owing 
 to the scandal. 
 
 Magistrate. Yes, yes, I know — 
 but if he hadn't acted like this nobody 
 would hav e suf fere J. 
 
 Jones [glaring round at Jack]. I've 
 done no worse than wot 'e 'as. Wot I 
 want to know is wot's gBiino be done 
 to 'im. 
 
 [The Bald Constable again 
 says "Rssbl"] 
 
 Roper. Mr. Barthwick wishes it 
 known, your Worship, that considering 
 the poverty of the prisoners he does not 
 press the charge.as3o.tlie box. Perhaps 
 your'WofsEip would deal with the case 
 as one of disorder. 
 
 Jones. I don't want it smothered 
 up, I want ijt all.dealt with fair — I want 
 my jrights"^- — 
 
 Magistrate [rapping his desk]. Now 
 you have said all you have to say, 
 and you will be quiet. [There is a 
 silence; the Magistrate bends over and 
 
 farleys with his Clerk] Yes, I think 
 may discharge the_jwDman. [In a 
 kindly voice he oddresses—Mag. Jones, 
 who stands unmoving with her hands 
 
The Silver Box 
 
 587 
 
 crossed on the rail] It is-very unfortu- 
 naterfor-you iSisrn3lterTnaffl-4aB -bahaiei 
 as he has. It is not the consequences to 
 him but_the cons equences to you. You 
 have been brougETEefe twice, you have 
 lost .yonmcor^ — [He glares at Jones] 
 and this is wEat alwaysjjappens. Now 
 you may go away, and I am ver y sor ry 
 It was necessaax*o briug ,yuu Leiirarall. 
 
 Mrs. Jones [softly]. Thank you very 
 much, your Worship. 
 
 [She leaves the dock, and looking 
 back at J ones, twists he r fingers 
 andS&^^ll] 
 
 Magistrate. Yes, yes, but I can't 
 pass it- over — fio-away.jieEeis-a good 
 woman. . [Mrs. Jones stands back. The 
 Magistrate leans his head on his hand : 
 then raising it he speaks to Jones] Now, 
 listen to me. Do you wish the case to 
 be settled here, or do you wish it to go 
 before a jury ? 
 
 Jones [muttering]. I don't want no 
 jury. 
 
 Magistrate. Very well then, I will 
 deajLsidthJ.t.Jiere.- [After a pause] You 
 have pleaded guilty__to ste aling this 
 box — 
 
 Jones. Not,.to stealin' — 
 
 Bald Constable. Hssshh ! 
 
 Magistrate. And to assaulting the 
 p olice — — 
 
 Jones. A ny man as was aj nan 
 
 Magistrate; Your conduct here 
 has been most impropsr. You give, 
 the excuse thalLyou were drunk when 
 you stoleJih e box^ I t ell you that is no 
 excuse. If vo u. choose to get drunk and 
 break the law afterwards you must Jiake 
 the consequences. And let me, tell you 
 that men like you, who get drunk and 
 give way to your spite or whatever -it is 
 
 that's in you, are — are — a nuisance 
 to the comrnunity. 
 
 Jack [leaning from his seai]. Dad ! 
 thatljus£hai-yo.u-sari44«-aie ! 
 ISahthwick. Tsst ! 
 
 [There is a silence, while the Mag- 
 istrate consults his Clerk ; 
 Jones leans forward waiting] 
 Magistrate. This is your first of- 
 fence, and I am going to give you a light 
 sentence. [Speaking sharply, hut with- 
 out expression] One month, wiJkJiard 
 labour. 
 
 [He bends, and parleys with his 
 
 Clerk. The Bald Constable 
 
 and another help Jones from the 
 
 dock] 
 
 Jones [stopping and twisting round]. 
 
 Call -this justice? What about 'Lm? 
 
 'E got drunk ! 'Jl_toak-4h.«r-puTse — 
 
 ^e took the^purse but [in a muffled shout] 
 
 \^l&~'is?Mone.y-g-ot Um-Si^^=^J^slice-L 
 
 [The prisoner's door is shut on 
 Jones, and from the seedy- 
 looking men and women comes a 
 hoarse and whispering groan] 
 Magistrate. We will now adjourn 
 for lunch ! [He rises from his seat] 
 
 [The Court is in a stir. Roper 
 gets up and speaks to the reporter. 
 Jack, throwing up his head, 
 walks with a swagger to the 
 corridor; B arthwick /oKotos] 
 Mrs. Jones [turning^ to him with a 
 
 humble gesture]. Oh ! sir ! 
 
 [Babthwick hesitates, then yield- 
 ing to his nerves, he makes a 
 shame-faced gesture of refusal, 
 and hurries out of court. Mrs. 
 Jones stands looking after him] 
 
 [The curtain falls] 
 
THE CASSILIS ENGAGEMENT 
 
 "" (1907) 
 
 By St. John Hankin 
 
ST. JOHN EMILE CLAVERING HANKIN 
 (1869-1909) 
 
 The "New Drama" sought, not only to express itself through a new form, but to 
 frame for itself a new code of morals. This new code was in no way over-emotional, 
 but was marked by a common sense which placed the social fact above any startling 
 invention on the part of the playwright, and which centered the interest more on 
 the intellectual side of a thesis stated, than on the side of any great passion or parti- 
 san spirit. Of course, this "New Drama" varied in accord with the temperaments of 
 the dramatists ; the difference between them is one of degree rather than one 
 of kind. The consequence is, during the experimental period, when the English 
 dramatic renaissance was fighting for its very existence, it was indeed fortunate 
 that men of independent means, Uke St. John Hankin, were able to stand against 
 the wall, and fight for those principles which were to bring back into the theatre 
 sanity and an interest in true criticism of life. 
 
 St. John Hankin possessed the common sense which is characteristic of Shaw. 
 He likewise had some of that intellectual wit which is a large part of Shaw. He 
 stands midway between Oscar Wilde and Shaw, possessing characteristics in com- 
 mon with both, and yet differing from them through difference in personality. For, 
 as one critic has pointed out, Hankin's wit is not as reckless as that of Wilde, and 
 his social conscience is not pledged, as Shaw's conscience is, to propaganda utter- 
 ances. A difference which distinguishes him from both Shaw and WUde is this — 
 that, whereas his wit reveals him as deeply analytical of human nature, he always 
 writes in such manner that what he makes his characters say is in thorough con- 
 sonance with what they would say under given conditions. Oscar Wilde uttered 
 briUiant statements that any of his characters could have made. In other words, 
 they spoke the brilliancy of Oscar Wilde. Shaw has his characters make social 
 statements which are his own social behefs. But Hankin is true to his characters ; 
 so true and just, indeed, that one sometimes doubts whether he has any real feehng 
 toward them. One cannot help but believe that in Galworthy's "Justice", the judi- 
 cial fairness in stating the case is detrimental to the emotional value of the piece for 
 the audience. He is eminently fair in his solution, but emotion and passion presup- 
 pose a sympathy which is not one of the predominating characteristics of the "New 
 Drama." Stanley Houghton's " Hindle '^akes", J. O. Francis's "Change" — the 
 Welsh play of Syndicalism — Githa Sowerby's "Rutherford and Son" — ^ all of 
 these are more or less predorainantly intellectual, and reach out for a new code of 
 living. 
 
 St. John Hankin was bom of Cornish stock, in Southampton, on September 25, 
 1869. His father was a school-teacher. His mother had an independent fortune. 
 When he was fourteen, he entered Malvern College with a scholarship, and three 
 years afterwards won a post-mastership at Merton College, Oxford. His university 
 career is marked by a continued succession of honours in the classics. After 
 
 691 
 
592 Representative British Dramas 
 
 graduating, he eatered journalism in London, and contributed many papers to The 
 Saturday Review. By the year 1894, he was in India, on the staff of the Indian 
 Daily News, Calcutta; but malaria drove him home within a year, and he asso- 
 ciated himself with the London Times, writing dramatic criticism and miscellaneous 
 articles. He was often a contributor to Punch, and, in 1901, he published "Mr. 
 Punch's Dramatic Sequels", writing supplementary acts to the classic dramas; 
 followed, in 1904, by "Lost Masterpieces", in which he parodied famous authors. 
 This clever hterary feat of continuing a story beyond the author's intention was 
 applied to himself in the "Introduction" to three of his plays, supposed, by the 
 London critics, to have been marred through their lack of "happy endings." 
 
 His &st play, "The Two Mr. Wetherbys", was given by The London Stage 
 Society, on February 3, 1903. Evidently Hanldn put much of himself into his 
 writing, for we are told that the strain of journalistic work made him definitely 
 retire, in 1904, to Campden, Gloucestershire, where he busied himself with trans- 
 lating Brieux's "Les Trois Filles de M. Dupont", given by The Stage Society in 
 1905, and by writing an original comedy, "The Return of the Prodigal", given by 
 Vedrenne and Barker, on September 26, 1905. "The Charity that Began at 
 Home" and "The Cassihs Engagement" were produced during the seasons of 1906- 
 
 1907, by The London Stage Society, and thereafter became dramas in the repertory 
 houses of Manchester, Liverpool, and Glasgow. His "The Last of the De Mullins", 
 described as "merciless realism", was given by The Stage Society in December, 
 
 1908. In addition to these, there are two one-act plays, " The Burglar who Failed" 
 (1908), and "The Constant Lover" (1912), to his credit. This list represents the 
 activities of St. John HanMn as a playwright. 
 
 His iU-health continued, and in 1907 he developed neurasthenia. It was while 
 at the baths of Llandrindod Wells that he drowned himself in the river Ithon, on 
 June 15, 1909. A three-act drama, entitled "Thompson", was left incomplete. 
 It was finished by George Calderon, and produced in 1913. 
 
 We have selected for inclusion in the present collection "The Cassihs Engage- 
 ment" as representative of Hankin in most of the characteristics which mark the 
 majority of his plays. The reader is recommended to the introductory essay by 
 John Drinkwater, in the definitive edition of St. John Hankin's Works. But 
 more enlightening even than what Drinkwater has to say are the several essays 
 which are included in the third volume of the plays. These not only give Hankin's 
 attitude toward his own work, but likewise toward the progressive theatre move- 
 ment, of which he was such a necessary and healthy part. 
 
 In Hankin's "A Note on Happy Endings", defending the sane and sensible 
 attitude of Mrs. Cassilis toward the engagement, he claims : 
 
 So the engagement was broken off and any one who does not realise that 
 it was a "happy ending" for aU parties must be perfectly imbecile. But this 
 is to judge my play as a piece of real life and not as the plot of a comedy, and 
 that is an intellectual feat which seems to be beyond the capacity of the 
 average critic. By him therefore the breaking off of the Cassilis Engagement, 
 instead of being welcomed as matter for rejoicing, was received with mingled 
 tears and curses. Our dramatic critics when they enter a theatre seem to 
 leave all sense of reality outside and judge what they see there by some purely 
 artificial standard which they would never dream of applying to the fortunes 
 of themselves or their friends. To them all engagements are satisfactory and 
 
St. John Emile Clavering Hankin 593 
 
 all marriages are made in Heaven, and at the mere thought of wedding bells 
 they dodder like romantic old women in an almshouse. No wonder they 
 have reduced our drama to the last stage of intellectual decrepitude. 
 
 And, with his usual interest in what happens after it is all over, Hankin adds 
 another act to his play when he writes : 
 
 Geoffrey Cassilis married Mabel to the delight of their respective mothers 
 and of the whole county, and unless they break their necks in the hunting field 
 nothing seems Hkely to interrupt the even tenor of their happiness. They live 
 down at Deynham in that little house on the edge of the Park the prospect 
 of which so appalled Ethel Borridge, and there is now a little Geoffrey to 
 follow in the footsteps of his fond father. I only hope when he is grown-up 
 and in his turn falls in love with the inevitable chorus girl, his grandmother wiU 
 be ahve to save him from the consequences of his folly. For I doubt if she 
 has ever dared to teU Mabel or Geoffrey her secret for dealing with romantic 
 attachments of this kind. Ethel Borridge married Lord Buckfastleigh as 
 soon as he became a widower — and worried that venerable nobleman into 
 his grave in six months. So she also " ended happily." 
 
 By this, one can see what is meant when St. John Hankin is accused of having 
 only a passing interest in his characters, — in being completely through with them 
 after his play is finished, and in failing to awaken in his audience any deeper emotion 
 or interest than one would feel in being party to a situation between people one 
 does not know or have much concern about. 
 
 Yet, there is great artistry in Hankin's delineation of character, even though 
 there is a tendency on his part to lose interest in his invention, and to resort to very 
 commonplace solutions and very old-fashioned means of bringing his plays to an 
 end. "The Two Mr. Wetherbys" is an illustration of this. 
 
 His plays, read in succession, will show an increasing development on Hankin's 
 part. They grow by accumulation of good qualities, rather than by any disti:act 
 demarkation of workmanship. It is futile to argue what advajiee Hankin woidd 
 have made had he lived. We can only say that what he did do was of inestimable 
 service in the advance of the "New Drama", and showed an increasing surety in 
 technique. What keeps them from an assured place in the future is their lack of 
 spontaneity, which real wit should have, and their lack of passion, which is at the 
 basis of all human life. 
 
THE CASSILIS ENGAGEMENT 
 A COMEDY FOR MOTHERS 
 
 By ST. JOHN HANKIN 
 
 Copyrighted in tbe United States by Mitchell Kennerley. 
 
 Reprinted from " The Dramatic Work of St. John Hankin " by permission of 
 the publisher, Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, New York. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Presented at the Imperial Theatre, London, by the Stage Society, under ths 
 directorship of Miss Madge Mcintosh, February 10, 1907. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis Miss Evelyn Weeden 
 
 Geoffrey Cassilis her son .... Mr. Langhorne Burton 
 
 Lady Makchmont her sister . . . Miss Gertrude Burnett 
 
 The Countess of Remenham Miss Florence Haydon 
 
 Major Warrington . ... her brother . . . Mr. Sam Sothern 
 
 Lady Mabel Venning . . . her daughter . . Miss Isabel Roland 
 
 Mrs. Borridge Miss Clare Greet 
 
 Ethel Borridge her daughter . . Miss Maudi Darrell 
 
 The Rev. Hildebrand Herries the Rector . . . Mr. F. Morland 
 
 Mrs. Herries . .... his wife . . ^ Miss K. M. Romsey 
 
 Watson butler at Deynham Mr. Ralf Hutton 
 
 Dorset Mrs. Cassilis's 
 
 maid .... Miss Margaret Mackenzie 
 Two Footmen 
 
 The action of the play passes at Deynham Abbey, Mrs. Cassilis's house in Leices- 
 tershire, Act I in the Drawing-room, Act II on the Lawn, Act III in the Smoking- 
 room, and Act IV in the Morning-room. One night passes between Acts I and II 
 and between Acts III and IV, one week between Acts II and III. 
 
 Note. — The Leicestershire Cassilises pronounce their name as it is spelt. 
 
THE CASSILIS ENGAGEMENT 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — The white drawing-room at 
 Deynham Abbey, a very handsome 
 room furnished in the Louis Seize 
 style. There are big double doors 
 at the back, and a large tea-table, with 
 teacups, etc., on cloth, stands rather 
 to the left of them. There is a large 
 French window open on the left of 
 the stage, with a sofa in front of it 
 facing the view. On the opposite 
 side of the room is the fireplace, but 
 there is no fire as the month is August. 
 Two or three arm-chairs stand near 
 it. When the curtain rises the 
 Rector is standing judicially on 
 the hearthrug. He seems about to 
 hum a tune, but thinks better of it. 
 Mes. Herribs is standing by the 
 window. Presently she crosses to 
 her husband, and sits in one of the 
 arm-chairs. The Rector is a 
 rubicund, humorous-looking man of 
 fifty; his wife a prosperous-looking 
 lady a few years younger. 
 
 Mrs. Hbrries. I wonder what can 
 be keeping Mrs. Cassilis ? 
 
 Rector [back to fire]. My dear, I 
 told you we oughtn't to have called. 
 
 On so sad an, occasion 
 
 Mrs. Herribs. My dear Hilde- 
 brand, it's just on these sad occasions 
 that a visit is so consoling. One should 
 
 always call after a birth, a funeral 
 
 Btjtler [showing in Lady Remenham 
 and her daughter]. I will tell Mrs. 
 Cassilis you are here, my lady. She 
 will be down in a moment. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Thank you. How 
 do you do, Mrs. Herries? How do 
 you do. Rector? • 
 
 [Lady Remenham goes towards 
 fireplace and shakes hands. 
 She is a dignified old lady of 
 about sixty. Her normal ex- 
 pression is one of placid self- 
 assurance, but to-day she has 
 the air of disapproving of some- 
 
 697 
 
 thing or somebody. Mabel is a 
 very pretty girl of two and 
 twenty. Lady Remenham seats 
 herself comfortably by Mrs. 
 Herribs. Mabel goes over to 
 window, where the Rector 
 joins her] 
 Mrs. Herries. How do you do, 
 Lady Remenham? 
 
 Rector. How do you do, Mabel? 
 Lady Remenham. You've heard 
 this dreadful news, haven't you? 
 
 [Rectok makes sympathetic ges- 
 ture] 
 Mrs. Herries. Yes. Poor Mrs. 
 Cassilis. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Poor Adelaide, 
 indeed ! That unhappy boy ! But 
 there ! How any mother can allow such 
 a thing to happen passes my compre- 
 hension. To get engaged ! 
 
 Rector [nods sympathetically]. Just 
 so. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Engagements are 
 such troublesome things. They some- 
 times even lead to marriage. But we'll 
 hope it won't be as bad as that in this 
 case. You've not heard who she is, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Mrs. Herries [shaking her head 
 mournfully]. No. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Ah! Some one 
 quite impossible, of course. Otherwise 
 Adelaide would have told me in her 
 letter. 
 
 Mrs. Herries. I'm afraid so. 
 Lady Remenham [irritably]. It's 
 really extremely wicked of Geoffrey. 
 And so siUy, too ! — which is worse. 
 A temporary infatuation I could under- 
 stand, terminated by some small mone- 
 tary payment. It would have been 
 regrettable, of course, but young men 
 are like that. And Adelaide could have 
 stopped it out of his allowance. But an 
 engagement ! I am quite shocked at her. 
 Mabel [at window, turning to her 
 mother]. Don't you think, mamma, we 
 
698 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 might leave Mrs. Cassilis to manage 
 her son's affairs her own way? 
 
 Ladt Remenham. She has not man- 
 aged them. That's exactly what I 
 complain of. I can't altogether acquit 
 the Rector of some blame in the matter. 
 He was Geoffrey's tutor for years. 
 They used to say in my young days, 
 "Train up a child in the way he should 
 go " 
 
 Rector [attempting a mild jest]. 
 And when he's grown up he'll give jrou 
 a great deal of anxiety. So they did ! 
 So they did ! 
 
 Lady Remenham [severely]. That is 
 not the ending / remember. 
 
 Rector. That is the Revised 
 Version. 
 
 [Mrs. Herhies frowns. She feels 
 this is not a moment for levity] 
 
 Lady Remenham. I dare say. They 
 seem to alter everything nowadays. 
 But, if so, I hardly see the use of educa- 
 tion. 
 
 Rector [obstinately cheerful]. I have 
 long been of that opinion, Lady Remen- 
 ham. 
 
 [Mrs. Cassilis, in a charming flutter of 
 apologies, enters at this moment. 
 She is a very pretty woman of forty, 
 tall and graceful, and exquisitely 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You must forgive 
 me aU of you. I had some letters to 
 finish. [General handshake. Kiss to 
 Mabel] Dear Mabel. How do you 
 do, Mrs. Herries? 
 
 Rector. How do you do, Mrs. 
 Cassilis ? 
 
 Lady Remenham. My dear Ade- 
 laide, what a charming gown ! But you 
 always do have the most delightful 
 clothes. Where do you get them? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Clarice made this. 
 
 [Two footmen bring the tea-table down 
 into the middle of the room. The 
 Butler, who has brought in a tea- 
 pot on a salver, places it on the 
 table, and brings up a chair for 
 Mrs. Cassilis. The footmen go 
 out] 
 Lady Remenham. Clarice? The 
 wretch! She always makes my things 
 atrociously. If only I had your figure ! 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Excuse me, dear. 
 [To Butler] The carriage has gone 
 to the station to meet Lady March- 
 mont, Watson? 
 
 Butler. Yes, madam. It started 
 five minutes ago. [Exit Butler] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. [To Lady Remen- 
 ham] I'm so glad you like it. 
 
 [Goes to tea-table and seats herself] 
 
 Lady Remenham. Is Margaret com- 
 ing to stay with you ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Yes, for ten days. 
 
 Lady Remenham [drawing chair up to 
 table]. And now wiU you please pour 
 out my tea? I have come here to 
 scold you, and I shall require several 
 cups. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [quite cheerful]. To 
 scold mef Won't you aU bring your 
 chairs to the table? [They all do so] 
 Rector, where are you? [To Lady 
 Remenham] Cream? 
 
 Lady Remenham. Thank you. And 
 a small lump. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. And why am I to 
 be scolded? 
 
 Lady Remenham. You know quite 
 weU. [Sternly] Adelaide, what is this 
 I hear about Geoffrey's engagement? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [not at all disturbed]. 
 Oh, that? Yes, Geoffrey has got en- 
 gaged to a girl in London. Isn't it 
 romantic of him ! I know nothing what- 
 ever about her except that I believe she 
 has no money, and Geoffrey is over 
 head and ears in love with her. 
 
 Mrs. Herries [blandly]. My dear 
 Mrs. Cassilis, I should have thought 
 that was quite enough! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Rector, will you 
 cut that cake? It's just by your hand. 
 
 Lady Remenham [refusing to be di- 
 verted from the task of cross-examination]. 
 Where did he meet her ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. In an omnibus, I 
 understand. 
 
 Lady Remenham [scandalised]. An 
 omnibus I 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Yes. That was so 
 romantic, too I One of the horses fell 
 down, and she was frightened. They 
 thought she was going to faint. Geof- 
 frey got her out, took charge of her, 
 discovered her address, and took her 
 home. Wasn't it clever of him? Of 
 course she asked him to come in. He 
 was introduced to her mother. And 
 now they're engaged. 
 
 [Gives cup to Rector] 
 
 Lady Remenham [with awful dignity]. 
 And what is the name of this young 
 person? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Borrid^e. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Borridge ! Mabel, 
 my love, pray remember if ever you 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 699 
 
 come home and inform me that you are 
 engaged to a person of the name of 
 Borridge I shall whip you. 
 
 [Puts down cup] 
 
 Mabel. Very well, mamma. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. Another oup ? 
 
 Lady Remenham. Thank you. 
 Rather less sugar this time. [Gives cup] 
 I never could understand why you let 
 Geoffrey be in London at all. Alone 
 too. Young men ought never to be 
 allowed out alone at his age. They 
 are so susceptible. 
 
 Mabel. Geoffrey has his profession, 
 mamma. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Geoffrey's at the 
 Bar, you know. 
 
 Lady Remenham. The Bar! What 
 business has Geoffrey to be at the Bar ! 
 Deynham has the best shooting in the 
 Shires, and in the winter there's the 
 hunting. What more does he want? 
 It's disgraceful. 
 
 Rector [another mild effort at humour]. 
 My dear Lady Remenham, you're sure 
 you're not confusing the Bar with the 
 Dock? 
 
 Mbs. Hehries. Hildebrand ! 
 
 Lady Remenham [impatiently]. The 
 Bar is a good enough profession, of 
 course. But only for very younger sons. 
 Geoffrey will have Deynham some day, 
 and twelve thousand a year. I don't 
 think Adelaide need have made a httle 
 attorney of him. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Young men must 
 do something, don't you tmnk? 
 
 Lady Remenham [briskly]. Certainly 
 not! It's this vulgar Radical notion 
 that people ought to do things that is 
 ruining Enghsh Society. What did Mr. 
 Borridge do, by the way ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [hesitates]. He was a 
 bookmaker, I beUeve. 
 
 Lady Remenham [triumphantly]. 
 There, you see! That's what comes 
 of doing things ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [slight shrug. Pour- 
 ing herself out more tea, and still quite 
 urtrufied]. Well, I'm afraid there's no 
 use in discussing it. They're engaged, 
 and Miss Borridge is coming down here. 
 
 Mrs. Heeries. Coming here ! 
 
 Lady Remenham. Coming here ! ! ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Yes. On a visit. 
 With her mother. 
 
 Lady Remenham [putting down her 
 cup with a touch 0/ solemnity]. Ade- 
 laide, are you — excuse my asking the 
 question — are you quite in your right 
 mind? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis \laughing]. I believe 
 so. 
 
 Lady Remenham. You've noticed 
 nothing ? No dizziness about the head ? 
 No singing in the ears ? [Mbs. Cassilis 
 shakes her head] And yet you ask this 
 young woman to stay with you ! . And 
 her mother ! Neither of whom you 
 know anything whatever about ! 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Another oup ? 
 
 [Lady Remenham shakes her 
 head irritably] 
 
 Lady Remenham. Is Mr. Borridge 
 — Ugh ! — coming too ? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. He is dead, I be- 
 lieve. 
 
 Lady Remenham. That, at least, is 
 satisfactory. 
 
 Mabel. Mamma ! 
 
 Lady Remenham. Mabel, I shall do 
 my duty whatever happens. [Turning 
 to Mrs. Cassilis again] And does Mrs. 
 Borridge carry on the business ? I think 
 you said he was a lioo^maker? 
 
 Mabel. Boofe-maker. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [refusing to take offence]. 
 No. I believe he left her some small 
 annuity. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Annuity? Ah, 
 dies with her, of course? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. No doubt. 
 
 Lady Remenham [gasps]. Well, Ade- 
 laide, I never should have believed itVf 
 you. To ask these people to the house ! 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Why shouldn't I ask 
 them? Geoffrey teUs me Ethel is 
 charming. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Ethel? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Miss Borridge. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Bah ! 
 
 [Enter Butleb, showing in another visitor. 
 This is Lady Mabchmont, Mbs. 
 Cassilis's sister. She is a woman 
 of about jive-and-forty. She wears 
 a light travelling cloak. She is not 
 unlike Mrs. Cassilis in appearance 
 and manner, but is of a more delicate, 
 fragile type] 
 
 BuTLEE. Lady Marchmont. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [rising]. Ah, Mar- 
 garet. How glad I am to see you. 
 Some more tea, Watson. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [kisses her]. Not 
 for me, please. No, really. My doctor 
 won't hear of it. Hot water with a 
 little milk is the most he allows me. 
 How do you do, dear? [Shaking hands 
 with the others] How do you do? How 
 do you do? 
 
 [BuTLEE goes out] 
 
600 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. How's the General? 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Very gouty. 
 His temper this morning was atrocious, 
 poor m.an. 
 
 Lady Rbmenham [shakes her head]. 
 You bear it like a saint, dear. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [philosophically, 
 sitting in arm-chair after laying aside her 
 cloak]. Yes — I go away a good deal. 
 He finds m.y absence very soothing. 
 That's why I was so glad to accept 
 Adelaide's invitation when she asked me. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. My dear, you'll be 
 invaluable. I look to you to help me 
 with my visitors. 
 
 Lady Rbmenham. Poor Margaret. 
 But you always were so unselfish. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Are they 
 very ? 
 
 Lady Rbmenham. Very. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [laughing]. My dear, 
 Lady Remenham knows nothing what- 
 ever about them. 
 
 Lady Rbmenham [firmly]. I know 
 everything about them. The girl has 
 no money. She has no position. She 
 became engaged to Geoffrey without 
 your knowledge. She has a perfectly 
 dreadful mother. And her name is 
 Borridge. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [raising her brows]. 
 When are they coming? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. I expect them in 
 half an hour. The carriage was to go 
 straight back to the station to meet 
 them. 
 
 Lady Rbmenham [ruffling her feathers 
 angrily]. I hope Geoffrey is conscious 
 of the foUy and wickedness of his con- 
 duct. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Where is he, 
 dear? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. He's down here 
 with me — and as happy as possible, 
 I'm glad to say. 
 
 Lady Rbmenham. Extraordinary ! 
 But the young men of the present day 
 are extraordinary. Young men nowa- 
 days seem always to be either irre- 
 claimably vicious or deplorably silly. 
 I prefer them vicious. 'They give less 
 trouble. My poor brother Algernon -^ 
 you remember Algernon, don't you, 
 Rector? He was anotjaer of your 
 pupils. 
 
 Rector [sighs]. Yes, I remember. 
 
 Mrs. Hekries. Major Warrington 
 hasn't been down for quite a long time, 
 has he? 
 
 Lady Rbmenham. No. We don't 
 ask him to Milverton now. He comes 
 
 to us In London, but in the country one 
 has to be more particular. He really 
 is dreadfully dissipated. Always run- 
 ning after some petticoat or other. 
 Often more than one. But there is 
 safety in numbers, don't you think? 
 
 Rector. Unquestionably. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Algernon always 
 says he is by temperament a polygamist. 
 I don't know what he means. How- 
 ever, I've no anxiety about him. He 
 never gets engaged. He's far too clever 
 for that. I wonder if he could help you 
 out of this dreadful entanglement? In 
 a case of this kind one should have the 
 very best advice. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [laughing]. I shall 
 be delighted to see Major Warrington 
 — • though not for the reason you sug- 
 gest. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Well, I'll ask him 
 down. Remenham won't like it. He 
 disapproves of him so much. He gets 
 quite virtuous about it. But that sort\ 
 of moral indignation should never be 
 allowed to get out of hand, should it? 
 [Rector nods] Besides, he's away 
 just now. I'll write to Algernon di- 
 rectly I get back, and I'll bring him over 
 to dinner one day next week. Say 
 Thursday? 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Do, dear. I 
 adore Major Warrington. 
 
 Lady Remenham. I dare say. [Pre- 
 paring to go] He's not your brother. 
 Meantime, I can ask him whether he 
 knows anything against Mrs. Borridge. 
 But he's sure to. He knows nearly all 
 the detrimental people in London, 
 especially if their daughters are in the 
 least attractive. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [smiling]. You'll come 
 uyith him on Thursday, won't you? 
 And Mabel ? [Mabel rises] 
 
 Lady Remenham. Perhaps that will 
 be best. Then I can keep my brother 
 within bounds. Poor Algernon is apt 
 to take too much champagne unless 
 I am there to prevent him. And now, 
 dear, I really must go. [She and Mabel 
 go up towards door] Good-bye. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You won't stay to 
 meet Mrs. Borridge? 
 
 Lady Rbmenham [shudders]. I think 
 not. Thursday will be quite soon 
 enough. Good-bye, Mrs. Herries. [As 
 they reach door Geopprey opens it, and 
 almost runs into her arms] Ah, here is 
 the young man who is causing us all this 
 distress. 
 
 Geopprey. I, Lady Remenham? 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 601 
 
 [Shakes hands] How do you do, Aunt 
 Margaret? [Shakes hands with others] 
 
 Lady Rembnham [shakes hands]. You. 
 What do you mean by getting engaged 
 to some one we none of us Imow any- 
 thing about? 
 
 Mabel. Mamma ! 
 
 Lady Remenham. I consider your 
 conduct perfectly heartless. Its foolish- 
 ness needs no comment from me. 
 
 Gbofpeey. Really, Lady Remen- 
 ham 
 
 Lady Rembnham. Tut, tut, sir. 
 Don't "really" me. I'm ashamed of 
 you. And now I'U be off before I 
 qjiarrel with you. Come, Mabel. 
 
 [Sweeps out, followed by Mabel. 
 Oboffrey opens door for them, 
 and then takes them down to 
 their carriage] 
 
 Mbs. Herbies. I think we ought to 
 be going, too. Come, Hildebrand. 
 
 [Shakes hands] 
 [Mrs. Cassilis rings] 
 
 Rector. Good-bye, Mrs. Cassilis. 
 Let's hope everything will turn out for 
 the best. 
 
 Mrs. Hbkbibs. It never does. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [going towards door 
 with Rector]. Good-bye. [Shakes 
 hands warmly] And you'U both, come 
 and dine on Thursday, won't you? 
 'To-morrow week that is. Major War- 
 rington wiU want to see his old tutor. 
 
 Rector. You're very good. 
 
 [He and Mrs. Hebribs go out] 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [returning to her sister]. 
 Dear Lady Remenham! What non- 
 
 Lady Marchmont. People who talk 
 as much as that must talk a good deal 
 of nonsense, mustn't they? Otherwise 
 they have nothing to say. 
 
 [Re-enter Geoffrey] 
 
 Geoffrey. Lady Remenham seems 
 rufSed. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. About your en- 
 gagement ? I'm not surprised. 
 
 Geoffrey. I don't see what it's 
 got to do with her. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. You must make 
 allowance for a mother's feelings, my 
 dear Geoffrey. 
 
 Geoffrey [pats Mrs. Cassilis's 
 hand, then goes to tea-table and helps 
 himself to tea]. Lady Remenham isn't 
 my mother. She's my god-mother. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. She's Mabel's 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Shi Margaret. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. My dear, there's 
 no use making mysteries about things. 
 Geoffrey was always supposed to be 
 going to marry Mabel ever since they 
 were children. He knows that. 
 
 Geoffrey. That was only boy and 
 girl talk. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. For you, per- 
 haps. 
 
 Geoffrey. And for her. Mabel 
 
 never expected 
 
 [Pause. He thinks] 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Did you ever 
 ask her? , 
 
 Geoffrey. But I never sup- 
 posed 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. I think you 
 should have supposed. A boy should 
 be very careful how he encourages a 
 girl to think of him in that way. 
 
 Geoffbby. But I'd no idea. Of 
 course, I like Mabel. I like her aw- 
 fully. We're like brother and sister. 
 But beyond that — [Pause] Mother, 
 do you think I've behaved badly to 
 Mabel? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [gently]. I think per- 
 haps you've a little disappointed her. 
 
 Geofpbey [peevishly]. Why didn't 
 somebody tell me? How was I to 
 know? 
 
 Lady Marchmont. My dear boy, 
 we couldn't be expected to know you 
 were absolutely blind. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Margaret, you're 
 not to scold Geoffrey. I won't allow it. 
 
 Geoffrey. Mother, dear — you 
 won't allow this to make any differ- 
 ence? With Ethel, I mean? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Of course not, Geoff. 
 [Lays hand on his] 
 
 Geoffrey [earnestly]. She's so fond 
 of me. And I'm so fond of her. We 
 were made for each other. I couldn't 
 bear it if you were unkind to her. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. My dear Geoff, I'm 
 sure Ethel is everything that is sweet 
 and good, or my boy wouldn't love her. 
 And I intend to fall in love with her 
 myself directly I set eyes on her. 
 
 Gbopfbey. Dear mother ! [Pats her 
 hand affectionately. Pause; then, 
 thoughtfully] I'm afraid you'll find her 
 mother rather trsning — at first. She's 
 not quite a lady, you know. . . . But 
 she's very good-natured. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [cheerfully]. Well, 
 well, we shall see. And now run away, 
 dear, and leave me to talk to Margaret, 
 and I'll undertake that all symptoms of 
 
602 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 crossness shall have disappeared before 
 our visitors arrive. 
 
 Geoffrey. All right, mother. 
 
 [Kiases her and goes out] 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [looking after him 
 reflectively]. How you spoil that boy '. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis [lightly]. What else 
 should I do with him? He's my only 
 one. Mothers always spoil their sons, 
 don't they? And quarrel with their 
 daughters. More marriages are due to 
 girls being unhappy at home than most 
 people imagine. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. And yet Geof- 
 frey wants to leave you, apparently. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [smiling bravely; but 
 her eyes have a suspicion of moisture in 
 them]. Evidently I didn't spoil him 
 enough. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [washing her hands 
 of the whole affair]. Well, I'm glad 
 you're pleased with this engagement. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [sudden change of 
 manner. Her face loses its brightness, 
 and she suddenly seems to look older]. 
 Pleased with it ! Do you really believe 
 that? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Didn't you say 
 so? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [shrugs]. To Lady 
 Remenham and Mrs. Herries. Yes. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. And to Geof- 
 frey. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. And Geoflfrey too. 
 [Half to herself] Mothers can't always 
 be straightforward with their sons, can 
 they? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Why not ? 
 
 [There is a pause while Mes. 
 Cassilis makes up her mind 
 whether to answer this or not. 
 Then she seems to decide to 
 speak out. She moves nearer 
 to her sister, and when she be- 
 gins her voice is very firm and 
 matter-of-fact] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. My dear Margaret, 
 what would you do if your son suddenly 
 wrote to you that he had become en- 
 gaged to a girl you knew nothing what- 
 ever about, a girl far beneath him in 
 social rank ? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [firmly]. I should 
 have forbidden the engagement. For- 
 bidden it absolutely. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Without seeing the 
 girl? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Certainly. The 
 mere fact of her accepting my son be- 
 fore I had ever set eyes on her would 
 have been quite enough. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. But supposing your 
 son were of age and independent ? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont 
 Geoffrey isn't independent. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. He has five hun- 
 dred a year. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [contemptvausly]. 
 What's that ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Besides, Geoffrey 
 knows I should always be willing to 
 help him. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. That's just it. 
 He ought not to have known. You 
 ought to have made it clear to him from 
 the first that if he married without 
 your consent he would never have ,a 
 penny from you, either now or at your 
 death. Deynham isn't entailed, fortu- 
 nately. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. But, my dear, I 
 couldn't disinherit Geoffrey ! How 
 could I? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [shrugs]. You 
 could have threatened to. And then 
 the girl wouldn't have accepted him. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. I don't know. 
 [Thoughtfully] Five hundred a year 
 may seem a considerable sum to her. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [horrified]. Is it 
 as bad as that? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [trying to smile]. Be- 
 sides, she may be really in love with 
 him. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [snappish]. What 
 has that to do with it ? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Young people. In 
 love. They are seldom pruddnt, are 
 they? 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Still, I should 
 have forbidden the engagement. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. And then? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. If Geoffrey had de- 
 fied me? Boys can be very obstinate. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. I should have 
 refused ever to see him again. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Ah, Margaret, I 
 couldn't do that. Geoffrey is every- 
 thing I have. He is my only son, my 
 joy and my pride. I couldn't quarrel 
 with him whatever happened. [Lady 
 Mabchmont leans back with gesture of 
 impatience] No, Margaret, my plan 
 was the best. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. What is your 
 plan? 
 
 Mes. Cassilis [quite practical]. My 
 plan is to give the thing a fair trial. 
 Ask her down here. Ask her mother 
 down here. And see what happens. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 603 
 
 Lady Marchmont [looking at her 
 narrowly]. Nothing else? 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Nothing else — at 
 
 Lady Marchmont. You could have 
 done that without sanctioning the en- 
 gagement. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Yes. But love 
 thrives on opposition. There's a fasci- 
 nation about a runaway match. It has 
 romance. Whereas there's no romance 
 at all about an ordinary wedding. It's 
 only dull and rather vulgar. [Wearily] 
 And, after aU, the girl may be present- 
 able. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Borridge I 
 
 [Crisply] I'm not very sanguine about 
 that. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Anyhow, she's pretty, 
 and Geoffrey loves her. That's all we 
 know about her at present. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Wretched boy. 
 
 To think he should have allowed him- 
 
 . self to be caught in this way ! . . . Don't 
 
 you think you might have asked the 
 
 daughter without the mother ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. So Geoffrey sug- 
 gested. He seemed rather nervous 
 about having her here. She's rather 
 a terrible person, I gather. But I said 
 as we were marrying into the family 
 we mustn't be unkind to her. [With a 
 slow smilt] Poor boy, he rather 
 blenched at that. I think he hadn't 
 associated Mrs. Borridge with his 
 matrimonial schemes. It's just as well 
 he should do so at once, don't you 
 think? 
 
 Butler. Mrs. and Miss Borridge. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Borridge and Ethel. 
 Both rise. Lady Marchmont turns 
 sharp round to look at the newcomers. 
 Mrs. Cassilis goes up to meet them 
 with her sweetest smile. Nothing 
 could be more hospitable than her 
 manner or more gracious than her 
 welcome. The change from the Mna. 
 Cassilis of a moment before, with 
 the resolute set of the lips and the 
 glitter in the eyes, to this gentle, 
 caressing creature does the greatest 
 credit to her powers of self-control. 
 Lady Marchmont notices it, and is 
 a litUe shocked] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. How do you do? 
 How do you do, my dear? [Kisses 
 Ethel] Tell Mr. Geoffrey, Watson. 
 I nope you've not had a tiring journey, 
 Mrs. Borridge? [.Brii Butler] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Not at all, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. We 'ad — • had — the com- 
 partment to ourselves, bein' first-class. 
 As I says to my girlie, "They'll very 
 likely send the carriage to meet us, and 
 it looks better for the servants." 
 
 [Mrs. Borridge comes down 
 stage. She is a large, gross 
 woman, rather over-dressed in 
 inexpensive materials. Too much 
 colour in her hat and far too 
 much in her cheeks. But a 
 beaming, good-natured harridan 
 for all that. As a landlady you 
 would rather like her. She 
 smiles nervously in Lady 
 Marchmont's direction, not 
 sure whether she ought to say 
 anything or wait to be intro- 
 duced. Her daughter keeps by 
 her side, watching to see she 
 doesn't commit herself, and 
 quite sure that she will. Ethel 
 is pretty but second-rate; she 
 has had the sense to dress simply, 
 and therefore is less appallingly 
 out of the picture than her far 
 more amiable mother] 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Let me introduce 
 you. Mrs. Borridge — Lady March- 
 mont, Miss Borridge. 
 
 [Lady Marchmont bows] 
 Mrs. Borridge [extends gloved hand]. 
 How do you do. Lady Marchmont? 
 Proud, I'm sure. 
 
 [Lady Marchmont finds nothing 
 to say, and for the moment there 
 is a constrained pause. Then 
 enter Geoffrey hurriedly] 
 Geoffrey [vrith as much heartiness as 
 he can muster, but it rings a little hollow]. 
 How do you do, Mrs. Borridge? Ethel, 
 dear, how long have you been here? 
 I didn't hear you come. [Kisses her] 
 
 Ethel. We've only just got here. 
 Mrs. Borridge [subsiding into an 
 arm-chair]. Don't apologise, Geoffy. 
 Your ma's been entertaining us most 
 kind. 
 
 Geoffrey [laith look of gratitude to 
 Mrs. Cassilis]. Dear mother. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Well, how are you, 
 Geoffy ? You look flrst-rate. 
 Geoffrey. Oh, I'm all right. 
 Mrs. Borridge. And what a fine 
 'ouse — house — you've got! Quite a 
 palace, I declare ! 
 
 Geoffrey. I'm glad you like it. 
 Mrs. Borridge. And it'll all be 
 yours some day. Won't it? 
 
 Ethel [pulls her sleeve]. Mother! 
 
604 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Geoffeey. That's as my mother 
 decides. 
 
 Mrs. Boeridqb. Then you're sure 
 to 'ave it. I know what mothers are ! 
 And what a 'andsome room, too. Quite 
 like the Metropole at Brighton. 
 
 [Enter Mes. Cassilis's maid. She is in 
 a perfectly plain black dress, and 
 looks enormously more like a lady 
 than Ethel] 
 
 Maid. Can I have your keys, 
 madam ? 
 
 Mes. Boreidqb [surprised]. My 
 keys? 
 
 Maid. The keys of your trunks, 
 inadam. 
 
 Mrs. Boeridge. Certainly not. 
 Who ever 'eard of such a thing? 
 
 Maid. I thought you might wish 
 me to unpack for you, madam. 
 
 Mes. Boreidqe [bristling]. Oh. Did 
 you ! I don't want no strange girls 
 ferreting in my boxes. [Ethel nudges 
 her arm] What is it, Eth? Oh, very 
 weU. But I'm not going to let her, all 
 the same. No, thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [quite self-possessed. 
 Lady Marchmont nervously avoids her 
 eye]. Mrs. Borridge will unpack for her- 
 self, Dorset._ [Maid bows, and turns to 
 go out] Wait a moment. [Maid pauses 
 at door] Would you like to take off 
 your things at once, Mrs. Borridge? 
 If so, Dorset shall show you your room. 
 And I'll have some tea sent up to you 
 there. You'll want it after your 
 journey. [Feels teapot] This is quite 
 cold. What do you say, Ethel? 
 
 Ethel. Thank you, Mrs. CassUis. 
 A cup of tea would be very nice. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Show Mrs. Borridge 
 her room, Dorset. [Mes. Borridge 
 rises] And take her up some tea. 
 Dinner wiU be at eight. You'll ring 
 if there's anything you want, won't 
 you? 
 
 Mrs. Boeridge. Thank you, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. 
 
 [Mrs. Borridge waddles out, 
 beaming. She feels that her 
 first introduction to the houses 
 of the great has gone off success- 
 fully. Geoffrey holds the 
 door 'open for them, and gives 
 Ethel a sly kiss in passing. 
 Mrs. Cassilis makes no sign, 
 but one can feel her shudder at 
 the sound. Geoffrey comes 
 down to her a moment later, 
 brimming with enthusiasm] 
 
 Geoffrey. Well, mother, what do 
 you think of her? Isn't she sweet f 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [gently]. She's very 
 pretty, Geoff. [Lays hand on his] 
 
 Geoffrey. And good ! You don't 
 know how good she is ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. So long as she's 
 good to my boy that's all I ask. 
 
 Geoffrey. Dearest mother. [Kisses 
 her demonstratively] Now I'U go and 
 dress. 
 
 [Goes out quickly, with a boyish 
 feeling that he has been rather 
 too demonstrative for a true-born 
 Englishman. There is a long 
 pause, during which Lady 
 Marchmont looks at her sister, 
 Mrs. Cassilis at nothing. The 
 latter is evidently in deep thought, 
 and seems to have almost for- 
 gotten her sister's presence. At 
 last Lady Marchmont speaks 
 with the stern accent of "I told 
 you so"] 
 Lady Marchmont. And that's the 
 girl your son is to marry. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. Marry herl Non-- 
 sense, my dear Margaret. 
 
 [The curtain falls] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene. — The lawn at Deynham. Time, 
 after breakfast the follounng morning. 
 Under a tree stand two or three long 
 vncker chairs, with bright red 
 cushions. On the right stands the 
 house, with windows open on to the 
 terrace. A path on the left leads to 
 the flower garden, and another on the 
 same side to the strawberry beds. 
 When the curtain rises, Mes. Cas- 
 silis comes on to the terrace, fol- 
 lowed by Ethel, and a little later by 
 Mes. Borridge. The lastr-named 
 is flushed with food, and gorgeously 
 arrayed in a green silk blouse. She 
 is obviously in the best of spirits, and 
 is generally terribly at ease in Zion. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Shall we come out 
 on the lawn? It's such a perfect 
 morning. 
 
 Ethel. That will be joUy, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. [They come down] When I'm 
 in the country I shall always eat too 
 much breakfast and then spend the 
 morning on a long chair digesting it. 
 So will mother. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 605 
 
 Mrs. Boeridge. How you go on, 
 dearie! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Try this chair, then. 
 [Slightly moving long chair forward] 
 Mrs. Borridge, what kind of chair do 
 you like ? , 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. This'll do. I'm 
 not particular. [Subsides into another 
 long chair] Am I showing my ankles, 
 Bth? 
 
 Ethel. Sh! mother! [Giggles] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Well, I only asked, 
 dearie. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. I wonder if you'd 
 like a cushion for your head? Try 
 this. 
 
 [Puts vivid red cushion behind 
 Mrs. Boeridge's vivid green 
 blouse. The effect is electrify- 
 ing] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. That's better. 
 
 [Mrs. Cassilis sinks negligently 
 in wicker chair and puts up 
 white lace parasol] 
 
 Ethel [sigh of content]. I call this 
 Heaven, Mrs. Cassilis. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. That's right, my 
 dear. Are you fond of the country ? 
 
 Ethel. I don't know. I've never 
 been there so far. Not to the real 
 country, I mean. Mums and I have 
 a week at Brighton now and then. 
 And once we went for a month to Broad- 
 stairs after I had the measles. But 
 that's not exactly country, is it? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You're sure to like 
 it. Geoffrey loves it. He's never so 
 happy as when he's pottering about 
 Dejroham with his gun. 
 
 Ethel. Doesn't he get tired of that ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Oh no. Besides, he 
 doesn't do that all the year round. He 
 rides a great deal. We've very good 
 hunting at Deynham. Are you fond of 
 horses? 
 
 Ethel. I can't bear them, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. When she was a 
 Httle tot her father put 'er — her — on 
 a pony and she fell off. It didn't hurt 
 'er, but the doctor said 'er nerve was 
 shook. And now she can't bear 'orses. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. What a pity ! I do 
 hope you won't be dull while you're 
 with us. Perhaps you're fond of walk- 
 ing? 
 
 Ethel. Yes. I don't mind walking 
 — for a little. If there's anything to 
 walk to. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. We often walk up 
 Milrerton Hill on fine afternoons to see 
 
 the view. It's the highest point about 
 here. 
 
 Ethel [stifling a yawn]. Is it, Mrs. 
 Cassilis ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. And no doubt we 
 shall find other things to amuse you. 
 What do you like ? 
 
 Ethel. Oh, shops and theatres, and 
 lunching at restaurants and dancing, 
 and, oh, lots of things. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. I'm afraid we've no 
 shops nearer than Leicester, and that's 
 twelve miles away. And we've no 
 restaurants at all. But I dare say we 
 could get up a dance for you. 
 
 Ethel [clapping her hands]. That'll 
 be sweet ! I simply love dancing. 
 And all the rest of the time I shall sit 
 on the lawn and grow fat, like mummy. 
 [Protest from Mrs. Borridge] Oh yes, 
 I shall. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Ethel, don't be 
 saucy. 
 
 Ethel [laughing]. Mummy, if you 
 scold me you'll have to go in. It's far 
 too hot to be scolded. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Isn't she a spoilt 
 girl, Mrs. Cassilis? What they taught 
 you at that boarding school, miss, I 
 don't know. Not manners, I can see. 
 
 Ethel [ruffling her mother's wig]. 
 There I there ! mums. Was 'em's cross ? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [pettishly]. Stop it, 
 Ethel, stop it, I say. Whatever will 
 Mrs. Cassilis think of you ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [smiling sweetly]. 
 Don't scold her, Mrs. Borridge. It's 
 so pleasant to see a little high spirits, 
 isn't it? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [beaming]. Well, if 
 you don't mind, Mrs. Cassilis, / don't. 
 But it's not the way girls were taught 
 to behave in my young days. 
 
 Ethel [slight yawn]. That was so 
 long ago, mums ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [rising]. Well, I must 
 go and see after my housekeeping. 
 Can you entertain each other while 
 I'm away for a Uttle? My sister will 
 be down soon, I hope. She had break- 
 fast in her room. And Geoffrey will be 
 back in half an hour. I asked him to 
 ride over to Milverton for me with a 
 note. 
 
 Ethel. We shall be all right, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. Mqther'U go to sleep. She 
 always does if you make her too com- 
 fortable. And then she'll snore, won't 
 you, mums? 
 
 [Mrs. Cassilis goes into the 
 house, smiling bravely to the last] 
 
606 
 
 Representative Brifish Dramas 
 
 Mrs. Borhidge [alarmed]. Ethel, 
 you shouldn't talk like that before Mrs. 
 Cassilis. She won't like it. 
 
 Ethel. Oh yes, she "will. And I'm 
 going to make her like me awfully. 
 What lovely clothes she has ! I wish 
 you had lovely cl'othes, mums. 
 
 Mrs. Bokridge. What's the matter 
 with my clothes, dearie? I 'ad on my 
 best silk last night. And I bought this 
 blouse special in the Grove only a week 
 ago so as to do you credit. 
 
 Ethel. I know. Still . . . Couldn't 
 you have chosen something quieter? 
 
 Mrs. BoRRiDQE. Oh no, dearie. I 
 'ate quiet things. 
 
 Ethel. Hate, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Hate, then. Give 
 me something cheerful. 
 
 Ethel [hopelessly]. Very well, 
 mummy. 
 
 Mrs. BoKKiDGB [imploring]. But do 
 be careful what you say before Mrs. 
 Cassilis. She's not used to girls being 
 so free. 
 
 Ethel. Oh yes, she is, mums. All 
 girls are like that nowadays. All girls 
 that are ladies, I mean. They bet, and 
 talk slang, and smoke cigarettes, and 
 play bridge. I know all about that. 
 I've read about it in "The Ladies' 
 Mail." One of them put ice down her 
 young man's back at dinner, and when 
 he broke off his engagement she only 
 laughed. 
 
 Mrs. Bokridge [lamentably]. Oh 
 dear, I do hope there won't be ice for 
 dinner to-night. 
 
 Ethel [laughing]. Poor mums, don't 
 be anxious. I'll be very careful, I 
 promise you. 
 
 Mrs. Borbidgb [complaining]. 
 You're so 'eadstrong. And I do want 
 to see you married and respectable. 
 I wasn't always respectable myself, 
 and I know what it means for a girl. 
 Your sister Nan, she's gay, she is. 
 She 'adn't no ambition. An' look 
 what she is now ! 
 
 Ethel [looking round nervously]. If 
 Geoff were to hear of it ! 
 
 Mrs. Bobeidge. 'E won't. Not 'e ! 
 I've seen to that. 
 
 Ethel. These things always get 
 known somehow. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Nan's changed 'er 
 name. Calls 'erself Mrs. Seymour. 
 An' she never comes to see us now. If 
 she did, I'd show 'er the door fast 
 enough. Disgracin' us like that ! 
 
 Ethel. Poor Nan! 
 
 M.B.s.BonnivG^ [warmly]. Don't you 
 pity 'er. She don't deserve it. She 
 treated us like dirt. She's a bad 'un all 
 through. I've done things myself as I 
 didn't ought to 'ave done. But I've 
 always wanted to be respectable. But 
 it's not so easy when you've your living 
 to make and ao one to look to. [Ethel 
 nods] Yes, I' ve 'ad my bad times, dearie. 
 But I've pulled through them. And I 
 made your father marry me. No one can 
 deny that. It wasn't easy. An' I had 
 to give him all my savings before 'e'd 
 say "Yes." And even then I wasn't 
 'appy till we'd been to church. But 'e 
 did marry me in the end. An' then 
 you was born, an' I says my girl shall 
 be brought up respectable. She shall 
 be a lady. And some day, when she's 
 married an' ridin' in her carriage, she'll 
 say, "It's all my mother's doing." 
 
 [Wipes her eyes in pensive melan- 
 choly] 
 
 Ethel. How long were you married 
 to father, mums ? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Only eight years, 
 dearie. Before that I was 'is 'ous&- 
 keeper. 
 
 Ethel. His, mummy. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Very well, dearie. 
 [With quiet satisfaction] Father drank 
 'isself to death the year Bend Or won 
 the Derby. [Shaking her head] He 
 lost a pot o' money over that, and it 
 preyed on 'is mind. So he took to the 
 drink. If he 'adn't insured 'is life an' 
 kep' the premiums paid we should 'ave 
 been in the 'ouse, that's where we should 
 'ave been, dearie. 
 
 Ethel. Poor dad ! 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Yes. 'E 'ad 'is 
 faults. But 'e was a kind-'earted man, 
 was Joe Borridge. 'E died much re- 
 spected. [Cheering up] An' now you're 
 engaged to a real gentleman ! That's 
 the sort for my Eth ! 
 
 Ethel. Oh! sh! mums. 
 
 [Looking round nervously] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. No one'U hear. 
 And if they do, what's the harm? 
 You've got 'is promise. 
 
 Ethel, ffis, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. You can hold 'im 
 — him — to it. 
 
 Ethel [nodding]. Yes. Besides, 
 Geoff's awfully in love with me. And 
 I really rather like him, you know — 
 in a way. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. I know, dearie. 
 StiU, I'd get something from 'im on 
 paper if I was you, something that'll 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 607 
 
 'old 'im. The men takes a bit of 'old- 
 ing nowadays. They're that slippy! 
 You get something that'll 'old 'em. 
 That's what I always say to girls. 
 Letters is best. Oh, the chances I've 
 seen missed through not gettin' some- 
 thing on paper ! 
 
 Ethbi, [confidently]. You needn't 
 worry, mummy. Geoff's all right. 
 
 Mrs. Boreidge. I dare say. Still, 
 I'd Uke something the lawyers can take 
 hold of. Geoffy may get tired of you, 
 dearie. Men are that changeable. / 
 know them ! 
 
 Ethel [viciously]. He'd better not ! 
 I'd make him pay for it ! 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. So you could, 
 dearie, if you 'ad somethin' on paper. 
 [Ethel shrugs impatiently] Well, if 
 you won't, you won t. But if anythin' 
 happens don't say I didn't warn you, 
 that's all. I wish Geoffy was a lord, 
 like Lord Buckfastleigh. 
 
 Ethel. I don't. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Well, not just like 
 Buckfastleigh, per'a^s. But still, a 
 lord. You never did like Buckfastleigh. 
 
 Ethel. That old beast ! 
 
 Mrs. Boreidge [remonstrating]. He's 
 been a good friend to us, dearie. And 
 he is an earl, whatever you may say. 
 
 Ethel. Pah ! 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. And he's rich. 
 Richer than Geofly. And he's awfully 
 sweet on you, dearie. I believe he'd 
 'ave married you if 'is old woman 'ad 
 turned up 'er toes last autumn. And 
 he's seventy-three. He wouldn't 'ave 
 lasted long. 
 
 Ethel [fiercely]. I wouldn't marry 
 him if he were twice as rich — and 
 twice as old. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [j>lacidly]. I dare 
 say you're right, dearie. He's a queer 
 'un is Buckfastleigh. But he offered 
 to settle five thousand down if you'd 
 go to Paris with 'im. Five thousand 
 down on the nail. He wasn't what 
 you'd call sober when he said it, but he 
 meant it. I dare say he'd 'ave made it 
 seven if you hadn't boxed 'is ears. 
 [Ethel laughs] Wasn't I savage when 
 you did that, dearie ! But you was 
 right as it turned out. For Geoffy 
 
 Eroposed next day. And now you'll 
 e a real married woman. There's 
 nothing Uke being married. It's so 
 respectable. When you're married you 
 can look down on people. And that's 
 what every woman wants. That's why 
 I pinched and screwed and sent you to 
 
 boarding school. I said my girlie shall 
 be a real lady. And she is. 
 
 [Much moved at the reflection] 
 
 Ethel. Is she, mums? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Of course, dearie. 
 That's why she's 'ere. D'eynham 
 Abbey, two footmen in livery, flre in 'er 
 bedroom, evenin' dress every night of 
 'er life. Lady March mont invited to 
 meet -her ! Everythin' tip top ! And 
 it's not a bit too good for my girl. It's 
 what she was made for. 
 
 Ethel [thoughtfully]. I wish Johnny 
 Travers had had some money. Then I 
 could have married him. 
 
 Mrs. Boeridge. Married 'im — 
 him! Married a auctioneer's clerk 
 without twopence to bless 'isself. I 
 should think not indeed ! Not likely ! 
 
 Ethel. Still, I was awfully gone on 
 Johnny. 
 
 Mrs. Boeeidge [decidedly]. Non- 
 sense, Eth. I should 'ope we can look 
 'igher than that ! 
 
 Ethel. Sh ! mother. Here's Geoff. 
 
 [Geoffrey, in riding breeches, comes out 
 of the house] 
 
 Geopfeey. Good morning, dear. 
 [Kisses Ethel] I thought I should be 
 back earlier, but I rode over to Milver- 
 ton for the mater [To Mrs. Bor- 
 ridge] Good morning. 
 
 Mrs. Boreidge [archly]. You 'aven't 
 no kisses to spare for me, 'ave you, 
 Geoffy? Never mind. You keep 'em 
 all for my girl. She's worth 'em. 
 
 Geoffeey [caressing her hand]. Dear 
 Ethel. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. How well you look 
 in those riding togs, Geoffrey ! Don't 
 'e, Eth? 
 
 [Endeavouring to hoist herself out 
 of her chair] 
 
 Ethel [smiling at him]. Geoff always 
 looks well in everything. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Well, I'll go indoors 
 and leave you two to spoon. That's 
 what you want, / know. I'U go and 
 talk to your ma. 
 
 [Waddles off into the house, heam- 
 ing] 
 
 Geopfeey [picking rose and bringing 
 it to Ethel]. A rose for the prettiest 
 girl in England. 
 
 Ethel. Oh, Geoff, do you think so? 
 
 Geoffrey. Of course. The pretti- 
 est and the best. [Takes her hand] 
 
 Ethel. You do reaUy love me, 
 Geoff, don't you? 
 
608 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Gboffkey. Do you doubt it? 
 
 [Kisses her] 
 
 Ethel. No ; you're much too good 
 to me, you know. 
 
 Geoffbet. Nonsense, darling. 
 
 Ethel. It's the truth. You're a 
 gentleman and rich, and have fine 
 friends. While mother and I are com- 
 mon as common. 
 
 Geoffrey [firmly]. You're not.- 
 
 Ethel. Oh yes, we are. Of course, 
 I've been to school, and been taught 
 things. But what's education? It 
 can't alter how we're made, can it? 
 And she and I are the same underneath. 
 
 Geoffrey. Ethel, you're not to say 
 such things, or to think them. 
 
 Ethel. But they're true, Geoff. 
 . Geoffrey. They're not. [Kisses 
 her] Say they're not. 
 
 Ethel [shakes her head]. No. 
 
 Geoffrey. Say they're not. [Kisses 
 her] Not! 
 
 Ethel. Very well. They're not. 
 
 Geoffrey. That's right. [Kiss] 
 There's a reward. 
 
 Ethel [pulling herself away]. I won- 
 der if I did right to say "Yes" when you 
 asked me, Geoff? Right for you, I 
 mean. 
 
 Geoffrey. Of course you did, dar- 
 ling. You love me, don't you? 
 
 Ethel. But wouldn't it have been 
 best for you if I'd said "No"? Then 
 you'd have married Lady Somebody or 
 other, with lots and lots of money, and 
 lived happy ever afterwards. 
 
 Geoffrey [indignantly]. I shouldn't. 
 
 Ethel. Oh yes, you would. 
 
 Geoffrey. And what would you 
 have done, pray? 
 
 Ethel. Oh, I should have taken up 
 with some one else, or perhaps married 
 old Buckfastleigh when his wife died. 
 
 Geoffrey. Ethel ! 
 
 Ethel. I should. I'm not the sort 
 to go on moping for long. I should 
 have been awfully down for a bit, and 
 missed you every day. But by-and-by 
 I should have cheered up and married 
 some one else. I could have done it. 
 I could ! 
 
 Geoffrey. And what about me f 
 
 E'thel. Wouldn't you have been 
 happier in the end, dear? I'm not the 
 sort of wife you ought to have mar- 
 ried. Some day I expect you'll come 
 to late me. [Sighs] Heigho. 
 
 Geoffrey [sojtly]. You know I 
 sha'n't, dear. 
 
 Ethel. But I did so want to marry 
 
 a gentleman. Mother wanted it too. 
 [Quite simply] So I said "Yes," you 
 see. 
 
 Geoffrey [drawing her to him]. 
 Darling ! [Kisses her tenderly] 
 
 Ethel. Geoff, what did your mother 
 say when you told her we were engaged ? 
 Was she dreadfully down about it ? 
 
 Geoffrey. No. 
 
 Ethel. On your honour? 
 
 Geoffrey. On my honour. Mother 
 never said a single word to me against 
 it. Lady Marchmont scolded me a bit. 
 She's my aunt, you see. 
 
 Ethel. Old cat ! 
 
 Geoffrey. And so did Lady Rem- 
 enham. She's my godmother. But 
 mother stood up for us all through. 
 
 Ethel [sighs]. I shall never get on 
 with all your flie friends, Geoff. 
 
 Geoffrey. You will. Any one who's 
 as pretty as my Ethel can get on any- 
 where. 
 
 Ethel. Yes, I am pretty, aren't I? 
 I'm glad of that. It makes a differ- 
 ence, doesn't it ? 
 
 Geoffrey. Of course. In a week 
 you'U have them all running after you. 
 
 Ethel [dapping her hands]. Shall I, 
 Geoff? Won't that be splendid! 
 [Kisses him] Oh, Geoff, I'm so happy. 
 When shall we be married ? 
 
 Geoffrey. I'm afraid not tiU next 
 year, dear. Next June, mother says. 
 
 Ethel [pouting]. That's a long way 
 off, Geoff. 
 
 Geoffrey. Yes, but mother says 
 you're to be here a great deal between 
 now and then, almost all the time, m 
 fact. So it won't be so bad, will it? 
 
 Ethel. Why does your mother want 
 it put off till then? 
 
 Geoffrey. Something about the 
 London season, she said. We shall be 
 married in London, of course, because 
 your mother's house is there. 
 
 Ethel. Oh yes, of course. 
 
 Geoffrey, And besides, mother says 
 she never believes in very short engage- 
 ments. She says girls sometimes don't 
 quite know their own minds. I said I 
 was sure you weren't like that. But she 
 asked me to promise, so I did. 
 
 Ethel. Well, that's settled then. 
 [Jumping up] And won't it be nice to 
 be married f Really married ! . . . 
 And now I want to do something. I'm 
 tired of sitting still. What shall it be? 
 
 Geoffrey [with brilliant originality]. 
 We might go for a walk up Milverton 
 Hill. The view there's awfully fine. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 609 
 
 [Looks at watch] But there's hardly time 
 before lunch. 
 
 Ethel. Besides, I should spoil my 
 shoes. 
 
 [Puts out foot, the shoe of which is 
 manifestly not intended for 
 country walking] 
 Gbofpeby. Suppose we go to the 
 strawberry bed and eat strawberries? 
 
 Ethel. Oh yes, that'll be splendid. 
 I can be so delioiously greedy over 
 strawberries. 
 
 [Puts her arm in his, and he leads 
 her off to the strawberry beds. 
 As they go off, Mrs. Cassilis, 
 Ladt Mahciimont, and Mrs. 
 BoRRiDGE come down from 
 terrace] 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Going for a stroU, 
 
 Geopfebt. Only as far as the straw- 
 berry bed, mother dear. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Oughtn't dear Ethel 
 to have a hat? The sun is very hot 
 there. 
 
 Ethel. I've got a parasol, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. 
 
 [They disappear down the path] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [rallying her]. You 
 weren't down to breakfast, Lady March- 
 mont. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. No, I — had a 
 headache. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Poor Margaret. 
 
 Mrs. Bohhidge [sympathetically]. It's 
 'eadaehy weather, isn't it ? 
 
 [Subsiding into a chair. Mrs. 
 Borridge makes it a rule of 
 life never to stand when she can 
 sit] 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. I suppose it is. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Or perhaps it was 
 the oyster patties last night ? I've often 
 noticed after an oyster I come over quite 
 queer. Specially if it isn't quite fresh. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Indeed ! 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Yes. But crabs is 
 worse. Crabs is simply poison to me. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont [faintly]. How ex- 
 traordinary. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. They are, I do 
 assure you If I touch a crab I'm that 
 lU nobody would believe it. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Well, Margaret, I 
 expect you oughtn't to be talked to or 
 It will make your head worse. You 
 stay here quietly and rest while I take 
 Mrs Borridge for a stroll in the garden. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Thank you. 
 [Closing her eyes] My head is a little 
 bad still. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [confidentially]. Try 
 a drop of brandy. Lady Marchmont. 
 My 'usband always said there's nothing 
 like brandy if you're feeling poorly. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Thank you. I 
 think I'U just try what rest wiU do. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [making Ladt March- 
 mont comfortable]. I expect that will 
 be best. Put your head back, dear. 
 Headaches are such trying things, 
 aren't they, Mrs. Borridge? This way ! 
 And you're to keep quite quiet till 
 luncheon, Margaret 
 
 [Lady Marchmont closes her eyes, 
 with a sigh of relief. After a 
 moment enter Butler from 
 house, with Mrs. Herries] 
 Butler. Mrs. Herries. 
 Ladt Marchmont [rises, and goes up 
 to meet her]. How do you do? Mrs. 
 Cassilis is in the garden, Watson. [To 
 Mrs. Herries] She has just gone for 
 a stroll with Mrs. Borridge. 
 
 Mrs. Herries. Oh, pray don't dis- 
 turb her. Pray don't. I can only stay 
 for a moment. Literally a moment. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. But she would 
 be so sorry to miss you. Will you let 
 her know, Watson? She went that 
 way. 
 
 [Pointing to path along which Mrs. 
 Cassilis went a moment before] 
 Butler. Yes, my lady. 
 Ladt Marchmont. And how's the 
 dear Rector? [She and Mrs. Herries 
 sit] You've not brought him with you ? 
 Mrs. Herries. No. He was too 
 busy. There is always so much to do 
 in these small parishes, isn't there? 
 Ladt Marchmont. Indeed? 
 Mrs. Herries. Oh yes. There's 
 the garden — and the pigs. The 
 Rector is devoted to his pigs, you know. 
 And his roses. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. The Rector's 
 roses are quite famous, aren't they? 
 
 [But Mrs. Herries has not come 
 to Deynham to talk horticulture, 
 but to inquire about a far more 
 interesting subject. She looks 
 round cautiously, and then, 
 lowering her voice to an under- 
 tone, puts the important question] 
 Mrs. Herries. And now tpll me, 
 dear Lady Marchmont, before Mrs. 
 Cassilis comes back, what is she like ? 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Really, dear 
 Mrs. Herries, I think I must leave you 
 to decide that for yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Herries [sighs]. So bad as 
 that ! The Rector feared so. And the 
 
610 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 mother ? [No answer] Just so ! What 
 a pity. An orphan is so much easier to 
 deal with. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [laughing slightly]. 
 You may be glad to hear that Mr. 
 Borridge is dead. 
 
 Mrs. Herries. So Mrs. Cassilis 
 said. How fortunate! How very for- 
 tunate ! 
 
 [Mrs. Cassilis, followed by Mrs. Bor- 
 ridge, return from their walk. 
 Watson brings up the rear] 
 
 Mrs. Henries. Dear Mrs. Cassilis, 
 how do you do? [Sympathetically] 
 How are you? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [rather amused at Mrs. 
 Herribs's elaborate bedside manner]. 
 (Juite well, thanks. It's Margaret who 
 is unwell. 
 
 Mrs. Herries. Indeed ! She didn't 
 mention it. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [hurriedly]. I have 
 a headache. 
 
 Mrs. Herbies. I'm so sorry. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [sweetly]. You have 
 heard of my son's engagement, haven't 
 you? Dear Ethel is with us now, I'm 
 glad to say. Let me introduce you to 
 her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Herries. How do you do? 
 [Bows] What charming weather we're 
 having, aren't we? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You'll stay to 
 luncheon now you are here, won't you? 
 [Mrs. Borridge subsides into a 
 chair] 
 
 Mrs. Herries. I'm afraid I mustn't. 
 I left the Rector at home. He will be 
 expecting me. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Why didn't you 
 bring him with you? 
 
 Mrs. Herries. So kind of you, dear 
 Mrs. Cassilis. [Nervously] But he 
 hardly liked — How is poor Geoffrey ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [cheerfully]. He's very 
 well. He's in the kitchen garden with 
 Ethel. At the strawberry bed. You'll 
 see them if you wait. 
 
 Mrs. Herries [hastily]. I'm afraid I 
 can't. In fact, I must run away at 
 once. I only looked in in passing. It's 
 nearly one o'clock, and the Rector 
 always likes his luncheon at one. 
 [Shakes hands with gush of sympathetic 
 fervour] Good-bye, dear Mrs. Cassilis. 
 Good-bye, Mrs. Borridge. [Bows] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [stretching out her 
 hand]. Good-bye, Mrs. — I didn't 
 rightly catch your name. 
 
 Mrs. Herries. Herries. Mrs. Her- 
 ries. [Shakes hands nervously] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [heartily]. Good-bye, 
 Mrs. 'Erris. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. And you're coming 
 over to dine on Thursday? That's to- 
 day week, you know. And the Rector, 
 of course. You won't forget? 
 
 Mrs. Herries. With pleasure. 
 Good-bye, Lady Marchmont. 
 
 [Looks at Mrs. Borridge, who has 
 turned away, then at Lady 
 Marchmont, then goes off, 
 much depressed, into the house. 
 Pause] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. I think I'U be 
 going in too, Mrs. Cassilis, just to put 
 myself straight for dinner. 
 
 Mrs- Cassilis. Yes. Do. Luncheon 
 will be ready in half an hour. [Mrs. 
 Borridge waddles off into the house 
 complacently. Lady Marchmont sinks 
 limply into a chair, with a smothered 
 groan. Mrs. Cassilis resumes her natural 
 voice] How's your headache, Margaret? 
 Better? 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Quite well. In 
 fact, I never had a headache. That 
 was a little deception on my part, dear, 
 to excuse my absence from the break- 
 fast table. Win you forgive me? 
 [Mrs. Cassilis nods without a smite. 
 She looks perfectly wretched. Lady 
 Marchmont makes a resolute effort to 
 cheer her up by adopting a light tone, but 
 it is obviously an effort] Breakfasts are 
 rather a mistake, aren't they? So try- 
 ing to the temper. And that awful 
 woman ! I felt a brute for deserting 
 you. On the very first morning too. 
 But I didn't feel strong enough to face 
 her again so soon. How could Geoffrey 
 do it ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [grimly]. Geoffrey's 
 not going to marry Mrs. Borridge. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. He's going to 
 marry the daughter. And she'll grow 
 like her mother ultimately. All girls 
 do, poor things. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [sighs]. Poor Geoffrey. 
 I suppose there's something wrong in 
 the way we bring boys up. When they 
 reach manhood they seem quite unable 
 to distinguish between the right sort 
 of woman and — the other sort. A 
 
 ?retty face, and they're caught at once. 
 t's only after they've lived for a few 
 years in the world and got soiled and 
 hardened — got what we call experience, 
 in fact — that they even begin to under- 
 stand the difference. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 611 
 
 'f Ladt Marchmont [decidedly]. You 
 
 *! ought to have sent Geoffrey to a public 
 '! school. His father ought to have in- 
 sisted on it. 
 C Mrs. Cassilis. Poor Charley died 
 
 ' when Geofi was only twelve. And when 
 S' I was left alone I couldn't make up my 
 mind to part with him. Besides, I hate 
 ' the way public school boys look on 
 women. 
 
 Ladt Mabchmont Still, it's a safe- 
 guard. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [dismally]. Perhaps 
 it is. 
 
 [Neither of the sisters speaks for a 
 moment. Both are plunged in 
 
 Eainful thought. Suddenly 
 lADT Marchmont looks up 
 and catches sight of Mrs. 
 Cassilis's face, which looks 
 drawn and miserable. She 
 goes over to her with something 
 like a cry] 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. My dear Ade- 
 laide, don't look like that. You frighten 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [pulling herself lo- 
 What's the matter? 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Your face looked 
 absolutely grey ! Didn't you sleep last 
 night? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Not very much. 
 [Trying to smile] Has my hair gone 
 grey, too? 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Of course not. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. I feared it might. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. You poor dear ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [impulsively]. I am 
 pretty stiU, am I not, Margaret? 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. My dear, you 
 look perfectly sweet, as you always do. 
 Only there are one or two little fines I 
 hadn't noticed before. But your hair's 
 lovely. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [eagerly]. I'm glad 
 of that. I shall need all my looks now 
 — for Geoffrey's sake 
 
 Ladt Marchmont [puzzled]. Geof- 
 frey's? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Looks mean so much 
 to a man, don't they? And he has 
 always admired me. Now I shall want 
 him to admire me more than ever. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Why, dear? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [with cold intensity]. 
 Because I have a rival. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. This detestable 
 girl? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [nods]. Yes. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. My dear Ade- 
 laide, isn't it too late now ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Too late? Why, 
 the time has scarcely begun. At present 
 Geoffrey is over head and ears in love 
 with her. While that goes on we can 
 do nothing. [With absolute conviction] 
 But it won't last. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont [surprised at her 
 confidence]. Won't it? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. No. That kind of 
 love never does. It dies because it is 
 a thing of the senses only. It has no 
 foundation in reason, in common tastes, 
 common interests, common associations. 
 So it dies. [With a bitter smile] My 
 place is by its deathbed. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont [with a slight 
 shudder]. That sounds rather ghoul- 
 ish. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. It is. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [more lightly]. 
 Are you going to do anything to hasten 
 its demise? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [quite practical]. Oh 
 yes. In the first place, they're to stay 
 here for a long visit. I want them to 
 feel thoroughly at home. Vulgar people 
 are so much more vulgar when they feel 
 at home, aren't they? 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. You can hardly 
 expect any change in that direction 
 from Mrs. Borridge. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [a short, mirthless laugh]. 
 I suppose not. [Practical again] "Then 
 I shall ask lots of people to meet them. 
 Oh, lots of people. So that Geoffrey 
 may have the benefit of the contrast. 
 I've asked Mabel to stay, by the way 
 — for a week — to help to entertain 
 dear Ethel. When those two are to- 
 gether it should open Geoffrey's eyes 
 more than anything. 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Love is blind. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [briskly]. It sees a 
 great deal better than it used to do, 
 dear. Far better than it did when we 
 were young people. 
 
 [Pause] 
 
 Ladt Marchmont. Anything else? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Not at the mo- 
 ment. [A ghost of a smile] Yes, by 
 the way. There's Major Warrington. 
 
 ,Ladt Marchmont [shocked]. You're 
 not really going to consult that dissi- 
 pated wretch? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [recklessly]. I would 
 consult the Witch of Endor if I thought 
 she could help me — and if I knew her 
 address. Oh, I'm prepared to go any 
 lengths. I wonder if he would elope 
 with her for a consideration? 
 
 Ladt Marchmont [horrified]. Ade- 
 
612 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 laide, you wouldn't do that. It would 
 be dreadful. Think of the scandal. 
 
 Mks. Cassilis. My dear, if she would 
 elope with Watson, I'd raise his wages. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Adelaide ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [defiantly] I would. 
 Ah, Margaret, you've no children. 
 [Her voice quivering and her eyes shining 
 with intensity of emotion] You don't 
 know how it feels to see your son wreck- 
 ing his life and not be able to prevent it. 
 I love my son better than anything else 
 in the whole world. There is nothing 
 I wouldn't do to save him. That is 
 how mothers are made. That's what 
 we're for. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [slight shrug]. Poor 
 girl! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [fiercely]. You're not 
 to pity her. Margaret. I forbid you. 
 She tried to steal away my son. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Still — 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [impatiently]. Mar- 
 garet, don't be sentimental. The girl's 
 not in love with Geoffrey. Any one can 
 see that. She's in love with his position 
 and his money, the money he will have 
 some day. She doesn't really care two 
 straws for him. It was a trap, a trap 
 from the beginning, and poor Geoff 
 blundered into it. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. She couldn't 
 make the omnibus horse fall down ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. No. That was 
 chance. But after that she set herself 
 to catch him, and her mother egged her 
 on no doubt, and taught her how to 
 play her fish. And you pity her ! . 
 
 Lady Marchmont [soothingly]. I 
 don't really. At least, I did for a mo- 
 ment. But I suppose you're right. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [vehemently]. Of 
 course I'm right. I'm Geoffrey's 
 mother. Who should know if I don't? 
 Mothers have eyes. If she really cared 
 for him I should know. I might try 
 to blind myself, but I should know. 
 But she doesn't. And she sha'n't marry 
 him. She sha'n't ! 
 
 Lady Marchmont. My dear, don't 
 glare at me like that. I'm not trying 
 to make the match. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Was I glaring? 
 
 Lady Marchmont. You looked 
 rather tigerish. [Mrs. Cassilis gives 
 short laugh. Pause] By the way, as 
 she's not to be your daughter-in-law, is 
 it necessary to be quite so affectionate 
 to her all the time? It rather gets on 
 my nerves. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. It is absolutely 
 necessary. If there were any coolness 
 between us the girl would be on her 
 guard, and Geoffrey would take her 
 side. That would be fatal. Geoffrey 
 must never know how I feel towards 
 her. No ! When this engagement is 
 broken off I shall kiss her affectionately 
 at parting, and when the carriage comes 
 round I shaU shed tears. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [wjonderingr]. Why? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Because otherwise 
 it would make a division between 
 Geoffrey and me. And I couldn't bear 
 that. I must keep his love whatever 
 happens. And if I have to deceive 
 him a little to keep it, isn't that what 
 we women always have to do? In 
 fact, I shall have to deceive everybody 
 except you. Lady Remenham, Mrs. 
 Herries, the whole county. If they 
 once knew they would be sure to talk. 
 Lady Remenham never does anything 
 else, does she? And later on, when the 
 engagement was all over and done with, 
 Geoffrey would get to hear of it, and 
 he'd never forgive me. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. My dear, your 
 unscrupulousness appals me. [Mrs. 
 Cassilis shrugs impatiently] Well, it's 
 not very nice, you must admit. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [exasperated]. Nice! 
 Of course it's not nice ! Good heavens, 
 Margaret, you don't suppose I like 
 doing this sort of thing, do you? I do 
 it because I must, because it's the only 
 way to save Geoffrey. If Geoffrey 
 married her he'd be miserable, and I 
 won't have that. Of course it would be 
 pleasanter to be perfectly straightfor- 
 ward, and teU the girl I detest her. 
 But if I did she'd marry Geoff if only 
 to spite me. So I must trap her as she 
 has trapped him. It's not a nice game, 
 but it's the only possible one. [More 
 calmly] Yes, I inust be on the best of 
 terms with Ethel. [With a smile of real 
 enjoyment at the thought] And you must 
 make friends with that appalling mother. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [firmly]. No, 
 Adelaide ! I refuse ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [crosses to her]. You 
 must. You must ! 
 
 [Takes her two hands and looks 
 into her eyes] 
 
 Lady Marchmont [giving way, hyp- 
 notised]. Very well. I'll do my best. 
 [Mrs. Cassilis drops her hands and turns 
 away with a sigh of relief] But I sha'n't 
 come down to breakfast ! There are 
 limits to my endurance. [Plaintive] 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 613 
 
 And I do so hate breakfasting in my 
 room. The crumbs always get into 
 my bed. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [consoling her]. Never 
 mind. When we've won you shall share 
 the glory. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [doubtfully]. 
 You're going to win? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [nods]. I'm going to 
 win. I've no doubt whatever about 
 that. I've brains and she hasn't. 
 And brains always tell in the end. Be- 
 sides, she did something this morning 
 which made me sure that I should 
 win. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [trying to get hack 
 her old lightness of tone]. She didn't 
 eat with her knife ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [resolutely serious]. 
 No. She — yawned. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [puzzled]. 
 
 Yawned ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Yes. Three times. 
 When I saw that I knew that I should 
 win. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [peevish]. My 
 dear Adelaide, what do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Girls like that can't 
 endure boredom. They're used to ex- 
 citement, the vulgar excitement of Bo- 
 hemian life in London. Theatres, sup- 
 per parties, plenty of fast society. She 
 owned as much this morning. Well, 
 down here she shall be dull, oh, how 
 dull! I wiU see to that. "The curate 
 shall come to dinner. And old Lady 
 BeUairs, with her tracts and her 
 trumpet. I've arranged that it shall 
 be a long engagement. She shall yawn 
 to some purpose before it's over. And 
 when she's bored she'U get cross. You'll 
 see. She'll begin to quarrel with her 
 mother, and nag at Geoffrey — at every 
 one, in fact, except me. I shall be too 
 sweet to her for that. [With a long look 
 into her_ sister's eyes] And that will be 
 the beginning of the end. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [turning away her 
 eyes with something like a shiver]. Well, 
 dear, I think your plan diaboUoal. 
 [Rising] But your courage is perfectly 
 splendid, and I love you for it. [Lays 
 hand on her shoulder for a moment caress- 
 ingly] And now I'll go in and get ready 
 for lunch. 
 
 [Lady Mabchmont turns to go 
 into the house. As she does so 
 the Butler comes out, followed 
 by Mabel in riding habit. 
 Mes. Cabsilis's manner 
 changes at once. The intense 
 
 seriousness with which she has 
 been talking to her sister dis- 
 appears in an instant, and in- 
 stead you have the charming 
 hostess, without a care in the 
 world, only thinking of wel- 
 coming her guest and making 
 her comfortable. It is a triumph 
 of pluck — and breeding] 
 
 BtTTLEB. Lady Mabel Venning. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [rising]. Ah, Mabel 
 dear, how are you? [Kisses her] 
 You've ridden over? But you're going 
 to stay here, you know. Haven't you 
 brought your things ? 
 
 Mabel. Mamma is sending them 
 after me. It was such a perfect morn- 
 ing for a ride. How do you do, lady 
 Marchmont? [Shaking hands] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. That's right. Wat- 
 son, tell them to take Lady Mabel's 
 horse round to the stables. She will 
 keep it here while she is with us. [To 
 Mabel] Then you'U be able to ride 
 every day with Geoffrey. [To Lady 
 Mabchmont] Poor Ethel doesn't ride. 
 Isn't it unfortunate ? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Very ! 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. She and Geoffrey 
 are down at the strawberry bed spoiling 
 their appetites for luncheon. Would 
 you like to join them ? 
 
 Mabel. I think not, thanks. It's 
 rather hot, isn't it? I think I'd rather 
 stay here with you. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. As you please, dear. 
 
 [They sit] 
 
 Mabel. Oh, before I forget, mamma 
 asked me to tell you she telegraphed 
 to Uncle Algernon yesterday, and he's 
 coming down next Wednesday. She 
 had a letter from him this morning by 
 the second post. It came just before 
 I started. Such a funny letter. Mamma 
 asked me to bring it to you to read. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [taking letter, and read- 
 ing it aloud to her sister]. "My dear 
 Julia, — I am at a loss to understand 
 to what I owe the honour of an invita- 
 tion to Milverton. I thought I had 
 forfeited all claim to it for ever. I can 
 only suppose you have at last found an 
 heiress to marry me. If this is so I 
 may as well say at once that unless she 
 is both extremely rich and extremely 
 pretty I shall decline to entertain her 
 proposal. My experience is that that 
 is a somewhat unusual combination. 
 •I wiU be with you next Wednesday. — 
 Your affectionate brother, A. L. War- 
 rington." [Giving hack letter] That's 
 
614 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 right, then. And now I think I'll just 
 go down to the kitchen garden and 
 tell Geoffrey you're here. [Rises] No, 
 don't come too. You stay and enter- 
 tain Margaret. 
 
 [She goes, off by the path leading to 
 the strawberry beds] 
 
 Lady Makchmont. Dear Major 
 Warrington. He alwajrs was the most 
 delightfully witty, wicked creature. 
 I'm so glad he's coming while I'm here. 
 Adelaide must be sure and ask him 
 over. 
 
 Mabel. Uncle Algernon is coming 
 over to dine this day week — with 
 mamma. 
 
 Lady Maechmont. To be sure ; I 
 remember. 
 
 [Enter Geofpeby quickly from garden] 
 
 Geoffrey. Halloa, Mabel! How 
 do you do? [Shaking hands] I didn't 
 know you were here. 
 
 Mabel. Mrs. Cassilis has just gone 
 to tell you. 
 
 Geoffrey. I know She met us as 
 we were coming back from eating straw- 
 berries. We've been perfect pigs. She 
 and Ethel will be here in a moment. I 
 ran on ahead. 
 
 Lady Maechmont [rising]. Well, it's 
 close on lunch time. I shall go in and 
 get ready. 
 
 [Lady Marchmont goes off into 
 the house, leaving the young 
 people together. They begin to 
 chatter at once with the easy 
 familiarity of long acquaintance] 
 Geoffrey. You rode over? 
 
 [Sitting on the arm of her chair] 
 Mabel. Yes, on Basil. He really 
 is the sweetest thing. I like him much 
 better than Hector. 
 
 Geoffrey. Poor old Hector. He's 
 not so young as he was. 
 Mabel. No. 
 
 [Geoffrey suddenly remembers 
 that there is something more 
 important than horses which he 
 has to say before Ethel arrives. 
 He hesitates for a moment, and 
 then plunges into his subject] 
 Geoffrey. Mabel . . . There's 
 something I want to ask you. 
 Mabel. Is there? 
 Geoffrey. Yes. But I don't know 
 how to say it. [Hesitates again] 
 
 Mabel [smiling]. Perhaps you'd 
 better not try, then? 
 
 Geoffrey. I must. I feel I ought. 
 
 It's about something Aunt Margaret 
 said yesterday. . . . [Blushing a little] 
 Mabel, did you ever ... did I ever 
 . . . did I ever do anything to make 
 you think I ... I was going to ask 
 you to marry me ? 
 
 [Looking her bravely in the face] 
 
 Mabel [turning her eyes away]. No, 
 Geoff. 
 
 Geoffrey. Sure? 
 
 Mabel. Quite sure. 
 
 Geoffrey. I'm glad. 
 
 Mabel [looking up, surprised]. Why, 
 Geoff? 
 
 Geoffrey. Because from what Aunt 
 Margaret said I was afraid, without in- 
 tending it, I'd ... I — hadn't been 
 quite honourable. 
 
 Mabel [gently]. You have always 
 been everything that is honourable, 
 Geoff. And everything that is kind. 
 
 Geoffrey [relieved]. Thank you, 
 Mabel. You're a brick, you know. 
 And we shall always be friends, sha'n't 
 we? 
 
 Mabel. Always. [Rises] 
 
 Geoffrey. And you'll be friends 
 with Ethel too ? 
 
 Mabel. If she'll let me. 
 
 Geoffrey. Of course she'll let you. 
 She's the dearest girl. She's ready to 
 be friends with everybody. And she'll 
 love you, I know. [Stands up] You 
 promise? [Holds out hand] 
 
 Mabel [takes it]. I promise. 
 
 [Mrs. Cassilis and Ethel enter at this 
 moment from garden. Mrs. Cas- 
 silis has her arm in Ethel's, and 
 they make a picture of mutual trust 
 and affection which would make 
 Lady Marchmont scream. Luckily, 
 she is safely in her room washing her 
 hands. Mrs. Cassilis smiles sweetly 
 at Mabel as she speaks, but does not 
 relax her hold on her future daughter- 
 in-law] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Not gone in to get 
 ready yet, Mabel? 
 
 Mabel. No. Lady Marchmont 
 only went a minute ago. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. [To Ethel] You've 
 not met Mabel yet, have you? I must 
 introduce you. Miss Borridge — Lady 
 Mabel Venning. [Sweetly] I want you 
 two to be great friends ! [They shake 
 hands] And now come in and get 
 ready for luncheon. 
 
 [They all move towards the house 
 as the curtain falls] 
 
The Cdssilis Engagement 
 
 615 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene. — The smoking-room at Deyn- 
 ham. A week has elapsed since the 
 last Act, and the time is after dinner. 
 The room has two doors, one leading 
 to the hall and the rest of the house, 
 the other communicating with the 
 billiard-room. There is a fireplace 
 on the left, in which a fire burns 
 brightly. A writing-table occupies 
 the centre of the stage. Further up 
 is a grand piano. By its side a 
 stand with music on it. Obviously 
 a man's room from the substantial 
 writing-table, with the cigar-box on 
 it, and the leather-covered arm-chairs. 
 " The Field" and " The Sportsman" 
 lie on a sofa hard by. The room is 
 lighted by lamps. The stage is 
 empty when the curtain rises. Then 
 Gboffeey enters from hall. He 
 crosses to the door of the billiard- 
 room, opens it, and looks in. Then 
 turns and speaks to Majob Wae- 
 BiNGTON, who has just entered from 
 hall. Warrington is a cheerful, 
 rather dissipated-looking man of 
 fim-and-forty. 
 
 Geoffrey. It's all right, Warring- 
 ton. They've lighted the lamps. 
 
 Warrington. Good. 
 
 [Strolling across towards fireplace] 
 
 Geoffrey [at door of billiard-room]. 
 How many wiU you give me ? 
 
 Warrington. Oh, hang bilUards ! 
 I'm not up to a game to-night. That 
 was only an excuse to get away from 
 the women. I believe that's why games 
 were invented. But if you could get 
 me a whisky and soda I should be your 
 eternal debtor. Julia kept such an 
 infernally strict watch on me aU the 
 evening that I never got more than a 
 glass and a half of champagne. A 
 fellow can't get along on that, can he? 
 
 Geoffrey. I'll ring. 
 
 Warrington. Do. There's a good 
 fellow. [Geoffrey rings] Every man 
 requires a certain amount of hciuid per 
 day. I've seen the statistics in '"The 
 Lancet." But Julia never reads "The 
 Lancet." Women never do read any- 
 thing, I beUeve. 
 
 Geoffrey. Have another cigar? 
 
 Warrington. Thanks. Don't mind 
 if I do. [Takes one and lights it] Aren't 
 you going to? 
 
 Geoffrey [who looks seedy and out of 
 spirits]. No, thanks. 
 
 [Enter Footman, with whisky and soda] 
 
 Whisky and soda, James. 
 
 Footman. Yes, sir. 
 
 [Puts it on small table and goes 
 out] 
 
 Warrington. Off your smoke ? 
 
 Geoffrey. Yes. [Pouring whisky\ 
 Say when. 
 
 Warrington. When. [Takes soda] 
 You're not going to have one ? 
 
 Geoffrey. No. 
 
 Warrington. Off your drink ? 
 
 Geoffrey. Yes. 
 
 Warrington. That's bad. What's 
 the matter ? 
 
 [Selects comfortable easy-chair and 
 sits lazily] 
 
 Geoffrey. Oh, nothing. I'm a bit 
 out of sorts, I suppose. 
 
 Warrington. How well your 
 mother looks to-night, by the way I 
 Jove, what a pretty woman she is ! 
 
 Geoffrey. Dear mother. 
 
 Warrington [sips whisky medita- 
 tively]. How does she Uke this mar- 
 riage of yours ? 
 
 Geoffrey [off-hand]. All right. 
 
 Warrington. Ah! [Nods] Bites 
 on the bullet. No offence, my dear 
 fellow. I like her pluck. 
 
 Geoffrey [exasperated]. I assure 
 you, you're mistaken. My mother's 
 been kindness itself over my engage- 
 ment. She's never said a word against 
 it from the first. I believe she's the 
 only person in this infernal county who 
 hasn't. 
 
 Warrington. Except myself. 
 
 Geoffrey. Except yourself. And 
 you think me a thundering young fool. 
 
 Warrington. Oh no. 
 
 Geoffrey. Oh yes. I could see 
 you looking curiously at me all through 
 dinner — ■ when you weren't eating — 
 as if I were some strange beast. You 
 think I'm a fool right enough. 
 
 Warrington [stretching himself lux- 
 uriously]. Not at all. Miss Borridge 
 is a very pretty girl, very bright, very 
 amusin'. I sat next her at dinner, you 
 know. Not quite the sort one marries, 
 perhaps — as a rule — 
 
 Geoffrey [crossly]. What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Warrington [shrugs]. Anyhow, 
 you're going to marry her. So much 
 the better for her. What amuses me 
 is your bringing her old reprobate of a 
 mother down here. The cheek of it 
 quite takes away my breath. 
 
616 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Geoffrey [peevish]. What's the mat- 
 ter with her mother? She's common, 
 of course, and over-eats herself, but 
 lots of people do that. And she's good- 
 natured. That's more than some 
 women are. 
 
 Wabbington [looking thoughtfully at 
 the end of his cigar]. Still, she's scarcely 
 the sort one introduces to one's mother, 
 eh? But I'm old-fashioned, no doubt. 
 There's no saying what you .young 
 fellows will do. Your code is peculiarly 
 your own. 
 
 [Wanders across in quest of another 
 whisky and soda] 
 
 Geofpbby [restively]. Look here, 
 Warrington, what do you mean? 
 
 Warrington [easily]. Want to hit 
 me in the eye, don't you? / know. 
 Very natural feeling. Lots of people 
 have it. 
 
 Geoffbey [sulkily]. Why shouldn't 
 I introduce her to my mother? 
 
 Warrington. Well, she's a dis- 
 reputable old woman, you know. She 
 lived with Borridge for years before he 
 married her. The other daughter's — 
 [Shrugs shoulders] And then to bring 
 her down here and introduce her to 
 Jalia! Gad, I like your humour. 
 
 Geoffrey [much perturbed at his com- 
 panion's news]. Are you sure? 
 
 Warrington [nonchalantly]. Sure? 
 Why, it's common knowledge. Every- 
 body knows old Borridge, and most 
 people loathe her. I don't. I rather 
 like her in a way. She's so splendidly 
 vulgar. Flings her aitches about with 
 reckless indifference. And I Mke her 
 affection for that girl. She's really 
 fond of her. So much the worse for 
 you, by the way. You'll never be able 
 to keep them apart. 
 
 Geoffrey [irritably]. Why should 
 I want to keep them apart? 
 
 Warrington. Why should you — ? 
 [Drinks] Oh, well, my dear chap, if 
 you're satisfied — 
 
 Geoffrey [low voice]. Her sister 
 . . . ? Poor Ethel ! Poor Ethel ! 
 
 Warrington [with a good-natured 
 effort to make the best of things]. My 
 dear chap, don't be so down in the 
 mouth. There's no use fretting. I'd 
 no idea you were so completely in the 
 dark about all this, or I wouldn't have 
 told you. Cheer up. 
 
 Geoffrey [huskily]. I'm glad you 
 told me. 
 
 Warrington. To think you've been 
 engaged aU this time and never found 
 
 it out ! What amazing innocence ! 
 [Chuckling] Ha! Ha! . . . Ha! 
 Ha! Ha! 
 
 Geoffrey. Don't. 
 
 [Sinks on to sofa with a groan] 
 
 Warrington. Sorry, my dear boy. 
 But it's so devilish amusing. 
 
 Geoffrey. How blind I've been! 
 How utterly blind ! 
 
 Warrington [shrugs shoulders]. Well, 
 I rather like a chap who's a bit of an ass 
 myself. 
 
 Geoffrey. Poor mother ! 
 
 Warrington. Doesn't she know? 
 Not about old Borridge? [Geoffrey 
 shakes his head] She must ! Women 
 always do. They have an instinct 
 about these things that is simply un- 
 canny. It's often highly inconvenient 
 too, by the way. She probably says 
 nothing on your account. 
 
 Geoffrey [dismally]. Perhaps so. 
 Or Ethel's. She's been wonderfully 
 kind to Ethel ever since she came down. 
 Perhaps that's the reason. [Rises] 
 After all, it's not Ethel's fault. 
 
 Warrington. Of coiirse not. [Looks 
 at him curiously, then, with an instinct of 
 kindliness, goes to him and lays hand on 
 shoulder] Well, here's luck, my dear 
 boy, and I won't say may you never 
 repent it, but may you put off repent- 
 ing it as long as possible. That's the 
 best one can hope of most marriages. 
 
 Geoffrey [drily]. Thanks ! 
 
 Warrington. Well, it's been an 
 uncommon amusin' evening. Mrs. 
 Herries' face has been a study for a life- 
 time. And as for Julia's — oh, out- 
 raged respectability ! What a joy it is ! 
 
 [Further conversation is interrupted by 
 the entrance of the other guests from 
 the hall. These are Lady Rembn- 
 HAM, Lady Mabchmont, Mrs. 
 Herries, Mrs. Borridge, Ethel, 
 and Mabel. Last of all comes the 
 Rector, with Mrs. Cassilis. They 
 enter with a hum of conversation] 
 
 Rector. [To his hostess] Well, he's 
 a disreputable poaching fellow. It's 
 no more than he deserved. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [nods dubiously]. Still, 
 I'm sorry for his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Herries. I'll send down to 
 her in the morning and see if she wants 
 anything. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [beaming with good 
 humour]. So this is where you gentle- 
 men have got to ! 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 617 
 
 - Geoffrey. I brought Major War- 
 rington to smoke a cigar. 
 
 Lady Rbmbnham [looking fixedly at 
 whisky, then at Warrington]. Algernon ! 
 Washington [protesting]. My dear 
 Julia, I believe there is nothing unusual 
 in a man's requiring one whisky and 
 soda at this time in the evening. 
 
 Lady Remenham. I trust it has 
 been only one. 
 
 [Sits on sofa, where she is joined 
 by Lady Marchmont] 
 Warrington [changing the subject]. 
 Whom have you been sending to jail 
 for poaching now, Rector? No Jus- 
 tice's justice, I hope? 
 
 Rector. Old Murcatt. He's one of 
 Mrs. Cassihs's tenants. A most un- 
 satisfactory feUow. He was caught 
 red-handed laying a snare in the Milver- 
 ton woods. It was a clear case. 
 
 [Ethel stifles a yawn] 
 Ethel. I should have thought there 
 was no great harm in that. 
 Rector. My dear young lady ! 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Take care, Ethel 
 dear. An EngUshman's hares are sacred. 
 Mrs. Borridge. How silly ! J can't 
 bear 'are myself. 
 
 [Seats herself massively in arm-- 
 chair in front of piano. An 
 awkward silence follows this in- 
 sult to hares. As it threatens to 
 grow oppressive, the Rector 
 tries what can be done with 
 partridges to bridge the gulf] 
 Rector. You'll have plenty of par- 
 tridges this year, Mrs. Cassilis. We 
 started five coveys as we drove here. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [acknowledging his help 
 with a smile]. We generally have a 
 good many. 
 
 [Ethel, stifling another yawn, 
 strolls to piano, opens it, and 
 strikes a note or two idly] 
 Mabel. You play, I know, Ethel. 
 Won't you play something? 
 Ethel [sulkily]. No. 
 
 [Turns away, closing piano 
 sharply. Another constrained 
 silence] 
 Mrs. Hekries. I saw you out rid- 
 ing to-day, Mabel. I looked in at 
 Dobson's cottage. Poor feUow, I'm 
 afraid he's very ill. 
 
 Mabel. Yes. I was with Geoffrey. 
 We had a long ride, all through Lower 
 Milverton and Carbury to Mirstoke. 
 It was delightful. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. [To Mbs. Hehries] 
 Your husband has a lot of that sort of 
 
 thing to do down here, I suppose, Mrs. 
 'Erris? 
 
 Mrs. Hebeies [with frosty politeness]. 
 When people are ill they generally like 
 a visit from a clergyman, don't they? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [bluntly]. Well, 
 there's no accounting for tastes. My 
 'usband, when he was ill, wouldn't 'ave 
 a parson near 'im. Said it gave 'im 
 the creeps. 
 
 [Another silence that can be felt. 
 Warrington's shoulders quiver 
 with delight, and he chokes hur- 
 riedly into a newspaper] 
 Lady Marchmont [crossing to flre, 
 with polite pretence that it is the physical, 
 not the social, atmosphere that is freezing 
 her to the bone]. How sensible of you 
 to have a flre, Adelaide. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [throwing her a grateful 
 look]. It is pleasant, isn't it? These 
 July evenings are often cold in the 
 country. 
 
 [Ethel stifles a prodigious yawn] 
 Geoffrey [going to her]. "Tired, 
 Ethel? 
 
 Ethel [pettishly]. No. 
 
 [Glowers at him. He turns away 
 with slight shrug. There is yet 
 another awkward pause] 
 Mrs. Cassilis [rising nervously]. 
 Won't somebody play billiards ? Are 
 the lamps lighted, Geoffrey? 
 Gbopprby. Yes, mother. 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Or shall we play 
 pyramids? Then we can all join in. 
 [Persuasively] You'll play, Mrs. Bor- 
 ridge, I'm sure? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [beaming]. I'm on. 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You, Lady Remen- 
 ham? 
 
 Lady Rbmbnham. No, thanks. Mrs. 
 Herries and I are going to stay by the 
 flre and talk about the Rector's last 
 sermon. 
 
 [The Rector raises hands in 
 horror] 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You, Margaret? 
 Lady Marchmont. No, really. I've 
 never played pyramids in my life. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [in high good humour]. 
 Then it's 'igh time you began. Lady 
 Marchmont. I'll teach you. 
 
 [Mrs. Cassilis looks entreaty. 
 Lady Marchmont assents, 
 smiling] 
 Lady Marchmont. Very well. To 
 please you, dear Mrs. Borridge ! 
 
 [Lady Marchmont goes off to 
 billiard-room, followed a mo- 
 ment later by MabEl] 
 
618 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You, Mabel? That's 
 three. Ethel four. 
 
 Ethel. No, thank you, Mrs. Cassi- 
 lis. I won't play. 
 
 Mrs. Borhidgb. Why not, Eth? 
 You're a nailer at pyramids. 
 
 Ethel [pettishly]. Because I'd rather 
 not, mother. [Turns away] 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. All right, dearie. 
 You needn't snap my nose off. 
 
 [Goes off to billiard-room with un- 
 ruffled cheerfulness] 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Geoffrey five. The 
 Rector six. 
 
 Rector. Very well, if you won't 
 play for money. I've no conscientious 
 objections to playing for njoney, but 
 whenever I do it I always lose. Which 
 comes to the same thing. 
 
 [Follows Mrs. Bobridge off] 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You, Major War- 
 rington, of course? 
 
 Warrington [laughing]. No, thanks. 
 I shall stay here and flirt with Mrs. 
 Herries. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Very well. How 
 many did I say? Six, wasn't it? And 
 myself seven. Coming, Geoff? 
 Geoffrey. All right, mother. 
 
 [Geoffrey looks doubtfully at 
 Ethel for a moment, and even 
 takes a step towards her, but 
 she takes no notice of him. 
 Baffled, he turns to his mother, 
 who leads him off after the 
 others. Lady Remenham 
 settles herself comfortably in 
 arm-chair above the fireplace. 
 Mbs. Herries takes another 
 by her, and they begin to gossip 
 contentedly. Ethel looks sul- 
 lenly in their direction. War- 
 rington makes a valiant effort 
 to retrieve his glass from the 
 mantelpiece, with a view to re- 
 plenishing it with whisky] 
 Lady Remenham. Now, Mrs. 
 Herries, draw up that chair to the fire, 
 and we'll talk scandal. 
 
 Wabbington [stretching out hand 
 towards glass]. The Rector's sermon, 
 Julia ! 
 
 Lady Remenham. Algernon ! 
 
 [He stops dead. Ethel seats her- 
 self in the armchair behind the 
 writing-table, puts her elbows 
 on the table, and glares into 
 vacancy, looking rather like u, 
 handsome fury. Presently War- 
 rington joins her. She yawns 
 with unaffected weariness. 
 
 Warrington looks at her with 
 an amused sm,ile] 
 Warrington. Bored, Miss Bor- 
 ridge ? 
 
 Ethel. I wonder. 
 Warrington [draws up chair by her]. 
 I don't. [She laughs] Life isn't very 
 lively down here till the shooting begins. 
 Ethel [drumming with her fingers on 
 table]. I don't shoot. So I'm afraid 
 that won't help me much. 
 
 Warrington. I remember. Nor 
 ride, I think you told me ? 
 Ethel [yawns]. Nor ride. 
 Wabbington. Gad. I'm sorry for 
 you. 
 
 Ethel [looking curiously at him]. I 
 believe you really are. 
 
 Warrington. Of course I am. 
 Ethel. I don't know about "of 
 course." Except for Mrs. Cassilis — 
 and poor Geoff — who doesn't count — ■ 
 I don't find much sympathy in this part 
 of the country. Heigho ! How they 
 hate me ! 
 
 Warrington [protesting]. No, no. 
 Ethel. Oh yes, they do. Every 
 one of them. From Watson, who pours 
 out my claret at dinner, and would 
 dearly love to poison it, to your sister, 
 who is glaring at us at this moment. 
 
 [As, indeed. Lady Remenham 
 is doing with some intensity. 
 She highly disapproves of her 
 brother's attentions to Ethel, 
 but, as there is no very obvious 
 method of stopping them, she 
 says nothing. Presently she and 
 Mrs. Herries begin a game of 
 bezique, and that for the time, 
 at least, distracts her attention 
 from her brother's depravity] 
 Warrington [looking up and laugh- 
 ing]. Dear Julia. She never had any 
 manners. 
 
 Ethel. She's no worse than the 
 rest. Mrs. Herries would do just the 
 same if she dared. And as for Mabel 
 ! 
 
 Warrington. Don't hit it off with 
 Mabel? 
 
 Ethel. Oh, we don't quarrel, if 
 that's what you mean, or caU one 
 another names across the table. I wish 
 we did. I could beat her at that. 
 We're as civil as the Devil. [He laughs] 
 What are you laughing at? 
 
 Wabbington. Only at the pictur- 
 esqueness of your language. 
 
 Ethel [shrugs]. Yes, Mabel despises 
 me, and I hate her. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 619 
 
 Warrington. Why? 
 Ethel [wearily]. Because we're dif- 
 ferent, I suppose. She's everything 
 I'm not. She's well-born and well-bred. 
 Her father's an earl. Mine was a book- 
 maker. 
 Warrington. Is that all? 
 Ethel \bitterly]. No. She's running 
 after Geoffrey. [Warrington looks 
 incredulous] She is ! 
 
 Warrington [raising eyebrows]. 
 Jealous? 
 
 Ethel. Yes. I am jealous. Little 
 beast! [Picks up flimsy paper-knife.) 
 I'd hke to kill her. 
 
 [Makes savage jab with knife. It 
 promptly breaks] 
 Warrington [taking pieces out of her 
 hand]. Don't be violent. 
 
 [Carries pieces blandly to fire. 
 Ethel stares straight in front 
 of her. Meantime Lady Rem- 
 ENHAM has been conversing in 
 an undertone with Mrs. 
 Herries, occasionally glancing 
 over her shoulder at the other 
 two. In the sudden hush which 
 follows Warrington's move- 
 ment towards the fireplace her 
 voice suddenly becomes alarm- 
 ingly audible] 
 Lady Rembnham. Such a common. 
 little thing, too ! And I don't even call 
 her pretty. 
 
 Mrs. Herhies. It's curious how 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis seems to have taken to her. 
 
 Lady Rembnham. Yes. She even 
 
 tolerates that awful mother. [Irritably] 
 
 What is it, Algernon ? 
 
 Warrington [blandly]. Only a little 
 accident with a paper-knife. 
 
 [Lady Rembnham grunts. War- 
 rington returns to Ethel] 
 Mrs. Herries [lowering her voice 
 discreetly]. For Geoffrey's sake, of 
 course. She's so devoted to him. 
 _ Lady Remenham. It may be that. 
 Vm inclined to think her mind has 
 given way a little. I asked her about 
 it last week. 
 
 [The two ladies drop their voices 
 again to a murmur, but Ethel 
 has heard the last remark or 
 two, and looks like murder] 
 Warrington [sitting by Ethel and 
 resuming interrupted thread]. You were 
 going to tell me what makes you think 
 Mabel is in love with Geoffrey. 
 Ethel. Was I? 
 Warrington. Weren't you? 
 Ethel. Well, perhaps 1 will. 
 
 Warrington. Go ahead. 
 
 Ethel. She's staying here, and 
 they're always together. They ride 
 almost every morning. I can't ride, 
 you know. And Geoffrey loves it. 
 
 Wakeington. You should take to it. 
 
 Ethel. I did try one day. They 
 were just starting when I suddenly 
 said I'd like to go with them. 
 
 Warrington [starting]. What did 
 they say to that? 
 
 Ethel. Oh, Mabel pretended to be 
 as pleased as possible. She lent me an 
 old habit, and Geoff said they'd let me 
 have a horse that was as quiet as a 
 lamb. Horrid kicking beast ! 
 
 Warrington. What horse was it? 
 
 Ethel. It was called Jasmine, or 
 some such name. 
 
 Warrington. Mrs. CassiUs's mare? 
 Why, my dear girl, she hasn't a kick 
 in her. 
 
 Ethel. Hasn't she ! . . . Anyhow, 
 we started. So long as we walked it 
 was all right, and I began to think I 
 might actually get to like it. Buf soon 
 we began to trot — and that was 
 awful! I simply screamed. The beast 
 stopped at once. But I went on scream- 
 ing tUl they got me off. 
 
 Warrington. What did Geoffrey 
 say? 
 
 Ethel. Nothing. But he looked 
 terrible. Oh, how he despised me ! 
 
 Warrington. Poor girl. 
 
 Ethel. They brought me back, 
 walking all the way. And Geoff offered 
 to give up riding in the mornings if I 
 liked. '■(Warrington whistles] But, of 
 course, I had to say no. So now they 
 go out together every day, and often 
 don't come back till lunch. 
 
 Warrington. And what do you do ? 
 
 Ethel [wearily]. I sit at home and 
 yawn and yawn. [Does so] Mrs. Cassi- 
 lis takes me out driving sometimes. She 
 does what she can to amuse me. But 
 of course she's busy in the mornings. 
 
 Warrington. What does Mrs. Bor- 
 ridge do? 
 
 Ethel. Lady Marohmont looks after 
 her. I believe she gets a kind _ of 
 pleasure in leading her on and watching 
 her make a fool of herself. Old cat! 
 And mother sees nothing. She's as 
 pleased with herself as possible. She's 
 actually made Lady Marchmont 
 promise to come and stay with us in 
 London ! 
 
 Warrington. Bravo, Mrs. Bor- 
 ridge ! 
 
620 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Ethel. So I sit here in the drawing- 
 room with a book or the newspaper and 
 I'm bored ! bored ! 
 
 Warrington. And Geoffrey? 
 
 Ethel. He doesn't seem to notice. 
 If I say anything to Idm about it he just 
 says I'm not well ! He's very kind and 
 tries to find things to amuse me, but 
 it's a strain. And so it goes on day 
 after day. Heigho ! [A short silence] 
 
 Warrington. Well, my dear, I ad- 
 mire your courage. 
 
 Ethel [sur-prised]. What do you 
 mean ? 
 
 Warrington. A lifetime of this! 
 Year in year out. Till you can yawn 
 yourself decently into your grave. 
 
 Ethel [alarmed]. But it won't al- 
 ways be lilie this. We sha'n't live here, 
 Geoff and I. 
 
 Warrington. Oh yes, you will. 
 Mrs. Cassilis was talking only at dinner 
 of the little house she was going to 
 furnish for you both down here, just 
 on the edge of the Park. So that you 
 could always be near her. 
 
 Ethel. But Geoff has his profes- 
 sion. 
 
 Warrington. His profession is only 
 a name. He makes nothing at it. 
 And never will. Geoffrey's profession 
 is to be a country gentleman and shoot 
 pheasants. 
 
 Ethel. But we shall have a house 
 in London as well. 
 
 Warrington [shaking his head]. Not 
 you. As long as his mother hves 
 Geoffrey will be dependent on her, you 
 know. He has nothing wortb calling 
 an income of his own. And he's proud- 
 He won't accept more from her than 
 he's obliged even if her trustees would 
 allow her to hand over anything sub- 
 stantial to him on his marriage — 
 which they wouldn't. 
 
 Ethel [defiantly]. I shall refuse to 
 live down here. 
 
 Warrington. My dear, you won't 
 be asked. You'll have to live where 
 Mrs. Cassilis provides a house for you. 
 Besides, Geoff will prefer it. He Ukes 
 the country, and he's devoted to his 
 mother. 
 
 Ethel. Phew! 
 
 Warrington. Happily, it won't last 
 for ever. I dare say j^ou'll have killed 
 poor Mrs. Cassilis off in a dozen years 
 or so. Though you never know how 
 long people will last nowadays, by the 
 way. These modern doctors are the 
 devil. 
 
 Ethel. Kill her off? What do you 
 mean? I don't want to kill Mrs. 
 Cassilis. I like her. 
 
 Warrington [looking at her in genuine 
 astonishment]. My dear young lady, 
 you don't suppose you'll be able to 
 stand this sort of thing, do you? Oh 
 no. You'll kick over the traces, and 
 there'll be no end of a scandal, and 
 Geoff'll blow his brains out — if he's 
 got any — and she'U break her heart, 
 and that'U be the end of it. 
 
 Ethel [fiercely]. It won't. 
 
 Warrington. Oh yes, it will. You 
 don't know what Country Society is. 
 The dulness of it ! How it eats into 
 your bones. I do. 
 
 Ethel. Does it bore you too? 
 
 Warrington. Bore? It bores me 
 to tears ! I'm not a bad lot really. 
 At least, no worse than most middle- 
 aged bachelors. But Julia thinks me 
 an utterly abandoned character, and I 
 take care not to undeceive her. Why? 
 Because I find Milverton so intolerable. 
 I used to come down every Christmas. 
 One of those ghastly family reunions. 
 A sort of wake without the corpse. At 
 last I couldn't stand it, and did some- 
 thing perfectly outrageous. I forget 
 what, but I know the servants all gave 
 warning. So now I'm supposed to be 
 thoroughly disreputable, and that ass 
 Remenham won't have me asked to 
 the house. Thank Heaven for that! 
 
 Ethel. But Geoff likes the country. 
 
 Warrington. I dare say. But 
 Geoffrey and I are different. So are 
 Geoffrey and you. You and I are town 
 birds. He's a country bumpkin. / 
 know the breed ! 
 
 Ethel [in horror]. And I shall have 
 to stand this all my life ! All my life ! 
 [Savagely] I won't ! I won't ! 
 
 Warrington [calmly]. You wiU ! 
 
 Ethel. I won't, I tell you ! [War- 
 rington shrugs] It's too sickening. 
 [Pause. She seems to think for a mo- 
 ment, then grasps him by the arm, and 
 speaks eagerly, dropping her voice, and 
 looking cautiously over towards the others] 
 I say, let's go off to Paris, you and I, 
 and leave all this. It'd be awful fun. 
 
 Warrington [oppaHed, rising]. Hush! 
 Hush ! For God's sake. Julia'U hear. 
 
 Ethel [almost in a whisper]. Never 
 mind. What does it matter? Let's 
 go. You'd enjoy it like anything. 
 We'll have no end of a good time. 
 
 Warrington [shaking himself free, 
 desperately]. My dear young lady, 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 621 
 
 haven't I just told you that I'm not 
 that sort at all? I'm a perfectly re- 
 spectable person, of rather austere 
 morality than otherwise. 
 
 Ethel. Rot! You'll come? 
 
 [Grasping his arm again] 
 
 Warrington. No, I won't. I de- 
 cline. I can't go off with the girl my 
 host is going to marry. It wouldn't be 
 decent. Besides, I don't want to go 
 off with anybody. 
 
 Ethel [her spirits dropping to zero]. 
 You won't ? 
 
 Warrington [testily]. No, I won't. 
 And, for goodness' sake, speak lower. 
 JuUa's Ustening with all her ears. 
 
 Ethel [with a bitter little laugh]. 
 Poor Major Warrington ! How I 
 scared you ! 
 
 Warrington. I should say you did. 
 I'm not so young as I was. A few 
 years ago, a little thing like that never 
 made me turn a hair. Now I can't 
 stand it. 
 
 [Subsiding into chair and ihiping 
 the perspiration from his brow] 
 
 Ethel. You've gone through it be- 
 fore, then? 
 
 Warrington. More than once, my 
 dear. 
 
 Ethel [dismally]. And now you'll 
 look down on me too. 
 
 Warrington [trying to cheer her up]. 
 On the contrary, I admire you im- 
 mensely. In fact, I don't know which 
 I admire more, your pluck or your truly 
 marvellous self-control. To ask me to 
 go off with you without letting Julia 
 hear! [Looking anxiously towards her] 
 It was masterly. 
 
 . Ethel [sighs]. Well, I suppose I 
 shaU have to marry Geoff after all. 
 
 Warrington. I suppose so. Un- 
 less you could go off with the Ree^r. 
 
 [She laughs shrilly. The two 
 ladies turn sharply and glare] 
 
 Ethel. Now I've shocked your 
 sister again. 
 
 Warrington. You have. She 
 thinks I'm flirting with you. That 
 means I sha'n't be asked down to 
 Milverton for another five years. Thank 
 heaven for that! Ah, here are the 
 billiard players. 
 
 [He rises, with a sigh of relief. 
 The conversation has been amus- 
 ing, but not without its perils, 
 and he is not altogether sorry to 
 have it safely over. Ethel re- 
 mains seated, and does not turn 
 round. The billiard players 
 
 troop in, headed by Mabel, 
 Geoffrey holding open the 
 door for them] 
 
 Geoffrey. [To Mabel] You fluked 
 outrageously, you know. 
 
 Mabel [entering]. I didn't ! 
 
 Geoffrey. Oh yes, you did. Didn't 
 she, mother? 
 
 Mes. Cassilis [smiling at her]. Dis- 
 gracefully. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. You'll soon learn, 
 Lady Marchmont, if you practise a bit. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Do you think 
 so? 
 
 Lady, Remenham. Well, who won. 
 Rector ? 
 
 Mrs. Boeridgb. / did. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Indeed? 
 
 [Turns frigidly away, losing all 
 interest at once] 
 
 Mes. Borridge [obstinately cheerful 
 and friendly]. Why didn't you play, 
 Mrs. 'Erris? 
 
 Mes. Herries [frigid smile]. I never 
 play games. 
 
 Mrs. Boeeidge. You should learn. 
 I'd teach you. 
 
 Mrs. Heeeies [who.longs to be as rude 
 as Lady Remenham but has not quite 
 the courage]. Thank you. I fear I have 
 no time. 
 
 [Joins Lady Remenham again, 
 ruffling her feathers nervously] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Ethel, dear, we missed 
 you sadly. I hope you haven't been 
 dull? 
 
 Ethel [vnth hysterical laugh]. Not 
 at all. Major Warrington has been 
 entertaining me. 
 
 Rectoe. I suspect Miss Borridge 
 felt there would be no opponent worthy 
 of her steel. 
 
 [Ethel shrugs her shoulders 
 rudely. He turns away] 
 
 Mes. Cassilis [as a last resort]. 1 
 wonder if we could have some music 
 now. Mabel, dear, won't you sing to 
 us? 
 
 Mabel. I've got nothing with me. 
 
 Geoffeey. Do sing, Mabel. 
 There'll be lots of things you know here. 
 [Opens the piano] Let me find some- 
 thing. Schumann ? 
 
 Mabel [shakes head]. I think not. 
 [Joins him in searching music 
 stand] 
 
 Mks. Cassilis. Sing us that Schu- 
 bert song you sang when we were dining 
 with you last, dear. 
 
 Mabel. Very well. Where's Schu- 
 bert, Geoffrey? 
 
622 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Ethel. [To Wahrinqton] Do you 
 see that? 
 
 [Watching Geoffrey's and Ma- 
 bel's heads in close proxim- 
 ity. Seems as if she were 
 about to jump from her chair. 
 Warrington restrains her by 
 a hand on her arm] 
 
 Warrington. Sh! Be quiet, for 
 heaven's sake. 
 
 Ethel [hisses]. The httle cat ! 
 
 Mabel. Here it is. Geoff, don't 
 be silly. [Turns to piano] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Can you see there ? 
 
 Mabel. Yes, thank you. 
 
 [She sings two verses of Schubert's 
 "Adieu," in German, very 
 simply, in a small but sweet 
 voice. While she sings the 
 behaviour of the guests affords 
 a striking illustration of the 
 Eriglish attitude towards music 
 after dinner. Geoffrey stands 
 by piano prepared to turn over 
 when required. Lady Rbmen- 
 HAM sits on sofa in an atti- 
 tude of seraphic appreciation of 
 her daughter's efforts. Lady 
 Mahchmont, by her side, is 
 equally enthralled — and thinks 
 of something else. Mrs. 
 Herries gently beats time with 
 her fan. Mrs. Cassilis is 
 sweetly appreciative. The Bor- 
 EiDGES, on the contrary, fall 
 sadly below the standard of 
 polite attention required of them. 
 Ethel, who has begun by glar- 
 ing defiantly at Mabel during 
 the first few bars of the song, 
 rapidly comes to the conclusion 
 that she can't sing, and decides 
 to ignore the whole performance. 
 Mrs. Borridge begins by set- 
 tling herself placidly to the task 
 of listening. She is obviously 
 puzzled and rather annoyed 
 when the song turns out to be 
 German, but decides to put up 
 with it with a shrug, hoping it 
 will soon be over. At the end 
 of the first verse she turns to 
 Mrs. Cassilis to begin to talk, 
 but that lady, vnth a smile and 
 a gesture, silences her, and the 
 second verse begins. At this 
 Mrs. Bobridgb's jaw falls, 
 and, after a few bars, she frankly 
 addresses herself to slumber. 
 Her purple, good-natured coun- 
 tenance droops upon her shoulder 
 
 as the verse proceeds, and when 
 she wakes up at the end it is with 
 a visible start. "Warrington, 
 meantime, has disgraced himself 
 in the eyes of his sister by talk- 
 ing to Ethel during the opening 
 bar's of the second verse, and has 
 only been reduced to silence by 
 the stony glare which she thence- 
 forward keeps fixed upon him till 
 the last bar. In self-defence, he 
 leans back in his chair and con- 
 templates the ceiling resolutely] 
 Geoffrey [clapping]. Bravo ! Bravo ! 
 Rector. Charming, charming. 
 Lady Mabchmont. [To Lady Rem- 
 enham] What a sweet voice she has. 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Thank you, dear. 
 Rector. [To Mabel, heartily] Now 
 we must have another. 
 Geoffrey. Do, MabeL 
 Mabel. No. "That's quite enough. 
 Rector [luith resolute friendliness]. 
 Miss Borridge, you sing, I'm sure. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Do, dearie. [To 
 Lady Remenham] My girl has a won- 
 derful voice. Lady Remling. Quite 
 like a professional. Old Jenkins at 
 the Tiv. used to say she'd make a 
 fortune in the 'alls. 
 
 Lady Remenham [frigidly]. Indeed? 
 Ethel. I don't think I've any songs 
 anv one here would care for. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Nonsense, dearie. 
 You've lots of songs. Give them 
 " The Children's 'Ome." 
 
 Ethel [rising]. Well, I'll sing if you 
 like. 
 
 Geoffrey [going to her]. Shall I 
 find you something, Ethel? 
 Ethel [snaps]. No! 
 
 [Geoffrey turns away snubbed, 
 and joins Mabel. Ethel goes 
 - to the piano, where she is fol- 
 lowed a moment later by War- 
 rington, who stands behind it, 
 facing audience, and looking 
 much amused as her song pro- 
 ceeds. Ethel takes her seat at 
 piano. There is a moment's 
 pause while she darts a glance 
 at Geoffrey standing vnth 
 Mabel. Then she seems to 
 make up her mind, and, without 
 prelude of any kind, plunges 
 into the following refined ditiy:] 
 
 When Joey takes me for a walk, me an' 
 
 my sister Lue, 
 'E puts 'is arms round both our waists, 
 
 as lots o' men will do. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 623 
 
 We don't allow no liberties, and so we 
 
 tells 'im plain, 
 And Joey says 'e's sorry — but 'e does 
 
 tlie same again ! 
 
 {Spoken) Well, we're not going to 
 have that, you know. Not ^ likely ! 
 We're not that sort. So we just says 
 to 'im : 
 
 Stop that, Joey ! Stow it, Joe ! 
 Stop that tioklin' when I tell yer toe. 
 You're too free to suit a girl hike me, 
 Just you stop that tioMin' or I'll slap 
 yer! 
 
 When Joe an' me is man an' wife — I 
 
 thinks 'e loves me frue, 
 I 'ope 'e'U go on ticklin' me — and leave 
 
 off tioklin' Lue. 
 'E'U have to leave the girls alone, and 
 
 mind what 'e's about, 
 Or 'im an' me an' Luoy 'ill precious soon 
 
 fall out. 
 
 (Spoken) Yes, I'm not going to put 
 up with that sort of thing once we're 
 married. Not I. If 'e tries it on I 
 shall just sing out straight : 
 
 Now then, all of you. 
 
 [Looks across impudently towards 
 Lady Rbmbnham, who bristles 
 with indignation] 
 
 Stop that, Joey ! Chuck it, Joe ! 
 
 Stop that ticklin' when I tell yer toe. 
 
 You're too free to suit a girl like me. 
 
 Just you drop that tioMin' or I'll slap 
 yer! 
 
 [Sings chorus fortissimo, joined 
 by her delighted mother and 
 by Wabeington, who beats 
 tim^ sonorously on the top of 
 the piano. For this attention 
 she slaps him cordially on the 
 cheek at the last line, by way 
 of giving an artistic finish to 
 the situation, and then rises, 
 flushed and excited, and stands 
 by the piano, looking defiantly 
 at her horrified audience] 
 Warrington. Splendid, by Jove! 
 
 Capital ! 
 
 [That, however, is clearly not the 
 opinion of the rest of the lis- 
 teners, for the song has what 
 is called a "mixed" reception. 
 The ladies, for the most part, 
 had originally settled themselves 
 into their places prepared to 
 listen to anything which was 
 
 set before them with polite 
 indifference. A few bars, how- 
 ever, suffice to convince them of 
 the impossibility of that atti- 
 tude. Ladt Remenham, who 
 is sitting on the sofa by Lady 
 Marchmont, exchanges a hor- 
 rified glance with that lady, and 
 with Mrs. Herries on the 
 other side of the room. Mabel 
 looks uncomfortable. The 
 Rector feigns abstraction. 
 Mrs. Cassilis remains calm 
 and sweet, but avoids every one's 
 eye, and more particularly 
 GBorpREY's, who looks in- 
 tensely miserable. But War- 
 rington enjoys himself thor- 
 oughly, even down to the final 
 slap, and as for Mrs. Bqr- 
 RiDGE, her satisfaction is un- 
 measured. She beats time to 
 the final chorus, wagging her 
 old head and joining in in 
 stentorian accents, finally jump- 
 ing up from her chair, clapping 
 her hands, and crying, " That's 
 right, Eth. Give em another." 
 In fact, she feels that the song 
 has been a complete triumph 
 for her daughter, and a startling 
 vindication of Old Jenkins's 
 good opinion of her powers. 
 Siuidenly, however, she becomes 
 conscious of the horrified silence 
 which surrounds her. The 
 cheers die away on her lips. 
 She looks round the room, dazed 
 and almost frightened, then 
 hurriedly reseats herself in her 
 chair, from which she has risen' 
 in her excitement, straightens 
 her wig, and — there is an 
 awful pause] 
 Mrs. Cassilis [feeling she must say 
 something]. Won't you come to the 
 Are, Ethel? You must be cold out 
 there. 
 
 Ethel. Thank you, Mrs. Cassilis. 
 I'm not cold. 
 
 , Warrington. Jove, Miss Borridge, 
 I'd no idea you could sing hke that. 
 
 Bthbl [with a sneer]. Nor had 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 Lady Remenham [rising]. Well, we 
 must be getting home. Geoffrey, will 
 you ask if the carriage is round? 
 
 Geoffrey. Certainly, Lady Rem- 
 enham. [Rings] 
 Mrs. Herries. We must be going, 
 too. Come, Hildebrand. [Rising also] 
 
624 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Lady Remenham. Are you coming 
 with, us, Mabel? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Oh no, I can't spare 
 Mabel yet. She has promised to 
 stay a few days more. 
 
 Lady Remenham. Very well. 
 
 [Enter Btttlbr] 
 
 Geoffrey. Lady Remenham's car- 
 riage. 
 
 BtJTLER. It's at the door, sir. 
 Geoffrey. Very well. 
 
 [Exit Butler] 
 
 Lady Remenham. Good-bye, then, 
 
 dear. Such a pleasant evening. Good 
 
 night, Mabel. We shall expect you 
 
 when we see you. 
 
 [General leave-takings] 
 Mrs. Herries. Good-bye, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Good night. Lady 
 Remhng. 
 
 [Holds out hand with nervous 
 cordiality] 
 Lady Remenham. Good night. 
 
 [Sweeps past her with icy how. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge retires crushed 
 
 to a chair by fire, and consoles 
 
 herself with illustrated paper] 
 
 Lady Remenham. [To Warrington, 
 
 who is devoting his last moments to Miss 
 
 Borridge]. Algernon. 
 
 Warrington. Coming, Julia. [To 
 Ethel] See you in London, then? 
 
 Geoffrey [sti;^y]. You'll take an- 
 other cigar, Warrington — to light you 
 home? 
 
 Warrington. Thanks. Don't mind 
 if I do. 
 
 [Geoffrey hands box] 
 Lady Remenham [sternly]. Algernon. 
 We're going to get on our wraps. 
 
 [Mrs. Cassilis and Lady Rem- 
 enham, Mrs. Herries and the 
 Rector, go out] 
 Warrington. All right, Julia. I 
 shall be ready as soon as you are. 
 
 Geoffrey [motioning to whisky]. Help 
 yourself, Warrington. 
 
 [Goes out after the others] 
 Warrington. [To Ethel, after help- 
 ing himself to drink] Well, my dear, 
 I'm afraid you've done it this time ! 
 Ethel. Done what? 
 Warrington. Shocked them to 
 some purpose ! It was magnificent, 
 but it was scarcely tactics, eh? 
 
 Ethel. I suppose not. [Fiercely] 
 But I wanted to shock them! Here 
 have they been despising me aU the 
 
 evening for nothing, and when that 
 detestable girl with a voice like a white 
 mouse sang her German jargon, prais- 
 ing her sky-high, I said I'd show them 
 what' singing means! And I did! 
 
 Warrington. You certainly did! 
 Ha ! ha 1 You should have seen Julia's 
 face when you boxed my ears. If the 
 earth had opened her mouth and 
 swallowed you up Uke Korah, Dathan 
 and the other fellow, it couldn't have 
 opened wider than Julia's. 
 
 Ethel. Well, she can scowl if she 
 likes. She can't hurt me now. 
 
 Warrington. I'm not so sure of 
 that. 
 
 Ethel. She^ll have to hurry up. 
 We go to-morrow. 
 
 Warrington. Ah, I didn't know. 
 Well, there's nothing like exploding a 
 bomb before you leave, eh? Only it's 
 not always safe — for the operator. 
 
 Geoffrey [re-entering_ with Mrs. 
 Cassilis]. The carriage is round, War- 
 rington. Lady Remenham's waiting. 
 
 Warrington. The deuce she is! 
 [Swallows whisky and soda] I must fly. 
 Good-bye again. Good-bye, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. A thousand thanks for a 
 most interesting evening. 
 
 [Warrington goes out with Geof- 
 frey. Pause. Ethel stands 
 sullen by fireplace] 
 Mrs. Borridge [yawning cavernously]. 
 Well, I think I shall turn in. Good 
 night, Mrs. Cassilis. [General hand- 
 shakes] Coming, Bth? 
 
 Ethel. In a moment, mother. 
 
 [Mrs. Borridge waddles out, 
 with a parting smile from Ladt 
 Marchmont. Geoffrey re- 
 turns from seeing Warrington 
 off the premises. Mrs. Bob- 
 ridge wrings his hand affec- 
 tionately in passing] 
 Lady Marchmont. I must be off 
 too. And so must you, Mabel. You 
 look tired out. 
 
 [Kisses Mrs. Cassilis. Geof- 
 frey opens door for them] 
 Mabel. I am a little tired. Good 
 night. 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Marchmont and 
 Mabel] 
 Geoffrey. Are you going, mother? 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Not at once. I've 
 a couple of notes to write. 
 
 [Geoffrey crosses to fire. Mrs. 
 Cassilis goes to writing-table 
 centre, sits facing audience, and 
 appears to begin to write notes. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 625 
 
 Geoffbet goes up to Ethel 
 thoughtfully. A silence. Then 
 he speaks in a low tone] 
 
 Geoffrey. Ethel. 
 
 Ethel. Yes. [Without looking up] 
 
 Geoffrey. Why did you sing that 
 song to-night? 
 
 Ethel [unth a sneer]. To please 
 Lady Remenham. 
 
 Geoffrey. But, Ethel ! That's not 
 the sort of song Lady Remenham likes 
 at all. 
 
 Ethel [impatiently]. To shock her, 
 then. 
 
 Geoffrey. Ethel ! 
 
 Ethel. I think I managed it too ! 
 
 Geoffrey. I don't understand. 
 You're joking, aren't you ? 
 
 Ethel. Joking ! 
 
 Geoffrey. I mean you didn't really 
 do it on purpose to make Lady Remen- 
 ham angry. I'm sure you didn't. 
 
 Ethel [very distinctly]. I teU you 
 I did it on purpose, deliberately, to 
 shock Lady Remenham. I suppose I 
 ought to know. 
 
 Geoffrey [astonished]. But why? 
 What made you do such a thing? 
 
 Ethel [savagely]. I did it because I 
 chose. Is that plain enough? 
 
 Geoffrey. Still, you must have had 
 a reason. [No answer. Suspiciously] 
 Did that fellow Warrington teU you to 
 sing it? 
 
 Ethel [snaps]. No. 
 
 Geoffrey. I thought perhaps . . . 
 Anyhow, promise me not to sing such 
 a song again here. [Silence] You will 
 promise ? 
 
 Ethel. Pooh ! 
 
 Geoffrey. Ethel, be' reasonable. 
 You must know you can't go on doing 
 that sort of thing here. When we are 
 married we shall live down here. You 
 must conform to the ideas of the people 
 round you. They may seem to you 
 narrow and ridiculous, but you can't 
 alter them. 
 
 Ethel. You don't think them nar- 
 row and ridiculous, I suppose ? 
 
 Geoffrey. No. In this case I 
 think they are right. In many cases. 
 
 Ethel. Sorry I can't agree with you. 
 
 Geoffrey [gently]. Ethel, dear, don't 
 ft- '^^^^'^ a^out a siUy thing like 
 this. If you are going to marry me 
 you musi take my judgment oh a matter 
 01 this kind. 
 
 Ethel [defiantly]. Must I ? 
 
 Geoffrey. Yes. 
 
 Ethel. Then I won't. So there. 
 
 I shall do just exactly as I please. And 
 if you don't like it you can do the other 
 thing. I'm not going to be buUied by 
 you. 
 
 Geoffrey [reasoning with her]. My 
 dear Ethel, I'm sure I am never likely 
 to buUy you, or to do or say anything 
 that is unkind. But on a point Uke 
 this I can't give way. 
 
 Ethel. Very weU, Geoff. If you 
 think that you'd better break off our 
 engagement, that's all. 
 
 G-eoffrey. Ethel! [With horror] 
 
 Ethel [impatiently]. WeU, there's 
 nothing to make faces about, is there ? 
 
 Geoffrey. You don't mean that. 
 You don't mean you want our engage- 
 ment to come to an end ! 
 
 Ethel. Never mind what I want. 
 What do you want ? 
 
 Geoffrey [astonished]. Of course I 
 want it to go on. You know that. 
 
 Ethel [gesture of despair]. Very 
 weU, then. You'd better behave ac- 
 cordingly. And now, if you've finished 
 your lecture, I'U go to bed. Good 
 night. 
 
 [Is going out, with only a nod to 
 Mrs. Cassilis, but she kisses 
 her good night gently. Geof- 
 pbby holds door open for her to 
 go out, then goes and stands by 
 fire. Mrs. Cassilis, who has 
 watched this scene while ap- 
 pearing to be absorbed in her 
 notes, has risen to go to her 
 room] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [cheerfully]. Well, I 
 
 must be off too ! Good night, Geoffrey. 
 
 [Kisses him] 
 
 Geoffrey [absently]. Good night, 
 mother. [Mrs. Cassilis goes slowly 
 towards door] Mother. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [turning]. Yes, Geoff. 
 
 Geoffrey. Mother, you don't think 
 I was unreasonable in what I said to 
 Ethel, do you? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [seems to think it over]. 
 No, Geoff. 
 
 Geoffrey. Or unkind ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. No, Geoff. 
 
 Geoffrey. I was afraid. She took 
 it so strangely. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. She's rather over- 
 excited to-night, I think. And tired, 
 no ^oubt. [Encouragingly] She'll be 
 all right in the morning. 
 
 Geoffrey. You think I did right 
 to speak to her about that song? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Quite right, dear. 
 Dear Ethel still has a little to learn. 
 
626 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 and, of course, it will take time. But 
 we must be patient. Meantime, when- 
 ever she makes any little mistake, such 
 as she made to-night, I think you should 
 certainly speak to her about it. It will 
 be such a help to her! I don't mean 
 scold her, of course, but speak to her 
 gently and kindly, just as you did to- 
 night. 
 
 Geoffrey [despondently]. It didn't 
 seem to do any good. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. One never knows, 
 dear. Good night. 
 
 [Kisses him and goes out. He 
 stands thoughtfully looking into 
 the fire, and the curtain falls] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene. — The morning-room at Deyn- 
 ham. Time, after breakfast next 
 day. A pleasant room, with French 
 windows at the back open on to the 
 terrace. The sun is shining bril- 
 liantly. There is a door to hall on 
 the left. On the opposite side of the 
 room is the fireplace. When the 
 curtain rises Mabel and Geoffrey 
 are on the stage. Geoffrey stands 
 by the fireplace. Mabel is standing 
 by the open window. Geoffrey 
 looks rather out of sorts and dull. 
 
 Mabel. What a lovely day ! 
 Geoffrey [absently]. Not bad. 
 
 [Pulls out cigarette case] 
 Mabel. I'm sure you smoke too 
 much, Geoffrey. 
 
 Geoffrey [smiles]. I think not. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Cassilis from hall] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Not gone out yet, 
 dears? Why, Mabel, you've not got 
 your habit pn. 
 
 Mabel. We're not going to ride 
 this morning. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [surprised]. Not going 
 to ride? 
 
 Mabel. No. We've decided to stay 
 at home to-day for a change. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. But why, dear ? 
 
 Mabel [hesitating]. I don't know. 
 We just thought so. That's all. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. But you must have 
 some reason. You and Geoffrey haven't 
 been quarrelling, have you? 
 
 Mabel \laughing]. Of course not. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Then why aren't 
 you going to ride? 
 
 Mabel. Well, we thought Ethel 
 might be dull if we left her all alone. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Nonsense, dears. 
 I'll look after Ethel. Go up and change, 
 both of you, at once. Ethel would be 
 dreadfully grieved if you gave up your 
 ride for her. Ethel's not selfish. She 
 would never allow you or Geoffrey to 
 give up a pleasure on her account. 
 
 [Crosses to bell] 
 
 Geoffrey. Well, Mabel, what do 
 you say? [Going to window] It is a 
 ripping day. 
 
 Mabel. If Mrs. CassiUs thinks so. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Of course I think 
 so. Run away, dears, and get your 
 things on. I'U tell them to send round 
 the horses. [Rings] 
 
 Geoffrey. All right. . Just for an 
 hour. Come on, Mabel. I'll race you 
 to the end of the passage. 
 
 [They run out together, nearly up- 
 setting footman who enters ai 
 the same moment] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Lady Mabel and 
 Mr. Geoffrey are gbing out riding. 
 Tell them to send the horses round. 
 And tell HaUard I want to see him 
 about those roses. I'm going into the 
 garden now. 
 
 Footman. Very well, madam. 
 
 [Exit Footman. Mrs. Cassilis 
 goes out into the garden. A 
 moment later Mrs. Bobridgb 
 and Ethel come in from the 
 hall] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge \looking round, then 
 going to easy-chair]. Mrs. Cassilis isn't 
 here? 
 
 Ethel [sulkily]. I dare say she's 
 with the housekeeper. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Very likely. [Picks 
 up newspaper] Give me a cushion, 
 there's a good girl. [Ethel does so] 
 Lady Marchmont isn't down yet, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Ethel. No. [Turns away] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [putting down paper]. 
 What's the matter, dearie? You look 
 awfully down. 
 
 Ethel. Nothing. 
 
 [Ooes to window and stares out 
 into the sunlight] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. I wish Lady 
 Marchmont came down to breakfast 
 of a morning. 
 
 Ethel [shrugs]. Do you? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Yes. It's dull 
 without her. She and I are getting 
 quite chummy. 
 
 Ethel [irritably, swinging round]. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 627 
 
 Chummy! My dear mother, Lady 
 Marchmont's only laughing at you. 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. Nonsense, Ethel. 
 Laughing at me, indeed ! I should like 
 to see her ! 
 
 Ethel. That's just it, mother. You 
 never will. 
 
 Mrs. Borbidgb. Pray, what do 
 you mean by that, miss? 
 
 Ethel [hopeless]. Oh, it doesn't 
 matter. 
 
 [Goes to fireplace and leans arm 
 on mantelpiece, depressed] 
 
 Mbs. Bobridge. Now you're sneer- 
 ing at me, and I won't 'ave it — have 
 it. [Silence] Do you 'ear? 
 
 Ethel. Yes, I hear. 
 
 [Stares down at fender] 
 
 Mrs. Borbidge. Very well, then. 
 Don't let me 'ave any more of it. 
 [Grumbling to herself] Laughing, in- 
 deed! [Pause. Recovering her com- 
 posure] Where's Geoffy? 
 
 Ethel. I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Out riding, I sup- 
 pose? 
 
 Ethel. Very likely. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. 'E only finished 
 breakfast just before us. 
 
 Ethel. He, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Dear, dear, 'ow 
 you do go on! You leave my aitohes 
 alone. They're all right. 
 ■ Ethel [signs]. I wish they were! 
 [Pause] You've not forgotten we're 
 going away to-day, mother? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. To-day? 'Oo says 
 so? 
 
 Ethel. We were only invited for a 
 week. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Were we, dearie? 
 I don't remember.. 
 
 Ethel. / do. There's a train at 
 12.15, if you'll ask Mrs. Cassilis about 
 the carriage. 
 
 Mbs. Borridge [flustered]. But I've 
 not let Jane know. She won't be ex- 
 pecting us. 
 
 Ethel. We can telegraph. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Can't we stay 
 another day or two? I'm sure Mrs. 
 Cassihs won't mind. And I'm 
 comfortable here. 
 
 Ethel [firmly]. No, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Why not? 
 
 Ethel [exasperated]. In the 
 place because we haven't been asked. 
 In the second, because I don't want to. 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. Don't want to? 
 
 Ethel [snappishly]. No. I'm sick 
 and tired of this place. 
 
 very 
 
 first 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. Are you, dfiarie? 
 I thought we were gettin' on first rate. 
 Ethel. Did you? Anyhow, we're 
 going, thank goodness, and that's 
 enough. Don't forget to speak to Mrs. 
 Cassilis. I'll go upstairs and pack. 
 
 [As she is crossing the room to go 
 out Mrs. Cassilis enters from 
 garden and meets her. She 
 stops. Mrs. Cassilis kisses her 
 affectionately] 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Going out, Ethel 
 dear? Good morning. 
 
 [Greets Mrs. Borbidge] 
 Ethel. Good morning. 
 Mrs. Cassilis [putting her arm in 
 Ethel's and leading her up to window]. 
 Isn't it a lovely day? I woke at five. 
 I believe it was the birds singing under 
 my window. 
 Ethel. Did you, Mrs. Cassilis? 
 
 [Enter Lady Marchmont] 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Good morning, 
 Adelaide. [Kisses her] Late again, 
 I'm afraid. 
 
 [Shakes hands with Ethel] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [sweetly]. Another of 
 your headaches, dear? I'm so sorry. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [ignoring the re- 
 buke]. Good morning, Mrs. Borridge. 
 I hope you slept well. 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. Sound as a bell. 
 But, then, I was always a onener to sleep. 
 My old man, when 'e was aUve, used to 
 say 'e never knew any one sleep like 
 me. And snore ! Why 'e declared it 
 kep' 'im awake 'alf the night. But / 
 never noticed it. 
 
 Lady Marchmont [sweetly]. That 
 must have been a great consolation for 
 Mr. Borridge. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Your 'usband 
 snore ? 
 
 Lady Marchmont [laughing]. No. 
 
 Mbs. Bobbidge. Thinks it's low 
 per'aps. . . . They used to say snorin' 
 comes from sleepin' with your mouth 
 open, but I don't know. What do you 
 think? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. I really don't 
 know, dear Mrs. Borridge. I must 
 think it over. 
 
 [Lady Marchmont takes chair by 
 Mbs. Bobbidge. They con- 
 verse in dumb show. Ethel 
 and Mbs. Cassilis come down 
 stage] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. What a pretty 
 blouse you've got on to-day, dear. 
 
628 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Ethel. Is it, Mrs. Cassilis? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Sweetly pretty. It 
 goes so well with your eyes. You've 
 lovely eyes, you know. 
 
 Ethel. Do you think so? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Of course. So does 
 Geoff. 
 
 Ethel [disengaging herself]. Oh, 
 Geoff — Well, I must go upstairs. 
 [To Mrs. Borbidge in passing] Don't 
 forget, mummy. [Exit Ethel] 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. What, dearie? Oh 
 yes. Ethel says we must be pacMn' 
 our traps, Mrs. Cassilis. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [startled]. Packing? 
 
 Mrs. Borbidge. Yes. She says we 
 mustn't outstay our welcome. She's 
 proud, is my girlie. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [with extreme cordial- 
 ity]. But you're not thinking of leaving 
 us? Oh, you mustn't do that. Geoff 
 would be so disappointed. And so 
 should I. 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge. I don't want to go, 
 I'm sure. Only Ethel said 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. There must be some 
 mistake. I counted on you for quite 
 a long visit. 
 
 Mrs. Borbidge. Ethel said we were 
 only asked for a week. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. But that was before 
 I really knew you, wasn't it? It's 
 quite different now. 
 
 Mbs. Bobridge [purring delightedly]. 
 If you feel that, Mrs. Cassilis 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Of course I feel it. 
 I hope you'U stay quite a long time 
 yet. 
 
 Mrs. Bobridge [complacent, appeal- 
 ing to Lady Marchmont, who nods 
 sympathy]. There ! I told Ethel how 
 it was. 
 
 Mas. Cassilis [anxious]. Ethel 
 doesn't want to go, does she? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Oh no. She'd be 
 delighted to stop on. Only she 
 thought 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [determined to leave 
 Mbs. Boeeidge no opportunity to hedge]. 
 Very well, then. That's settled. You'll 
 stay with us till Geoff and I go to Scot- 
 land. That won't be till the middle of 
 August. You promise ? 
 
 Mes. Bobridge. Thank you, Mrs. 
 Cassilis. I call that real hospitable ! 
 [Rising] And now I'll run upstairs and 
 tell my girl, or she'll be packing my 
 black satin before I've time to stop her. 
 She's so 'asty. And I always say noth- 
 ing spoils things like packing, especially 
 satins. They do crush so. 
 
 [Mes. Bobridge waddles out. 
 As soon as the door closes Mrs. 
 Cassilis heaves a deep sigh oj 
 relief, showing how alarmed she 
 had been lest the Bobridges 
 should really take their departure. 
 For a moment there is silence. 
 Then Lady Maechmont, who 
 has watched this scene with full 
 appreciation of its ironic hu- 
 mour, speaks] 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. How you fool 
 that old woman ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. So do you, dear. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Yes. You'll 
 make me as great a hypocrite as your- 
 self before you're done. When you 
 first began I was shocked at you. But 
 now I feel a dreadful spirit of emulation 
 stealing over me. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis [grimly]. There's 
 always a satisfaction in doing a thing 
 well, isn't there? 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. You must feel it, 
 then. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. Thanks. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont [puzzled]. Do you 
 really want these dreadful people to 
 stay all that time ? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis. Certainly. And to 
 come back, if necessary, in October. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Good heavens! 
 Why? 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [sitting]. My dear 
 Margaret, as long as that woman and 
 her daughter are here we may get 
 Geoffrey out of their clutches._ I 
 thought we should manage it last night. 
 Last night was a terrible disillusion- 
 ment for him, poor boy. But I was 
 wrong. It was too soon. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. By the way, 
 what did that amusing wretch, Major 
 Warrington, advise? 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. I didn't consult 
 him. I'd no opportunity. Besides, I 
 couldn't have trusted him. He might 
 have gone over to the enemy. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Yes. He was 
 evidently attracted to the girl. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. I suppose so. Major 
 Warrington isn't fastidious where women 
 are concerned. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. Still, he knew, 
 of course. 
 
 Mes. Cassilis. Only what Lady 
 Remenham would have told him. 
 However, his visit wasn't altogether 
 wasted, I think. 
 
 Lady Mabchmont. That song, you 
 mean? 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 629 
 
 Mks. Cassilis. Yes. He gave poor 
 Ethel a glimpse of the Paradise she is 
 tiurning her back on for ever. London, 
 musie-hall songs, rackety bachelors. 
 And that made her reckless. The con- 
 trast between Major Warrington and, 
 say, our dear Rector, can hardly fail to 
 have gone home to her. 
 
 [Further conversation is interrupted hy 
 the entrance of Ethel, in the worst 
 of tempers. Mrs. Cassilis is on 
 her guard at once] 
 
 Ethel [bursting out]. Mrs. Cassi- 
 lis 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [very sweetly, rising and 
 going to her]. Ethel, dear, what is this 
 I hear? You're not going to run away 
 from us? 
 
 Ethel [doggedly]. Indeed we must, 
 Mrs. Cassilis. You've had us for a 
 week. We really mustn't stay any 
 longer. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. But, my dear, it's 
 delightful to have you. 
 
 Mrs. Boreidge [who has followed 
 hard after her daughter and now enters, 
 flushed and rather breathless]. There, 
 you see, dearie ! What did I tell you ? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Geoff would be 
 terribly distressed if you went away. 
 He'd think I hadn't made you comfort- 
 able. He'd scold me dreadfully. 
 
 Ethel. I don't think Geoff will care. 
 
 [Mrs. Borridge appeals mutely 
 
 for sympathy to Lady March- 
 
 mont, who hastens to give it in 
 
 full measure] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [great solicitude]. My 
 dear, you've not had any little difference 
 with Geoff? Any quarrel? 
 
 Ethel. No. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. I was so afraid 
 
 Ethel. Still, we oughtn't to plant 
 ourselves on you in this way. 
 
 Mrs. Boreidge. Plant ourselves! 
 ReaUy, dearie, how can you say such 
 things? Plant ourselves ! 
 
 Ethel. Oh, do be quiet, mother. 
 
 [Stamps her foot] 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [soothing her]. Any- 
 how, you can't possibly go to-day. The 
 carriage has gone to Bransoombe, and 
 the other horse has cast a shoe. And 
 to-morrow there's a dinner-party at 
 Milverton. You'll stay for that ? 
 
 Ethel. You're very kind, Mrs. 
 Cassilis, but 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [leaving her no time to 
 mthdraw]. That's right, my dear. 
 You'll stay. And next week we'll have 
 
 some young people over to meet you, 
 and you shall dance aU the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. There, Ethel ! 
 
 Ethel [hopeless]. Very well. If you 
 really wish it. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Of course I wish it. 
 I'm so glad. I sha'n't be able to part 
 with you for a long time yet. 
 
 [Kisses her tenderly. But Ethel 
 seems too depressed to answer 
 to these blandishments] 
 
 Lady Marchmont [under her breath]. 
 Really, Adelaide ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [sweetly]. Into the 
 garden, did you say, Margaret? [Tak- 
 ing her up towards window] Very well. 
 The sun is tempting, isn't it ? 
 
 [Mes; Cassilis and her sister 
 sail out. Ethel and her mother 
 remain, the former in a condi- 
 tion of frantic exasperation] 
 
 Ethel. Well, mother, you've done 
 it! 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [snapping. She feels 
 she is being. goaded unduly]. Done what, 
 dearie? 
 
 Ethel [impatiently]. Oh, you know. 
 
 Mrs. Boeeidgb. Do you mean about 
 staying on here ? But what could I do ? 
 Mrs. Cassilis wouldn't let us go. You 
 saw that yourself. 
 
 Ethel. You might have stood out. 
 
 Mes. Boeeidge. I did, dearie. I 
 stood out as long as ever I could. But 
 she wouldn't hear of our goin'. You 
 saw that yourself. 
 
 Ethel. Well, mother, don't say I 
 didn't warn you, that's all. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Warn me, dearie? 
 
 Ethel \fyreaking out]. That I was 
 tired of this place. Sick and tired of 
 it ! That it was time we were moving. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [placidly]. Is that 
 all? I'll remember. [Pause] How far 
 did you get with the pacldng ? 
 
 Ethel [impatiently]. I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. Boeeidge. You hadn't packed 
 my black satin ? 
 
 Ethel. I don't know. Yes, I think 
 so. I'm not sure. Don't worry, 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge \lamentably]. It'll be 
 simply covered with creases. I know 
 it will. Run up at once, there's a good 
 girl, and shake it out. 
 
 Ethel [snaps]. Oh, bother ! 
 
 Mrs. Boeeidge. Then I must. 
 How tiresome girls are ! Always in the 
 tantrums ! 
 
 [Poor old Mrs. Boeeidge ambles 
 out grumbling. Ethel, left 
 
630 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 alone, sits scowling furiously 
 at the carpet and biting her nails. 
 There is a considerable pause, 
 during which her rage and 
 weariness are silently expressed. 
 Then Geoffrey and Mabel 
 enter, quite cheerful, in riding 
 things. They make a curious 
 contrast to the almost tragic 
 figure of sulkiness which meets 
 their eyes] 
 
 Geoffrey [cheerfully]. Hullo, Ethel ! 
 There you are, are you? 
 
 Ethel [sulky]. You can see me, I 
 
 suppose. 
 
 Mabel, 
 after all. 
 
 Ethel. 
 
 Mabel. 
 
 We didn't get our ride 
 
 Didn't you? [Turns away] 
 No. Basil has strained one 
 of his sinews, poor darUng. He'U have 
 to lie up for a day or two. 
 
 Geoffrey. Isn't it hard luck? It 
 would have been such a glorious day for 
 a ride. We were going round by Long 
 Winton and up to Tenterden's farm 
 
 and 
 
 Ethel [snaps]. You needn't trouble 
 to tell me. I don't want to hear. 
 
 [There is an awkward pause after 
 this explosion] 
 Mabel. I think I'H go up and change 
 my habit, Geoff. 
 
 [Geoffrey nods, and Mabel goes 
 out. Geoffrey after a mo- 
 m,ent goes up to Ethel, and 
 lays a hand gently on her 
 shoulder] 
 Geoffrey. What is it, Ethel? Is 
 anything the matter? 
 
 Ethel [shaking him off fiercely]. 
 Please don't touch me. 
 
 Geoffrey. Something has hap- 
 pened. What is it ? 
 
 Ethel [savagely]. Nothing's hap- 
 pened. Nothing ever does happen 
 here. 
 
 [Geoffrey tries to take her hand. 
 She pulls it pettishly away. 
 He slightly shrugs his shoulders. 
 A long pause. He rises slowly 
 and turns towards door] 
 Ethel [stopping him]. Geoff! 
 Geoffrey. Yes. 
 
 [Does not turn his head] 
 Ethel. I want to break off our 
 engagement. 
 
 Geoffrey [swinging round, astonished, 
 and not for a moment taking her seriously]. 
 My dear girl ! 
 
 Ethel. I think it would be better. 
 Better for both of us. 
 
 Geoffrey [still rallying her]. Might 
 one ask why? 
 
 Ethel. For many reasons. Oh, 
 don't let us go into all that. Just say 
 you release me and there's an end. 
 
 Geoffrey [more serious]. My dear 
 Ethel. What is the matter? Aren't 
 you well? 
 
 Ethel [impatiently]. I'm perfectly 
 well. 
 
 Geoffrey. I don't think you are. 
 You look quite flushed. I wish you'd 
 take more exercise. You'd be ever so 
 much better. 
 
 Ethel [goaded to frenzy by this well- 
 meant suggestion, Geoffrey's panacea 
 for all human ills]. Geoffrey, you're 
 simply maddening. Do please under- 
 stand that I know when I'm well and 
 when I'm iU. There's nothing what- 
 ever the matter with me. I beheve 
 you think everything in Ufe would go 
 right if only every one took a cold bath 
 every morning and spent the rest of 
 the day shooting partridges. 
 
 Geoffrey [quite simply]. Well, 
 there's a lot in that, isn't there? 
 
 Ethel. Rubbish ! 
 
 Geoffrey [struck by a brilliant idea]. 
 It's not that silly business about the 
 riding again, is it ? 
 
 Ethel [almost hysterical with exas- 
 
 Seration]. Oh, no ! no ! Please be- 
 eve that I'm not a child, and that I 
 know what I'm saying. / want to break 
 off our engagement. I don't think we're 
 suited to each other. 
 
 Geoffrey [piqued]. This is rather 
 sudden, isn't it ? 
 
 Ethel [sharply]. How do you know 
 it's sudden? 
 
 Geoffrey. But isn't it? 
 Ethel. No. It's not. 
 Geoffrey [struck by a thought]. 
 Ethel, has my mother — ? 
 
 Ethel. Your mother has nothing 
 whatever to do with it. 
 
 Geoffrey. She hasn't said any- 
 thing? 
 
 Ethel. Your mother has been every 
 thing that's kind and good. In fact, 
 if it hadn't been for her I think I should 
 have broken it off before. But I didn't 
 want to hurt her. 
 
 [Geoffrey rises, and paces the 
 room up and down for a mo- 
 ment in thought. Then he turns 
 to her again] 
 Geoffrey. Ethel, you mustn't come 
 to a. decision like this hastily. You 
 must take time to consider. 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 631 
 
 Ethel. Thank you. My mind is 
 quite made up. 
 
 Geoffbey. Still, you might think 
 it over for a day or two — a week, per- 
 haps. It [hesitates] ... it wouldn't 
 be fair of me to take you at your word 
 in this way. 
 
 Ethel. Why not? 
 
 Geopfeby [hesitates]. You might — 
 regret it afterwards. , 
 
 Ethel [mth a short laugh]. You're 
 very modest. 
 
 Geoffrey [nettled]. Oh, I'm not 
 vain enough to imagine that you would 
 flud anything to regret in me. I'm a 
 commonplace fellow enough. But there 
 are other things which a girl has to 
 consider in marriage, aren't there? 
 Position. Money. If you broke off our 
 engagement now, mightn't you regret 
 these later on [slight touch of bitterness], 
 however little you regret me ? 
 
 Ethel [touched]. Geoff, dear, I'm 
 sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to. 
 You're a good fellow. Par too good 
 for me. And I know you mean it 
 kindly when you ask me to take time, 
 and all that. But my mind's quite 
 made up. Don't let's say any more 
 about it. 
 
 Geoffkby [slowly, and a little sadly]. 
 You don't love me any more, then? 
 
 Ethel. No. [Decisively] I don't 
 love you any more Perhaps I never 
 did love you really, Geoff. I don't 
 know. 
 
 Geoffrey. I loved you, Ethel. 
 
 Ethel. I wonder. 
 
 Geoffrey. You know I did. 
 
 Ethel. You thought you did. But 
 that's not always the same thing, is it? 
 Many a girl takes a man's fancy for a 
 moment. Yet people say one only 
 loves once, don't they ? [Pause] 
 
 Geoffrey [hesitating again]. Ethel 
 ... I don't know how to say it. . . . 
 You'll laugh at me again. . . . But 
 . . . you're sure you're not doing this 
 on my account ? 
 
 Ethel. On your account? 
 
 Geoffrey. Yes. To spare me. 
 Because you think I ought to marry in 
 my own class, as Lady Remenham 
 would say? 
 
 Ethel. No. 
 
 Geoffrey. Quite sure? 
 
 Ethel [nods]. Quite. [Turns away] 
 
 Geoffrey [frankly puzzled]. Then I 
 can't understand it ! 
 
 Ethel [turning on him impatiently]. 
 My dear Geoff, is it impossible for you 
 
 to understand that I don't want to 
 marry you? That if I married you I 
 should be bored to death? That I 
 loathe the life down here among your 
 highly respectable friends? That if 
 I had to live here with you I should 
 yawn myself into my grave in six 
 months ? 
 
 Geoffrey [astonished]. Don't you 
 like Deynham? 
 
 Ethel. No. I detest it. Oh, it's 
 pretty enough, I suppose, and the fields 
 are very green, and the view from 
 Milverton.HiE is much admired. And 
 you live all alone in a great park, and 
 you've horses and dogs, and a butler 
 and two footmen. But that's not 
 enough for me. I want life, people, 
 lots of people. If I Uved down here I 
 should go blue-mouldy in three weeks. 
 I'm town-bred, a true cockney. I want 
 streets and shops and gas lamps. I 
 don't want your carriages and pair. 
 Give me a permy omnibus. 
 
 Geoffrey. Ethel ! 
 
 Ethel. Now you're shocked. It is 
 vulgar, isn't it? But I'm vulgar. 
 And I'm not ashamed of it. Now you 
 know. 
 
 [Another pause. Geoppeey, in 
 pained surprise, ponders deeply. 
 At last he speaks] 
 
 Geoffrey. It's aU over, then? 
 
 Ethel [nodding flippantly]. All over 
 and done with. I surrender my claim 
 to everything, the half of your worldly 
 goods, of your mother's worldly goods, 
 of your house, your park, yoiu- men- 
 servants and maid-servants, your aris- 
 tocratic relations. Don't let's forget 
 your aristocratic relations. I surrender 
 them all. There's my hand on it. 
 
 [Stretches it out] 
 
 Geoffrey [pained]. Don't, Ethel. 
 
 Ethel [with genuine surprise]. My 
 dear Geoff, you don't mean to say 
 you're sorry ! You ought to be fling- 
 ing your cap in the air at regaining your 
 liberty. Why, I believe there are tears 
 in your eyes ! Actually tears ! Let me 
 look. [Turns his face to her] 
 
 Geoffrey [pulling it away sulkily]. 
 You don't suppose a fellow likes being 
 thrown over like this, do you? 
 
 Ethel. Vanity, my dear Geoff. 
 Mere vanity. 
 
 Geoffrey [hotly]. It's not ! 
 
 Ethel [suddenly serious]. Geoff, do 
 you want our engagement to go on? 
 Do you want to marry me still? [He 
 turns to her impulsively] Do you love 
 
632 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 me still? [Checks him] No, Geoff. 
 Think before you speak. On your 
 honour! [Geoffrey is silent] There, 
 you see ! Come, dear, cheer up. It's 
 best as it is. Give me a Mss. The last 
 one. [She goes to Geoffrey and holds 
 up her face to be kissed. He kisses her 
 on the forehead] And now I'll run up- 
 stairs and tell mother. [Laughs] Poor 
 mother ! Won't she make a sMne ! 
 
 [Ethel goes out recklessly. Geof- 
 frey, left alone, looks round the 
 room in a dazed way. Takes 
 out cigarette-case automatically, 
 goes to writing-table for match. 
 Just as he is lighting cigarette 
 Mrs. Cassilis enters from gar- 
 den, followed a moment later by 
 Lady Marchmont. He throws 
 cigarette away unlighted] 
 Mrs. Cassilis. AU alone, Geoffrey ? 
 Geopfeey. Yes, mother. 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Where's Ethel! 
 Geoffrey. Mother — Ethel's . . . 
 [<Sees Lady Marchmont. Pause] Good 
 morning. Aunt Margaret. 
 
 Lady Marchmont. Good morning. 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Well, dear? 
 Geoffrey. Mother [plunging into 
 his subject], a terrible thing has hap- 
 pened. Ethel was here a moment ago, 
 and she has broken off oilr engagement. 
 Lady Marchmont. Broken it off ! 
 Mrs. Cassilis [immensely sympa- 
 thetic]. Broken it ofl, dear? Surely 
 not? 
 
 Geoffrey. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Oh, poor Geoffrey. 
 [Going to him] Did she say why? 
 
 Geoffrey [dully]. Only that it had 
 all been a mistake. She was tired of 
 it all, and didn't like the country, and 
 
 — that's all, I think. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [anxious]. My poor 
 boy. And I thought her so happy with 
 us. [Laying hand caressingly on his 
 shoulder as he sits with head bowed] 
 You don't think we've been to blame 
 
 — I've been to blame — in any way, do 
 you? Perhaps we ought to have 
 amused her more. 
 
 Geoffrey. Not you, mother. 
 You've always been sweet and good to 
 her. Always. She said so. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. I'm glad of that, 
 dear. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Borridge, furiously angry, 
 followed by Ethel, vainly trying to 
 detain or silence her. Geoffrey re- 
 treats up stage, where Mrs. Bob- 
 
 ridge for a moment does not notice 
 him] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [raging]. Where's 
 Geoff? Leave me alone, Ethel. Where's 
 Geoff? . 
 
 Ethel. He's not here, mother. And 
 Mrs. CassiUs is. Do be quiet. 
 
 Geoffrey [coming between them]. 
 I'm here. What is it, Mrs. Borridge? 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. Oh, Geoffy, what 
 is this Ethel's been telling me? You 
 haven't reely broke off your engage- 
 ment, have you ? 
 
 Ethel. Nonsense, mother. I broke 
 it off, as I told you. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. But you didn't 
 mean it, dearie. It's all a mistake. 
 Just a little tiff. 
 
 Ethel [firmly]. No ! 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [obstinately]. Yes, 
 it is. It'll blow over. You wouldn't 
 be so unkind to poor Geoffy. 
 
 Ethel. Mother, don't be a fool. 
 It doesn't take anybody in. Come 
 upstairs and let's get on with our 
 packing. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [stamps foot]. Be 
 quiet, Ethel, when I tell you. Lady 
 Marchmont, won't you speak to her? 
 Undutiful girl. I should lils:e to whip 
 her! [Etsei, turns away in despair] 
 
 Lady Marchmont [soothingly]. Ah, 
 well, dear Mrs. Borridge, perhaps young 
 people know best about these things. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [excited and angry]. 
 Know best ! know best ! How should 
 they know best? They don't know 
 anything. They're as ignorant as they 
 are uppish. [Orowing tearful] And to 
 think 'ow I've worked for that girl! 
 'Ow I've slaved for 'er, denied myself 
 for 'er. [Breaking down] I did so 
 want 'er to be respectable. I 'aven't 
 always been respectable myself, and I 
 know the value of it. 
 
 [Subsides into chair, almost hys- 
 terical, and no longer realising 
 what she is saying] 
 
 Ethel. Oh, hush, mother ! 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [angry again]. I 
 won't 'ush, so there ! I'm your mother, 
 and I won't be trod on. I find some one 
 to marry you — a better match than 
 ever you'll find for yourself, miss — 
 and this is 'ow I'm treated ! 
 
 [Begins to cry] 
 
 Ethel [taking her arm]. Mother, 
 mother, do come away. 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [breaking down alto- 
 gether]. And now to 'ave to begin all 
 
The Cassilis Engagement 
 
 633 
 
 over again. And young men ain't so 
 green as they used to be. Not by a 
 long way. They're cunning most of 
 them.' 'They take a deal of eatchin'. 
 And I'm gettin' an old woman. Oh, 
 she might 'ave spared me this. 
 
 Mbs. Cassilis [almost sorry for her]. 
 Mrs. Borridge — Mrs. Borridge. 
 
 Mbs. Borridge [refusing to he com^ 
 Jorted]. But she's no natural affection. 
 That's what it is. She doesn't love 'er 
 mother. She's 'eadstrong and wilful, 
 and never paid, the least attention to 
 what I told 'er. [Burst of tears] But 
 I do think she might 'ave let 'im break 
 it off. Then there'd 'ave been a breach 
 of promise, and that's always something. 
 That's what I always say to girls : 
 "Leave them to break it off, dearies. 
 And then there'll be a breach of promise 
 and damages." That's if you've got 
 something on paper. But [fresh burst 
 of tears] she never would get anything 
 on paper. She never paid the least 
 regard to her old mother. She's an 
 imdutiful girl, and that's 'ow it is. 
 
 [Goes off into incoherent sobs] 
 
 Butler. Lady Bemenham. 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [rising hastily]. The 
 drawing-room, Watson. 
 
 [She is, however, too late to stop 
 Watson from showing in Lady 
 Remenham] 
 
 Lady Remenham [sailing in, with 
 hreezy cheerfulness]. How do you do, 
 Adelaide? How do you do, Margaret? 
 I've just driven Algernon to the station, 
 and I thought I'd leave this for you 
 as Ipassed. [Gives book] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge. She's an undutiful 
 daughter. That's what she is. 
 
 [Snorting and sobbing] 
 
 Lady Remenham [perceiving for the I 
 
 first time that something unusual is going 
 on]. Eh? 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis. Mrs. Borridge is 
 not quite herself just now. Dear Ethel 
 has decided that she does not wish to 
 continue her engagement to my son, 
 and Mrs. Borridge has only just heard 
 the news. 
 
 Lady Remenham [scarcely able to be- 
 lieve her ears]. Not wish — ■ — ! 
 
 Mrs. Cassilis [hastily, checking her]. 
 No. This has naturally upset us all 
 very much. It was so very sudden. 
 Lady Remenham. Well, I must 
 
 say 
 
 [Luckily she does not do so, but 
 
 takes refuge in silence] 
 
 Mrs. Borridge [burst of grief]. Oh, 
 
 why didn't she get something on paper? 
 
 Letters is best. Men are that slippy ! 
 
 I always told her to get something on 
 
 paper. [Breaks down completely] 
 
 Ethel. Come away, mother. [Takes 
 
 her firmly by the arm] Will you please 
 
 order the carriage, Mrs. Cassihs? 
 
 [Leads Mrs. Borridge off, sob- 
 bing and gulping to the last] 
 Lady Remenham [sitting down, with 
 a triumphant expression on her amiable 
 countenance]. Greoffrey, wiU you tell 
 the coachman to drive round to the 
 stables? / shall stay to luncheon. 
 
 [It is impossible adequately to 
 represent the tone in which 
 Lady Remenham announces 
 this intention. It is that of a 
 victorious general occupying the 
 field, from which he has beaten 
 the enemy' with bag and baggage. 
 Luckily, Geoffrey is too de- 
 pressed to notice anything. He 
 goes out without a word — and 
 the curtain falls] 
 
THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 
 {1910) 
 By Gkanville Barker 
 
GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 There are three factors that confronted the British stage before the War: 
 realism, which was about to give way before imagination and spirituality; the 
 desire for a repertory or National Theatre ; and George Bernard Shaw. The 
 renaissance has threatened to leave Arthur Wing Pinero and Henry Arthur Jones 
 as far in the rear as they, with their "Tanqueray", and "Ebbsmith", and "Saints 
 and Sinners", left Tom Robertson with "Caste." 
 
 First and foremost, the young coterie, that attracted the attention of London 
 theatre-goers during the past two decades, is a Uterary group, — intent on bridging 
 the gap that, for so long a time, separated the stage and literature. Their plays 
 are generally published, before or simultaneously with production. The dialogue 
 is detailed and fluent ; the stage directions have a literary character reflective of 
 the style of the psychological novelist. These men have been consciously working 
 in a field having a history which began with the early attempts to introduce Ibsen to 
 a not too willing English publio. The British dramatist of to-day is the product 
 of a conscious movement for the betterment of the British stage. 
 
 After Edmund Gosse and William Archer had emphatically pointed to Ibsen 
 as the coming man in the theatre, critics were prompted to plead for the "drama 
 of ideas." Managers had only just ceased looking askance at the feminism of 
 Pinero, who was being accepted by the English public. Jones was struggling to 
 give the minister a place on the stage, and to win for the English dramatist the 
 right to discuss any topic, unhampered by the censor. Ibsen, respecter of no na- 
 tionaUty, put a torpedo beneath the English ark. "A DoU's House" was pre- 
 sented in 1889. 
 
 George Bernard Shaw, then only a Fabian, a vegetarian, an art and dramatic 
 critic, and a novelist, heard the percussion, and it gave him a new form of creative 
 impulse. J. T. Grein, until then only a dramatic critic interested in the careers of 
 Pinero and Jones, became owner of the Independent Theatre, and thereafter he 
 began in earnest the experimental movement which led to Galsworthy, Masefleld, 
 and Barker. 
 
 What was it that Grein did ? With scarcely enough money to open a bank ac- 
 count, and with the example of Antoine, in Paris, before him, he produced "Ghosts" 
 for the members of his Independent Society. This was in 1891. In the writing of 
 this play, Ibsen had seared his own soul ; no wonder torrents of abuse f eU upon Grein 
 and upon his theatre ! But behind him stood Meredith, Hardy, Pinero, Jones, and 
 Frank Harris. Moreover, he was on the eve of a great discovery. In 1893, Grein 
 captured "Widower's Houses", the first play by George Bernard Shaw. The 
 Independent Theatre ceased to be, however, in 1897. The experiment was useful ; 
 it proved that a cultural theatre has a specialized audience, and that such a theatre 
 can hardly be self-supporting. 
 
 Such audiences as Grein appealed to needed to be organized. In 1899, the 
 Stage Society — the first concerted attempt to institute a repertory theatre in 
 
 637 
 
638 Representative British Dramas 
 
 London — was founded. It did not succeed in its endeavour, but it did familiarize 
 British play-goers with the works of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Hauptmann, Gorky, 
 Brieux, and Sudermann. Moreover, it threw a spothght upon the fooUsh position 
 of the English censor. For, through the unprofessional character of the Stage 
 Society, its members were able to defy the Reader of Plays, presenting "Monna 
 Vanna", "Mrs. Warren's Profession", and other dramas which would have been 
 refused a license in the regular playhouse. What is more, the Stage Society fostered 
 the strength of the dramatists of the English dramatic renaissance. In every way 
 it defied English convention which interfered with the advancement of ideas and 
 of art. It even shocked the public by giving its plays on Sunday. 
 
 Among the members of the Stage Society were Shaw, St. John Hankin, and 
 Barker. Of the three, Shaw may be considered the leader in the next step of the 
 dramatic" evolution. He propounded the rules, and largely established the form, 
 of the Uterary drama that flourishes in England to-day. 
 
 The Stage Society had as its definite object : 
 
 To promote and encourage dramatic art; to serve as an experimental 
 theatre ; to provide such an organization as shall be capable of dealing with 
 any opportunities that may present themselves or be created for the establish- 
 ment in London of a Repertory Theatre. 
 
 Though it accomplished much by these performances, it has been surpassed by 
 other organizations more potent in the independent and progressive development 
 of the British dramatist. With the advent of the Court Theatre, in 1904, came 
 the almost conscious declaration of the new dramatists to follow the banner of 
 realism. Fresh from producing plays for the Stage Society, Granville Barker went 
 over to the Court Theatre, then under the management of J. H. Leigh, and con- 
 sented to assist in the mounting and presentation of "The Two Gentlemen of 
 Verona", provided Vedrenne would aid him in giving six matinees of Shaw's 
 "Candida." From this proposal and acceptance there came into being the Ve- 
 drenne-Barker alliance. On April 26, 1904, the play house, of the "New Drama" 
 was launched; pledged, as its historian, Desmond MacCarthy, declares, to the 
 exploitation of truth rather than of effect. The Court Theatre had excellent plays, 
 of wide scope and variety — plays that never would have found encouragement 
 through ordinary theatrical channels. It ranged foreign dramatists alongside of the 
 "New Drama ' ' of England. It even popularized Greek drama, with the able assist- 
 ance of Professor Gilbert Murray. Within its hmitations, of which a dependence 
 upon Shaw was one, it was a vindication of the art theatre, and for three years it 
 paid its way. It was followed, in the English striving for an endowed theatre, by 
 the Frohman repertory experiment, in which Shaw, Barrie, Galsworthy, Masefleld, 
 Barker, and others, had their share. 
 
 The policy of the Court Theatre did not materially depart from that of the 
 Stage Society. It was, however, for the public rather than for members of a club 
 organization, and its performances were of a higher artistic quality. 
 
 In the fall of 1907, the movement was transferred to the Savoy Theatre, where 
 Shaw, Galsworthy, and Euripides were the attractions. But the house was large, 
 and some of the intimacy of the Court Theatre was lost. This, and the refusal of 
 the censor to license Barker's "Waste", caused the final dissolution of the Vedrenae- 
 Barker combination. The experiment proved two things : first, that the literary 
 
Granville Barker 639 
 
 drama is an intimate drama, relying for its appreciation on the sympathy of a 
 special audience ; second, that its progressiveness had to fight against the censor, 
 showing the latter to be an anachronism, nowhere better realized than in the 
 minutes of a meeting between the Joint Select Committee of the House of Lords and 
 the House of Commons on stage plays, wherein the leading dramatists and actors 
 gave their evidence as to the pernicious effect of censorship. This report was pub- 
 lished on November 2, 1909. 
 
 Such is the history of the movement which gave rise to, and fostered, the "New 
 Drama" in England. It shows a breaking away from the Victorian regime. It 
 points to a definite continental influence. It was to result in further brilliant ex- 
 periments on the part of Granville Barker as a stage producer. Throughout this 
 theatrical unrest, personality has had a large opportunity to assert itself. There 
 have been sponsors for ideas, as well as for dramatists. Had it not been for Lugne- 
 Poe, Maeterlinck's marionette plays would have lacked appreciation in France. 
 Ibsen was nurtured in England by Grein, on the one hand, and through the en- 
 thusiasm of such players as Miss Janet Achurch and Mr. Charles Carrington. 
 
 It is Shaw — a school unto himself — who has made it possible for Galsworthy, 
 Masefield, Barker, and McEvoy to come to the fore. And they have come with 
 no concessions; each of them with character to draw and with something to say. 
 These men, working for the "New Drama", have stated in definite terms what that 
 "New Drama" is. Galsworthy writes : 
 
 Our drama is renascent, and nothing will stop its growth. It is not 
 renascent because this or that man is writing, but because of a new 
 spirit .... 
 
 Shaw has declared that after all the ' ' New Drama ' ' is nothing more than a debate 
 for the betterment of life in general, and that George Bernard Shaw is the only 
 debater. What he cannot put into the three hours trafiSc of his thesis play, he puts 
 into his preface. Granville Barker believes that the future of the "New Drama" 
 is dependent on endowment. St. John Hankin wrote frankly that the "New 
 Drama", as represented by Galsworthy, Masefleld, and himself, alone would have 
 brought the Court Theatre to immediate financial ruin ; but he added : 
 
 Art, and especially dramatic art, never is and never can be "independent" 
 in any real sense. The drama depends, and must always depend, upon its 
 audiences, upon its " patrons " in fact. . . . And the only difference between the 
 commercial theatre and the endowed theatre is that whereas the latter depends 
 for its existence on one patron, the former depends upon many. . . . 
 
 And in substance he continued further : A patron can give the public the oppor- 
 tunity of discovering whether or not they like a play. They can have time to 
 discover whether they like it. The fatal thing about the London Theatre as it is 
 organized to-day is that plays must succeed at once. 
 
 There are two channels for the British drama to pass through, said Galsworthy, 
 writing before the Great War, the first that of naturalism, which 
 
 to be vital ... is in every respect as dependent on imagination, construction, 
 selection, and elimination — the main laws of artistry — as ever was the 
 romantic or rhapsodic play ; 
 
 the second, a poetic prose drama. 
 
640 Representative British Dramas 
 
 emotionalizing us by its diversity and purity of form and invention, . . . whose 
 province will be to disclose the elemental soul of man and the forces of Nature, 
 not perhaps as the old tragedies disclosed them, not necessarily in the epic 
 mood, but always with beauty and in the spirit of discovery. 
 
 Read Shaw's preface to the Brieux plays, and you will find what he means by 
 interpreting life ; for, according to him, it is the business of every dramatist, not 
 alone of Brieux, 
 
 to pick out the significant incidents from the chaos of daily happenings and 
 arrange them so that their relation to one another becomes significant, thus 
 changing us from bewildered spectators of a monstrous confusion to men in- 
 telligently conscious of the world and its destinies. 
 
 Granville Barker has figured prominently in the history of the BngUsh stage, as 
 just outlined. Like the rest of the new dramatists, he is after truth also ; but his 
 hterary quaUty dominates, and makes subservient, the drama elements in his plays. 
 This is strange, since he is one of the British playwrights who has had most to do 
 with the stage as an actor and as a manager. His best play, from the standpoint 
 of a complete story, is "The Voysey Inheritance" (1905), quite as fuU of detail as 
 his other plays, but complete in the sense that it finishes one phase of the argu- 
 ment : that business dishonesty may be made to seem honest. In another sense 
 — the dramatic one — the play ends just when we are most anxious to know what 
 the son will do with his terrible inheritance. 
 
 As a disciple of Shaw, Barker carries his stage directions and his minuteness 
 of stage description to the point which hnks the modern thesis play with the real- 
 istic novel. He excels in this method of analysis. He is able, through his stage 
 directions, as well as through his dialogue, to give one a complete sense of the 
 vitality of certain slices of British life. Without class distinction to work upon. 
 Barker, previous to the War, would have been at a loss to know what to write about. 
 So clever is he in his observation, so incisive in his satire, that he could hold the 
 interest while presenting several phases of the same subject, as in "The Madras 
 House" (1910). He is of that school of dramatists represented by Charles 
 McEvoy, whose "David Ballard" (1907) is a striking example of the middle-class 
 drama which has come out of this reahstic group of playwrights. 
 
 Barker has not caught from Shaw the fuU unity of the thesis plot. His plays are 
 photographic, human Hkenesses, caught with an exceptionally fine lens. So Enghsh 
 is he in his observation and in his interest, that such a play as "Waste" (1907) loses 
 much of its meaning, by reason of the necessity, on the part of the audience, to know 
 fully the pohtical conditions treated, before being able to understand the trend 
 of the plot. 
 
 In his play writing, he has been as experimental as he has been in every phase 
 of interest which has attracted him to the theatre. One is inclined to beheve that 
 in "Prunella" Laurence Housman's touch of collaboration was the poetic, and 
 Barker's the constructive. In " Anatol", one is able to note how truly a translator 
 or an adapter may accomplish his task, by the deft way in which Barker was able 
 to catch the effervescent spirit of Schnitzler in his episodic adventures of Anatol. 
 
 One must, in order to measure Barker's true position, identify him with the 
 experimental side of the EngUsh stage. As an actor, he was able to learn fully the 
 
Granville Barker 641 
 
 essentials of Ms art in the various oompanies with which he identified himself, from 
 1891 until he began producing. He toured with Ben Greet in Shakespeare. He 
 played with the EUzabethan Stage Society in Shakespeare. Then his career became 
 identified with that of the experimental theatre of England. He developed mi- 
 nutely under the kindly inspiration of Shaw, becoming a Fabian Socialist, and there 
 is no doubt that his type of mind might have been other than it was, had he not been 
 influenced by the arch-dramatist of the thesis school. That influence is felt in 
 "Waste" more than in any of his other dramas. 
 
 The experimental idea naturally turned Barker's thoughts toward the best 
 means of supporting the "New Drama", and he at first became interested in the 
 establishment of a National Theatre — which interest was manifest in his collab- 
 oration with William Archer in a volume, "Schemes and Estimates for a National 
 Theatre." So thoroughly was he identified with the idea that when, in America, 
 the project for a National Theatre was put into practical execution. Barker was 
 called from England to consider the advisability of assuming the directorship. His 
 ideas were so fixed regarding what the experiment should be, hiS> experience at the 
 Court Theatre had so well determined him in his own mind that the realistic drama 
 was an intimate drama, that he dechned to come to America at that time, because 
 of the vastness of the building, and the Umitations put upon him by a fashionable 
 Board of Directors. 
 
 He did come to America, however, in 1916, having by this time established a 
 sensational reputation in England for certain innovations in his managerial prepa- 
 rations of Shakespeare — innovations directly influenced by the new stagecraft, 
 whose prophet was Gordon Craig, and whose most eminent disciples were Reinhardt 
 and Stanislovsky. His defiance of tradition in the mounting of Shakespeare brought 
 a freshness to the text which exhibited the fluent imaginative quaUty of Mr. Barker's 
 mind — a fluency not fostered in the plays by which he is known as a playwright. 
 But in his r61e as a director of Greek drama — even though Mr. Barker was handi- 
 capped by the incongruous adjustments of college stadia to the proportions of Greek 
 tragedy, he vivified the Attic drama, and, through his untiring energy and quick 
 grasp of decorative possibilities, his ventures in Sophoclean and Buripidean dramas 
 are memorable in the history of the American theatre. 
 
 Mr. Barker is, however, essentially a man interested in the literary aspect of 
 the drama rather than in theatrical management. At the outbreak of the War he 
 had reached that point where, having proven to himself certain characteristics 
 about the physical side of the theatre, and having convinced his critics that he was 
 all on the side of innovation, rather than of tradition. Barker was about to return 
 to his play writing. Whether or not his recent one-act plays were written since 
 August, 1914, matters httle in the evolution of Barker. The great conflict has had 
 its effect upon him. It has made him look deeper into phases of human hfe, and has 
 added a touch of compassion to his satire. This change was evident in a short 
 story, reflective of his impressions of America, called "Souls on Fifth." 
 
 In an article, written by Barker, on "A Theatre of New Phases", he discusses 
 the requirements of the normal theatre, and emphasizes those handicaps which 
 have prevented such a theatre from coming into existence. Whatever he has said 
 about theatrical conditions has been listened to with earnestness. He has done 
 more to keep the British public stirred up to the importance of the theatre as a 
 social institution than any one of the new dramatists, outside of Shaw. When his 
 
642 Representative British Dramas 
 
 "Waste" was censored by the Reader of Plays, the discussion which followed re- 
 sulted in the Parliamentary Joint Committee for the investigation of the censor. 
 
 We have selected "The Madras House", which was first performed at the 
 Charles Frohman Repertory Theatre, the Duke of York's, March 9, 1910, because 
 of its true character portrayal, and because it emphasizes just that quality which 
 places Barker among the intellectuals, rather than among the theatrical play- 
 wrights. He raises the commonplace to an unusual plane. He almost revels in 
 the repetition of the same psychological states under varied conditions. He is 
 individuaUstic in his identification of manner with person . Though in ' ' The Madras 
 House" one might accuse him of being episodic, his episodes have direct bearing, 
 one upon another, and present a unity which is one of the cleverest quaUties in 
 the construction of this piece. Max Beerbohm speaks of Barker's lust for obser- 
 vation, and says that, in witnessing this play, one should leave at the end of the 
 "magnificent" third act, for to him, in the fourth act, "the flame burns in its 
 socket and dimly." 
 
 But though, in "The Madras House", Barker gives us the thesis form, his dia- 
 logue being of the debatable quahty, and though he appears to remain faithful to 
 his theme, at the end one is a little dissatisfied with the inconolusiveness of the 
 outcome. He takes a group and he leaves them with their middle class souls exactly 
 where he found them. The only thing he does is to twirl the souls on the axis 
 of his art for our observation. Nevertheless, one can realize the possibihties in 
 "The Madras House" for an evening of sheer enjoyment of the small realities in 
 life which he has used with telling effect and interest. 
 
THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 By GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 COPTKIGHT, 1911, 
 
 By GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 The "Madras House ", by Granville Barker, is published by Little, Brown, & 
 Company, and is fully protected by copyright. It must not be performed either 
 by amateurs or professionals without written permission. For such permission 
 and for the acting version with full stage directions, apply to The Paget Dra- 
 matic Agency, 25 West 45th Street. New York. 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 "The Madras House" was produced at the Duke of York's Theatre {Mr. Charles 
 Frohman's Repertory Theatre), on the evening of March 9th, 1910. 
 
 Henry Huxtablb Mr. E. W. Garden 
 
 Katheeinb Htjxtable Miss Florence Haydon 
 
 Laura Huxtablb Miss A,da Marius 
 
 Minnie Huxtablb Miss Elizabeth Chesney 
 
 Clara Huxtablb Miss Joy Chatwin 
 
 Julia Huxtablb Miss Victoria Addison 
 
 Emma Huxtablb Miss Sybil Thorndike 
 
 Jane Huxtablb Miss Nell Carter 
 
 Major Hippisly Thomas Mr. Charles Bryant 
 
 Philip Madras Mr. Dennis Eadie 
 
 Jessica Madras Miss Fay Davis 
 
 Constantine Madras Mr. Sydney Valentine 
 
 Amelia Madras Miss May Whitty 
 
 Eustace Perrin State ....... Mr. Arthur Whitby 
 
 Marion Yatbs Miss Mary Jerrold 
 
 Me. Brigstock Mr. Lewis Casson 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock Miss Mary Barton 
 
 Miss Chancellor Miss Geraldine Ollife 
 
 Mr. Windlesham Mr. Charles Maude 
 
 Mr. Belhaven Mr. Donald Calthorp 
 
 f Miss Asta Fleming 
 Three Mannequins | Miss Mair Vaughan 
 
 I Miss Mary Brenda 
 
 A Maid at Denmark Hill Miss Millie Emden 
 
 A Maid at Phillimorb Gardens .... Miss Evangeline Hilliard 
 
THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The HtrxTABLBS live at Denmark Hill, 
 for Mr. Htjxtablb is the surviving 
 partner in the well-known Peckham 
 drapery establishment of Roberts & 
 Huxtable, and the situation, besides 
 being salubrious, is therefore con- 
 venient. It is a new house. Mb. 
 Huxtable bought it half finished, 
 so that the interior might be to his 
 liking; its exterior the builder said 
 one might describe as of a Free 
 Queen Anne Treatment; to which 
 Mr. Huxtable rejoined, after blink- 
 ing at the red brick spotted with 
 stone ornament, that After all it 
 was inside they were going to live, 
 you know. 
 
 Through the stained, grained front door, 
 rattling with coloured glass, one 
 reaches the hall, needlessly narrow, 
 needlessly dark, but with its black 
 and white tessellated pavement mak- 
 ing for cleanliness. On the left is 
 the stained and grained staircase, 
 with its Brussels carpet and twisted 
 brass stair rods, on the right the 
 drawing-room. The drawing-room 
 can hardly be said to express the 
 personality of Mr. Huxtable. The 
 foundations of its furnishings are in 
 the taste of Mrs. Huxtable. For 
 fifteen years or so additions to this 
 family museum have been disputed 
 into their place by the six Miss 
 HuxTABLES : Laura (_aged thirty- 
 nine), Minnie, Clara, Julia, 
 EuMA, J ANti (aged twenty-six). The 
 rosewood cabinets, the picture from 
 some Academy of the early Seventies, 
 entitled In Ye Olden Time {this was 
 u. wedding present, most likely), the 
 gilt clock, which is a Shakespeare, 
 narrow-headed, but with a masterly 
 pair of legs, propped pensively 
 against a dial and enshrined be- 
 neath a dome of glass, another 
 wedding present. These were the 
 treasures of Mrs. Huxtable's first 
 
 The 
 
 drawing-room, her solace in the 
 dull post-honeymoon days. She was 
 the daughter of a city merchant, 
 wholesale as against her husband's 
 retail; but even in the Seventies 
 retail was lifting its head. It was 
 considered, though, that Katherine 
 Tombs conferred some distinction 
 upon young Habby Huxtable by 
 marrying him, and even now, as a 
 portly lady nearing sixty, she figures 
 by the rustle of her dress, the measure 
 of her mellow voice, with its care- 
 fully chosen phrases, for the dignity 
 of the household. 
 
 difference between one Miss Hux- 
 table and another is, to a casual 
 eye, the difference between one lead 
 pencil and another, as these lie upon 
 one's table, after some weeks' use; 
 a matter of length, of sharpening, of 
 wear. Laura's distinction lies in 
 her being the housekeeper; it is a 
 solid power, that of ordering the 
 dinner. She is very silent. While 
 her sisters are silent with strangers, 
 she is silent with her sisters. She 
 doesn't seem to read much, either; 
 one hopes she dreams, if only of 
 wild adventures with a new carpet- 
 sweeper. When there was some 
 family bitterness as to whether the 
 fireplace, in summer, should hold 
 ferns or u, Chinese umbrella, it was 
 Laura's opinion that an umbrella 
 gathers less dust, which carried the 
 day. Minnie and Clara are in- 
 clined to religion; not sentimentally ; 
 works are a good second with them 
 to faith. They have veered, though, 
 lately, from district visiting to an 
 interest in Missions — missions to 
 Poplar or China (one is almost as 
 far as the other); good works, the 
 results of which they cannot see. 
 Happily, they forbear to ask why 
 this proves the more soul-satisfying 
 sort. 
 
 645 
 
646 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Julia started life — that is to say, left 
 school — OS a genius. The head 
 mistress had had two or three years 
 of such dull girls that really she 
 could not resist this excitement. 
 Watercolour sketches were the me- 
 dium. So Jtjlia was dressed in 
 brown velveteen, and sent to an art 
 school, where they wouldn't let her 
 do watercolour drawing at all. And 
 in two years she learnt enough about 
 the trade of an artist not ever to 
 want to do those watercolour draw- 
 ings again. Ju lia i s now over 
 thirty, and very unhap py. Three 
 of^'lief' "waterSsioTzrS [eorZj/ master- 
 pieces) hang on the drawing-room 
 wall. They shame her, but her 
 mother won't have them taken down. 
 On a holiday she'll be off now and 
 then for a solitary day's sketching, 
 and as she tears up the vain attempt 
 to put on paper the things she has 
 learnt to see, she sometimes cries. 
 It was Julia, Emma and Jane who, 
 some years ago, conspired to present 
 their mother with that intensely con- 
 spicuous cosy corner. A cosy corner 
 is apparently a device for making 
 a corner just what the very nature 
 of a corner should forbid it to be. 
 They beggared themselves; but one 
 wishes that Me. Huxtablb were 
 more lavish with his dress allow- 
 ances, then they might at least 
 have afforded something not quite 
 so hideous. 
 
 Emma, having Julia in mind, has run 
 rather to coats and sMfts~arcd com- 
 mon sejise, — Shb would ham-been a 
 success in an office, and worth, per- 
 haps, thirty shillings a week. But 
 the HuxTABLES don't want another 
 thirty shillings a week, and this 
 gift, such as it is, has been wasted, 
 so that Emma runs also to a brusque 
 temper. 
 
 Jane is meekly enough g. little wild. 
 Mrs. Huxtable's power of apply- 
 ing the brake of good breeding, 
 strong enough over five daughters, 
 waned at the sixth attempt in twelve 
 years, and Jane has actually got 
 herself proposed to twice by not 
 quite desirable young men. Now 
 the fact that she was old enough 
 to be proposed to at all came as 
 something of a shock to the family. 
 Birthdays pass, their celebration 
 growing less emphatic. No one 
 likes to believe that the years are 
 
 passing; even the birthday's owner, 
 least able to escape its significance, 
 laughs, and then changes the subject. 
 So the Miss Huxtables never 
 openly asked each other what the 
 marriage of the youngest of them 
 might imply; perhaps they never 
 even asked themselves. Besides, 
 Jane didn't marry. But if she 
 does, unless, perhaps, she runs 
 away to do it, there will be heart 
 searchings, at least. Mr. Hux- 
 tablb asked, though, and, Mrs. Hux- 
 table's answer — given early one 
 morning, before the hot water carne 
 — scarcely satisfied him. "For," 
 said Mr. Huxtable, "if the girls 
 don't marry some day, what are 
 they to do! It's not as if they had 
 to go into the shop." "No, thank 
 Heaven!" said Mrs. Huxtablb. 
 
 Since his illness Mr. Huxtablb has 
 taken to asking questions — of any- 
 body and about anything; of hirrir 
 self oftenest of all. But for that 
 illness he would have been a con- 
 ventional enough type of successful 
 shopkeeper, coarsely fed, whiskered, 
 podgy. But eighteen months' nurs- 
 ing and dieting and removal from 
 the world seem to have brought a 
 gentleness to his voice, a spark of 
 humour to his eye, a childishness to 
 his little bursts of temper — they 
 have added, in fact, a uiistfulness 
 which makes him rather a loveable 
 old buffer on the whole. 
 
 This is a Sunday morning, a bright day 
 in October. The family are still at 
 church, and the dravkng-room is 
 empty. The door opens, and the 
 parlour-maid — much becapped and 
 aproned — shews in Philip Mad- 
 ras and his friend, Major Hippislt 
 Thomas. Thomas, long legged and 
 deliberate, moves across the room to 
 the big French windows, which open 
 onto a balcony and look down on the 
 garden and to many gardens beyond. 
 Thomas is a good fellow. 
 
 Philip Madras is more complex than 
 that. To begin with, it is obvious 
 he is not wholly English. A certain 
 likeness of figure, the keenness and 
 colour of his voice, and u, liking for 
 metaphysical turns of speech, shew 
 an Eastern origin, perhaps. He is 
 kind in' mafmeri — hut- rather cold, 
 capable of that least English of 
 dispositions — intellectual passion. 
 He is about thirty-five, a year or two 
 
The Madras House 
 
 647 
 
 younger than his friend. The par- 
 lour-maid has secured Major 
 Thomas's hat, and stands clutching 
 it. As Philip passes her into the 
 room he asks . . . 
 
 Philip. Abo ut ho w -long? 
 The Maid. Tn jiist, f|. r<^iv mJTint.flg 
 now, I should say. sir . Oh, I beg 
 pardon, does fTlippen to be the third 
 Sunday in the montk? 
 
 Philip. I don't know. Tommy, 
 does it? 
 
 Thomas [from the window]. Don't 
 ask me. Well, I suppose I can tell 
 you. 
 
 [And he vaguely fishes for his diary] 
 The Maid. No, I don't think it does, 
 sir. Because then sonie-<rf them stop 
 for the Oly Cogimimion, and that may 
 make themTate for dmnOTTbut" I don't 
 think it is, sir. 
 
 [She backs through the door, eji- 
 tangling the hat in the handle] 
 Philip. la ^y mot her still staying 
 
 here? ■ ■ 
 
 The Maid. Mxs^adras, sir ? Xg?. 
 sir. ^-^ 
 
 [Then having disentangled the hat, 
 
 the parlour-maid vanishes. 
 
 Philip thereupon plunges 
 
 swiftly into -what must be an 
 
 interrupted argument] 
 
 Philip. Well, my dear Tommy, 
 
 what are the two most important 
 
 things in a man's oharacter-S — IJis 
 
 attitude towards money and his atti- 
 
 tude"1»wa*ds-wBmaa: ■ " 
 
 Thomas [ponderously slowing him up]. 
 
 1 Yes, you're fuU up with moral precepts. 
 
 Why behave about money as if it didn't 
 
 exist? I never said don't join the 
 
 County Council. 
 
 Philip [deliberately, but in a breath]. 
 It is quite impossible for any dec ent 
 man to wall;: wilh h is- eyeti open fr om 
 Waterloo to Denmark Hill on a Sun- 
 day morning without wishing me to 
 stand-foEjj ^e County Cou ncil. 
 
 [Thomas entrencnes himself on a 
 sofa] 
 Thomas. You've got what I call 
 the Reformer's mind. I shouldn't cul- 
 tivate it, Phil. It makes a man un- 
 happy and discontented, not with 
 himself, but with other people, mark 
 you ... so it makes him conceited, 
 and puts him out of condition both 
 Ways. Don't you . e;et to imagine you 
 
 ?anjnflJsB.ttisiixiuii±rX-b§tt§r by tidying 
 itjup. ^ 
 
 Philip [whimsically]. But I'm very 
 in terested in Engl and, J Taimny- 
 
 ^I'BIOMAs' [rtatr-TBiihoursome answering 
 humour]. We all are. But we don't 
 all need to go about saying so. Even 
 I can be interested in England, I sup- 
 pose, though I havw-had-to-chuek the 
 Army and take to business to earn 
 bread and treacle for a wife and four 
 children . . . and not a bad thing for 
 me, either. I tell you if every chap 
 would look after himself and his family, 
 anSn^d-ar-glJlHjTTigbteeHia-aad-gofeer 
 life — I'm sorry, but it is Sunday — 
 England would get on~a damn^ight 
 better than it will with all youf'in^err 
 ference. 
 
 [He leans back. Philip's eyes fix 
 themselves on some great dis- 
 tance] 
 
 Philip. It's a muddled country. 
 One's first instinct is to be rhetorical 
 about it ... to write poetry and 
 relieve one's feelings. I once thought 
 I might be seU-sacriflcing — give my 
 g oods t o the po or, a nd go slumming — 
 keeping niy"trQmortal~soul-superior^Btiib~ 
 There's something wrong with a world, 
 T ommy, in which it takes a m anlike 
 TiTfigTMhia t.iTna tn tinrl out that it 's 
 bf§a3 people want, and not either 
 cake or crurnbs . 
 "Thomas^ There's something wrong 
 with a man while he wiU think of other 
 people as if they were ants on an ant 
 heap. 
 
 Philip [relaxing to a smile]. Tommy, 
 that's perfectly true. I like having a 
 good talk with you : sooner or later 
 you always say one sensible thing. 
 
 Thomas. Thank you ; you're damn 
 polite. And, as usual, we've got right 
 off the point. 
 
 Philip. The art of conversation ! 
 
 Thomas [shying at the easy epigram]. 
 GD-otr^tr County Councils, if you Uke. 
 But why chuck up seven hundred a 
 year and a directorship, if State wants 
 you tO-keep 'em? And you could have 
 double or more, and manage the place, 
 if you'd ask for it. 
 
 Philip [almost venomously]. — -TeBmiy, 
 L_lQathe — the — Maidsas — House. „State 
 max-buzit, an d do what jjp lilras with 
 it. - — 
 
 [Julia and Laura arrive. They 
 are the first from Church. 
 Sunday frocks, Sunday hats, 
 best gloves, umbrellas and prayer 
 books] 
 
 Julia. Qhj_whaji.a.surprise! 
 
648 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Philip. Yes, we walked down. Ah, 
 you don't know . . . Let me intro- 
 duce Ma>jflJ^JIiBB ?sly Thom as . . . my 
 cousin. Miss JuEa MuxtaBle~TT~: and 
 Miss Huxtable. 
 
 Julia. How do you do? 
 
 Thomas. How do you do? 
 
 Laura. How do you do? 
 
 Julia. Have you copie to see Aunt 
 Amy? ~ — 
 
 Philip. 
 
 Julia. 
 
 Nig, ^ourjatb^. 
 He's walEng back with her. 
 They'll be last, I'm afraid. 
 
 Laura. Will you stay to dinner ? 
 Philip. No, I think not. 
 Laura. I'd better tell them you 
 won't. Perhaps they'll be laying for 
 you. 
 
 [Laura goes out, decorously avoid- 
 ing a collision with Emma, 
 who, "panoplied as the others, 
 comes in at the same moment] 
 Philip. HullOjEmma ! 
 Emma. WeuTwhat a surprise ! 
 Philip. You don't know . . . 
 Major Hippisly Thomas . . . Miss 
 Emma Huxtable. 
 
 Thomas. How do you do? 
 Emma. How do you do? Will you 
 stay to. dinner? 
 
 Philip. No, we can't. [That for- 
 mula again completed, he varies his 
 explanation] I've just brought 'Thomas 
 a Sunday mQrmhg_B[aIk_tc)^nelp meteU 
 Uncle Henry_a. bit of news. ^ My father 
 will be back in Englana^^to-morrosf. 
 Emma -[■wii^ a -r-owTvd'Tnoutfif. Oh ! 
 Julia. It's a beautiful morning for 
 a walk, isn't it? 
 
 Thomas. Wonderful for October. 
 [These two look first at each other, 
 and then out of the window. 
 Emma gazes quizzically at 
 Philip] 
 Emma. I think. he knows. 
 Philip. JHe'sort oiJniows. 
 Emma. Why are you being-^odd, 
 Philip? 
 
 [Philip is more hail-fellow-well- 
 met with Emma than with the 
 others] 
 Philip. Emma ... I have enticed 
 a comparative stranger to be preseiat 
 so th.aA.„YOur father and^ mother cannot, 
 in _dfieaney., JEegin- to- flght theT^ily 
 battle over_again with_ me^ I know 
 it's very cuniii'ng, buTwe did want a 
 walk. Besides, there's a meeting to- 
 morrow. . . . 
 
 [Jane peeps through the door] 
 Jane. • You? Motha! 
 
 [She has turned to the hall, and 
 from the hall comes Mrs. 
 Huxtablb's rotund voice, " Yes, 
 Jane!" 
 Jane. Cousin Philip ! 
 
 [Mrs. Huxtable sails in, and 
 superbly compresses every family 
 greeting into one] 
 Mrs. Huxtable. What a siurprise! 
 Will you stay to dinner? 
 
 Emma [alive to a certain redundancy]. 
 No, Mother, they can't. 
 
 Philip. May I introduce my friend 
 . Major Hippisly Thomas ... my 
 aunt, Mrs. Huxtable. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [stately and gracious]. 
 How do you do. Major Thomas? 
 
 Philip. Thomas is Mr. Eustace 
 State's Londonjaaita^wr=: "~" 
 
 'TnaHdAS. How do you do? 
 
 [Mrs. Huxtable takes an arrrt- 
 chair with the air of one mount- 
 ing a throne, and from that 
 vantage point begins polite corir 
 versation. Her daughters dis- 
 tribute themselves, so do Philip 
 and Hippisly Thomas] 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Not in the Army, 
 
 then. Major Thnmas? 
 
 Thomas. I was in the Army. 
 Emma. Jessica quite well, Philip? 
 Philip. Yes' thanks. 
 Emma. And Mildred ? 
 Philip. I think so. She's back at 
 school. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. A wonderfully 
 warm autumn, is it not? 
 Thomas. Quite. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Do you know 
 Denmark Hill weU? 
 Thomas. Not well. 
 Mrs. Huxtable. We have always 
 lived here. I oon-sider it healthy. 
 But London is a healthy place, I 
 think. Oh, I beg your pardon . . . 
 my daughter Jane. 
 Jane. How do you do? 
 
 [They shake hands with ceremony. 
 Emma, in a mind to liven 
 things up, goes to the window] 
 Emma. We've quite a good g arden, 
 that's one thing. 
 
 Thomas [not wholly innocent of an 
 attempt to escape from his hostess, rnakes 
 for the window, too]. X__noiisis A it . I 
 am keen o n garde ns. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [her attention dis- 
 tracted by Julia's making for the door]. 
 Juha, where are you going? 
 
 Julia. To take my things off, 
 Mother. 
 
The Madras House 
 
 649 
 
 [Julia departs. When they were 
 quite little " girls Mrs. Hux- 
 TABLB always did ash her 
 daughters where they were going 
 when they left the room, and 
 where they had been when they 
 entered it, and she has never 
 dropped the habit. They resent 
 it only by the extreme patience 
 of their replies] 
 
 Emma [entertainingly]. That's the 
 Cr^slai-Ealafie. 
 
 Thomas. Is it? 
 
 [They both peer appreciatively at 
 that famous landmark. In the 
 Crystal Palace and the sunset 
 the inhabitants of Denmark 
 Hill have acquired almost pro- 
 prietary interest. Then Mrs. 
 HuxTABLB speaks to her nephew 
 with a sudden severity] 
 
 Mrs. Hijxtablb. Philip ,^-t -don't 
 oonsider your mother's health is at all 
 
 ItniVer is, Aunt 
 
 Philip [amicably]. 
 Kate. 
 
 Mbs. Huxtable [admitting the justice 
 of the retort]. That's true. 
 Philip. Unole Henry keeps better, 
 
 I think. '~ ^ 
 
 BTks. Huxtable. He's weU enough 
 now. I have had a slight cold. Is it 
 true that your father may appear in 
 England again?'- ~ - ' 
 
 Philip. YeSj^ he has o pi y heen on 
 the ContineHtT"^ SeHSSesJodnorrow. 
 MesTTIuxtable. I'm sorry. 
 Jane. Mother ! 
 
 [Mrs. Huxtable has launched 
 this with such redoubled severity 
 that Jane had to protest. How- 
 ever, at this moment arrives 
 Me. Huxtable himself, one 
 
 Me. Huxtable. Ah, Phil ... I 
 ad an idea you might come over. 
 You'U stay to dinner. Jane, tell your 
 aunt . . . she's taking er bonnet off. 
 [Jane obeys. He sights on the 
 balcony Major Thomas's back] 
 Me. Huxtable. Who's that out- 
 side? 
 
 Philip. Hippisly Thomas. We 
 -scantedr-gferwalk ; we-carnH-stay. 
 Me. Huxtable. Oh! 
 Mes. Huxtable. Have you oome. 
 onjDusiness? '" '" 
 
 Philip. Well . . . 
 Mrs. Huxtable. On Sunday? 
 Philip. Not exactly. 
 
 [She shakes her head, gravely 
 
 deprecating. Thomas comes 
 from the balcony] 
 Mr. Huxtable. How are you? 
 Thomas. How are you? 
 Mr. Huxtable. Fine morning, isn't 
 it? Nice prospect, this . . . see the 
 Crystal Palace? 
 
 [While Thomas turns, with per- 
 fect politeness, to view again 
 this phenomenon, Philip pacin 
 fles his aunt] 
 Philip. You see. Aunt Catherine, 
 to-morrow afternoon ^we have the "first 
 real 'nrn^CTenfi e with this Mr . State' 
 about bTi2Uig_up-j-th«-^twji_flrmS;~«ind 
 my "fajther^ passing thrxiug-hJEiUgland 
 again to attend it. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Of course, Philip, 
 if it's business, I know nothing about 
 it. But is it suggested that your uncle 
 should attend, too? 
 
 [Her voice has found a new gravity. 
 Philip becomes very airy; so 
 does Mr. Huxtable, who comes 
 back to rejoin the conversation] 
 Philip. My dear aunt, naturally. 
 Ma. Huxtable. What's this? 
 Mrs. Huxtable [the one word express- 
 ing volumes]. Coiistantine. 
 
 Mr. Huxtab£b [with elaborate in- 
 nocence]. That's definite now, is it ? 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. You dropped a 
 hint last night, Henry. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. I dessay. I dessay 
 I did. [His eye shifts guiltily] 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Quite out of the 
 question, it seems to me. 
 
 [Jane comes back] 
 Jane. Aunt Mary's coming. 
 Mr. Huxtable [genial again]. Oh! 
 My daughter Jane . . . Major Thomas, 
 Major Hippisly Thomas. 
 
 Jane [with discretion]. Yes, Father. 
 Mrs. Huxtable [tactfully]. You are 
 naturally not _aware, M-ajar— Thomas, 
 that for farnily reasons, into which 
 we nejd not g6~Mf . Huxtable has not 
 spoken ~ to~ his JjratEel£ta3aw._ Ide- a 
 number of^ears. 
 
 [PHTCTp'e eye meets Thomas's in 
 comic agony. But Me. Hux- 
 table, too, plunge 
 into the forbidden subject] 
 Mr. Huxtable. Thirty ye ars, ve ry 
 near^_.WjQnderfulr4sn'tn'fcT'-''"Interested 
 in'^the same busine^. ^ Wa^'t easy to 
 keep it up. ~~~ 
 
 Thomas. I had heard. 
 Mr. Huxtable. Oh, yes, notorious. 
 Mrs. Huxtable [in reprobation]. 
 And weU it may be, Henry. 
 
650 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Mrs. Madras comes in. It is evident 
 that Philip is his father's son. He 
 would seem so wholly but for that 
 touch of "self worship which is often 
 self mistrust"; his mother's gift, 
 appearing nowadays less loveably 
 in her as a sort of querulous asser- 
 tion of her rights and wrongs against 
 the troubles which have been too 
 strong for her. She is a pale old 
 lady, shrunk a little, the life gone 
 out of her] 
 
 Mrs. Htjxtable [some severity re- 
 maining]. A^Qy, your husband is in 
 
 England again.- 
 
 [Philip presents a filial cheek. 
 It is kissed] 
 Philip. How are you, Mother? 
 Mr. HtrxTABLE [sotto voce]. Oh, tact, 
 Katherine, tact! 
 
 Philip. Perhaps you remember 
 Reggie -fChomas ? 
 
 Thomas. I was^_ at _ Marlborough 
 with Philip, Mrs. Madras. ~ - 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Yes. Is he, Kather- 
 ine? 
 
 [Having given Thomas a limp 
 hand, and her sister this coldest 
 of responses, she finds her way 
 to a sofa, where she sits silent, 
 thinking to herself. Mrs. Hux- 
 TABLE keeps majestic hold upon 
 her subject] 
 Mrs. Hhxtable^ I am utterly un- 
 able ler'see;" TMlip, why- yaur— uncle 
 should break through his rule now. 
 
 Mit: HtnffiKBLE.- There you are, 
 Phil! 
 
 Philip. Of course it is quite for 
 Uncle Henry to decide. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Naturally . . . 
 naturally. 
 
 [Still he has an appealing eye on 
 Philip, who obliges him] 
 Philip. But since Mr. State's offer 
 inay^not be o nly for theM adras H ouse, 
 but^^^ertT^aad.— Jiu.Xtable_ into the 
 bargain . . . if -the two pnnoipar pro- 
 prietors can't meet him round_af table 
 to settle the^ matter ... 
 
 Thomas [ponderously diplomatic]. 
 Yes ... a little awkward ... if I 
 may say so ... as Mr. State's repre- 
 sentative, Mrs. Huxtable. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. You don't think, 
 do you, Major Thomas, that any 
 amount of awkwardness should induce 
 us to pass over wicked conduct? 
 
 [This reduces the assembly to 
 such a shamed silence that 
 
 poor Mr. Huxtable can only 
 add — ] 
 Mr. Huxtable. Oh, talk of some- 
 thing else . . . talk of something else. 
 [After a moment Mrs. Madras's 
 pale voice steals in, as she turns 
 to her son] 
 Mrs. Madras. When_ did_yeu_hear 
 from your father? , 
 
 Philip. A ~letfer from Marienbad 
 two or three days ago, and a telegram 
 yesterday morning. 
 
 [Mrs. Huxtable, with a hostess's 
 authority, now restores a polite 
 and easy tone to the conversation] 
 Mrs. Huxtab-le. And have you left 
 the Army long. Major Thomas? 
 Thomas. Pour years. 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Now what made 
 you take to the-Urapery Trada? 
 
 Philip [very explanatory]. Mr. State 
 is anr^AjQmcaji_flnajicier,_4iJ5tKittyr- 
 who hasBou^hl up Bijrrow'sTTEe big 
 mantle_place in the city, and^is about 
 to~buy us up, too, perhaps.' 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. We are not in 
 difBculties, I hope. 
 Philip. Oh, no. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. No. No doubt 
 Henry would have told me if we had 
 been. 
 
 [As she thus gracefully dismisses the 
 subject there appear up the steps 
 and along the balcony the last 
 arrivals from Church, Minnie and 
 Clara. The male part of the com- 
 pany unsettles itself] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Ullo ! Where have 
 you been? 
 
 Minnie. We went for a walk. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [in apparently deep 
 surprise]. A walk, Minnie ! Where to ? 
 
 Minnie. Just the long way home. 
 We thought we'd have time. 
 
 Clara. Did you notice what a 
 short sermon? 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Oh, may I . . . 
 My daughter Clara . . . Major Ippisly 
 Thomas. My daughter Minnie . . . 
 Major Thomas. 
 
 [The conventional chant begins] 
 
 Minnie. How d'you do? 
 Thomas. How d'you do? 
 Clara. How d'you do ? 
 Minnie. How d'you do, Philip? 
 Philip. How d'you do? 
 Clara. How d'you do? 
 Philip. How d'you do ? 
 
The Madras House 
 
 651 
 
 [The chant over, the company re- 
 settles; Mb. Htjxtable button- 
 holing Philip in the process 
 with an air of some mystery] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. By the way, Phil, 
 remind me jQ-ask-yo«-soiiiething_before 
 you go . . . rather important. 
 
 Philip. I shaU be at your place in 
 thejnommg^_Thomas-is-jtiQimngL,to go 
 througTsbme figiuSr 
 
 METH^^trxSi^ [with a regular snap]. 
 Yes . . . I sha'n't. 
 
 Philip. The Sta-t;B~~meeting~ is in 
 Boni6tr6et,_thseej3'oloek. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. I know, I know. 
 [Then, finding himself prominent, he 
 captures the conversation] I'm slacking 
 off, Major Thomas, slacking off. Ever 
 since I was ill-PvS'bee'n'ilScking off. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. You are perfectly 
 well now, Henry. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Not the point. I 
 want leisure, ^ou_know, leisure. Time 
 for reading . TTTSae^to think a bit. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Nonsense! [She 
 adds, with correctness] Major Thomas 
 will excuse me. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [on his hobby]. Oh, 
 well ... a man must . . . some por- 
 tion of his Ufe . . .' 
 
 Thomas. Quite. I got most of my 
 reading done early. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. The natural time 
 for it. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Ah, lucky feUer! 
 Educated, I suppose. Well, I wasn't. 
 I've been getting the books for years 
 — good editions. I'd hke you to see 
 my library. But these geniuses want 
 settling down to ... if a man's to 
 keep pace with the thought of the 
 world, y' know. Macaulay, Erbert 
 Spencer, Grote's Istory of Greece! 
 I've got em all there. 
 
 [He finds no further response. 
 Mrs. Huxtable fills the gap] 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. I thou^-t-the sei^ 
 mon duUthismarBi ng. Amy, di dn't you ? 
 
 MSsTMadras [unexpectedly]. No, I 
 didn't. 
 
 Minnie [to do her share of the enter- 
 taining]. Mother, somebody ought to 
 speak about those boys ... it's dis- 
 graceful. Mi-. Vivian had actually to 
 turn round from the organ at them 
 during the last hymn. 
 
 [Julia, her things taken off, re-appears. 
 Mr. Huxtable is on th 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Ah, my daughter 
 Julia . . . Major— — 
 
 Julia. We've been introduced. 
 Father. 
 
 [She says this with a hauteur 
 which really is pure nervousness, 
 but Mb. Huxtable is suffi- 
 ciently crushed] 
 Mb. Huxtable. Oh, I beg pardon. 
 [Bui Mrs. Huxtable disapproves 
 of any self-assertion, and de- 
 scends upon the culprit; who 
 is, for some obscure reason (or 
 for none), more often disap- 
 proved of than the others] 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Close the door, 
 please, JuUa. 
 
 Julia. I'm sorry. Mother. 
 
 [Philip closes the offending door. 
 
 Julia obliterates herself in a 
 
 chair, and the conversation, 
 
 hardly encouraged by this little 
 
 affray, comes to an intolerable 
 
 standstill. At ■ last Clara 
 
 makes an effort] 
 
 Clara. Is Jessica quite well, Philip? 
 
 Philip. Yes, thank you, Clara. 
 
 Mas. Huxtable. And dear little 
 
 Iifildred? — 
 
 Philip. Yes, thank you. Aunt Kate. 
 [Further standstill. Then Minnie 
 contrives a remark] 
 Minnie. Do you still like that school 
 for her? 
 
 Philip [with finesse]. It seems to 
 provide every accompligiimejrt that 
 mpn^i-eatf buy. 
 
 [Mrs. Huxtable discovers a sure 
 opening] 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Have you been 
 away for the summer, Major_Tiamas ? 
 
 Thomas -[i;ra^e% — he is getting sym- 
 pathetically tongue-tie'd]. Oh . . . yes 
 
 Philip. Tommx_and Jessica and I 
 took our hoUdays motoring ground 
 Munich ahartnto-4t- for the operas. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Was that pleas- 
 ant? 
 
 Philip. Very. 
 
 Mas. Huxtable. And where was 
 dear Mildred? 
 
 Philip. With her aunt most of the 
 time . .^Js^maa^ — sister-ia-terW7-~y6u 
 'kmrw. 
 
 Minnie. Lady^mes-?' 
 
 Philip. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [innocently, gen- 
 uinely snobbish]. Very nice for her. 
 
 Mk. Huxtable. We take a ouse at 
 Wejrmouth, as a rule. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Do you know 
 Weymouth, Major Thomas? 
 
652 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Thomas. No, I don't. 
 
 Mes. Huxtable. George III. used 
 to stay there, but that is a hotel now. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Keep your spare 
 money in the country, y' know. 
 
 Mks. Huxtable. Oh, there is every- 
 thing one wants at Weymouth. 
 
 [But even this subject flags] 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. You think more of 
 Bognor, Amy, I know. 
 
 Mes. Madras. Only to live in, 
 Katherine. 
 
 [They have made their last effort. 
 The conversation is dead. Mr. 
 Huxtable's discomfort sud- 
 denly becomes physical] . 
 Mr. Huxtable. I'm going to-change 
 ffiX-OOat. 
 
 PHiLiP5_JLjihiak Eigrhaps we ought to 
 
 be off" "~ — ^'^ 
 
 'Mr. Huxtable. No, no, no, no,"nS ! 
 I sha'n't be a minute. Don't go, Phil ; 
 there's a good fellow. 
 
 [And he has left them all to it. The 
 Huxtable conversation, it will 
 be noticed, consists mainly of 
 asking questions. Visitors, 
 after a time, fall into the habit, 
 too] 
 Philip. Do you like this house 
 better than the old one, Clara? 
 
 Claka. It has more rooms, you 
 know. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Do you live in 
 London, Major Thomas? 
 
 Thomas. No, I live at Woking. I 
 come up and down every day. I think 
 the country's better for the children. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Not a cheerful 
 place, is it ? 
 
 Thomas. Oh, very cheerful. 
 Mrs. Huxtable. I had thought 
 not, for some reason. 
 
 Emma. The cemetery. Mother. 
 Mrs. Huxtable [accepting the sug- 
 gestion with dignity]. Perhaps. 
 
 Clara. And of course there's a 
 much larger garden. We have the 
 garden of the next house as well. 
 
 Jane. Not all the garden of the 
 next house. 
 
 Clara. Well, most of it. 
 
 [This stimulating difference of 
 opinion takes them to the bal- 
 cony. Philip follows. Julia 
 follows Philip. Minnie de- 
 parts to take her things off] 
 Julia. Do you notice how near the 
 Crystal Palace seems? 'That means 
 rain. 
 
 Philip. Of course . . you can see 
 the Crystal Palace. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Julia, do you 
 think you won't catch cold on the 
 balcony without a hat? 
 
 Julia [meek, but, before the visitor, 
 
 determined]. I don't think so. Mother. 
 
 [Mrs. Huxtable turns, with 
 
 added politeness, to Major 
 
 Thomas] 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Yes, we used to 
 live not so far along the hill ; it cer- 
 tainly was a smaller house. 
 
 [Philip is now on the balcony, 
 receiving more information] 
 
 Philip. That's Ruskin's house, is it? 
 Yes, I see the chimney pots. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. I should not have 
 moved, myself, but I was overruled. 
 
 Emma. Mother, we had grown out 
 of HoUybank. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. I was overruled. 
 Things are done on a larger scale than 
 they used to be. Not that I approve 
 of that. 
 
 Thomas. Of course one's family will 
 grow up. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. People spend their 
 money now-a-days. I remember my 
 father's practice was to hve on haU 
 his income. However, he lost the 
 greater part of his money by unwise 
 investments in lead, I think it was. 
 I was at school at the time, in Brighton. 
 And he educated me above my station 
 in life. 
 
 [At this moment Clara breaks out 
 of the conservatory. Something 
 has happened] 
 
 Clara. JaJiev ±he.Aga^aaftus4s-^ut— 
 at last ! 
 
 Jane. Oh ! 
 
 [They crowd in to see it. Philip 
 crowds in, too. Mrs. Hux- 
 table is unmoved] 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. We are told that 
 riches jiEa_a snare, Major Thomas. 
 
 Thomas. It is orr&I_Jiave always 
 found easy to avoidTMreTHuxtable. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [oblivious of the joke, 
 which, indeed, she would not have ex- 
 pected on such a subject]. And I have 
 noticed that their acquisition seldom 
 improves the character of people in 
 my station of hfe. I am, of course, 
 ignorant of my husband's affairs . . . 
 that is to say, I keep myself as ignorant 
 as possiblfe . . . but it is my wish that 
 the ordering of our household should 
 remain as it was when we were first 
 married. 
 
The Madras House 
 
 653 
 
 Thomas \forestalling a yawn]. Quite 
 so. Quite so. 
 
 [Mbs. HtrxTABLB takes a breath] 
 
 Mrs. Htjxtable. A family of daugh- 
 ters, Major Thomas . . . 
 
 Emma [a little agonised]. Mother ! 
 
 Mbs. Htjxtable. What is it, Emma? 
 [But Emma thinks better of it, and 
 goes to join the Agapanthus 
 party, saying — ] 
 
 Emma. Nothing, Mother. I beg 
 your pardon. 
 
 [Mrs. Httxtable retakes her 
 breath] 
 
 Mrs. Huxtablb. What were we 
 saying? 
 
 Thomas [loith resigned politeness]. ' A 
 family of daughters. 
 
 Mes. Huxtablb. Yes. Were you 
 in the war? 
 
 [The inexplicable but characteristic 
 suddenness of this rouses the 
 Major a little] 
 
 Thomas. j _was . 
 
 Mrs. HtrxTABEE. I find that people 
 look diflferently on family life to what 
 they used. A man no^ longer seems 
 preparedtomarrx_and_sitEport a wife 
 and family^y his unaided"~exertiuiisr 
 I oBnstder that-a" pity. 
 
 Thomas [near another yavm]. Quite 
 . . . quite so. 
 
 Mbs. Httxtable. I have always de- 
 termine d.. that niv daugh ters should be 
 sought ^fter for themselves alone. 
 That~8EoiiLd ensurg — their— happiness. 
 Any ehgiBle gente man who v i g te~lrCTe 
 constantly is always given to under- 
 stand, delicately, that nothing need 
 be expected from Mr. Huxtable-bajzond 
 his app roval. You are married, I 
 think ~yoil said, Major Thomas. 
 
 [This quite wakes him up, though 
 Mes. Htjxtable is really inno- 
 cent of her implication] 
 
 Thomas. Yes. Oh, dear me, yes. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable; Andra-Jaimly? 
 
 Thomas. Pour "^KHHren . . . the 
 youngestia, only-^-three. — ■ 
 
 Mbs. Huxtablb. Pretty dear ! 
 
 Thomas. No; ugly little beggar, 
 but has character. 
 
 Mes. Huxtable. I must take off my 
 things before dinner. You'll excuse me. 
 If one is not punctual one-self . . . 
 
 Thomas. Quite. 
 
 Mes. Huxtable. We cannot induce 
 you to join us? 
 
 Thomas. Many thanks, but we 
 nave to meet Mrs. Phil for lunch in 
 town at two. — —" 
 
 Mes. Huxtable. I am sorry. 
 
 [Thomas opens the door for her 
 with his best bow, and she 
 graciously departs, conscious 
 of having properly impressed 
 him. Claea, who has now 
 her things to take off, crosses 
 the room, saying to Philip, 
 who follows her from the bal- 
 cony — ] 
 
 Clara. Yes,_I'll tell father, Philip, 
 ILm-going. upstairs. 
 
 [Thomas opens the door for her, 
 but only with his second best 
 bow, and then turns to Philip 
 mth a sigh] 
 
 Thomas. Phil,,we ought to be going. 
 
 Philip. Wait till you've seen my 
 unele again. ' 
 
 Thomas. AU right. 
 
 [He heaves another sigh and sits 
 down. All this time there has 
 been Mrs.- Madras upon her 
 sofa, silent, as forgotten as any 
 other piece of furniture for which 
 there is no immediate use. 
 Philip now goes to her. When 
 she does speak it is unrespon- 
 
 Philip. How long_ do you stay in 
 town. Mother? 
 
 TSKsrlVlADKSB. I have, been here a 
 
 fortnight._ I generally stay.three jgeeks. 
 
 Phimp. Jessica has -Eien meaning 
 
 to ask you to PhiUimore Gardens again. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Has sEeT 
 
 Philip [a little guiltily]. Her time's 
 
 very much occupied . . . with one 
 
 thing and another. 
 
 [Suddenly Mrs. Madras rouses 
 herself] 
 Mrs. Madras. I .35dfilno~see your 
 father, Philip. 
 
 ■^HiLip [in doubt]. He wonlt-he^here 
 long. Mother. 
 
 ■ Mrs. Madras. No, I am sure he 
 won't. 
 
 [With three delicate strides Thomas 
 lands himself onto the balcony] 
 Philip. Tommy being tactful ! 
 Well,-_C11- say .that you want to see 
 -him. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. No, please don't. 
 Tell him that I think he ought to come 
 and^gBTirev 
 
 Philip. He_ won't come, Mother. 
 Mrs. Madeas. No, I know he 
 won't. .He came -4o— England in May, 
 didn't he? He was here tiU July, 
 wasn't he? Did he so much as send 
 me a message? 
 
654 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Philip [mth unkind patience]. No, 
 Mother. 
 
 Mks. Madras. What was he doing 
 all the while, Philip? 
 
 Philip. I didn't see much of him. 
 I really don^t-know-^what-h«-oame back 
 for at all. We could have done this 
 business without Mm, and_anyway it 
 hasn't THaterialised tiU now^ This is 
 
 why he's passing^ throug]]__BnglaHd 
 
 again. I don't thinlnE5:e's much to 
 be gained by your seeing_.him,~ you 
 know. 
 
 Mks. Madras. You are a little 
 heartless, Philip. 
 
 [This being a little true, Philip a 
 little resents it] > 
 
 Philip. My dear mother, you and 
 he have been separated for . . . how 
 ,long-is4t?— "^ 
 
 ~''Mes. Madras [with withered force]. 
 I amjiis-wiie-gtilli. T should ■■hopa- He 
 went away from - me w hen he was 
 young. ~Butr r""Earve never fofgoften 
 my duty. And now that he is an old 
 man, and past such sin, and I am an 
 old wom ajQ, I am_stilLre^dy to be_a 
 comfort to his declining^^earSj^ audit's 
 right that I shouIdT "be allowed to tell 
 him so. And you should not let your 
 wife put you against your own mother, 
 Philip. 
 
 Philip [bevnldered]. ReaUy ! 
 
 Mrs. Madras. I know what Jessica 
 thinks of ^e. Jessica is very clever, 
 and has no patience with people who 
 can only do their best to be good . . . 
 I understand that. Well, it isn't her 
 duty to love me ... at least it may 
 not be her duty to love her husband's 
 mother, or it may be, I don't say. But 
 it is your duty. I sometimes think, 
 Philip, ynp Hnn't love me any longer, 
 though you're afraid to say so. 
 
 [The appeal ends so pathetically 
 that Philip is very gently 
 equivocal] 
 
 Philip. If I didn't love you, my 
 dear mother, I should be afraid to say 
 so. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. When are you to 
 see your father? 
 
 Philip. We've asked^ him to dinner 
 Jq-morro w night . 
 
 [At this moment Emma comes in with a 
 briskness so jarring to Mrs. Mad- 
 ras's already wrought nerves, that 
 she turns on her] 
 Mrs. Madras^ Emma, why do you 
 
 come bouncing in like that when I'm 
 
 tiying to get a private word with 
 Phihp? 
 
 Emma. ReaUy, Aunt Amy, the draw- 
 ing-room belongs to everyone. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. I'm sure I don't 
 know why I come and stay here at all. 
 I dislika your jnothes-intensely 
 
 Emma. Then kindly don't teU me 
 so. I've no wish not to be polite to 
 you. 
 
 Philip [pacifically]. Emma, I think 
 Uncle Henix ought — ^to — attend this 
 meeting to-morrow. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [beginning to cry]. Of 
 course he ought.^ Who is he, to go on 
 like this about Cpnstantin&L M-js-iand- 
 kefchief's upstairs. 
 
 Emma [contritely]. Shall I fetch it 
 for you, Aunt Amy? 
 
 Mrs. Madras. No. I'U be a trouble 
 to no one. 
 
 [She retires, injured. Philip con- 
 tinues, purposely placid] 
 
 Philip. What's more, he really 
 wants to^ttend-it. 
 
 Emma. I'm sorry I was rude . . . 
 but she-does _ge.t on our nerves, you 
 know. ~ — 
 
 Philip. Why do you invite her? 
 
 Emma [quite jolly mth him]. Oh, 
 we're all very foiuLof-Aunt.Amj:, and 
 anyhow, mother would think it our 
 duty. I don't see how sher can enjoy 
 coming, though. She never goes out 
 anywhere... . . jiever joins in the con- 
 versation . . . juiF^its nursing herself. 
 
 Philip [quizzically]. You're aU too 
 good, Emma. 
 
 Emma. Yes. I heard you making 
 fun of JuUa in the conservatory. But 
 if one stopped doing one's duty how 
 upside down the world would be! 
 [Her voice now takes that tone which is 
 the well-bred substitute for a wink] I 
 say ... I suppose I ougbin't^ to^ teU, 
 you abi)Ut_JuliaJbut-itis-jpa,tliffi_ajoKr 
 You know, Julia gets hysterical some- 
 times, when she has her headaches. 
 
 Philip. Does she? 
 
 Emma. Well, a collar marked Lewis 
 Waller came back.irojiLjhe wash in 
 mistake for one of father's." I don't 
 think he lives near here, but it's one 
 of these big steam laundries. And 
 Morgan the cook got it, -and-she.gaKe 
 it to Julia . . . and juligt. kep.t_ Jt^ 
 And when mother found out she cried 
 for a whole day. She said it showed a 
 wanton mind. 
 
 [Philip's mocking face becomes 
 
The Madras House 
 
 655 
 
 Philip. I don't think that's at all 
 amusing, Emma. 
 
 Emma [in genuine surprise]. Don't 
 you? 
 
 Philip. How old is Julia? 
 
 Emma. She's thirty-four. [Her face 
 falls, too] No ... it is rather dread- 
 ful, isn't it? [Then wrinkling her fore- 
 head, as at a puzzle]. It-isa't .exactly 
 that on e wants to j;fit. Tna,i ;riRH. I dare- 
 say mother is right about that. 
 
 Philip. About what ? 
 
 Emma. Well, some time ago a gentle- 
 man jiroposed ja Jane. And mother 
 said It wauH have been more honourable 
 it he Ijad^poke-Br-te-fatlier first, and that 
 Jane waTlEe youn gest. a,nd to o young 
 to know -her— owrt— naind. Well, you 
 know, she's twenty-six. And then they 
 heard of s omething he 'd once done, and 
 it waB_put_a_slrO{>— to. — And-Jane was 
 very reEaEeusr-aBd-TiiatheE- cried. . . . 
 
 Philip. Does she always cry? 
 
 Emma. Yes, she does cry, if she's 
 upset about us. And I think she was 
 right. One ought not to risk being 
 unhappy for hf e, ought one ? 
 
 Philip. Are you all happy now, 
 then? 
 
 Emma. Oh, deep down, I think we 
 are. ItjaulSibe^so ungrs^ful nql~to 
 be. "When one has a gooff home 
 and . . . ! But of course Hving to- 
 gether, and going away together, and 
 being together all the time, one does 
 get a Mttle irritable now and then. I 
 suppose that's why we sit as mum as 
 maggots when people are here; we're 
 afraid of squabbling. 
 
 Philip. Do you squabble ? 
 
 Emma. Not like we used. You 
 know, till we moved into this house, 
 we had pnly two— bedroomsHjetWeen 
 us, the nursery and the old night 
 nursery. Now Laura and Minnie have 
 one each, and there's one we take by 
 turns. There wasn't a bigger house 
 to be got here, or I suppose we could 
 have had it. They hated the idea of 
 moving far. And it's rather odd, you 
 know, father seems afraid of spending 
 money, though hemu st have g at lots. 
 He says "S he gSvs^^s any more we 
 shouldn't know what to do with it, 
 • . . and of course that's true. 
 
 Philip. But what occupations have 
 you girls? 
 
 Emma. We're always Jiusx,__X mean 
 there's lots to be done about the house, 
 aM-~there's. eaUing and—classes and 
 things. Julia used to sketch quite 
 
 well. You mustn't think I'm grum- 
 bling, Philip. I know I talk too much. 
 They tell me so. 
 
 [Philip's comment is the question, 
 half serious] 
 
 Philip. Why don't jou go away, 
 all six^of you, orjay_fixe of you? 
 
 ^MUA'^MS&^eyed]. Go away! 
 
 Philip [comprehensively]. Out of it. 
 
 Emma [wider-eyed]. Where to? 
 
 Philip [with a sigh — for her] Ah, 
 that's juat-it. 
 
 Ehma. How could one! And it 
 would upset .them- dreadfully. Father 
 and mother don't know that one feels 
 like this at times . . . they'd be very 
 grieved. 
 
 [Philip turns to her with kindly 
 irony] 
 
 Philip. Emma, people haye been 
 wori3dag-y«iw4ath.«-»t-4he-sh^"lately 
 about the drawbacks j)f the living in 
 system. Why— dDn'fyou a^ him" to 
 look at hpiuejfor -them? 
 
 [Me. Huxtablb returns, at ease in a 
 jacket. He pats his daughter kindly 
 on the shoulder] 
 
 Mh. Huxtablb. Now run along, 
 Jane ... I mean Emma ... I want 
 a word jscithyour sousin. 
 
 Emma. ^TesTTather. 
 
 [Emma — or Jane — obediently 
 disappears. Philip then looks 
 sideways at his uncle] 
 
 Philip. I've come over, as you 
 as ked m e to. " 
 
 Mr. Httxtable. I didn't ask you. 
 
 Philip. YoujdroppeHTa hint. 
 
 Mr. Htjxtable [almost' with a blush]. 
 Did I? I dessay I did. < 
 
 Philip. But you must hurry up 
 and, d«cide — aibout— -the — meeting to- 
 morrow. --JThomas and L.have got to 
 go. 
 
 Mr. HtrxTABLE. Phil, I suppose. 
 youire_sfit_QaseIling. ■ 
 
 Philip. _^uie— 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. You young men! 
 The Ma dras Ouse mea,ns jiolhing. t'o 
 you. 
 
 Philip [anti^sentimental]. Nothing 
 unsaleable. Uncle. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Well, well, well ! 
 [Then, in a furtive fuss] Well, just a 
 minute, my boy, before your aunt 
 comes down . . . she's been going on 
 at me upstairs, y' know! Something 
 you must do for me to-morrow, like a 
 good'telier, at the shop in the morning. 
 
656 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [He suddenly becomes portentous] Have 
 you heard this yet aboul_^J^_yates ? 
 
 Philip. No. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Disgraceful! Dis- 
 graceful ! 
 
 Philip. She got on very well in 
 Bond Street . . . learnt a good deal. 
 She has_ only beeir back-a-f-ew-Treeks. 
 
 Me. Huxtable [snorting derisively]. 
 
 Learnt a good deal ! [Then he sights 
 
 Thomas on the balcony, and hails him] 
 
 Oh, come in, Major Thomas. [And 
 
 dropping his voice again ominously] 
 
 Shut the window, if you don't mind; 
 
 we don't want the ladies to hear this. 
 
 [Thomas shuts the window, and 
 
 Mk. Huxtable spreads him,- 
 
 self to the awful enjoyment of 
 
 imparting scandal] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. I tell you, my boy, 
 up at your place, got hold of she's been 
 by some feller . . . some West End 
 Club feUer, I dessay . . . and he's put 
 her in the . . . well, I tell you! ! 
 Major Thomas wiU excuse me. Not a 
 chit of a girl, mind you, but first hand 
 in Qur Costume room. Buyer we were 
 going to make her, and all ! 
 
 [Philip frowns, both at the news 
 and at his uncle's manner of 
 giving it] 
 
 Philip. What do you want me Jo 
 do? 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [more portentous than 
 ever]. You wait; that's not the worst 
 of it. You know Brigstock. 
 
 Philip. Do I? 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Oh, yes ; third 
 man in the Osiery. 
 
 Philip. True. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Well ... it seems 
 that more than a week ago Miss Chan- 
 cellor had caught them kissing. 
 
 Philip [his impatience of the display 
 growing]. Caught who kissing? 
 
 Me. Huxtable. I know it ain't 
 clear. Let's go back to the begin- 
 ning. . . Major Thomas will excuse 
 me. 
 
 Thomas [shoiving the properest feeling]. 
 Not at all. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Wednesday after- 
 noon, Willoughby, that's our doetor-r 
 comes up as usual. Miss Yates goes 
 in to see him. Miss ChanceiloT'^^^ 
 that's our housekeeper. Major Thomas 
 — over'ears, quite by accident, so she ' 
 says, and afterwards taxes her with it. 
 
 Philip. Unwise. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. No ! no ! Her plain 
 duty . . . she knows my principle about 
 
 such things. But then she remembers 
 about the kissing and that gets about 
 among our young ladies. Somebody 
 stupid there, I grant you, but you know 
 what these things are. And then it 
 gets about about Miss Yates ... all 
 over the shop. And then it turns out 
 that Brigstock' s a married man . . . 
 been married two years . . . secret 
 from us, you know, because he's hving 
 in and on promotion and aU the rest. 
 And yesterday morning his wife turns 
 up in my of&ce, and has hysterics, and 
 says her husband's been slandered. 
 
 Philip. I don'^^seewh^Miss Yates 
 should come to anypartioular harm at 
 our place. A_ girCs—only^ out -of our 
 sight at week ends, and then we're 
 supposed to know where^e is. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable [still instinctively 
 spreading himself, but with that wistful 
 look creeping on him now]. Well . . . 
 I had er up the day before. And I 
 don't know what's coming over me. 
 I scolded her well. I was in the right 
 in all I said . . . but ... I Have 
 you ever suddenly card your own voice 
 saying a thing? Well, I did . . . and 
 it sounded more hke a dog barking 
 than me. And I went funny all over. 
 So I told her to leave the room. [He 
 grows distressed and appealing] And 
 you must take it on, Phil, ... it 
 ought to be settled to-morrow. Miss 
 Yates must have the sack, and I'm 
 not sure Brigstock hadn't better have 
 the sack. We don't want to lose Miss 
 Chancellor, but really if she-can't hold 
 er tongue -at ifef age . . . well, she'd 
 better have . . . 
 
 Philip [out of patience]. Oh, non- 
 sense. Uncle! 
 
 Mb. Huxtable [his old unquestioning 
 self asserted for a moment]. No, I will 
 not have these scandals in the shop. 
 We've always been free of em . . . 
 almost always. I don't want to be 
 hard on the girl. If the man's in our 
 employ, and you can find im out . . . 
 punish jihe guilt y:- as well, as-^Aie inno- 
 cent . . . I'm for all tEaJT [That breath 
 exhausted, he continues, quite pathetically, 
 to Thomas] But I do not know what s 
 coming over me. Before I got ill I'd 
 have tackled this business hke winking. 
 But when you're a long time in bed . . . 
 I'd never been ill hke that before . . - 
 I dunno how it is . . . you get think- 
 ing . . . and things which used to be 
 quite clear don't seem nearly so dear 
 . . . and then after, when you start 
 
The Madras House 
 
 657 
 
 to do and say the things that used to 
 come natural . . . they don't come so 
 natural as they did, and that puts you 
 off something . . . 
 
 [This is interrupted by the re-appearance 
 of Mrs. Huxtablb, lace-capped, 
 and ready for dinner. She is at 
 the pitch to which the upstairs 
 dispute with her husband evidently 
 brought her. It would seem he 
 bolted in the middle of it] 
 
 Mes. Huxtable. Is it the fact, 
 Philip, that jf_your uncle does not 
 attend the jneeting- torjiorrasJihat this 
 business transaction with~Mr7— I for- 
 get his name — the American gentle- 
 man . . . and which I, of course, 
 know nothing about, will be seriously 
 upset? 
 
 Mb. Httxtable {joining battle]. 
 Kitty.I Jljm!t-se©-^hy I shouldn't go. 
 If ConstantineLchooses t o tur n up . . . 
 that is his3usmess7^T:_cieedn't speak 
 directly to him ... so to say. " 
 
 Mas. JivxTABLB [hurling this choice 
 holt from her vocabulary]. A qiubble, 
 Henry. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. If^he's leavingimg- 
 land now for good ."T. " 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. But you do as 
 you like, of .course. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [unstful again]. I 
 should so like you to be convinced. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Don't prevaricate, 
 Henry. AjuJ^your sister is just coming 
 into&gjiOQm^ -Wehad-better~drDprthe 
 subject. '" 
 
 [And in Mrs. Madras does come, but 
 what with one thing and another 
 Mr. Huxtable is now getting 
 what he would call thoroughly put 
 out] ■ 
 
 Me. Huxtable. Now if Amelia 
 here was to propose seeing im 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Henry ... a 
 little eonai^ration ! 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [goaded to the truth]. 
 Well, I want t o go, Kitty, and that's 
 all about it. ~\ Ahd I diupp e d a ~int, I 
 did, toT>hil~tTrcOtae over and~help me 
 through it with you. I thought he'd 
 make it seem as if it was most pressing 
 business . . . only he hasn't ... so 
 M to-huit,yoaLie6lings less. Because 
 I d been bound to have told you after- 
 wards, or it might have slipped out 
 somehow. Qrodness gracious me. 
 
 Wn's the, 1Vra.rlrq,fi TTmiai^ ■arhir'h I've 
 
 H mk enough ^maaey— in— these last ten 
 years toJaal d a battl eship, very -nearly 
 . . '.a small battleship, y' know . . . 
 it's to be_s2ld_beeause3hiLw-on't stand 
 by me,"~aBd-Ma-iaitb er don't care a 
 buttoiT'now. Not but . whsfT that's 
 Constantine — all-over !- Mames- you, 
 Amelia, behaves like a duke and an 
 archangel, mixed, for eighteen months, 
 and then 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [scandalised, "Before 
 visitors, too !"]. Henry! 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. All right, aU right. 
 And I'm not to attend this meeting, 
 if you please ! 
 
 [The little storm subsides] 
 
 Mrs. Madras. ItIaJaiJtie#oldr-is-rt ? 
 
 Philip. Yes, Mother. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [at her brother]. It was 
 started with my moneyjis _weU as yours. 
 [Mr. Huxtable is recovering, and 
 takes no notice] 
 
 Philip. Yes, Mother, we know. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. And_if ihat's all 
 you've jMt_by Constantine, I don't 
 see yoiTvearright to^be so bfttef against 
 
 him. r^- 
 
 [She is still ignored. Mr. Hux- 
 table, quite cheery again, goes 
 on affably] 
 
 Mk. Huxtable. D'you know. Major 
 Thomas, thS^; "twenty years ago, when 
 that shop began to be the talk of Lon- 
 don, Duebesses^aveberajoiawn to go, 
 to all irff .ts and i)urposes, on their 
 knees to him to design them a dress. 
 Wouldn't do it unless he pleasei — not 
 unless, he— a^proved-^theirTgure. Ad 
 Soaejty. under lus thumb. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable f/rom the height of 
 respectability]. No doubt he knew' his 
 business. 
 
 Me. Huxtable [in an ecstasy]. 
 Knew his business! Knew his busi- 
 ness ! ! My boy, in the old days . . . 
 asked everywhere, like one of them- 
 selv«s^very:jiearlyj- First of his- sort 
 t& DfeaKthat barrier. D'you know, 
 it's my belief that if Mrs. Gladstone 
 had been thirty years younger, and a 
 fashionable woman ... he could have 
 had a knighthood. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [explicitly]. He was 
 untrue to his wife, Henry. 
 
 [At this Mr. Huxtable is the 
 moral man again. These s«d- 
 den changes are so like him. 
 They are genuine; he is just 
 half conscious of their sudden- 
 ness] 
 
658 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Yes, I_know, and 
 Amy did what shfr shcmW— KS^e -done. 
 You see, it wasn't an ordinary ease. 
 Major Thomas. It was girls in the 
 shopr Alia 'fPTOtrtho'c^te^he "took em 
 out of the shop . . . that's a slur on 
 the whole trade. A man in his posi- 
 tion ... you can't overlook that. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [palely asserting her- 
 self]. I could have overlooked it if I 
 had chosen. 
 
 Philip [to whom this is all so futile 
 and foolish]. My dear mother, you 
 were unhapji3LjdthjayiJatlifi£,_and you 
 left him . . . the matter is very simple. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. I beg your pardon, 
 Philip ... I was-- iiat_ unhappy with 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. fiuxTABLE. Amy, how could 
 you be happy with^^_inan who was 
 unfaithful to you? What nohsenser! 
 
 [Jane and Julia, from the bal- 
 cony, finding the window locked, 
 tap with their finger-nails upon 
 the pane. The very sharpness 
 of the sound begins to put out 
 Mr. Huxtable again] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. No, no! They 
 
 can't - oonae_in-L^ [He mouths at them 
 
 through the unndoiu] ' You can't^come in. 
 
 [Janb mouths bach] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. What? [Then the 
 .sense of it coming to him, he looks at 
 his watch] No, it isn't . . . two min- 
 utes yet. 
 
 [And he turns away, havi'i ' excluded 
 the innocent mind from this un- 
 seemly discussion. But at the 
 very moment Laura comes in by 
 the door. His patience flies] 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Oh, damnl__Well, 
 
 I hag paidop.. [Then m desperate 
 
 politeness] Let me introduce . . . my 
 daughter Laura . . . Major Thomas. 
 
 Laura [collectedly]. We have met. 
 Father. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [giving it all up]. 
 Well . . . how can I tell . . . there 
 are so many of you ! 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [severely]. I think, 
 Henry, you had Jaalter go to this meet- 
 ing to-morrow. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [wistful for a moment]. 
 You think I ought? 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. You know you 
 ought not. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [disputing it man- 
 fully]. No ._^ . I don't know I ought 
 not. It isn't s6~easy to know what 
 ought and ought not to be done as 
 yon always make out, Kitty. And 
 
 suppose I just do something wrong 
 for once, and see what happens. 
 
 Mrs. Hux-TAaLE. HenryT don't say 
 such things. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [very reasonably to 
 Major Thomas]. Well, since I've been 
 
 iU 
 
 [But Emma and Minnie have come 
 in now, and Jane and Julia, 
 finding their exile a little un- 
 reasonable, rattle hard at the 
 window. Mr. Huxtable gives 
 it all up again] 
 Mr. Buxtable. Oh, let em in, 
 Phil . . . there's a good feller. 
 Thomas. AUow me. 
 
 [And he does so] 
 Emma [crisply]. Oh ! wha1/s_ it all 
 been about? — 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable. Never mind, Emma. 
 
 [She says this to Emma as she 
 
 would have said to it her at 
 
 the age of four. Meanwhile, 
 
 Mr. Huxtable has recovered] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. You know. Major 
 
 Thomas, Constantine cgjold-^lways get 
 
 the better of me in Uttle^things. 
 
 [Jane has sighted Minnie, and 
 callously, across the breadth of 
 the room, imparts a tragedy] 
 Jane. Minnie^ your frog's dead . . . 
 
 in the conservatory. 
 
 [Minnie pales] 
 Minnie. Oh, dear! 
 Mr. Huxtable. . . . After the dif- 
 ference I began to write to him as 
 Dear Sir ; to this day he'll send me 
 business letters beginning Dear Arry. 
 [Minnie is hurrying to the glass 
 house of death] 
 Jane. I buried it. 
 Mr. Huxtable. . . . Always at his 
 ease, you know. 
 
 [Thomas escapes from him. 
 Philip is bending' over his 
 . mother a little kindlier] 
 Philip. I'll try to see you again 
 before you go back to Bognof; Mother. 
 [At this moment the gon-g-vingsr-' A 
 tremendous gong, beloved of the 
 English middle class, which 
 makes any house seem small. 
 A hollow sound; the dinner 
 hour striking its own empty 
 stomach. Jane, whose things 
 are not taken off, gives a miti- 
 gated yelp and (iu'^es for the 
 door, dashes into the returning, 
 tidy Clara. Mrs. Huxtable 
 shakes a finger] 
 Mbs. Huxtable. Late again, Jane. 
 
The Madras House 
 
 659 
 
 Philip. We'll be off, Aunt Katherine. 
 
 Mrs. Huxtable [with a common 
 humanity she has not shewn before]. 
 Philip . . . never think I mean to be 
 self-righteous about your father. But 
 he iniade--your mother, most unhappy 
 when you were too young to know of 
 it . . r aiid there is the example to 
 others, isn't there? 
 
 Philip. Yes ... of course. Aunt 
 Kate. I know justJiasiLjK)u feel about 
 
 it . . . 'Pnrnotfond of him, either. 
 
 [Philip must be a little mis- 
 chievous with his aunt. She 
 responds by returning at once 
 to her own apparent self again] 
 Mes. Huxtable. My dear boy . . . 
 and your own father ! 
 
 [From the balcony one hears the 
 
 tag of Julia's entertaining of 
 
 Major Thomas. They have 
 
 been peering at the horizon] 
 
 Julia. Yes, it means rain ,_ . . when 
 
 you see-it-so"elearly. 
 
 [A general-post of leave-taking 
 now begins] 
 Philip. Well, see you to-morrow, 
 Unele Henry. 
 
 MrTUBxtable. Yes, I gupposfl -so. 
 Oh, and about- that other matt er. . . . 
 Philip. What can 1 do? 
 Mb. Huxtable. I'll telephone you 
 in the morning. 
 Philip. Good-bye, Mother. 
 Thomas. Good-bye, Mrs. Huxtable. 
 Mrs. Huxtable [mth a final flourish 
 of politeness]. You have excused this 
 domestic discussion, I hope. Major 
 Thomas ... it will happen sometimes. 
 Thomas. I've been most interested. 
 [Minnie comes back sadly from 
 
 the frog's grave] 
 Good-bye, Clara. 
 
 Philip. 
 
 Clara, Good-bye, Philip. 
 Mr. Huxtable. You really won't 
 stay to dinner? 
 Philip. Good-bye, Laura. 
 Thomas. Thanks, no. We meet to- 
 morrow. 
 
 [The general-post quickens, the 
 chorus grows confused] 
 Laura. Good-bye. 
 Thomas. Good-bye. 
 Jane. Good-bye. 
 Thomas. Good-bye. 
 Philip. Good-bye, Emma — oh, par- 
 don. 
 
 [There has been the confusion of 
 crossed hands. Apologies, with- 
 drawals, a treading on toes, 
 more apologies] 
 
 Emma. Good-bye, Major Thomas. 
 
 Philip. Now good-bye, Emma. 
 
 Thomas. Good-bye, Mrs. Madras. 
 
 Philip. Good-bye. 
 
 Thomas. Good-bye. 
 
 [The chorus and the general-post 
 continue, until at last Philip 
 and Thomas escape to a tram 
 and a tube and their lunch, 
 while the Huxtables sit down 
 in all ceremony to Sunday din- 
 ner: Boast beef, horse-radish, 
 Yorkshire pudding, brown pota- 
 toes, Brussels sprouts, apple 
 tart, custard and cream, Stilton 
 cheese, dessert] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The business offices of Roberts and 
 Huxtable are tucked away upon the 
 first floor somewhere at the back of 
 that large drapery establishment. The 
 waiting-room — the one in which 
 employee sits in shivering prepara- 
 tion for interviews with employer 
 
 — besides thus having been the 
 silent scene of more misery than 
 rAost places on earth, is one of the 
 very ugliest rooms that ever entered 
 into the mind of a builder and 
 decorator. Four plain walls of brick 
 or plaster, with seats round them, 
 would have left it a waiting-room 
 pure and simple. But the ugly 
 hand of the money maker was upon 
 it. In the person of a contractor 
 he thrust upon the unfortunate room 
 
 — as on all the others - — everything 
 that could excuse his price and dis- 
 guise his profit. The walls, to start 
 with, were distempered an unobjec- 
 tionable gfeen, but as that might 
 seem too plain and cheap, u, dado 
 of a nice stone colour was added, 
 topped with stencilling in dirty red 
 of a pattern that once was Greek. 
 
 The fireplace is apparently designed to 
 provide the maximum amount of 
 walk possible for the wretched boy 
 who cleans it every morning, 'retir- 
 ing from the contest well black- 
 leaded himself. The mantelpiece 
 cibove — only an expert in such 
 abominations knows what it is 
 made of; but it pretends, with the 
 aid of worm-shaped dashes of paint, 
 to be brown marble. It is too high 
 
660 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 for comfort, too low for dignity. It 
 has to be dusted, and usually isn't. 
 
 The square lines of the two long windows, 
 which look upon some sanitary brick 
 airshaft, have been carefully spoilt 
 by the ovalling of their top panes. 
 The half-glazed door, that opens 
 from, the passage, is of the wrong 
 shape; the green baize door, that 
 admits to Mb. Philip's room, is 
 of the wrong colour. 
 
 And then the furnishing ! Those yellow 
 chairs upholstered in red cotton 
 goose-flesh plush; that plush-seated, 
 plush-backed bench, placed draughtily 
 between the vnndows ! There is a 
 reasonable office table in the middle 
 of the room. On the walls are, 
 firstly, photographs of Roberts and 
 Httxtablb. Roberts was a Welsh- 
 man, and looks it. No prosperous 
 drapery business in London but 
 has its Welshman. There is also a 
 photograph of the premises — actual ; 
 and an advertisement sketch of them 
 — ideal. There is a ten-year-old 
 fashion plate : twenty faultless ladies 
 engaged in ladylike occupations or 
 serene in the lack of any. There is 
 an insurance almanac, the one thing 
 of beauty in the room. On the 
 mantelpiece lies a London Difectory, 
 the one piece of true colour. 
 
 The hand of the money maker that has 
 wrenched awry the Greek pattern on 
 the wall has been laid also on all 
 the four people who sit waiting for 
 Mb. Philip at noon on this Mon- 
 day; and to the warping more or 
 less of them all. • 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock, sitting stiffly on the 
 plush bench, in brown quilled hat 
 and coat and skirt, is, one would 
 guess, a clerk of some sort. She 
 lacks colour; she lacks repose; she 
 lacks — one stops to consider that 
 she might possibly be a beautiful 
 woman were it not for the things she 
 lacks. But she is the product of 
 fifteen years or so of long hours and 
 little lunch. Certainly at this mo- 
 ment she is not seen at her best. 
 She sits twisting her gloved hands, 
 pulling at a loose thread, now and 
 then biting it. Otherwise she bites 
 her lips; her face is drawn, and 
 she stares in front of her with only 
 a twist of- the eye now and then 
 towards her husband, who is un- 
 comfortable upon a chair a few feet 
 away. 
 
 If one were asked to size up Mb. Brig- 
 stock, one would say : Nothing 
 against him. The position of Third 
 Man in the Hosiery does not require 
 any special talents, and it doesn't 
 get them; or if it does, they don't 
 stay there. And Mr. Brigstock 
 stays there — just stays there. It 
 sums him up — sums up millions 
 of him — to say that in their youth 
 they have energy enough to get into 
 a position; afterwards, in their 
 terror — or sometimes only because 
 their employers have not the heart 
 to dismiss them — they stay there. 
 Sometimes, though, the employers 
 have the heart, and do. And then 
 what happens? , Considered as a 
 man rather than a wage earner — 
 not that it is usual for us so to con- 
 sider him — he is one of those who, 
 happily for themselves, get married 
 by women whom apparently no other 
 man much wants to marry. Suh- 
 dued to what he works in, he is 
 dressed as a Third Man in the 
 Hosiery should be. He is, at the 
 moment, as agitated as his wife, 
 and as he has no nervous force to 
 be agitated with, is in a state of 
 greater v^retchedness. 
 
 On the other side of the room sits Miss 
 Chancellor. Every large living-in 
 draper's should have as housekeeper 
 a lady of a certain age, who can emr 
 body in her own person the virtues 
 she will expect in the young ladies 
 under her. Decorum, sobriety of 
 thought, tidiness, respect of persons 
 — these are the qualities generally 
 necessary to a shop-assistant's sal- 
 vation. Miss Chancellor radi- 
 ates them. They are genuine in her, 
 too. She is now planted squarely 
 on her chair, as it might be, in 
 easy authority, but looking closely, 
 one may see that it is a dignified 
 resentment keeping her there un- 
 movable. 
 
 In the middle of the room, by the table, 
 sits Miss Yates. While they wait 
 this long time the other three try 
 hard to keep their eyes off her. 
 It isn't easy; partly because she 
 is in the middle of the room and 
 they are not. But anyhow and any- 
 where. Miss Yates is a person 
 that you look at, though you may 
 ignorantly wonder why. She is by 
 no means pretty, nor does she try 
 to attract you. Bui you look at her 
 
The Madras House 
 
 661 
 
 OS you look at a fire or a light in 
 an otherwise empty room. She is 
 not a lady, nor is she well educated, 
 and ten years' shop-assisting has 
 left its marks on her. But there 
 it is. To the seeing eye she glows 
 in that room like a live coal. She 
 hq^..^geniu,s — she has life, to how- 
 ever low a use she — or the world 
 for her — may put it. And com- 
 moner people are lustreless beside 
 her. 
 They wait silently, and the tension in- 
 creases. At last it is slightly re- 
 lieved by Philip's arrival. He comes 
 in briskly, his hat on, a number of 
 unopened letters in his hand. They 
 get up to receive him with varying 
 degrees of respect and apprehension. 
 
 Philip. Go od morn iB g i Mioo Chan- 
 oellor. G ood morning, .Miss Yq ites. 
 Good"n[raniUi&jyir. Bngstoek. 
 
 Me. Brigstock [intfoducing her]. 
 Mrs. Brigstock. 
 
 [Philip nods pleasantly to Mrs. 
 Brigstock, ■ who purses her 
 lips in a half-frightened, half- 
 vengeful way, and sits down 
 again. Then he puts his hat 
 on the mantelpiece and settles 
 himself in the master position 
 at the table] 
 Philip. I'm afraid I've kept you 
 waiting a little. Well, now — 
 _; [There is a sharp knock at the 
 
 door] 
 Come. 
 
 [It is Belhaven. Belhaven is 
 seventeen, perhaps, on the climb 
 from office boy to clerk, of the 
 usual pattern. Philip ' greets 
 him pleasantly] 
 Oh, good morning, Belhaven. 
 
 Belhaven. I've put Major Thomas 
 in your room, sir, as the papers were 
 there, but Mr. Huxtable's is empty, 
 if you'd like . . . 
 Philip. No, this'll do. 
 Belhaven. MajoE.^ T ho ma-r — M.id 
 would amn gpaal^ tn tiim for a minuto, 
 Jou'cai 
 fHiLip. I'll go in now. 
 Belhaven. Thank you, sir. 
 Philip. [To the waiting four] Ex- 
 cuse me one minute, please. 
 
 [Belhaven bolts back to his outer 
 office by one door — his way of 
 opening and getting through it 
 is a labour-saving invention; 
 and Philip goes to find Thomas 
 
 through the other. There 
 silence again, held by 
 four at a greater tension than 
 ever. At last Mrs. Brigstock, 
 least able to bear ^i_ (Z^^;e,s one 
 des ^rate wriaale-lidqet. Brig- 
 STOCK looks at her deprecatingly 
 and says . . .] 
 Mr. Brigstock. WiU you sit here, 
 Freda, if you feel the draught? 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock [just trusting herself 
 to answer]. No, thank you. 
 
 [Silence again, but soon broken by 
 Philip, who comes from the other 
 room, throwing over his shoulder 
 the last of his few words with 
 Thomas, "All right, Tommy." 
 Tommy, even at the dullest busi- 
 ness, always pleasantly amuses 
 him. Then he settles himself 
 at the table for the second time, 
 conciliatory, kind] 
 Philip. Well, now . . . 
 
 [Mrs. Brigstock, determined to 
 be first heard, lets slip the tor- 
 rent of her wrath] 
 Mrs. Brigstock. It's- slander, -Mr. 
 M adras, and I requ.e st_tha,t it sha.ll he 
 retfacted immediatelyTTT before every- 
 body ... in the public press . . . 
 by advertisement. 
 
 Mb. Brigstock [in an agonised 
 whisper]. Oh, Freda . . . not so ead- 
 strong. 
 
 [Philip is elaborately cool and 
 good tempered] 
 Philip. Miss_Cha,ncelIor. 
 
 [Miss Chancellor is even more 
 elaborately cold and dignified] 
 Miss Chancellor. Yes^ir. 
 Philip. I think we might inform 
 Mrs. Brigstock" that — we're sorry the 
 accusatioiL;;ta^^7become_sppublic . . . 
 it has nat ura dy cauiedT ^ her some 
 painT ' — 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock [ascending the scale], 
 I don't believe it ... I didn't believe 
 
 it ... if I'd have believed it 
 
 Mr. Brigstock [interposing]. Oh, 
 Freda! 
 
 Miss Chancellor [very definitely]. 
 I saw them kissing. I didn't know Mr. 
 Btjgstoek was a married man. And 
 even il I had known it ■ . ■ I-saw them 
 kissing. 
 
 [Miss Yates, opening her mouth 
 
 for the first time, shows an 
 
 easy impatience of their anger 
 
 and their attitudes, too] 
 
 Miss Yates. ' OlL_^^^_ffihat sort of 
 
 a kiss? * 
 
662 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Are there dif- 
 ferent sorts of ^sses, Miss Yates ? 
 
 Miss Yates. Well. . . Sren't^there? 
 
 Mrs. Bbigstock [growing shrill now]. 
 He owns he^did .lha-t^and.he,taiows he 
 shouldn' t have , and he askedlny pardon 
 . . . and wliQse„ Imsnress — is^ it, but 
 mine . . . ? 
 
 Mr. Bbigstock [vainly interposing this 
 time]. Oh, Freda ! 
 
 Mrs. Bhigstock [climbing to hy- 
 sterics]: Hussy to let him . . . hussy 
 . . hussy ! 
 
 [Philip adds a little severity to 
 his coolness] 
 
 Philip. Mrs. Brigstock. 
 
 Miss Yates [as pleasant as possible]. 
 All right . . . Mr. Madras, I don't 
 mind. 
 
 Philip. But I do JMr§,.JBngstock, 
 
 I shall not- attempt to clear up this 
 business,_Hnle^ we can aU manage to 
 
 keeE_aur_tempers: ~~- 
 
 [Miss Yates collectedly explains] 
 
 Miss Yates. mfeJaeen-friends with 
 Mr. Bj3gst©&k-these jHslscfr years. We 
 both came into jthe-flnn— together . . . 
 and I teew he was married . . . 
 p'raps I'm the only one that did. 
 And when I told him ... all I chose 
 to tell him as to what had happened 
 to me ... I asked him to kiss me 
 just to show he didn't think- so much 
 the worse of me. And Tie gave me 
 onaJdss ^. . . here. [She dabs with one 
 finger the left top corner of her forehead] 
 And that is the truth of that. 
 
 Philip. You might have given this 
 explanatiorL-tQ_Miss_ChanceIlor. 
 
 Miss Yates. EEe jscouia'n't.have be- 
 lieved it. 
 
 rMiss Chancellor. Xdon^tbeUeveij;. 
 
 Mrs. Bbigstock [withgathering force] . 
 William! William!! William!!! 
 
 [Bbigstock desperately musters a 
 little authority] 
 
 Mb. Brigstock. Freda, be quiet 
 . . . haven't I sworn it to you on the 
 Bible? " ^ 
 
 [Miss Chancellor now puts her 
 case] 
 
 Miss Chancellor. I mas__say I 
 have Jaiown_other 'T^oung-Jadies in 
 trouble and whether they behaved 
 properly or improperly under the cir- 
 cumstances . . . and I've known them 
 behave both . . . they did not confide 
 in their gentlemen friends . . . without 
 the best of reasons. 
 
 Philip. There is no reason-that 
 they-fit<mldn\^fiss^ChaaoellQr. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. They didn't. 
 
 Miss Yates. Well ... I did. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. I had— ao—sdsh 
 for t,ha-af.a.Tif)aiL tojg:et about . I donl 
 know how hj^^^ea. 
 
 Miss Yates. Ask your little favour- 
 ite, MiB9-Jord«ffl,,_h.ow it happened. 
 
 [This shot tells. Miss Chan- 
 cellor's voice sharpens] 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Mr. Madras, if 
 I am to be_acciised-of--faYQim.tism — 
 
 Philip. Yes, yes . . . we'll keep 
 to the point, I think. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. If Mr. Brigstock 
 wasn't the man — 
 
 Mrs. Bbigstock [the spring touched]. 
 William ! 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Why shouldn't 
 she teU me who itwas ? 
 
 Miss Yates. '^Why should I? 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Am I here to 
 look after the morals of these young 
 ladies, or^am I not? 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. A set of hussies. 
 
 Mb. Brigstock [in agony]. Freda, 
 you'll get me the sack. 
 
 Philip. Brigstock, if I wished to 
 give any on e the sack, I should not be 
 taking theltrojible--to-Jisciissjthia with 
 you all in: — I hope_^ a reasonable 
 way. " '~ 
 
 [Mrs. Bbigstock, much resent- 
 ing reasonableness, stands up 
 now to give battle] 
 
 Mbs. Bbigstock. Oh, give him the 
 sack, if you please, Mr. Madras. It^s- 
 time he JMid^t for his own sake. 
 
 Mb. Bbigstock: NoTFreda! 
 
 Mrs. Bbigstock. You've got your 
 way to make in the world, haven't 
 you? He's got to start on his own 
 like othfir-people^Jiasn't 'KeT 
 
 Mr. Bbigstock [feeling safety and 
 his situation slipping]. In time, Freda. 
 
 Mbs. Brigstock. Now's the time. 
 If you're not sick oLthe life you lead 
 . . . seeing me once a we5tr~for~sn: 
 
 hour or two r . .""P iotiT a.m. And 
 
 this jibeLaBd- sland er ma^s" about t he 
 la9t,..§tow7lshould thinET 
 
 Philipt— How— long~iave you been 
 marriad, Mrs. Brigstock? 
 
 Mrs, Brigstock. Jnnr ytyi.rg. 
 
 Philip. Four years ! 
 
 -Mrs. Bbigstock [a little quelled by 
 his equable courtesy]. Four years ! 
 
 Philip [in amazed impatience]. My 
 dear Brigstock, why not have come to 
 the firm and told them? It could 
 have been arranged for you to live 
 out with your wife. 
 
The Madras House 
 
 663 
 
 Mh. Beigstock. Well, I have been 
 thinking of it lately, sir, but I never 
 seem to happen on a really likely 
 moment. I'm a|raid-l^m ^ot a favo urite 
 in m y depa rtment. 
 
 Mfis. IJeiqstock. No fault of his ! 
 
 Mb. Beigstock. And it's sometimes 
 a very Uttle thing makes the difference 
 between a feller's going and staying 
 . . . when all those that aren't wanted 
 are cleared out after sale time, I mean, 
 for instance. And, of course, the thirty 
 pound a year they allow you to live 
 out on does not keep you . . . it's no 
 use my saying it does. And when 
 you're married . . . 
 
 Mrs. Beigstock [who has gathered 
 her grievances again]. I a greed to it. 
 I have my_profession^too. We've been 
 saving qmokOT; TTs th ree hun dred 
 pounds iarwr'all""But~ar bit . . . that's 
 enough to start on. I've got my eye 
 on the premises. It's near here, I 
 don't mind telling you. Why shouldn't 
 we do as well as others . . . and ride 
 in our carriages when we're fifty ! 
 
 Me. Beigstock [deprecating such 
 great optimism]. Well, I've __askBd ad- 
 vice . . . ' 
 
 ^^S;;^|fiiGSTOCK. You think too 
 much of advice. If you'd value < your- 
 self higher ! Give him the__aack^ if 
 you plpmr, Mr. Mnidrnri ninft I'll say 
 thank you. 
 
 [She finishes, and suddenly Miss 
 Yates takes up this part of the 
 tale quite otherwise] 
 
 Miss Yates. He has asked my 
 advice, and I've^Jald— haa — to — stay 
 
 Mrs. Beigstock [her breath leaving 
 her]. Oh, indeed! 
 
 Miss Yates. He's as steady as can 
 be. But his appearance is against him. 
 
 Mhs. Beigstock [hardly recovering 
 it]. Well, I never! 
 
 Mh. Beigstock. A feller does think 
 of the future, Marion. 
 
 Miss Yates. I wouldn't if I were 
 you. I don't know where we all get 
 to when we're fifty, and I've never 
 met anyoiie.-w*DrTlMr~WEYe-BOt in 
 th^,.^ap any longer, most of us, are 
 we? And w e're nnt all i a-e m - cafria ges. 
 . Mb. Brigstock [meekly]. I suppose 
 It can be done. 
 
 Miss Yates. Oh . . . premises near 
 here and three hundred pounds. Per- 
 fect foolerv, arid Wil1ia,Tn ought to 
 ™g2_it-is; Thia ^firm'll underse ll you 
 and e at you up^ aad a rtnv.Bx\ mnva hke 
 
 you . . . and the place that's trusted 
 you for your _stopkjKill sell iip every 
 stick, and there you'll be in the gutter. 
 I advised him , ^" "•^^n np -ta-ya u [she 
 nods at iViRS.'''BRiQSTocK] and live put 
 anddoJiheJjest-he-oould. 
 
 'Mks. Beigstock [more drenched with 
 the cold water than she'll own]. I'm 
 miiUsb-oteMgedr— I'm sure . . . I've my 
 own opinion. . . . 
 
 Philip [who has been studying- her 
 rather anxiously]. You've no children, 
 Mrs. Brigstock? 
 
 [Mhs. Beigstock goes white] 
 
 Mes. Beigstock. No, I've no chil- 
 dren. How can you save when you 
 have children? But if it was his 
 child this hussy was going to have, 
 and I thought God wouldn't strike 
 him "dead on the spot, I'd do it my- 
 self, so I would . . . and he knows I 
 would. 
 
 Mb. Beigstock. Haven't I taken 
 my oath to you, Freda? 
 
 Mes. Brigstock. How can I tell 
 if he's_jEfiaMng-the truth ... I ask 
 y(Jir"Kowcan I teU? I lie awake at 
 night away from him till I could scream 
 with thinking about it. And I do 
 scream as loud as I dare . . . not to 
 wake the house. And if somebody 
 don't open that window, I shall go off. 
 Philip. Open the window, please, 
 Mr. Brigstock. 
 
 [Philip's voice is serious, though 
 he says but a simple thing. 
 Mr. Brigstock opens the win- 
 dow as a man may do in a 
 sick room, helpless, a little 
 dazed. Then he turns back to 
 his wife, who is sitting, head 
 tilted against the sharp back 
 of the plush bench, eyes shut, 
 mouth open. Only Miss Yates 
 is ready with her bit of practical 
 comfort] 
 Miss Yates. Look here,._doiL't you 
 worr y. I cotdd ha-»-e ma rried Wil1ia,m 
 if j'ri -m.ijj.f^(i fTT Tha/T ought to be 
 proof enough. 
 
 Mr. Beigstock. There you are, 
 Freda. 
 Miss Yates. Before he knew you. 
 Mrs. Brigstock [opening her eyes]. 
 Did you ask her? 
 
 Miss Yates." No, he never asked 
 
 me . . . but you Imow what.J mean. 
 
 [Miss Yates gives emphasis to 
 
 this with what one fears must 
 
 be described as a wink. Mrs. 
 
664 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Brigstook looks at the ac- 
 quiescent BBi6STOCK_ond ac- 
 knowledges the implication] 
 Mrs. Brigstock. Yes, I know. 
 Oh, I don't believe it really. 
 
 [Comforted, she discovers her hand- 
 kerchief and blows her nose, 
 after which Miss Chancellor, 
 who has been sitting all this 
 while still, silent, and scornful, 
 inquires in her politest voice] 
 Miss Chancellor. pa_2Qii__vidsli 
 me still to- remain, M r. M adras? 
 PfiiLip. One moment. 
 Miss Yates. Oh, you'U excuse my 
 back, sir. 
 
 [And she turns to the table again] 
 Philip. I don't think I need detain 
 you any longer. Mr. and Mrs . Brig- 
 st.oak,- Your character is now quite 
 clear in the firm's ey es, Brigs tock; and 
 I shall see that .arrariSffisnts~aTe made 
 for you to -hKB..out in the future. I 
 apologise to yoiiBoHT for a'H~this un- 
 pleasantness. 
 
 [They have hothjrisen at this, and 
 now Brigstock" begins, hesi- 
 tatingly] 
 Mr. Brigstock. Well . . . thank 
 you . . . sir . . . and . . . 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. No, William. 
 Mr. Brigstock. All right, Freda ! 
 [He struggles into his prepared speech] 
 We_are very much obliged to you, sir, 
 but I do not see how J[_can remain 
 with the firm unless there has been, 
 with regard to the accusation, some 
 definite retraction. 
 
 Philip [near the end of his patience]. 
 My good man, it is retracted. 
 Mrs. Brigstock. Publicly. 
 Philip. Nonsense, Mrs. Brigstock. 
 Mrs. Brigstock [quite herself again]. 
 Is it indeed . . . how would you like 
 it? [Then becoming self-conscious] Well, 
 I beg pardon. I'm sure we're very 
 sorry for Miss Yat es, an d I jadsh, she 
 were married. ' 
 
 Miss Yates [with some gusto]. So 
 do I ! 
 
 [Suddenly Miss Chancellor 
 bursts out] 
 Miss Chancellor. Then you 
 
 wicked girl, why rlirln't. ynn sajji--an 
 
 before . . whenJ_j5Tshed— tQ_he__MlLd 
 to you? ATn±-^wesEouldn't aU be 
 talking in this outrageous, indecent 
 way. I never did in all my life. I 
 don't know how I manage to sit here. 
 Didn't I try to be kind to you? 
 ■ Miss Yates [unconquerable]. Yes, 
 
 and you tried to cry over me. No, 
 I 'a'6n'*1r-wisb I were" married. 
 
 Mb. Brigstock. Of course it's not 
 for me to say, Marion, but wiU the 
 way you're_gping on now stop the 
 
 other "yOunglaaies tattMag? ~" 
 
 [The tone of the dispute now 
 sharpens rather dangerously] 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. How's Mr. Brig- 
 stock to j^emain in Hshe— AkS^^— Miss 
 Chancellbr does? 
 
 PhiliTp; -That is my business, Mrs. 
 Brigstock. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. What . . . 
 when I saw him kissing her . . . kiss- 
 ing her! 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. WilUam! 
 
 Philip. That has been explained. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. No, Mr. Madras, 
 while I'm housekeeper here I wiU not 
 countenance loQse-behavioux. I don't 
 beliejcfi_Qae^word xif_these^ excuses. 
 
 Philip. This is just obstinacy. Miss 
 Chancellor. . 
 
 Miss Chancellor. And personally 
 I wish to reiterate every single thing I 
 said. 
 
 [And now it degenerates into a 
 wrangle] 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. Then the law 
 shall deal wi_th_you. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. You can dismiss 
 me ai oncer if you-MkerMtJkdadras. 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. It's UbeUous . . . 
 it's slander . . . ! 
 
 Mr. Brigstock. Oh, Freda, don't! 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. Yes, and she can 
 be put in prison for it. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. If Miss Yates 
 and Mr. Brigstock stay with this firm, 
 I go. 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. And she shall be 
 put in prison . . . the cat ! 
 
 Mr. Brigstock. Don't, Freda! 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. The heartless cat ! 
 Do you swear it isn't true, WiUiam? 
 
 Philip. Take your wife away, Brig- 
 stock. 
 
 [Philip's sudden vehemence causes 
 Mrs. Brigstock to make 
 straight for the edge of her self- 
 control — and over it] 
 
 Mrs. Brigstock. Yes, and he takes 
 himselL-a-Way— v- ._^^-4eav"gS"'the firm, I 
 should think so, and sorry -enough 
 you'll be before we've done. I'll see 
 what the law wiU sayTb her". . . and 
 they're not a hundred yards off . . • 
 on the better side of the street, too, 
 and a plate glass window as big as 
 yours. 
 
The Madras House 
 
 665 
 
 Mr. Briqstock. Do be quiet, Freda ! 
 
 Mks. Bbigstock [in hysterics now]. 
 
 Three hundred- pniinda, and how much 
 
 did Mapl§'"ESve when he started . . . 
 
 or Whiteley ... and damages, what's 
 
 more . . . And me putting up with 
 
 the life 1'v g.ied . . . ! 
 
 ''^ TTJiey wait till the fit subsides — 
 
 Philip with kindly impatience, 
 
 * Briqstock in mute apology — 
 
 and Mrs. Briqstock is a mass 
 
 of sobs. Then Briqstock edges 
 
 her towards the door] 
 
 Philip. Wait . . . wait . . . wait. 
 
 You cait]t_gfl-into the pasaaGO maJring 
 
 that noise . 
 
 Mr. Briqstock. Oh, Freda, you 
 don't mean it. 
 
 Mrs. Briqstock [relieved and con- 
 trite]. I'm sure I hope I've said noth- 
 ing iinViflnr>Tining^aJa,Hv . . — — T-tM-flTi't 
 mean to. 
 
 Philip. Not at all . . . it's natural 
 you should be upset. 
 
 Mrs. Briqstock. And we're very 
 much obliged for your kind intentions 
 tous . . . 
 Philip. Wait till you're quite calm. 
 Mrs. Briqstock. Thank you. 
 
 [Then with a final touch of injury, 
 resentment, dignity, she shakes 
 oS Briqstock's timid hold] 
 Mrs. Briqstock. You needn't hold 
 me, William. 
 
 [William follows her out to for- 
 get and make her forget it all 
 as best he can. Philip comes 
 back to his chair, still good- 
 humoured, but not altogether 
 pleased with his own part in 
 the business so far] 
 Philip. I'm afraid you've put your- 
 self in the wrong, Miss Chancellor. 
 . Miss CirsNefiHioicr-^One often does, 
 m, in doing otir's du ty. [Then her 
 WTCe rises to a sort of swan song] Thirty 
 
 ~I been with the' firm . . _ 
 
 onl y thirty Yenu-R. T— jgd,1.1 -leaive to- 
 
 Philip. I hope you recognise it 
 wU not be my fault if you have to. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Miss-Xates can 
 oladattit. She has only to speak the 
 
 truth. " — — . 
 
 [Philip now makes another effort 
 to be frank and kindly] 
 
 Philip. Miss Chancellor, are we 
 quite appreciating the situation from 
 MissTi;tBs's point of view? Suppose 
 she w^e mar ried ? 
 
 Miss Yates. I'm not married. 
 
 Philip. But if you told us you 
 were,_B£e-shculd_have to believe you. 
 
 TSTiss CHANciLLOH7""WhyrMr. Mad- 
 ras? 
 
 Philip [with a smile]. It would be 
 
 food manners to believe her. JK«-mu&t 
 eli gve so much of whatjsceice told in 
 
 this worldT 
 
 Miss Yates [who has quite caught on]. 
 Well, I did mean to stick that up on 
 you ... if . anyone wants to Imow. 
 I bought a wedding ring, and I had it 
 on when" I saw Dr. Willoughby. But 
 when she ' came in with her long face 
 and her What can I do for you, my 
 poor child? '. . . well, I just couldn't 
 ... I suppose the Devil tempted me, 
 anii_I ,told her the_ truth. 
 
 Philip; ThaJTaTl thought, so far. 
 Miss Yates, have you that wedding 
 ring with you? 
 
 Miss Yates. Yes, I have . . it's 
 not real gold. 
 
 Philip. Put it on. 
 
 [Miss Yates, having fished it out 
 of a petticoat pocket, rather 
 wonderingly does so, and Philip 
 turns, maliciously humourous, 
 to Miss Chancellor] 
 Philip. Now wbere are we. Miss 
 Chancellor ? 
 
 Miss Chancellor. I think we're 
 mocMag_a±-*-^v«ry— sacred- thing, Mr. 
 Madras. 
 
 Miss Yates. Yes . . and I won't 
 now. 
 
 [With a sudden access of emotion 
 
 she slams the ring upon the 
 
 table. Philip meditates for a 
 
 moment on the fact that there 
 
 are some things in life still irv- 
 
 accessible to his light-hearted 
 
 logic] 
 
 Philip. True . . . true ... I beg 
 
 botlL_5miE_paEdons^_JBiit_suppose the 
 
 aflaitLhad-not-got-abouVMiss Yates? 
 
 Miss Yates. Well ... I should 
 have had a nice long iUness. It'd all 
 depend on whether you wanted me 
 enough to keep my place open. 
 
 Philip. You are an employee of 
 some '■v alue to the firm. 
 
 Miss Yates. I reckoned you would. 
 Mis5_-M©Ia-t3?re'd be pleased to stay 
 on a bit now she's quarrelled with her 
 flanc^. Of course if I'd only been 
 behind the counter . . . 
 
 Miss Chancellor [who has drawn 
 the longest of breaths at this calculated 
 immodesty]. This is how she brazened 
 it out to me, Mr. Madras. This is 
 
666 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 just what she told Mr. Huxtable . . . 
 and you'll pardon gix,.sa#ing he took 
 a very different view of the matter to 
 what you seem to be taking. 
 
 MigsTxTEST'' Oh, I've got to go, 
 now I'm found out . ,,.,i_l!ffljiat argu- 
 ing, about it. 
 
 Miss Chancblloe [severely]. Mr. 
 Madras, what sort of notions are you 
 fostering in this wretched girl's mind? 
 
 Philip [gently enough]. I was trying 
 for a moment to put myself in her 
 place. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. You will excuse 
 me saying, sir, that you are a man . . . 
 
 Philip. Not at all ! 
 
 [A poor joke, but Miss Chancel- 
 lor remains unconscious of it] 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Because a wo- 
 man isi ndependent, and earning her 
 livingr~sEe^not to tEnk she can go 
 on as she pleases. If she wishes to 
 have children. Providence has provided 
 a way in the institution of marriage. 
 Miss Yates would have found little 
 difBculty in getting married, I gather. 
 
 Miss Yates. Living in here for 
 twelve years ! 
 
 Miss" Chancellor. Have you been 
 a prisoner. Miss Yates? Not to men- 
 tion that there are two hundred and 
 thirty-flve gentlemen employed here. 
 
 Miss Yates. Supposing! don't like 
 any of em? 
 
 Miss Chancellor. My dear Miss 
 Yates, if you are merely looking for a 
 husband as such . . . well . . . we're 
 all God's creatures, I sup,p,osej___Eer- 
 sonally, I don't notice much diHerence 
 in men, Sknywa-j. 
 
 Miss Yates. Nor did I. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Lack of self- 
 control . . . 
 
 Miss Yates. I s it ! 
 
 Miss Chancellor. . . . And self- 
 respect. That's what the matter is. 
 Are we beasts of the field, I should 
 like to know? I simply do not under- 
 stand this unladylike attit"de towards 
 the facts of life. Is there nothing for a 
 woman to dojh the world but to run 
 after men TT. or pretend to run 
 away from them? I am— -fitts::aglit 
 . . . and I have passed, thankSSd, 
 a busy and a happy and I hope a useful 
 life . . . and I have never thought any 
 more or less of men than I have of 
 any other human beings ... or any 
 differently. I look upon spinsterhood 
 as an honourable state, as my Bible 
 teaches me to. Men are different. 
 
 But some women marry happily and 
 well . . . and all women can't . . . 
 and some can't marry at all. These 
 facts have to be faced, I take it. 
 
 Philip We may take-i*-that Miss 
 Yates has been facing-them. 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Yes, sir, and in 
 what spirit? I have always en- 
 deavoured, - to influence llie--L,}aMiBg 
 
 ladies under my control towards the 
 virt ues of modesty_ _and decorum . . . 
 so that they may regard either state 
 with an indifferent mind. If I can no 
 longer do that, I prefer to resign my 
 charge. I will say before this young 
 person that I regret the story should 
 have got about. But when anyone 
 has committed a fault it seems to me 
 immaterial who knows of it. 
 . Philip [reduced to irony]. Do you 
 really think so? 
 
 Miss Chancell or. Do yo u require 
 me any more now? 
 
 Philip. I am glad to have had 
 your explanation. We^U-have-ajaivate 
 taUs-to-morrow. . 
 
 Miss Chancellor. Thank you, sir. 
 I think that will be more in order. 
 Good morning. 
 
 Philip. Good morning. 
 
 [Miss Chancellor has expressed 
 herself to her entire satisfaction, 
 and retires in good order. 
 Miss Yates, conscientiously 
 brazen until the enemy has 
 quite disappeared, collapses par 
 thetically. And Philip, at his 
 ease at last, begins to scold 
 her in a ruostJbxotherly manner] 
 
 Miss Yates. I'm sure she's quite 
 right in aU s he savs. 
 
 Philip. She may not be. But are 
 you the sort of woman to _have got 
 yourself into a scrape of this kind, 
 Miss Yates? 
 
 Miss Yates^ -I'm_glad^ygu think 
 I'lTL-notr sir. ' 
 
 Philip. Then what on earth did 
 you go and do it for? 
 
 Miss Yates. I don't know. I 
 didn't mean to. 
 
 Philip. Why aren't you married? 
 
 Miss Yates. That's my business. 
 [Then, as if making amends for the 
 sudden snap] Oh . . . I've thought of 
 getting married any time these twelve 
 years. But look what happens . . . 
 look at the Brigstocks . . . 
 
 Philip. No, no, no . . . that's not 
 what I mean. Why aren't you to be 
 married even now? 
 
The Madras House 
 
 667 
 
 Miss Yates. I'd rather not say. 
 [Miss Yates assumes an air of 
 reticence natural enough; hut 
 there is something a little pe- 
 culiar in the manner of it, so 
 Philip thinks] 
 Philip. Very well. 
 Miss Yates. I'd rather not talk 
 about thaJL4ip£t^itj_s^j__with you, if 
 you dSSTmmd! [Then sKe^ bursts out 
 again] I took the risk. I knew what 
 I was about. I wanted to have my 
 fling. And it was fun for a bit. That 
 sounds horrid, I know, but it was. 
 
 [Philip is watching her] 
 Philip. Miss Yates,, I've been stand- 
 ing up for you, Ijp.van't T? 
 
 Miss Yates. Yes.- 
 
 Philip. That's becaus e I have un - 
 oo^agntional opinions. But I don't do 
 unoonveMiatnai-thiBgs. 
 
 Miss Yates [naively]. Why don't 
 you? 
 
 Philip. I shouldn't do them well. 
 Now you start on this adventure be- 
 lieving all the other people say, so 
 I'm not^aippy flibnut you. As man 
 to mafiTMiss Yates . . . were you in 
 a position to run this risk ? 
 
 [Miss Yates honestly thinks be- 
 fore she speaks] 
 
 Miss Yates. Yes ... I shall be 
 getting,ju-iuiuii«d--aad_£QEJa!_avear 
 E'vin^QUl- I've planned it all. [She 
 grUm happily confidential] There's a 
 maisonette at Raynes Park, and I can 
 get a cheap girl to look after it and to 
 take care of ... I shall call him my 
 nephew. Uke the Popes "of Ko fflg'used 
 "to ... or why cant 1. .be~au_;widow? 
 I o^_hiiag-ium- up and do him well 
 on it. Insurance'U be a bit stiff in 
 case anything happens to me. But 
 I've g ot nearly tw Q-h undred saved in 
 the bank to see me"Ehrough~ till next 
 summer. 
 
 Philip. Where are you going when 
 you leave-hgre? What relations have 
 you? 
 
 Miss Yates. —I—have— aa_aunt. I 
 hate her. 
 
 Philip. Where are you going for 
 the t antar? ~~ 
 
 Miss Yates. Ev^^rcceegh. 
 
 Philip. Where's that? 
 
 Miss Yates. I don't know. You 
 get to it from Waterloo. I found it 
 in the A. B. C. ^ 
 
 Philip [in protest]. But my dear 
 eirl . . . ! 
 
 Miss Yates. Well, I ^^aat"a place 
 
 ■whprnjnnhnAy Igmws me, SO I'd better/ 
 go to one which~T duu't know, hadn't 
 I? I always make friends. I'm not 
 afraid of people. And I've never been 
 in the country in the winter. I want 
 to see what it's like. 
 
 [Philip surrenders, on this point 
 
 beaten; but takes up another 
 
 more seriously] 
 
 Philip. Well . . . granted that you 
 
 don't want a husband . . . it's your 
 
 obvious duty to make the man help 
 
 you support his child. 
 
 [Miss Yates is ready for it; 
 serious, too] 
 Miss YATEs^^^__daresay. "But I 
 w on't. I' ve knswn othef~^ris-iir-this 
 sort of mess — one or two . . . with 
 everybody being kind to them and 
 sneering at them. And there they sat 
 and cijed, and were ashamed of them- 
 selves! What's the good of that? 
 And the fellows hating them. Well, I 
 dottit^SEattt-Juoa-iaJ^te me. He can 
 forget all about it if £e hkes . . . and 
 of course he will. I started by crying 
 my eyes out. Then I thought that if 
 I coxiidn't buck up and a.nywa,y pre- 
 tend to be pleased and jolly well proud, 
 I might as well die. And d'you know 
 when I'd been pretending a bit I found 
 that I really was pleased and proud. . . 
 And I am really proud and happy about 
 it now, sir ... I am not pretending. 
 I daresay I've done wrong . . . perhaps 
 I ought to come to grief altogether, 
 but — 
 
 [At this moment u telephone in 
 the table rings violently, and 
 Miss Yates apologises — to 
 it, apparently] 
 Miss Yates, Oh, I beg pardon. 
 Philip. Excuse me. [Then answer- 
 ing] Yes. Who? No, no, no. . . 
 Sta,te: — Mr. State. Put him through. 
 [Hi is evidently put through] Morning! 
 Who? My father . . . not yet. Yes, 
 froguMarienbad. 
 
 [Miss Yates gets up, apparently 
 to withdraw, tactfully, hut look- 
 ing a little startled, too] 
 Miss Yates. Shall I . . . 
 Philip. No, no ; it's'aU right. 
 
 [Belhaven knocks, comes in, and stands 
 waiting by Philip, who telephones 
 on] 
 
 Philip. Yes? Well? . . . Wha . . . 
 Mark who? . . . Aurelius. No. I've 
 not been reading him lately . . . Cer- 
 tainly I wiU . . . Thomas is here doing 
 
668 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 ^gures . . . d'you want him . . . I'll 
 put you through. . . . No, wait. I'll 
 call him Jtere^ifJ^ not private. [Then 
 calling oui] ToJESmy ! 
 
 Belhaven. Major Thomas is in the 
 CQun-ting house, sir. 
 
 Philip. Oh. [Then through the tele- 
 phone] If you'll hold the line I can 
 get him in_a„minute. Say Mr. State's 
 on the telephone for him, Belhaven. 
 
 Belhaven. Yes, sir . . . and Mrs. 
 Madras is below in a taxicab, sir, and 
 woiiiariiSe^to^peaJs to you. SBall she 
 come UE, or, li ySiTreTBO-bTIsy-to be 
 interrupted, wiU you come down to 
 heri • 
 
 Philip, ^{yjnother? 
 
 Belhaven. No, not Mrs. Madras 
 . . . your Mrs. Madras, sir. 
 
 Philip. Bring her up. And teU 
 Major Thomas. 
 
 Belhaven. Yes, sir. 
 
 [Belhaven achieves a greased 
 departure, and Philip turns 
 back to Miss Yates] 
 
 Philip. Where were we? 
 
 Miss Yates [inconsequenlly]. It__is 
 hot in here, isn't it? ^ 
 
 Philip. The window's open. 
 
 Miss Yates. Shall I shut it? 
 
 [She turns and goes up to the 
 window; one would say to run 
 away from him. Philip 
 watches jier steadily] 
 
 Philip. What's — htm—maMia-, Migg 
 Yates? 
 
 [She comes back more collectedly] 
 
 Miss Yates. Oh, I'm sure Miss 
 Chancellor can't expect me to marry 
 one like that now . . . can she? 
 
 Philip. Marry who ? 
 
 Miss Yates. Not that I say any- 
 thing against.. Mr. Belhaven ... a 
 very nice young man. And, indeed, 
 I rather think he did try to propose 
 last Christmas. The fact is, y'know, 
 it's only the very young,jneiiJthai_ever 
 do ask^-ou -to marry them here. When 
 they get older they seem to lose heart 
 ... or they think it'U cost too much 
 . . . or . . . but anyway, I'm sure 
 it's not important . . . 
 
 [This very out-of-place chatter dies 
 away under Philip's sternly 
 enquiring gaze] 
 
 Philip. There's one more thing I'm 
 afrai3~IJoitght-to-asfe:you. This trouble 
 hasn't come about in any way-by our 
 seyoding-you xtpi,.to_BamLS±rfi£ii^,has it ? 
 
 Miss Yates [diving into many words 
 again]. Oh, of course it was most 
 
 kind of you to send me to Bond Street 
 to get ^ polish on^ohe's manners . . . 
 bu{ I tell you ... I couldn't have 
 stood it for long. Those ladies that 
 you get jBaming_in there . . . well, 
 it does just break your nerve. What 
 with foUowing them about, and the 
 things they say you've got to hear, 
 and the things they'll say . . . about 
 you half the time . . . that you've 
 got not to hear . . . and keep your 
 voice low and sweet, and let your 
 arms i,ang down straight. You may 
 work more hours in this place, and 
 I daresay it's commoner, -bu4;_±ha_cus- 
 tomePB-are friendlyiwith- you. 
 
 Philip. . . . Because, you see, Mr. 
 Huxtable and I would feel a little more 
 responsible if it was anyone connected 
 with us who . . . 
 
 Miss Yates [quite desperately]. No, 
 you needn't . . . indeed you needn't 
 ... I will say there's something in 
 that other place that does set your 
 mind going about men. What he saw 
 in me I never could think . . . honestly, 
 I couldn't, though I think a good deal 
 of myself, I can assure you. But it 
 was my own fault, and so's all the rest 
 of it going to be . . . my very own . . . 
 
 [Major Thomas's arrival is to Miss 
 Yates a very welcome interruption, 
 as she seems, perhaps by the hypno- 
 tism of Philip's steady look, to be 
 getting nearer and nearer to saying 
 just what she means not to. He 
 comes in at a good speed, glancing 
 back along the passage, and say- 
 ing . . .] 
 
 Thomas. Here's Jessica. 
 Philip. State on the telephone. 
 Thomas. Thank you. 
 
 [And he makes for it osJgsaiCA comes to 
 the open-door-. — ^"hilip's ivife is an 
 epitome of all that wsthetic culture 
 can do for a woman. More: SJie 
 is the result — not of thirty-three 
 years — but of three or four genera- 
 tions of cumulative refinement. She 
 might be a race horse ! Come to 
 think of it, it is a very wonderful 
 thing to have raised this crop of 
 ladyhood. Creatures, Sainty in mind 
 and body, gentle in thought and word, 
 charming, delicate, sensitive, graceful, 
 chaste, credulous of all good, shaming 
 the world's ugliness and strife by the 
 very ease and delightsomeness of their 
 
The Madras House 
 
 669 
 
 existence ; fastidious — fastidious — - 
 fastidious; also in these latter years 
 with their attractions more generally 
 salted by the addition of learning and 
 humour. Ts not the perfect lady 
 perhaps the.most wonderful achieve- 
 ment of civilisation, and worth the 
 cost of her breeding, worth the toil 
 and the helotage of — all the others ? 
 Jessica Madbas is even something 
 more than a lady, for she is conscious 
 of her ladyhood. She values her 
 virtue and ^er_charm: she is-pzoud 
 of her culture, and fosters it . It is 
 her" weapon; it justifies Her. As 
 she floats now into the ugly room, 
 exquisite from her eyelashes to her 
 shoes, it is a great relief — just the 
 sight of her] 
 
 Jessica. Am I interrupting? 
 Philip. T^n, -nnrnp, in^ my dear. 
 Thomas [into the telephone]. Hullo! 
 Philip. Well, Miss Yates, I want 
 to see, iLX-San. that you are not mo re 
 unfairly treated ' thanjpeople jyith the 
 coufale'^STheiropimpns, always are. 
 Thomas.' HuUo! " 
 Philip. Oh, you don't know my 
 wife. Jessiea^tbis ds Miss Yates, who 
 is iit-oux_C2stuiM_room. You're not 
 aetuaUy_working in your department 
 now, I suppose? 
 
 Miss Yates. [As defiant of all scan- 
 dal.] I am. 
 
 Thomas. [Still to the unresponsive 
 telephone.] Hullo ! Hullo ! 
 
 Philip. [Finding Miss Yates beyond 
 — possibly above him.] Very well. 
 ThatULdojiaB^. 
 
 [But Miss Yates, by the presence 
 
 of Jessica, is now brought to 
 
 her best costume department 
 
 manner. She can assume at 
 
 will, it seems, a new face, a 
 
 new voice; can become, indeed, 
 
 a black-silk being of another 
 
 species] 
 
 Miss Yates. Thank you, sir. I'm 
 
 su re I hope I've not talked to o much. 
 
 I always was a cnatterbox, madam. 
 
 Philip. You had some important 
 things to say. Miss Yates. 
 
 Miss Yates. Not at aU, sir. Good 
 morning, madam. 
 Jessica. Good morning. 
 
 [And there is an end of Miss 
 Yates. Meanwhile, the tele- 
 phone is reducing "Thomas to 
 impotent fury] 
 Thomas. They've out him'ofE. 
 
 My dear, coming all this 
 it ! Why—didBrt— you— tele- 
 
 [WhUe he turns the handle fit to 
 break it, Jessica produces an 
 
 npp.neA t)fl.Rgrnm.j wh.i^Jixhp. hands 
 
 to Philip] 
 Jessica. This . . . just after- y«u 
 left. 
 
 Philip. 
 way with 
 phone ? 
 
 Thomas [hearing something at last]. 
 HuUo ... is that Mr. State's office? 
 No! Well . . . Counting house, are 
 you stiU-through to it? 
 
 [Jessica is watching, with an 
 amused smile] 
 Jessica. I hate_the_J;filephone7— es- 
 peniiylly the one he re. Hark at you. 
 Tommy, poor wretch! They put you 
 through from office to office ... six 
 different clerks ... all stupid, and 
 all wi^EThideous voices. 
 
 [Philip has now read his tele- 
 gram, and is making a face] 
 Philip. Well, I suppose .sha_must 
 
 Jessica. WhaPH your father say? 
 
 Philip. Mydear girl . . . she has 
 a right to _s eeni 2 L ■ if s h o i n s ig ts . . . 
 i t's very fc^jis h. Here, Tommy! [He 
 ousts him from the telephone and deals 
 expertly with it] I want a telegram 
 sent. Get double three double O 
 Central, arid plug through to my 
 room . . . not here . . . my room. 
 
 Thomas [fervently]. Thank yer. 
 
 Jessica. Got _aEfiE 5!;cuii:_angeE— at 
 
 Thomas. Oh, sort of play you must 
 expect if you go to the theatre on a 
 Sunday. Scuse me. 
 
 [Having admiringly sized up Jes- 
 sica and her costume, he bolts. 
 Philip sits down to compose 
 his telegram in reply. Jessica, 
 discovering that there is nothing 
 attractive to sit on, hovers] 
 Philip. Can you put her up for the 
 
 night? ■ ~ 
 
 Jessica. Yes. 
 
 Philip. ShaIl_La^her to dinner? 
 . Jessica. ,-She'E cry into the soup 
 . . . but !LsTaipos e it d oesn't matter. 
 Philip. Dinner at eight ? 
 Jessica. I souad^ inhospitable. 
 Philip. WeHJ Tve only said we 
 shall be delighted. 
 
 Jessica. But— yoHg^mothac— di a li ke a - 
 me so. It's difficnit to—see— much of 
 her. 
 
 Philip. You haven't much patience 
 with her, have you, Jessica? 
 
670 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Jessica. Have you? 
 
 Philip [whimsically]. I've known her 
 longer than you have. 
 
 Jessica [with the nicest humour]. I 
 only wish ^he wouldn't write Mildred 
 sillylBtters about God. 
 
 Philip. A grajadmethOT^prisilege. 
 
 Jessica. The" child sends me on 
 another one this moijiing . . . did I 
 tell you? —"-■-'^ 
 
 Philip. No. 
 
 Jessica. Miss Gresham writes, too. 
 She puts it quite nicely. But it's an 
 awful thing for a school to get religion 
 into it. — -^' 
 
 [Belhaven slides in] 
 
 Belhaven. Yessir. 
 
 Philip. Send this at once, plea§e. 
 
 Belhaven. Yessir. 
 
 [Belhaven slides out. Then 
 Philip starts attending to the 
 little pile of letters he brought 
 in with him. Jessica, neg- 
 lected, hovers more widely] 
 Jessica. Will— .¥Qa__Cflffie — out J^o 
 lu nch. PML ? 
 
 Philip. ^Lord! is it lunch time? 
 Jessica. It will hr finnn . — I^m lujcVi- 
 ing-^witlLMargaretlnman and Walter 
 Muirhe ^r^O Ee-4Jiittd<mne. ^ 
 
 PIjIlipI Then you won't be lonely. 
 Jessica [mischievous]. Margaret may 
 be if you don't come. 
 
 Philip. I can't, Jessica. I'm not 
 nearly through. 
 
 [She comes to rest by his table, and 
 
 starts to play with the things 
 
 on it, finding at last a blotting 
 
 roller that gives satisfaction] 
 
 Jessica. JEhiL,--yxai_inight- come out 
 
 , with me a little more than you do. 
 
 Philip [humorously'final]. M y dea r, 
 not at luach_tinie. - 
 
 Jessica. Ugly little woman you'd 
 been scolding when I came in. 
 Philip. I didn't think so. 
 Jessica. Are ugly women as attrac- 
 tive as ugly men? 
 
 Philip. D'you know ... I don't 
 find that women attract me. 
 Jessica. What a husband ! 
 Philip. D'you want them to ? 
 Jessica. Yes ... in theory. 
 Philip. Whyj[gssi«g,? 
 Jessica [with charming finesse]. For 
 my own sake.^__Last day of ^Walter's 
 pictiires. He has sold all but about 
 Sve~r~. . an d there'.s one I_3Eisii-ji:Qu'd 
 buy. 
 
 Philip. Can't afford it. 
 Jessica. I suppose, Phil, you're not 
 alto gether soirylyou married mei""^ 
 ■- — " [Although Philip is used enough 
 to her charming and reasoned 
 inconsequence, he really jumps] 
 Philip. Good heavens, _ Jessica! 
 Well,^:w«^v«-got— thraugh^eleveiiZye&B, 
 haven/twB? 
 
 ' pEssiCA puts her head on one 
 side and is quite half serious] 
 Jessica. Are you in the least glad 
 you married me_?_ 
 
 Philip. My dear ... I d on't think 
 about^ it._ Jessiear-I— caiuiat_keep. up 
 this, game ^f xepartee. 
 
 [She floats away at once, half 
 seriously snubbed and Kurt] 
 Jessica. I'm — sorry. ^J^ know Jim 
 interrupting. 
 
 Philip [remorseful at once, for she is 
 so pretty]. No, no ! I didn't mean 
 that. 'Diese-aJienlLilQ.P-Qrtant. 
 
 [But he goes on with his letters, 
 and Jessica stands looking at 
 him, her face hardening a little] 
 
 Jessica. But ttipra-ji.ra t.imgf) ylifip 
 
 I getL-Jjired of waiting _ f or you to _fiiiish 
 your letters. 
 
 Philip. I know ... I never quite 
 finish my letters now-a-days. You've 
 got a fit of the idle:;fldget§_thisjnnrTiing- 
 . . . that's whait~brings you after me. 
 Shall weJxi]»-a_aiQtOE-cacJojjthejKaek- 
 end? 
 
 [Thomas bundles into the tUe-drtite, 
 saying as he comes . . .] 
 Thomas. He'U make you an offer 
 for the place ,herB,_Eliil. 
 Philip. Good.! 
 
 [Jessica stands there, looking her 
 prettiest] 
 Jessica. Tommy, — ee^e— -fliit_and , 
 
 liiric.h ■ , Phil j gawi-t. 
 
 Thomas. Tm afraid I can't. 
 Jessica. I've got to meet Mtbggje 
 
 Ttithhti g,prl JfVjUig Mnirtiaa.^ Hs'll 
 
 flirt with her all the time. If there 
 isn't a fourth- LahalLbefearfiilljin the 
 
 coli^ ' ^\_ 
 
 Philip [overcome by such tergiver- 
 sation]. Oh, Jessica ! 
 
 [Thomas is nervous, apparently; 
 at least he is neither ready nor 
 gallant] 
 Thomas. Yes, of course you wUl. 
 But I'm afraid I 6an't. 
 
 Jessica [in cheerful despair]. Well, I 
 won't drive to Peckham— again— o£-.a 
 morning. Wedne sday, thesjri, will you 
 call fora.B-?'' 
 
The Madras House 
 
 671 
 
 Thomas. Wednesd ay ? 
 
 Jessica. SjmTjtVirmy nnnnarf. 
 
 Thomas [with sudden serioi 
 D'you know, I'm afraid I can't on 
 We dnesday. eithefT 
 Jessica. Why not ? 
 Thomas [ifiougn ttie pretence mthers 
 before a certain sharpness in her question]. 
 Well . . . I'm afraid I can't. 
 
 [It is evident that Jessica has a 
 temper bred to a point of con- 
 trol which makes it nastier, 
 perhaps. She now becomes very 
 cold, very dvil, very swift] 
 Jessica. We settled it o nly last 
 nig-htr — WhatlgJiEaZHJae? 
 Philip. B]ive_ta_pne. 
 Jessica. I must go. I shall be late. 
 Thomas [with great concern]. Have 
 you.gat-aj5ab? 
 Jessica. I think so. 
 Thomas. We t"'ff^ t do the next, 
 
 Jessica. AU right, Tommy . . . 
 
 don't b e conseience-stricken. But when 
 
 you oEange your mind Erbmrt— going 
 
 out with me it's pleasanter if you'll 
 
 find some excuse. Good-bye, you two. 
 
 [And she is gone; Philip calling 
 
 after her — ] 
 
 Philip. I shall be in by seven, m y 
 
 Hear - 
 
 V [Thomas looks a little relieved, 
 and then considerably worried; 
 in fact, he frowns portentously. 
 Philip disposes of his last 
 letter] 
 Philip. We've so organised the 
 wo rld^s work as tq _make ebinganionship 
 beti^h men anSTwomen a very artificial 
 thingf. 
 Thomas [without interest]. Have we? 
 Philip. I think so. What have we 
 got to settle before this afternoon ? 
 
 Thomas. Nothing much. [Then 
 seeming to make up his mind to some- 
 thing] But I wa.Tit three TniTiiitea' talk 
 with you, old i&an. 
 Philip. Oh ! 
 
 [And he gets up and stretches] 
 Thomas. D'you mind if I say some- 
 thing caddish? 
 Philip.~ No. 
 
 Thomas. P ut vour foot down - and 
 don't have_Jiia— asked to your house 
 
 <luite.SQ,^eh^ ^ 
 
 [Philip looks at him for half a 
 puzzled minute] 
 Philip. Why not? 
 Thomas. I'm seeing too much of 
 yiajr_Kife. ~ 
 
 [He is so intensely solemn about 
 it that Philip can hardly even 
 pretend to be shocked] 
 Philip. MsLdear^ommy ! 
 Thomas. I don't mean one single 
 wordjBDM-thaaXaay. 
 
 Philip [goodr^aturedly]. Tammy, 
 
 ymi nl-nm^yg haya flirtiPfl '^t.^i .TpHsina. 
 
 Thomas. I don't want you to think 
 that I'm the least bit in lose with her. 
 
 Philip. Naturally not . . . you've 
 got a wife of your own. 
 
 Thomas [in intense brotherly agree- 
 ment]. Right. Thalia^ good horse 
 sense. 
 
 Philip. And though, as her hus- 
 band, I'm naturally obtuse in the 
 matter ... I really don't think that 
 Jessica is in jove with you. 
 
 Thomas [most genersusly]. Not for a 
 single minute. 
 
 Philip. Then what's the worry, you 
 silly old ass ? 
 
 [Thomas starts to explain, a little 
 tortuously] 
 
 Thomas. Well, Phil, this is such a 
 damned subtle world. T_ d on't pretend 
 to understand it, but in mv old age I 
 have got-a-soit— o£-riI53i=tE^gib ex- 
 perience to go by . . . which, mark 
 you, I've paid for. 
 "T*HiLip. Well? 
 
 Thomas. Phil. I don't like j women. 
 and I neve r did ... but I'm hardly 
 exaggerating~when I say I married 
 simply to get out of the habit of finding 
 myse& once every six months in such 
 a position with one of them that I 
 was supposed to be making love to 
 her. 
 
 [Philip is enjoying himself] 
 
 Philip. What do they see in you, 
 Tommy ? . 
 
 Thomas. God knows, old man . . . 
 I don't. _And__the_„ti nie_it took up ! 
 Of cours e I was a s much ia love with 
 Mary"as' yo u hker ar-t-EgnMa't-have 
 asked hertolharry ihe. And I wouldn't 
 be wi thout her and the children now 
 fof""St]n~evef^aw. But I don't believe 
 I'd have gone out of my way to get 
 them if I hadn't been driven to it, old 
 man, . . . driven to it. I'm not going 
 to start the old game again now. 
 
 [And he wags his head vnsely] 
 
 Philip. What's the accusation 
 .against Jessica? Let's have it in so 
 many wordB; 
 
 [Thomas gathers himself up to 
 launch the vindicating compli- 
 ment effectively] 
 
672 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Thomas. She's a very accomplished 
 and a very charming and a.very sweet- 
 natured woman. I consider' she's an 
 ornament to society. 
 
 Philip [with equal fervour]. You're 
 quite right, Tommy, . . . what are 
 we to do with themr? 
 
 Thomas {Ws his favourite phrase]. 
 What d'you mean? 
 
 Philip. Well . . . what's your 
 trouble with her? 
 
 Thomas [tortuously still]. There ain't 
 any^yet . . . but-_^...,-^JSBll_^_.^_. I've 
 beeiTdreading^ for the last three weeks 
 that Jessica^ would begin ta_talkjtcL.me 
 about you. That's why I'm talking 
 to you about her. [Then, with a certain 
 enjoyment of his shocking looseness of 
 behaviour] I am a cad ! 
 
 Philip [stillTamused — hut now rather 
 sub-acidly]. My standing for the 
 County Council- must— be a most -dan- 
 gerous topic. 
 
 Thomas. But that's just how it 
 begins. Then there's hints . . . quite 
 nice ones . . . about how you get on 
 with each other. Last night in the 
 cab she was talking about when she 
 wa^ a girl . . . 
 
 I walked home. Tactful 
 
 Phil 
 
 . don't you be 
 
 serious, turns 
 
 Philip. 
 husband ! 
 
 Thomas. 
 French. 
 
 [Philip, 
 to him] 
 
 Philip. But, Tommy, do you 
 imagine that she is.-unhappy with me ? 
 
 Thomas. No, I don't. But she 
 thinksj, lot . . . when she's bored with 
 oaUing on people, and her music and 
 her pictures. And once you begin 
 putting your feelings into words . . . 
 why, they grow. 
 
 Philip. But if she were, I'd rather 
 that she did confide in you. 
 
 [Thomas shakes his head vehe- 
 mently] 
 
 Thomas. No. 
 
 Philip. Why shouldn't she? You're 
 friends. 
 
 Thomas. Yes . . . there's no reason 
 . . . but I tell you italways begins that 
 way. 
 
 Philip. You silly ass . . . can't you 
 let a woman talk seriously to you with- 
 out making love to herj" 
 
 Thomas. Damn it, that's what they 
 say . . . but it never made any differ- 
 ence. 
 
 Philip. Tommy, you're a perfect 
 child! 
 
 Thomas. I remember when I was 
 twenty-four . . . there was one woman 
 . .' . years older than me . . . had a 
 grown-up son. She took to scolding 
 me for wasting^ my..time_ffirting. Told 
 me she'd done it herself once \ . . then 
 told me why she'd done it. I kept off 
 kissing her for six weeks, and I'll swear 
 she never wanted me to kiss her. But 
 I did. 
 
 Philip. Did she box your ears? 
 
 Thomas. No . . . she said she 
 couldn't take me seriously. Well . . . 
 if I'd gone away that would have been 
 priggish. And if I'd stayed I'd have 
 done it again. 
 
 Philip [mischievously]. Which did 
 you do? 
 
 Thomas. Oh . . . never you mind. 
 
 Philip [vnth the utmost geniality]. 
 Well_:_;__„you— have jmy permission to 
 kiss Jessica^ if youJhink-^e^^Jltsyou 
 
 Thomas. Thanks, old man . . . 
 that's very clever and up to date, and 
 aU the rest of it . . . but I asked you 
 to chuck me out of the house to some 
 extent. 
 
 Philip. I-m_nat .going to. 
 
 Thomas. Then, you're no -friend of 
 mine. 
 
 Philip. Let us put it quite brutally. 
 If Jessica chooses tQ._be unfaithful to 
 me how am-IJia-atQp_hBr~TTT even if 
 I've the right to^top her? 
 
 Thomas.' If you're not prepared to 
 behave hke a decent __manried__man 
 you've_^g_right— ta, be married . . . 
 you'T^e^aoanger. 
 
 ''Philip. Also, Tommy, if you caught 
 me making love to you;* wife you might 
 talk to me . . . but you woiMn^t_talk 
 to her abpjitit. 
 
 Thomas [mth a touch of sentiment]. 
 Mary's different. [Then protesting 
 again] And I'm nqt^ making love to 
 your wife. I ^d^you" so. 
 
 Philip. Then if she's making love 
 to you, run away for yourself. 
 
 ■Thomas. She isn't making love to 
 me. But if you can't takeahint — 
 
 Philip. A Mnt! WellTT . I'm 
 dashed ! 
 
 Thomas. Well, old man, I give 
 you fair warning of the sort__^Jool-I 
 am r . . aTid'~~~Fli — RiEe~Ti5I"mflre re- 
 sponsibiUty in the matter. 
 
 'TT3iTitp-[m~ comic desperation]. Don't 
 warn me . . . warn Jessica. Tell her 
 you're afraid of making a fool of your- 
 self-^4hrher. 
 
The Madras House 
 
 673 
 
 Thomas [his eyebrows up]. But that'd 
 be as good as doing it. Good Lord, 
 you ca n't behave towards women as 
 if thejTwere men ! " 
 
 ^-PSIE^' Whynot? 
 • Thomas. You try it. 
 
 Philip. I always do. 
 
 Thomas. No wonder she wants to 
 grumbla_ahoutj!:QU.lQ_me. 
 
 [Philip takes him seriously again] 
 
 Philip. Look here^jTommy, I know 
 Jessic a pretty well. She doesn't want 
 to "EemadS^love To." ' " " 
 
 'TiTo^AS {positively and finally]. Yes, 
 shfi-does. [Then with real chivalry] I 
 don't mean that unpleasantly ... but 
 all women do. Some of em want to be 
 kissed and some want you to talk 
 politics . . . but the principle's the 
 
 Philip [finely _ contemptuous]. What a 
 world you Uve in ! 
 
 Thomas. . . . And the difflculty 
 with me is that if I try to talk politics 
 I find they don'-t-know-eaoughlabout 
 it ... or else that they know too 
 much about it . . . and it's simpler to 
 kiss em and have done. 
 
 Philip. Oh, much simpler! 
 
 Thomas \Jaack to his starting point — 
 •Bathetic]. But I'm married now, and 
 I want a quiet life . . . 
 '"■*= — \^ncnock at the door interrupts 
 him] 
 
 Philip. Come in. 
 
 [It is Belhavbn] 
 
 sir? 
 
 Belhaven. WilLyOB-lunchj 
 
 Philip. What is there? 
 
 Belhaven. I'm afoaid__only^ 
 Usual, sir. 
 
 Philip. Can yoili manage the Usual, 
 Tommy? What is it, BelhaveaX 
 
 Belhaven. Boiled — ma- tton a ad^^^ 
 jam pudding, I think, sir. [Then as 
 confessing to a vulgarity] Roly-poly. 
 
 'Thomas [with great approval]. Right. 
 I hope it's strawberry jam. 
 
 Philip. Sure to be. Put it in Me, 
 Hu xtiable's roonL -will you^TTTlSat's 
 airy. 
 
 Belhaven. Yessir. 
 
 [Belhaven vanishes] 
 
 ^ Thomas [as on reflection]. Not plum, 
 y'know . . . plum's no use. 
 
 [Philip gathers up his papers] 
 
 Philip. I'll giv-e-the-wdcked woman 
 your message. "' ^" 
 
 [Thomas takes alarm. He hadn't 
 thought of this] 
 
 Thomas. No . . . do- it - oft _y.Qiir 
 own-bat. She woio^mind, then. 
 
 "Philip. Tommy, I cannol assume 
 the turban of the "Turk. My sense of 
 humour and my sense of decency to- 
 wards women won't let me. 
 
 Thomas [frowning]. I bdieye_ I'd 
 better not have told you . 
 
 I^HLip ^[unsympaihettc] . Why not? 
 Next to telling her, the most common- 
 sense thing to do. 
 
 Thomas. She won't think so. 
 Philip. She'll have to. 
 
 [There is something so like cruelty 
 in these three words that Thomas 
 stares at him. Then he says, 
 reflectively] 
 Thomas. Phil, d'you ever thank 
 God you're not a woman? 
 Philip. No. 
 
 Thomas. When I think what mogt 
 of em have to choose between is soft- 
 hearted idiots like me and hard-headed 
 devils Uke you ... I wonder they put 
 up with us as they do. 
 
 [Philip stares at him in turn with 
 a queer smile. Then, as he 
 turns to go . . .] 
 Philip. You've made it again. 
 Tommy. 
 
 Thomas. What? 
 
 Philip. Your one sensible remark. 
 Goia«-a;long. 
 
 [And he is gone. Thomas follows, 
 protesting] 
 Thomas. Look here . . . what 
 d'you mean by One Sensible Remadi?^ 
 It's Uke your infernal ... 
 
 [He pulls the door to after him. 
 The room is alone with its 
 ugliness] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 In 1884 the Madras House was moved to 
 its present premises in Bond Street. 
 In those days decoration was mostly 
 a matter of paint and wall-paper, but 
 Mr. Constantine Madras, ever 
 daring, proceeded to beautify the 
 home of his professional triumphs. 
 He could neither draw nor colour, 
 but he designed and saw to it all 
 himself, and being a man of great 
 force of character, produced some- 
 thing which, though extraordinarily 
 wrong, was yet, since it was sincere, 
 in a way effective. It added to his 
 
674 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 reputation and to the attractiveness 
 of the Madras House. 
 
 In twenty-six years there have been 
 changes, but one room remains un- 
 touched from then till now. This 
 is the rotunda, a large, lofty, sky- 
 lighted place, done in the Moorish 
 style. The walls are black marble 
 to the height of a man, and from 
 there to the ceiling the darkest red. 
 The ceiling is of a cerulean blue, 
 and in the middle of the skylight 
 a golden sun, with spiked rays 
 proceeding from its pleasant human 
 countenance, takes credit for some 
 of the light it intercepts. An arch- 
 way with fretted top leads from the 
 rest of the establishment. Another 
 has behind it a platform, . a few 
 steps high, hung with black velvet. 
 The necessary fireplace (were there 
 hot-water pipes in 1884?) is dis- 
 guised by a heavy multi-coloured 
 canopy, whose fellow hangs over a 
 small door opposite. On the floor 
 is a Persian carpet of some real 
 beauty. On the walls are gas brackets 
 (1884 again .') the oriental touch 
 achieved in their crescent shape. 
 Round the wall are divans, many 
 cushioned; in front of them little 
 coffee-stools. It is all about as 
 Moorish as Baker Street Station, 
 but the general effect is humorous, 
 pleasant, and even not undignified. 
 
 In the old, grand days of the Madras 
 House the rotunda was the happy 
 preserve of very special customers, 
 those on whom the great man himself 
 would keep an eye. If you had 
 been there you spoke of it casually; 
 indeed, to be free of the rotunda was 
 to be a well-dressed woman and 
 recognised by all society as such. 
 Ichabod ! Since Mb. Constantine 
 Madras retired, the Madras House 
 is on the way to becoming alm,ost 
 like any other shop; the special 
 customers are nobody in particulat,- 
 and the rotunda is where a degenerate . 
 management meet to consider the 
 choice of ready-made models from 
 Paris. A large oval table had to 
 be imported and half a dozen Moor- 
 ish chairs. It seemed, to the surprise 
 of the gentleman who went innocently 
 ordering such things, that there were 
 only that number in existence. Scene 
 of its former glories, this is now to be 
 the scene, perhaps, of the passing of 
 the Madras House into alien hands. 
 
 Three o'clock on the Monday afternoon is 
 when the deal is to be put through, if 
 possible, and it SS-JiQw Jwejnwnutes 
 to. Major Thomas is meTe^sttting 
 at the table; 'papers-spread- before 
 him, ^packing- his-irains at u few 
 final figures. Philip is there, in 
 rather a sohool'boyish-mood. He is 
 sitting on the table, swinging his 
 legs. Mr. Htjxtablb is there, too, 
 dressed in his best, important and 
 nervous, and he is talking to Mb. 
 Eustace Pekrin Sta-te. 
 
 Me. State is an American, and if 
 American magazine literature is 
 anything to go by^ no American is 
 altogether unlike him. He has a 
 rugged, blood-and-iron sort of face, 
 utterly belied by his soft, smiling 
 eyes; rightly belied, too, for he has 
 made his thirty or forty millions in 
 the gentlest way — as far as he 
 knows. You would not think of 
 him as a money-maker. As a 
 matter of fact, he has no love of 
 money, and little use for it, for his 
 tastes are simple. But money-mak- 
 ing is the honourable career in his 
 own country, and he has the instinct 
 for turning money over and the 
 knack of doing so on a big scale. 
 His shock of grey hair makes him 
 look older than he probably is; his 
 voice is almost childlike in its 
 sweetriess. He has the dignity and 
 aptitude for command that power 
 can give. 
 
 From the little canopied dome comes Mb. 
 WiNDLBSHAM, present manager of 
 the establishment. He is a tailor- 
 made man; ared the tailor only left 
 off for the wax modeller and wig- ^ 
 maker to begin. For his clothes are 
 too perfect to be worn by anything 
 but a dummy, and his hair and 
 complexion are far from human. 
 Not that he dyes or paints them; 
 no, they were made like that. His 
 voice is a little inhuman, too, and 
 as he prefers the French language, 
 with which he has a most unripe 
 acquaintance, to his own, and so 
 speaks English as much like French 
 as his French is like English, his 
 conversation seems as unreal as the 
 rest of him. Impossible to think 
 of him in any of the ordinary relor 
 tions of life. He is a functionary. 
 Nature, the great inventor, will 
 evolve, however roughly, what is 
 necessary for her uses. Millinery 
 
The Madras House 
 
 675 
 
 has evolved the man-milliner. As 
 he comes in — and he has the gait 
 of a water-wagtail — -Mr. Htrx- 
 TABLB is making conversation. 
 
 Mr. Httxtable. A perfect barome- 
 ter, as you might— say — when your 
 eyegetsjised to it. 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. [To Philip, and with 
 a wag of his head hack to the other room] 
 They'^iust ready. 
 
 Mr. State [smiling benevolently at 
 Mr. Huxtablb]. Is it reallx?,„The 
 
 CrjsJaJ— EalaeeJ But— adiat a sound 
 
 that" has ! 
 
 Mb. Htjxtable [with modest pride]. 
 And a very ealthy locality ! 
 
 Philip. Come along and meet State. 
 [He jumps off the table, capturing 
 Windlesham's arm] 
 
 Mb. State [enthusiastic]. Denmark 
 HUl. CojoiditnenA-toJiUfiEiiAiexandra ! 
 
 Mr. ffuxTABLE [stnick by the informa- 
 tion]. Was it, now? 
 
 Mr. State. Heme Hill . . . Heme 
 the Hunter!, That's the charm of 
 London to an American. Association. 
 Every spot speaks. 
 
 Philip [as he joins them]. This is 
 Mr. Windlesham . . . our manager. 
 
 lage 
 Mel 
 
 He ^ going tos now us some new mooels . 
 [MM. State impressively extends 
 a hand and repeats the name] 
 
 Mr. State. Mr. Windlesham. 
 
 Windlesham. Most happy. I 
 thought you'd like to see the very 
 latest . . . brought ^^them— i*onr Paris 
 onlji^-yegterday. 
 
 Mr. State. Most opportune ! 
 [Then with n. sweejiing gesture]. Mr. 
 Philip, thiajpom inspires me. Your 
 fa;|'iheT's design? 
 
 Philip. Yes. 
 
 Mr. State. I thought so. 
 
 Philip. That used to be his private 
 office. 
 
 Mb. State [reverently]. Indeed ! 
 Where the ^uchess went on her knees I 
 Aa histonc spot Interesting to me ! 
 
 Philip. Something of a legend that. 
 
 [Mr. State, intensely solemn, 
 
 seems now to ascend the pulpit 
 
 of some philosophic conventicle] 
 
 Mr. State. '^X-believe-iu lugends, sir 
 . . . they are the spiritual side of facts. 
 They go to form tradition. And it is 
 not given to man to found his institu- 
 tions in security of mind except upon 
 tradition. That is why our eyes turn 
 eastward to you from America, Mr. 
 Huxtable. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [in some awe]. Do 
 they, now? 
 
 Mr. State. Has it never struck you 
 that while the progress of man has been 
 in the path of the sun, his thoughts 
 continually_gQ_haci_tD-the place of its 
 rising? I have at times found it a 
 very illuminating idea. 
 
 Philip [not indecently commonplace]. 
 Well, have them in now, Windlesham, 
 while we're waiting. 
 
 Windlesham. You might oast your 
 eyes over ,iliisas_n ew girls,''-Mrr~ Philip 
 . . . the very best~'l could taS, I do 
 assure you.- Faces. ai©~hanl_snough to 
 get, but figures . . . Well, ffiere! 
 [Beaching the little door, he calls through] 
 AUons Mes'moiseUes ! Non . . . non 
 . . . par I'autre porte et h, la gauche. 
 [Then back again] You get the best 
 effect through a big doorway. [He 
 further explains this by sketching one 
 in the air] One, two and four first. 
 
 [He exhibits some costume draw- 
 ings he has been carrying, 
 distributes one or two, and then 
 vanishes into the other room, 
 from which his voice vibrates] 
 
 Windlesham. En avant, s'il vous 
 plait. NumSro un ! Eh bien . . . nu- 
 mero trois. Non, Ma'moiselle, oe n'est 
 pas commode . . . regardez ce corsage- 
 18, . . . 
 
 Mb. HttxtAble [making a face]. 
 What I'm always thinking is, why not 
 have,_a— mflaly chap in charge of the 
 plage up here. 
 
 Mb. State [with perfect justice]. 
 Mr. Wind]fiaham_ma#-b«-said-t0-strike 
 a-iiote. Whether it is a right note . . .? 
 
 [Through the big doorway Windlesham 
 ushers in a costume from Paris, the 
 very last word in discreet and costly 
 finery, delicate in colour, fragile in 
 texture; a creation. This is hung 
 upon a young lady of pleasing 
 appearance, pre-occupied with its 
 exhibition, which she achieves by 
 slow and sinuous, never-ceasing 
 movements. She glides into the 
 room. She wears a smile also] 
 
 Windlesham. One and two are both 
 LarguiUiSre, Mr. Philip. He can't get 
 in the Soupson Anglais, can he ? Won't 
 ... I tell him. Promenez et sortez, 
 Ma'moiselle. 
 
 [The young lady, still smiling and 
 
 ' sinuous, begins to circle the 
 
 room. She seems to be uv/- 
 
 conscious of its inhabitants, 
 
676 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 and they, in return, rather 
 dreadfully pretend not to notice 
 her, but only the costume] 
 WiNDLESHAM. NumSro Deux. 
 
 [Another costume, rakishly in- 
 clined, with a hat deliberately 
 hideous. The young lady con- 
 tained in them is again slow 
 and sinuous and vacantly smil- 
 ing] 
 WiNDLESHAM. But tHs is cHc, isn't 
 it ? Promenez. 
 
 Mr. State [in grave enquiry]. What 
 is the Soupgon Anglais? 
 
 Philip. A Frenchman vfHi tell you 
 that for Englandyou mu st first makg 
 a design and -then spolTit. 
 ■ ' Thomas [whose attention has been 
 rivetted]. Don't,Jiiey speafeJiaglish? 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. On;~paSun mot . . . 
 I mean, not a word. Only came over 
 ■with-me-yestsFday— .— r-rTEese-three. 
 
 Thomas. Because this frock's a bit 
 thick, y'know. 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Numfiro Trois! 
 
 [A third costume, calculated to 
 have an innocent effect. The 
 accompanying young lady, with 
 a sense of fitness, wears a pout 
 instead of a smile] 
 Philip. What's this? 
 
 [His eye is on the surmounting 
 hat of straw] 
 WiNDLESHAM [with a little crow of 
 delight]. That's the new hat^__Jja_b©U6 
 Hellne again ! 
 
 Me. State [interested, still grave]. 
 La belle HelSne. A Parisian firm? 
 
 WiNDLESHAM [turning this to waggish 
 account]. Well . . . dear me . . . you 
 can almost call her that, can't you? 
 [Suddenly he dashes at the costume and 
 brings it to a standstill] Oh, mon Dieu, 
 Ma'moiselle ! La gorgette . . . vous 
 I'avez derang^. 
 
 [He proceeds to arrange la gorgette 
 to his satisfaction, also some 
 other matters which seem In 
 involve a partial evisceration 
 of the underclothing. The 
 young lady, passive, pouts per- 
 severingly. He is quite uncon- 
 scious of her separate existence. 
 But Thomas is considerably 
 shocked, and whispers violently 
 to Philip] 
 Thomas. I say, he shouldn't puU her 
 about like that. 
 
 WiNDLESHAM [shipping back to admire 
 the result]. La, . . . comme 5a. 
 
 [The costume continues its round; 
 
 the others are still circling, 
 
 veering and tacking, while WlN- 
 
 DLESHAM trips admiringly 
 
 around and about them. It 
 
 all looks like some dance of 
 
 modish dervishes] 
 
 Philip [heartlessly]. La belle HelSne, 
 
 Mr. State, is_ j;_ w£l l-knowii _ Pairis ian 
 
 c^eotta— . . who sets many of the 
 
 fashions which our wives and daughters 
 
 afterwards assume. 
 
 Me. Huxtable [scandalised]. Don't 
 say that, Philr~it's not-nioe. 
 Philip. Why? 
 
 Me. Huxtable. I'm sure no ladies 
 are aware ofJi. 
 
 Philip. But what can be more 
 natural and right_thaii_ fc!r_ the pro- 
 fessional charmer to set the pace for 
 the amateur ! 
 
 WiNDLESHAM [pausing in the dance]. 
 Quite la haute cocotterie, of course. 
 
 Mb. State [solemnly]. Do you infer, 
 Mr. Madras, a difference in degree, but 
 not in kind? 
 
 Philip [courteously echoing his lone]. 
 I do. 
 
 Mr. State. That is a very far-reach- 
 ing observation, sir. 
 Philip. It is. 
 
 Thomas. Do you — kao-w tifi—Jady 
 
 person ally, Mr. W indlfisham ? 
 
 I W iNDLESHAMiums, with some 
 
 tag of a costume in his hand, 
 
 thus unconsciously detaining the 
 
 occupier] 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Oh, HO . . . oh, dear 
 
 me, no ._,_j_-quite~the reverser- 1— do 
 
 assure you. 'There's nothing gay—in 
 
 Paris to me. I was blasfiJong_ago. 
 
 Mr. State. But touching that hat, 
 Mr. Windlesham. 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Oh, to be sure. At- 
 tendez, mademoiselle. 
 
 [Tiptoeing, he dexterously tilts the 
 straw hat from the elaborate 
 head it is perched on] 
 WiNDLESHAM. It's not a bad story. 
 Sortez. 
 
 [By this two costumes have glided 
 out. The third follows. State, 
 who has found it hard to keep 
 his eyes off them, gives some- 
 thing qfa_siglL] 
 Mr. State. TFtEey^d only just smile 
 or wink I mi ght get over t he ex- 
 
 traordinai yTeeEng it,giyes me. 
 
 ^"~-fWTSiDLBSHAM, Caressing the hat, 
 
 takes up an attitude for his story] 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. WeU ... it appears 
 
 that a while ago, out at the PrS Cathelan 
 
The Madras House 
 
 677 
 
 . . . th ^e was HglSne, taking her after- 
 noon cupor&atterinilk. What should 
 she see but Madame Erlancourt . . . 
 one knows enough about that lady, of 
 course ... in a hat__th6 very twin of 
 hers . . . the VOT ^win. 'Well . . . you 
 can imagine! Someone had blundered. 
 
 Mb. State [ahsorhed]. No, I don't 
 follow. 
 
 Philip. Some spy in the service of 
 that forgjgmpower had procured and 
 p arted with tne"^ Iansjtf-the hat. 
 
 Bte State. MaSame What's-her- 
 name might have seen it on her before, 
 and copied it. 
 
 Philip. Mr. State, Hel6ne doesn't 
 wearahatjbsiee. " 
 
 MrTStatb. My mistake! 
 
 WiNDLBSHAM. So there was a terrible 
 scene . . . 
 
 Thomas. With madame . . . ? 
 
 WiNDLESHAM '\repudititing any such 
 vulgarity]. Oh, no. HelSne '-j ust j et 
 fly at her chaperon, she being at hand, 
 so to speaE ■ - 
 
 Mr. State [dazzled]. Her what! 
 , [Then with humorous awe] No, I beg 
 your pardon ... go on ... go on. 
 
 WiNDLBSHAM. -S hfi tnnir ng _hBr own 
 
 hat . ■ ■ pinrifld it on the hoarl of the 
 nrlinit h'titiln ffnTniniCi n>ni— rmrl'rl find, 
 a,Tid Sfint the nhild wa.lJdj ip-aJfflTfr the 
 grass in it. Then she sent to the 
 kitchens f or one of those ba skets they 
 bring—tllS" fish in . . . {He twirls the 
 hat] . . . you see. Then she ripped 
 a yard of lace off her underskirt 
 and twisted it round. Then she took 
 off both her . . . well ... La Belle 
 France, you know . . . there is some- 
 thing in the atmospl^ere! It was her 
 garters she took off . . . blue silk. 
 Mh. State [Puritan]. In jiublio? 
 WiNDLBSHAM [professional].i Oh, . . . 
 it can be done. Hooked them together 
 and faste ned the _iait,of lace round the 
 basket tMs way: TSIs simple ! That's 
 what she wore the rest of the afternoon 
 and back to Paris. This is what's going 
 to be the rage. 
 
 [Having deftly •pantomimed this 
 
 creation of a fashion, he hands 
 
 the hat, with an air, to Mr. 
 
 State, who exam/ines it. 
 
 Philip is smilingly caustic] 
 Philip. La beIleIMl|nehas imagina- 
 tion, Mr. State. She is also, I am told, 
 thrifty, inclined to r egion, a vegetaria n, 
 Vichy water -KCT~5nIy beverage ; in 
 fact, a credit to her profession and ex- 
 ternally ... to ours. 
 
 [Mb. State hands back the hat, 
 with the solemnest humour] 
 Mb. State. Mr. Windlesham, I am 
 much obliged to you for this illuminating 
 anecdote. 
 
 Windlesham. Not at all. . . . Will 
 you see the otherljhree? 
 Mr. State. By all means. 
 WiNDELSHAM. They won't be long in 
 changing . . . but there's one I must 
 just pinion. 
 
 Mr. State. No hurry. 
 
 [He has acquired a new joy in 
 
 Windlesham, whom he watches 
 
 dance away. Then a song is 
 
 heard from the next room . . .] 
 
 Windlesham. Allons . . . numfiro 
 
 cinq . . . numero sept . . . numgro 
 
 dix. Ma'moiseUe Ollivier . . . vous 
 
 vous mettrez . . . 
 
 ' [And the door closes. Philip 
 
 looks at his watch] 
 Philip. But it's ten past three, 
 
 WbM );>ettlfi'' noi^-gj^a^it fnf my 'fp.Tigr ' '' 
 [They\ surround the table and sit 
 down] 
 Mr. State. Major Thomas, have 
 you my memoranda? 
 ■ Thomas. Here. 
 
 [He hands them to State, who 
 clears his throat, refrains from 
 spitting, and begins the cus- 
 tomary American oration] 
 Mr. State. The scheme, gentlemen, 
 fo r which I desire to purchase the 
 Maaras jStmse— an d— add i t to the in- 
 twest onEe~BuEFows enterpriaerTvhieh 
 I already control, is — to ^ut it shortly 
 
 — this. The Burrows provincial scheme 
 
 — you are aware of its purpose — goes 
 WQlLraough^ as fajj;S_the_shareholding 
 by the local draipery_stor^jsjjQncerned. 
 It has been interesting"^ me to dis- 
 cover which aspects of the Burrows 
 scheme suit which cities . . . and why. 
 An absorbing problem in the psychology 
 of local conditions ! Now, we have 
 eliminated from the mass a consider- 
 able number of cases where the local 
 people will not join with us. And in your 
 Leicesters and Norwiches and Plymouths 
 and Coventrys . . . there the unknown 
 name, the uninspiring name of Burrows, 
 upon a fire-new establishment next door 
 might anyhow be ineffective. But be- 
 yond that I have a reason .' . . and I 
 hope a not uninteresting reason, to put 
 before you gentlemen . . . why it is in 
 these provincial centres that we should 
 look to establish our Madras Houses . . . 
 New Edition. Is that clear so far? 
 
678 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [During this Mr. Constantine Madras 
 has arrived. He turned aside for a 
 moment to the door that the models 
 came from, now he joins the group. 
 A man of sixty, to whom sixty is the 
 prime of life. Tall, quite dramati- 
 cally dignified, suave, a little remote; 
 he is one of those to whom life is an 
 art of which they have determined to 
 be master. It is a handsome face. 
 Eastern in type, the long beard only 
 streaked with grey. He does not 
 dress like the ruck of men, because 
 he is not of them. The velvet coat, 
 brick-red tie, shepherd' s-plaid trou- 
 sers, white spats and, patent boots, 
 both suit him and express him subtly 
 and well — the mixture of sensuous 
 originality and tradition which is 
 the man. Philip is purposely cas- 
 ual in greeting him; he has sighted 
 him first. But Mr. State gets 
 up, impressed. It is part of his 
 creed to recognise greatness; he'"^- 
 sists on recognising it} 
 Philip. Hii 1.1n, ffa.thflr! 
 Mr. State. Mr. Madras-I-^Pcoud^to 
 meet you-agtdn^ 
 
 Constantine [graciously, without emo- 
 tion]. How do you d o^^r. State. 
 
 Philip. YoxTknow eviryone, Father. 
 Oh . . . Hippisly Thomas. 
 
 Constantine [just as graciously]. 
 How do you do, siiu.^ [Then, with a 
 mischievous smile, he pats Huxtable 
 on the shoulder] How a,Te~yGUy^jp.y 
 dear-Saaiy ? 
 
 [Mr. Huxtable had heard him 
 coming, and felt himself tgirii. 
 purple. This was the great 
 meetinimfter-tki xtv years ! He 
 had let it come upon him uh- 
 awares; purposely let it, for 
 indeed he had not known what^ 
 to say or do. He had dreaded 
 having the inspiration to say 
 or do anything. Now, alas, 
 and thank goodness ! it is too 
 late. He is at a suitable dis- 
 advantage. He need only grunt 
 out sulkily . . .] 
 Mr. Huxtable. I'm quite well, 
 thank you. 
 
 [Constantine, with one more pat 
 in pardon for the rudeness, goes 
 to his chair] 
 Mk. State. A pleasant trip on the 
 Continent? 
 
 Constantine. Instructive. Don't 
 let me interrupt business. I shall pick 
 up the thread. 
 
 Mr. State [serving up a little re- 
 warmed oration]. I was just proceeding 
 to plaee-Qn.JJi_e table-cloth some pre- 
 liminary details of tha ..-Scheme that 
 has been elaborating since our meeting 
 in June last to consolidate your name 
 and famejn some of the most important 
 cities ofEngtamdr- - Wb" had-irot got 
 far. 
 
 [He consults his notes. Con- 
 stantine produces from a case 
 a slender cigarette holder of 
 amber] 
 Constantine. You've some new 
 models, Phil^ 
 Pgitrf: Yes. 
 
 Constantine. Th§.„_tall_.-girl looks 
 well enough. ^AJay-4-smoke? 
 Mr. State. Allow me. 
 
 [Whipping out his cigar case] 
 Constantine. A ^cigSbFette, thank 
 you, of my own. 
 
 [He proceeds to make and light 
 one. Mr. State offers cigars 
 generally, and then places one 
 to his. own hand] 
 Mr. State. I occasionally derive 
 some pleasure from ajjald-^sigar. I 
 was not for the moment entering upon 
 the finance of the matter because I 
 entertain no doubt that . . . possibly 
 with a little adjustment of the propor- 
 tion of shares and cash . . . that can 
 be fixed. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [in emulation of all 
 this ease and grace]. I'll ave a cigarette, 
 Phil .-^r-T if ^ u itV . e got a na. 
 
 [Philip has one. And every one 
 makes himself comfortable, while 
 Mr. State continues enjoy- 
 ably . . .] 
 Mr. State. And I suspect that you 
 are no more interested in money than 
 I amr-Mft-Madras-. Anyone can make 
 money, if he has capital enough. The 
 little that I have came from lumber 
 and canned peaches. Now, there was 
 poetry in lumber. The virgin forest 
 . . . I'd go sit in it for weeks at a time. 
 There was poetry in peaches . . . be- 
 fore they were canned. Do you wonder 
 why I bought that mantle establishment 
 in the city ? 
 
 Philip [who is only sorry that some- 
 time he must stop]. Whyr^ife— State.? 
 
 Mr. State. Because, Mr. Philip, I 
 found mysslf n. lnnfily_man. I felt the 
 need of getting into touoTi with what 
 Goethe refers to as the woman::§pi3it 
 . . . drawing us ever upward and on. 
 That opportunity occurred, and it 
 
The Madras House 
 
 679 
 
 seemed a businesslike way of doing 
 the trick. 
 
 UONSTANTINB [through a little cloud 
 of smoke]. And satisfying? 
 
 Me. State. I beg your pardon? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB. Has the ready-made 
 fi lrirt b ysi ness satisfi ed your craving for 
 the eteBaal-£eminine?~ 
 
 Me. State. Mr. Madras . . . that 
 sarcasm is deserved . . . No, sir, it 
 has not. The Burrows business, I 
 discover, lacks all inner meaning . . . 
 it has no soul. A business can no more 
 exist without a soul than a human 
 being can. I'm sure I have you with 
 me there,^r. Huxtable. 
 
 [Poor Me. Htjxtable quite chokes 
 at the suddenness of this sum- 
 mons, but shines his best] 
 
 Me. Huxtable. I should say so, 
 quite. 
 
 [Me. State begins to glow] 
 
 Me. State. There was fun, mind 
 you . . . there still is ... in making 
 these proyinciaUmilliagrshop . . . put- 
 ting a pistol to their-hiaag . . . saying 
 Buy our Goods or be Froze Out. That 
 keeps me Uvely and it wakes them up 
 . . . does them good. But Burrows 
 isn't in the Movement. The Woman's 
 Movement. The Great Modern Wo- 
 man's Movement. It has come home 
 to m6_that-thEL man , who has as "much 
 to do with Woman as manufa- cjturing 
 the bones of her corsets aild y&Tls not 
 consciously in that Movement is Out- 
 side History. Shovelling goods over a 
 ^counter and adding up profits . . . 
 Nthat's no excuse for cumbering the 
 earth . . . nothing personal, Mr. Hux- 
 table. 
 
 [Me. Huxtable is ready this 
 time] 
 
 Me. Huxtable. No, no . . . I'm 
 hstening to you. I'm not too old-to 
 learn. 
 
 Me. State. Mind, I don't say I 
 haven't taken pleasure in Burrows. 
 We've-^Jiad_3 k)ti o ng . . -rcaiised two 
 Ideas to spring where one sprung 
 before. There was Nottingham. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. I know^JJotting- 
 ham . . . got a shop there ? 
 
 Me. State [with wholesome pride]. 
 In fagCLse ars the Burrows e stablishment 
 in NottiMrham has smasEed compet i- 
 tion. I've not visited^ the city myself. 
 The notion was our local manager's. 
 Simple. The Ladies' department served 
 by^ gentlemen . . . the Gentlemen's by 
 Always, of course, within the 
 
 bounds of deUcacy. Do you think there 
 is nothing in that, Mr. Huxtable ? 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [round-eyed and open- 
 mouthed]. Oh . . . well . . . 
 
 Mr. State. But are you the Mean 
 Sensual Man? 
 
 Mb. Huxtable [whose knowledge of 
 the French language hardly assists him 
 to this startling translation]. No . . . 
 I hope not. 
 
 Mr. State. Put yourself in his 
 place. SurcoundedLby pretty girls . . . 
 good girls, mind you". TTliigh class. 
 Pay Jhenx. well . . . let them live out 
 . . . pay for- their mothers and cha- 
 perons, if necessary. Well . . . Sur- 
 rounded by Gracious Womanhood, does 
 the Se n s ual ^ fa m forgo t- -how much 
 money he is spending or does he not? 
 Does he come again? Is it a httle 
 Oasis in the desert of his business day? 
 Is it a better attraction than Alcohol, 
 or is it not? 
 
 PbiIjIF [bitingly]. Is it? 
 
 Mr. State. Then, sir . . . Audi 
 Alteram Partem. I should hke you 
 to see our Ladies' Fancy Department 
 at its best . . . just before the football 
 season. 
 
 Philip. I think I do ! 
 
 Me. State. Athletes everyone of 
 em . . . notjjnan-under six foot . . . 
 bronzed, noble fellows ! And no flirting 
 allowed ... no making eyes ... no 
 pandering JaLanyt hing De praved. Just 
 the Ordinary Courtesies of~dur Modern 
 Civilisation from Pure, Clean-minded 
 Gentlemen towards any of the Fair 
 Sex who step in to buy a shiUing sachet 
 or the like. And pay, sir . , . The 
 women come in flocks ! 
 
 Mb. Huxtable [bereft of breath]. Is 
 this how you mean to run your new 
 Madras Houses? 
 
 Mr. State. Patience, Mr. Huxtable. 
 It's but six months ago that I started 
 to study the W oman Question from the 
 poia-t-ef~vi«w^-<rf-BTnTows~aSd Co. I 
 attended women's meetings in London, 
 in Manchester, and in one-horse places 
 as well. Now, Political claims were 
 but the narrowest, drabbest aspect of 
 the matter as I saw it. The Woman's 
 Movement is Woman expressing herself. 
 Let us look at things as they are. 
 What are a Woman's chief means . _. . 
 how often her only means of expressing 
 herseU? Anyway . . . what is the first 
 thing that she spends her money on? 
 Clothes, gentlemen, clothes. Therefore, 
 I say . . . though at Cannon Street we 
 
680 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 may palp with good ideas . . . the 
 ready-made skirt is-owt-of date . . . 
 
 [WiNDLESHAM, pins in his mouth, 
 fashion plates under his arm, and 
 the fish-basket hat in his hand, 
 shoots out of the other room] 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Will you have the 
 others in now? [Then back through the 
 door] Allons, Mesmoiselles, si vous 
 plait. Numero cinq le premier. [Then 
 he turns the hat upside down on the table] 
 I thought you'd like to see that they've 
 actually left the handles on. But I 
 don't think we can do that here, do you ? 
 
 [There comes in as before the most elabo- 
 rate evening gown that ever was] 
 
 WiNDLESHAM [as he searches for the 
 design]. Numero cinq . . . number 
 five. 
 
 [Thomas is much struck] 
 Thomas. J. say ... by Jove ! 
 
 [But the cold, searching light seems 
 
 to separate from the glittering 
 
 pink affair the poor, pretty, 
 
 smiling creature exhibiting it, 
 
 until, indeed, she seems half 
 
 naked. Mb. Windlesham's 
 
 aisthetic sense is outraged] 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Mais non, mais non 
 
 . . . pas en plein jour. Mettez-vous 
 
 par la dans le . . . dans I'alcove . . . 
 
 a c6t6 du velours noir. 
 
 [The costume undulates towards the 
 black velvet platform. Thomas 
 is lost in admiration] 
 Thomas. That gi5£s_her-a._chance, 
 dojesn^t it ? Damn pretty girl ! 
 
 Philip [his eye twinkling]. She'U 
 understand that, Tommy. 
 
 Thomas [in good faith]. She won't 
 mind. 
 
 Mb. State [who has been studying the 
 undulations]. How they learn to walk 
 like it . . . that's what beats me ! 
 
 [Mr. WiNDLESHAM tums on the 
 frame of lights which bear upon 
 the velvet platform. The vision 
 of female loveliness is now 
 complete] 
 WiNDLESHAM. There . . . that's 
 
 the coup d'ceil. 
 
 [The vision turns this way and 
 that to show what curves of 
 loveliness there may be. They 
 watch, all but Constantinb, 
 who has sat silent and indiffer- 
 ent, rolling his second, cigarette, 
 which he now smokes serenely. 
 
 At last Philip's voice breaks 
 in, at its coolest, its most ironic] 
 Philip. And are we to assume, Mt. 
 State,-tliat, this -piece_^_sfi]f::decoration 
 really expresses the^jiature^ of Siy 
 womaLoi Rather an awf uTtTiought ! 
 Thomas [in protest]. Why? 
 Philip. Or it--Lt_ixpresses a man's 
 opinion of her . . . tSuFslratEer worse. 
 Thomas. It's damned smart. Ain't 
 it, Mr. Huxtable? 
 
 Mb. Htjxtable [who is examining 
 closely]. IJp use to us, of course. We 
 couldn't imitate that under fifteen 
 guineas. Look ^at_ the . . . what d'you 
 caU^'? 
 
 WiNDLESHAM [loving the very word]. 
 Diamante. 
 
 Thomas [with discretion]. Just for 
 EnglaBd,__of_J3ourse, -you — might have 
 the shiny stuff marki^ a bit more 
 definitely where the pink silk ends 
 and she begins. 
 
 Mb. Htjxtable [not to be sordid]. 
 But it's a beautiful-thing. 
 
 Mb. State [sweepingly]. Fitted to 
 adorjithe presiding_genius_of some 
 intelleotviar and" artistic, salon. More 
 artistic than intellectual, perhaps . . . 
 more likely to be the centre of Emotion 
 than Thought ! 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. I could almost tell 
 you who we shall sell jhat to. Mrs. 
 . . . Mrs. . dear me^ . . you'd all 
 know the name. Assez, Ma'moiseUe 
 . . . sortez. 
 
 [He turns off the light. The 
 vision becomes once more a 
 ridiculously expensive dress, 
 with a rather thin and shiver- 
 ing young person half inside 
 it, who is thus unceremoniously 
 got rid of] 
 WiNDLESHAM. Numero sept. 
 
 [Another costume] 
 
 Mb. State. Now here again. Green 
 velvet. Is it velvet.? 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Panne velvet. Pro- 
 menez, s'U vous plait. 
 
 Mb. State. And ermine. 
 
 Mr. Htjxtable. Good Lord . . . 
 more buttons ! 
 
 Mb. State. The very thing, no 
 doubt, in which some peeress might 
 take the chair at a drawing-room 
 meeting. -"^ 
 
 Philip [as he eyes the buttons and the 
 ermine]. Either of the Huaanitaiian 
 or of the Anti-Sweatingjjeague. In- 
 
The Madras House 
 
 G81 
 
 deed, no peeress coiild dream of taking 
 a chair without it. 
 
 Mr. State [in gentle reproof]. Sar- 
 casm, Mr. Philip. 
 
 Philip [won by such sweetness]. I 
 really beg your pardon. 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Numero dix. 
 
 [A third costume] 
 
 Philip. What about this? 
 
 Mr. State. Grey with, a touch of 
 pink . . . severely soft. An Anti-suf- 
 frage Platform. 
 
 Philip [in tune with him]. No . . . 
 it's cut square in the neck. Suffrage, 
 I should say. 
 
 Me. State [rubbing his hands]. 
 Good! There is purpose in this per- 
 siflage, Major Thomas. Woman al- 
 lures us along many paths. Be it ours 
 to attend her, doing what service we 
 may. 
 
 Constantine. You are a poet, Mr. 
 State. 
 
 Mr. State. I never wrote one in 
 my Hfe, sir. 
 L.O owKTAW TiNE. How many pbets 
 
 should cfiasfi scribbling and try to 
 
 live suohperfeet epics as seems likely 
 to be t his purchase of y ours of the 
 
 ,Ik. State [mu^h gratified]. I shall 
 be proud tifi- lifi y mir snpp^anr [Then 
 he soars] Butitis the TSBddle Class 
 Woman of En^ii5a~] Hrat-is-^aiting for 
 l^f^The woman~ wEo~ s Slt stt s'at the 
 PaHour windtrW^fTier Frovincial Villa, 
 pensivgly— gazMig— tfarongh—the- Laurel 
 bushes. I have seen her on my Soli- 
 tary Walks. She must have her chance 
 to Dazzle and Conquer. That is every 
 wopasV^— fewttoight ... be she a 
 Duchess in Mayfair or a doctor's wife 
 in the suburbs of Leicester. And re- 
 member, gentlemen, that the Middle 
 Class Women of England . . . think 
 of the m in b ulk . . . they form one of 
 
 the world has ever seen. — 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [with a wag of the 
 head; Ae is more at his ease now]. Yes 
 . . . their^usbands' money. 
 
 Mr. State [taking a long breath and 
 a high tone]. All our most advanced 
 thinkers are agreed that the economic 
 independence of women is the next 
 step in the march of civilisation. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable [overwhelmed]. Oh 
 ■ ■ . I beg pardon. 
 
 Mr. State [soaring now more than 
 
 ever]. And now that the Seed of 
 I^eedom is sown in their Sweet Natures 
 . . . what Mighty Forest . . . what a 
 Luxuriant, Tropical, Scented growth of 
 Womanhood may not spring up around 
 us. For we live in an Ugly World. 
 Look at my tie ! Consider your vest, 
 Major Thomas ! [His eye searches for 
 those costumes, and finds one] This is 
 all the Living Beauty that there is. 
 We want more of it. I want to see 
 that Po or Provincial L ady burst through 
 the laurel bushes and dash down the 
 road . . . Clad in Colours- of the 
 Rajnbow. 
 
 [WiNDLESHAM has indeed detained 
 the severely soft costume and 
 its young lady, and there she 
 has stood for a while, still 
 smiling, but wondering, perhaps, 
 behind the smile, into what 
 peculiar company of milliners 
 she has fallen. Thomas, sud- 
 denly noticing that she is stand- 
 ing there, with the utmost 
 politeness jumps up to hand 
 his chair] 
 
 Thomas. I say,_though„ allow 
 
 me. 
 
 "WiNDLESHAM. Thank you . . . but 
 she can't. ,-Jiot in that corset. 
 
 Mb. State. Dear me, I had not 
 meant to detain Mademoiselle. [Then 
 to amend his manners, and rather as if it 
 were an incantation warranted to achieve 
 his purpose] Bon jour. 
 
 [The young lady departs, a real 
 smile quite shaming the unreal] 
 Me. State. You clean forget they're 
 there. We gave some time and money 
 to elaborating a mechanical _mfl3dng 
 flgure't5Tgg;TBeTlace~of~7"._-a-jeaL 
 a-atoffiStTDn, in laet! But sometimes it 
 stuck and sometimes it ran away . . . 
 Thomas. And the cost ! 
 Philip [finely]. Mesh— and 'bfood is 
 alwayseheaper. 
 
 MbTState. You approve of corsets, 
 Mr. Windlesham? 
 
 WiNDLESHAM. Oh, ycs . . . the fig- 
 ure is the woman, as we say. 
 
 Mr. State. Have you ever gone 
 deeplxJjQto the Psychology of the ques- 
 tion ? JV while ago I had a smart young 
 Historian write Burrows a little Mono- 
 graph on Corsets . . . price on.e shilling. 
 Conservative, summing up in their 
 favour. And we made up a little 
 MuseumgLthem . . . at Southampton, 
 I thinE'TT . but that was not a suc- 
 cess. Major Thomas ... we must 
 
682 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 send Mr. Windlesham a copy of that 
 Monograph. You -will find it very 
 interesting. 
 
 Windlesham. I'm sure I shall. Can 
 I do any more for you ? 
 
 Philip. See me ^rfore_J[ . go, will 
 you ? 
 
 Windlesham. Then it's au'voir. 
 
 [And he flutters away. There is a 
 pause as if they had to recollect 
 where they were. It is broken 
 by Philip saying, meditatively] 
 
 Philip. I sometimes wonder if we 
 rpaHse what_womenlg_jjlQiligs are like 
 . . . or""our own, for that matter. 
 
 Mr. HuxTABLE. What's that? 
 
 Philip. Have you ever tried to 
 describe a costume as it would appear 
 to a strange eye? Can you think of 
 this last? A hat as little like a hat 
 as anything on a creature's head may 
 be. Lace. Flowers of a colour it" 
 never pleases God to grow them. And 
 a jewelled feather ... a feather with 
 stones in it. The rest might be called 
 a conspiracy in three colours on the 
 part of a dozen sewing women to per- 
 suade you that the creature they have 
 clothed can neither walk, digest her 
 food, nor bear children. Now . . . 
 can that be beautiful? 
 
 Mr. State [to whom this is the real 
 conversational thing]. Mr. Philip, that 
 notion is a lever thrust beneath the 
 very foundations of Sogigty. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [showing off a little]. 
 Oh . . . trying to upset people's ideas 
 for the sake of doing it . . . silly. 
 
 Thomas [ivith solid sense]. I think a 
 crowd of well-dressed women is_one of 
 the m^Jieaa^iifuLjihjngs in the world. 
 
 Philip. Have you eVSr seen an 
 Eastern woman walk into a Bond 
 Street tea shop? 
 
 Thomas. No. 
 
 Philip [forcefully]. I have. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Ah ! 
 
 [With one long, meditative exhala- 
 tion he sends a little column of 
 smoke into the air. Mr. State 
 turns to him deferentially] 
 Mr. State. We are boringLyoUjJklr. 
 Madras, I'm afraid. You were Facile 
 Princeps .Jiporu-alL these questions so 
 long ago. 
 
 [Constantine speaks in the 
 smoothest of voices] 
 Constantine. No, I am not bored, 
 Mr. State . . . only-a-littlaiuwriflad. 
 Mr. State. Why so ? 
 Constantine. Ypu see ... I am a 
 
 Mahommedan 
 towaJar 
 
 and„_±hia__attitude 
 sex has become 
 
 the other 
 
 loathsome to me. 
 
 [This bombshell, so delicately ex- 
 ploded, affects the company very 
 variously. It will be some time 
 before Mr. Huxtable grasps 
 its meaning at all. Thomas 
 simply opens his mouth. Mh. 
 State has evidently found a new 
 joy in life. Philip, to whom 
 it seems no news, merely says 
 in light protest . . .] 
 Philip. My dear Father! 
 Mr. State [as he beams round], A 
 real Mahommedan ? 
 
 Constantine. I have becojaag_a 
 Mahommedan_ If ,yau were not, it 
 would be inconvenient to Hve perma- 
 nently at Hit ... a viUage upon the 
 borders of Southern Arabia . . . that 
 is my home. Besides, I was converted. 
 Thomas [having recovered enough 
 breath]. I didn't know you could be- 
 come a Mahommedan. 
 
 Constantine [utith some severity]. 
 You can become a Christian, sir. 
 
 Thomas [a little shocked], ' Ah . . . 
 not quite the same sort of thing. 
 
 Mb. State [who feels that he really is 
 re-discovering the old worla^. But now 
 very interesting! To a broad-minded 
 man . . . how extraordinarily mteireat- 
 ing ! Was it a sudden conversion ? 
 
 Constantine. No ... I had been 
 gonrnjiing fpy f), rpljciftn ■ , . n. mmmmi 
 need in these times . . . and this is a 
 State. 
 .? I must look it 
 up. The Koran ! Yes, I've never read 
 the Koran ... an oversight. 
 
 [He makes a mental note. And 
 slowly, slowly, the full iniquity 
 of it has sunk into Mr. Hux- 
 table. His face has gone 
 from red to white and back 
 again to red. He becomes ar- 
 ticulate and vehement. He 
 thumps the table] 
 Mr. Huxtable. Aird~-what about 
 Amglia? 
 
 Mr. State [unth conciliatory calm]. 
 Who-4 9 Ameli a? 
 
 Philip. Afterwards, Uncle. 
 Mr. Huxtable [thumping again]. 
 What-a;baat_yo«r_wife? No, I won't 
 be quiet, Phil! It's illegal. 
 
 Constantine [unth a half-cold, half- 
 kindly eye on him]. Harry ... I dis- 
 Uke to see you make yourself ridicu lous, 
 \Unly this was needed} 
 
 very flrLeong,jy[r. Sta1 
 Me. State. Is it? 
 
The Madras House 
 
 683 
 
 Mb. Huxtablb. Who cares if I'm 
 
 ridiculous? ryenot_sggkeiLtouyou for 
 
 tMrty^-Teaa-sT^ . Jiave I? That is 
 
 r . . . I've not taken more notice of you 
 
 than I oould help. And I come here 
 
 to-dajr full of forgiveness . . . and 
 
 cBsiosity^-.— .— r-to see^^Aat-you-iejieally 
 
 like now . . . and whether I've changed 
 
 my mind ... or whether I never really 
 
 felt all that about you at all . . . and 
 
 danmed if you don't go and put up a 
 
 fresh game on me ! What about 
 
 Ameha? Beligion th is time! Ma- 
 
 hommedan, ittdeed . . _. at your age! 
 
 CahT~y Du e TBf^settle down? I beg 
 
 your pardon, Mr. State. AU right, 
 
 Phil, N)f tfirwairdsJ — I!_vfi_Jiat-done . . . 
 
 but you're quite right . . ._ afterwards. 
 
 [The gust over, Mb, State, who 
 
 is a little be-blown by it at 
 
 such close quarters, says, paftly 
 
 with a peace-making intention, 
 
 partly in curiosity . . .] 
 
 Me. STATE.,:^_Jint do yaujndulge in a 
 Haremi__ 
 
 "^ [Mr. Htjxtable is on his feet, 
 righteously strepitant] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. . If you insult my 
 
 sistaJjy -ans wering that questioh . . . 
 
 1. [With a look and a gesture Con- 
 
 STANTINE can silence him. 
 
 Then with the coldest dignity he 
 
 replies . . .] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB. My household, sir, 
 is that of the ordinary Eastern gentle- 
 m aJTo f^m.v uufeiili uix : — WerdOTrof speak 
 of our women in public. 
 
 Mr. State. I'm sure I beg your 
 pardon. . 
 
 Constantinb. Not at all; It is 
 five years since I deflnilfilyLretired-^from 
 business and decide3~to consummate 
 myalFeotion for the East by settling 
 down there. This final visit to Biu:ope 
 . . . partly to see you, Mr. State . . . 
 was otherwise only to confirm my judg- 
 mefit- tm the quusliug : 
 
 Mb, State. Has it? 
 
 Gonstantine. Itias. I was always 
 outof_Elace_aa3iongst you. I was some- 
 times teiBBtfid_to-segEet-my scandalous 
 conduct . . . [A slight stir from Mr. 
 HtJXTABLE] Hush, Harry . . . hush! 
 But I never oould persuade myself to 
 amend it. It is some slight personal 
 satisfaction .to me to discover . . . 
 with a stranger's eye . . . that Europe 
 inT ts attitude tow ards^ women is mad. 
 
 "Mr. State. Mad! 
 
 Constantinb. Mad. 
 
 Thomas [who is all ears]. I say ! 
 
 Constantinb. You possibly agree 
 with me. Major Thomas. 
 
 Thomas [much taken aback]. No 
 ... I don't think so. 
 
 Constantinb. Many men do, but 
 — poor fellows — they dare not say 
 so. For instance, Mr. State, what 
 can be said of a community in which 
 five men of some ability and dignity 
 are met together to traffic in . . . 
 w;hat was the Numfiro of that aphro- 
 disiac that so particularly attracted 
 Major Thomas? 
 
 [Thomas is shocked even to violence] 
 
 Thomas. No . . . really. I pro- 
 test — 
 
 Mb. State [utterly calm]. Easy, 
 Major Thomas. Let us consider the 
 accusation philosophically. [Then with 
 the- S'weetesf~ smile] SlirBly that is a 
 gross construction to put on the in- 
 stinct of every beautiful woman to 
 adorn herself. 
 
 Constantinb. Why gross? I de- 
 light in^^etty womenLiJrettily adorned. 
 To comehome after a day's work to 
 the^ welcome of one'i.jvQmeEfolk . . . 
 to find them linharassed by notions of 
 business or politics . . . ready to re- 
 fresh one's spirit by attuning it to the 
 gentler, sweeter side of life . . . 
 
 Thomas [milking hearty atonement]. 
 Oh! Quite so . . . quite so. 
 
 Constantinb. I 'ffitJngtt_you would 
 agree w^^ me, M ajor 'Thomas. That 
 is the MatoimnEaaJf gentleman's do- 
 mestic ideal. 
 
 Thoua-s [brought up short]. Is it? 
 
 Constantinb. But you don't ex- 
 pect ,to-fiiui_xo]^_wife dressed like that 
 . . . the diamante and~the . . . 
 
 Thomas [mental discomfort growing on 
 him]. No . . . that was a going out 
 
 Philip [greatly enjoying this contest]. 
 Oh . . . Tommy! Tordmy! 
 
 Thomas [in tortuosity of mind — and 
 conscience]. But I tell you if my wife 
 would . . . that is, if any chap's wife" 
 will ... I mean . . ,. [Then he gets it 
 out] If a woDMia— always Jeept— herself 
 smj irt and attractive at homo thc iujai 
 maajEQuldJiaxe. no fiXBHSfi, for -gaddiag 
 
 about after other women 
 
 [Mr. Huxtablb joins the fray, 
 suddenly, snappily] 
 
 Mb. Huxtablb. She sits looking 
 after his children . . . what more does 
 he want of her? 
 
 Constantinb. Harry is a born hus- 
 band, Major Thomas. 
 
684 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. I'm not a born 
 libertine, I hope. 
 
 Thomas. Libertine be damned. 
 
 Mr. State [pacifically]. Gentlemien, 
 gentlemen ... these are abstract prop- 
 ositions. 
 
 Mr. HtTXTABLE. Gadding after 
 another man's wife, perhaps ! Though 
 I don't think you ever did that, Con- 
 stantine . . . I'll do you justice . . . 
 I donlt think^you ever di3; 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. I never did. 
 
 Philip [vnth intense mischief]. Oh, 
 Tommy, Tommy _. . . can you _say the 
 same ? 
 
 [Thomas is really flabbergasted at 
 the indecency] 
 
 Thomas. Phil, that ain't nice . . . 
 that ain't gentlemanly. And I wasn't 
 thinking of that, and you know I 
 wasn't. And ... we ain't all so un- 
 attractjve-iio^women as you are. 
 
 [Mr. State loses himself in 
 enjoyment of this repartee] 
 
 Mb. State. Ah . . . Sour Gra.pes, 
 Mr. Philip. We mustn't be personal 
 . . . but is it Sour Grapes ? 
 
 Philip [very coolly on his defence). 
 Thank you, Tommy ... I can attract 
 just the_sort_ of woman J_gant to attract. 
 But asTong as it'sTJumero Cinq, Six 
 or Sept that attracts you ; . . weU 
 ... so long will Madras Houses be 
 
 [That is the end of that little 
 breeze, and Constantine's voice 
 completes the quieting] 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Phil is a cold-blooded 
 egotist, and if women like him that is 
 their misfortime. I know his way with 
 a woman . . . coax her on to the in- 
 tellectual plane, where he thinks he can 
 better her. You have my sympathy. 
 Major Thomas. I also am as sus- 
 ceptible as Nature means a man to be 
 . . . as aU women must wish him to 
 be. And I^e«Eerred_to these going^out 
 dresses because ^^ oahdidty — T~lound 
 my5Bif~obtigBd~to-leave a_oo3iiitry_where 
 wqmenare let loose with money to 
 spendahd time to waste. Encouraged 
 to flaunt their charms on the very 
 streets . . . proud if they see the bus- 
 men wink . . . 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Not busmen. 
 
 [He is only gently deprecating now] 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Proud, my dear 
 Harry, if they see a cabman smile^ 
 
 [Mr. Huxtable looks around, 
 and then nods solemnly and 
 thoughtfully] 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Yes, it's true. I'd 
 deny it any other time, but I've been 
 thinking a bit lately . . . and the 
 things you think of once you start to 
 think ! And it's true. [But with great 
 chivalry] Only they don't know they 
 do it. They don't knowthey do it. 
 [Then a doubt occurring] TTyoli think 
 they know they do it, Phil? 
 
 Philip. Some of them suspect, 
 Uncle. . 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [his faith unspoiled]. 
 No, what I say is it's Instinct . . . 
 and we've just got to be as nice-minded 
 about it as we can. Thece-aas-Julia, 
 this summer at Weymoiith . . . that's 
 one of my daughters. "Bought herself 
 a dress . . . not one of the Numero 
 sort, of course . . . but very pretty 
 . . . orange colour, it was" . . stripea. 
 But you could see it j. inile off on the. 
 parade . . . an3 her~sistOTS- all wrth 
 their noses out of joint. I_said to 
 myself . . . Instinct . . . 
 
 [Suddenly Mr. State rescues the 
 
 Mb. State. Yes, sir . . . the 
 noblest Instinct of all . . . the Instinct 
 to Perpetuate our Race. Let us take 
 High Ground in this matter, gentlemen. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB [unstirred]. The very 
 highest, Mr.. State. If you think that 
 to t.iirn Weymniith for a, mjTntlT_avear 
 into a cockpit of haphaz ard Iqve-m aKing, 
 with all the consequence? that Trastom 
 entails, is the best way of perpetuating 
 your race . . . well, I di sagree with 
 you . . . but _iys_ a poin t of View. 
 What I ask is~wEy jyia"jnr-<rhomas 
 and myseU . . . already perhaps in a 
 creditable state of marital perpetua- 
 tion . . . should have our busy Lon- 
 don lives obsessed by . . . What is 
 this thing? ^-"^ 
 
 Philip. La beUe H616ne's new hat. 
 Father. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Now, that may be 
 ugly .... I hope I never made any- 
 thing quite so ugly myself . . . but it!| 
 attractive. 
 
 Philip [with a wry face]. No, Father^ 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Isn't it. Major . 
 Thomas ? 
 
 Thomas [honestly]. Well . . • it 
 makes you look at em when you might 
 not otherwise. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. YoS . . . it's prO- 
 
 vocative. Its intention is thai_nwie 
 of the world's work shall be donewHle 
 it's about. And when it's always about 
 I honestly confess again that I cannot 
 
The Madras House 
 
 685 
 
 do my share. It's a terrible thing to 
 
 be coptaatlj!: nnnsninns nf women. 
 
 They have their uses to the world . . . 
 as you so happily phrased it, Mr. 
 State . . . their perpetual use . . . and 
 the world's interest is best served by 
 keeping them strictly to it. Are these 
 provocative ladies [he fingers the hat 
 again] remarkable for perpetuation 
 ilQW-a-days ? . 
 
 {Once more Mb. State hursts in 
 — this time almost heart- 
 hrohenly] 
 Mh. State. I can't bear this, sir 
 ... I can't bear to take such a view 
 of life ... no man of feeling could. 
 Besides, it's Reactionary . . . you're 
 on the wrong tack. You must come 
 back to us, sir. you^a-\^us_Jo___ 
 Pleasiji'e . . . eanwejio MlFnuJPtEem"? 
 When you flnd'yourself once more 
 alnong the, Loveliness you helped us 
 to Worship, you'U change yoitt mind. 
 What was the end of that little story 
 of the Duchess? How, on the ap- 
 pointed night, attired in her Madras 
 Creation, she swept into the^ Ball r oom 
 with a frou-frou of silk skSFlrafting 
 Perfume as~S]lB~oa'ine' . -. . while her 
 younger rivals Pale before the In- 
 todeation of her Beauty, and every 
 man in the room . . . young and old 
 . . . struggles for a Glimpse ... a 
 Word ... a Look. [Once again he 
 starts to soar] A Ball room, sir . . . 
 isn't it "^"^ ^1^ ° iSw°°t " "t Flir'h t'i in 
 thVWurld?" When bright the lamps 
 shine o'er Fair Women and Brave Men. 
 Music arises with its Voluptuous Swell. 
 Soft eyes look Love to eyes which speak 
 again. And all goes Merry as a Mar- 
 riage Bell! Byron, gentlemen, taught 
 me at my mother's knee. The poet of 
 Love and Liberty . . . read in every 
 school in America. ^.-^ 
 
 [At the end of this recitation, 
 
 which Mk. Huxtable barely 
 
 refrains from applauding, CoN- 
 
 stantine goes coolly on] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB. Mr.^" State, that is 
 
 my case,_3Ch«— ^yfaola_ j)f "Sur^ ipper 
 
 class hie, which everyone with a say 
 
 in the government of the country tries 
 
 to lead ... is now run as a ball room 
 
 is run. Men swaggering before wor&en 
 
 . . . the women ogling the men. Once 
 
 a lad got some training in manliness. 
 
 But now from the very start ... ! 
 
 In yniir.^ nwn pi !ngr-i?g!;i Jv g__;;nTiirh'y . . . 
 
 ffllSBd— ed«eatioiL_. . . oh, ,myT!ear sir 
 . . . mixed education! 
 
 Mk. State. A softening influence. 
 Cohstantine [unexpectedly]. Of 
 
 course it is. And what has it sunk 
 to, moreover ... all education now- 
 a-days ? Book-learning. Because 
 
 woman's a dab at that . . . though 
 it's of quite secondary importance to 
 a man. 
 
 "Thomas [feelingly]. That's so. 
 Constantine. And moral, influence. 
 Womaij^s morality . . . the worst in 
 
 the worM: ■ — 
 
 Philip. Slave morality. 
 Constantine. Yes. Read Nietzsche 
 ... as my friend Tarleton says. [All 
 one gathers from this cryptic allusion 
 is that Mb. Huxtable, at any rate, 
 reprobates Tarleton, and, inferentially, 
 Nietzsche] At Oxford and Cambridge 
 it grows^ worse . .-.married-professors 
 . . . Newnham and Girton . . . suf- 
 frage questions . . . purity questions. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Of course, some of 
 the novels . . . 
 
 Constantine. From seventeen to 
 tb jrty-^fou r . . . the years which a man 
 should consecrate to the acquiring of 
 political virtue^. . . wherever he turns 
 he is distracted, provoked, tantalised by 
 the barefaced presence of wmnant 
 How's he to keep a clear br ain for t he 
 larger issues of life? Why do~^u 
 snjd 'ers, 1\ Tij n r T h n m a.apjaalij.iiAfifti'-wth 
 such alacrity for foreign service ? 
 
 ■-^STtcrmKS~'\mih a jump]. Good God 
 ... I never thought of that. 
 
 Constantine. What's the result? 
 Every great pubHo question ... all 
 politics, all religion, all economy is 
 being brought down to the level of 
 women's emotion. Admirable in its 
 way, . . . charming in its place! But 
 softening, sentimentalising, enervating 
 . . . lapping the world, if you let it, 
 in the nursery c ottonjvool of prettiness 
 and petttnBBS; Men don't realise how 
 far rotted by the process they are . . . 
 that's what's so fatal. We're used to a 
 whole nation's anger being vented in 
 scoldings ... or rather we're getting 
 used to the thought that it's naughty 
 to be angry at all. Justice degenerates 
 into kindness . . . that doesn't surprise 
 us. Religion is a pretty hymn tune to 
 keep us from fear of the dark. You four 
 unfortunates might own the truth just 
 for ""once . . . you needn't tell your 
 wives. 
 
 Me. State. I ainnatJaasMedr' 
 Constantine. I^ffiight have known 
 it. 
 
686 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Me. State [o little astonished]. But 
 no matter. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE [with full appreciation 
 of what he says]. Women haven't morals 
 or intellect in our_sengg_-Mthe words. 
 Thpy have ofEerlncompatible^qBalities 
 quite as important, no doubt. But 
 shut them away from public life and 
 public exhibition. It's degrading to 
 compete with them . . . it's as de- 
 grading to compete for them. Perhaps 
 we're too late already . . . but ohjmy 
 dear sentimental Sir [he addressesihe 
 pained though admiring Mr. State], 
 if we could replant the laurel—husies 
 thick enough we might yet rediscover 
 the fine manly world we are losing. 
 
 [Except Philip, who sits detached 
 and attentive, they are all rather 
 depressed by this judgment upon 
 them. Thomas recovers suffi- 
 ciently to ask . '. .] 
 Thomas. Are ymi fldvpnatiTipr pnlyfr- 
 
 CoTfSTANTiNE. That" is what it 
 should_come to. 
 
 Thomas. Well ... I call that 
 rather shocking. [Then with some hope- 
 ful interest] And is it practical? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. I did not anticipate 
 the reform in my lifetime ... so I left 
 for the East. 
 
 Philip [finely]. Xou_did_c|uite right. 
 Father. I wislL-fiscerjame-jof-yeur way 
 of thiitking~would'd«-the-same^- 
 
 [CoNSTANTiNE is ready for him] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Are y Oil p repared for 
 so much depopulation? Think of the 
 women who'd be ofiE to-morrow. 
 
 [Mr. Httxtable wakes from 
 stupefaction to say with tre- 
 mendous emphasis] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Never! 
 
 Constantine. Wrong, Harry. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. No, I'm not wrong 
 just because you say so ! You ought 
 to listen to me a bit sometimes. I 
 always listened to you. 
 
 Constantine. Bless your quick 
 temper. 
 
 [Who could resist Constantine's 
 smile . . . Well, not Hux- 
 table] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable, Oh ... go on 
 . . . tell me why I'm wrong ... I 
 daresay I am. 
 
 Const ANTiNte. Even if you have 
 Iikejd_briaging-up~~srx— daughters —and 
 not getting them married . . . how 
 have they liked it? You should have 
 drowned them at birth, Harry . . . 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. You must have 
 your joke, mustn't you? 
 
 Constantine. 'Therefore, how much 
 pleasanter for you ^-j-i-iow — -much 
 better for them ... if you'd only to 
 find one-aian~pead5^-Jor a small con- 
 sideration, to marry the lot. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable [with intense delight]. 
 Now if I was to tell my wife that she 
 wouldn't see the umour of it. 
 
 Constantine. The woman emanci- 
 pator's last ditch, Mr. State, is the 
 trust that women wiU side with him. 
 Don't make any mistake. This is a 
 serious question to them ... of health 
 and happiness . . . and sometimes of 
 bread and butter. Quite apart from 
 our customers here . . . kept women, 
 every one of them . . . 
 
 Mr. State [in some alarm]. You 
 don't say ! 
 
 Constantine [gently lifting him from 
 the little trap]. EcoiwaaicaJly. Kept 
 by their husbands ... or if they live 
 on their dividends, kept by Society. 
 
 Philip. What about men who live 
 on their dividends? 
 
 Me. State. No . . . now don't let 
 us go on to politics. 
 
 Constantine. . . . And apart from 
 the prisoners in that chaste little fortress 
 on Denmark Hill ... we used to 
 
 employ, Ha^y, betweea^ u&^ . . . 
 
 what ? . . . two or threehundjfidJEee^ 
 and independeat— women .~rT making" 
 clothes for the others , the ladies. 
 They are^liTTree — as—^Bu hke . . . » 
 free to go . . . free to starve. How 
 much do they rejoice in their freedom 
 to earn their living by ruining their 
 health and stifling their instincts? 
 Answer me, Harry, you monster of 
 good-natured wickedness. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. What's that? 
 
 Constantine. You keep an indus- 
 trial seraglio. 
 
 Me. Huxtable. A what? 
 
 Constantine. What^aa_ia__your 
 RobeEts_ and Huxt aSeTvjita >""■'■"' a^ 
 iadiigtry:?- Do you know that it would 
 sicken with horror a good Mahomme- 
 dan? You buy these girls in the open 
 market . . . you keep them under look 
 and key . . . 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. I do? 
 
 Constantine. Quite right, Harry, 
 no harm done. [Then his voice sinks 
 to the utmost seriousness] But you coin 
 your ;proflts out of them by putting 
 on exhibilLon_£a£_tenJiours a day . . . 
 theiifgood looks, their good manners, 
 
The Madras House 
 
 687 
 
 th eir w omanhood. Hired out it is to 
 an^-sSSngeFT5~lioM-~as- cheap for a few 
 ininutes__aa— isommon-— deoeiioy allows. 
 And ■v^henTyou've worn them out you 
 turoJibiem— a-u-t . . . forget their very 
 names . . . wouldn't know their faces 
 if you met them selling matches at 
 your door. For such treatment of 
 potential motherhood, my Prophet con- 
 demns a man to Sell. 
 
 Mb. Htjxtable [breathless with amaze- 
 ment]. Well, I never did in all my 
 Ijom days ! They can marry respect- 
 ably, can't they? We like em to 
 marry. 
 
 Philip. Yes, Uncle ... I went into 
 that question with_Miss_Zales_and the 
 BrigstaEkaJi!i§_mOTning. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE Icompleting his case]. 
 I ask you all . . . what is to happen 
 to you as a nation? Where are your 
 future generations coming from? What 
 with the well-kept women you flatter 
 and SBstheticise till they won't give you 
 children, and the free women you work 
 at market rates till they can't give you 
 children . . . 
 
 Mb. Htjxtable [half-humorously 
 sulky]. Miss Yates has obliged us, 
 anyhow. 
 
 Philip [quickly capping hijm]-. — And 
 we'r6.geiag' lu dismiss-her. 
 , [Mh. Htjxtable flashes again into 
 
 ' protestation] 
 
 Mb. Htjxtable. What else can we 
 do? Bijt I said you w eren't to be 
 hardonJJie gSi; And I'Won't be upset 
 like this. I want to take things as I 
 find eni, ,^ . . that-ls ^as I U sed to find 
 em . . . before there was any of these 
 ideas going around . . . and I'm sure 
 we were happier without em. Stifling 
 their instincts . . . it's a horrid way 
 to talk. And I don't believe it. I 
 could send for every girl in the shop, 
 and not one of em, would hint at it to 
 me. [He has triumphed with himself 
 so far, but his new-born intellectual 
 conscience brings him down] Not that 
 that proves anything, does it? I'm a 
 fool. It's ~a. beastly world. But I 
 don't make it so, do I ? 
 
 Philip. Who does? 
 
 Me. Huxtable. Other people. 
 [Philip's eye is on him] Oh, I see it 
 coming. You're going -to— say^ we're 
 all thejither_people-es-something. I'm 
 getting up to you. 
 
 . CoNSTANTiNE [very carefully]. What 
 IS this about a Miss Yates? 
 
 Philip. A little bother down at 
 
 Peckham. I can teU you afterwards 
 if you like. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No . . . there is no 
 need. 
 
 [Something in the tone of this last 
 makes Philip look up quickly. 
 But Mb. State, with a sudden 
 tftSUgK[rTias~yirir'dived for his 
 inn.tf,h^^Md^th.<>.n, at the, sight 
 of it, gets up from the table] 
 
 Mb. State. Gentlemen, are you 
 aware of the time? I may mention 
 that I -hajie— a— City— appointment at 
 fouiPo'elock. 
 
 ConstantiWe [polite, but leisurely]. 
 Are we detaining you,_Mr, — Stete? 
 Not universal or compulsory polygamy, 
 Major Thomas. That would be non- 
 sense. The very distribution of the 
 sexes forbids it. But its -recognition 
 is _ one of the logical outcomes of the 
 aristocratic method of government. 
 And that's the only ultimate method 
 . . ,. all others are interim plans for 
 sifting out various aristocracies. The 
 community of the future will specialise 
 its functions. Women will find, I 
 hope, some intellectual companions like 
 my son, who wiU, besides, take a gentle 
 interest jn the C ount y Cou ncil. There 
 will be angle-hearted menT like Harry, 
 content with old-fashioned domesticity. 
 There will be poets like you, Mr. State, 
 to dream about women and to dress 
 them . . . their bodies in silks and 
 their virtues in phrases. But there 
 must also be such men as Major Thomas 
 
 and myself . . . ^ 
 
 [Thomas rises, yet again, to this 
 piece of chaff] 
 
 Thomas. No, no! I'm not like 
 that . . . not in the least. Because 
 a fellow has bee n in the Army ! Don't 
 drag me^S: ~~ 
 
 Mb. State. As stimulating a con- 
 versation as I remember. A little 
 hard to follow at times . . . but worth 
 faT more than the sacriflce of any mere 
 business doings. ^-^ — 1 — 
 
 [CoNSTANTiNE takes the hint gra- 
 ciously, and is apt for business 
 at once] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. My fault ! Shall we 
 agree,_Mr;Statei_to_jiCS5ept--aiS-jitUGh- of 
 your oBa^^ you haye no intentionjaf 
 altering^ — Ws^g6~aealing for boTETffle 
 shops? ~~ ^ 
 
 Mb. State. Yes. What are we 
 proposing to knock off theirj^aluatiop, 
 Major Thomas? 
 
 Thomas. Eight thousand six hundred. 
 
688 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Phil, what were we 
 prepared to come down? 
 
 Philip. "^ Ntoejhousand. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. T~~very creditable 
 margin. Your offer is acce pted. Mr. 
 
 State. ' — ■^^ ■ ^ ^ 
 
 [Mb. State feels he must really 
 play up to such magnificent con- 
 ducting of business] 
 
 Me. State. I should prefer to 
 knockjou^dow n only e ight-thjmsand. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE [keeping the advantage]. 
 Isn't that merely romantic of you, Mr. 
 State . . . not in the-,..hest _.form of 
 business .artj' 
 
 Thomas. But the conditions, you 
 know? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. We aocept your 
 conditions. If they_won't work you'll 
 be only anxious to alter lEiem. So the 
 business is done. ■■- ■ 
 
 [Mr. Htjxtable's eyes are wide] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. But lookjigre. 
 
 Philip. Uncle HarryJia^^something 
 to say . . . 
 
 Mr. Htjxtablb [assertively]. Yes. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Something differr 
 ent to say, Harry? 
 
 Mh. Huxtable [after thinking it over]. 
 No. 
 
 [So CoNSTANTiNE returns happily 
 to his subject] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. What interests me 
 about this Woman Question . . . now 
 that I've settled my personal share in 
 it ... is to wonder how Europe, ham=, 
 pered by such an unsolved problem, 
 can hope to stand up against the Ori«ataL 
 revival. 
 
 Thomas. What's that? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. You'U hear of it 
 shortly. Up from the P^™iBr-g«lf_to 
 where I live we could gr ow enough 
 wheat tS'Tged — the British — Empire; 
 Life there is simple and spaejflus . . . 
 the air is not breathed out. All we 
 want is a happy, hardy race of men, 
 ar^d under a decent .gavOTnment we 
 shaft— soon -bE^et-TtT' But you Euro- 
 peans ! Is this the symbol you are 
 marching to the future under ? [He has 
 found again, and lifts up, la Belle 
 HMkne's new hat] A cap of slavery ! 
 "Yxra: are-- all~idoiateES_-Q£_j5CQB£n. • ■ • 
 and they are the slaves of your idolatry. 
 
 Mr. State [with undisguised admiror- 
 tion]. Mr. Madras, I am proud _to 
 have met you again. If I say another 
 word, I may be so interested, in your 
 reply that I shall miss my appoint- 
 ment. My coat? Thank you, Mr. 
 
 Phihp. I have to meet a man about 
 a new system of country house drainage 
 that— he- wants- me to finance. I can 
 hardly hope for another Transcendental 
 Discussion upon that. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Why not? 
 Mr. State. If you were he ! Good- 
 bye, sir. Good-day, Mr. Huxtable. 
 TiU to-morrow. Major Thomas. No, 
 Mr. Philip, don't see me down. 
 
 [He'~i's off~~for his next deal. 
 Philip civilly takes him past 
 the door, saying . . .] 
 Philip. Your car's at the Bond 
 Street entrance,,! expect. 
 
 [And then he comes back. CoN- 
 stantine is keeping half a 
 friendly eye on Huxtable, who 
 fidgets under it. Thomas takes 
 breath and expounds a grievance] 
 Thomas. That'sJujwhesettles busi- 
 ness. ButJeaves us all the papersjp 
 do_. ,I-shaILtak©SBiiaeio™*k The four- 
 thirty gets me indoors by a quarter to 
 six. Timft_ -for a, p.up nf tea! Phil, 
 have you got China tea ? 
 Philip. Downstairs. 
 Mr. Huxtable. I must be getting 
 back,_.I_think. 
 
 XloNSTANTiNE. Harry . . . you're 
 runniag-away from me. 
 
 Mb. Huxtable [in frank amused 
 confession]. Yes ... I was. Habit, 
 y'know . . . habit. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE [with the most friendly 
 condescension]. Suppnsp. J ftn wj^Vi y"" 
 . . . part of the way. Hoar-da you goT 
 Mr. Huxtable. On a bus. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. SuppOSe WO gO tO- 
 
 ge^^_j. . ■ on a bus. '^ 
 
 jHrTIIuxtable {desperately cunning]. 
 It's all right . . . they won't see me 
 with you. We don't close tiU siven. 
 
 [CoNSTANTiNE's face sours] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. No, tO be SUTO. EhiJ, 
 I c an't come to d inner, T'Tp afra.id. 
 
 Philip: Uh, 1 wals going to teU you. 
 Mother will be there. Tommy, you 
 know the tea room. 
 
 Thomas [all tact]. Oh, quite! ' 
 
 Philip. Straight downstairs, first 
 to the left and the second passage. 
 I'U foUow. 
 
 [Thomas departs. Constantinb 
 says, indifferently . . .] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Then I'U cnm e in 
 af ter dinn er. 
 
 Philip. You don't jiind ? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No7~ 
 
 [There stands Mr. Huxtable, 
 first on one foot and then on 
 
The Madras House 
 
 689 
 
 the other, desperately nervous. 
 CoNSTANTiNE Smiling at him. 
 Philip cannot resist it. ' He 
 
 Philip. It's afterwards jow. Uncle. 
 Fire away. . 
 
 ~ [2nd is off. CONSTANTINE still 
 
 smiles. Poor Mr. Huxtable 
 makes a desperate effort to do 
 the proper thing by this repro- 
 bate. He forms his face into a 
 frown. It's no use; an answer- 
 ing smile will come. He sur- 
 renders] 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. T,nnTr here, . . . 
 fln n't let's talk about Am elia. 
 
 Const antine. No . . . never rake 
 up the past. 
 
 Mb. Hitxtablb. Lord ! What else 
 lias a chap got to think of ? 
 
 Constantine. That's why you look 
 so old. 
 
 Me. Htjxtable. Do I, now? 
 
 Constantine. What age are you ? 
 
 Mb. Huxtable. Sixty. 
 
 [The two sit down together] 
 
 Constantine. You should come and 
 sta « yith TnR- a±-HJi^. . . not far from 
 HiUel ,._-.-— HiHeLiaJBabylon, Harry. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [curious]. What's it 
 like there ? 
 
 Constantine. The house is white, 
 and there are palm trees about it . . . 
 and not far off flows the Euphrates. 
 
 Me. Huxtable. Just like in the 
 Bible. [His face is udstful] Constan- 
 tine. 
 
 Constantine. Yes, Harry. 
 
 Me. Huxtable. You've said odder 
 things this afternoon than I've ever 
 keard you s^ before. 
 
 Constantine. 'Probably not. 
 
 Me. Huxtable [wondering]. And I 
 iaven^tjraallyminded em. But I be- 
 lieve it's the nfsn±m«-4Ve- ever under- 
 s tood y_2 a— .-. and -p^aps—thatls^ just 
 aSVellTor me. 
 
 Constantine [encouragingly]. Oh 
 . . . why, Hajiy? 
 
 Me. Huxtable. Because . . . 
 d'youuthink-itla_ Qnly not bein g, very 
 clever keeps us . . . weU befiaved? 
 
 Constantine. Has it kept you 
 happy? 
 
 Me. Huxtable [impatient at the 
 petty word]. Anyone can be happy. 
 What worries meT^TJaj dngL^got-te-my 
 age am only just beginning "to under- 
 stand~~ajiythiiig-at-afl:: — AHd-yorcan't 
 learn it out of books, oldjnan. Books 
 don't teE you the trutET . .at least 
 
 not any that I can find. I wonder if 
 I'd been a bit of a- dog4ike you . . . ? 
 But fEOTe it IS . . . you can't do 
 things on purpose. And what's more, 
 don't you go to think I'd have done 
 them if I could . . . knowing them to 
 be wrong. [Then comes a discovery] 
 Bu t I was always jealous of you, Con- 
 
 starrrrJnfi, tnr ymi spArriflrl i.n (rat. t.Vin 
 
 best -of— o va r a'thMi.^-^— . and I know 
 people couldn't help being fond of 
 you ... for I was fond of you my- 
 self, whatever you did. That was odd 
 to start with. And now here we axe, 
 both of us old chaps . . . 
 
 Constantine [as he throws hack his 
 head]. I am not old. 
 
 Me. Huxtable [with sudden mis- 
 giving]. You don't repent, do you? 
 
 Constantine. What of? 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Katherine said this 
 morning that you might have . . . 
 but I wasn't afraid of that. [Now he 
 wags his head wisely] You know . . . 
 vo u evil-doers . . . vou upset us all, 
 
 anrl yfjrihiTW;jT^r'T^1iTig;g, a.Tid nf eourse 
 
 you ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
 But . . . well . . . it's like the only 
 time I went abroad. I was sick going 
 ... I was orribly uncomfortable . . . 
 I ated the cooking ... I was sick 
 coming back. But I wouldn't have 
 missed it. . . ! 
 
 Constantine [in affectionate good 
 fellowship]'. — eDffleJo_Ajabiar-Harry. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable \hurfwrously pathetic 
 about it]. Don't you make game of 
 me. My time's over. What have I 
 done with it,. now? Majriedv- Brought 
 up a family. Been master to a few 
 hundred girls and fellows who never 
 really cared a bit for me. I've been 
 made a convenience of . . . that's my 
 life. That's where I envy you. You've 
 had your own way . . . and you doji't 
 look now as if you'd be damned for it, 
 either. 
 
 Constantine [in gentlemanly der- 
 fiance], I sha'n't be. 
 
 [Mr. Huxtable shakes a fist, 
 somewhat, though unconsciously, 
 in the direction of the ceiling] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. It's not fair, and 
 I don't care who hears me say so. 
 
 Constantine. Suppose we shout it 
 from the top of the bus. 
 
 [As they start, Mr. Huxtable 
 returns to his mundane, r&- 
 sponsible self] 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. But you know, old 
 man . . . you'E excuse me, I'm sure 
 
690 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 . . . ancj it's all very well having 
 
 theories-J555_being able to talk . . . 
 still, y ou di d treat Amelia very badly 
 . . . and tfio^se other ones, too . . . 
 say what you Uke! Let go my arm, 
 wilL j-ou ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Why ? 
 
 Mr. Huxtablb [his scruples less 
 strong than the soft touch of Constan- 
 tine's hand]. Well, p'raps you needn't. 
 [A thought strikes him] Are you reaUy 
 going awav f or pood thi s time? 
 CoNSTANTiNB. To-morrow. 
 Mr. Htjxtable [beaming on him]. 
 Then come home and see mother and 
 the girls. 
 
 [Major Thomas comes back, 
 looking about him] 
 Thomas. Excuse me . . . LlefLmy 
 hat. ~ 
 
 ^~-Constantine. It will make them 
 ve ry uncomf flrtable. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable [his smile fading]. 
 D'you think so? Won't it do em 
 good . . . b roaden thei r minds? 
 [Philip comes Sack, too] 
 Mr. Huxtable. PMl . . . shall I 
 take your father ome to call? 
 Thilip [after drte^gasp at the prospect, 
 says with great cheerfulness . . .] Cer- 
 tainly. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. I 'll be wJt h you by 
 
 _nine,,Phil. '. 
 
 [Mr. Huxtable's dare-devil heart 
 fails once more] 
 Mb. Huxtable. I say . . . better 
 not be too friendly through the shop. 
 [CoNSTANTiNE Smiles still, but 
 does not loose his arm. Off 
 they go] 
 Thomas [still searching]. Where the 
 devil did I put it ? 
 
 Philip. Pity you ca nlt-take-tathCT-'s 
 pl a,nR a.t dinner.. TnmTnv T 
 
 ['Thomas stops and looks at him 
 aggrievedly] 
 Thomas. Are you chafBng-^ie?- 
 Philip. We might get some-iurther 
 light on the Woman Question. My 
 nMth^B — opiuiuu — aad— Jessioa!s upon 
 such men as you and my father. 
 
 [He picks up some papers and sits 
 to them at the table] 
 Thomas. Look here, Phil . . . don't 
 you aggravate me into^hehasiagu'ashly. 
 Here it is. 
 
 [He has found his hat on a gas- 
 bracket — and he slams it on] 
 Philip. With Jessica? 
 Thomas [vnth ferocious gallantry]. 
 Yes ... a damned attractijcejsamiaiu 
 
 Philip. After all ... as an ab- 
 straet^proposttion, Tommy . . . poly- 
 andky is just as simple a way . . . and 
 as far as we know, as much Nature's 
 way as the other. We ought to have 
 put that point to the gentle. Mahomme- 
 dan. 
 
 Thomas [after vainly considering this 
 for a moment]. Phil, X'sEoiitd Uke to 
 see__youin love with a w oman . . . 
 It'd servisySti-Hgirt; ' 
 
 [Suddenly Philip drops his mock- 
 ing tone and his face grows 
 gentle and grave] 
 
 Philip. Tommy . . . what's the 
 purjinse of i Vail? Apar t from the 
 sentimental wallowings of Mr. Eustace 
 Perrin State . . . and putting that 
 Lord of Creation, my father, on one 
 side for a moment . . . what do we 
 slow-breeding, civilisedpgQiiLe get out 
 of love ,. . 7~ahd~the beauty of women 
 . . . and the artistic setting that beauty 
 demands ? For which we do pay rather 
 a big price, you know, Tommy. What 
 do we get for it ? 
 
 TffOMAS [utterly at sea]. I don't 
 know. 
 
 Philip. It's an important question. 
 Think itjjver in the train. 
 
 ThomasT "Did l3hap ... I beg your 
 pardon . . . the County ^£!£)ua«il-js the 
 best place for you. Jt'U, stop— 5^)ur 
 addhng over theSe^lly conundrums. 
 
 Philip [subtly]. On the contrary. 
 
 Thomas [his favourite phrase again]. 
 What do you mean? 
 
 Philip. Get out . . . you'll miss 
 that four-thirty. 
 
 [Thomas gets out. Philip gels 
 desperately to loathed business] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Philip, his mother, and Jessica, are 
 sitting, after dinner, round the 
 drawing^oom fire in Phillimore 
 Gardens. Jessica, rather, is away 
 upon the bench of her long, black 
 piano, sorting bound books of music, 
 and the firelight hardly reaches her. 
 But it flickers_ over Mrs. Madras, 
 and though it marks more deeply 
 the little bitter lines on her face, it 
 leaves a glow there in recompense. 
 She sits, poor, anxious old lady, 
 gazing, not into the fire, but at the 
 shining copper-fender, her hands on 
 her lap, as usual. Every now and 
 
The Madras House 
 
 691 
 
 ihen she lifts her head to listen. 
 Philip is comfortable upon the sofa 
 
 , opposite; he is smoking, and is 
 deep, besides, in some weighty 
 volume, the Longman Edition of 
 
 ' the Minority Report of the Poor 
 Law Commission, perhaps. 
 
 It is u charming room. The walls are 
 grey, the paint is a darker grey. 
 The curtains to the two long windows 
 are of the gentlest pink brocade; the 
 lights that hang on plain little 
 brackets from the walls are a soft 
 pink, too, and there is no other 
 
 jj colour, in the room, but the maziness 
 of some Persian rugs on the floor 
 
 if. and the mellowed brilliancy of the 
 
 '... Arundel prints on the walls. There 
 is no more furniture than there 
 need be ; there is not more light than 
 there need be; yet it is not empty or 
 ' dreary. There is just nothing to 
 jar, nothing to prevent a sensitive 
 soul finding rest there. 
 
 [The parlour maid comes in; she is 
 dressed in grey, too, capless, some 
 black ribbons about her. {Really, 
 Jessica's home inclines to be a 
 little precious .') She brings letters, 
 one for Jessica, two for Philip, 
 
 I and departs] 
 
 Philip. Last-«ost. 
 
 Jessica. HaH-pait nine. I suppose 
 
 Philip. He said so. 
 Mrs. Madras. Is your letter in- 
 ternstingt Joaoioa? 
 Jessica. A receipt. 
 Mas. Madras. DQ_jQmun bills? 
 Jessica. Lots. 
 
 Mks. Madras. Is that quite wise? 
 Jessica. Thfr-t-radesmen prefer it. 
 [With that she walks to her writing 
 table. Jessica's manner to her 
 mother-in-law is over-courteous, 
 "' an unkind weapon against which 
 
 the old lady, but half conscious 
 of it, is quite defenceless. 
 Philip has opened his second 
 letter, and whistles, at its con^ 
 tents, a bar of a tune that is in 
 his head] 
 Jessica. What's the matterjJ^lL? 
 [To emphasise hisfSetmgsTie per- 
 forms the second bar with 
 ' variations] 
 Jessica. As bad as thaj.? 
 
 [For final carflmenfhe brings the 
 matter to a full close on one 
 
 prevanca- 
 
 expressive note, and puts the 
 letter away. Jessica flicks at 
 him amusedly] 
 Mrs. Madras. How absurd ! You 
 oan'ttelL in 4he-least- what -h« means. 
 Jessica. No. 
 
 [With forced patience she wanders 
 back to her piano] 
 Mrs. Madras. You might play us 
 something, Jessica . . . just -to — pass 
 thljEfme. 
 
 [Unobserved, Jessica casts her 
 eyes up to the ceiling] 
 Jessica. What will you have? 
 Mrs. Madras. I ain^ure you play 
 alLliliaJatest things. '" 
 
 Jessica."^ Tm afraid you don't really 
 likfi..my playing. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. I do think it's a 
 little professional. _I prefer something 
 softer. 
 
 [Jessica leaves the piano] 
 Jessica. I'm afraid we are giving 
 you a dull evening. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [with that suddenness 
 which seems to characterise the Hux- 
 TABLE family]. Why do you never call 
 
 Jessica. Dofft I? 
 
 Mrs. Madras [resenting 
 tion]. You know-you^don't. 
 
 Jessica. I suppose I don't think of 
 youjustUke-that, 
 
 Mrs. Madras. What has that to do 
 with it? 
 
 Jessica [more coldly courteous than 
 ever]. Nothing . . .■ Mother. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. That's not a very 
 nice manner of giving way, either, is 
 it? 
 
 Jessica [on the edge of an outburst]. 
 It seemed to me sufficiently childish. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [parading~'a~ double 
 
 injury]. I don't know what you mean. 
 
 It's easy to be toQ_olgEerJer-^e, Jessica. 
 
 [Philip mercifully intervenes] 
 
 Philip. Mother, what do you think 
 parents gain b y in aiat ing' on rospA nt. 
 and affection from grown-up children? 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Isn't it theirr^Et? 
 
 PsiLip. But I asked what they 
 gained. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Isn't it natural? 
 When an old woman has lost her hus- 
 band, or worse, if she's to lose her 
 children, too, what has shejfift?- 
 
 Jessica [recovering a little kindness]. 
 Her womanhood. Mother. 
 
 Philip. Her old-womanhood. You 
 know, it may be a very beautiful 
 possession. 
 
692 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [The parlour maid announces "Mr. 
 Constantine Madras. ' ' There stands 
 ConstftH-feine- in the bright light of 
 the hall, more dramatically dignified 
 than ever. As he comes in, though, 
 it seems as if there was the slightest 
 strain in his charming manners. 
 He has not changed his clothes for 
 the evening. He goes straight to 
 Jessica, and it seems that he 
 has_ a_ curious soft way of shaking 
 hands with women] 
 
 Constantine. How do you do, 
 Jessica? Tfind^ynu. loajgsg beautiful. 
 [Jessica acknowledges the compli- 
 ment with a little disdainful 
 bend of the head and leaves 
 him, then with a glance at 
 Philip leaves the room. Con- 
 stantine comes towards his 
 wife. She does not look up, 
 but her face wrinkles pathetic- 
 ally. So he speaks at last] 
 Constantine. — W^ir-Amelia? 
 
 [For Mrs. Madras it must be 
 resentment or tears, or both. 
 Resentment comes first] 
 Mrs. Madras. Is that the way to 
 speak to me af t6r-4liict3J_yea£s ? 
 
 Constantine [amicably]. Perhaps it 
 isn't. But there's not much variety of 
 choice in greetings, js there? 
 
 [Philip, nodding to his father, 
 has edged to the door, and now 
 edges out of it] 
 Constantine. They 4eave_ jis__alone. 
 We_migh t b e an engagfid-^ooaplB.-^^ 
 
 [She stays silent, distressfully 
 
 avoiding his eye. He takes a 
 
 chair and sits by her. He 
 
 would say (as Jessica no 
 
 doubt would say of herself) that 
 
 he speaks kindly to her] 
 
 Constantine. Well, Amelia? I 
 
 beg your pardon. I repeat myself, 
 
 and you dislike tite-^phraae. — I— hope, 
 
 though, that-yaTTare-ttuilejffiell ? Don't 
 
 cry, dear Amelia . . . unless, of course, 
 
 you want to cry. Well, then . . . cry. 
 
 And, when you've finished crying . . 
 
 there's no hurry . . . you shall teU-me^ 
 
 why you wished-tcsee-uM-'. . . and run 
 
 the risk of upsetting yourself like this. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [dabbing her eyes]. I 
 don't often__cry. I don't often get a 
 
 chance. ~^ 
 
 Constantine. I fear that is only 
 one way of saying that you miss me. 
 
 [The handkerchief is put away, 
 and she faces him] 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Are you really going 
 back to that_country to-morrow? 
 
 Const antineT To^Tnorrow morning. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. For good? 
 
 Constantine [with thanksgiving]. 
 Fot-ejfer. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [desperately resolute]. 
 Will you- tak©-me with you ? 
 
 [It takes Constantine just a 
 moment to recover] 
 
 Constantine. No, Amelia, I wiU 
 not 
 
 Mrs. Madras [re-acting a little 
 hysterically]. I'm sure I don't want 
 to go, andJimr^ure~tTietreFmeSnt4o 
 ask you.^But_£Ouhaven't changed a 
 bit, ConstantineT~rTTn-spitB-<rf~ your 
 beard. [Then the voice saddens and 
 almost dies away] IJhave. 
 
 Constantine. Only externally, I'm 
 sure. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Why did you ever 
 marry me? You saKigd_jnie for my 
 money; 
 
 Constantine [sighting boredom]. It 
 is so long ago. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. It isn't ... it 
 seems like yesterday. Didn't you 
 marry me for my money ? 
 
 Constantine. Partly, Amelia, 
 partly. Why did you marry me? 
 
 Mrs. Madras. I wanted to. I 
 was a fool. 
 
 Constantine [evenly still]. You were 
 a fool, perhaps, to grumble at the 
 consequence of j;ettmgwhat you waited. 
 It would Jh^ve Iseen Jnn3er "oF me, no 
 doubt, not t6~marey^you." Buf I was 
 more impetuous then, and, of course, 
 less experienced. I didn't realise you 
 never -C Quld c hange your idea of w hat 
 a gnr>d-->Mi«BaBrl —mrmt; Tip, nnr^ hnw 
 
 necgssary it -would become—that^ou 
 should. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. How dare you make 
 excuses for the way you treated me? 
 
 Constantine. There were two ex- 
 cuses. I was the first. I'm afraid 
 that you ultimately became the second. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [vnth spirit]. I only 
 stood up for my rights. 
 
 Constantine. You got them, too. 
 We separated, and there was an end 
 of it. - 
 
 Mrs. Madras. I've never been happy 
 since. -^— ____ _ 
 
 Constantine. That is nothing to 
 be proud of, my dear. 
 
 [Mrs. Madras feels the strange- 
 ness between them wearing off] 
 
 Mrs. Madras. What happened to 
 
The Madras House 
 
 693 
 
 aad her son 
 
 that 
 
 thert woman 
 
 Flora?"' 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB. The son is an en- 
 gineer . . . promises very well, his 
 employers tell me. Flora Uves at 
 Hitchin ■ ■ • quite comfortably, I have 
 
 reason to believe. 
 Mes. Madras. 
 
 She_was older than 
 
 me. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB. About the same age, 
 I think. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. You've given her 
 money? 
 
 Constantine [his eyebrows up]. Cer- 
 tainly-^ . ■ they ,g^e__both^_Broyided 
 for. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Don't you expect 
 me to be jealous ? 
 
 Constantine [with a sigh]. Still, 
 Amelia? 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Do you ever see her 
 now? ' 
 
 Constantine. I haven't seen her 
 foryears, — - 
 
 MBS. Madras. It seems to me she 
 has been just as well treated as I have 
 . . . if not bette r. 
 
 Constantine. She expected less. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. And what about the 
 others? 
 
 Constantine [his patience giving out]. 
 No, really r-it^s-tiurtzJZSasTs^ ago ... I 
 cannot fight my battles over again. 
 Please tell me what I-candoJor you 
 beyondjakiiig yjiu bacfc^th me. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [cowering to the least 
 harshness]. I didn't mean that. I 
 don't know what made me say it. 
 But itls,.,dimdful_ seeing you once 
 moi:£_aSd_b©iag-aleae-with you. 
 
 Constantine. Now, Amelia, are you 
 going to cry again ? 
 
 Mrs. Madras [setting her teeth]. No. 
 
 Constantine. That's right. 
 
 [Mrs. Madras really does pull 
 herself together, and becomes 
 intensely reasonable] 
 
 Mrs. Madras. What I really want 
 70U to do, if you pleaBe_CQiis±aiitine, 
 IS . not to go.a jJEav. I don/texpect us 
 to live_^ .tiseihei^.,,,^ . - after 'The way 
 you "have" behaved I could not consent 
 to such a thing. But somebody must 
 look .^£t;pr~you_5«ieu,-yoH~^i,pe-4IV-and, 
 TOgi's more. T don't think yr*" »iTgt.t 
 to go a nd die o utrf vouE-oj yTi nmint ry. 
 
 Constantine \meeting reason with 
 reason]. My dear ... I havetormed 
 other ties. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Will you please ex- 
 plain exactly what you mean by that? 
 
 Constantine. Lajm u Mnhom aiedan. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Nonsense ! 
 
 Constantine. Possibly you are not 
 acquainted with the Mahommedan 
 marriage laws. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. D'you mean to say 
 you!lfi_notjiiaxjifidto me? 
 
 Constantine! No . . . though it 
 was not con sidered n ecessary for me 
 to tSEetEat into account^ m conforming 
 to it .\ ". I did. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Well ... I never 
 thought you could behave any worse. 
 Why weren't you satisfied in making 
 me unhappy? H you've gone and 
 committed blasphemy as well ... I 
 don't know what's to become of you, 
 Constantine. 
 
 Constantine. Ameha, if I had been 
 a Mahommedan from the beginning 
 you mig Bb be'j ving happily with me 
 now. " " ; 
 
 Mrs. Madras. How can you say 
 such a horrible thing? Suppose it 
 WBEe_toue? 
 
 Constantine. I came from the 
 _East.r- 
 
 Mrs. Madras. You didn't. 
 
 Constantine. Let us be quite ac- 
 curate. ,M2;^t;andfather was a_Smyrna 
 Jew. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. You never knew 
 him. Your mother brought you up a 
 Baptist. 
 
 Constantine. I was an unworthy 
 
 Baptist. As Si Bapti&t I owe you 
 
 apd£gfes^ for my conduct. What does 
 tnar"^oeIlent Creed~owe me for the 
 little hells of temptation and shame 
 and remorse th^t. I„passed through' 
 because of it? 
 
 Mrs. Madras [in pathetic wonder]. 
 Did-jaai, Constantine? 
 
 Constantine. I did. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. You never told me. 
 
 Constantine [with manly pride]. I 
 shpiJd_&mk not. 
 
 jSR^nSlAbRAS. But I was longing 
 tfl have you say you were sorry, and 
 let me forgive y«u. Twice and three 
 tim es I'd hav e fOTJ^yen you . . . and 
 voti knew it.TJbnfEantiHe. 
 
 [Constantine recovers his 
 humour, his cool courtesy, 
 and his inhumanity, which 
 he had momentarily lost] 
 
 Constantine. Yes, it wasn't so 
 easy to escape your forgiveness. If 
 it^-wer«a-'t f^r— Mah«metr the- Prophet 
 of God, Amelia, I should hardly be 
 escaping it now. 
 
694 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Philip comes delicately in] 
 
 Philip. I beg pardon . . . only my 
 book. 
 
 [Which he takes from the piano] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB. Ikmit-ger-Ehil. 
 
 [So Philip joins them, and then, 
 as silence supervenes, says, with 
 obvious cheerfulness] 
 
 Philip. How are you getting on? 
 
 Mbs. Madras [her tongue released]. 
 Philip, don't be flippant. It's just as 
 your cousin Ernest said. Your father 
 has^one and pretenifid-to_marry a lot 
 of wretched' women out in that country 
 you showed me on the map, and I 
 don't know what's to be done. My 
 headjs_gQing round. 
 
 'CoNSTANTiNE. Not a lot, AmcUa. 
 
 Mbs. Madras. And if anybody had 
 told me,^ when..L-Was _a girl, at school, 
 and learning about such things in 
 History and Geography, that I should 
 ever find myself in such a situation as 
 this, I wouldn't have believed them. 
 [She piles up the agony] Constantine, 
 how are you going -to-f-aca_me Here- 
 after? Have you thought of that? 
 Wasn't our Hairiage.jiade in Heaven? 
 I must know 'what is going to happen 
 to us ... I simply must. I have 
 always prayed that you _migit__CQme 
 back to me, and— that- 1 might close 
 your eyes in death. You know I 
 have, Philip, .and I've asked you to 
 tell him so. He has no right to go 
 and do such wicked things. You're 
 mine in the, sight of God, Constantine, 
 and you can't deny it. 
 
 [Without warning, Constantine 
 loses his temper, jumps up and 
 thunders at her] 
 
 Constantine. Woman_,__^ be 
 
 silent. [Then, as in shame, he turns 
 his back on her and says in the coldest 
 voice . . .] Phihp, I h-ave-seyee al thing s 
 to taHr~oVBr--«d±h_yoUt_Suggest— to 
 .yo»t-math,sr-4hat_aha_ghQ.uld^aye us 
 alone. 
 
 Philip [protesting against both temper 
 and dignity]. I shall do nothingjif-the 
 sort. While my father's inTlngland, 
 and you^-ein-out house,.he canat least 
 txea£jbis wife Tvith-poHteness. 
 
 ISIrs. Madras [with meek satisfaction]. 
 I'd rather he didn't . . . it's only 
 laughing at me. I'U go to bpH T'd 
 much rather he lost his-teroEer. 
 
 [She gets up to go. Constan- 
 tine' s bitter voice stops her] 
 
 Constantine. Phil H hen yoj i 
 
 wer a. a bov . . . vour motherland I 
 oncejjuarreUed la youf~preserice. 
 
 Philip [in bitterness, too]. I-remem- 
 ber. 
 
 Constantine. I'm ashamed of it to 
 this day. 
 
 Mrs. Madras [quite pleasantly]. 
 Well . . . I'm sure I don't remember 
 it. What about ? 
 
 Constantine. Oh . . . this-terrible 
 
 counligii^-Exeiy-iourJ-stay-iHrit seems 
 
 to rob me lof some atom of self-respect. 
 
 [Mrs. Madras joins battle again 
 
 at this] 
 
 Mrs. Madras. Then why did you 
 come back? And why haven't you 
 been_.to_sBe_nie, before . . . or. -written 
 to 'me? 
 
 Constantine [in humorous despair]. 
 Amelia, don't aggravate me any more. 
 Go to bed, if you're going. 
 
 Mrs. Madras. I wish I'd never seen 
 you. again. 
 
 Philip. Good-night, Mother. 
 
 [Philip gets her to the door and 
 kisses her kindly. Then Con- 
 stantine says, with all the 
 meaning possible . . .] 
 
 Constantine. Good-bye, Amelia. 
 [She turns, the bright hall light 
 falling on her, looks at him 
 hatefully, makes no other reply, 
 goes. Philip comes back to 
 the fire. Al l this is bitte r to 
 him,Jogj__ECe.&y^.. hisfaiher] 
 
 Constantine. I'm sorry] Tm^ up- 
 set. I was UDse t when I cam e here. 
 
 Philip. What about? The visit to 
 Denmark Hill? 
 
 Constantine [who has apparently 
 forgotten that]. No ... I didn't go 
 there, after all. 
 
 Philip. Funked it? 
 
 Constantine [accepting the gibe]. I 
 daregay._- Once we were__gff the bus, 
 HarryJiegan-to mutter -about hurting 
 their feelings. I daresay I was funk- 
 ing, too. I told him to tell them how 
 unbendingly moral he had been with 
 me. He shed three tears as we parted. 
 
 Philip. Yes . . . my mother was 
 alone here. __Sh&^s— a disappointed 
 woman . . . peevish with iU health. 
 One has her at a disadvantage. But 
 AuMKate ^_^ . yTjveiled a.nd confident. 
 witE"six^Qrs&ted-dani^ters"tD back her ! 
 
 Co'nstantinb. You think, of course, 
 that I've always treated your mother 
 badlyX 
 
 -=HPhilip. I can't help thinking so. 
 Was it-4^hfl only way-to Jaaat her? 
 
The Madras House 
 
 695 
 
 CoNSTANTiNB. Was I meant to pass 
 the rfist^f a lifetime m aking; her forget 
 that ^e was as unhappy as people 
 who have outlived their purpose always 
 are? 
 
 Philip. Personally, I have,„J;his 
 grudge a£ainalL_jaMi_. ]iatE,_jn3L„ dear 
 father. "~£s ~the son of a- jcmarrelsome 
 marriage, T nave grown up inclined 
 
 to dishke^ mfiii sm d deapiao - . w waen. 
 
 You're so_ full of this purpose of getting 
 th6.£KcLgfi.asEaiikijj.born. Suppose you 
 thougEtalittle more of its up bringing. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. What was wrong 
 with yours? 
 
 Philip. yjadjiQJwuBje. 
 ' CoNBTANTiNE. You Spent a Sunday 
 with mejjreryjMm-th- You,Jwent-to 
 them^^LsahG^-i-eould find. 
 
 -PffiijpT Never mind how I learnt 
 Latin and Greek. Who taught me 
 that every pretty, helpless woman was 
 a man's prey . . . and how to order 
 my wife out of the room? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE [iDith o shrug]. My 
 dear boy . . . they Uke it. 
 ' Philip. Do they? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Well . . . how else 
 are you to manage them? 
 
 Philip. Father, don't you realise 
 that . . . mjlecaden-t Jjn,^nd, at least, 
 this maiiliness of yours is getting a Uttle 
 out of date . . . that you and your 
 Mad begin to look fooUsh at last? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE [vaicing the discomfort 
 that possesses him]. I daresay. Thank 
 God, I shall be quit of the eountr g^to- 
 morrow! I got her e late this evemn g 
 because I tncvelled 'tnree stations too 
 far in that Tube, sitting opposite such 
 a prfittv litt l e devil. She was so ahve 
 . jr. so crymg out ~for conquest . . . 
 she had that curve of the instep and 
 the httle trick of swinging her foot 
 that I_never could resist. How does 
 a man resist 'it7~ Yes. That's ridicu- 
 lous and ignominious and degrading. I 
 escaped from E ngland to es cape from 
 ilr"^^M~age~h«re . . . a tosse-tip^ and 
 a furtive eye. I'd have asked you— to 
 shoot me first. — ~ 
 
 Philip. Was it that upset ^ ou,? 
 
 CONSTANTI^; Mo. 
 
 [He frowns; his thoughts are 
 
 much elsewhere. There is a 
 
 moment's silence. Philip 
 
 breaks it] 
 
 Philip. Fath er, what do you know 
 
 about__^aJifi«e3Stea!3]^3r ? 
 
 [CONSTANTINE gives him a sharp 
 look; then carefully casual . . .] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. What youVe told me. 
 
 Philip. No more ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Is there- more to 
 k»ow? 
 
 ' [Philip fishes out and hands 
 
 across the letter over which he 
 whistled] 
 
 Philip. This_ias_just-_ come from 
 Miss Chancellor. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Who's she? 
 
 Philip. The housekeeper at Peck- 
 ham, w]j£uxaaMS!_acsu.sfid-,Brigstock of 
 being, the other responsible jjayty. 
 
 Constantine". Is he? 
 
 Philip. I think not. But she en- 
 clos^s_a_lettgr _shehas just had from 
 Brigstock'.s..sd^J;orS, tOfthB , effe c t— that 
 botE~an apology "and compensation is 
 due to him unless the slander is to 
 come into court. Hers faithfully, Mey- 
 rick & Hodges. 
 
 Constantine.- I don't know them. 
 
 Philip. We were all still making 
 personal remarks at 'half-past twelve 
 to-day ... so by their expedition I 
 should say they both are and are not 
 a first-class ftm. But suppose t]?e 
 whole thing is made publ ic . . . t hen 
 the qu estion of t he parentag e must be 
 clear&d lip; Miss Yates says it's no- 
 body's business but hers. That's an 
 odd idea, in which, if she chooses to 
 have it, thelaw seems, to support her. 
 [The steaSy eye and the steady 
 voice have seemed to make the 
 tension unbearable, and Philip 
 has meant them to. But he 
 hardly expected this outburst. 
 Constantine, in his own dra- 
 matically dignified way, has -a 
 fit of hysterics] 
 
 Constantine. Phil, J_aaK_theJi±tl©- 
 bagggga- wh e n ^the -shep-olosed. I in- 
 sisted-oii"il§r meeth^-ma^ You know 
 how I've always behaved over these 
 matters. No one could have been 
 kinder. But she refused money. 
 
 Philip [calling on the gods to witness 
 this occasion]. Well ... I mghtiave 
 guessed. Oh . . . your-incra^^bleueld 
 man ! 
 
 Constantine. She insulted me . . . 
 said-sheId.done:Sidth me . . . denied me 
 the right to my owii child. I'd even have 
 taken her away. But you're helpless. 
 I never felt scdfigcaded^in my life. 
 
 Philip. Serve you^ght ! 
 
 Constantine. . . . But---4he girl's 
 mad ! Think of my feelings. 'What 
 does it make of me? Did she knos 
 what she- was saying-? 
 
696 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Philip [framing his thoughts at last]. 
 Possibly not . . . but I'm thankful 
 some woniam/s_b eRn found at last to 
 put yoTT in your place. 
 
 [These parental-filial passages have 
 brought the two of them face to face, 
 strung to shouting pitch. They be- 
 come aware of it when Jessica walks 
 in^very gently] 
 
 Jessica. Your mother gone? 
 
 Philip. lQ,.bed. 
 
 Jessica [conscious of thunder]. Am 
 I intruding? I sent Phil in for his 
 book ar-wQle ago. He didii't return, 
 so I judged that he was. Perhaps I'm 
 not ? 
 
 [CoNSTANTiNE is master of him- 
 self again, though the hand 
 holding the letter which Philip 
 gave him does tremble a little 
 still] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Well . . . what does 
 Miss Chan eellor want ? 
 
 Philip. She asks myjadvice. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Dismiss~Baxter. 
 
 Philip. D'axU-jnea n Br igs tock ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Brigstock^ then." Dis- 
 miss him. 
 
 Philip. WlWit's he done to deserve 
 it? — — — — 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. He seems a nonentity 
 of a fellow, and without grit enough to 
 own u^ to JSs wife and risk his place. 
 D'yoii want to^proteot a man from the 
 consequences -of-ffiOS^IS'tT?" 
 
 Philip. Society conspires to. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Then pay him fifty 
 pouadS-toE-the-damage-taJus-siUy-Jittle 
 reputation. That'll be a just conse- 
 quence to you of sentimentahsing over 
 him. 
 
 Philip. And stick to M i§s Chan- 
 cellor? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Certainly. Thank 
 her from the firm for-nosing out such a 
 soaridal. 
 
 And what about Miss 
 
 "Philip. 
 Xates?._ 
 
 Jessica. 
 morning ? 
 
 Philip. 
 
 Jessica. 
 
 Philip. 
 
 Jessica. 
 
 The girl in_yBur_Qfflce_this- 
 
 Yes. 
 
 In the usual trouble? 
 How d'you know that? 
 By the'tOTiB-ef-year vnice. 
 CoNSTANTiNE [more slowly, more care- 
 fully, u, little resentfully]. Dismiss3Css_ 
 
 and in a year^ time find her a better 
 place . TT if you'~eair-r-r-T— in one^of 
 these new Madras Houses of State's. 
 
 He seems to pay very well. [Then 
 with a breath of relief he becomes his 
 old charming self again] Let us change 
 the subject. - How-is-Mi1drfi(i,-!legaica ? 
 
 Jessica. Growing. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. I've an appointment 
 wijh- my — solicitor ^^ to-night ... ten 
 o'clock. There wiU be two or three 
 thousand pounds to come to that 
 young ladyby Tny~will: ' I mean to 
 leSve it as a dowry .for— her-,Jnamage 
 ... its interest to be paid to her~if 
 she's a spinster at thirty . . . which 
 Heav en fo rbid. 
 
 Philip. What are you doing with 
 the rest, Father? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. There are one or 
 two . . . legacies of honour, shall I call 
 them? What remains-wiDreome to you. 
 
 Philip. Yes ■ . . 1 don't want it, 
 thank.you. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. It isn't muoh. 
 
 Philip. Take it to Hitj_that charm- 
 ing village on the bor3ers of Southern 
 Arabia. Stick it ,in_the_ ground . . . 
 let it breed more com and oil for you. 
 We've too much of it already ... it 
 breeds idleness her?. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Dear me ! 
 
 [They settle into a chat] 
 
 Jessica. We're discussing a r e d u c- 
 t i o n of our income by a few hundre ds 
 a year. 
 
 Philip. I'lturi^uang State's director- 
 ship. ^~— — ^ 
 
 Jessica. Though I'm waiting for 
 Phil to tell me where the saving's to 
 come in. 
 
 Philip. We ought to change that 
 school oLMi ldred's, for one thing. 
 
 Jessica! HohseflSB, Phil ! 
 
 Philip. My dear father, I spent a 
 day-Jh&re^witjLJi^e child, and upon 
 my word, -the -only -thing' she's being 
 taught which wiU not be a mere idle 
 ace ompUsh ment __^_jggjdening. And 
 even in tneir gardens . . . No vege- 
 tables allowed ! 
 
 Jessica. Phil, I don't mean to 
 have any nonsense with Mildred about 
 earning her hving. AccompHshed 
 women have a very good time m this 
 world . . . serious women don't. I 
 want my daughter to be happy. 
 
 Philip. If we've only enough life 
 left iQ_ha-happy--with we must keep 
 ourselves-decently poor. 
 
 [CoNSTANTiNE gets Up] 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Could you get me 
 a taxi, I wonder?- Jtt. had started 
 raining when I came. 
 
The Madras House 
 
 697 
 
 Philip. TTheje'E -he- one on the 
 stand_aBP.osite. 
 
 ■T!!oN8TANTiNE. I mustn't be too late 
 for Voysey. He makes a favour of 
 coming after hours. 
 
 Jessica. I frankly cultivate expen- 
 BivetasteSi_JL_lij£e to have "tmiigs 
 beautiSr around me. I don't know 
 what else civilisation means. 
 
 Const antinb7 I am sure that Philip 
 can refuse you nothing. 
 
 Philip. ifTTdo dismiss-Jkliss^^Xiites, 
 I wgnder if I ooiJd jiait JbruJtaUy enough 
 to induce her to accept- some compensa- 
 tion. 
 
 Jessica. What for? 
 
 Philip. She won't take money from 
 
 tMa.gentleman.j., whoever he is . . . 
 
 that is, she "won't be bribed into ad- 
 mitting-her -shajoje. 
 
 Jessica. When a woman has gone 
 ■wrong mayn't it be her duty to other 
 women to own up to it? 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE [who has stood still the 
 while, stroking his beard]. If your 
 auditor^w on't pass any decent sum . 
 
 fisaue, 
 
 Philip [with a wry smile]. That 
 would be very generous of you, Father. 
 CoNSTAJiEEl gB. G ood-bye, Jessica. 
 Jessica. Good-bye. 
 CoNSTANTiNE. Philip is fortunate in 
 his marriage. 
 
 Jessica. So good of you to remind 
 him of that. 
 
 CoNSTANTiNE. You have a charming 
 home. I w on d er how much of- your 
 womanly ci^hsation it would have 
 needed to conquer me. Well ... I 
 leave you to your conversation. A 
 pleasant life to you. 
 
 [He bends over her hand as if to 
 kiss it. She takes it, as if 
 fastidiously, out of his soft 
 grasp. So he bows again and 
 leaves her] 
 ^ CoNSTANTiNB. VJc joria at eleven 
 
 o'elook to-morrow, PhiBpT' 
 
 Philip. Yes . . . I'll see you off. 
 CoNSTANTiNB. I have to do a little 
 shopping quite early. 
 Philip. Shopping! What can the 
 
 W est send the East ? 
 
 Gonstantinb: f must take back a 
 toaksJLsr^wo. 
 
 Philip. To be sure. We do the 
 sameon pur, travels. 
 
 [Pniiiip sees him through the hall 
 to the front door, hails a stray 
 cab, and is quit of him. Jes- 
 
 sica moves about as if to free 
 the air of this visitation, and 
 when Philip comes back . . .] 
 
 Jessica. Does your father usually 
 scatter cheques so generously and 
 carelessly.?_ - 
 
 Philip. Jessica, -JKfeJle I have every 
 respect for that young lady's .inde- 
 pendence . .r- 7 still two hundred pounds 
 wouJd_be_all t o the good o f the child's 
 upbringing. . . TjadT jijjy shouldn't 
 Miss-Yates keep her .secret ? 
 
 Jessica. Yes. I don't like your 
 father. And I'm sometimes afraid 
 that you're only an intellectual edition 
 of him. It's very vital, of course, to 
 go about seducing everybody to your 
 own wajr of thinking. But reaUy it's 
 not quite civihsed. You ought to 
 learn to talk about the weather. 
 
 Philip. I cannot talk about what 
 can't be helped. 
 
 [He had settled to a chair and a 
 cigarette, but on the impulse 
 he abandons both and starts 
 a lively argument instead. 
 Philip's excited arguments are 
 carried on in short dashes 
 about the room and with queer 
 un-English gestures] 
 
 Philip. And I wonder more and 
 more what the devil you aU mean by 
 civilisation. Thia—room. is_ .aivilisation. 
 Whose civilisation ? Not ours. 
 
 Jessica [in mock despair]. Oh, dear ! 
 
 Philip. Cheer up. Didn't you 
 marry me becauselthought^more of 
 Bach, than OfifenbacIT? Why^Eouldn't 
 you share a fresh set of convictions? 
 This sort of marriage is worth while, 
 you know. Even one's quarrels have 
 a certain dignity. 
 
 Jessica. Go ahead . . . bless your 
 heart. 
 
 Philip [shaking his fist at the world 
 in general]. Whitechapel High Street's 
 our cijqMsation. 
 
 Jessica. I don't know it. 
 
 Philip. Therefore you don't much 
 matter, my dear . . . any more than 
 my father did with his view of hfe as 
 a sort~of_ love-chase. [He surveys the 
 charming rbonTt'hcct is his home] Persian 
 carpet .on_the floor. Last Supper, by 
 Ghirlandajo, over the mantelpiece. The 
 sofa you're sitting on was made in a 
 forgdtten France. This is a museum. 
 And dowffair that precious school what 
 are they cultivating Mildred's mind into 
 but another museum ... of good man- 
 ners and good taste and . . [He 
 
698 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 catches Jessica's half scornful, half 
 kindly-quizzical look] Are we going 
 to have a row about this ? 
 
 Jessica. If you IdeaUsts want Mil- 
 dred to Uve in the WhiieehapjeL^Eioad 
 . make. It. aJStplace Jor her." 
 
 Philip [taking the thrust and enjoyably 
 returning it]. When she lives in it it 
 wilLJbecome ^p, Why do I give up 
 designing dresses and running a fashion 
 shop to go on the Counly "Council . . . 
 if I~cah get on ? And not to cut a fine 
 figure there, either. But to be on a 
 committee or committees. Not to talk 
 finely even then . . . Lord keep me 
 from the temptation . . . but to do 
 dull, hard work over drains ajad disin- 
 fectants'^jrd' ; . . — 
 
 Jessica. WeU . . . why, Phil? I 
 may as well know. 
 
 Philip. To save my soul aUve. 
 
 Jessica. I'm sure I hope you may. 
 But what is it we're to cultivate in poor 
 Mildred's soui? 
 
 [Philip stops in his walk, and 
 then . . .] 
 
 Philip. Why not a sense of ugUness ? 
 Have you ever really looked at a London 
 street . . . walked slowly up and down 
 it thrgoJMies-v— . carefully testing it 
 with every cultured sense? 
 
 Jessica. Yes . . . it's loathsome. 
 
 Philip. Then what have you done ? 
 
 Jessica. What can one do ? 
 
 Philip. Come home to play a sonata 
 of Beethoven! Does that drown the 
 sights and the sounds and the-smeU of 
 it? 
 
 Jessica. Yes ... it does. 
 
 Philip [in fierce revolt]. Not to me 
 . . . my Go.d- . . . not to me ! 
 
 Jessica [gently bitter]. For so many 
 women, PMl, art has to make life 
 possible. 
 
 Philip. Suppose we teach Mildred 
 to look out of the window at the hfe out- 
 side. We want to _make .that- impos- 
 sible. TSTeither Art nor Religion nor 
 good manners have made of the world 
 a place I'll go on hving in if I can help 
 it. , [He throws himself into a chair] 
 D'you remember in my young days 
 when I used to spend part of a holiday 
 lecturing on Shelley? 
 
 Jessica. Yes. 
 
 Philip. I remember once travelling 
 in the train with a poor wretch who 
 lived ... so he told me ... on what 
 margins of profit he could pick up by 
 
 Pt'l Tl d i F g rfl.thnr innnTnp fttitfn-tly between 
 
 the corn-fleld. and the baker ... or the 
 
 coal mine and the fire ... or the 
 landowner and the tenant ... I for- 
 get which. And he was weary and 
 irritable and unhealthy. And he hated 
 Jones . . . because Jones had done 
 him out of a half per cent, on two 
 hundred and fifty pounds . . . and if 
 the sum had been bigger he'd have 
 sued Mm, so he would. And the end 
 of Prometheus was running in my 
 head . . . This, like thy glory, -Tit»n, 
 is to.beGaoA.-jgreat and joyoiiH, heau- 
 tiful "andfree . . . and I thought him 
 a mean fellow. And then he told me 
 how he drea,!ied baflkruptcy, and how 
 his uncle, whoTiad been a clerk," had 
 come to the workhouse . . . and what 
 a disgrace that was. And I'm afraid 
 he was a'Uttle drunk. And I won- 
 dered whether it would be possible to 
 interest him in the q^uestion of Shelley's 
 position as a prosodist ... or whether 
 even the beauties of Prometheus would 
 comfort him at aU. But when he asked 
 me what I was going to Manchester 
 for . . . do you Im&wr^r^as ashamed 
 to telj,^m? 
 
 [There falls a little silence. Their 
 voices hardly break it] 
 
 Jessica. Yes ... a terrible world 
 ... an ugly, stupid, wasteful world. 
 A hatef-ui world ! 
 
 Philip. And yet we have to teach 
 Mil drpH wVia.t lo am-Tif^TTe^wrTrid-means. 
 Jessica. EveiL.if_it^sjjQ_unoomortaWe 
 business. Even iFit means notadding 
 her to that aristocracy of good feeling 
 and good taste . . . the very latest of 
 class distinctions. I teU you I haven't 
 come by these doubts so easily. Beau- 
 tiful sounds and sights and thoughts are 
 all of the world's heritage I care about. 
 Giving themjup JsJike-giving my ca.re- 
 fuUy created ^oul_out_ofmy keeping 
 before I die. ' — 
 
 Jessica [mth a sudden fling of her 
 hands]. And into whose? 
 
 Philip [shaking his head at the fire]. 
 I'm afraid into the keeping of every- 
 body we are at p resent tempted to 
 dislike and despise?^ For that's Public 
 Life. That's Democracy. But that's 
 the Future. [He looks across at his 
 wife half curiously] I know it's even 
 harder for you women. You put off 
 your armour for a man you love. But 
 otherwise you've your Honour and 
 Dignity and Purity ... 
 
 Jessica. Do you want a world 
 without that, either?" 
 
 Philip. I rather want to know just 
 
The Madras House 
 
 699 
 
 what the world gets by it. Those six 
 thingris_at__iaX, uncle's . . .-what do 
 we'fSnrom thenL.or they from the 
 TWffl? Little Miss Yates, now . . . 
 her transgressions may be the most 
 profitablething about her . . . 
 
 Jessica. Two wrongs don't make a 
 right. 
 
 Philip [quaintly]. They often do 
 . . . properly mixed. Of course you 
 women could serve yourselves up to 
 suAJords of creation as my father 
 qufte prpBtably, in one sense, if you 
 would. 
 
 (Jessica [her lip curling]. Thank you 
 . . . we're not cattle. 
 
 Philip. No. Then there's a price 
 to be paiiJar^ee^yemanhood, I think 
 . . . and how many of you ladies are 
 willing to pay it? Come out and be 
 oommon women among us common 
 men? [He leans towards her, and his. 
 voice deepens] Jessica, do-^aiu^eLthat 
 }t was you 'sho t that poor devil six 
 montte~~ago ? .. . that it's you who 
 are to be hanged to-mo rrow? 
 
 Jessica! 1 don't tHink I do. 
 ! Philip. That it's jrour body is being 
 
 sold on some street ibis evening ? 
 ., [She gives a little most genuine 
 
 Jessica. I hate to think about such 
 things. 
 
 PilLip [summing up]. Then there's 
 precious Uttle hope for the Kingdom 
 # Heav en upon earth. I know it 
 soundsmeW nonsense, Hytrt—I'm sure 
 it's true. If we can't love the bad as 
 well as the beautiful ... if we won't 
 share it all out now . . . fresh air and 
 art . . . and dirt and sin . . . then 
 we good and clever people are costing 
 the world too much. Our bFa4BB-eost 
 too j;miJi„ir wu duu'l ^Ivu thrill freely. 
 Your beauty costs too much if I only 
 admire it because of the ugher women 
 I see . . . even your virtue may cost 
 too much, my dear. Rags pay for 
 finery and ugUness for beauty, and sin 
 pays for virtue. Why can nothing keep 
 for long more beauty in a good man's 
 wes than the ughest thing on earth? 
 Why need no man be wiser than the 
 biggest fool on earth? Why does it 
 profit neither man nor woman to be 
 more tighteougtfaa n th o greatest sinner 
 onjaiEth? [He clenches his hands] 
 Ihese are the riddles this Sphinx of a 
 world is asking me. Your artists and 
 scholars and preachers don't answer 
 . . so I must turn my back for 
 
 a bit on artist and scholar and preacher 
 ... all three. 
 
 [Jessica looks at him as he com- 
 pletes his apologia, sympathetic, 
 ifnoTunderstanding. Then she 
 rallies him cheerfully] 
 Jessica. Meanwhile, mjr dear Phil, 
 I §lialL jot stop s ubscribing to the 
 Londo3iZBSS8!BhQny~CDncerts . . . and 
 I glTaTp °'^-p^'°*-y^n to tialfs me ■"i^fasir'n- 
 ally. 
 
 Philip [jumping back from his philor 
 sophic world]. Oh .—7-r~tharfc-— reminds 
 me . . . I've a niessage Jor.. you from 
 Tommy. 
 
 Jessica. Have jrou ? He.jsaareally 
 
 irr^aJii31g_thisniD»BaHgr~-- , 
 
 Philip. "Wemust take Tommy with 
 a-ssaose of humour. It wasn't so much 
 a message as one of those little bursts 
 of childlike confidence ... he endears 
 himself to one with them from time to 
 timeT™" 
 Jessica. About me ? 
 Philip. Yes. What it comes to is 
 this. Will you ..please not flirt .with 
 Mm any more, because he hasn't the 
 tim6, ■ a"fld~he's-'totrfOnd-bottr of me and 
 @wtfe^a"want to find himself seriously 
 inJ_ove"Tvith you. 
 
 PVoM) Philip has not said this 
 unguardedly, and Jessica knows 
 it. She'll walk into no little trap 
 set for her vanity or the like. 
 Still, it is with hardly a steady 
 voice that she says simply . . .] 
 Jessica. Thank you for the mes- 
 
 [Philip goes cheerfully on; he is 
 turning the pages of his book] 
 Philip. He doesn't at. aU -suppose 
 you are in love with him . . . seriously 
 or otherwise. 
 Jessica [steadily]. Do you? 
 Philip. JJo. 
 
 Jessica [her tone sharpening still]. 
 And is this the first time you've dis- 
 c usged me j mlh-. TomBay:_or anyone? 
 Please let it be the last. 
 
 Philip. Are you angry, Jessica ? 
 Jessica. I'm more than angry. 
 Philip. I'm sorry. 
 
 [Having kept her temper success- 
 fully, if not the sense of humour 
 which Philip warned her he was 
 appealing to, Jessica now allows 
 herself a deliberate outburst of 
 indignation] 
 Jessi ca. I d e ap i ao-mo n ; I despised 
 them wnen 1 was fifteen . . . the first 
 year I was conscious of them. I've 
 
700 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 been through many opinions since . . . 
 and I come back to despising them. 
 
 Phimp. He was afraid you wouldn't 
 be pleased- with.Jiim. But he has my 
 sympathies, Jessica. 
 
 Jessica [throwing back her head]. 
 Has he ! 
 
 Philip. Tommy is what the enter- 
 taining State called this afternoon the 
 Mean Sensual Man. 
 
 Jessica [with utter contempt]. Yes. 
 When weJre_alQae_hajdng_a jolly talk 
 about- things in general, ^e^—ail— the 
 time thinkiog- -I - want ium, .tf)„ Jdss 
 me. 
 
 Philip. While what you really want 
 is to have him wanting to kiss you but 
 never to kissjmu^ 
 
 Jessica [in protest]. No. 
 
 Philip [fixing her with a finger]. Oh, 
 yes, Jessica. 
 
 [Jessica's sense of humour returns 
 for a moment] 
 
 Jessica. Well . . I can't help it if 
 he does. 
 
 Philip. You—canT^of -course. And 
 the Mean Sensual Man calls it being 
 made a fool of. 
 
 [She puts a serious face on it 
 again; not that she can keep 
 one with Philip's twinkling at 
 her] 
 
 Jessica. I give you my word I've 
 never Jried_^tg__flirt-3Eith_JCoinmy . . . 
 exceptonpaTorltwioe .when he has been 
 boring~ine. And perhaps once or twice 
 when^ I -was-in ,the_dumps . . . and 
 there he was . . . and I was boring 
 him. I know him too well to flirt 
 with him . . . you can't flirt with a 
 man you know well. ..„But he's been 
 borings me lately, and I suppose I've 
 been a bit bored. But suppose I Have 
 been flirting with him ... I thought 
 
 he was -safe eaeug^ [That attempt 
 
 failing, there is a tack left, and on this 
 she feally manages to work herself hack 
 to indignation] And a caddish thing 
 to go speaking to you about it. 
 
 Philip. So he said ... so he said. 
 
 Jessica. Worse than caddish . . . 
 outrageous ! I never heard . of such 
 a thing . . . you shouldn't have let 
 him. 
 
 Philip. Should I have knocked him 
 down when he mentioned-ywK-Jiame ? 
 
 Jessica. Yes ... I wish you had. 
 Little savage ! 
 I can't laugh about this. 
 
 Philip. 
 Jessica. 
 I'm hurt. 
 Philip. 
 
 My dear, if you have any 
 
 sense at all, yguiUr-ask him to dinner 
 and chaff hTm about jt .^ . . before me. 
 
 Jessica. Have you any understand- 
 ing of what a woman feels when men 
 treat her Uke this? Degraded and 
 cheapened. 
 
 [But the high moral tone Philip 
 will not stand. He drops chaff 
 and tackles her] 
 
 Philip. I can tell you what the 
 man_Jfifila- He'U be either my father 
 or me. That's your choice. Tommy's 
 nty-^^et when youIxfi.,put on your 
 best gown to attract him, or he's me 
 when he honestly says that he'd rather 
 you wouldn't. Do you want him to 
 be me or my father? That's the first 
 question for you. 
 
 Jessica. I want a man to treat a 
 woman with courtesy an d respect. 
 
 Philip: And what does that come 
 to? My dear, don't you know that 
 the Mean Sensual Man ... no, not 
 Tommy for the moment, but say Dick 
 or Harry . . . looks on you all as 
 choice morsels . . . with your pretti- 
 nesses, your dressings up, your music 
 and art as so much sauce to his appetite. 
 Which only a mysterious thing called 
 your virtue prevents him from indulg- 
 ing . . . almost by force, if it weren't 
 for the police, Jessica. Do you Uke 
 that? 
 
 Jessica. I don't believe it. 
 
 Philip. Do you reaUy believe that 
 most men's good manners towards 
 most pretty women are anything else 
 but good manners? 
 
 Jessica. I prefer good manners to 
 yours. [Then, both fine taste and 
 sense of humour to the rescue again] 
 No . . . that's rude. 
 
 Philip [with much more affection than 
 the words convey]. I treat you as a 
 man would treat another man . . . 
 neither better nor worse. Is the oom- 
 pUment quite wastedX- 
 
 Jessica [as amazed at this unreasonable 
 world]. I waai_to_be friends with men. 
 I'd sooner be fnen^jrith them. It's 
 they who flirt with me. Why ? 
 
 Philip [incurably mischievous]. Of 
 course I've forgotten^ what you look 
 Uke, and I never notice what you have 
 on . . . but I suspect it's because 
 you're rather 4»«ja3£Sn 3 attractiic e. 
 
 Jessica. Do you want women not 
 to be? 
 
 Philip. No. 
 
 Jessica. It's perfectly sickening. 
 Of course, if I Eaff dozens of children, 
 
The Madras House 
 
 701 
 
 and grew an old woman with the last 
 one, I should be quite out of danger. 
 But we can't aU be like that . . . you 
 don't want us to be. ' 
 
 Philip [purely negative]. No. 
 
 [He leaves her free to justify her- 
 self] 
 
 Jessica. I do my share of things. 
 I makfi_a— hoaie-foF-yo*i'~ I entertain 
 your friends. It may cost your precious 
 world too much . . . my civilisation 
 . . . but you want all this done. 
 [Then with a certainly womanly reserve] 
 And Phil_,5_5_i_suEpose I'm not much 
 nicer by nature than some of you men ? 
 When I was a baby, if I'd not been 
 fastidious I should have been a sad 
 glutton. My culture . . . my civilisa- 
 tion . . . mayni't be quite up to keep- 
 ing the brilliant Tommy a decent 
 friend to me, but it has its uses. 
 
 [But Philip mearis to laugh this 
 out of court, too] 
 
 Philip. Look here, if it's only your 
 cult ure keeps you from Mssing Tommy 
 . . .""HsS niin. 
 
 rTVB?" so driven from pillar to 
 post really does exasperate her] 
 
 Jessica. Phil ... I sometimes 
 think I'd sooner_JiavB. been married 
 to your fgther . 
 
 Philip". Why? 
 
 Jessica. If you went on as he did 
 inste ad of as yo u do ... I should be 
 sorrjr ... I sBould despise you . . . 
 but it would_string_me up and add to 
 my self-respect enormously ! [Then a 
 little appealingly] But it's when you're 
 iiihiiiiiaii_Ehil . . . that -I'm ever • so 
 litfle J^ipted. 
 
 Philip [contrite at once]. I know I 
 am. [Then he gets up to stand looking 
 into the fire, and what he says is heart- 
 felt]. But I do so hate that farm-yard 
 world of sex . . ^ men -aa4 — women 
 always treating each other in this un- 
 friendly way . . . that I'm afraid it 
 hardens me a bit.- 
 
 Jessica [from her side, gently, with 
 just a look at him]. I hate it, too . . . 
 but IJianpRTi to liMge-yetrriE^il. 
 
 [They smile at each other] 
 
 Philip. Yea ^ my dear. If yo u'd 
 kiiKjlv co me ovOTjaer e . . . 1 aSbuld 
 lik6JsJa|s_xou. 
 
 Jessica. I won't. You can come 
 over to me. 
 
 Philip. WiU you meet me half 
 way? 
 
 [They meet half way, and kiss as 
 husband and wife can. Th,ey 
 
 stand together, looking into the 
 fire] 
 
 Philip. Do you know the sort of 
 world I want to live in? 
 
 *B»sTCXr Should I like it? 
 
 Philip. Hasn't Humanity- oome.-jof 
 age at last ? 
 -"Jessica. Has it? 
 
 Philip. Mayn't we hope so? Finery 
 sits so well on children. And they 
 strut and make love absurdly . . . 
 even their quarrelling is in all good 
 faith and innocence. But I don't see 
 why we men and women should not 
 find all happiness . . . and beauty, too, 
 ... in soberer purposes. And with 
 each other . . . why^jnot always some 
 toui^of the tranquil ""Understanding 
 whioE~~ts — yotirs— ftnd-THme; dear, at 
 the best of moments? 
 
 Jessica [happily]. Do you mean 
 when we some times sud denly want to 
 shakeTiairtef^^^ 
 
 Philip [happily, too]. That's it. And 
 I want an art and a culture that sha'n't 
 be just a veneer on savagery . . . but 
 it must spring in good time from the 
 happiness of a whole people. 
 
 [Jessica gives herself one little 
 shake of womanly commonsense] 
 
 Jessica. Well, what's to be done? 
 
 Philip [nobody more practical than he]. 
 I've been making suggestions. We 
 must Jearn to live on ajhousand a year 
 . . . put MiffieJ to a "sensible school 
 . . . andrX"2ii!ig,1;„ go- on -the- County 
 Cou ncil. That's how th ese-great snirit- 
 u,gl_revolutions_wo A7out in_pr aetice, 
 to^eginrwith. "^ 
 
 Jessica [as one who demands a right]. 
 Where's my sha ES-ef- the~iob ? 
 
 Phihi' iconscious of some helplessness]. 
 How is a man to tell yQ^l? There's 
 enough to choose from. 
 
 Jessica [the burden of her sex's 
 present fate upon her]. Ah, you're 
 normal. Nobody sizgs. you up as a 
 good man or a bad man . . . pretty 
 or plalii: There's a trade for bad 
 women and several professions for 
 plain ones. But I've been taught how 
 to be charming and to like dainty 
 clothes. And~ I dare say I'm excitable 
 and emotional . . but I can't help 
 it. I'm well off, married to you, I 
 know. You do make me forget I'm a 
 female occasionally. 
 
 Philip. Male and female created 
 He them . . . and left us to do the 
 rest. Men and women are a long 
 time in the making . . . aren't they? 
 
702 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Jessica [enviously]. Oh . . . you're 
 all right. 
 
 Philip [with some humble knowledge 
 of himself]. Are we? 
 
 Jessica. But I teU you, Phil, it 
 isn/t so easy for us. You don't always 
 let us have the fairest of chances, do 
 you? 
 
 Philip. No, I grant it's not easy. 
 But it's got to be done. 
 Jessica. Yes . . . 
 
 [She doesn't finish, for really there 
 is no end to the subject. But 
 for a moment or two longer, 
 happy together, they stand look- 
 ing into the fire] 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT 
 
 (1910) 
 By John Masefield 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 In his essay on Defoe, John Masefleld has written that "a man is judged by the 
 intensity and nobleness of his spiritual convictions." This criticism may very well 
 be applied to Masefleld himself. When he returned to America, in 1916, after an' 
 absence of over twenty years, having won for himself a foremost position among 
 the younger school of Bnghsh writers, we were able to judge for ourselves how 
 much the literary expression of the artist represented the spiritual fervour of the 
 man. 
 
 It may be a dangerous thing for the hterary historian to accept Taine's theory 
 so far as to detect, in casual instances, the influences of a man's life. Masefleld 
 has himself said that one can never know one's influences. But we may doubt 
 whether, if he had not gone to sea as a boy, we should have been given such an ex- 
 cellent anthology as "A Sailor's Garland." If he had remained at home, would he 
 have written such graphic sketches of the life and superstitions of the seaman as 
 mark "A Mainsail Haul"? But Masefleld did go to sea. He entrained for 
 two years, thinking that his life would be spent aboard a merchantman, and it was 
 while he was on a ship, going to America to take up a commission, that he 
 fought out with himself the problem of a future. He had reached the point where 
 he had to cast the die. During this trip, he realized that, with the promptings in 
 him to write, on the one hand, and with the training of the sea back of him, on the 
 other, should he accept the commission waiting him in America, the writing im- 
 pulse would be gone from him forever. So, strange to say, it was not John Mase- 
 fleld, the sailor, who stepped ashore on New York soil, but John Masefleld, the 
 author, up against it to such an extent that he scarcely had a sovereign in his 
 pocket. His assets were a whole suit of clothes, a sound pair of shoes, and the un- 
 quenchable spirit which still burns from the depths of his blue eyes. 
 
 If John Masefleld fulflls his destiny, his biographers of the future will picture 
 him in his red shirt on a Connecticut farm as we picture Robert Bums at the plough. 
 Abeady a Royal Academician has idealized his seamanship, after the manner of an 
 old master picturing Columbus with globes and astrolabes and far-seeing vision. 
 We might even conjecture that some poetic admirer of Masefleld, in the future, will 
 write of his experiences in the Yonkers carpet factory, in the same spirit that Hood 
 sang of the famous shirt. But we cannot prophesy how the biographers wiU ac- 
 count for the days spent in Luke O'Connor's saloon. 
 
 Masefleld struggled as tempestuously in New York as he did at sea. His chief 
 conoern was his daily bread. When the sovereign was spent, he became a frequent 
 visitor at pawn shops on Eighth Avenue and Bleecker Street, dispensing with as much 
 of his wardrobe as expediency allowed. We can imagine him wandering up and 
 down Sixth Avenue, illy clad, in search of a job. It is even hinted that he and his 
 cronies, whom he had picked up at sea, tried street singing for a livelihood. What 
 characteristics in him appealed to the bartender on Sixth Avenue, we do not 
 
 705 
 
706 Representative British Dramas 
 
 know. But it is a fact that, with his tanned face, acquired on the Connecticut 
 farm, and with his rough hands, born of rough handling of sails and ropes, 
 John Masefleld did not look like a tenderfoot when he entered the saloon of 
 Luke O'Connor. 
 
 We understand from one source that Masefield's boss declared he never at- 
 tained sufBcient dexterity to mix a cocktail. Somewhere in his writings, Masefield 
 himself declares that his duties were : 
 
 To clean the glasses which the two artists filled for the thirsty. I, who was 
 not an artist, and could not mix the subtle drinks in vogue, might only serve 
 beer and cigars. ... I had to see that the piping through which the beer ran 
 to the taps was kept packed in the ice. . . . Twice a week I had to take down 
 the electric light shades, which were of a pinky-blue porcelain, to wash them 
 carefully with soap and water. ... I slept in a garret in the hotel. 
 
 Seekers after literary influences should turn to Masefield's volume, "The Tar- 
 pauUn Muster", where there are several short stories reminiscent of this period. 
 A sympathetic description of the Hudson River appears in the sketch, "On the Pah- 
 sades", which points to the way in which Masefield spent his spare time when he 
 was relieved from duty at the carpet factory in Yonkers. 
 
 One of the most poignant things about Masefield's experiences in New York 
 was the utter loneliness which beset him. It prompted him in after days to write 
 "Multitude and Solitude", as his experiences at sea were the foundations for "Cap- 
 tain Margaret", and such volumes as "On the Spanish Main" and "Sea Life in 
 Nelson's Time." However much, in his early years as a boy, he may have relished 
 "Percy's Reliques", he must have learned the true rhythms for his "Salt Water 
 Ballads" from the throats of the sailors themselves. He steeped himself, during 
 these early years, in the tradition and in the jargon of the sailor, with the conse- 
 quence that his "Salt Water Ballads" and his "Story of a Round-House" have to 
 carry glossaries for the better understanding of the ordinary reader. 
 
 After his return to London, John Masefield began his Hterary career. The Lon- 
 don critics, in their seizure upon the roughest lines in Masefield's work, as a meas- 
 ure of what they Hked to call his uncouthness, are forever quoting those significant 
 words of Synge wherein he is credited with having affirmed, "It may almost be 
 said that before verse can be human again, it must learn to be brutal." Because 
 a man Uke Masefield deems it worthy of his interest to treat of themes hke "The 
 Everlasting Mercy" and "The Widow in the Bye Street" ; because, in his varied, 
 though short, experience as a seaman, he may have striven to catch something of the 
 fundamental in the life of a sailor ; because of his belief that the ugliness of the world 
 has a legitimate place in the beauty of poetry — the reading public is continually 
 allowing its impression of him to be muddled ; it is forever identifying him with 
 brutaUty, irreverence, formalism, when, as a matter of fact, he is the most. gentle, 
 the most reverent, and the most precise formalist among the EngUsh poets 
 to-day. 
 
 As a poet, Masefield has widely contrasting traditions. He has been a wanderer 
 since a very small boy, with Uttle inchnation, during his earlier years, to study or 
 be academic. For he ran away from home when he was fourteen. He has Uterally 
 taken life as an open book, and he has read from life all that which is measure of his 
 soul's penetration. There is a touch of Shropshire, of Devonshire, of Hertfordshire, 
 
John MOfSefield 707 
 
 in his veins. There is a strain of all that is noble in English verse in his execution, 
 having been influenced by Chaucer and Shakespeare in his common sympathy for 
 humanity, and having from some of the noblest Bnghsh lyrics gained his facihty 
 in lyrical form. 
 
 As a workman he is not in sympathy with those loose constructionists who cover 
 up shallowness of thought and paucity of vision with a free use of slipshod form. To 
 judge by a comparison of certain poems contained in his "Salt Water Ballads", 
 and repeated in his "The Story of a Round-House", Masefield, hke Tennyson be- 
 fore him, is continually editing himself, feehng for the right word, for the simplest, 
 rather than for the most ornate form. To him writing is not a painful process, but 
 a very serious occupation. And when we hear him say that he re-wrote "Pompey 
 the Great" eleven times, though some may see in this fact an effort in the peculiar 
 style which marks the play, others truly see in it only that sensitiveness, that acute 
 ear for fine work which is a rare and unusual quahty in the writing of to-day. 
 
 Masefleld has within him the freedom of the sea, the freedom of the untram- 
 melled road ; his verse fairly tingles with the memory of them. He is a man of 
 spiritual and physical adaptability. He finds any road a splendid road. He finds 
 all men under all conditions — save those whose Ufe is being frittered, away — 
 worthy of prayer. From the time of his literary beginnings, he has been an inces- 
 sant worker, attempting every form of expression — the novel, the lyric, the narra- 
 tive poem, the drama, and now, during these war days, descriptive history. It is 
 not too much to say that in his "Dauber" he has given us one of the greatest sea 
 poems in English hterary history ; that in "The Widow in the Bye Street" he has 
 raised common clay to a poetic level, in a manner worthy of Whitman ; that in the 
 realm of the theatre he has, in "The Tragedy of Nan", given us a one-act drama 
 which has done for Enghsh country life what Synge's "Riders to the Sea" and 
 "The Shadow of the Glen" have done for the Aran Islands. If Shaw has builded 
 better than he intended in "Caesar and Cleopatra", Masefield has, in "Pompey 
 the Great", attacked the rewriting of history with as fervent a desire to apply 
 forces of the past to conditions of the priasent. 
 
 Masefleld owes his hterary beginnings to Yeats. He owes much of his attitude 
 toward art to his inspiring friendship with Synge. Outside of these men, he con- 
 fesses he does not know what his hterary influences are. He is impressed with 
 a certain theme, and he lays it by for years to come. The legend of ' ' The Faithful ' ' 
 was pondered over for many years before he made use of it. "The Tragedy of 
 Nan" and "The Campden Wonder" are as true reflections of the Ufe with which, 
 at some time or other, he has come in contact, as "The Widow in the Bye Street" 
 and "The Everlasting Mercy." 
 
 In all he does, his is a man's vision purely, but that does not prevent him from 
 showing the exquisiteness and gentleness of a woman in his work. His love poems 
 addressed to his wife are full of lyricism and tenderness. They are full of fervour. 
 His scenes between Pompey and Cornelia in "Pompey the Great" are fllled with 
 that spiritual understanding which only a man of spiritual depth can comprehend. 
 No Ufe experiences of great moment have been ignored by Masefleld ; they have al- 
 ways been interpreted by him in spiritual terms. The only poems he has written 
 since the outbreak of the Great War have been that very remarkable series of 
 Sonnets contained in his "Good Friday and Other Poems." One only has to read 
 his "Galhpoli" — for John Masefleld has been through the Dardanelles campaign 
 
708 Representative British Dramas 
 
 and has followed, as an official historian, the Battle of the Somme — to detect the 
 effect forces of war have had upon a sensitive personahty. Masefield writes 
 his war impressions with a realism that is softened by poetic feeling and by far- 
 reaching vision, — that reaUsm which bares to the bone the cruelty of the ravages 
 of sword and fire, and which is the same reaUsm one detects in the sheer little 
 tragedy of "Nan." 
 
 "Pompey the Great" is written with an attempt at realistic treatment. It has 
 a tendency to colloquiaUsm, just as Shaw's "Caesar and Cleopatra" has. It is 
 treated with the reverence of one who has been impelled to write of Pompey in the 
 spirit of friend and defender. 
 
 The sum total of Masefield's work tends toward tragedy, rather than toward 
 comedy. His style, in dramatic writing, is precise, formal, experimental in its crisp 
 manner, which in "Pompey the Great" becomes a mannerism, where punctuation 
 reduces itself to periods and q^uestion marks and exclamations. He was once 
 heard to say, "I like precise things. • I hke the form of Racine." 
 
 As a dramatist, Masefield has figured in the English renaissance represented by 
 the history of the Court Theatre under Granville Barker's management, and by the 
 repertory theatre under the guidance of Charles Frohman. His "The Tragedy of 
 Nan" and his "The Campden Wonder" were in the repertory of the former, and 
 among Frohman's ambitious schemes was to give an adequate production of "The 
 Tragedy of Pompey the Great." His work has flourished, like Synge's and Dun- 
 sany's, on the repertory idea ; and thus far he has done for the English stage only 
 that which would bring it strength rather than what would bring him material 
 success. Much more generally has he been accepted as a poet and as a novelist. 
 
 At first, "Pompey the Great" was conceived in Masefield's mind as a one-act 
 play ; but, after he had considered the subject carefully, he found that there was 
 too much to be stated, and so he turned to a longer drama. He had read Plu- 
 tarch, and had thus first been attracted to the figure of Pompey. This attraction 
 became determination when, at the end of Plutarch's Life of Pompey, he read the 
 splendid description of the closing days of Pompey' s life. This description may be 
 taken as the incentive behind the drama. He went through Caesar's Civil War, 
 Lucian's "Pharsalia", Appion's "History" ; and he read biographies in the classical 
 dictionaries. But nothing fired him more, in the determination to do justice to 
 Pompey, than his reading of Mommsen, from whom he wished to vindicate the 
 Roman Emperor. His interest in the portraits of Pompey on coins and marble 
 busts and in the people surrounding Pompey is measured by the notes which are 
 appended to his tragedy. 
 
 "Pompey the Great" has been presented many times, once by the Stage Society, 
 another time by P. R. Benson, at Stratford. There is a record of an excellent per- 
 formance given by students at Manchester. It has not been produced, thus far, in 
 America. Herbert Trench, writing of the play, as viewed upon the stage, said : 
 
 Mr. Masefie'd does not wholly succeed, perhaps because he aims at compre- 
 hending more than his theme. Portraying hasty Romans, he has an eye on 
 England, and on the more vulgar and blatant forms of Imperialism, on bureau- 
 cracy at Whitehall, on the Boer Wars, on the House of Lords. 
 
 Certainly, the democratic spirit which pervades this piece, and which beauty of 
 form and richness of imagination only make more impressive, is like the democratic 
 
John Masefield 709 
 
 force at work in the world to-day. The philosophy in it may be too contempla- 
 tive for drama in the popular sense. It may be too lofty in its historical attitude, 
 but there is nobility of character which, were an actor suflloiently large to compass 
 the part, would transcend all shortcomings in action and in moving situation. Un- 
 like "Caesar and Cleopatra", it is lacking in humour. In fact, Masefield, as poet 
 and dramatist, is lacking in humour. But what saves him from austerity and un- 
 yielding gloom are his infinite compassion and his abounding sympathy with all 
 forms of human life. 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT 
 By JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
COPTKIOHT, 1910, 1914, 
 
 Bt JOHN MASEFIELD. 
 Reprinted by permission of Mr. Masefield'a publishers, The Macmillan Com- 
 pany, New York, from "The Tragedy of Pompey the Great." 
 
TO 
 MY WIFE 
 
ARGUMENT 
 
 In the years 50 and 49 b.c, Cneius Pompeius Magnus, the head of the patrician 
 party, contested with C. Julius Csesar, the popular leader, for supreme power in 
 the State. Their jealousy led to the troubles of the Civil War, in which, after many 
 battles, Cneius Pompeius Magnus was miserably HUed. 
 
 Act I. The determination- of Pompeius to fight with his rival, then march- 
 ing upon Rome. 
 
 Act II. The triumph of Pompey's generalship at Dyrraehium. His over- 
 throw by the generals of his staff. His defeat at Pharsalia. 
 
 Act III. The death of that great ruler on the seashore of Pelusium in Egypt. 
 
PERSONS 
 
 Antistia. 
 
 Philip. 
 
 A Lute-Girl. 
 
 Cornelia. 
 
 Julia. 
 
 Q. Caecilius Metellits Pius Scipio. 
 
 Cneius Pompeius Magnus (called Pompey the Great). 
 
 Cneius Pompeius Theophanes. 
 
 Marcus Porcius Cato. 
 
 A Gaulish Lancer. 
 
 Lucius Domitius Ahbnobarbus. 
 
 CoTTA, a Centurion. 
 
 Marcus Acilius Glabrio. 
 
 Lucius Lucceius. 
 
 Lucius Afranius. 
 
 PuBnus Lbntulus Spinther. 
 
 A Ship-Captain. 
 
 A Ship-Boy. 
 
 A Mate. 
 
 A Boatswain. 
 
 Achillas Egyptian. 
 
 Lucius Septimius. 
 
 Centurions, Sentries, Soldiers, Trumpeters, Sailors. 
 
 
 Scene. 
 
 Time. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Rome. 
 
 January a.u.c. 705 (b.c. 50). 
 
 Act II. 
 
 1 Dyrraohium. 
 I Pharsalia. 
 
 July A.u.c. 706. 
 
 
 August A.u.c. 709 (June, B.C. 48). 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Pelusium. 
 
 September a.u.c 706 (Aug. b.c. 48) 
 
THE CAST FOR THE STAGE SOCIETY PRODUCTION 
 
 December, 1910 
 
 Antistia Miss Adeline Bourne 
 
 Philip Mr. Jules Shaw 
 
 Cornelia Miss Jean Sterling 
 
 JtTLiA Miss Isabel Ohmead 
 
 Q. C^ciLius Metellus Pius Scipio Mr. Lawrence Hanray 
 
 Cneius Pompeitjs Magnus Mr. Herbert Greenwood 
 
 Cneius Pompeius Theophanes . ... Mr. Tripp Edgar 
 
 Marcus Poecius Cato .... Mr. A. S. Homewood 
 
 A Gaulish Lancer .... ... Mr. H. Lawrence Leyton 
 
 Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus Mr. Grendon Bentley 
 
 PuBLius Lentulus Spinther Mr. R. Hutton 
 
 Orderly Mr. B. Cresfan 
 
 CoTTA . Mr. Guy Rathbone 
 
 Marcus Acilius Glabrio Mr. Ewan Brook 
 
 Lucius Lucceius Mr. Alfred A. Harris 
 
 Second Centurion Mr. RathmeU Wilson 
 
 Third Centurion Mr. Charles Bishop 
 
 Fourth Centurion Mr. Tom Ronald 
 
 Chantyman Mr. RathmeU Wilson 
 
 First Sailor Mr. Charles Bishop 
 
 Second Sailor Mr. Tom Ronald 
 
 A Mate Mr. H. Lawrence Leyton 
 
 A Ship-Captain Mr. Edmund .Gurney 
 
 A Ship-Boy Master Philip Tonge 
 
 Achillas Mr. Alfred A. Harris 
 
 Lucius Septimius Mr. E. Cresfan 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT 
 
 ACT I 
 
 A room in Pompet's house near Rome. 
 Walls hung with draperies of a dark 
 blue. Doors curtained. Balcony, 
 open, showing distant lights. A gong 
 and mallei. Wine, glasses, etc. 
 Papers in a casket. Lamps. 
 
 Horns without as troops pass. Antistia 
 alone, lighting lamps with a taper. 
 
 Antistia [looking towards the window]. 
 More soldiers. Blow your horns. 
 Spread your colours, ensign. Your 
 oolours'U be dust the sooner. Your 
 breath will be in the wind, a Uttle noise 
 in the night. That's what you come 
 to, soldiers. Dust, and a noise in the 
 trees. Dust, and the window rattling. 
 No more flags and horns then. [Light- 
 ing the last lamp] I wish I knew the 
 rights of it. [Settling books on table] 
 I wish Philip would come. 
 
 A Voice [without, in the balcony], 
 Pompey. 
 
 Antistia. What was that ? 
 
 The Voice. Pompey. 
 
 Antistia [frightened]. Who calls 
 Pompey ? 
 
 The Voice. Not so loud. Not so 
 loud, Pompey. 
 
 Antistia. What is it? What d' you 
 want with Pompey ? 
 
 The Voice. Phihp must tell Pom- 
 pey at once. 
 
 Antistia. What must he teU him? 
 
 The Voice. To stamp his foot at 
 once. 
 
 Antistia. To stamp his foot at 
 once? 
 
 The Voice [amid laughter]. Stamp 
 your foot, Pompey. Aha ! Ha ! Pom- 
 pey. 
 
 Antistia [going to the urindow]. What's 
 this? Who are you? 
 
 The Voice [going]. Aha ! Pompey. 
 Stamp yoiu: feet, Pompey. 
 
 Antistia [going to a door, scored]. 
 Pt%, Philip. 
 
 Philip [putting down tray]. What's 
 the matter? What's happened ? 
 
 Antistia. There was a voice. A 
 voice. Something at the window. Jeer- 
 ing Pompey. 
 
 Philip [opening vnndow]. Come out 
 of that. There's no one there now. 
 Was it a man ? 
 
 Antistia. There was no one. It 
 had a man's voice. It spoke. It 
 laughed. 
 
 Philip. It's gone. It's gone, my 
 dear. Don't. Don't. It's gone. 
 
 Antistia. They say that the dead 
 come back. To cry in the night 
 [pause] whenever bad times are com- 
 ing. Dead men's souls. They want 
 blood. Licking. Licking blood in 
 the night. Whenever Rome's in dan- 
 ger. 
 
 Philip. Hush. Hush. Don't talk 
 such things. It gives them life. What 
 was it saying? 
 
 The Voice. Stamp your foot, Pom- 
 pey. Stamp your foot, Pompey. 
 
 Antistia. Ah ! 
 
 Philip [exorcising at window, with 
 things from tray]. Wine for blood. 
 [Pours wine] Bread for flesh. [Breaks 
 bread] Salt for Ufe. [Flings salt] A 
 cloak of blue on Rome. A net of gold 
 over this house. To the desert. To 
 the night without stars. To the wastes 
 of the sea. To the two-forked flame. 
 [Returning heavily] God save my dear 
 master, Pompey. I fear there's trouble 
 coming. 
 
 Antistia [hysterically]. Ah! Ah! 
 
 Philip [pouring water]. Drink this. 
 Drink this. I'll fetch another glass. 
 
 Antistia [hysterically]. Not off that 
 tray. Not off that tray. 
 
 Philip. There. There. God save 
 us! Why, Antistia, they've no jjower. 
 
 Antistia. I see the marching of 
 armies. Dust. Dust. That is what 
 the trumpets mean. War. Civil War. 
 717 
 
718 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Pompey and Csesar. Lake eagles 
 struggling. 
 
 Philip. No. No. Don't say that. 
 You bring things to pass. 
 
 Antistia. What else could it mean ? 
 What did it mean ? 
 
 Philip [distractedly]. I don't rightly 
 know what it said. 
 
 Antistia. About stamping? About 
 Pompey stamping? 
 
 Philip. Pompey said it. In the 
 Senate yesterday. Reports came in. 
 There was a panic. The Senators were 
 at their wits' ends. News came that 
 CsBsar was marching on Rome. They 
 asked Pompey if he had an army. If 
 he could defend them. 
 
 Antistia. Is Csesar coming? 
 
 Philip. It was one of these wild 
 rumours. 
 
 Antistia. What did Pompey say? 
 
 Philip. He said if he stamped his 
 foot, soldiers would spring up aU over 
 Italy. Armies of soldiers. To drive 
 Csesar back into Gaul. 
 
 Antistia. And now he must stamp 
 his foot. Csesar's on the road with his 
 army. 
 
 Philip. It's time for the house to 
 shake when the door-posts quarrel. 
 
 [Pausing at distant tumuli] 
 
 Antistia. They're proud ones, to 
 set the world on fire so as one of them 
 may warm his hands. 
 
 Philip. Pompey's only defending 
 the State. He thinks he's a great one, 
 CsBsar does, now that he's conquered 
 Gaul. What are the Gauls? The 
 Gauls are naked heathen, with copper 
 swords like the savages. Why, Csesar 
 would never have been anybody if 
 Pompey hadn't backed him. 
 
 Antistia. That's reason enough for 
 him to fight Ponipey now. 
 
 Philip. Pompey made him what 
 he is. Pompey got him his place in 
 Gaul. He was no one before that. 
 [Pause] And now he hopes to put 
 Pompey down. So he can rule Rome 
 instead. Put my master Pompey down. 
 
 Antistia. I suppose Csesar couldn't 
 beat Pompey, Philip ? 
 
 Philip. Antistia. [Solemnly] Don't 
 you talk like that, Antistia. I believe 
 wherever Pompey goes, there goes a 
 god in front of him. Like fire. It's 
 that makes him what he is. Oh, my 
 dear beloved master. I'm that drove 
 mad, I can't hardly talk of it. That 
 he should have a civil war with Csesar. 
 And him only newly married. 
 
 Antistia. It was a civil war that 
 first made Pompey famous, Philip. 
 
 Philip. He was with SuUa, against 
 Marius. In the civil wars then. And 
 ever since then he's gone on. Just as 
 though a god went before him, brush- 
 ing a road for him. You would see 
 nothing but dangers all round. And 
 Pompey would ride up. And [he blows 
 in his hand] puff. They'd fade. They'd 
 go. [Pause] I've seen all Rome out on 
 the roofs to see my master, Pompey. 
 Triumph? There were horns blowing, 
 you couldn't hear. And forty kings 
 marching barefoot in the streets. I've 
 seen him grow to be the greatest man 
 in the world. 
 
 Antistia. Eh? The greatest man 
 in the world. And all through being 
 with Sulla in the civil war. Supposing 
 he were not great, Philip. Only a big 
 clay statue. A statue propped up by 
 sticks. A clay thing, gilded. Rats 
 gnawing at it. The wind shaking it. 
 The suil cracking it. [Pause] And 
 dead men, Philip. Dead men under- 
 neath it in the dust, fumbling at it to 
 bring it down 
 
 Philip. Antistia. 
 
 Antistia. Time brings all about, 
 they say. You spoke of Sulla, Philip. 
 I was a little girl then, when Marius 
 and Sulla fought. My father was a 
 centurion under Marius. I never told 
 you that. What do you know of me, 
 Phihp, except that I'm to marry you? 
 I was in the street outside our house, 
 and some men came across the road. 
 They patted my head and asked if my 
 father was upstairs. I said yes, Philip. 
 And they went in and brought him 
 out. Out to the door in the sun. Some 
 boys gathered to watch. I ran up to 
 him, Philip, to show him my doU. And 
 one of the men said, "We'U give you 
 Marius." He was behind my father. 
 He swung his arm right back like this, 
 to give his sword a sweep. He knocked 
 my dada down with a great hack on 
 the neck, and they all stabbed him as 
 he fell. One of the men said, "There's 
 your dada, little girl; run and tell 
 mother." And then one of the boys 
 knelt down and stole his sandals, and 
 another snatched my doll away. Time 
 brings aU about, Philip. All the Uvea 
 spilt then by Pompey and SuUa. They 
 are coming out of the night. Out of 
 Spain. Out of Rome. Out of Asia. 
 Souls have power, Philip, even in the 
 darkness, when the time comes. 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 719 
 
 Philip [awed]. What time? 
 
 Antistia. Pompey's time. There. 
 There. It's beginmng. 
 
 [Noise of a tumult. The horns 
 [■ of Soldiers] 
 
 Philip [o< window]. Some of Rome 
 seems to be burning. Pray God the 
 Senate's safe. [Pause] We shall have 
 to put off our marriage, Antistia. 
 
 Antistia. Why, thus it is. We 
 put off and put off till youth's gone, and 
 strength's gone, and beauty's gone. 
 Till two dry sticks mumble by the fire 
 together, wondering what there was in 
 ffie, when the sap ran. 
 
 Philip. I must be. with my master, 
 Antistia. 
 
 Antistia. Your master. When you 
 kiss the dry old hag, Philip, you'll re- 
 member these arms that lay wide on 
 the bed, waiting, empty. Years. 
 You'U remember this beauty. AE this 
 beauty. That would have borne you 
 sons; but for your master. [A noise 
 of a lute off] Your mistress too, per- 
 haps. Here she comes. Here comes 
 the young wife, that will have little joy 
 of her man. She with her lute girl, 
 twanging a march for her. Here she 
 comes. Open the door. 
 
 Philip. Our mistress. 
 
 [Enter, Coenblia and Julia. The 
 Servants place chairs for the ladies] 
 
 Cornelia. That will do, Antistia. 
 Philip, you may go. 
 
 [Exeunt Philip and Antistia] 
 
 Julia. But teU me. What's going 
 to happen? Is Caesar really going to 
 flght your husband, or is it only a feint 
 to get your husband out of Rome? 
 
 Cornelia. I don't know what to 
 think, JuUa. He's a danger. He's 
 got such power with the mob. He's 
 got this army in Gaul. Of course, 
 that's a very great menace. 
 
 Julia. But what are his plans? 
 What does he want ? 
 
 Cornelia. He wants to rule Rome. 
 He plans to be elected Consul. He is 
 lying in Gaul there, thinking, I think, 
 to frighten every one into electing him. 
 
 Julia. I wish you could make your 
 husband put down aU this rioting. 
 
 [Noise without] 
 
 Cornelia [going to the window]. I 
 wish my father would come in, Julia, 
 Im anxious. What has the Senate 
 decided? [She walks up and down] 
 
 Julia. That Csesar must dismiss his 
 
 army. I don't think it's anything to 
 make you anxious. How is your 
 father? What does he think? 
 
 CoBNELiA. He thinks that my hus- 
 band ought to put Csesar down with a 
 strong hand. 
 
 A Voice Without. Present arms. 
 
 Cornelia. Who's that? Come in. 
 [The door is shaken and opened 
 violently] 
 
 [Enter her father, Metellus Scipio] 
 
 Father. 
 
 Julia. We were just talking about 
 you. 
 
 Metellus. Where's your husband? 
 Is he here? Has he been here? 
 
 CoENELiA. No, father. What is it? 
 
 Metellus. Still at the House? 
 He must have had my note. Has he 
 sent round to you ? 
 
 Cornelia. No. What has hap- 
 pened ? 
 
 Metellus. I must talk to you, 
 Cornelia. 
 
 Julia [rising]. Good-bye, dear. 
 
 Metellus. No. No, Cornelia. 
 She mustn't go. You'U have to sleep 
 here, my dear girl. The streets aren't 
 safe to-night. Sit down. Please sit 
 down. We're all in the same boat. 
 [Pause] Cornelia. What's your hus- 
 band going to do ? 
 
 Cornelia. Father. But I don't 
 know. He tells me nothing. Nothing 
 at least that is not common knowledge. 
 
 Metellus. I've had letters. Caesar's 
 advancing into Italy. With all his 
 army. 
 
 Cornelia. To flght us ? To attack 
 Rome? 
 
 Metellus. Yes. It's what I always 
 feared. But I never thought the man 
 would be such a blackguard. 
 
 CoBNBLiA. Does my husband know 
 of this? 
 
 Metellus. Yes. I sent word to 
 him at the Senate to meet me here. 
 I had to ride out to the camp. Cornelia. 
 I don't understand your husband. My 
 dear girl, he's been playing with the 
 situation. I don't think you under- 
 stand even now. It means that the 
 whole of Rome is being handed over to 
 a political brigand. AU the governing 
 classes, the reUgion of our fathers, all 
 that has made Rome great. This cut- 
 throat is marching to destroy it. Some- 
 thing happened at the camp. 
 
 Cornelia. What, father? 
 
720 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Metellus. The men. The soldiers. 
 Roman soldiers. Men who had eaten 
 the bread and salt. They refused duty. 
 Romans. Bribed to that. By this up- 
 start, Caesar. 
 
 Cornelia. They will stand and see 
 Rome sacked by this outlaw. 
 
 Metellus. I must see your hus- 
 band. He's played with us. He must 
 save us. 
 
 Cornelia. There. There. He's 
 coming. There's the sentry. 
 
 A Voice Without. Attention. 
 Eyes right. 
 
 Metellus. Thank God. 
 
 A Voice Without. Present arms. 
 
 Cries. Hail! Pompey. Imperator. 
 [A trumpet blows a flourish] 
 
 A Voice Without. Company. By 
 the right. Quick. March. 
 
 [Philip enters, opening doors wide, 
 saluting, showing the fasces lining 
 the door. Enter Pompey. He 
 carries a despatch box. Metellus 
 salutes] 
 
 [Exit Philip. Doors shut] 
 
 PoMPET. Ah, Julia. Ah, CorneUa. 
 [He goes to her, and looks into her eyes] 
 Ah, beloved. [Slowly] There will be 
 always peace for me, in that calm soul. 
 [Turning wearily] I think that Sertorius 
 was right, Juha. 
 
 Julia. Why ? 
 
 Pompey. In our long Spanish wars, 
 he planned to steal away to the Fortu- 
 nate Islands. He could be quiet a little 
 there. [He goes to table dejectedly] 
 
 Metellus. You got my note? 
 
 Pompey. Yes. Yes. 
 
 [He sits like one stunned] 
 
 Metellus. Man. What are you 
 going to do? Csesar's marching oh 
 Rome with forty thousand men. 
 
 Cornelia. But you can check him. 
 You must. 
 
 Metellus. Do you understand? 
 The whole — Does the Senate know ? 
 
 Pompey [opening his despatch box]. 
 Sit down, dear. [To Cornelia] Sit 
 down. The Senate knows. There were 
 seven hundred of us in the Senate. 
 Seven hundred of the best men in Rome, 
 sitting there, at sunset, waiting. I had 
 to stand up, among them. I had to tell 
 them that one who — that a man whom 
 I — a man very dear to me — was 
 marching. With an army. Against 
 this Rome. To destroy all that that 
 great house, in generations of honour, 
 
 has built up here, of virtue, of justice, 
 of freedom, to the wonder of the world. 
 
 Metellus. Yes. Go on. Go on. 
 
 Cornelia. What are they going to 
 do? 
 
 Pompey. Many there were in the 
 pay of — that man. 
 
 Metellus. How did they take it? 
 
 Pompey. They were silent. But a 
 murmur ran through the house. They 
 moved in their chairs. Even those most 
 glad were awed. [Pause] Then Tullus, 
 a man who owes his bread to me. He 
 is in Caesar's pay now. Rose up smil- 
 ing. To ask me what troops I had for 
 the defence of Rome. 
 
 Metellus. Yes. And you, the 
 guardian of Rome, what troops have 
 you? 
 
 Pompey. I said that with the two 
 legions sent back from Gaul, and with 
 those reserves called up from the 
 country, I might have thirty thousand 
 men. 
 
 Metellus. What is all this talk 
 of you might have? Those two legions 
 are in Caesar's pay. They're in mutiny 
 at the camp. They're drawn up there. 
 Ranged under the eagles. Their 
 colonels are Caesar's, body and soul. 
 They refuse to move. As for your re- 
 serves, they're with the people. They're 
 all for Caesar. They came crowding out 
 of their tents crying. Peace! Peace! 
 ■They won't fight. You've mocked us. 
 You've tricked us. You've betrayed 
 Rome. 
 
 Pompey. So they said in the Senate. 
 Metellus. Why did you not pre- 
 pare for this? You've had months in 
 which to prepare ? 
 
 Pompey. I have prepared for it, 
 MeteUus. But I did not expect it. 
 I thought that a noble act would be 
 remembered, for more than twenty 
 years. I thought that this Rome would 
 be more to a man than a lust for power. 
 And old friendship, I thought something. 
 Metellus. I've no patience with 
 you. [He sits with twitching hands] — 
 [Starting up] Well. We know what 
 you haven't done. At least tell us what 
 you have done. 
 
 Pompey. Yes. I'll tell you, Me- 
 tellus. [Pause] When this began be- 
 tween us, I thought of my own time 
 under Sulla. I'd carried the eagles 
 into Africa. I was a young man, then. 
 I did rash things. But I was lucky. 
 I conquered Africa. Sulla sent word 
 to me then to disband my army, and 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 721 
 
 return. [To Julia and Cornelia] 
 [Pause] I resented Sulla's order. My 
 soldiers resented it. They asked me tcf 
 be their King in Africa. I obeyed Sulla. 
 I thought — if I did — it might be 
 easier — ^for the next young conqueror 
 — to obey, too. Not to cause civil war. 
 CoBNBLiA. He thought — we both 
 thought, father, that Cffisar would re- 
 member that. We had planned how aU 
 our party, all the Senate even, should 
 go out into the fields to welcome Csesar. 
 As Sulla welcomed my husband then. 
 If he came home alone. Disbanding 
 his army. That would have been a 
 triumph for Csfesar greater than any 
 Consulship. But Csesar only thinks 
 of present power. He would see the 
 glory of Rome pass rather than not see 
 that. 
 
 Pompey. I did not think that Csesar 
 would be blind to the glory of Rome 
 [going to the window]. 
 
 Metelltjs. I'll quote some other 
 words to you. Something which you 
 said once in Sicily. "What is all this 
 talk of law," you said, " to us that have 
 swords by our sides?" What? You 
 remember those words? Will you sit 
 still, and see Rome sacked? See the 
 rabble make beastly all that seven 
 centuries has made here? See their 
 filthy han(is laid — laid on these deli- 
 cate ladies? See our temples spoiled 
 that their rat-faced brats may, grow 
 up to eat free bread, and loaf and spit 
 outside the beer-shops. Pah! What 
 did the Senate say ? 
 
 Pompey. They gave me absolute 
 power here. 
 
 Metellus. What? Then send out 
 your press. Bill every able-bodied man. 
 Bill the women if the men won't come. 
 Pompey. No, Metellus. Not that. 
 Metelltjs. What then, man? 
 
 [Cornelia interposes. Speaking 
 to her husband] 
 Cornelia. It is a question now, dear 
 heart, of standing for the right. The 
 right side is always the weaker side. 
 War is terrible. It's such a loathsome 
 kind of spiritual death. But it is better 
 to have war, than to see law set aside. 
 The will of Rome must not be slighted. 
 I don't mean the popular cry. That is 
 all for Caesar now, dear. It was all for 
 you once. It will be again. I mean 
 all the burning thought of so many 
 generations of our fathers. That must 
 not be set aside for the lust of one man. 
 >It is the duty of a Roman, dear heart, 
 
 to go out under the eagles to defend 
 that burning thought, the Will of 
 Rome. Even if he goes alone. And 
 you wiU not go alone. The souls of 
 our fathers will march with you. And 
 if you die, dear one, defending what 
 they died to make, you will die as I 
 would have my lover die. 
 
 Pompey. Ah ! Cornelia. You make 
 death hard. But it would be sweet to 
 die so for you. To die. To join that 
 Senate of the old Romans ; the wise 
 ones. To bring them news of Rome 
 there. In the shadows. 
 
 Cornelia. Saying that you come 
 crowned. Having played the Roman. 
 "Having obeyed their laws." 
 
 Metellus [quickly]. Go on, girl. 
 Oh, move him, Cornelia. Goad him to 
 action. I cannot. For Rome's sake. 
 Move him. Get him out of this child's 
 mood. 
 
 Pompey. Yes. Yes. Yes. [Slowly] 
 I shall fight Csesar. [Sharply] 
 
 Metellus. Ah! [Excitedly] But 
 at once. Give him no time to win re- 
 cruits by success. Give them no time 
 here. The rabble don't hesitate. They 
 don't understand a man who hesitates. 
 Give me all the cavalry. Look. I'll 
 mount six cohorts of sUngers. I can 
 worry him with those. 
 
 Pompey. Where's the map? [He 
 quickly takes map from wall] It's the 
 effect here, not the beating of Csesar. 
 We must stiffen the towns against him. 
 Show them that they'll have to back 
 their choice with their blood. That'll 
 check his advance. 
 
 Metellus. Csesar's quick, mind. 
 He marches light, and he comes a devil 
 of a pace. [Musingly] 
 
 Pompey. You say he's got forty 
 thousand men ? Let's see your despatch. 
 Who sent it? [Taking paper] Can you 
 trust this man? 
 
 Metellus. Yes. A clever young 
 fellow. 
 
 Pompey. Young? Where's he 
 served ? 
 
 Metellus. He was on Crassus' 
 staff in Parthia. In the smash. 
 
 Pompey. I don't trust ghosts. 
 
 Metellus. Ghosts ? 
 
 Pompey. What escapes when an 
 army's destroyed like Crassus' ? [Read- 
 ing] Forty thousand men. Shrewd. 
 This is a shrewd lad, Metellus. He's 
 read a lot of- sehoolrbooks, this man. 
 Come. Forty thousand? 
 
 Metellus. Yes. 
 
722 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 PoMPEY. No. It's not possible, 
 Metellus. This is politics. Not war. 
 He's forcing our hand. His army's 
 miles away. He's rushing the frontier 
 with a few picked men. The pick of 
 his light foot, and these light Gaulish 
 lancers. It's a bold dash to put all 
 Rome in a panic. 
 
 Metellus \biting his nails]. That's 
 not what you'd have done. 
 
 PoMPEY. That's how I know I'm 
 right. [Standing] Take the cavalry. 
 Get into touch with him. Harass him. 
 Hang on to him. Worry him all the 
 time. I'll come on with all I can get. 
 
 Metellus. Take the gladiators. 
 
 PoMPET. No. This is a Roman 
 question. No paid slaves shall decide 
 Rome's fate. 
 
 Metellus. We shall be a desperate 
 lot without them. 
 
 Cornelia. The Navy. Land men 
 from the ships. 
 
 Metellus. They can't march. 
 This campaign is a race. 
 
 PoMPBY. No. No. Look. [Ex- 
 citedly] I'll send gallopers to the fleet 
 at Brindisi. I'll tell them to lash north, 
 forced rowing. They'd catch him at 
 Pisauriim. "They could cut in on his 
 left flank. So much for the attack. 
 The city here's the problem. 
 
 Metellus. Damn the city here. 
 The city's for the winner. Always. 
 
 PoMPEY [musing]. Csesar's got an 
 army in occupation here already. Now 
 to secure Rome. 
 
 Metellus [quicTdy]. The patricians. 
 Let the patricians form a Committee 
 of Public Safety. They'll settle Csesar's 
 mobs. 
 
 Cornelia. No. No. There'd be 
 massacre all over Rome. AU frightened 
 men are merciless. 
 
 Metellus. Be quiet, girl. Yes, 
 man. 
 
 PoMPET. No. That's the wild thing 
 the desperate man always does to make 
 his cause more desperate. It would 
 madden the mob against us. Our task 
 is to win the mob. 
 
 CoHNBLiA. Leave Cato in command 
 here. 
 
 Metellus. What ? 
 
 Cornelia. Let Cato raise a force 
 purely to defend Rome. Not a party 
 force at all. 
 
 PoMPEY. Yes, Cato. He stands out- 
 side parties. He has power over both. 
 
 Metellus. No, I say. Power? 
 That man with power. Bah! He re- 
 
 minds every one of grandpapa. That's 
 why he's popular. 
 
 PoMPEY. It's popularity that's 
 wanted. 
 
 Metellus. It's power that's 
 wanted. A few crucified mutineers. 
 Not Cato telling us of good King Numa. 
 
 PoMPEY [picking up the hammer of 
 his gong]. We'll send for Cato. 
 
 Metellus. No. No. 
 
 PoMPEY. Yes. 
 
 Metellus. Wait a minute. 
 
 PoMPEY. Well? 
 
 Metellus. We want a soldier 
 here. 
 
 PoMPEY. We want a man whom 
 everybody can trust. 
 
 Metellus. Cato's not firm enough. 
 
 PoMPEY. I want Rome calm, not 
 intimidated. 
 
 Metellus. I'm not going to serve 
 if that man's left behind in Rome. 
 
 PoMPEY. Oh, don't say that. What 
 are your reasons against Cato? In 
 this instance. 
 
 Metellus. How will Cato deal 
 with the mutineers in camp? 
 
 PoMPEY. Ah! There. [Pause] Yes. 
 We can't be hard on those poor fellows. 
 Try and see it as they see it. They've 
 had the choice of refusing duty or be- 
 ginning a civil war. 
 
 Metellus. A soldier's first duty is 
 obedience. 
 
 PoMPEY. Is it? I'd rather have him 
 a man first, myself. Only very good 
 soldiers mutiny. Did you never notice 
 that? 
 
 Metellus. No. Nor you. They 
 must be made examples of. 
 
 Pompey [smiling]. Come. Some 
 wine, Metellus. 
 
 Metellus [crossly]. This isn't a 
 time for wine. [He stalks up and down 
 the room] Suppose we're beaten. I tell 
 you if we're beaten you'U want more 
 than old Father Cato here. You'll 
 want a man to stamp out Caesar's 
 faction. I'd stop their smiling. By 
 the time Csesar stormed Rome he'd 
 find few of his friends left. I'd make 
 Rome so sick with blood. By. She'd 
 think no more of Csesar. 
 
 Pompey. My God ! The streets ran 
 blood. In Sulla's time. That once. 
 The carts drove over them. 
 
 Metellus. That was child's play 
 to what this will be. 
 
 Pompey. Yes. Suppose we're 
 beaten. Rome stormed. No, no, 
 never ! [He flings the map aside] No. 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 723 
 
 I'll give up Italy rather. I -will not 
 fight in Italy. Caesar's rabble shall 
 have no excuse for sacking Rome. 
 
 Metellus. What? [A pause] 
 Where will you fight him then? In 
 Spain, where your army is ? 
 
 Cornelia. Not in Spain^ 
 
 Metblltjs. Why not in Spain? 
 
 PoMPBT. No. You know the 
 proverb. Spain's a country where a 
 big army starves and a little army gets 
 beaten. I know, I've fought there. 
 And it's far from Rome, and too near 
 Gaul. No, Macedonia. We'll go over 
 with the fleet to Macedonia. There 
 are five good legions from Crassus' 
 smash in Macedonia. We'U prepare 
 an army there. 
 
 Metellus. Yes. But your friends 
 iaRome. Our party here? The Senate? 
 The Consuls? 
 
 Pompey. They must come with us 
 at once to Brindisi, where the fleet lies. 
 We'll take ship there. [Writing] I'm 
 writing to Domitius at Corflnium, to 
 join me instantly with his twenty 
 cohorts. [Musing] I wonder. : If he 
 stays, he wiU be invested. And he will 
 stay, he's as obstinate as a mule. If 
 he marches south at once we shall have 
 twenty thousand. If not, we must 
 leave him to his fate. I must abandon 
 Italy. 
 
 Metellus [slowly]. There's some- 
 thing in it. Yes. I wonder. 
 
 PoMPET. It's not so risky. Fight- 
 ing now is backing losing cards. 
 
 Metellus. We shall lose friends. 
 
 Pompey. We shall gain time. 
 
 Metellus. Let's see the map. 
 [He takes another map] I like it. Yes. 
 It's a good move. 
 
 Pompey. Csesar will attack my army 
 in Spain, first. 
 
 Metellus. Afraid of its invading 
 his dear Gaul, you mean? 
 
 Pompey. He'll have no choice in 
 the matter. He's got no ships to follow 
 us. I've got the Navy. While he's 
 building ships, I'U build an Army. If 
 he fights my generals in Spain, it will 
 be a year before he can follow me. We 
 shall have a great army by that time. 
 
 Metellus. Yes. An army, eh? 
 Macedonian phalanx, eh? We'll send 
 out a fiery sign through Macedonia. 
 All the swordsmen of the hills will come. 
 Out of Dacia, out of Thrace. Jove, 
 what an army! With Egypt at your 
 back, too. 
 
 Pompey. Yes. Egjrpt's full of my 
 
 old soldiers. We can always fall back 
 on King Ptolemy. [He becomes sad] 
 Ah, well. Ah, well. 
 
 Cornelia. What is it? 
 
 Pompey [quickly]. Nothing. [He 
 rises] I was thinMng of all tms king^ 
 Hness wandering in little wild Greek 
 towns. 
 
 Cobnelia. The kingly mind always 
 lives in a kingly city. 
 
 Pompey [eagerly]. Ah! Who said 
 that? 
 
 Cornelia. You said it. 
 
 Pompey. Ah. Where's the fire that 
 scatters those sparks? Why doesn't it 
 burn in us always ? 
 
 Metellus [excitedly]. It's burning 
 now. Look here. Listen. Look here. 
 Your idea of Macedonia. Splendid! 
 Caesar won't foUow. [Slapping the table] 
 He'll be afraid. Part the world between 
 you. Let Caesar keep the West. You 
 be King in the East. Build up another 
 Rome in Athens. With you in the East, 
 we could do what Alexander did. We 
 could 
 
 Pompey. No more ambitions, Me- 
 tellus. You see where ambition leads. 
 
 Metellus [flushed]. You wait till 
 you see those Dacians. Big, black, 
 clean-limbed fellows, JuUa, with swords 
 and steel shields. They charge Uke 
 cavalry. [He fills wine] 
 
 Pompey. So, Macedonia. 
 
 Metellus. Yes, Macedonia. 
 
 Cornelia. When? 
 
 Pompey. Now, dear. 
 
 Cornelia. To-night? 
 
 Pompey. It doesn't give you much 
 time. It will be hard for you to leave 
 all your pretty things behind. 
 
 Cornelia. I was thinking about 
 your night's rest. Life is book and 
 picture to me. All that is Rome to us 
 comes with us. 
 
 Metellus. Well then [rolling up 
 the map with a click], boot and saddle. 
 
 Pompey. Take what men you have, 
 Metellus. And press ' post horses. 
 You'll want my orders though. 
 
 [He strikes the gong] 
 
 [Enter Philip] 
 
 Philip. Sir. 
 
 Pompey. Ask Theophanes to speak 
 to me a moment. [Exit Philip] 
 
 Metellus. That Greek writer-fel- 
 low. I don't know how you stand that 
 man. 
 
724 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Enter Theophanes, who bows and is 
 saluted] 
 
 PoMPBT. Sit down. [He takes papers 
 from despatch box] We're going to 
 JVEaoedonia. We take ship at Brindisi. 
 These orders to our party. Have them 
 filled in and sent round. 
 
 Theophanes. Yes. But you won't 
 want them. 
 
 PoMPBY. You mean that — Wliat 
 do you mean? 
 
 Theophanes. I mean, you won't 
 want them. Caesar's at Cremona. He's 
 not marching on Rome. He's en- 
 camped in his own province. It was a 
 false alarm. 
 
 All. What? 
 
 PoMPEY. How do you know that? 
 
 Theophanes. Labienus has just 
 come in. Cssar's right-hand man. 
 I've been talking to him. Csesar's 
 sending messengers with new proposals 
 to you. He's not marching on Rome. 
 
 Metellxts. So we go on again. 
 
 PoMPEY. What are the new pro- 
 posals? Does he know? 
 
 Theophanes [shrugging his shoulders]. 
 His men are beginning to shrink, I sup- 
 pose, now that it comes to the touch. 
 I don't blame 'em. 
 
 Julia. Do you think it's an excuse 
 to gain time? 
 
 Cornelia. Ah, no, Julia. Let us 
 give Cffisar credit for a little nobleness. 
 
 Metelltjs. Pah ! He was in Cati- 
 line's conspiracy. It was proved be- 
 yond a doubt. WeU, Pompey. What 
 are you going to do ? 
 
 PoMPBY. It is very wonderful. I 
 must see Cato. [Going] ■ 
 
 Metellus. The lath and plaster 
 Spartan. Why ? 
 
 Theophanes. He's here. 
 
 [Cato, in black robes, enters. He stands 
 with arms folded, looking at them 
 all] 
 
 Mbtellus. Well, sir? 
 
 Pompey. Yes, Cato? 
 
 Cornelia. You've heard? Won't 
 you sit down? 
 
 Cato. So this is the family party. 
 Well, Pompey. Now I see the drags 
 that hinder your honesty. [To Julia] 
 You. The critic. You with neither art 
 nor brain. Thinking you show both 
 by condemning them in others. 
 
 Julia. Do you show art and brain 
 by condemning me ? 
 
 Cato. Look into your heart, woman. 
 [To Mbtellus] You, sir. The 
 General. A tailor and a love affair 
 made you a General. Not war. War 
 doesn't make your kind. But you long 
 for war. You would shriek your 
 country into war, any day, sir. So 
 that humble brave men might make 
 pickings for you. Invitations. Gold. 
 What you call love affairs. Fame. 
 [To Theophanes, while Mbtellus 
 looks him up and down] I don't know 
 you, sir. 
 
 Theophanes. A contributor to 
 Time's waste-paper basket. 
 
 Cato. Ah ! [To Pompey] And you, 
 the misohief-maker, the genius. WeU, 
 which of us was right, Pompey? 
 
 Pompey. You were right. But I 
 have acted more friendly than Gsesar. 
 
 Cato. You have made the mischief. 
 Can you unmake it? 
 
 Pompey. Can you unmake it? 
 
 Cato. I? I am going into Sicily. 
 You forget. I am Governor there. 
 
 Cornelia. But now. In this mo- 
 ment of truce. Surely it can be reme- 
 died? 
 
 Cato. Yes. At a price. 
 
 PoMEEY. How? 
 
 Cato. You must go alone, on foot, 
 to Csesar. 
 
 Pompey. Never. 
 
 Cato. And tell him that you come 
 to save Rome from civil war. That a 
 man's pride is a little thing to that. 
 And that so you have put by your 
 greatness. 
 
 Cornelia. Ah ! Ah ! 
 
 [She watches Pompey's face. All 
 turn to Pompey] 
 
 Pompey. No. I have been a King 
 here. I have been like God here. 
 Kings have come to me on their knees. 
 Caesar. Caesar's. I made Caesar by a 
 stroke of my pen. No. Ah., no. 
 
 Cato. Caesar would be shamed to 
 tears, Pompey. Would not that victory 
 content you? 
 
 Pompey. I cannot. No, I cannot. 
 
 Cato. Not to save Rome, Pompey? 
 
 Pompey. No. I should be a mock. 
 No. No. 
 
 Cornelia. You would be a fire, 
 Pompey, for aU time. All the lamps 
 of the world would be kindled at that 
 nobleness. 
 
 Pompey. You wish it, too, dear 
 heart? 
 
 Cornelia [softly]. I wish it. 
 
 Pompey [looking round]. To a young 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 725 
 
 man. Whom I have made. Oh, Cato, 
 Cato! Is kindness to a friend only a 
 bitter form of suicide ? [He fumbles at 
 the clasp of his purple] Very well, I will 
 go, Marcus. 
 
 [He slings his purple aside] 
 Cato. I thought you were Pompey 
 the Little. I wronged you. 
 Mbtelltjs. [To Theophanes] So. 
 
 [They exchange glances] 
 Pompey. Old man. Old man. 
 
 [A noise without. Cries. A sen- 
 try calls "Halt." Struggling. 
 Shouts of "Stand back." "Let 
 me in." The spears rattle. The 
 door is shaken] 
 Theophanes [opening door]. What's 
 this? [Pause] Let him in, Sentry. 
 
 I 
 [Enter filthy Horseman, dust to the eyes, 
 tottering. The door is left open, 
 showing Soldiers] 
 
 Metblltts. One of Caesar's lancers. 
 
 Theophanes. A deserter, eh? 
 
 The Man [gasping]. Which of you 
 is the lord ? 
 
 PoupsY [pouring wine for him]. lam 
 he. Drink this. Take your time. 
 What is it? 
 
 The Man [spilling his drink like a 
 man half dead of thirst]. Caesar ! Caesar ! 
 I escaped last night. Caesar ! 
 
 Cornelia. What? 
 ' The Man. He's crossed the Rubi- 
 con. With aU his army. Marching on 
 Rome. Be here in two days. 
 
 [A pause] 
 
 Pompey [resuming his purple]. That 
 settles it. There can be no treaty now. 
 
 Cornelia. So war has begun. 
 
 Pompey [sadly]. There it is. Only it 
 is more terrible now. More terrible 
 than it was. [Turning to go] It must 
 be war now to the end. 
 
 Metblltjs [picking up the orders 
 from the tahle and slapping them to com- 
 mand attention]. And now. To Brin- 
 disi. [He walks briskly towards the door, 
 ivi halts opposite Cato, at whom he glares. 
 Pompey and Cornelia halt to watch 
 hirn] Well, sir. My Conscript Father. 
 Will you crawl before Csesar now, sir? 
 It is long since a Roman bade his King 
 to hok the dust before a traitor. You 
 and your kind may sue to such. Rome 
 puts other thoughts into our hearts. 
 
 Cato. There are two Romes, Me- 
 tellus. One built of brick by hodsmen. 
 But the Rome I serve glimmers in the 
 uplifted Ireart. It is a court for the 
 
 calm gods. That Rome. Let me not 
 shame that city. Advance the eagles. 
 A Voice Without. Present arms. 
 
 [A trumpet blows a blast] 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene First. — Staff-officer's tent at 
 Durazzo. Walls of plain canvas. 
 Canvas door running on rings at back. 
 Smaller canvas door at back. Table 
 and camp-chairs. Everything bare 
 and severe. Domitius, Lentulus, 
 Theophanes, at the table. 
 
 Domitius. So it goes on. And Spain 
 is lost. Look at this position here. 
 Caesar has shut us in here like so many 
 sheep in a pen. Has Pompey no pride? 
 Or has he grown besotted? ■ 
 
 Theophanes. Flaocus is raiding 
 Csesar's lines this morning. He will 
 attack them in three places. And 
 break them. 
 
 Domitius [fiercely]. Flaccus is a boy. 
 A whole year wasted, and half the em- 
 pire lost. 
 
 [Enter Pompey hurriedly. They salute] 
 
 Pompey. Good morning. I have 
 called you all together to tell you of 
 the loss of my Spanish army, lately 
 commanded by Afranius. We had ex- 
 pected victory, from Afranius' letters. 
 But we are soldiers. We know what 
 Fortune is in war. We are not mer- 
 chants, to cast him for failing. 
 
 Domitius. We have given up Italy, 
 and thrown away Spain. Africa is in- 
 vaded and Sicily taken. We have given 
 up and drawn back everywhere. And 
 why? That we might come here to be 
 cooped up by an army half our size. 
 I want to know why? We all want to 
 know why. 
 
 Pompey. I remember Sulla sajdng 
 that he could make an army love him 
 by talking to the privates occasionally. 
 But that no amount of talking would 
 make his generals love his ideas. Be 
 content. And bide my time. 
 
 Lentulus. Magnus. I am not given 
 to criticism ; but this biding time is 
 ruin. We are losing allies; we aro 
 losing Rome. Rome looked to you to 
 crush this upstart. Instead of that you 
 
726 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 have let a rebellion grow into a civil war. 
 You have watched your adherents 
 stamped out piecemeal. You have 
 done nothing. 
 
 PoMPEY. Wait. 
 
 DoMiTius. We have waited for a 
 year. 
 
 PoMPET. I ask you to wait a Uttle 
 longer. 
 
 Lenttjlus. Magnus, while we wait, 
 the rabble is stamping out aristocracy 
 throughout the world. [He rises] 
 
 PoMPEY. Sit down, Lentulus. I tell 
 you to wait. The war is in my hands. 
 
 DoMiTius. War is in the hands of 
 the man who strikes. [He thrusts aside 
 the lesser door] There. Among the 
 crags there. By the pine-clump. In 
 that great red heap like an iron mine. 
 That is CsBsar's camp. I've been out 
 there night after night, worming over 
 rooks and down gullies, keeping my 
 course by the stars, so that, when a 
 chance came, I could take an army into 
 that camp blindfold. I've a map here. 
 [Throws down a paper] Those red dots 
 are the sentries. Each dot was made 
 at the risk of my heart's blood. I've 
 grovelled in the earth before aU those 
 sentries, prajang for the moon to go in, 
 while they talked of their love-affairs. 
 I've seen the sergeant coming his 
 rounds with a lantern, and shut my 
 eyes lest they should gleam, and be- 
 tray me. I could take that camp with 
 two legions in the blackest night of the 
 year. This war is breaking the world 
 in two. And you send Flaeous with a 
 corporal's guard to pull down a hundred 
 yards of paling. Justify that, before 
 you tell me to wait. 
 
 PoMPEY. Flaccus is fighting the 
 decisive battle of the war. 
 
 LENTtTLTTS. This is trifling. 
 
 [He rises and moves away] 
 
 DoMiTiirs. The decisive. I will tell 
 you what a decisive battle is. I took 
 part in one for you at Massilia three 
 months ago. At the end of that siege, 
 there was no city. There were no 
 people. Only some deathsheads dying 
 of plague, and a few madmen on the 
 walls. And outside, there were towers 
 flinging fires at us, and slings flinging 
 rocks at us, and miles of army coming 
 up to the sack. That was a decisive 
 battle. 
 
 PoMPEY. Domitius, when a man 
 thinks fixedly of anything, desiring it 
 with his whole nature, he creates a 
 strong pitiless devil. 
 
 Domitius, you are given up to a devil. 
 A devil of lust for battle. You are 
 fiercer than a devil, for when there is 
 no enemy you fight your friends, and 
 when there are no friends you fight 
 yourself. And when you have torn 
 yourself bloody you fight ideas, not 
 because you understand them, and hate 
 them, but because when you are not 
 fighting you are nothing. I fear you, 
 Domitius. A man's friends are those 
 who understand his ideas, and\ advance 
 them. You are Caesar's friend, Domi- 
 tius. 
 
 Domitius [intensely]. You killed my 
 brother, when you were a young man. 
 For that, I swore to tear your heart 
 out. You dined with me once, twenty 
 years ago. You will not remember. I 
 put my hand upon your shoulder. I had 
 a knife in my other hand. I could have 
 stabbed you to the heart. And there 
 you would have died, Magnus, before 
 my old Marian friends. But I saw that 
 you were a better man than my brother. 
 Something you said. I saw that you 
 were what Rome wanted. [Pause] 
 
 [Fiercely] You know better than to 
 call me Caesar's friend. I've made 
 Caesar rock in his seat. 
 
 PoMPBY. You axe Caesar's friend. 
 Your heart beats pulse for pulse with 
 Caesar's heart. You malign me because 
 my hands are not red from butchery hke 
 his. And at this moment, while you 
 malign me, Flaccus is ending the war. 
 Take no more thought of the war. The 
 war is over. 
 
 [The Generals draw to one side 
 and talk apart for a moment] 
 
 PoMPEY. Rome is the problem now. 
 You would do well to think of- Rome. 
 This is the seventh democratic rising 
 since my boyhood. Seven desperate 
 attempts to change in fifty years. 
 Does that teach you nothing? 
 
 Lentulus. Theophanes. 
 
 Domitius. Yes. 
 
 Theophanes. Magnus. 
 
 PoMPBY. I offered a broken and 
 distracted Italy. He took it. A tur- 
 bulent, useless Spain. He took it. I 
 have flung down half a useless world, 
 and he has gorged it and come on into 
 the trap. I am camped in plenty, with 
 six fleets ruUng the seas. Caesar is 
 trenched in mud, living on roots. Be- 
 sieging me, you call it? He has dug 
 thirty miles of works. He has not 
 enough men to guard ten miles. His 
 men are exhausted and starving. He 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 727 
 
 stays in those wcM:ks during my pleas- 
 ure; no longer. He cannot force me 
 to battle.. He cannot raid my lines. 
 He cannot go back to Rome. 
 
 And I, with on'e slight thrust, am 
 tumbling him into ruin. 
 
 [Enter an Orderly with a despatch. 
 He gives it to Pompey] 
 
 Lenttjlus. From Flacous ? 
 
 DoMiTius. You are of the Fifth? 
 
 Obdbrly. From Titus Puloio, my 
 lord. 
 
 Pompey. Very well. 
 
 Orderly. Have you any orders, 
 my lord ? 
 
 Pompey. No orders. Acknowledge. 
 [Exit Orderly, saluting] 
 
 Thbophanbs. Is it important? 
 
 Pompey. Read it. 
 
 Theophanes [reading]. From Titus 
 Puleio, legate, fifth legion, to Head- 
 quarters: "The attack under Valerius 
 Flaeeus has been repulsed with heavy 
 Iqss. The survivors have fallen back 
 upon the old works, south of the river, 
 where desperate fighting is now going 
 on. I am marching with what I have. 
 The enemy is in force. Stragglers re- 
 port position hopeless." 
 
 DoMiTius. These thrusting youths 
 want a lesson. Now, Magnus. Justify 
 your plan, now. 
 
 Pompey. Wait. 
 
 Lentulus. Wait? While our right 
 flank is being rolled up? [Coldly] 
 
 Pompey. It would take Caesar two 
 days to bring up enough troops to 
 crush our right. 
 
 DoMiTius. Surely you will smash 
 this attacking force. 
 
 Pompey. I am fighting with the 
 thought of Rome before me. I will 
 not march back to Rome over corpses, 
 m the Sulla fashion. 
 
 DoMiTius. At least you will march 
 ba«k over those whom we took last 
 night. I killed those. 
 
 Pompey. You killed those men? 
 
 DoMiTius. They were rebels, I tell 
 you. Traitors. 
 
 Pompey. I will judge traitors. 
 
 DoMiTiTTs. They were my own de- 
 serters. Dogs. I will serve all traitors 
 so. And I tell you this. 
 
 Pompey. Not a word. You dis- 
 grace our cause, Domitius. [Pause, 
 and change of voice] I may win this 
 ^ar. Or this [showing his gold eagle- 
 aasp] may pay a camp-trull yonder. 
 
 But whether I win or go down, my men 
 shall bear themselves nobly. Those on 
 my side must act like knights of the 
 bodyguard of God. See to it. 
 
 [Enter Chief CENTtrBioN Cotta, 
 battered] 
 
 CoTTA. I report the death of com- 
 mander Flaccus, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. Killed? 
 
 CoTTA. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Domitius. That is what happens in 
 skirmishing. Nothing is done, and the 
 good man gets kiUed. 
 
 CoTTA. We were beaten back, my 
 lord ; the surprise failed. 
 
 Pompey. Yes? Well? 
 
 CoTTA. We rushed their wall, tore 
 up their pahsades, and set fire to two 
 of the turrets. Then they surrounded 
 us. I should think they had two 
 legions on to us. We had to cut our 
 way home. 
 
 Pompey. And your commander? 
 
 CoTTA. He was killed in the thick, 
 my lord. After our storm, we were 
 driven back on to the palisades. The 
 pales were all on fire, all along the line, 
 burning hard. I looked one minute, 
 and saw him backed right up against 
 the fiames, with a dozen Thracians. 
 They had a whole troop of lancers stab- 
 bing at them. I got within a few paces 
 of him, trying to bring him off, but the 
 flre balls burst so thick one couldn't 
 see. My men were being cut to pieces, 
 the cavalry was cutting in on our rear, 
 and there came a rush of spearmen 
 which swept me off the rampart. I 
 saw his body falling back into the fire, 
 all lit up. But we could never get near 
 the place again. They cut us to pieces 
 down on the flat. They killed eight 
 hundred of us. 
 
 Lentulus. A severe repulse. 
 
 Domitius. Wasted. Wasted hves. 
 Utterly useless, wicked waste. 
 
 Pompey. And then? What hap- 
 pened then? 
 
 CoTTA. They drove us back into 
 the old works by the river. Over the 
 outer waE into the ditch. [Pause] We 
 were penned up in the ditch like beasts 
 in a slaughter-house. They swarmed up 
 above us on the wall, pelting us. We 
 were below them, grinding in the mud, 
 huddled like sheep. Men will , always 
 huddle when they have no room to use 
 their shields. It was so fierce, that I 
 thought our men would break. But we 
 
728 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 could not break. We were shut in. 
 We were so pushed together that the 
 dead oould not fall. And being pressed 
 man to man gave us a kind of courage. 
 I got up on a heap where the wall had 
 fallen. I wanted to see. I could see 
 all a wave of red plumes where Caesar's 
 Gauls were pressing up, calling to their 
 horses. Arr. Arr. There was a roar 
 everywhere like ice breaking up in the 
 spring. Behind their main attack they 
 were making a way through the wall 
 for their horse. Every now and then 
 their picks flashed and the earth came 
 scattering down. It was worst at the 
 gate. The noise of the axes on the gate 
 was like a ship-yard. They brought 
 up a tree to batter it, and every time 
 they ran at it, you could see the wood 
 give, in great splinters. I thought we 
 were lost; but it was our fight, my 
 lord. 
 
 For I heard fifes, playing "The Day 
 of Zama", and men singing. It was a 
 cohort of the fifth, marching to support 
 our left flank. They came on slowly, 
 in line, with their heads up, and the 
 fifes playing. The centurions led them, 
 singing, marching well ahead. It was 
 a fine thing to see those men coming on. 
 Their ranks were so locked that the 
 oak-trees on their shields made a green 
 breastwork across their front. It was 
 our fight after that. We caught them 
 in the outer ditch. The ditch is choked 
 with them. Csesar lost a fuU thousand 
 there in the ditch. They were broken. 
 We shook them to the heart. They 
 will not face us again, my lord, for a 
 long time. Nor any enemy. Csesar 
 will have trouble with them. 
 
 PoMPEY. Very well, Cotta. 
 
 CoTTA. They are sending in the 
 body with a trumpet, my lord. 
 
 PoMPET. Yes ! Send me the returns 
 of killed and wounded and the cen- 
 turions' reports. Your legion will stand 
 no watch to-night. See that yoiir men 
 rest. Order wine from the sutlers for 
 them. I will speak to them to-night. 
 
 CoTTA. Thank you, my lord. 
 
 [He goes out, saluting] 
 
 DoMiTius. One moment, Cotta. 
 
 [He goes out, after him] 
 
 Theophanes. Csesar is sending a 
 trumpet. Can he be suing for peace? 
 
 Lentulus. Why should he sue for 
 peace after a skirmish? 
 
 PoMPEY. It was the prieldng of a 
 bubble. He is suing for peace. And 
 if I grant peace, I shall have these to 
 
 fight. And if I refuse peace, this ruin 
 wiU go on. 
 
 Theophanes. Do we receive this 
 trumpet ? 
 
 [Enter Domitius] 
 
 DoMiTius. Magnus. Csesar is in 
 disorder. His men are leaving the 
 trenches. He is withdrawing. His 
 south walls are abandoned already. 
 
 Pompey. Yes. He has learned his 
 lesson. 
 
 He must pay them now for the life 
 they have spent for him. He cannot 
 pay them. The most that he can do 
 is to save them from the result of his 
 insanity. 
 
 Theophanes. He can retreat. 
 
 PoMPEY. How can he retreat? He 
 cannot retreat. Where can he go? 
 My navies hold the sea. To the north 
 there are savage tribes. The south is 
 blocked by my garrisons. I am here 
 in the west with my army. And to 
 the east lies Metellus, with another 
 army. 
 
 He has one chance of saving them. 
 He can sue for peace. 
 
 Domitius. You are not going to re- 
 ceive this herald ? 
 
 PoMPEY. Yes. Rome must have 
 peace. 
 
 If Csesar will make submission — 
 
 Domitius. [ A surrender wiU be 
 useless. 
 
 Theophanes. Csesar must be de- 
 s stroyed. 
 
 Lentulus. How will you settle 
 
 Rome, with Caesar 
 I alive ? 
 
 PoMPEY. This war has gone on all 
 my Hfe. Sulla's method failed. Cati- 
 line's method failed. They shall not 
 be tried again. Rome shaU be settled 
 this time finally. 
 
 . Domitius. If you hesitate to strike 
 now, you are a traitor, Magnus. 
 
 PoMPEY. I have made my plan. 
 
 [Sternly] I wiU abide by it. To 
 your place. Murmur no more. 
 
 No little gust of passion shall set me 
 wavering. . 
 
 [A Voice without and a trumpet] 
 
 Voice. Present arms. Port arms. 
 Pass friend. Present arms. 
 
 PoMPEY. Life is nothing. It is the 
 way of Ufe which is so much. Enter 
 there. 
 
 Cotta [entering]. The body, my 
 lord. With the trumpet. 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 729 
 
 [Enter Bearers mth the body of Va- 
 LEBitrs Flaccus. Cotta, and the 
 others salute the corpse. Then, with 
 a solemnity of trumpets blowing 
 points of ceremony, Marcus Acilitjs 
 enters, led by two Centurions. He 
 is blindfolded. Cotta, the Bearers 
 and the Centurions go out, when 
 the handkerchief is removed] 
 
 AciLius. I bring back your soldier, 
 Cneius Pompey. 
 
 Pompey. You bring a message ? 
 
 AciLius. I come from Caesar. 
 
 Pompey. Well? 
 
 AciLius. He asks you to end this 
 war. The gods have given you an 
 equal measure of victory. You have 
 both lost and won half the Roman world. 
 Now that the world is shared between 
 you, you can consent to a peace. To- 
 morrow, if fortune favour one of you, 
 the fortunate one will think himself too 
 great to' parley. [Pause] Csesar asks 
 that a peace may be concluded. If 
 you will undertake to do the same, he 
 will make public oath to disband his 
 army within three days. That is his 
 proposal. 
 
 Pompey. More than a year ago, the 
 Senate ordered C»sar to disband his 
 troops. That decree still stands dis- 
 regarded. I cannot treat with a rebel. 
 Csesar must obey that decree and submit 
 to the Senate's mercy. 
 
 AciLius. The quarrel is between 
 you and C»sar, Magnus. 
 
 Pompey. Not at all. I represent 
 the Senate. 
 
 AciLius. Your party of the Senate, 
 which my party does not recognise. 
 
 Pompey. These are the facts, Aoilius. 
 CsBsar has attacked Republican rule. He 
 has failed. I make it a condition of 
 treaty that he acknowledge RepubUoan 
 authority. 
 
 AciLius. CsBsar has never denied 
 that authority. He is in arms against 
 a perversion of that authority by un- 
 scrupulous men. That he seeks to end 
 the Republic is denied by my presence 
 here, asking for peace. Csesar is no 
 suitor to you. That great mind is its 
 own sufficient authority. Farewell, 
 Magnus. [Going] 
 
 [At door] You will grant peace if 
 Cffisar kneels in the dust. Very well. 
 Rome is more to him than honour. 
 He will kneel in the dust. In the most 
 pubUc place in Rome. He will submit 
 Mmself, body and cause, to the judg- 
 
 ment of the Roman people there as- 
 sembled. 
 
 WiU that suface? 
 
 Pompey. No. 
 
 The mob has no voice in this matter. 
 The mob must be taught to obey its 
 rulers. Csesar must submit to the 
 Senate. 
 
 AciLius. Then the blood will be on 
 your hands, Magnus. [Going] 
 
 Pompey. It wiU suffice if Csesar sur- 
 render to myself in the presence of both 
 armies. But a public act of submission 
 must be made. Otherwise it wiU be 
 thought 'that Csesar drove us from Italy, 
 and forced us to accept his terms. 
 That I cannot allow. 
 
 AciLius. I am to tell Csesar that you 
 refuse. [Quietly] From fear of what the 
 world may think? 
 
 Pompey. You count that a little 
 thing, the thought of the world? For 
 what else are we fighting ; but to con- 
 trol the thought of the world? What 
 else matters, AciUus? 
 
 You think that I am fighting to be a 
 master? Not so. I am fighting be- 
 cause I know what Csesar wants. I 
 have watched his career step by step. 
 Csesar means to be king. He has 
 bribed the rabble to crown him. 
 
 You see only the brilliant man, 
 winning — what he has the power to 
 win. I look beyond that man. I see 
 Rome under a secret, bloody domina- 
 tion and a prey to future Csesars. That 
 shall not be. 
 
 I am an old man, now, Aoilius. I 
 have been fighting this battle all my 
 life. I hope now to end it. You have 
 heard my terms. [He strikes' a gong] 
 
 [A pause. Enter a Centurion] 
 
 Do you accept them or refuse them? 
 Take your time. 
 
 [Pause] 
 
 AciLius. I refuse them. 
 
 Pompey. [To Centurion] You wiU 
 take the Gemella legion, drive in 
 Csesar's outposts and burn the works. 
 
 [Exit Centurion] 
 
 AciLius. There is no voice for 
 peace, then. I have failed. Now that 
 my task is done, may I speak with you 
 privately ? 
 
 Pompey. Yes. On a private matter. 
 Is your business private? 
 
 AciLius. Yes. It is private. 
 
 Pompey. [To Generals]. Leave us. 
 [Exit Generals] 
 
730 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [To AciLius] Be brief. 
 
 AciLius. My mother married you. 
 Years ago. She was dragged by force 
 from my father so that you might be 
 propped by a vote the more. She died 
 of a broken heart, in your bed. 
 
 You have taken worse props, now. 
 These nobles. They are using you to 
 stamp out democracy. So that they 
 may plunder in peace for another fifty 
 years. 
 
 And when you have done their task. 
 When the war is over. 
 
 PoMPEY [taking up gong]. I cannot 
 listen to this. 
 
 AciLiTJS. You plan to make just 
 those democratic reforms for which 
 Csesar is fighting. You mean to cripple 
 the aristocracy. And they will stop 
 you. Domitius hates jrou. MeteUus 
 fears you. Lentulus is jealous of you. 
 They are planning to get rid of you. 
 Even now. [Pause] 
 
 Get rid of them, Magnus. Take 
 CsBsar as your friend. End the war. 
 Drive them out. 
 
 PoMPEY. And after? 
 
 AciLius. You cc/uld make Rome 
 what you please. 
 
 [PoMPEY strikes the gong] 
 
 [Re-enter Generals] 
 
 PoMPBY. And after? [Pause] Your 
 party shall submit to mine. [He writes 
 a few words] You may take this to 
 CsBsar. [Gives writing] 
 
 Give this man safe conduct. 
 
 AciLius. I am going, Magnus. I 
 shall not see you again. 
 
 [Theophanbs goes out] 
 
 Vonipwi [who has turned away]. Well? 
 
 AciLius. Pride is a mean thing in 
 the presence of death. To-day you are 
 great, and the kings bring tribute to 
 you. To-morrow you may be this. 
 Only this. Praised by the worm. 
 
 [Showing corpse] 
 
 Pompey. You talk of the presence 
 of death. Man, I am in the presence 
 of life, and death's a pleasure to it. 
 
 [CoTTA and CBNTtTRioNS enter with 
 Theophanbs. They salute] 
 
 Who cares what I may be? I may 
 
 be carrion. But while I am man, and 
 
 carry a faith in me, I will guard that 
 
 faith. See this man through the lines. 
 
 [With a solemn blowing of a point 
 
 of ceremony, Cotta and the 
 
 Centurions go out, 
 AciLius, blindfolded. Mur- 
 murs. Acclamations] 
 [The Generals eye Pompey. He 
 walks to the body and looks at it] 
 Pompey. Poor bo3r. You have gone 
 a long way from this inn. 
 
 When you were born, women kissed 
 you, and watched you as you slept, and 
 prayed for you, as women do. When 
 you learned to speak, they praised you; 
 they laughed and were so tender with 
 you, even when they were in pain. 
 And to-night you will wander alone, 
 where no woman's love can come to you, 
 and no voice speak to you, and no grief 
 of ours touck you to an answer. 
 The dead must be very lonely. 
 Domitius [coming forward and look- 
 ing at the body]. That? Why be sad at 
 that ? He was marked for it. [Quietly] 
 Magnus. I have something to say. 
 I give you full credit for what you have 
 done. You were right. But not so 
 right as I would have been. Destruc- 
 tion's what war's for. Still. It has 
 happened. Now there is Rome. How 
 are you going back to Rome without the 
 moral support of a victory? 
 
 Lentulus. In Rome, it is said 
 openly that you have been shuffled about 
 at CsBsar's wiU. 
 
 Theophanbs. And that we have 
 been beaten in every battle. 
 
 Pompey. What is that noise, there? 
 [Cries of "Victory." Clapping. 
 Trumpets. A cry of "Present 
 Arms." The spears rattle] 
 
 [Enter Lucius Lucceius, in the civU 
 dress] 
 
 Lentulus. Lucceius. 
 Theophanbs. Lucius Lucceius. 
 
 [Lucceius stands looking at them 
 silently. He salutes the body, 
 and advances slowly] 
 Lucceius [slowly]. I salute you, 
 Cneius Pompey. I come from Rome. 
 
 Pompey. What news do you bring 
 from Rome? 
 
 Lucceius. News of your triumph, 
 Magnus. 
 
 Csesar's army, under Curio, invaded 
 Africa. 
 
 Curio is IdRed. His army is de- 
 stroyed. Africa is saved to us. 
 
 [He takes a laurel wreath] 
 The Roman people send me with this 
 wreath, Magnus. 
 
 [He offers it, with reverent dignity] 
 
The Tragedy of Pom-pey the Great 
 
 731 
 
 PoMPET [taking the wreath and laying 
 it on Placctjs' head]. Once, long ago, 
 I played with you. By the flsh-pools 
 at Capua, watching the gold-flsh. 
 
 You asked me for my purple, that 
 glittering day long ago. [He lays his 
 purple over ' Flaccus] All things for 
 which men ask are granted. A word 
 may be a star or a spear for all time. 
 This is the day of my triumph, it seems. 
 [A distant trumpet winds. It 
 winds again] 
 
 Theophanes. There is a horn blow- 
 ing. 
 
 PoMPBY. It is blowing like a death- 
 horn. 
 
 DoMiTius. It is a Roman call. 
 
 In Cffisar's camp. 
 
 [DoMiTitrs flings aside the canvas] 
 
 It is the "Prepare to March." He 
 is in retreat. His huts are burning. 
 They are winding out upon the road 
 there. They are floundering up the 
 pass. Two thousand horse could ruin 
 them. 
 
 PoMPEY. Ruin is not my province. 
 Let them destroy themselves. They 
 are wandering out into the wilds with- 
 out heart, without hope, without plan. 
 That is the forlornest march ever called 
 by trumpets. There is death in every 
 heart there already. Well. We shall 
 follow. 
 
 Call the chief centurions. 
 I [Theophanes goes to' the door, to 
 
 the Sentry without] 
 
 [Going to the body] And to-night we 
 shall be marching from this poor earth, 
 pursuing Csesar, marching to many 
 trumpets, under the stars, singing as 
 we march. I shall end Sulla's war, now. 
 But we will kill the rebellion, remember, 
 not those Romans. 
 
 [The Chief Centttrions enter] 
 
 A trumpeter there. Strike camp. 
 Prepare to march. 
 
 [A Centurion going out, calls] 
 
 Take up the body. 
 
 1st Centurion. 
 Man is a sacred city, built of marvellous earth. 
 
 2nd Centurion. 
 Life wag lived nobly here to give this body 
 
 birth. 
 
 3rd Centurion. 
 Something was in this brain and in this eager 
 
 hand. 
 
 4th Centurion. 
 Death is so dumb and blind, Death cannot 
 
 understand. 
 
 [They lift the bier] 
 
 Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the 
 
 young limbs' glory. 
 Death makes women a dream and men a 
 
 traveller's story, 
 Death drives the lovely soul to wander under 
 
 the slcy, 
 Death opens unknown doors. It is most 
 grand to die. 
 
 [They go out, followed by Pompey] 
 [Now without comes a shaking 
 blast from a trumpet. It is taken 
 up and echoed by many trumpets, 
 near and far, blowing the legion^ 
 ary calls, till the air rings] 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
 Scene Second. — The same. Taper 
 light. Dawn later. Pompey writing. 
 Enter LtrccEius] 
 
 LuccEius. Not in bed, Magnus? 
 
 Pompey. I have had evil dreams. 
 
 Are you from Rounds ? 
 
 Is all quiet? 
 
 LuccEius. Yes. 
 
 There is a light near Caesar's camp. 
 They are burning their dead. 
 
 Our scouts took two lancers. They 
 say that Csesar's men are dying. Of 
 fever and hunger. 
 
 Pompey. Yes. He must surrender 
 within a few days. And so they are 
 burning their dead? 
 
 LuccEius. Yes. 
 
 Pompey. Now we have Rome to 
 settle. [Pause] 
 
 I lie awake, thinking. 
 
 What are we, Lucceius? 
 
 LuccEius. Who knows? Dust with 
 a tragic purpose. Then an end. 
 
 Pompey. No. But what moves us? 
 
 I saw a madman in Egypt. He wasv 
 eyeless with staring at the sun. He 
 said that ideas come out of the East, 
 like locusts. They settle on the nations 
 and give them life ; and then pass on, 
 dying, to the wilds, to end in some 
 scratch on a bone, by a cave-man's Are. 
 
 I have been thinking that he was 
 wise, perhaps. Some new swarm of 
 ideas has been settling on Rome. A 
 new kind of life is being born. A new 
 spirit. I thought a year ago that it 
 was crying out for the return of kings, 
 and personal rule. I see now that it 
 is only crying out for a tyrant to sweep 
 the old life away. 
 
 Rome has changed, Lucceius. Out- 
 wardly, she is the same, still. A city 
 
732 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 which gives prizes to a few great people. 
 A booth where the rabble can seU their 
 souls for bread, and their bodies for 
 the chance of plunder. Inwardly, she 
 is a great democratic power struggling 
 with obsolete laws. 
 
 Rome must be settled. The crowd 
 must have more power. 
 
 LuccEius [surprised]. That would 
 be a denial of your whole life, Magnus. 
 
 You have been crushing democracy 
 for forty years. 
 
 PoMPBY. I have crushed rebellions. 
 I mean now to crush their cause. 
 
 There must be a change. A great 
 
 [Enter Metellus, Domititjs, Lentultjs] 
 
 LuccBitrs [giving paper]. This is my 
 report. [He salutes and goes. At the 
 door he pauses, looking out] The pyre 
 is still burning. They must be dying 
 like flies. [Exit] 
 
 Metellus [as the Geneeals sit fac- 
 ing Pompet]. CsBsar has sent to me 
 privately, Magnus, to beg me to ask 
 terms from you. I sent back his letter 
 without comment. 
 
 The war is over ; but we are not yet 
 secure. We shall have to garrison the 
 provinces for some years with men 
 whom we can trust. 
 
 Spain and Gaul are arranged for 
 among ourselves. It is the lesser ap- 
 pointments. Magnus, I want your 
 voice, on behalf of Lucius Tuditanus. 
 I was thinking of sending him as my 
 deputy into Asia. 
 
 PoMPEY. Is that the soldier Tudi- 
 tanus, who did so well under you? 
 
 [To DOMITIUS] 
 
 DoMiTiTTS. No. His nephew. 
 
 Metellus. He's a young man on 
 my personal stafl. 
 
 PoMPEY. Has he qualified for the 
 praetorship ? 
 
 Metellus. No. Not in the strict 
 legal sense. But he was of the greatest 
 use to me in Asia. He would be com- 
 petent. 
 
 PoMPEY. In what way was he of use 
 to you? 
 
 Metellus. In the collection of 
 tribute, when they disputed our assess- 
 ments. They hoped to wrangle in 
 Court, without paying, till Cfesar saved 
 them. Tuditanus stopped that. He 
 judged the claims on the spot, and the 
 tax was paid, or distrained, there and 
 then. Often the patrols did not have 
 
 to unsaddle. And as we needed the 
 money quickly, the system was of great 
 use to me. 
 
 PoMPBY. Yes. But the law is plain, 
 Metellus. A praetor and a praetor's 
 deputy represent Rome. . It is a re- 
 sponsible office. They judge and govern 
 in Rome's name. Men must be trained 
 for it. What has Tuditanus done, be- 
 sides this tax-collection, that the laws 
 should be broken for him ? 
 
 Lentultjs. His father has made 
 many sacrifices for us. 
 
 PoMPEY. There is a growing behef 
 in Rome that a sacrifice should be a 
 good investment. Anything else ? 
 
 Metellus. He is one of those bril- 
 liant young men, of proved loyalty, for 
 whom we ought to provide. I recom- 
 mend him to you. 
 
 PoMPEY. That is much in his favour. 
 But I want proof that he can govern. 
 Tell me, Metellus. Where has he 
 shown administrative talent? _, 
 
 Metellus. He has not shown it. 
 He is a man whom we ought to bind to 
 us. He would soon learn. We could 
 give him a staff of old soldiers, to steady 
 him, at first. 
 
 PoMPEY. Has he any power of 
 command ? Where has he served ? 
 
 DoMiTius. He was in the horse for 
 a time, in Lycia. 
 
 PoMPBY. [To Metellus] What rec- 
 ommended him to you? 
 
 Metellus. Never mind the merit. 
 I am contending for the principle, that 
 our friends must be rewarded. 
 
 PoMPBY. Yes. But praetorian power. 
 No. He must qualify. 
 
 Lbntulus. Before you reject him, 
 will you not see him? Metellus and 
 Domitius would not recommend him 
 without grave reason. I might say, 
 without urgent reason. 
 
 PoMPEY. I want an imperative 
 reason. Without that, it would be a 
 gross act of favouritism. And illegal. 
 As for the results, we have seen such 
 praetors. We should have a rising, 
 and possibly a frontier war. No. 
 Tuditanus cannot be praetor. 
 
 Metellus. Remember, Magnus. 
 Tuditanus is one of many. Others are 
 in the same position. With a right to 
 expect employment. 
 
 PoMPEY. Peace will try their quality. 
 
 There are men with Caesar with a right 
 to expect employment. 
 
 [The Generals look at each other 
 and sigh] 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 733 
 
 DoMiTiuB. There is another point. 
 We are goiiig back to Rome. Rome is 
 in a rebellious, unsettled state. We 
 must secure ourselves. 
 
 I ask that every man of any standing 
 ia Rome be brought to trial, even if he 
 have remained neutral. If the rebels 
 have attacked authority, the neutrals 
 have ignored it. And both must sufler. 
 RebeUion must be stamped out. 
 
 [Gives paper] 
 
 ' The four hundred men in this list 
 
 have actively helped the rebellion. 
 
 There can be no question of trial for 
 
 them. I ask that they be put to death. 
 
 PoMPET. That is out of the ques- 
 tion. War will end when Caesar sur- 
 renders. I cannot allow reprisals. I 
 want Rome settled. 
 
 Lbntultjs. Perhaps you will ex- 
 plain how you plan to administer Rome. 
 When we return. 
 
 Metbllus [softly]. There will be 
 an amnesty for offences committed ? 
 
 PoMPEY. Yes. 
 
 DoMiTitrs. You wiU pardon these 
 rebels? 
 
 PoMPEY. If they submit. 
 
 Lentttlus [slowly]. Will you allow 
 them to help in the reconstruction? 
 
 PoMPBY [hotly]. Yes. Power is in 
 too few hands. There must be a 
 ehange in Rome. I would have these 
 four hundred firebrands made Senators, 
 to help us make the change wisely. 
 
 Mbtellus. So. 
 
 DoMiTius. Magnus. There is only 
 one way of settling Rome. By showing 
 her who is master in a way which she'll 
 remember. 
 
 LBNTtTLTJs. Any dallying with these 
 rebels wih leave us where we were be- 
 fore. Hated, and flouted by the rabble, 
 and in danger from it. Losing our 
 privileges, one by one. Losing our 
 possessions and our power. Magnus, 
 I would ask you to weigh this proposal 
 very carefully. It affects the future of 
 the patrician idea. 
 
 PoMPBY. And of Rome. What kind 
 of future do you expect from a massacre 
 ukethis? I will tell you what you will 
 get. You wiU drive these four hundred 
 firebrands into the Provinces, where it 
 wiU take five years of war to crush them. 
 
 No. I'll go back with peace. Not 
 a man shall be touched. 
 
 Lentultjs. Before we go back with 
 peace, we must end the war. I have 
 had letters from Rome. 
 
 Popular voice in Rome says that we 
 
 have feared to risk a battle. That the 
 war drags on, when it could be ended 
 in a day. 
 
 That we dare not kiU these represen- 
 tatives of the people. 
 
 That is a dangerous spirit in a city 
 which we are about to rule. That 
 spirit can only be broken by decisive 
 success. We must go back with victory. 
 A battle is certain victory to ourselves. 
 We ask you to give battle. 
 
 Metbllus. We have asked this be- 
 fore, without success. We ask it now, 
 feeling it to be a grave need. Lentulus 
 has mentioned it as a political expedient. 
 I add to that this, that om: treasury 
 is nearly empty. We have no means of 
 raising more money. We have drained 
 Spain and Asia for years to come. And 
 your inactive plan of campaign has 
 killed our credit. We must fight. We 
 cannot afford to keep the field for 
 another month. 
 
 Pompey. Caesar cannot keep the 
 field for another week. 
 
 DoMiTius. Caesar will drag on, day 
 by day, tiU the corn is ripe. It is not 
 niany days now to harvest. You let 
 his men get a fuU provision and you will 
 see how long they wiU keep the field. 
 I could break that impostor's strength 
 with the horse alone. 
 
 Pompey. I can break his strength 
 without risking a life. I will not give 
 battle. Be thankful that we can end 
 such a war with so httle bloodshed. 
 
 [The Genebals rise] 
 
 DoMiTius. You are the oldest, 
 Lentulus. 
 
 Lentulus. It may lose us votes, 
 remember. You are the most popular. 
 
 Metbllus. Perhaps I should do it. 
 I am related. 
 
 Pompey. What do you wish to say ? 
 
 Mbtellus. Magnus. I have to 
 speak to you. 
 
 You love power too well. 
 
 Your command ends with the war. 
 
 You have tried to prolong your com- 
 mand by neglecting to end the war. 
 
 But the war is over. 
 
 You plan now to retain command 
 while you impose your will upon the 
 State. That is a menace to the Re- 
 public. We have been forced to con- 
 voke the Senate to discuss it. 
 
 The Senate has sanctioned the ap- 
 pointment of Tuditanus, and the list 
 of the proscribed. It also commands 
 that you give battle to Caesar. 
 
 [He gives a paper] 
 
734 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [PoMPBY walks up stage slowly, 
 then down. He stands at table, 
 fronting them] 
 
 PoMPBT. What do you expect me 
 to say, Conscript Fathers? That I 
 refuse to obey this order? 
 
 I could refuse. 
 
 If I were CsBsar, or Lentulus. Or 
 you, Domitius, or Metellus. I should 
 refuse. 
 
 And my soldiers, or Caesar's there, 
 would work my will on a Senate which 
 had so insulted me. 
 
 But I am Pompey the Great. I am 
 bound by nay military oath. 
 
 Do not think to humble me. Death 
 is a little thing to the loss of conscience. 
 
 Death is easier than life to me. 
 
 But even if I die, Rome will be a prey 
 to unscrupulous men. 
 
 There is no hope for Rome. She ends 
 here. Disaster begins. 
 
 But for me, you wbuld now be beggars 
 at Caesar's doors. I saved Rome from 
 CsBsar. 
 
 And now Rome is to beg her Hf e from 
 you. You have used Pompey the 
 Great to ruin her. 
 
 But you have first to fight for her. 
 
 You shall give your sin a dignity, by 
 risking your lives for it. 
 
 [He strikes the gong] 
 
 [Enter an Aide] 
 
 [To Aide] Give the signal for battle. 
 [Exit Aide] 
 You have your will, now. 
 
 This is the end. 
 
 And at the end, think what it is which 
 you destroy. 
 
 Rome is nothing to you. Only the 
 reward of greed, and hate, and pride. 
 
 The city where justice was born. 
 
 Look beyond your passions, at what 
 Rome is. It is the state of Rome, not 
 passion, which concerns us now. 
 
 A httle while ago she was a market- 
 town, governed by farmers. Now she 
 rules Europe. 
 
 And in herself no change. Cramped 
 still. Fettered. The same laws. "The 
 same rulers. Like iron on her heart. 
 
 And forty years of civil war. All my 
 life. A blind turbulent heaving towards 
 freedom. 
 
 [Without, a confused noise, as of 
 many m,en stirring from sleep. 
 Shouted orders are clearly heard 
 above the murmur] 
 
 The Orders. Fall in. Dress. Co- 
 hort. By the right. Cohort, to the left, 
 
 wheel. Byes left. Cohort. _ Fifers, 
 three paces to the — Attention, etc., 
 etc., Cohort. Salute, etc. 
 
 [In a moment's silence a trumpet 
 blows outside the tent. Cheering] 
 
 Pompey. Five minutes ago I had 
 Rome's future in my hand. She was 
 wax to my seal. I was going to free 
 her. 
 
 Now is the time to free her. You can 
 tear the scales and the chains from her. 
 You can make her a State so splendid 
 that Athens would be a dust-heap to 
 her. 
 
 You will not. 
 
 You wiU drive her back three cen- 
 turies, so that you may wreak your 
 passions on her. 
 
 Go on, then. Destroy her. Or be 
 destroyed. 
 
 Whetheir you win or lose, Rome ends. 
 [A pause. Orders without] 
 
 Orders. "The cohorts will advance 
 in — Cohort, halt. Ground arms. 
 Attention. Form four deep. Atten- 
 tion. By the right. Quick march. 
 Cohort. Cohort. To the left. Turn. 
 
 Domitius. What orders have you? 
 [For the next minute or two a noise 
 of troops moving] 
 
 Pompey. You have fought this battle 
 many times in your hearts. [He flings 
 the doors wide, showing a bright dawn] 
 Now you will fight it m earnest. You 
 will fight the wild beasts whom I could 
 have starved like beasts. 
 
 Go to your divisions. 
 
 [The Generals go out silently. 
 Pompey stands by the table] 
 
 Orders. Cohort. Halt. Ground 
 arms. Attention. Form foiu: 
 Cohort. Left turn. 
 
 [Enter Philip. 
 look at him. 
 
 Pompey does not 
 Fifes of a cohort 
 
 Philip. Do you want me, my lord? 
 
 Pompey [turning]. Can you sing, 
 PhiUp? 
 
 Philip. Sing, ray lord ? 
 
 Pompey. Yes. 
 
 Philip. I don't know, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. What was that song we 
 had ? That night. In the Asian wars. 
 When we broke Mithridates ? 
 
 Philip [hesitating]. I don't know 
 whether I can, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. Sing. 
 
 Philip. I'U try, my lord. 
 
 [He repeats] 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 735 
 
 Though we are ringed with spears, though 
 the last hope is gone, 
 
 Romans stand firm, the Roman deEid look on. 
 
 Before our sparks of life blow back to him 
 who gave. 
 
 Burn clear, brave hearts, and light our path- 
 way to the grave. 
 
 Pompey. Take my purple, Philip. 
 
 [He flings his purple aside] 
 A Centurion. Eyes left. Salute. 
 A Cohort Passing. Hail! Pompey. 
 Imperator. [Trumpets] 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 The Poop of a Lesbian Merchantman of 
 the First Century B.C. 
 
 On each side, the bulwark of a ship, 
 painted green. There are gaps, or 
 gangways, in these bulwarks, so that 
 people may go down the ship's side 
 into boats. 
 
 At back of stage, the poop-rail, also painted 
 green. A wooden belfry with u. bell 
 stands upon the middle of the poop- 
 rail. 
 
 On each side of the bell is a ladder leading 
 down to the main deck. Caps in the 
 poop-rail allow people to reach the 
 poop by these ladders. 
 
 Above the deck, sloping from amidships 
 like a tent, is an awning of blue and 
 white baftas. This awning has a 
 flap, which falls at back of stage, 
 hiding the poop from the main deck. 
 On both sides of the stage the awning 
 is secured by stops to guys above the 
 ship's bulwarks. 
 
 In the centre of the stage {if the theatre 
 stage is so built) is a hatchway, sur- 
 rounded by a raised white rim or 
 coaming. This leads down to the. 
 cabins. 
 
 Behind it is a mast (painted "mast 
 colour") which rises up through the 
 awning. 
 
 Round the mast is a square of timbers, 
 like a stout fence. These are the 
 bitts, to which the running rigging 
 is belayed. 
 
 Stout ropes and blocks lead along the 
 mast. 
 
 Attendants, Sailors, etc., etc., keep 
 always to the starboard side out of 
 respect to Pompey, who uses the 
 weather, or honourable side. 
 
 At the rising of the curtain Captain is 
 standing by poop-rail, looking at the 
 
 men at work forward. The Boy 
 holds up the awning so that he can 
 see under it. 
 
 The Chantyman [heard off, amid a 
 click of pawls]. 
 Old Pompey lost Pharsalia fight. 
 
 The Sailors [heaving at the forward 
 capstan]. 
 Mark well what I do say. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 Old Pompey lost Pharsalia fight. 
 
 The Sailors. 
 
 And Ccesar now is the world's delight. 
 And I'll go no more a^roving. 
 
 With Pompey the Great. 
 
 A-roving. A-roving. 
 Since roving's been my ru-i-n, 
 I'll go no more a-roving 
 
 With Pompey the Great. 
 
 The Mate [from far forward]. Avast 
 heaving. Walk back. [Pause] Unship 
 your bars. 
 
 The Captain. That'U do, boy. 
 [Boy drops awning] Now we're riding 
 to a single anchor. 
 
 The Boy. Yes, sir. 
 
 The Captain [kindly]. D' you know 
 what little port that is yonder? 
 
 The Boy. No, sir. 
 
 The Captain. That's Pelusium, in 
 Egypt. This is the Nile. 
 
 "The Boy. Is this where the King 
 of Egypt Uves, sir ? 
 
 The Captain [pointing]. Over 
 yonder. Where all those soldiers are. 
 That's where the King of Egypt is. 
 Young King Ptolemy, who Pompey sent 
 the letter to, after Csesar beat him. 
 
 The Boy. Why does Pompey come 
 to him, sir? He's only a boy. 
 
 The Captain. It was through Pom- 
 pey he became king. And there are 
 lots of Pompey's old soldiers yonder. 
 An army of them. 
 
 The Boy. What a lot of ships, sir. 
 
 The Captain [anxiously]. Ye-es. A 
 lot of ships. 
 
 The Boy. They must be men of 
 war, sir. There's a bugle. Oh, look, 
 sir, at those big galleys. Hark at the 
 bugles. [Bugle-calls off] Is that to 
 call the slaves, sir? 
 
 The Captain [looking under the sharp 
 of his hand]. Is that a boat putting off 
 from the flagship? That big gaUey 
 nearest to us? 
 
 The Boy. Yes, sir. Don't they pull 
 well, sir? They're coining to us. 
 
736 
 
 Representatwe British Dramas 
 
 The Captain. Quick. Get the red 
 side-ropes rove. 
 
 [The Boy reeves side-ropes, which 
 he takes from locker by the 
 gangway] 
 
 The Boy [at his work]. They're hail- 
 ing us, sir. 
 
 A Cry. Ship ahoy ! Ahoy, you ! 
 
 The Captain. Hulloh ! 
 
 A Cry. What ship is that ? 
 
 The Captain. The Fortune. From 
 Cyprus. 
 
 A Cry. Have you Lord Pompey 
 aboard you ? 
 
 The Captain. Yes. Lord Pompey's 
 aboard us. Down below. [Pause] 
 
 The Boy. They seem to be talking 
 together, sir. 
 
 A Cry. When did you leave Cyprus ? 
 
 The Captain [humbly]. At noon, sir, 
 yesterday. [A pause] 
 
 A Cry. D'ye hear there? You're 
 not to send any boat ashore. 
 
 The Captain. Ay, a ,', my lord. 
 
 The Boy. They're pulling back to 
 the ship, sir. 
 
 The Captain [testily]. Quick. Dip 
 our streamer. Dip our streamer, boy. 
 Don't you know enough for that? 
 [The Boy runs aft and dips the streamer] 
 Again. Now. Once more. Here. 
 [He beckons] Go below (juietly, and see 
 if Lord Pompey's stirring. [The Boy 
 goes down the hatch. The Captain walks 
 up and down, uneasily looking at the 
 distant ships] No. No. I don't Uke 
 it. [He shakes his head] I wish we 
 were out of it. [Re-enter Boy] WeU, 
 lad? 
 
 The Boy. Yes, sir. Lord Pompey's 
 up, sir. 
 
 The Captain. Ah. [Kindly] You'U 
 be able to tell them, when you get home, 
 that you were shipmates with Pompey 
 the Great. 
 
 The Boy. Yes, sir. 
 
 The Captain. That's what comes 
 of being a sailor. 
 
 The Boy. Please, sir. 
 
 The Captain. Yes, boy. 
 
 The Boy. What is the name of that 
 mountain, sir? 
 
 The Captain. That? That's Mount 
 Cassius. There's a tale about that 
 mountain. Something about a king. 
 Or some one to die there. J. forget. 
 Here. What are they doing aboard 
 those galleys ? 
 
 The Boy. They are filling full of 
 soldiers. Soldiers are putting off to 
 them in boats. 
 
 The Captain [striking the bell once]. 
 Mr. Mate, there ! 
 
 The Mate [below, out of sight]. Sir. 
 
 [Enter Mate] 
 
 The Captain. Oh, Mr. Mate. 
 Here, boy. What are you listening at? 
 Go forward. And if you want to see 
 your mother again, you pray. Pray 
 that King Ptolemy'U let you. 
 
 [Exit Boy] 
 
 [The Captain speaks intently to the 
 Mate]. Look here. We're done. 
 Pompey isn't wanted here. Those 
 eunuchs have put the King against him. 
 See those galleys? They're getting 
 ready to sink us. If you see one of 
 them getting under way, out the cable. 
 Don't wait for orders. Cut the cable, 
 and hoist saU. 
 
 The Mate. I'U make all ready, sir. 
 
 The Captain. It makes yom- blood 
 boil, though. A week back they'd have 
 crawled all round Pompey for a chance 
 to Idss his footman's boots. Now 
 they're going to drive him out. 
 
 The Mate. Well, sir. You can't 
 expect gratitude from a Idng, they say. 
 The world's wide. There's other lands 
 besides Egypt. Egypt's got trouble 
 enough, without Pompey. What did 
 he come here for? That's what I don't 
 see. 
 
 The Captain. He's had a misfor- 
 tune. One doesn't know where to turn 
 when one's had a misfortune. And 
 having a wife and that. Very hkely 
 he's beside himself, for aU he doesn't 
 take on. 
 
 The Mate. He'd ought to have 
 come with his fleet. That would have 
 frightened them. Coming alone Uke 
 this makes people think he's a beggar. 
 D' you think they'll ram us? 
 
 The Captain. I don't trust them. 
 
 The Mate. The hands don't trust 
 them, neither. 
 
 The Captain. Ah! the growlers. 
 What do they say? 
 
 The Mate. They're saying they 
 didn't sign on to be rammed. 
 
 The Captain. They signed for what 
 I choose. 
 
 The Mate. Yes, sir. They're afraid 
 of the soldiers and that. 
 
 The Captain. They got sense. If 
 I were Pompey, I'd run for it. A man 
 with a wife like that didn't ought to seek 
 trouble. Well. God send pay-day! 
 Watch the hands and stand by. That's 
 your job. 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 737 
 
 The Mate. I'll make all clear, sir. 
 Bosun, there ! 
 
 Bosun [off]. Sir? 
 
 The Mate. Overhaul your gear. 
 Have aU ready for getting under way. 
 
 Bosun. Have aU ready, sir. I will, 
 sir. [Whistle] 
 
 The Mate [going]. There's his 
 steward, sir. [Exit] 
 
 The Captain. Steward. 
 
 Philip [entering]. Sir. 
 
 The Captain. Oh ! steward. [Philip 
 approaches] Look here, steward. What's 
 Pompey's object in coining here? 
 
 Philip. He's come to see the King. 
 
 The Captain. Is he come to ask 
 for shelter? 
 
 Philip. He's come to raise another 
 army out of aU his old soldiers here. 
 
 The Captain. He won't get any 
 soldiers here. They're aU at the wars. 
 The young King's fighting his sister. 
 
 Philip. That will be patched up. 
 The young King thinks the world of my 
 master. He'U do what Pompey wants. 
 
 The Captain. He hasn't answered 
 Pompey's letter yet. 
 
 Philip. No? 
 
 The Captain. We've been told not 
 to send a boat ashore. 
 
 Philip. WeU, all I know is, the 
 young King longs to honour Pompey. 
 But for Pompey the old King would 
 have died a poor flute-player in Ephesus. 
 You can see for yonrseU he's coming. 
 There's his state barge at the jetty. 
 Look. They're out on the roofs. 
 There's music. 
 
 [Enter Pompey] 
 
 The Captain [unconvinced]. It may 
 be as you say, steward. Ah. 
 
 [He starts, salutes, and hastily 
 crosses to the starboard, or lee 
 
 Philip. My lord. Do you know 
 what day it is, my lord? 
 
 Pompey. What day is it? 
 
 Philip. The day of your triumph, 
 my lord. Your Asian triumph. Thir- 
 teen years ago. 
 
 Pompey. Is it so long ago? That 
 was a great day. 
 
 Philip. Yes, indeed, my lord, I'll 
 never forget that day. We always like 
 to keep it up with a little something 
 among ourselves. 
 
 Wesbrought you a few figs, my lord. 
 They're only Cretans. [He offers figs] 
 Just in honour of the day, my lord. 
 If you would accept of them. 
 
 Pompey [taking and tasting]. Thank 
 you, Philip. [To the Captain] This 
 old servant of mine is always bent on 
 spoiling me. 
 
 The Captain. Yes, my lord. So I 
 see. 
 
 Philip [going]. I'm sure I hope to-day 
 will be a great day too, my lord. 
 
 [Exit Philip] 
 
 Pompey. It should be, Philip. [He 
 lays figs on weather fife-rail] Captain ! 
 
 The Captain. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. Has any one come aboard 
 for me? 
 
 The Captain. No, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. Thank you. 
 
 The Captain. Beg pardon, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. WeU? 
 
 The Captain. The flagship has 
 ordered us not to send a boat ashore. 
 I thought I ought to report it, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. Thank you. Captain. A 
 fine fleet here. 
 
 The Captain [meaningly]. They seem 
 to be getting their crews aboard. 
 
 Pompey. What speed have those 
 galleys ? 
 
 The Captain. Those there, my 
 lord? They might make seventeen. 
 That's with good rowers. And dead 
 calm. And the ships new out of dock. 
 In a wind like this, they wouldn't make 
 more'n about eight. 'They can't work 
 their oars in a sea-way. [Pause] Now's 
 the time, my lord, if you think of put- 
 ting to sea. By and by, may be, they'll 
 be able to stop us. 
 
 Pompey. 'Thank you, Captain. 
 
 The Captain. I'U report any boat, 
 my lord. [Exit] 
 
 [Enter Cobnelia] 
 
 Cornelia. Has the King sent? 
 
 Pompey. No. 
 
 Cornelia. No answer? 
 
 Pompey. Not yet. 
 
 Cornelia. Can he know we are 
 here? 
 
 Pompey. Yes. He will come. He 
 will come in person. 
 
 Cornelia. Why has he not come 
 already ? 
 
 Pompey. It is early. 
 
 Cornelia. Do you think it is safe 
 to wait? It is ominous. This silence. 
 And aU those ships. And the people 
 crowding on the roofs. What if the 
 King be against us ? 
 
 Pompey. He cannot be. Do not be 
 afraid. 
 
738 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [Enter Theophanes] 
 
 Theophaneb. Magnus. They have 
 sent an order. We are not to send a boat 
 ashore. They are plotting something. 
 
 PoMPET. If they were plotting, they 
 would ask us to come ashore. 
 
 CoBNBLiA. But why should we not 
 send a boat, if they are friendly? 
 
 PoMPEY. The King will be coming 
 in person. Then there was plague in 
 Cyprus. We have not got a clean bill. 
 
 Cornelia. But to be ordered. 
 
 Theophanes. The Admiral should 
 have come. 
 
 PoMPEY. This is a merchantman. 
 We are not under Roman colours. 
 
 Cornelia. The Captain there is 
 anxious. Look at him. 
 
 Theophanes. Ask him. 
 
 PoMPEY. It is necessary for the 
 world that I see King Ptolemy. 
 
 [The Captain flings down the halliard 
 coil and goes below.] 
 
 Strange. Is there any Cassius with 
 Ptolemy. 
 
 Cobnblia. Lucius Cassius is dead, 
 surely. 
 
 Theophanes. There's Quintus Cas- 
 sius. But he is in Spain. 
 
 Cornelia. Is there not Cneius 
 Cassius? He was legate in one of 
 CsBsar's legions ? 
 
 PoMPEY. Cneius ? I thought he was 
 kiUed? 
 
 Theophanes. I could find out. 
 Sextus would know. 
 
 PoMPEY. No. Do not wake him. 
 It is absurd. 
 
 Cornelia. Why do you ask? 
 
 PoMPEY. When I was in Africa, at 
 that time, an old woman bade me be- 
 ware of Cassius. I have not thought 
 of it for thirtj^-four years. An old 
 .black hag. Sitting in the sun, there. 
 By the ruins of Carthage. Geminius 
 was riding with me. She hobbled up 
 on a crutch and plucked at my rein. 
 "Young captain. You beware of 
 Cassius. You that ride so proud, be- 
 ware of Cassius. The sand is faUing." 
 
 Cornelia. Why should you think 
 of that now? 
 
 PoMPEY. Because I am going to 
 victory, as I was then. 
 
 [The Hands come aft] 
 
 The Mate [foUomng]. Got down off 
 the poop. If you want anything, send 
 a man aft. 
 
 1st Hand. Begging your pardon, 
 your honour. We want to speak. 
 
 2nd Hand. We mean to speak. 
 
 3bd Hand. We want to know whj 
 we're brought here. 
 
 4th Hand. And how long we're to 
 stay here. 
 
 2nd Hand. He's been beaten. 
 
 4th Hand. He's got no friends. 
 Our Uves are as good to us as his is. 
 
 'The Mate. Down off the poop! 
 Down with you ! Bosun, there ! 
 
 [Struggling] 
 
 PoMPEY. What is the matter? 
 
 [Struggling ends. Pause] 
 
 1st Hand. Begging your pardon, 
 your honour. We wanted to see the 
 Captain. 
 
 PoMPBY. [To the Mate] What is 
 their grievance ? 
 
 The Mate. Some more of their 
 fancies, my lord. [To the Hands] Get 
 over to leeward. 
 
 PoMPEY. They seem a good lot. 
 What is it? 
 
 The Mate. Oh, the Captain'U soon 
 settle it, my lord. [To the Hands] 
 You wait. 
 
 [Exit by hatch to find Captain. 
 Pause. PoMPEY takes a half 
 turn, and then speaks] 
 
 PoMPEY. [To Hands] Of what do 
 you complain? 
 
 1st Hand. Begging your pardon, 
 your honour. We'd rather wait for 
 the Captain. 
 
 PoMPEY. What is wrong, though? 
 Tell me. 
 
 1st Hand. I'd rather not say, my 
 lord. 
 
 PoMPEY [takes a half turn, and speaks 
 again]. Come. What is the trouble? 
 Is it the food? Or the drink? 
 
 1st Hand. Begging your pardon, 
 your honour. We don't like the look 
 of things. 
 
 PoMPEY. What things? 
 
 1st Hand. Begging your honour's 
 pardon, the ships there. 
 
 2nd Hand. They're getting ready 
 to sink us. 
 
 PoMPEY. Why do you think that? 
 
 3rd Hand. You can see the soldiers 
 going aboard them, can't you? 
 
 1st Hand. [To 3rd] Here now. 
 Here. 
 
 3rd Hand. [To 1st] What's wrong? 
 It's the truth. Isn't it? 
 
 PoMPBY. So they are going aboard 
 to sink us? Why should they sink us? 
 
 3bd Hand. Because you're aboard 
 us. [He stands out] You're not wanted 
 here. You're no good to Ptolemy. 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 739 
 
 You're 
 
 CsBsar's the man, now, not you. 
 no more than what we are. 
 
 [To the Hands] And we're to be 
 drowned, are we, because his mighti- 
 ness that was is worth more dead than 
 alive? He's down. He's no one. He's 
 had fellows die for him for forty years. 
 It's time he learned what it feels like 
 himself. 
 
 4th Hand. That's what I say. 
 
 3ed Hand. Come on ! 
 
 2nd Hand. Man the halliards. 
 
 3bd Hand. We'U carry you to 
 Caesar. And seU you. 
 
 PoMPBY. Stand back ! 
 
 You say that the soldiers are coming 
 to sink us? 
 
 There are five thousand trbops there, 
 and fifty ships. 
 
 Are they all coming to sink us? 
 
 It seems a large force to sink one 
 ship, manned by such a company. 
 
 3ed Hand. Here. Look here ! 
 
 1st Hand. I" [To 3rd] You'll get us 
 handed. 
 
 2nd Hand. < Give hiin sheet. 
 
 4th Hand. How about us ? That's 
 L what I say. 
 
 PoMPBT. If I am still so terrible, I 
 must save you. I will go to the flagship 
 yonder. Man your boat. 
 
 3kd Hand. You wiU go to the flag- 
 
 ship 
 
 1st Hand 
 There. 
 
 4th Hand. 
 
 2nd Hand. 
 her oars out. 
 
 1st Hand. 
 gone up. 
 
 3bd Hand. 
 
 1st Hand 
 don't. 
 
 [alarmed]. Look at her. 
 
 Look. 
 
 Look at her. 
 
 She's got 
 
 She's coming. We're 
 
 Then he'll go first. 
 [holding him]. No, 
 
 you 
 
 [Enter Captain] 
 
 The Captain. She's coming, my 
 lord. Shall I cut? We might do it, 
 even now. 
 
 ^ PoMPBY. , She is not coming. And 
 if she were, what is death? 
 
 The Captain. Hard times for the 
 widow, my lord. 
 
 Pompey [to the men]. Leave the 
 ropes. 
 
 Do you think the soul can be quenched 
 ■with water ? Or cut with swords ? Or 
 burned? 
 
 3bd Hand. I know my body can, 
 my lord. 
 
 Pompey. You do well to fear death. 
 Go to your place. 
 
 [Musingly] If death can crush what 
 comprehends heaven ? Why ! We are 
 in a bad way. Captain. 
 
 [The Hands file off, quietly. 
 Pompey looks down on the 
 main deck. The Captain stands 
 apart anxiously watching the 
 flagship. Coenelia and Thb- 
 ophanes eye each other] 
 
 CoHNBLiA. Is the flagship coming? 
 
 Theophanes. She is ready to come. 
 
 Cornelia. To sink us ? 
 
 Theophanes. She could sink us. 
 
 Cornelia. I cannot bear this. 
 
 [Pompey turning, walks toward 
 them] 
 
 Theophanes. We ought to have 
 gone to our fleet. We're helpless like 
 this. 
 
 Cornelia. Magnus. This isn't what 
 we planned. 
 
 Pompey. Let me reassure you. 
 Egypt is friendly to me. 
 
 I saved her independence. I made 
 the elder Ptolemy King. The young 
 King is my ward, bound to me by 
 intimate ties. Those troops are vet- 
 erans of my Asian Army. 
 
 _ Theophanes. The young King's at 
 his wits' end with civil war. How can 
 he begin a war with Csesar? 
 
 Pompey. Caesar will begin a war 
 with him whether he ta.kes me or re- 
 jects me. Csesar wants Egypt, as 
 Ptolemy very well knows. 
 
 Cornelia [bitterly]. And we are 
 suppliants to him. We Romans. To 
 whom they should strike their flags. 
 [After a pause, quickly] See if they 
 refuse to salute us. 
 
 Theophanes. We should know what 
 to expect then. 
 
 Cornelia. Oh, let us be certain. 
 Hoist your colours. 
 
 Pompey. It is not time yet. I will 
 hoist them when the watch ends. 
 
 [The Captain strikes the bell once] 
 
 The Captain. One bell, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. The watch is nearly out ? 
 
 The Captain. Nearly, my lord. 
 Will you hoist any colours, my lord ? 
 
 Pompey. My consular colours. 
 
 The Captain. I'm only a merchant- 
 man, my lord. If they should refuse 
 to salute, my lord? 
 
 Pompey. You will go alongside the 
 flagship there, and order her to salute. 
 
 The Captain [going]. I am all ready 
 to get under way, my lord. Bosun, 
 there! Stand by. Mr. Mate. Boy, 
 there ! 
 
740 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 [He goes to the break of the poop 
 and looks down on main deck] 
 
 Are your coloiirs bent on, Centurion? 
 
 Centurion [off]. Tell him, yes. 
 
 Boy [off]. All ready to hoist, sir. 
 
 The Captain [coming to Pompet]. 
 All ready, my lord. Will you make 
 eight bells, my lord ? 
 
 PoMPBT. When it is time. [He 
 paces leisurely] 
 
 Theophanes. Have you your tables ? 
 
 Theophanes. Yes. 
 
 PoMPEY. I shall want you to take 
 notes. 
 
 [To Cornelia] What was that pas- 
 sage about the soul ? We were reading 
 it that day at Alba, when the women 
 brought you their first-fruits? Our 
 first year. We were in the garden. 
 You were reading to me. There was 
 a verse about the soul. 
 
 Cornelia. The upright soul is safe? 
 
 PoMPEY. Yes. That was the verse. 
 I have always loved Alba. I was there 
 as a child. We were happy there, that 
 year. 
 
 CoHNBLiA. Very happy. And that 
 day. The doves came, picking the 
 spilled grain. And at night there was 
 a moon. 
 
 PoMPEY. AU the quiet valley. And 
 the owls were calling. Those little grey 
 owls. Make eight bells, Captain. 
 
 [The Captain makes it. The 
 Bosun pipes the colours up] 
 
 The Captain. Not so fast there, boy. 
 [Eight bells is echoed over the 
 harbour from ship to ship. 
 Pompey and Theophanes raise 
 their right hands. Perhaps 
 Cornelia ought to veil] 
 
 Theophanes. The flagship is hoist- 
 ing her ensign. [Bugles off] 
 
 Cornelia. Will she salute? Will 
 she salute? There. 
 
 Theophanes. There. She dips it. 
 
 Cornelia. They all salute. 
 
 Theophanes. Then we are safe. 
 
 Pompey. That is settled, then . I am 
 to be received. The King expects me. 
 
 The Captain. I beg pardon, my 
 lord. I think his Majesty the King is 
 coming off to fetch you. The barge is 
 putting off, my lord. [Approaching] 
 No, my lord ; it is not the King, it is one 
 of the pearl-boats, my lord, which work 
 the pearl-beds here. 
 
 Pompey. Something of the kind. 
 What do you make of her? 
 
 The Captain. They pull very badly, 
 my lord. They pull like soldiers. 
 
 Pompey. They are soldiers. I see 
 the gleam of armour. 
 
 Theophanes. Seven soldiers. 
 
 The Captain. Am I to let them 
 alongside, my lord ? 
 
 Pompey. Wait. 
 
 Theophanes. Has he sent a boat 
 like that for you ? 
 
 Cornelia. You cannot go in that 
 old boat. 
 
 Theophanes. Magnus. There is 
 some treachery. 
 
 Cornelia. Cneius. It is a dreadful 
 risk. To stay. 
 
 Pompey. It is necessary. I must 
 carry this thing through. You would 
 rather I ran the risk than let the world 
 become — what it will become. 
 
 Cornelia. Much rather. 
 
 Pompey. You will understand, then. 
 
 The Captain. They are hailing, my 
 lord. Would the lady go below a little? 
 They might fling a dart on board. 
 
 Cornelia. The air is fresher here. 
 
 Septimius [off^. Hail! Pompey. 
 Imperator. 
 
 The Captain. We could stiU run 
 for it, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. We must not show that 
 we mistrust them. 
 
 Septimius [off]. Hail, Pompey, Im- 
 perator ! 
 
 Pompey. Have your men ready to 
 salute. 
 
 Septimius [off]. In bow. 
 
 Cornelia. Cneius. Cneius. 
 
 Pompey. There is no danger. Have 
 you the little book with my speech to 
 Ptolemy ? 
 
 Cornelia. Here it is. 
 
 Septimius [off]. TOss your starboard 
 oars. Way enough. 
 
 Pompey. Company there. Salute. 
 
 The Captain. The call, there. 
 
 [Enter Septimius, a Roman military 
 tribune, with Achillas Egyptian, 
 both in military dress. The BosUN 
 pipes the side for each of them] 
 
 Pompey [advancing]. You come from 
 King Ptolemy ? 
 
 [Septimius salutes, Achillas 
 bows] 
 
 Achillas. From King Ptolemy. He 
 send you royal greeting. 
 
 Pompet. He wishes to see me ? 
 
 Achillas. He wish to see you. To 
 be your friend. 
 
 Pompey. Shall I bring the ship 
 alongside the quay there? 
 
 Achillas. There is much mud and 
 
The Tragedy of Pompey the Great 
 
 741 
 
 sandbanks. There would be no water 
 for this galley. You have to take a boat. 
 
 Pompey [glancing at ships]. Your 
 fleet is getting under way here ? 
 
 Achillas [shrugging his shoulders]. 
 Ah? Will you come into my boat ? 
 
 Pompey. She is not a very hand- 
 some boat. 
 
 Achillas. No? It is bad weather 
 sometimes. 
 
 Pompey. [To Septimius] I think I 
 should know you, my friend. You and 
 I have served together? 
 
 [Septimius nods, but does not 
 answer] 
 
 Where was it? I know your face. 
 
 [No answer] 
 
 A long time ago. Eighteen years ago. 
 In the war against the pirates ? [Pause] 
 Was it not ? [No answer] 
 
 You commanded a company in my 
 guard. [Pause] You did something? 
 You burnt a ship one night? You 
 paddled out alone and set ftre to her? 
 I remember. you. I gave you a sword. 
 You are wearing it now. 
 
 Septimius [turning to the boat, mutter- 
 ing to himself]. I'm as good a man as 
 you are. 
 
 Achillas. You come in my little 
 boat. I take you to the King. The 
 King is your friend. Lovely lady, the 
 King want to see him. 
 
 CoENELiA. Yes. 
 
 Pompey. I will foUow you. Go down 
 into the boat. 
 
 [Achillas, bowing, goes to gang- 
 way, where he stands, looking aft] 
 
 Pompey. Now. 
 
 Thbophanes. Magnus. You mustn't 
 go. 
 
 CoENELiA. Cneius. Cneius. What 
 do they mean? 
 
 Thbophanes. You mustn't go, Mag- 
 nus. 
 
 Pompey. My beloved! You must 
 stay here. You must not come. 
 
 Cornelia. My darhng! What are 
 they going to do ? 
 
 Pompey. What God wills. 
 
 Theophanes. If this is the end, I 
 wish it to be the end. Those arrange- 
 ments of the fleet. Cancel them. You 
 understand. Go to Cato. Tell Cato 
 to submit to Csssar. War wiU only 
 mean more bloodshed. He cannot 
 stand against Csesar. I could have. 
 
 Seipio's daughter. Make your father 
 submit to Caesar. Keep my sons out' 
 of it. Tell them. End the war. Life 
 IS very grand, but there is something 
 
 behind it. Something which strikes a 
 mean. I had my hand on it. Come. 
 Courage. These are Egyptians. [To 
 Cobnblia] 
 
 Captain. You must sail. Stand by. 
 
 What else is there ? Asia. Theoph- 
 anes. Asia must submit. , Send to 
 the Kings. The world must make what 
 terms it can. This is all in the event. 
 If this is the end. You understand? 
 If not, you know my orders. 
 
 Philip. Scythes. Cotta. Go down 
 into the boat. 
 
 ' Philip. My lord. I've served you a 
 long time, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. What is it, Philip? 
 
 [Cotta and Scythes go\ 
 
 Philip. My lord. My old, beloved 
 lord. 
 
 Pompey. Why, Philip. We are the 
 only ones left. We are two old Sulla's 
 men. Have you my cloak in the boat ? 
 
 Philip. Forty years, my lord. 
 
 Pompey. The broidered one. [To 
 Cornelia] Your gift. Come. Carry 
 it down, man. 
 
 Philip. I wish it was to begin all 
 over again. [Exit] 
 
 Achillas. Will you come into the 
 boat ? The King is waiting. 
 
 Cornelia. Cneius. My husband. 
 My husband. 
 
 Pompey. God only lends us. 
 
 If the King keep faith. We shall 
 have time. 'Time for what we must 
 imagine. If not. We know our love. 
 The gods treasure you. [He goes 
 towards gangway.] 
 
 Remember, Captain. 
 
 Theophanes. If I fail, you must warn 
 Lentulus. 
 
 [He goes to gangway. The Bosun 
 starts to pipe the side. Pompey 
 turns to the Boy. Bosun stops 
 his pipe. Pompey takes figs 
 from fife-rail and gives them to 
 the Boy] 
 
 Can you eat figs ? 
 
 [The Boy mumbles] 
 
 What is your name ? 
 
 [The Boy bursts into tears] 
 
 Achillas [at gangway]. Give me 
 your hand. I take your hand down. 
 
 Pompey [pausing in the gangway and 
 
 looking back. Sadly. To Thbophanes]. 
 
 " Into a tyrant's court the truly brave 
 
 Goes proudly, though he go to die a slave. '' 
 
 [He goes down. The Bosun pipes 
 
 the side] 
 
 Septimius [coldly]. Back your port 
 oars. Shove off. Give way together. 
 
742 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The Captain [softly to Mate]. Go 
 on there. Man your halliards. 
 
 The Mate. Take the turns off. 
 
 Stretch it along. Softly now. Stand by. 
 
 [The Seamen coming behind 
 
 Cornelia, man the halliards. 
 
 The Chantyman stands on the 
 
 bitts. All look after the boat] 
 
 The Chanty. There's a lot of troops 
 
 ashore. 
 
 The Mate. S's't. 
 Cornelia. They are not talking to 
 him. 
 
 Thbophanes. He is reading his 
 speech. [Pause] He organises every- 
 thing. CsBsar improvises. 
 
 Cornelia. There they go out of 
 the sun. 
 
 Theophanes. The hill casts a long 
 shadow. 
 
 Cornelia. What is the name of the 
 hill? 
 
 The Captain. Mount Cassius, lady. 
 Theophanes [quickly]. They are 
 coming with banners. Look. 
 Cornelia. He is safe. 
 Theophanes. There comes the King. 
 Hark! Trumpets. They're saluting. 
 He is standing up to land. 
 
 Cornelia. Ah! Swords. He is 
 stabbed. 
 
 Theophanes. Ah ! you gods. You 
 gods! 
 
 Cornelia. Oh ! He is killed ! He 
 is killed ! He is MUed ! [She collapses] 
 Theophanes [covering his eyes]. The 
 devils ! The devils ! 
 
 The Mate. They stabbed him in 
 the back. 
 
 Antistia. It's ebb-tide now, my 
 beauty. 
 
 The Captain [yelling]. Cut the cable. 
 [Chopping forward] 
 A Voice. All gone, the cable. 
 The Mate. Let fall. 
 A Voice. AU gone. 
 The Mate. Sheet home. Hoist 
 away. 
 
 The Men. Ho. [They haul] 
 
 The Chanty. Away ho ! 
 
 [The Men haul] 
 [He intones in a clear loud voice. 
 The Seamen sing the chorus, 
 hauling] 
 [This song is sung like an ordinary 
 halliard chanty. The chorus is 
 to the tune of the old chanty of 
 "Hanging Johnny." The solo 
 will be intoned dearly, without 
 tune. It goes to fast time, the 
 chorus starting almost before 
 
 the soloist ends his line. The 
 Men must haul tvnce, in the 
 proper manner, in each chorus. 
 The hauling mil have for 
 natural accompaniments the 
 whine of the three-sheaved block, 
 the grunt of the parrels and the 
 slat from the great sail] 
 
 The Chanty. 
 Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us 
 
 this strange brave fruit. 
 
 The Men. Away, i-oh. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 Man with hia soul so noble: man half god 
 
 and half brute. 
 
 The Men. So away, i-oh. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 Women bear him in pain that he may bring 
 
 them tears. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 He is a king on earth, he rules for a term of 
 
 years. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 And the conqueror's prize is dust and lost 
 
 endeavour. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 And the beaten man becomes a story for ever. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 For the gods employ strange means to bring 
 
 their will to be. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Chanty. 
 We are in the wise gods' hands and more we 
 
 cannot see. 
 
 Chorus. So away, i-oh. 
 
 A Voice. High enough. 
 
 The Mate. Lie to. [The Seamen 
 lay to the fall] Make fast. 
 
 Coil up. 
 
 A Voice. All clear to seaward. 
 
 The Captain. Pipe down. 
 
 [The Bosun pipes the belay] 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
 Epilogue spoken by Cotta 
 
 tompey was a great Captain, riding 
 amon» Kings, a King, 
 
 Now he lijs dead on the sand, an old 
 bliad tumbled thing. 
 
 Fate has her secret way to humble cap- 
 tains thus. 
 
 Fate comes to every one and takes the 
 light from us. 
 
 And the beginning and the end are 
 da.rkened waters where no lights be 
 
 But after many days the brook finds 
 ocean 
 
 And the ship puts to sea. 
 
NOTES 
 
 ON THE APPEARANCE OF POMPEY 
 
 Portraits exist of Cneius Pompeius Magnus. The most important of these is 
 a marble bust at Copenhagen. Several likenesses are to be found on the gold and 
 silver coins struck by his son, Sextus, in Spain. Plutarch says of him that, 'being 
 come to man's state, there appeared in his gesture and behaviour a grave and 
 princely majesty. His hair also stood a little upright, and the cast and soft mov- 
 ing of his eyes had a certain resemblance (as they said) of the statues and images of 
 Alexander the Great.' This resemblance may still be traced. 
 
 At the time of his murder he was flfty-eight years old, a powerful, very active 
 man, in the prime of life. His bust, evidently done towards the end of his life, 
 shows that his hair, which was thick, coarse, and worn rather long, still tended to 
 stand a little upright. The head is of great breadth at the eyes. The brow is low 
 and lined with three deep lines of wrinkles going right across it in irregular M shape. 
 The eyebrows are well marked : the supra-orbital ridge is heavy. The nose is full 
 and strong, with the broad base which is so good an index of intellectual power. The 
 septum is of great breadth. The mouth is of that kindly tightness which one sees 
 in the portraits of some of our Admirals. Below the mouth is a deep horizontal 
 dent. The chin is not cloven. The face is hned a good deal. A deep straight 
 ■wrinkle runs from each side of the nose to the puckered angles of the mouth. The 
 eyes, are crows-footed. There are no indications as to the colour of the hair and eyes. 
 The shape of the head suggests the brown or fair type of man. At the time of his 
 death he was perhaps grizzled. 
 
 No known portrait exists of any of the other characters. Metellus came of a 
 family once distinguished for pointed noses, Domitius of a family once famed for 
 red hair. Corneha was famous for a grave and gentle beauty. She was young, 
 though already a widow, when Pompey married her, a few months before the civil 
 trouble began. 
 
 ON THE FATE OF THE PERSONS IN .THIS TRAGEDY 
 
 Philip. After reUgiously burning his master's body on the seashore, disappears 
 from history. 
 
 Metellus Scipio. Fled from Pharsalia to Africa, where he carried on the war until 
 46 B.C., when he was defeated by Caesar at Thapsus. Flying from Africa by sea, 
 in bad weather, he was forced to put into the port of Hippo, where one of C»sar's 
 fleets lay at anchor. A battle followed. He is said to have drowned himself shortly 
 before his ship was sunk. 
 
 Cn. Pompeius Theophanes. Returned to Italy, and was pardoned by Caesar. 
 He attained great fame as a writer. After his death the Lesbians paid him divine 
 honours. His son held office under Augustus. 
 
 743 
 
744 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Marcus Calo. After Pharsalia, joined Scipio in Africa, and held command under 
 him. He killed himself in Utioa, shortly after the battle of Thapsus, so that he 
 might not live to see the final extinction of Hberty. His son was killed at PhiMppi, 
 'vahantly fighting against Augustus,' four years later. , 
 
 Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Was killed (some say by Mark Antony) either 
 in the battle, or in the rout, of Pharsaha, at which he commanded the great brigade 
 of horse, on the left of Pompey's army. 
 
 Marcus Acilius Glabrio. Continued in Csesar's service, and rose to be governor 
 of Achaia. 
 
 Lucius Lucceius. Returned to Rome, and received Csesar's pardon. He was 
 praised by Cicero for the excellence of his historical writings. 
 
 Lucius Afranius. After Pharsalia, joined Scipio in Africa, and held command 
 under him, till the battle of Thapsus. While riding through Mauretania, on his 
 way to Spain, after that disaster, he was ambushed and taken by Caesar's Meutenant, 
 P. Sitius. A few days later, the troops of Sitius killed him in a camp riot. 
 
 Lentulus Spinther. After Pharsalia, fied to Rhodes, where he was refused per- 
 mission to land. He set sail again 'much against his will,' and either "perished 
 ingloriously' or disappeared from history. 
 
 A chillas Egyptian. Was killed by Arsinoe (Ptolemy's sister) and the eunuch 
 Ganymed in the year after Pompey's murder. 
 
 ON THE HOUSE OF POMPEY, AFTER THE MURDER 
 
 Cornelia. After seeing her husband killed, fled to Cyrene, and thence to Rome, 
 where, in time, Pompey's ashes were brought to her. She is said to have buried 
 them 'in a town of hers by the city of Alba,' in Liguria. 
 
 Cn. Pompeius Magnus, the Triumvir's eldest son, by his third wife, Mucia, held 
 Corcyra for a time, showing courage and bold strategic ideas. On hearing of his 
 father's death, he went to Spain, where he raised a great army. He was defeated 
 at the bloody battle of Mimda, in the year 45. Soon after the battle, he was be- 
 trayed, taken and killed. His head was carried to Seville and exposed there to the 
 public gaze. 
 
 Sextus Pompeius Magnus. The younger son (also by Mucia) continued the war 
 in Africa, with Cato's party, till after the battle of Thapsus. He then joined his 
 brother in Spain. After Csesar's murder, he was proscribed by Octavian, and took 
 the seas, with a fleet, burning, sinking, and intercepting commerce, till Octavian 
 came to terms. On the recommencement of war between them, his fleet was beaten 
 by Octavian's fleet under Agrippa. After trying vainly to beat up a foroeinAsia, 
 he was taken and put to death at Miletus (probably by the order of Mark Antony) 
 in the year 35. He left a daughter whose fate is uncertain. She was with him in 
 Asia in 36. 
 
 Pompeia. The daughter (also by Mucia) married Faustus, the son of Sulla, who 
 was killed with Afranius in the mutiny of the troops of P. Sitius, in Africa in 46. 
 She afterwards married L. CorneUus Cinna. It is not known when she died ; but 
 it is certain that she predeceased her brother, Sextus. She had a son by Comehus 
 Cinna, who came to be Consul in a.d. 5. What became of her children by Faustus 
 is not known. 
 
And all their passionate hearts are dust. 
 And dust the great idea that burned 
 In various flames of love and lust 
 Till the world's brain was turned. 
 
 God, moving darkly in men's brains, 
 Using their passions as his tool, 
 Brings freedom with a tyrant's chains 
 And wisdom with the fool. 
 
 Bhndly and bloodily we drift, 
 
 Our interests clog our hearts with dreams. 
 
 God make my brooding soul a rift 
 
 Through which a meaning gleams. 
 
 Fell. 8, 1908. July 5, 1909. 
 
W. B. YEATS 
 
 AND 
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOL OF PLAYWRIGHTS 
 
THE IRISH SCHOOL OF PLAYWRIGHTS 
 
 There is no need of approaching the Irish Dramatic Movement unless one 
 knows something of the DubUn Riots, when Synge's "The Playboy of the Western 
 World" was first given, on January 26, 1907. And the ill-will evident then was 
 repeated in Boston, where the play was given on October 16, 1911, diiring a visit 
 of the Irish Players to America. On the latter occasion, word was sent to the 
 Mayor that the piece must be stopped, and throughout the evening hoots and 
 hisses were mingled with the applause. 
 
 It was a very foolish demonstration in Dublin, and a still more unreasonable 
 one in Boston, and the ground of complaint in both instances was the same. A 
 Ml account of the disturbance has been feelingly written by Lady Gregory in 
 her peeuUarly naive autobiographical volume, "Our Irish Theatre." The Irish- 
 man has always been sensitive about the stage Irishman. Resentment has been felt 
 against the caricature portraits that have found their way into the previous history 
 of the theatre. When Synge's play was announced, word was sent abroad that in 
 its chief character it glorified a parricide, who, in a fit of temper, kills his father and 
 sallies forth to boast of it. "That is against Irish nature," exclaimed the true 
 patriot. The fact is, Synge's satire in this particular piece is the satire of Ibsen's 
 "Peer Gynt.'' On the opening night, with bells and horns and whistles drowning; 
 the actors' voices, it was small wonder that the audience had little time in which 
 to reaUze or enjoy the rustic quaUty of the piece. It seemed as though there were 
 concerted action to break up the play rather than to hear it. The demonstration 
 made W. B. Yeats dreadfully uncomfortable ; he was away from Dublin at the time, 
 and the first despatch told him of success, hastily followed by a second despatch 
 deploring the disorder. 
 
 Probably never before in the history of the theatre had an audience so brazenly 
 tried to dictate terms to the actors. Warnings were sent, both in Dublin and in 
 Boston, and advice was given that certain lines had best be left unspoken. In fact, 
 had the wishes of the mob been met, the whole Irish peasantry would have been cut 
 deliberately from the text. 
 
 The actors went on with their parts throughout the evening, though no word 
 could make itself heard above the tumult. In Dublin, pamphlets were written, 
 condemning Synge as a maUgner of Irish womanhood ; in Boston, letters of protest 
 flUed the newspapers, and editors sought the opinions of prominent people. And 
 all because they did not understand that Synge, in his short career as a dramatist, 
 was not a hteral realist, but, for the sheer fun of amusement, had exalted a har to 
 the height of a hero. In this way Synge was ironically ridiculing the simple faith 
 of the Irish people. And afterwards the combatants took account of their wounds. 
 "Look," said one man on the streets of Dublin, pointing to a space where two 
 teeth had been, "look, I lost those on the opening of 'The Playboy of the Western 
 World.' " 
 
 749 
 
750 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The Abbey Theatre has thriven in an atmosphere of opposition, and polities 
 float beneath the lintel of its door. The Viceroy of Ireland will not come to it, be- 
 cause the band refuses to play "God Save the King" ; he has been known to refuse 
 to enter the theatre because, as a representative of Royalty, the management denied 
 him the red velvet carpet in the aisle which his position com.mands. And, in de- 
 fiance of the Enghsh censor, the theatre has sheltered Shaw. In retaliation the 
 Crown authoriti'es, empowered to grant patents to the theatres, have Umited Yeats's 
 playhouse to dramas of Irish life only. Thus England has defined more rigorously 
 than art would define it the scope of the Irish National Theatre. 
 
 A movement opposed is usually one with the red blood of life in it ; and thai 
 was the healthy aspect of the Celtic renaissance before the War. For, as Yeats has 
 said, "An audience with national feeling is alive; at the worst it is alive enough 
 to quarrel with." 
 
 There comes a time, in every literary movement, when art cannot thrive alone 
 on ideals and theories ; when it has to have money for its maintenance. In 1904, 
 W. B. Yeats came to Am.erica on a lecture tour, and the practical result of this 
 visit was that thereafter he was better enabled to devote his attention and energj 
 to a dramatic cause born of his individual fervour. After a second trip to America, 
 in 1911, Yeats returned home with a comfortable feeling that the Irish Players were 
 making profit in their tour of the United States, as well as attaining glory. 
 
 Strange to say, this art movement in Ireland, which is so closely identified witl 
 the history and development of Yeats, is not so significant for its aesthetic value as 
 for Its connection with the nationahsm which is part and parcel of the Irish make-up 
 Seeing that immediate independence would not be offered them through pohtica] 
 channels, and reahzing a dangerous apathy of the Irish people toward an art aheadj 
 at hand in their natures and in their local surroundings, in their traditions and 
 mystic superstitions, societies were founded for the development and furtherance 
 of things strictly Irish. The Gaehc language was revived. The Irish legends and 
 sagas were utilized in order to symbolize the inherent glory of Erin. Prom this 
 impulse, a school of playwrights, representing in their expression both reahsm and 
 symboUsm, sprang into being. It is in this school that we find Ireland reflecting 
 her nationalism and giving utterance to her individual existence. Likewise, Irisl 
 industry was encouraged. The spirit was not so much parochial as it was insular 
 and this distinction gives a broader sweep to both the poetry and the drama ol 
 Ireland. 
 
 It were wrong, indeed, to lay Ireland's love of nationalism entirely to hei 
 hatred of England, even though Mario Borso has claimed, in his book on "The 
 Enghsh Stage, " that she 
 
 has remained deeply religious, bigoted and Papist, simply because Catholi- 
 cism appeals to her as a weapon wherewith to fight Protestant England. 
 
 It is wrong to assume that, before the War and before the Ulster agitation. Ire 
 land fathered individual art entirely for the sake of poUtical propaganda, inasmuol 
 as Yeats, in defining a national hterature, has claimed that "It is the work o; 
 writers who are moulded by influences that are moulding their country, and wh( 
 write out of so deep a life that they are accepted there in the end." 
 
 The Celtic renaissance, brought about by the denial of political right, by th( 
 postponement of Home Rule, by the lost hope of ParneU, and by the removal o: 
 
The Irish School of Playwrights 751 
 
 Gladstone, simply awakened Irish pride in the past, and encouraged a vision of the 
 Irish future, and a loving scrutiny of the Irish present which, in their several ways, 
 are the characteristics of the Irish literature in this modern revival. 
 
 Some people claim that the revival of Gaelic, encouraged by Douglas Hyde, 
 Yeats, and others, was simply a move on the part of the Irish to irritate the English 
 local authorities, who knew nothing of and cared less about the dialect. Stories are 
 preserved of postal officials returning envelopes addressed in the uncial script, 
 which to the eye relates Gaelic to Greek ; others claim that once upon a time an 
 Irish member in the House of Commons began his speech in his native patois, much 
 to the consternation and disgust of his associates. But Yeats is authority for the 
 statement that the revival of their ancient language has had its social purpose ; 
 that it has served in some instances to drive drink from the land. "Teach us," 
 ory the children of hill and glen, "teach us the Gaelic which is the only tongue 
 spoken in Paradise." ' Hence, in lonely cabins, under thatched roof, a dead lan- 
 gfuage has come to life again. And it seemed at the outset as though Gaelic was to 
 have a wider sway than Mistral's "Langue d'Oc" in the heart of Provence. 
 
 The Celtic renaissance began about the year 1890 and declared itself very rapidly 
 in definite channels. The Irish peasant was made the central object of interest ; 
 the squalor and poverty in which he lived were projected against the rich background 
 of folk-lore before which he moved. Literature had caught flashes of Irish peasant 
 lite before in Maria EdgQworth's "Castle Rackrent." But now it was to exalt 
 the very heart of Irela.nd itself. Irish character heretofore had been cased in the 
 mould of English models, as in Goldsmith and in Sheridan ; or had been conven- 
 tionally oarioatOTed and degraded as in Boucicault. Now, Irish character was des- 
 tined to be depicted through the medium of Irish sympathy and pride. 
 
 This intellectual energy gathering headway, the Gaelic League was founded 
 in 1893, probably encouraged through the establishment of the National Literary 
 Society by Yeats in Dublin, during 1891. Dates are significant only as an indica- 
 tion of the rapid spread of the Irish Movement. The year 1893 likewise saw the 
 light of the Irish Literary Society and of the Irish Text Society, both intent on edit- 
 ing Old Irish manuscripts. Yeats's literary organization fathered the cause of' the 
 Irish Literary Theatre in 1898, and it came into existence with a policy as invigorat- 
 ing and ,as protective of originality as the Independent Theatre in London and An- 
 tolne's Theatre Libre in Paris. 
 
 It is difficult to surmise what would have been the fate of the Irish Theatre 
 Movement, built upon ideas, and as poor as the Irish peasantry itself, had it not 
 been for the timely assistance of Miss A. E. F. Horniman, a patroness of the arts 
 and a patron saint to the repertory idea. 
 
 When the theatre began, there were no Irish actors to take the parts in Yeats's 
 "Countess Cathleen." Therefore, on May 8, 1899, in the ancient concert-room of 
 Dublin, an English company produced the piece. This performance resulted in an 
 opposition indicative of the sensitiveness of the people to any criticism of any special 
 characteristics which might be considered general traits of the Irish people. 
 DubUners argued that it was unpatriotic of Yeats to have Countess Cathleen sell 
 her soul to the devil in order to relieve her people of famine, inasmuch as not only 
 was it beneath the dignity of an Irishman to sell his soul to the devil, but no 
 Irishman would dare to make such a bargain. The high seriousness of the play 
 escaped them in the temper of the moment. Referring to this incident, Yeats 
 has written : 
 
752 Representative British Dramas 
 
 The greatest difficulty before the creator of a living Irish drama has been, 
 and to some extent stiU is, the extreme sensitiveness of a nation, which has 
 come to look upon Irish literature, not as a free play of the mind over the sur- 
 face and in the depths of life, but as a defence delivered before a prejudiced jury, 
 who have heard a very confident advocate on the other side. 
 
 Certain it is that the history of the establishment of any Irish Theatre musi 
 inevitably be bound up with the flare of Irish temper. 
 
 In 1917, there was an effort, on the part of some enthusiastic Irish literary foil 
 in New York, to establish the Irish Theatre of America. When one of the officers 
 was asked what play had been accepted for the opening bill, the reply was : " W( 
 have met several times to make our choice, but at each conference our member! 
 have spHt into factions, one believing that Sir Roger Casement should have beer 
 shot, and the other that he should not have been shot. With the consequence 
 that no play has thus far been selected for the Irish Theatre." That is the wholt 
 spirit of contention which has helped to retard the development of an Irish National 
 playhouse. 
 
 In 1903, W. G. Fay gathered about him a small band of Irish amateurs calling 
 themselves the Irish National Dramatic Company; and this later became thf 
 Irish National Theatre Society. The members of the organization, in their ordi- 
 nary pursuits, were workers and clerks concerned in efforts furthest away from art, 
 These evening contributions were their recreation. About this time. Miss Horni- 
 man offered her assistance. Beginning with 1904, she not only allowed the Na- 
 tional Theatre Society a small annual subsidy, but she purchased the old theatre 
 of the Mechanics Institute, in Dublin, and turned it over to the Society rent free, 
 The house was renovated by Irish skill and Irish labour. Thus the Abbey Theatre 
 came into existence. 
 
 An art theatre must not only be representative of an art idea, but it must preseni 
 plays which are product of this idea. And when a theatre starts its career with the 
 distinct object of arousing Ireland's consciousness of herself, it has to be supphed 
 with material of national significance. Had it not been for the efforts of Yeats 
 and Edward Martyn, there would have been no Synge and no Lady Gregory. These 
 two were born out of the very heart of the Movement, and these two were fathered 
 by Yeats. They are not exotics, as George Moore has ever been in his relation to 
 the Irish Theatre ; they are close to the heart of the land. Should one wish to gain 
 knowledge of peasant life and to know how that knowledge was enriched by the 
 devotees of the New Irish Theatre, read Yeats's "Celtic Twilight," filled with the 
 elemental superstitions of a peasantry sprung from the soil. Should one wish to 
 foUow the sources of Synge's poetic, though none the less elemental pictures of Irish 
 life, read his "The Aran Islands," which is a revised notebook of his impressions 
 after an intimate stay with a peculiar people. Ever since the Movement began, the 
 Irish student has been self-consciously alive to the gathering of facts ; he has fre- 
 quented cabin and field and has courted intimate familiarity with the peasant ; he 
 has tried, in every way, to obtain his end without awakening any self-conscious- 
 ness on the part of the people. Even Synge, intent on catching every variation oi 
 speech among the Aran people, was known to eavesdrop at doors ajar, or to put his 
 ears to cracks in a rotting floor so as to hear some conversation in a room beneath. 
 
 The enthusiasm of the Irish writer of the Celtic renaissance has led him often tc 
 
The Irish School of Playwrights ■ 753 
 
 think more of life than of expression. But Yeats is nothing if not an artist, and he 
 has always insisted that Irishmen must study English, must draw their form from 
 the very best sources, must not lay themselves open to the charge that they are un- 
 grammatical. If necessary, they must foUow William Blake's example, — they 
 must copy out the English Bible. Hence Yeats's significant mandate, "Let us 
 learn construction from the masters and dialogue from ourselves." 
 
 Yeats has edited two magazines, which he has dedicated to the cause of Irish 
 art, life, and literature. There were three numbers of Beltaine, after which the 
 name of the periodical was altered to Samhain, meaning " the beginning of Autumn." 
 It was a casual periodical, issued once yearly, or rather issued whenever Yeats was 
 in the mood for it, and no reader interested in the Celtic revival can afford to miss it, 
 for it contains the essence of Yeats's fervour. The Movement was rapid, but not of 
 easy growth. It has, as we have hinted, evolved from riot. But its influence has 
 been great. In fact, as George Moore has written : 
 
 Many will think that I am guilty of exaggeration when I say that the Irish 
 Literary Theatre has done more to awaken intellectual life in Ireland than 
 Trinity College. 
 
 Not the least agreeable part of this renaissance is to be had in the growth of 
 autobiographical impression around it. A living, breathing, pastoral quality is to 
 be found in certain chapters of Moore's "Hail and Farewell," descriptive in de- 
 lightfully impertinent spirit of the personalities and the personalia centering about 
 the early performances of the Irish National Theatre. Had the Movement pro- 
 duced nothing more than these impressions and naive tributes to the cause and to 
 the people behind the cause, in the writings of Yeats, Lady Gregory, and Synge, it 
 would have, contributed nauch to the picturesque side of the history of dramatic 
 ait. For, despite the opposition met everywhere, the Movement has encouraged 
 comradeship which is felt whenever a group of the Irish Players is found. Con- 
 versatiqn with Yeats and Lady Gregory is replete with the sparkle of enthusiasm. 
 On their visit to America with the Abbey Theatre Players, they referred to "our 
 little plays " as a mother would speak of her children. The players on their Ameri- 
 can visit were moved by no pretensions. The Irish dramatists who came over with 
 them were mystically silent. As the dominant force in the revival, Yeats's whole 
 method in relation to the theatre sprang from high imagination ; he has lived up 
 to his theory of acting, and has kept the technique simple, and he has insisted on 
 the scenery departing from minute detail and extravagance. "We have, " he once 
 wrote, "far greater need of the severe discipline of French and Scandinavian 
 drama than of Shakespeare's luxuriance." 
 
 War changes all things. What the Celtic renaissance will be after the present 
 European conflict it is as difficult to say as what the world will be after nations have 
 ceased to war upon each other. But historically we may say, looking back on the 
 history of the Celtic renaissance as it was until August, 1914, that this Irish renais- 
 sance was Yeats. He steeped himself in Irish verse and held firmly to his art ideals. 
 Out of a folk literature he has drawn a mysticism akin to that of Maeterlinck, yet 
 different from Maeterlinck in that it upheld both nationalism and a peculiar qual- 
 ity of humour. Though he started out with no theory of the unexpressed, such as 
 the Belgian poet held, yet in Yeats's plays there is an interior beauty, a spiritual 
 texture aJdn to that of Maeterlinck. It is strange that Yeats should have been so 
 
754 Representative British Dramas 
 
 closely identified with the Abbey Theatre, and yet should have succeeded in remai 
 ing so far removed from the real dramatic. 
 
 When he was last in America, his appearance was that of the dreamer. ^ 
 visitor to our shores has ever remained so aloof from the stir of American life ai 
 condition. Tall, with slightly stooping shoulders, his dark hair shot through wil 
 grey, and parted carelessly on one side, his long face with its heavy jaw, his shai 
 nose, with deUeately cut nostrils revealing sensitiveness, his small eyes deep-a 
 above high cheek bones, his glasses oddly cut to allow of a straight piece to brids 
 the nose, this was the picture of Yeats during his visit in 1911. There was i 
 colour to his face. The forehead was high, with arched brows that in moments i 
 contemplation were raised to the point of interrogation. When talking, he gaze 
 fixedly at one. His nervous hands moved constantly. His manner, rather than h 
 appearance, proclaimed the poet, even though a soft flowing tie was the convention 
 sign. His talk was rapid, with now and then a slight hesitation, due to thougl 
 being ahead of expression. 
 
 Such a man was responsible for the prestige of the Irish Players, and was ii 
 spiration for the poUey of the Irish Repertory Theatre. 
 
 It was while in Paris, intent on establishing another society, during 1897, thi 
 Yeats came across Synge, tucked away in the Latin Quarter. Ireland was farthei 
 from the latter's thoughts, for Synge had been in France since his Trinity Collej 
 days, and was much more concerned about French literature than about tl 
 counties of Wieklow, Kerry, and Connemara, which afterwards formed the settir 
 for his "Aran Islands." 
 
 Eloquent, at aU time, regarding the art of Ireland, Yeats persuaded Synge 1 
 return to his own land and to throw his energies into the Celtic Renaissance Movi 
 ment. This he did, and there developed in his interest a new characteristic nc 
 heretofore found in his poetry, his criticism, or his stories, — the dramatic instim 
 which was latent in the character of Synge. One has but to read here and thei 
 in his book of travel to understand the sources of his very vivid plays. Thus, for 
 second time, Yeats became the prime mover in developing a talent more dramat 
 than his own, more wild and ungovernable, and filled with a gypsy poetry born of tl 
 wild west of Ireland. For Synge' s observation is tinged with satire, a phlegmat: 
 strain 'as variable as the humour of ' ' Peer Gynt ' ' ; thus ' ' The Playboy of the Westei 
 World" could not help but be pre-ordained by his personality. 
 
 Even if Yeats has not justified his full claim to dramatic honours — thoug 
 "Cathleen ni Houlihan" is rightly popular and holds its own in Dublin's favoi 
 with Synge's "The Playboy of the Western World" — at least he may be prou 
 that the three products emanating from his enthusiasm and sacrifice have bee 
 successful: The significant position of the Abbey Theatre which continued eve 
 after Miss Horniman withdrew her subsidy, Synge's permanent literary quaUt; 
 and Lady Gregory's healthy humour of hfe. There is no despondency in the comed 
 of Synge — no Celtic throb of dreadful sorrow, such as is to be found in the veri 
 of Lionel Johnson. His plays contain the red blood of passion, while the drams 
 of Yeats have the white glint of dreams. 
 
 The emotionaUsm of Yeats is balanced by a critical attitude toward the Iris 
 Movement. A reading of the too few copies of Samhain will demonstrate tha 
 His desire has always been to have the common man understand great art. Yi 
 his own poetry has a quaUty about it which only the learned and the cultivate 
 
The Irish School of Playwrights 755 
 
 may understand. He has placed himself in that stream of reaction against eight- 
 eenth-century rationaUsm and nineteenth-century materiaUsm, and he has created 
 something different from the symbolism of Wagner, the pre-RaphaeUte school in 
 England, and de I' Isle-Adam, MaUarmfi and MaeterUnck in France. 
 
 Yeats has always been persistent in his separation of the circumstances of hfe 
 from what he has called the emotional values of poetry. Though aware that moat 
 of the school emanating from his enthusiasm wrote of a condition that was part of 
 the actual physical and pohtical condition of Ireland, still Yeats has been unswerv- 
 ing in his demand for contemplative mood and imaginative originality in art. At 
 one time a young woman came to him for advice. He recognized in her certain 
 talent which was being perverted by the theatre of commerce. His recommenda- 
 tion to her was to fall into an original attitude toward hfe, but he warned her that 
 no sooner should she do so than she would have her class against her. Here's where 
 the Irish Movement found its greatest handicap ; in the past it has been opposed in 
 quarters where it would most have served. There were some who feared that the 
 tales of Ireland, with their overpowering passion, would have a baleful influence 
 on the crowd. But "A. B." (Russell), writing on "Dramatic Treatment of Heroic 
 Literature", claimed that there need be no fear "that many forbidden subjects will 
 be themes for dramatic art ; that Maene with her many husbands wiU walk the 
 stage and the lusts of an earUer age be revived to please the lusts of to-day. The 
 danger of art is not in its subjects, but in the attitude of the artist's mind." 
 
 What Yeats's attitude was in 1911, when he came to America on a visit, seems to 
 have been well reflected in his utterances during the Irish Players' appearance in 
 Boston. Speaking before the Drama League, he said : 
 
 From the flrst start of our intellectual movement in Ireland, our faith in 
 success has come from our knowledge of the life of the country places and the 
 imaginative beauty of their speech. One discovers thoughts there not very 
 unhke those of the Greek dramatists. Of course there is a great deal that 
 is crude, but there are songs and stories showing an attitude of mind that 
 seems the very root of art. 
 
 Under the auspices of the Harvard Dramatic Club, Yeats approached his 
 favourite theme of the Theatre of Beauty, in which light and shadow were to be in 
 accord with the theories made possible by Gordon Craig's new inventions. The 
 Irish scenic artists, from the very beginning, have upheld the intention to produce 
 a more general, a more symboUc, a more imaginative setting, that shall give the 
 feeUng of hfe rather than its appearance. 
 
 A word regarding the Abbey Players' success in America, during their tour of 
 1911, will add further to a general impression of the Irish Players' accomphshment. 
 They had come heralded from England, and praised for their sincerity and their 
 lack of artificial acting. They brought with them a varied repertory. To perform 
 Synge's ' ' The Shadow of the Glen " and Shaw' s " The Shewing Up of Blanco Posnet " 
 in one afternoon requires no Uttle adaptability — the one is so fuU of deep tragedy, 
 the other so sparkling with impertinence. And the two extremes of the Irish 
 Theatre are very well illustrated when Synge's "Riders to the Sea" and Lady 
 Gregory's "The Rising of the Moon", "Spreading the News", or, "The Workhouse 
 Ward" are contrasted. 
 
 The players who came with Yeats were unsophisticated ; they acted with an 
 
756 Representative British Dramas 
 
 intensity that showed how well they felt the life they were called upon to portraj 
 They read verse with an understanding of its rhythmic quaUty. They passed froi 
 gravity to humoiir — a surprising characteristic in Synge — with an adaptabUit; 
 that showed how pliable their art was, even if not perfect in their hands. Tiei 
 costumes were old and torn, green with the age of the pawnshop, grimy with th 
 dirt of the road. These players came from the rank and file of workers, with a 
 professional preparation for the stage. What they learned, they gained in th 
 theatre itself. Their crudeness was the crudity of childhke love of play. Both th 
 Irish playwright and the Irish actor impressed us with the fact that they were ver 
 much like children in their naive spirit. 
 
 The repertory brought from Ireland created no end of criticism. T. C. Murray' 
 "Burthright", brutal in parts ; Lady Gregory's "Hyacinth Halvey", considered he 
 best ; and Synge's " The Shadow of the Glen" challenged the patience of the Irish 
 American, who contended that in every way these pieces distorted Irish life an( 
 Irish character. The professional actor found much that was intellectual in the Iris] 
 repertory. The critic found much that was austere. But the pathos in Iris] 
 drama is poignant, the humour volatile, the character rich in colour. In perform 
 ing "Cathleen ni Houlihan", though the setting might be as bare as that whicl 
 pictures "The Shadow of the Glen", the spiritual fervour of the reading, as trainee 
 by Yeats, filled the dim cottage with a light which was purely the light of exalte( 
 feeling and poetry. 
 
 The very names of the Irish Players brought poetry to the ear — Eithne Magee 
 Eileen O'Doherty, Maire ni Shiubhlaigh, Cathleen Nesbit. The tongue roUs ovei 
 them delioiously. Read Synge's dialogue after you have heard these actors, and thi 
 very rhythm of the prose is Irish. 
 
 Before the War, the Irish dramatic art was in a healthy way of increase. Bui 
 there has always been one unfortunate factor in the Movement ; both dramatisi 
 and actor have been content to remain self-conscious in their nationality. Thej 
 have never once allowed you to forget that they were Irish, and that they repre 
 sented the Irish drama. At the present, this provincialism is forgivable. Yet it ii 
 difficult -to believe that these simple folk wiU ever come to agree with you that any 
 thing worth while is to be found outside of home. Before the War, the world move 
 ment to them paled in the face of the Celtic renaissance. 
 
 It struck the present Editor, during conversation with the Irish Players on theii 
 last visit, that the personal value was the rich value of Yeats's school of Irish drama 
 tists. I was made to feel that the Irish theatre was my theatre. In the lobby 
 a stately woman, dressed in black, with an Irish lace veil over her hair, walket 
 familiarly from friend to friend. She held red roses in her arms, and a smile of ex 
 citement was on her lips. This was Lady Gregory. Like a sudden gust of wind 
 with rapid nervous strides, a man passed to his orchestra chair, looking neither t( 
 right nor to left of him, and only dimly conscious of the crowd. This was Yeats 
 By a bookstall in the lobby, with the pubhshed plays of the Irish Theatre piled upoi 
 a table, stood three or four of the Irish dramatists themselves, — aU with mystic 
 enquiry on their faces. Truly, one felt that it was a gathering of the dans ! 
 
CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN 
 By William Butler Yeats 
 
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 
 
 William Butler, Yeats was born at Sandymount, Dublin, June 13, 1865. 
 His grandfather lived at Sligo, a locality familiarly treated in the poet's early prose 
 and verse. His father, John Yeats, is an artist with peculiar national characteris- 
 tics. 
 
 Whoever would know something of the temperament of Yeats as a boy needs 
 must turn to the autobiographical reminiscences of Mrs. Katherine Tynan Hink- 
 Bon ; and throughout the prose work of Yeats one is able to detect the reasons for 
 every change of thought and expression in his development. Like his brother, J. B. 
 Yeats, the poet at first turned his attention, after receiving his education at the Dub- 
 lin Erasmus School, to the study of art. During this time he was seeking for some 
 means of awakening his country to a sense of its national dignity, and the mystic 
 quaUty of his later verse was foreshadowed by his interest in theosophy. 
 
 When, in 1887, he turned to London, he was writing poetry, and was under the 
 influence of William Morris. His friends of the time were Ernest Dowson, Lionel 
 Johnson, and Arthur Symons. 
 
 Between this year of 1887 and 1891, when the Irish Literary Theatre began, 
 there developed in Yeats's character all those ideals of art which were to find prac- 
 tical outlet in the Irish renaissance. There is a naive analysis of his own trans- 
 formation in everything he wrote. We find him explaining the reasons for his turn- 
 ing from art to poetry. His methods of writing are dwelt upon in his essays, ' ' Ideas 
 of Good and Evil." His explanation of the symbol is bound up in Ms explanation of 
 himself. Everything he did was very personal, even to those experiments which he 
 conducted with the psaltery in connection with the mere poetry of words. If 
 Arthur Symons, in later years, was to place Yeats in the symbolist movement, a 
 critic, Forrest Reid, believes that he was in that movement merely to oblige Symons 
 and Mallarme, his art being primarily that of a natural singer. 
 
 Whatever Yeats gained from his association with Morris, there is no doubt 
 that Yeats's sister, who established the Cuala industries, near Dublin, learned much 
 about embroidery from Morris's daughter. There was a beautiful utilitarian strain 
 in some part of the Irish revival. Utilitarianism, however, is farthest away from the 
 make-up of Yeats, who, in 1898, showed how he wished to cut himself away from 
 worldly moorings and sail the high seas of unfettered thought. He wrote : 
 
 I believe that the renewal of belief, which is the great movement of our 
 time, will more and more liberate the arts from their age and from their life, 
 and leave them more and more free to lose themselves in beauty. 
 
 From the time that Yeats went to London with his family, in 1887, he began con- 
 sistently to lose himself in beauty. Everything mystic appealed to him, even to 
 the study of magic. His enthusiasm was that of the poet moved by impulse. One 
 of his numerous biographers tells us that "A. E." described Yeats as one who, re- 
 
 759 
 
760 Representative British Dramas 
 
 turning to his lodgings late in the evening, would wish to continue his talks on art 
 and poetry through the wee small hours of the night. The present Editor remem- 
 bers, after a most beautiful production of his "Cathleen ni Houlihan", in Boston, 
 meeting Yeats at his hotel, at one o'clock, and sitting spellbound while, in the pure 
 exhilaration of his success, he talked, not of the theatre, but of the power of poetry, 
 and the music of words, and the high value of imagination in practical life. 
 
 "The Countess Cathleen" was written in 1892, and was not staged until seven 
 years after. The final version of this play, according to Yeats's collected works, was 
 not given to the pubUc until 1912. This shows that, to bibhophiles, the earlier 
 editions of Yeats's works already have an immense value. "The Land of the 
 Heart's Desire'", with its Sligo background, was performed at the Avenue Theatre, 
 in London, in the spring of 1894. 
 
 In April, 1902, Yeats's most distinctively dramatic piece, " Cathleen ni Houli- 
 han", was given by W. G. Fay's company, and in October of that year it was pub- 
 lished in Samhain. It was after this that Yeats pubUshed his "Plays for an Irish 
 Theatre", and dedicated the volume to Lady Gregory, making known certain facts 
 concerning the play which are given herewith : 
 
 My Dear Lady Gregory; 
 
 I dedicate to you two volumes of plays that are in part your own. 
 
 When I was a boy I used to wander about at Rosses Point and Ballisodare 
 listening to old songs and stories. I wrote down what I heard and made 
 poems out of the stories or put them into the Uttle chapters of the first edition 
 of the "Celtic Twilight", and that is how I began to write in the Irish way. 
 
 Then I went to London to make my living, and though I spent a part of 
 every year in Ireland and tried to keep the old life in my memory by reading 
 every country tale I could find in books or old newspapers, I began to forget the 
 true countenance of country life. The old tales were still aUve for me, indeed, 
 but with a new, strange, half -unreal hfe, as if in a wizard's glass, until at last, 
 when I had finished "The Secret Rose", and was halfway through "The 
 Wind among the Reeds", a wise woman in her trance told me that my inspira- 
 tion was from the moon, and that I should always Uve close to water, for my 
 work was getting too full of those little jewelled thoughts that come from the 
 sun and have no nation. I have no need to turn to my books of astrology to 
 know that the common people are under the moon, or to Porphyry to remem- 
 ber the image-making power of the waters. Nor did I doubt the entire truth 
 of what she said to me, for my head was full of fables that I had no longer 
 the knowledge and emotion to write. Then you brought me with you to see 
 your friends in the cottages, and to talk to old wise men on Slieve Echtge, and 
 we gathered together, or you gathered for me, a great number of stories and 
 traditional beliefs. You taught me to understand again, and much more per- 
 fectly than before, the true countenance of country hfe. 
 
 , One night I had a dream, almost as distinct as a vision, of a cottage where 
 there was well-being and fireUght and talk of a marriage, and into the midst 
 of that cottage there came an old woman in a long cloak. She was Ireland 
 herself, that Cathleen ni Houlihan for whom so many songs have been sung 
 and about whom so many stories have been told and for whose sake so many 
 have gone to their death. I thought if I could write this out as a little play 
 I could make others see my dream as I had seen it, but I could not get down 
 
William Butler Yeats 761 
 
 out of that high window of dramatic verse, and in spite of all you had done 
 for me I had not the country speech. One has to hve among the people, like 
 you, of whorn an old man said in my hearing, "She has been a serving-maid 
 among us", before one can think the thoughts of the people and speak with 
 their tongue. We turned my dream into the little play, ' ' Oathleen ni Houlihan ' ', 
 and when we gave it to the little theatre in DubHn and found that the working- 
 people liked it, you helped me to put my other dramatic tables into speech. 
 Some of these have already been acted, but some may not be acted for a long 
 time ; but all seem to me, though they were but part of a summer's work, to 
 have more of that countenance of country life than anything I have done since 
 I was a boy. 
 
 The collaboration of Yeats and Lady Gregory was of slow growth, beginning 
 from a mere suggestion on the part of Lady Gregory who had, at the beginning, the 
 ideas rather than the technique, and increasing until she did her full share in the 
 work. As she says, in her "Our Irish Theatre", Yeats dictated most of "Diarmuid 
 and Grania" to her, during the course of which she suggested, here and there, certain 
 sentences. And in her modesty she confesses that when the time came for writing, 
 where there was nothing she "helped to fill spaces." This latter piece was re- 
 written by both of them under the title of "The Unicorn from the Stars." 
 
 The next piece of collaborative work was "Cathleen ni Houlihan" ; and unre- 
 servedly Lady Gregory declares that "we wrote it together." Mr. Reid says 
 that "The wording of the greater part of the dialogue is either suggested by her or 
 imitated from her." In the course of an article, published in The Fortnightly Re- 
 view, and entitled "An Uncommercial Theatre", Stephen Gwynn writes: 
 
 It is necessary to explain for English readers that Cathleen ni Houlihan 
 was one of the names which poets in the eighteenth century used to cloak, in 
 the disguise of love-songs, their forbidden passion for Ireland ; that the " Shan 
 van Vocht,", or "Poor Old Woman," was another of these names; and that 
 Killala, near which, in 1798, is laid the scene of Mr. Yeats's play, is the place 
 where Humbert's ill-starred but glorious expedition made its landing. But 
 tliere was no need to tell a,ll this to the Dublin audience. 
 
 Readers who wish first-hand impressions of the opening performance of "Cath- 
 leen ni Houlihan", as first played at St. Theresa's Hall, in Dublin, with W. G. Fay 
 as the old countryman and Maude Gonne as Cathleen, should turn to George Moore's 
 "Av6." The sheer dehcacy and beauty of the mystic symbolism in this play, to 
 which was added a national strain which gave to the piece some political significance, 
 are its two dominant characteristics. The Irish audiences, while recognizing the 
 poetry and beauty of the dialogue as literature, were resentful of the application of 
 the legend to Irish condition, and they were as hot-headed in their writing of pam- 
 phlets against it as they were in hurling anathemas against "The Playboy of the 
 Western World." 
 
 Yet this play will last as long as the Irish Theatre. It has not the nioral deh- 
 cacy of "The Hour-Glass ", nor the fragile poetic beauty of "The Land of the Heart's 
 Desire." But there is a dramatic quality to it which no amount of symbolism can 
 overcloud. In America, "Cathleen ni Houlihan'.' was first seen during 1904, with 
 Miss Margaret Wyeherly in the leading r61e. In fact to that actress America owes 
 its early introduction to the Irish Theatre. 
 
762 Representative British Dramas 
 
 In the study of William Butler Yeats one has to understand his dramatic theorj 
 and his interest in different aspects of the poetic drama. His prose writings are th( 
 source of such information. In"TheCuttingof an Agate'' we have his laws of th( 
 theatre. In his "Advice to Playwrights Who Are Sending Plays to the Abbey 
 Dublin", contained in his "Ideas of Good and Evil", we are given first-hand his 
 poheies governing the running of the theatre — policies more fully outlined in Ms 
 little magazines. In his collected poetic works, a statement of principles concern- 
 ing the National Theatre Society wiU Ukewise be suggestive. You wlU find as muoh 
 of Yeats in his essays on Synge and in his critical judgments of WiUiam Blake as you 
 will of Synge and Blake themselves. In fact, no man writing for the Irish Theatre 
 is quite so personal, so autobiographical, so dependent upon personal experience 
 as is Yeats himself. Lady Gregory and Synge might depend on environment and 
 event, but in the writing of their plays they are more apt to dissociate themselves 
 from the material with which they are deaUng. Filmy and beautiful in texture, 
 highly sensitive and rich in imagination, the Yeats plays, or at least some of them, 
 will be seen wherever Irish plays are given. But as permanent theatre contribu- 
 tions, they are not as high examples of dramaturgy as are the few one-act plays 
 written by Synge. 
 
CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN 
 By W. B. YEATS 
 
 CopTsiGHT, 1904, 1908, 
 
 bt the macmillan company 
 
 Reprinted from " The Unicorn from the Stars and Other Plays," by permission 
 of the author; Mr. W. B. Yeats, and the publishers. The Macmillan Company, 
 New York, 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Peter Gillane 
 
 Michael Gillane his son, going to be married 
 
 Patrick Gillane a lad of twelve, Michael's brother 
 
 Bridget Gillane Peter's wife 
 
 Delia Cahel engaged to Michael 
 
 The Pooh Old Woman 
 Neighbours 
 
CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN 
 
 Scene. — Interior of a cottage close to 
 KiUala, in 1798. Bridget is stand- 
 ing at a table undoing a parcel. 
 Peter is sitting at one side of the 
 fire, Patrick at the other 
 
 Peter. WhajuaJtiiat-saund. I hear? 
 Patrick. 'TT'^^jQiilLjieat^-anything. 
 
 [He listens] lJhsa£_iii_JXOW. It's like 
 cheering. [He goes to the window and 
 looks out] I wonder what they are 
 cheering about. I don't see anybody. 
 
 Peter. It might be a hurhng ir g.tch. 
 
 Patrick. There's no Jiurling fff^ay. 
 It must be down in the town the cheer- 
 ing is. 
 
 Bridget. 
 be having 
 Come 
 
 I suppose the boys must 
 some sport of their own. 
 over here, Pgter, .^nd look, at 
 yedd ing-cl^" _ 
 Peter [shiftsTmscKairlo table]. Those 
 are grand clothes, indeed. 
 Bridget. You_hadnLt--olothes like 
 
 to put on]oFa_Siinda;y_.an4f„jm,Qie_than 
 aiiy-trtllOT"3a5\ 
 
 Peter. That is true, indeed. We 
 never thought a son of our own would 
 ■be wearing a suit of that sort for his 
 wedding, or have so good a place to bring 
 a wife to. 
 
 Patrick [who is still at the window]. 
 There's an old woman coming down the 
 road. -J- donlr-know,' is it here she's 
 coming? 
 
 Bridget. It will - be a jieighbour 
 eo ming to hear about M ichael' s wedding. 
 Can~you see who it is? 
 
 Patrick. I think it is a stranger, but 
 she's not coming to the house. She's 
 turned into the gap that goes down 
 where MTnM^BBffaS^rEi^rts^areflieaxing 
 sh'Sep.~~[.H'e turns iotuards Bridget] Do 
 you remember what Winny of the Cross 
 Rdadsjwas sajing the other night^bout 
 thestrange wornarTJthat goesthrough 
 tKe~BBUHtry~wBMever time there's war 
 (SrtKrable-comiiig?- 
 
 Bridget. Don't be bothering us 
 about Winny's talk, but go and open 
 
 765 
 
 the door^for your brother. I hear him 
 coming up the path. 
 
 Peter. I hope he has brought 
 Delia^sJ,Q£tune_with him safe, for fear 
 her people might go back on the bar- 
 gain and I after making it. Trouble 
 enough I had making it. 
 
 [Patrick opens the door and 
 Michael comes in] 
 Bridget. What kept you, Michael? 
 We were looking out for you this long 
 time. 
 
 Michael. I went round by the 
 priest's house to bid him be ready to 
 marry us to-morrowT " " - — 
 
 Bridget. Did he say anything? 
 Michael. He said it was a very 
 nieg match, and that he was never better 
 pleaseSTo marry any two in his parish 
 than myself .flflfl.n^ilCS^^! 
 
 "I'etbh. Have ^ou got the fortune, 
 Michael? 
 
 Michael. Here it is. 
 
 [He puts bag on table and goes 
 
 over and leans against the 
 
 chimney-jamb. Bridget, who 
 
 has been all this time examining 
 
 the clothes, pulling the seams 
 
 and trying the lining of the 
 
 pockets, etc., puts the clothes 
 
 on the dresser] 
 
 Peter [getting up and taking the bag 
 
 in his hand and turning out the money]. 
 
 Yes, J_madethe bargain weU for you, 
 
 MichaeL Ol3~troiin-Gahel: would sooner 
 
 have kept a share of this awhile longer. 
 
 '"^Eet me keep the half of it till the ftrst 
 
 boy_ is bor n/' says he. " You will not, " 
 
 sa^~r: "Wh'etEer there is or is not a 
 
 boy, th£wholehundrfid._-pmui.ds_nmat 
 
 beJiL.^Kchaers_han3sbefore he brings 
 
 yourdau^HeX-in^Bfthou'se.""^ TIie~wif e 
 
 spoke tonnn then, and he gave in at 
 
 the end. 
 
 Bridget. You seem well pleased to 
 
 be handling the money, Peter. 
 
 ~~Peter. Indeed, I wish I had had the 
 
 luckicLgeta-hundigdpoundSj^or twenty 
 
 pounds itself, with tEe wffelmarried. ~ 
 
 Bridget. WeU, if I didn't bring 
 
766 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 much I didn't_get_much. What had 
 youthe-Hay"! marriea you but a flock 
 of hens and you feeding them, and a few 
 lambs and you driving them to the 
 market at BaUina? [She is vexed and 
 hangs a jug on the dresser] If I brought 
 no fnrtUTifi , T worked J t-ftw^-JTi^myrFirvn'es, 
 laying down the baby, Michael that is 
 standing there now, on a stook of straw, 
 while I dug the potatoes, and never 
 asking big dresses or anything but to be 
 working. 
 
 Peteb. That is true, indeed. 
 
 [He pats her arm] 
 
 Bridget. Leave me alone now till 
 I readyJhe houseJorthe woman that is 
 to come into it. 
 
 Petek. You are the best woman in 
 Irelaad^ut^mQueyJa^good, too. [He 
 begins handling the money again and sits 
 down] I never thought to see so much 
 money within., my four walls. We can 
 do great things now we have it. We 
 can take the ten acres of land we have 
 a chance of since Jamsie Dempsey died, 
 and stock it. We wiU go to the fair of 
 BaUina to buy the stock. Did DeUa 
 ask any of the m oney for her^otm-nse, 
 MtohaeT? — — - 
 
 Michael. She did not, indeed. She 
 did not seem to take niuoh notice of it, 
 or to look at it at all. 
 
 Bridget. That's no wonder. Why 
 would she look at it when she had your- 
 selfjtoJookMt.a.fine, strong young man? 
 It is proud she must be to get you, a 
 good steady boy that will make use of 
 the money, and not be running through 
 it or spending it on drink Uke another. 
 
 Peter. It's likely Michael himself 
 was not thinking much of the fortune 
 either, _but of what sort the girl wa s to 
 look at. ■ — 
 
 Michael [coming over towards the 
 table]. Well, , you would like a nice 
 comely girl to be besi3e~yoii, and to go 
 walking with you. The fortune only 
 lasts for a while, but the~woman will be 
 therS'al'ways. [Cheers] 
 
 Patrick [turning round from the win- 
 dow]. They are cheCTing_agaia_down 
 in the town. MaybSThey are landing 
 horses from Eniiisoro'ne'. They do be 
 cEeOTii^' when the'EoFses take the water 
 well. 
 
 Michael. There are no horses in it. 
 Where would theyj3e_going aiid no fa ir 
 at hand ? Go down ~Xo the townT 
 PatriokjL and see whaiig^going on. " 
 
 PATBicK~[07Jens the door {6~gb out, but 
 stops for a moment on the threshold]. WUl 
 
 DeUa remember, do you think, to bring 
 the greyhound" pup she promised me 
 when she would be coining to the house? 
 
 Michael. She will surely. 
 
 [Patrick goes out, leaving the door 
 open] 
 
 Peter. It will be Patrick's turn next 
 to be looking for a fortune, but he won't 
 find it so easy to get it and he with no 
 place of his own. 
 
 Bridget. I do be thinking some- 
 times, now things are going so well with 
 us, and the Cahels_guchii good back to 
 usirfTtheTiiBta'ict, and Doha's own uncle 
 a priest," we iriigEl be put in "the way of 
 inaking Patrickji priest some day, and 
 he~so'good_at_„hislb9Qks. 
 
 -Peter. Time enough, time enough; 
 you have always your head f uU of plans, 
 Bridget. 
 
 Bridget. We wiU be well able to 
 give him learning, and not to send him 
 trampling the country Uke a poor 
 scholar that Uves on charity. [Cheers] 
 
 Michael. They're not done cheer- 
 ing yet. 
 
 [He goes over to the door and stands 
 there for a moment, putting up 
 his hand to shade his eyes] 
 
 Bridget. ^Do you see anything? 
 
 Michael." J see an old woman com- 
 iijg^up the path. 
 
 Bridget. Who is it, I wonder. It 
 must be the strange woman Patrick, saw 
 awhile ago. 
 
 Michael. I don't think it's one of 
 the neighboursantEffiajiJaiit she has her 
 clQa^_OTOT|^EOTTace. 
 
 Bridget. It might be some poor 
 woman heard we were making ready for 
 the weddingand came to lootJor her 
 share. " - 
 
 Peter. I may as weU put the money 
 out of sight. There is no useleaving it 
 out-for every stranger to look at. 
 
 [He goes over to a large box in the 
 corner, opens it, and puts the 
 bag in and fumbles at the lock] 
 
 Michael. Thera..^she is, father! 
 [An Old Woman posses the window 
 slowly; she looks at Michael as she 
 passes] I'd sooner a stranger not to 
 come to the house the n ight befor e my 
 wedding. — '~ 
 
 Bridget. Open the door, Michael; 
 don't keep the eo-OE- woman waiting. 
 
 [The Old Woman comes in. Michael 
 stands aside to make way for her] 
 
 Old Woman. GodLsavealL-bw-e ! 
 Petek. God save youTfindly'. 
 
Cathleen Ni Houlihan 
 
 767 
 
 Old Woman. You have good shelter 
 here. 
 
 Petee. You are welcome to what- 
 ever jhelter we have. 
 
 Bridget. Sit down there by the fire 
 and welcome. 
 
 OtD Woman [warming her hands]. 
 ThgEe.is a hard wind outside. 
 
 '[Michael watches her curiously 
 from the door. Peter comes 
 over to the table] 
 
 Peter. Have you travelled far today? 
 
 Old Woman. I have .IravellfisLiaf , 
 v^ixla-r ; there..3xe-iew-tebvej;ravelled 
 sojEar. as.m^ael£_and_there's-]aaany a 
 one_tiiat doesn't make me__wgleome. 
 There was one that "Ea3~strong sons I 
 thought were friends-oLmine^kliLthey 
 we re shear ing tlieir shee p, an d they 
 
 W'Wd«la!tLJist»n-to me. 
 
 Peter. It's a pity indeed for any 
 person to have no place of their own. 
 
 Old Woman. That's true for you 
 indeed, and it's long I'm on the roads 
 since I first jsfeatJKaiuiering. 
 
 Bridget. It is a wonder you are not 
 Worn out with so much wandering. 
 
 Old Woman. Sometimes my feet 
 are tired and my hands are quiet, but 
 thrr n_i n tin qu i nt i n my bm i r t Wh«ir 
 the pfi^plfi sfta mp qiiigti t^T^y -thinlr old 
 age haB'eome on me and that aU the stir 
 has gone out of me. But when the 
 troublejs- on-iae-i-mnatj2fi_ialking to 
 
 ublejs- 1 
 my^Hinds. 
 . Bridget. 
 
 .put- you 
 
 Too many ^gtoiPgsrs 
 
 What 
 w anderin g? 
 
 Old woman. 
 in the house. 
 
 "Bridget. Indeed you look as if 
 you'd had your share of troul^le. 
 
 Old Woman. I have had trouble 
 indeed. - "' 
 
 Bridget. What was it put the 
 trouMeony^ou? 
 
 Ou> Woman. My laiuL-thaL.was 
 ta ken fro ig me. 
 
 Peter.' Was it much land they took 
 from you? 
 
 Old Woman. My four beautiful 
 green-fields. 
 
 Peter. [Aside to Bridget] Do you 
 think co uld she bo the widow Oa.sev th a.t 
 
 was put out oi: her holiing at Kilglass 
 awhile ago? 
 
 Bridget. She is not. I saw the 
 widow Casey one time at the market in 
 Ballina, a stout fresh woman. 
 
 Peter. [To Old Woman] Did you 
 hear «. tinisB Q£-ahaBringf, and you com- 
 ing up the hill? 
 
 Old Woman. I thought I heard the 
 noise I used to hear when my friend s 
 came to visit me. ~ 
 
 [She begins singing half to herself] 
 
 I will go cry with the woman, 
 For yellow-haired Donough is dead, 
 With a hempen rope for a neckcloth. 
 And a white cloth on his head, — 
 
 Michael [coming from the door]. 
 What is that you are singing, ma'am? 
 
 Old Woman. Singing I am about a 
 man I knew one t ime, y eUowjiaired 
 Ddntrtigfarthart-was-hangea in ijalway. 
 [She goes on singing, much louder] 
 
 I am come to cry with you, woman. 
 My hair is unwound and unbound ; 
 I remember him ploughing hia field, 
 Turning up the red side of the ground. 
 
 And building his barn on the hill 
 With the good mortared atone ; 
 O ! we'd have pulled down the gallows 
 Had it happened in Enniacrone ! 
 
 Michael. What was it brought him 
 to his death? '^"'^ 
 
 Old Woman. Hfi_died_loi-lOT!S of 
 mej . niany a man has died for love of 
 
 me. """ ■ — — - 
 
 ""Pbteb. [Aside to Bridget] Her 
 trouble has put her wits- astray. 
 
 MicmtBfc — I's'ltlong since that song 
 was made? Is it long since he got his 
 death? 
 
 Old Woman. Not long, not long. 
 But there, were.ethers-tltat died for love 
 of nia,a long time ago. 
 
 Michael. Were they neighbours of 
 yQH£j»Km-nialaia^ 
 
 '-Old Woman. Come here beside me 
 a nd I'll tell jpu. about tlmm. [Michael 
 sifsdown beside' her at tEe hearth] There 
 was a red man o f the O'D onnells from 
 the north, anstaraian of the O'Sullivans 
 from the south, and there was one Brian 
 that lost his life at Clontarf by the sea,- 
 and there were a great many in the 
 west, some that.dJed-b&a*rBtisTSf7ears 
 ago, and tSere, are some-that-^fl-die 
 to-ihorrow. 
 
 Michael. Is it in the west that men 
 will die to-morrow? 
 
 Old Woman. Come nearer, nearer 
 to me. 
 
 Bridget. Is she right, do you think? 
 Or is she a wom an from beyond the 
 world ? - — ~" 
 
 Peter. Shefdoesn't know well what 
 she's talking about, with the want and 
 the trouble she has gone through. 
 
768 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Bridget. The poor thing, we should 
 treat her well. 
 
 Peter. Give her a drink of milk 
 and.a bit of the oaten cake. 
 
 Bridget. M'ayb'^ we should give her 
 something along with that, to bring her 
 on her way.. A few_j)ence, or a -shilling 
 itself, and we with so ^mueh money in 
 the house. 
 
 Peter. Indeed I'd not begrudge it 
 to her if we had it to spare, but if we 
 go running through what we have^^ we'll 
 soon have to break the hundred pounds, 
 arid that would be a pity. 
 
 Bridget. Shame on you, Peter. 
 
 Giv^ her the shilling, and your blessing 
 
 with it, or our own luck will go from us. 
 
 [Peter goes to the box and takes 
 
 out a shilling] 
 
 Bridget. [To the Old Woman] Will 
 you have a drink of jnilk? 
 
 Old Woman. It is not food or drink 
 thatj_want. 
 
 Teter [offering the shilling]. Here 
 is something for you. 
 
 Old Woman. That is not what I 
 want. It is not- silver I want. 
 
 Peter. What is it you would be 
 asking for ? 
 
 Old Woman. If anyprie vjpuld give 
 me help he must give me himself , he 
 must give me all. 
 
 [Peter goes over to the table, star- 
 ing at the shilling in his hand in 
 a bewildered way, and stands 
 whispering to Bridget] 
 
 Michael. Have you no one to care 
 you in your age, ma'am? 
 
 Old WomaMt- I havejiot. With all 
 
 Jove, 
 an y. 
 
 Michael. 'Are you lonely" going the 
 roads, ma'am? 
 
 Old Woman. I have my thoughts 
 and I have my hopes. 
 
 Michael. What hopes have^you to 
 hold to? -" 
 
 Old Woman. The hope of ^getting 
 my beautiful fields back again ; the 
 ht^e' of putting the strangers ou4rX>f-my 
 house... ""• 
 
 Michael. What way will you do 
 that, ma'am? 
 
 Old Woman. I have gpod^_ friends 
 that wiU help me., _ They areTgathering 
 to h.elp me_now. I arn not afraid. If 
 they are_ put down to-day, they wiU get 
 the upper hand to-inorrow. [jS^e gets 
 up] I must be goi ng to meet my frie nds. 
 They are coming to heljTmeTand 1 must 
 be there to welcome them. I must call 
 
 \JUU VVUMAJN. X llct VU^UUlj. VVltli 
 
 the lovers that brmTgnT~rrie^jJieir In 
 I ilBver-sct" out theT5eOor any. 
 
 the neighbours together to welcome 
 them. 
 
 Michael. I will go with.,you. 
 
 Bridget. It fs not her friends you 
 have to go and welcome, Mieha^; it 
 is the girl coming into the house you 
 have to welcome. You have plenty to 
 do, it is food and. drink you have_to 
 bring to the house. The woman that 
 is coming home is not coming' with 
 empty hands ; you wouhLBPt ha^yc an 
 empty house-before her. [To the Old 
 Woman] Maybe_you_dflDit-^.know, 
 ma'am, that-jay_son_is- g n ing - to- be 
 married to-morrow. 
 
 Old Woman. It is XLOt a man..gQing__ 
 to his majmagejhat I look-t o for h e L p;^ 
 
 Peter. [ToBridqet] Who is she, 
 do you think, at all? 
 
 Bridget. You did not tell us your 
 name yet,- ma'am. 
 
 Old Woman. Some call me the Poor 
 Old Woman, and- there are some that 
 call me Cathleea-r - the daughter of 
 Houlffian." 
 
 Peter. I thi;ik Lknew someone of 
 that name once. Who wasai^I w_oader ? 
 It must have been someone I knew when 
 I was a boy.:^ No, no, J remember, I 
 heard it in a song. 
 
 Old Woman [who is standing in the 
 doorway]. They are wondering that 
 there were songs made for me ; there 
 have been many songs made for me. I 
 heard one on the wind this morning. 
 
 [She sings] 
 
 Do not make a great keening 
 When the graves have been dug to-morrow. 
 Do not call the white-scarfed ridera 
 To the burying that shall be to-morrow. 
 
 Do not spread food to call strangers 
 To the wakes that shall be to-morrow ; 
 Do not give money for prayers 
 For the dead that shall die to-morrow . . . 
 
 they wiU have no need of prayers, they 
 will have no need of prayers. 
 
 Michael. I do not know what that 
 song means, but tejl_ me something I 
 can do for you. 
 
 Peter. Come ovexJ;G»-«ier-Michael. 
 
 Michael. &tmE, father, Jiaten to 
 her. 
 
 Old Woman. It is a hard serv ice 
 they, take that hej^me: — MESyT;hat 
 are red-cheeked''now will be pale- 
 oheeked ; many that have been free 
 t o ya.lk t,>iB -b.ills-.a.iid the bogs and the 
 rushes will be sent to walk hard, streets 
 
Cathleen Ni Houlihan 
 
 769 
 
 in faimaiiTitrifiR ; Tn^.riya, g ood plan will 
 be broken; manytEal JiaVti gaLiitsred 
 ilimcey will not stay tb'spend it ; many 
 a oEl'd wiU be born,anan;hBr© will be 
 no father at its christening to give it a 
 name. They that had red cheeks will 
 have pale cheeks for my sake ; and for 
 all Jhali they jdlLJJiinJ£-4hey~TiTe -well 
 
 [She goes out; her voice is heard 
 outside singing] 
 
 They shall be remembered for ever, 
 They shall be alive for ever, 
 They shall be speaking for ever. 
 The people shall hear them for ever. 
 
 Bbidget. [To Peter] Look at Mm, 
 !^eter; .he haa_th( ? look of a, ma n that 
 has got the toucE. [Raising her voice] 
 Look h ere. Michael, at the weddi ng- 
 clothes.' Such grand clothes as these 
 are — ¥ovt-JiasB_a jaght to fit them on 
 now; it would be a pity to-morrow if 
 they did not fit. The boys would be 
 laughing at you. Take them, Michael, 
 and go into the room and fit them on. 
 [She puts them on his arm] 
 Michael. What wedding are you 
 taiyiig_of.?^_ffiiai_clQ]Uiea- will I be 
 wearing to-maaow? 
 
 BbiiTget. These are the clothes you 
 are going to wear when you marry 
 DeUa Cahel to-morrow. 
 Michael. I had forgotten that. 
 
 [He looks at the clothes and turns 
 towards the inner room, but 
 stops at the sound of cheering 
 outside] 
 Peter. There is the shouting come 
 to our own door. What is it has hap- 
 pened? 
 
 [Patrick and Delia come in] 
 
 Patrick. T 
 Ba^i-r-tfee^f^©i 
 
 SIB — aee- 
 
 -sfaips- 
 
 the 
 
 .are landin g at K Ulala ! 
 
 [Peter talces ms pipe Jrom his 
 
 mouth and his hat off, and stands 
 
 up. The clothes slip from 
 
 Michael's arm] 
 
 Delia. Misdjael.! [He fakes no 
 
 notice] MichaST [He turns towards 
 
 her] Why do you look at me like a 
 
 stonget? ' ' ' 
 
 [She drops his arm. Bridget 
 goes over towards her] 
 Patrick. The boys are all hungdng 
 do-srnjthe MUsid£s..to4QiQJJi£-E^ceuich. 
 
 Delia. Michael wonLt-lia_goiiig. to 
 join the French. 
 
 "Bridget. [To Peter] Tell him not 
 to go^Peter. 
 
 Peter. It's no use. He doesn't 
 hear a_wQEd we're_ saying. 
 
 Bridget. Try and coax him over to 
 the jire. 
 
 Delia. Michael! Michael! You 
 won't leave me! You won't join the 
 French, and we going to,bejaaiiied.J 
 
 [She puis her arms about him; 
 he turns towards her as if about 
 to yield. Old Woman's voice 
 
 They shall be speaking for ever. 
 The people shall hear them for ever. 
 
 [Michael breaks away from 
 Delia and goes out] 
 Peter. [To Patrick, laying a hand 
 on his arm] Did you see an old woman 
 going down the path? ' 
 
 Patrick. I did-jmtj. but I saw a 
 young girl, and she had the walk of a 
 queen. 
 
 ^ML^e>^^- ^-^^tfit^^^ S-^jJioL^L^ 
 
^ "; 
 
THE WORKHOUSE WARD 
 
 (1908) 
 Bt Lady Gbegort 
 
LADY GREGORY 
 
 It was a year and three months after the War began that Lady Augusta Gregory 
 paid her first visit to America since the tour of the Irish Players through the United 
 States. I emphasize this date because, in the interim between the two American 
 trips, a change had come over Lady Gregory, with whom I had had the pleasure of 
 many conversations. This change, it might be inferred, was due to the influence 
 of many minds upon the Irish temperament during its successful tour of the United 
 States when, on all sid»s, the Irish Theatre was criticized for its narrow parochialism 
 and for its too insistent self-interest. 
 
 I am quoting some of the opinions expressed to me by Lady Gregory, in 1915, 
 because they will emphasize certain facts regarding the Irish Theatre, and will call 
 attention to certain spiritual changes in the Irish playwrights which may have a 
 very profound effect upon the Celtic renaissance after the War is over. 
 
 It would seem that in the five years between January 1, 1911, and November, 
 1915, Lady Gregory has grown much sounder in her nationalism, building in her own 
 imagination a larger destiny for Ireland than one would infer to be the destiny in 
 the minds of most of the members of the Irish Theatre on their visit to America 
 in 1911. 
 
 Take, for instance, her notions regarding the infiuence of art on the Irish nation. 
 She said : 
 
 Sir Hugh Lane, my nephew, lost his life on the Lusitania. He was a director, 
 at that time, of the National Gallery of Ireland, and he made the National 
 Gallery his heir. Some of his finest pictures, the Titian of Baldassari, the 
 great Rembrandt Portrait of a Woman, and a wonderful Goya, were turned 
 over immediately to the nation. While it is popularly thought that he took 
 away from the collection many modern French pictures, and bequeathed them 
 to the National Gallery of England, a codicil to his will shows that he had re- 
 voked this bequest and given the collection to Dublin on condition that a gallery 
 be especially built for it within five years. If Dublin comes into possession 
 of the numerous Manets, Renoirs, Courbets, and Rousseaus, then Dublin wiU 
 become in a day one of the chief art centres of Europe. 
 
 This is a broader reaching out of Ireland to compete with the rest of the world, 
 and competition means interest in what one's neighbours are doing. Yet, despite 
 this awakening to a world position. Lady Gregory wiU not relinquish her hold upon 
 local condition. 
 
 Remember, [she declared] I am for parochiaHsm in art. I preached it on 
 my previous visit to this country when I was speaking of an American National 
 Theatre. I often quote Whitman who believed in looking, not far off, but close 
 at hand;, there we find the best that is in us. Turgenieff once said, "Russia 
 can do without you ; but you cannot do without Russia." 
 
 773 
 
774 Representative British Dramas 
 
 I wrote "The Workhouse Ward" for three of our players who had, for vari- 
 ous reasons, left our country. They were to strike out for themselves. They 
 refused my manuscript because they said that it was too local, yet I find now 
 that of all my plays it is the one most popular in America. I have met charm- 
 ing young ladies at the different universities, and they have told m.e how much 
 they have enjoyed giving performances of my plays. And when I have felt 
 flattered and hoped they would praise my more ideaUstic pieces, I was invaria- 
 bly told that the play they liked most was "The Workhouse Ward." 
 
 If it was so local, as some have said, would it have that widespread interest ? 
 
 There was an Irish poet who wrote Irish songs, a hundred years ago, and people 
 used to say that he was a man who could stand at his own back door and speak of, 
 for, and to, the four corners of the globe. Really, what we are after is human na- 
 ture, and human nature is not very far off. We Irish may be a httle too intent in 
 our local problems. We are never always right. The Irish themselves see that 
 there is much folly at times in their attitude ; and yet, at the back of their attitude, 
 there is something of a very large and very ancient patriotism. And I believe that 
 such a patriotism, is better than English trades-unionism, where members think 
 more of the wages they are going to receive than of the country they should serve. 
 The fortunate thing with us is that we have a deep feeling within us — ideaUsm,' 
 let us call it — which no criticism from the outside can touch. And it is this ideal- 
 ism which makes our literary work take on a quality of universality. I do not be- 
 lieve that the local touches in our one-act plays make us parochial in the sense 
 that they make our plays aloof from life in general. 
 
 I am over here lecturing on ' ' Laughter in Ireland . ' ' But I find that this is just 
 the one quaUty not to be found in Ireland. If you examine Gaelic songs, you will 
 note that they contain religious, pohtical, even drinking sentiments, but there 
 is nothing comic in them. It was after the legislative union with England that 
 an English-speaking public came in ; then Lovell wrote for them especially his tales 
 of the blundering Irish servant, and Lever came to the fore with his false charac- 
 ters, and there arose a stream of Irish jokes, crystaUizing into a comic impression of 
 Irish character. It was an artificial creation, not true to Uf e, but still the English 
 people got into the habit of measuring Ireland through Irish jokes. The irony of 
 it all is this : that twenty years ago a school of Irish satirists arose, represented 
 at their highest by Bernard Shaw, and so well represented in America by your 
 Mr. Dooley : and though the EngUsh people do not like the jokes of the Irish 
 satirists, this habit of theirs to laugh at the Irish cannot now be stopped, 
 and so they are laughing at their own expense ! 
 
 I really believe that one of the most distinct contributions of our Irish theatre 
 has been that the largest output of our Irish humour has come in the plays of the 
 young dramatists who gathered about our standard. The plays we have pre- 
 sented have served as a twofold purpose, and here it is that our parochialism 
 stretches beyond our borders into a criticism of life in general. Ever ready to 
 laugh at ourselves, we are as well laughing at human nature, like MoH6re. 
 
 This laughter is rich in character and so the spiritual point of view becomes 
 universal. You may accuse us of narrowness, but when we interpret our paro- 
 chialism in this broad way, where is our narrowness then ? 
 
 This conversation is worth while quoting in full because it represents a less emo 
 tional attitude toward art than that expressed by Yeats. 
 
Lady Gregory 775 
 
 It is doubtful whether we would know as much of GaeUo romance were it not for 
 the thoroughness with which Lady Gregory has reproduced for us the "Cuchulain 
 of Muirthemne " (1902), "Gods and Fighting Men" (1904), and "Book of Saints 
 and Sinners" (1908). In addition to which she has, likewise, produced "The Kil- 
 tartan Wonder Book "and " The Kiltartan History Book " (1910). As a translator, 
 she has given us the "Kiltartan MohSre" and versions of Sudermann and Goldoni. 
 Those who would foUow the dramatic career of Lady Gregory have five volumes of 
 plays to turn to : "Seven Short Plays" (1909), "The Image" (1910), "New Come- 
 dies" (1913), and two collections of "Irish Folk History Tales" (1912). The first 
 of the later comedies, written for the Irish Players, which followed her serious at- 
 tempt in "Twenty-five", during 1903, was "Spreading the News." An analysis 
 of these plays, most of which formed part of the Irish repertory when the Players 
 visited America, shows them marked by innate humour and based on typical situa- 
 tions of Irish character. For our present purpose, we have selected "The Work- 
 house Ward" because of its representative Irish character. 
 
 In her " Ova Irish Theatre " is the following biographical account of "The Work- 
 house Ward" : 
 
 As to "The Poorhouse", the idea came from a visit to Gort Workhouse one 
 day when I heard that the wife of an old man, who had been long there, maimed 
 by something, a knife I think, that she had thrown at him in a quarrel, had her- 
 self now been brought into the hospital. I wondered how they would meet, 
 as enemies or as friends, and I thought it Ukely they would be glad to end 
 their days together for old sake's sake. This is how I wrote down my fable : 
 " Scene, ward of a workhouse ; two beds containing the old men ; they are quarrel- 
 ling. Occupants of other invisible beds are heard saying, ' There they are at 
 it again ; they are always quarrelling.' They say the matron wiU be coming 
 to call for order, but another says the matron has been sent for to see somebody 
 who wants to remove one of the paupers. Both old men wish they could be 
 removed from each other and have the whole ridge of the world between them. 
 The fight goes on. One old man tells the other that he remembers the time 
 he used to be stealing ducks, and he a boy at school. The other old man 
 remembers the time his neighbour was suspected of going to Souper's school, 
 etc., etc. They remember the crimes of each other's lives. They fight like 
 two young whelps that go on fighting till they are two old dogs. At last they 
 take their pillows and throw them at each other. Other paupers (invisible) 
 cheer and applaud. Then they take their porringers, pipes, prayer-books, or 
 whatever is in reach, to hurl at each other. They lament the hard fate that 
 has put them in the same ward for five years and in beds next each other for 
 the last three months, and they after being enemies the whole of their lives. 
 Suddenly a cry that the matron is coming. They settle themselves hurriedly. 
 Each puts his enemy's pillow xmder his head and lies down. The matron comes 
 in with a countrywoman comfortably dressed. She embraces one old man. 
 She is his sister. Her husband died from her lately and she is lonesome and 
 doesn't like to think of her brother being in the workhouse. If he is bedridden 
 itself, he would be company for her. He is delighted, asks what sort of house 
 she has. She says, a good one, a nice kitchen, and he can be doing little jobs for 
 her. He can be sitting in a chair beside the fire and stirring the stirabout 
 for her and throwing a bit of food to the chickens when she is out in the field. 
 
776 Representative British Dramas 
 
 He asks when he can go. She says she has the chance of a lift for him on a 
 neighbour's cart. He can come at once. He says he will make no delay. A 
 loud sob from the old man in the other bed. He says, ' Is it going away you 
 are, you that I knew through aU my lifetime, and leaving me among strangers ? ' 
 The first old man asks his sister if she will bring him too. She is indignant, 
 says she won't. First old man says maybe he'd be fooUsh to go at all. How 
 does he know if he'd Hke it. She says, he is to please himself; if he doesn't 
 come, she can easily get a husband, having, as she has, a nice way of Uving, 
 and three lambs going to the next market. The first man says, well, he won't 
 go; if she would bring the other old man, he would go. She turns her back 
 angrily. Paupers in other beds call out she'U find a good husband amongst 
 them. She pulls on her shawl scornfully to go away. She gives her brother 
 one more chance; he says he won't go. She says good-bye and bad luck to 
 him. She leaves. He says that man beyond would be lonesome with no one 
 to contradict him. The other man says he would not. The first man says, 
 'You want some one to be arguing with you always.' The second man, 'I 
 do not.' The first man says, 'You are at your lies again.' The second takes 
 up his pillow to heave at him again. Curtain falls on two men arming them- 
 selves with pillows." 
 
 I intended to write the full dialogue myself, but Mr. Yeats thought a new 
 Gaelic play more useful for the moment, and rather sadly I laid that part of 
 the work upon Dr. Hyde. It was all for the best in the end, for the little play, 
 when we put it on at the Abbey, did not go very well. It seemed to ravel out 
 into loose ends, and we did not repeat it ; nor did the Gaelic players like it as 
 well as "The Marriage" and "The Lost Saint." After a while, when the 
 Fays had left us, I wanted a play that would be useful to them, and with Dr. 
 Hyde's full leave I re-wrote the "Poorhouse'' as "The Workhouse Ward." I 
 had more skill by that time, and it was a complete re-writing, for the two old 
 men in the first play had been talking at an imaginary audience of other old 
 men in the ward. When this was done away with the dialogue became of neces- 
 sity more closely knit, more direct and personal, to the great advantage of the 
 play, although it was rejected as "too local" by the players for whom I had 
 written it. The success of this set me to cutting down the number of parts 
 in later plays until I wrote "Grania" with only three persons in it, and ""The 
 Bogie Men" with only two. I may have gone too far, and have, I think, given 
 up an intention I at one time had of writing a play for a man and a scarecrow 
 only, but one has to go on with experiment or interest in creation fades, at least 
 so it is with me. 
 
 If, as some believe, each play contains a symbol. Lady Gregory has furnished on 
 for "The Workhouse Ward" in her notes: 
 
 I sometimes think the two scolding paupers are a symbol of ourselves in 
 Ireland. . . . "It is better to be quarrelUng than to be lonesome.'' The Raj- 
 puts, that great fighting race, when they were told they had been brought under 
 the Pax Britannica and must give up war, gave themselves to opium in its place, 
 but Connacht has not yet planted its poppy gardens. 
 
THE WORKHOUSE WARD 
 By lady GREGORY 
 
 Copyright, 1909, 
 By lady GREGORY. 
 Reprinted from "Seven Short Plays" by permiasion of the author, Lady 
 Gregory, and by Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. 
 
 All acting rights both professional and amateur are reserved by the author. 
 For permission, apply to Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 " The Workhouse Ward " was first produced at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, c 
 April 20th, 1908, with the following cast : 
 
 Mike McInerney 1 Arthur Sinclaii 
 
 Michael Miskell J ^°«P«'"s Fred O'Donova 
 
 Mbs. Donohoe a Countrywoman Marie O'Neil 
 
THE WOEKHOUSE WAKD 
 
 Scene. — A ward in Cloon Workhouse. 
 The two old men in their beds. 
 
 Michael Miskell. Isn't it a hard 
 BMe, Mike JdcInfiEiieyT — myself and 
 ynijTsfilf th_bB-lef-Ji-lime-4H -tlie .bed, and 
 it thaJfiasi_dai2_ofSaint Colman, and 
 the rest of the jrajHTatlending on the 
 
 Mike McInbrney. Is it sitting up 
 by thaJ[ieaxth_.3aui. are ■wishfiiL.Jo be, 
 MiqES^^-iekell, with cold in the 
 shoulders and_ with_speckled shins? 
 Let ydu rise'up so, "and you well able 
 to do it, not like myself that has pains 
 the same as tin-tac1|s_ within in my 
 inside. 
 
 Michael Miskbll. _ IL_Sa]l^ave 
 pains mtMruin.3;Qiar-.insi de~there is no 
 oneoSn jeait or JsnoK of iJiT^w&ytEJey 
 can see my own knees that ^ are sw^ ed 
 up with the rheumatisinraffl^m^_hg53s 
 thatTireTmsted in ridges^the_jajmea.s 
 an tria cabbageI.Sa;JJi.._~irTs easy to be 
 taEBSga bout soren ess and about pains, 
 and they iHayBe not fo~BiB in it aX'STl. 
 
 Mike McInbrney. Tn npen me ^pd. 
 to analyse me you wouldknow what 
 sort of a pain and a soreoess-LJiaKe in 
 my^jiaac t-and in m ;f^est. But I'm 
 no t one like yourself to be^ cursing and 
 
 ntlirg~aje at hand, thinking to get a 
 biggBritarrthairTO^lf^grffie^aQmsh- 
 mmt-ttndrTofT tejnilk." 
 "MtoHABLTirisKE'Lil. That's the way 
 you do be picking at me and faulting 
 me. I had a shai:a.and_a.good- share in 
 tny QjdsJiBier and it's well you know 
 that, and the both of us reared in 
 
 Mike McInebnbt. You may say 
 that, indeed, we are both of us reared 
 in Skehanagh. Little wonder you to 
 liave good nourishment the time we 
 nfere both rising, and you bringing away 
 my rabbits^ out oiLthe snare. 
 
 Mighael'Miskell. And you didn't 
 bring away my own eels, I 'suppose, I 
 ifas after spearing in the Turlough? 
 
 Selling them to the nuns in the convent 
 you-did, and letting on they to be -your 
 own. For you were always a cheater 
 and a_schemex, ^grabbing every -earthly 
 thing for your own profit. 
 
 Mike McIneeney. And you were 
 no grabber yourself, I suppose, till your 
 land and aU you had grabbed wore 
 away from you ! 
 
 Michael Miskell. If I lost it itself, 
 it was through the crosses I met with 
 and I going through the world. I never 
 was a rambler and a cardplayer like 
 yourgelfu Mike Molnerney,- - that ran 
 througjiall and lavished itjuUfflovni to 
 y^«;;;mC!jher! ~~ — -"" 
 
 TSTiKEErclNEBNEY. Lavished it, is 
 it? And if I did was it you yourself 
 led me toj[ avish it or someotlifi!: one? 
 It is on'myffwnTflo^^J wou]d_bg_feo-day 
 and^ih IHe face of myTsSiily,_bul for 
 the" misfortune. XhaiioJae- put- with a 
 bad' next door neighbour that was.£Qjir- 
 sSf:';'"'What way did my means go from 
 me is it? Spending on fencing, spend- 
 ing on walls, making up gates, putting 
 up doors, that would keep your hens 
 and your ducks from coming in through 
 starvation on my floor, and every four- 
 footed beast you had from prejdng and 
 trespassing on my oats and my man- 
 golds and my little lock of hay ! 
 
 Michael Miskbll. O to listen to 
 you ! And I striving to please you and 
 to be kind to you and to close my ears 
 to the abuse you would be eaUing and 
 letting out of your mouth. To trespass 
 on your crops is it? It's little tempta- 
 tion there was for my poor beasts to ask 
 to cross the mering. My God Almighty ! 
 ^£hat_iasl_you~but^..fiitie corner of a 
 field! ~ 
 
 Mike McInbrney. And what do 
 you say to my garden that your two 
 pigs had destroyed on me the year of 
 the big tree being knocked, and they 
 making gaps in the waU. 
 
 Michael Miskell. Ah, there does 
 be a great deal 'of gaps knocked in a 
 twelvemonth. Why wouldn't they be 
 
 779 
 
780 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 knocked by the thunder, the same as 
 the tree, or some storm that came up 
 from- the west ? 
 
 Mike McIneeney. It was the west 
 wind, I suppose, that- devoured- -my 
 green cabbage? And that rooted up 
 my Champion --potatoes? And that 
 ate the gaoseberriea^themselves from off 
 the bush? 
 
 Michael Miskbll. What are you 
 saying? The two quietest pigs ever I 
 had, no way wiaked and—weH-idaged. 
 They were not_1ieri_imiULtes_.in it. It 
 woiild be hard for them eat strawberries 
 in that time, let alone gooseberries that's 
 full of thorns. 
 
 Mike McIneeney. They were not 
 quiet, but very ravenous pigs you had 
 that time, as active as a fox they were, 
 MUing my_yQung__4llC^ Once they 
 had blood tasted you couldn't stop them. 
 
 Michael Miskell. And what hap- 
 pened myself the fair day of Esserkelly, 
 the time I was passing, -your door? 
 Two brazened dogs that rushed out and 
 took a piece of me. I never "was the 
 better of it or of the start I got, but 
 wasting from then till now ! 
 
 Mike McInerney. Thinking you 
 were a wild b east they did, that had 
 made Eis escape ourisf the travelling 
 show, with the red eyes of you and the 
 ugly face of you, and the two crooked 
 legs of you that wouldn't hardly stop 
 a pig in a gap. Sure any- dog that-had 
 any Ufe in it at_alLwDxddJje_mxised. and 
 stirred seeing the like of_5a2Ugoing the 
 road ! "" 
 
 Michael Miskbll. I did well tak- 
 ing out a summons against you that 
 time. It is a great wonder you not to 
 have been bound over through your 
 lifetime, but the laws of England is 
 queer. 
 
 Mike McInerney. What ailed me 
 that;„X_did. not summons yourself after 
 you stealing away the clutch of eggs 
 I had in the barrel, and I away in 
 Ardrahan searching out a clocking hen. 
 
 Michael Miskell. To steal your 
 eggs is it ? Is that what you are sayiBg 
 now? [Holds up his hands] The Lord 
 is in heaven, and Peter and the saints, , 
 and yourself that was in Ardraha"n-4hat- 
 day put a hsiud on. them as. . soon as 
 myself ! Isn't it a bad story for me to 
 be wearing out my days beside you the 
 same as a spanoeUed goat. Chained I 
 am and tethered I am to a man that is 
 ramsa/Olaiig-his^inind for -lies ! 
 
 Mike McInerney. If it is a bad 
 
 story for you, Michael Miskell, it is ; 
 w.prse story- again- for jny self. A Miskel 
 to iae next and_near me through th 
 wholg of the |pur quarters of the yeai 
 I never heard tEerelTO be any great namj 
 on the MiskfiUlg.asjyiere was on my.owi 
 race and name. ~ 
 
 Michael Miskell. You didn't, i 
 it ? Well, you could hear it if you hac 
 but ears to hear it. Ga- .across ti 
 Lisheen Crannagh and down to thi 
 sea and to Newtown Lynch and th( 
 miUg'bf Duras ana you'I TBnd aTM lskell 
 and as far as DuBhnT 
 
 Mike McInerney.- What signifiei 
 Crannagh and the mills of Duras' 
 Look at all my own generations tha 
 are buried at the Sevea__Churches 
 And how many T generations of th( 
 Miskey^ are buried in it? Answer m( 
 that! 
 
 Michael Miskell. I tell you bul 
 for the wheat that was to be sowed there 
 would be more side cars and more com- 
 mon cars at my father's funeral (Goc 
 rest his soul!) than at any funeral evei 
 left your own door. And as to mj 
 mother, she -was a^Cuffefrom Claregal- 
 way, and it's she had the purer blood ! 
 
 Mike McInerney. And what dc 
 you say to the banshee? Isn't she apl 
 to have knowledge of the ancient race? 
 Was ever she heard to screech or tc 
 cry for the Miskells ? Or for the Cuffes 
 from Claregalway? She was not, bul 
 for the six families, the Hyneses, th( 
 Foxes, the Faheys, the Dooleys, th< 
 Mclnerneys. It is of the nature of th< 
 Mclnerneys she is I am thinking, cry- 
 ing them the same as a king's children. 
 
 Michael Miskell. It is a pity th( 
 banshee not to be crying for yourseH 
 |Ct~this~miTiute,~and giving yioTra warn- 
 ing t6_quit_yaui hes and your chat anc 
 your argmng and your contrary ways 
 for there is no oae_un{ifir the rising sui 
 could -Stand you. I tell you you an 
 not beha'S'ing as in the presence of th( 
 Lora! -— » 
 
 Mike McInerney. Is it wishful foi 
 my death you are? Let it come anc 
 meet me now and welcome so long as r 
 will part me^oinjanirself ! And I say 
 and I wfffiH'EsitlieBook on it, I t( 
 have one request only^to be granted 
 and I leaving it in my_jirtll, it is what '. 
 would request, ni ne furrows of the fi dd 
 niflie ridges~of— tteTilil ls, mne waveTo 
 the ©aean-te-lre^^'putiifcBizeeiLyaUE-^ff^ 
 and my ^»wn 'grave the .tiiaa_we_^l_b' 
 laid in the ground ! 
 
The Workhouse Ward 
 
 781 
 
 Michael Miskell. Amen to that! 
 fee ridges, is it ? No, but let the whole 
 idge ,of t he world separate u s till the 
 Jay 6f Juagihent ! 1 would nof be Taid 
 ni riM"yo u-at the Seven Churches, I to 
 ;et IrelandTrttfieiiit a~aivide! 
 
 Mike MoInbbney. And after that 
 igain! I'd sooner than ten pound in 
 ay hand, I to-krorw~tha t-iHy'^g adow 
 n ia~t^ ghost wi]r"no t "BeEnoclring 
 te ut with your sha(low]^ n^joiir-8fa>st. 
 fflnhe both_of_jjs_5aitJngIoyr time, 
 'd soon^^ri'e., delayed in Purgatory! 
 ^ov^rhave you an ything to say ? ' 
 
 MiCHAEX~MisKELL. I~have every- 
 hing to say, if I had but the time to 
 ay it! 
 
 Mike McInehney [sitting up]. Let 
 ae up 0]jLof-this,till_ril choke you ! 
 
 Michael Miskell. "You scolding 
 lauper you ! 
 
 Mike McInebnet [shaking his fist 
 I him]. Wait a while ! 
 
 Michael Miskell [shaking his fist]. 
 ^ait a while yourself ! 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe comes in with a parcel. 
 
 She is a countrywoman with a frilled 
 
 cap and a shawl. She stands still a 
 
 ' minute. The two old men lie down 
 
 and compose themselves] 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. Thfiybade me 
 ome ugh.eEe_hy_ibg_stau\ Tnever was 
 1 this place at all. I don't know^m I 
 ight^,J(^hich now ofTEe'two of ye is 
 
 ffllffl Mnfrernay ? 
 
 Mike McInebnet. Who is it is call- 
 ig me by mjjianie ? 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. Sure amn't I yom: 
 isterjHonor Melnerney tha t was, th at 
 i no-yga lgr Do& bhoe. ' 
 
 MIke MciNEfiNBY. So you are, I 
 elieve. I didn't know you "KlTyou 
 ushed anear me. It iS-tiinrmdeed for 
 ou to come see me, and I in this place 
 ve yeari2E-Xttore.~T:TCBfeing-Ba©-toi' be 
 wedftto you, I suppose, among that 
 ibe oft^JDonohoes. I wonder they 
 ) give-^ou lea?S~to come ask am I 
 
 Mrs. DoNoHtJB; Ah, s ure, I burie d 
 le whole string of t]iaia.j;]Hmiself was 
 16 last to go. [Wipes her&gts^-^][i.ei 
 ord'be pratSSd'Tie got a fine natural 
 3ath. Sure we must go through our 
 osses. And he got^a lovely funeral; 
 
 would .delight you toTSiSTEe priest 
 ading the Mass. My poor John 
 onohoe! ~:A~Tliee clean man, you 
 >iJldn't^bttt--be-fQndt--Qf_him. Very 
 
 severR o n the tobacco he was, but he 
 wouldn^t Jt!Hich„tliejd.rink. 
 
 ^MiKE McInebney. And is it in 
 Curranroe you are living yet? 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. It is so. He left 
 all to myself. But it is a lonesome 
 thing the head_-of- ar-housfr to have 
 died! 
 
 Mike McInebnet. I hope that he 
 has^leflL.3am~a -mtre wa y u f livi n g'? 
 
 Mbs. Donohoe. Fair enough, fair 
 enough. A wide lovely h ouse I have ; 
 a fey acres of grass IaSa~r'. ."the grass 
 does be very 'sweet"that grows among 
 the stones. And as to the sea, there is 
 something from it_^.veigL„day _of the 
 year, a handful of periwinkles to make 
 kitchen, or cockles maybe. "There is 
 many a thing in the sea is not decent, but 
 coGkl«&.is.fit ..ts. put before the, Lord ! 
 
 Mike McInebney. You have all 
 that ! And you without jBre__ajnan in 
 the house? 
 
 Mbs. Donohoe. It _ is w hat I am 
 thinking, yourself might come" and keep 
 me company. It is tio credit to me- a 
 brother. of my own _to~heJji. this place 
 at aU. "^— 
 
 Mike McInebney. I'U gCL®[th you ! 
 Let me out ofjhiy It js lh&.name.oT 
 
 th^'McIioerneysjwiirhe rising- on-^ey^ry 
 side"! ' 
 
 "TSTbs. Donohoe. I don't know. I 
 was ignorant of you being kept to the 
 bed. I 
 
 Mike McInebney. I am not kept 
 to it,_ but -Baajcba-an _fldd-- time when 
 there is a colic rises up within me. My 
 stomach always get§^ better the time 
 there is a change i n the moon. I'd 
 like welTto draw anear you. My heavy 
 blessing on you, Honor Donohoe, for 
 the hand you^aiEe_heM-out-to~me-this 
 day. 
 
 Mbs. Donohoe. Sure you could be 
 keeping t he Are in, and stirring- the pot 
 with the fflt of Indian meal for the hens, 
 and niilEng the goat and taking the 
 tackUngs off the donkey at the door; 
 and maybe putting out the cabbage 
 plants in their time. For when the old 
 man diedtheg ajden difl d. 
 
 Mike TSTcInebney'. I could to be 
 sure, and beciitting the potatoes for 
 seedr "What ludt could there be in a 
 place and a man not to be in it? Is 
 that now a suit of clothes you have 
 brought with you? 
 
 Mbs. Donohoe. It is so, the way 
 j^ou will be tas t y coming in among the 
 neighbours at CurrEtnrSfef; 
 
782 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mike McInernby. My joy you 
 are! It is ^v^ell jrou earned me! Let 
 me up but of this ! [He sits up and 
 spreads out the clothes and tries on coat] 
 That now is a good frieze coat . . . 
 and a hat in the ^shion . . . 
 
 [He puts on hat] 
 
 Michael Miskell [alarmed]. And is 
 it going out of this you are, Mike 
 Mclnerney? 
 
 Mike McInernby. Don't you hear I 
 am going ? To Curranroe I am going. 
 Going I am to a place where I wiU get 
 every good thing ! ~" 
 
 Michael Miskell. And is it to 
 leave me here aftOT you you wiU_J 
 
 Mike McInerney [in a rising chant]. 
 Every _gaod thing ! The goat and, the 
 kid are there,-- tha-shespand the lamb 
 are there, the cow does Be running" and 
 she coming to be milked ! Ploughing 
 and seed sowing, blossom at Christmas 
 time, the cuckoo speaking through the 
 dark days of the year! Ah, what are 
 you talking about? Wheat high ig 
 hedges, no talk about the rent ! Salmon 
 in the rivers as plenty as turf ! Spend- 
 ing and getting and nothing scarce ! 
 Sport and pleasure, and music on the 
 strings ! Age will go from me and I will 
 be young again. Geese and turkeys for 
 the hundreds and drink for the whole 
 world ! 
 
 Michael Miskell. Ah, Mike, is it 
 truth you are saying. , you to go from 
 me and to leave mewith rude people 
 and with townspeople, and with pe6ple 
 of every -parish.aji_the. union, and they 
 haxing-aa respect-forme or no wish for 
 me at all ! ~ 
 
 Mike McInerney. Whist now and 
 I'll leave you . . . my pipe [hands it 
 over]'', and I'U engage it is Honor 
 Donohoe won't refuse to be sending 
 you a few ounces of tobafiog^an odd 
 time, anJ~'neighbours -cwnaiag— to" the 
 fair in November or in the month of 
 May. 
 
 Michael Miskell. Ah, what signi- 
 fie_s lobaoco? All that.L am craving is- 
 thg^Jalfc There to ,be. no one at all to 
 say"out to whatever thought might be 
 rising in my innate mind ! To-beLjying 
 here and no conversible person in it 
 would be the abomination of misery ! 
 
 Mike McInerney. Took now. 
 Honor. ... It is what I often heard 
 said, two to be better than one. . . . 
 Sure if you had an old trouser was fuU 
 of holes ... or a skirt . . wouldn't 
 you put-anoth-er in under it that might 
 
 be as tattered as itself, and the two o: 
 them together would make some son 
 of a decent show? 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. Ah, what are yov 
 sa3dng?Tliere is no holes in 4fea.t suil 
 I broughf^you now, but as sound it ii 
 as the day I spun it for .himself. 
 
 Mike McInerney. It is what I an 
 thinking, Honor ... I do be weak ar 
 odd time . . . any load I would- caiay, 
 ir*preys upon my side . . . and tins 
 man (Joes be weak an odd time with the 
 swelling in his knees . . . but the twc 
 of us together it's not lik^jjt-is-at^the 
 ona.timawe wouldUiiair" Bring the both 
 of us with, you. Honor, and-&«-E«ght 
 ofjbhe castle of luck^n yoUt.aJldJthe both 
 of us together win make one goodTiardy 
 man! 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. I'd like my job! 
 Is it. queer in-Ae^hKcd—you are grown 
 asking me to bring in a stranger off the 
 road? 
 
 Michael Miskell. I am not, 
 ma'am,.Jb-U±-an oldneighbour I am. If 
 I had forecasted— this-aslang I would 
 have asked it^myseU-.- Michael Miskell 
 I am, that was in the next house to you 
 in Skehanagh ! 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. For pity's sake! 
 Mich;ael~Misks]i,.is it? TEafg- worse 
 again. Yourself and Mike that never 
 left fighting and-8eeW4iig_aind3ttacking 
 one another ! Sparring at one another 
 Hke two young pups you were, and 
 threatening one another after hke two 
 grown dogs ! 
 
 Mike McInerney. All the quarrel- 
 ling was ever in.Jhe place it was myself 
 did it. Sure his anger nsSS^faTst and 
 goes away hke the wind. Bring~him 
 out with myself now, Honor_Donohoe, 
 and God bless you. "" 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. WeU, then, -I-^U 
 not bring him out, and- 1 -wilLao t brin g 
 youfSeU out,' andjrou not to.leaj n better 
 sense. Are you making' yo urself ready 
 to come? 
 
 Mike McInernby. I am thinking, 
 maybe ... it is a meanthing_iac-a 
 man thaJua^sMvefingmtO ggKeSg-yeafa 
 
 to go changmfSoBoISa^ljtoplace. 
 
 Mrs. Donohoe. Well, ZtSK" your 
 luck or Igave^jt.- All_Lasked was to save 
 you from the hurt and Jhe-harm^-oLthe 
 year. - 
 
 Mike McInerney. Bring the both 
 of us with you or I will not stir out of 
 this. 
 
 Mrs. Dowohob. Give me back my 
 fine suix so [begins gathering up th( 
 
The Workhouse Ward 
 
 783 
 
 till I'll go look for a man of 
 
 ay own ! i- n ■■■ ■ ' ■ 
 
 Mike McInebney.. Let you go so, 
 je you are so unnatural a nd soj^soblig- 
 ag, and look f or some^man ^orjgTlfown, 
 |od help 'MtBT^or I will nofgririth 
 rou at s3lX 
 
 Mes. Donohoe. It is too much time 
 Host with^you, and dark night waiting 
 o oy^Sake-me-oa- the road. Let" the 
 ,wp of you stop togeth er, and the laack 
 if ^y- tend''t5'"y oTr Tt is I wilTTiave 
 routtteVc^ tlie same as God left the Jews ! 
 [She goes TnHT" The old men lie 
 f' down and are silent for a mo- 
 
 ment] 
 
 Michael Miskell. Maybe the house 
 B not sojadde-as-what she says. 
 
 Mike McInernby. Why wouldn't 
 t be wide ? 
 
 Michael Miskell. Ah, there does 
 )e a good deal of middling poor Jiouses 
 lown by the sea. 
 
 Mike McInebney. What would you 
 mow about wide houses? Whatever 
 ort of a house you had yourself it was 
 00 wide for the provision you had into 
 t. 
 
 Michael Miskell. Whatever pro- 
 vision I^ad-iiumy-hcaise-it-was- whole- 
 ome provision _and_naluiaL_pr(Bdsion. 
 lerself ~~ajid her periwinkles ! Peri- 
 rinkles is a hungry sort of food. 
 
 Mike McInerney. Stop your im- 
 mdenee and your chat or it will be the 
 roisfljca^ y o u. I ' d ' bGaj w ith my own 
 dther and mother as long as any man 
 rould, but if they'd vex me I would 
 [ive them the length of a rope as soon 
 IS another 1 
 
 Michael Miskell. I would never 
 ask at all to go eating periwinkles. 
 
 "MikeTSTcInerNEY [sitting up]. Have 
 you anyone to.flght me? 
 
 Michael Miskell [whimpering]. I 
 have not*..onJy the I^ard ! 
 
 Mike STcTnebney.' Let you leave 
 putting insults on me so, and death 
 picking at you ! 
 
 Michael Miskell. Sure I am say- 
 ing nothing^at aUjo displease you. It 
 is why i woiildFt go eating periwinkles, 
 I'm in dread I might swallow the 
 pin. 
 
 Mike McInebney. Who in the 
 world wide is asMog-you to eat them? 
 You're as tricky as a fish in the full 
 tide! 
 
 Michael Miskell. Tricky is it! 
 Oh, niy"Curse-an.d: the curse of the four 
 and twenty men upon you ! 
 
 Mike McInebney. That the worm 
 may chew you from skin to marrow 
 bone ! [Seizes his pillow] 
 
 Michael Miskell [seizing his own 
 pillow]. I'U leave my death on you, 
 you scheming bagabone ! 
 
 Mike McInerney. By cripes! I'U 
 pull out your pin feathers ! 
 
 [throwing pillow] 
 
 Michael Miskell [throwing pillow]. 
 You tyrant! You-big. buUy you! 
 
 Mike McInerney [throwing pillow 
 and seizing mug]. Takg~thia-so, you 
 stobbing rufflanjou! 
 
 [ They~throw~SXlr within their reach 
 at one another, mugs, prayer 
 books, pipes, etc.] 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
RIDERS TO THE SEA 
 
 {1904) 
 By John Millington Synge 
 
JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE 
 (1871-1901) 
 
 There is something so personal about the career of Synge, Ms life seems to have 
 Deen so fuU, and yet so unaccomplished in its work, that facts are lost in the detail 
 )f loving tribute. The contrasts in his activities are so violent and his accomplish- 
 ment so many-sided, that his genius is the type enticing the biographer to research 
 jf the most intimate kind. To certain writers the task of recording the career of 
 3ynge is almost as consecrated as the task of the Stevenson lover who visits every 
 ikrine and locality with the hope of finding something new about his subject. 
 
 Synge was born in Newtown Little, near Rathfarnham, a suburb of Dublin, 
 on April 16, 1871. He was educated in private schools, and between his fourteenth 
 md seventeenth years had a tutor. Had one judged of his later career by his 
 youthful tastes, one would have said that Synge was destined to be a naturalist. 
 When he took up music and became more than proficient with the piano, the fiute, 
 and the violin, one would have said that he would continue his work and become a 
 leading Irish composer. For, as late as 1891, while at Trinity College, he studied at 
 the Royal Irish Academy of Music, easily obtaining a scholarship in harmony and 
 counterpoint. In fact, after his graduation from Trinity, which he entered in 1888, 
 studjdng under Doctor Traill, after taking all the honours he could in Hebrew and 
 in Irish, he determined to practise music as a profession, and went to Germany for 
 that purpose. But before 1894 came to an end, Synge had changed his plans and 
 had determined to follow literature instead. This caused him to settle in Paris, 
 in January, 1895. And from now on he spent much of his time between France and 
 Ireland. 
 
 As a linguist, Synge was exceptionally proficient. Visiting Italy, in 1896, he 
 studied Italian. And in 1897 he not only wrote prose and verse both in English 
 and French, but he had planned a translation from the ItaUan of "The Little 
 Flowers" of St. Francis of Assisi. His student nature never having deserted him, 
 lie planned for himself a comprehensive and exhaustive survey of Racine. It was 
 in this mood that he met Yeats in 1899. Had it not been for this introduction, he 
 probably would have continued his criticisms, and we would have had none of the 
 axoeptional plays which were to follow his visit to the Aran Islands in September, 
 1899. This visit was the beginning of a series of visits in 1900, 1901, and 1902. 
 is a critic said : 
 
 He took with him his fiddle, his conjuring tricks, his camera, and penny 
 whistle, and feared that they would get tired of him if he brought them nothing 
 new. 
 
 His notes, which he began to gather during his second stay, were completed in 
 Paris, Dublin, and London, and were published in April, 1907. 
 
 Meanwhile, Synge had written two plays foxmded on stories he had heard in the 
 
 787 
 
788 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Aran Islands. One of these was entitled "The Shadow of the Glen" and the other 
 "Riders to the Sea." As we have stated, Synge rode into reputation as a dramatist 
 on the high wave of enthusiasm which was behind the estabhshment of the Irish 
 Literary Theatre. "The Shadow of the Glen'' was presented at Molesworth 
 Hall, Dublin, on October 8, 1903, and "Riders to the Sea" at the same place, Febru- 
 ary 25, 1904.' After these there came "The Tinker's Wedding", which we are told 
 was the first drama conceived by him, and begun in 1902, and "The Well of the 
 Saints", written in 1903. During this winter of 1902-1903, Synge lived in London, 
 and then as quickly changed his abode to Paris, and to the wilds of Wioklow and 
 Kerry. He seems to have had a wandering fever, and his impressions of Wicklow 
 and Kerry were pubhshed in the Manchester Guardian, and are contained in the 
 fourth volume of his Works. In this fourth volume may Ukewise be seen impres- 
 sions of Connemara, through which congested district Synge toured with Jack Yeats. 
 
 As one of the three Uterary advisers to the Abbey Theatre, Synge's tenure of 
 offioe lasted from its opening until the day of his death. In February, 1905, a new 
 play, "The Well of the Saints", was given, and in 1907 the famous "Playboy of the 
 Western World." 
 
 The last year of his life was passed mostly in Dublin ; he was busy re-writing 
 "Deirdre of the Sorrows", unfinished at his death and pubhshed posthumously at 
 Miss Yeats's Cuala Press. He died on March 24, 1909, at a private nursing home, 
 and was buried in the family tomb in DubUn. 
 
 Lovers of Synge have eagerly scanned every poem and piece of prose of his that 
 has been given for publication. His hterary executors still have in their possession 
 much valuable unpublished material, but we doubt whether anything they may 
 hold in reserve will give us a fairer picture of Synge than that which, through the 
 assiduous labours of Maiurioe Bourgeois, is contained in his volume of personal 
 researches. 
 
 John Masefield, in his article for the Dictionary of National Biography, claims 
 that Synge "brought into Irish hterature the gifts of detachment from topic, and a 
 wild vitahty of tragedy." 
 
 There is no doubt that Synge's "The Shadow of the Glen" and "Riders to the 
 Sea " are striking examples of that literature which is built out of life stuff ; they eon- 
 tain rich veins of tragic humour and rehgious fervour. He may, in his notes for 
 "The Aran Islands", have stressed the realistic vein which comes with a self-con- 
 scious study of the people ; but by nature he was too human, too responsive to the 
 human in others, to be enamoured of a mere statistical account. The eternal note 
 of sadness was that which tempered the observation of Synge, and, as P. P. Howe 
 says, in his critical study of the dramatist, " He had the ability of wringing from an 
 atmosphere almost patriarchal, the tragedy of a small place raised to the tragic ap- 
 peal of the entire world." 
 
 The fields and the sea were his background, and if in " The Shadow of the Glen" 
 we obtain a certain pastoral quality, in ' ' Riders to the Sea ' ' we are given as distinct 
 a genre picture as in Hermann Heijerman's Dutch play, "The Good Hope." 
 
 Bourgeois claims that Synge always told his friends "In the Shadow of the Glen" 
 was composed before "Riders to the Sea"', but only just before. The two plays 
 were practically finished by the end of 1902. Masefield writes that when he heard 
 
 ' In M. Bourgeois's "John Millington Synge and the Irish Theatre", 1913, p. 307, there 
 is a complete stage history of the play. 
 
John Millington Synge 789 
 
 hem read in London, in January, 1903, at the rooms of one who was always gen- 
 rously helpful to writers not yet sure of their root, "The Shadow" was complete 
 nd "The Riders" not quite complete. "A lady [Lady Gregory] read the plays 
 ery beautifully. Afterwards we all applauded. Synge learned his mfitier that 
 ight. Until then all his work had been tentative and in the air. After that, he 
 rent forward knowing what he could do." 
 
 There are some who beUeve that the influence of Pierre Loti on Synge was very 
 ironounced. Bourgeois declares that it was conspicuously apparent in " Riders to 
 he Sea." However that may be, we do know that this play embodies some of the 
 aystioal strain of MaeterUnck. 
 
 In his essay on "Synge and the Ireland of His Time", Yeats declares : 
 
 Once when I had been saying that though it seemed to me that a convene 
 tional descriptive passage encumbered the action at the moment of crisis, I 
 liked "The Shadow of the Glen" better than "Riders to the Sea," that is, for 
 all the nobility of its end, its mood of Greek tragedy, too passive in suffering ; 
 and had quoted from Matthew Arnold's introduction to "Empedocles on 
 Etna", Synge answered, " It is a curious thing that 'The Riders to the Sea' 
 succeeds with an English but not with an Irish audience, and 'The Shadow 
 of the Glen', which is not hked by an English audience, is always Uked in 
 Ireland, though it is disliked there in theory." Since then "The Riders to the 
 Sea" has grown into great popularity in Dublin, partly because, with the tacti- 
 cal instinct of an Irish mob, the demonstrators against " The Playboy", both in 
 the press and in the theatre, where it began the evening, selected it for applause. 
 
 Bourgeois agrees that Loti's "PSoheur d'Islande" and Hermann Heijerman's 
 'The Good Hope" are behind "Riders to the Sea." He likewise quotes Padraio 
 Holum as having stated that Synge said to him that one of the reasons why he wrote 
 'Riders to the Sea" was that he had personally begun to anticipate something 
 )f the sadness of old age and death. 
 
 "Riders to the Sea" [writes Howe] gets so fierce a momentum upon it that 
 Synge's very regard for time is bittned up in the flame ; but here the appearance 
 of fault might easily have been avoided by a lesser dramatist, for it comes in 
 only with Synge's refusal to "make talk." In its passionate simplicity, 
 the tragedy becomes over-simplified and reality escapes it. 
 
 It is because reaUty escapes it that Synge's realism is mystical poetry. And 
 vHle the close of the tragedy does not smite one with that personal reaction one 
 las in witnessing Heijerman's "The Good Hope", while the effect on the reader 
 md observer is distinctly joyless and without active response, nevertheless a deeper 
 lote of human nature is struck by Synge than by Heijerman. 
 
 It is not our place here to discuss the advance made by Synge in the technique 
 )f the one-act play. It is a study, however, none the less profitable, as is also to 
 Iraw from Synge's notebooks how a dramatist may shape material to his end. 
 
 Synge introduced into the Irish Drama a new subject and a new rhythm. His 
 nethod seems to have been almost self-conscious in his scraping of humanity to the 
 )one and building it up again through his own personality. James Huneker speaks 
 )f his clear, rich vibrant prose, and lauds his gypsy temperament. No dramatist, 
 >ther than Synge, of the Irish Theatre, has given to the Irish Movement that vitality 
 vhich will outlast the special Movement and mark it as great drama. 
 
RIDERS TO THE SEA 
 A PLAY IN ONE ACT 
 
 By J. M. SYNGE 
 
 Copyright, 1911, 
 
 By L. E. BASSETT. 
 
 Reprinted by permiasion of Messrs. John W. Luce & Company, Boston. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 First performed at the Molesworth Hall, Dublin, February 25th, 1904 
 
 Maurya . ... an old woman Honor Lavelle 
 
 Bartlet . . . . her son ' . . . W. G. Fay 
 
 Cathlebn . . . her daughter Sarah Allgood 
 
 Nora a younger daughter Emma Vernon 
 
 Men and Women 
 
RIDEES TO THE SEA 
 
 Scene. — An Island off the West of 
 Ireland. 
 
 [Cottage kitchen, with nets, oil-shins, 
 spinning wheel, some new boards 
 standing by the wall, etc. Cathlebn, 
 a girl of about twenty, finishes knead- 
 ing cake, and puts it down in the potn 
 oven by the fire; .then wipes her 
 hands, and begins to spin at the 
 wheel. NoEA, a young girl, puts 
 her head in at the door] 
 
 NoEA [in a low voice]. Where i s she? 
 
 Cathlebn. She's lying 'down, God 
 help her, and may tee%eeping,J f she's 
 able. , 
 
 [NoBA comes in softly, and takes 
 a bundle from under her shawl] 
 
 Cathlebn [spinning the wheel rapidly]. 
 What-is-it-you have ? 
 
 NoEA. The young priest is after 
 bmiguig;^them. It''£S3^1^^3'"ST)lain 
 stocking_^OTe~j;ot oHaT'dMrmied man 
 
 inTQSBJ^l. ^" — — 
 
 [Cathleen stops her wheel with a 
 sudden movement, and leans out 
 to listen] 
 
 NoEA. "^e'mi ■ ^" ^^1*^ I fjt. i^ it's 
 Mich aid*s~tEev ar e, some time herself 
 wiTl-KfWwSjoHEaOrifflBTiest: — ' 
 
 ■Cathleen. How ■VTOiiIcr~they be 
 Michael's, Nora. How would he go the 
 length of that wa<y„ to, thB-fer north? 
 
 NoEA. The young~p?iest' says he's 
 known- the like ©f-it^.. 'lILitlBJMiBhaers 
 they are," says he, "you can tell herself 
 he's gq^fc-ar-eteaBT btttr£dr-by;-the grace of 
 God, and if_Jihey're not his, let no one 
 say ■ar^waf&JBoxLt-.thBmt-Jan^e'U. be 
 getting-fter death," says he, "witETcry- 
 ing and lamenting." 
 
 [The door which Noea half closed 
 is hlown open by a gust of wind] 
 
 Cathleen [looking out anxiously]. 
 Did you ask him would he stop Bartley 
 going tl"s day wil)luJJiaJiQrsea.--t6 the 
 GaJ^ajj^air? 
 
 Nora. "I woajt stophimi.'lgays he, 
 ' ' ^^^ j£!LX°i_32l3B-^p3T Herself 
 *^°^i2_?^y^^S prayers haHllirough the 
 night;~and the Almighty God won't 
 leave her destitute," says he, "with no 
 son living." 
 
 Cathlebn. Is the .S6a_had_by the 
 whitaxQcksr-Nora ? 
 
 Noea. Mijddlmg.Jjad,jGod_hglp us. 
 Therfilsja.sr£a.tJ«aELiig- intEa!^^ and 
 it's worse it'll be getting when thJe^de's 
 turned to the wind. [She goes over to 
 the table with tha bundle] Shall I open it 
 now? 
 
 Cathlebn. Maybe she'd wake up 
 onjBs,j^d come^ iiuhefaEfi~SKe!a^ done. 
 [Coming t'o'Vie' table] It's a long time 
 we'll. be, and -the two of us crying. 
 
 Nora [goes to the inner door and 
 listens]. She'.SL-m*w4Dg~afeoai_.on the 
 bed. ShelE-be-coming in a minute. 
 
 Cathlebn. Give me the ladder, 
 and^j;U_put them up in 'the turf -loft, 
 the wiiysEe won' t JsnoaiBUQf-thi^ILat all, 
 and maybe when the tide turns' she'll 
 be going down to see would he be float- 
 ing from the east. 
 
 [They put the ladder against the 
 gable of the chimney ; Cathlebn 
 goes up a few steps and hides 
 the bundle in the turf-loft. 
 Mattrta comes from the inner 
 room] 
 
 Mattrya [looking up at Cathleen and 
 speaking querulously]. Isn't it turf 
 enough youjiave for this day and even- 
 ing? '" ~- 
 
 Cathleen. There's a cake baking 
 at the Are for a short space [throwing 
 down the tiirf] and Hartley will want it 
 when the tide turns if he goes to Con- 
 nemara. ' — — ., 
 
 [Nora picks up the turf and puts 
 it round the pot-oven] 
 
 Maurya [sitting down on a stool at 
 the fire]. He won't go this day. with the 
 wind lisiag'Tfroiir-tlKToulE and west. 
 
 793 
 
794 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 He won't go this day, for the young 
 priestwill stojiJiiin^svEfeljr: 
 
 Nora. He'll not stop him, mother, 
 and I heard Eamon Simon and Stephen 
 Pheety and Colum Shawn~saying he 
 would go. 
 
 Maitrya. Where is he itself ? 
 
 Nora. He went dp,wn_to-see~would 
 there be another boat saihng in tlie 
 week, and I'm thinking^lt_5C>Blt_be.long 
 tiU he's here now, for" tha.tide's..|uriung 
 at the green head, and -the hooker's 
 tacking from the east. 
 
 CathI/Een. I hear some one passing 
 the big stones. 
 
 Nora [looking out]. He's coming now, 
 and he in a hurry. 
 
 Hartley ^comes in and looks round 
 the room. Speaking sadly and quietly]. 
 Where is •the bit of new rope. Cathleen, 
 was ,bought iii"Coim.emara ? 
 
 Cathleen [coming down]. Give it to 
 him, Nora ; it'a on„a nail by the white 
 boards. I hung it up this morriing, for 
 the pig witlL-theublaok feet was eating 
 it. 
 
 Nora [giving him a rope]. Is that it, 
 Bartley ? 
 
 Maueya. You'd do right to leave 
 that rope, _Ba£]tlfiyT — hajagiag- by the 
 boards. [Hartley takes the rope] It 
 will be wan tingJnJJus-plaEe, Jim Jelling 
 you, if Mi chad is washed- up-to^morrow 
 morning, or the next morning, or any 
 moraing in tha.we^tt.Jor_ it^s a deep 
 grave we'll make him by the -grace of 
 God. 
 
 Hartley [beginning to work with the 
 rope]. I'vg nojb"^^'^'' ^■^'^ wa.yJ can ride 
 down on the mare, and I must go now 
 quickly. This is the one boat going for 
 two weeks or beyond^ itran3~Tihe fair 
 will be a good fair for horses I heard 
 them saying below. 
 
 Matirya. .^]^a hard thing they'll 
 be saying, b.elowTf7th€r:body_is , j^ashed 
 up and there's no man in it to make the 
 cofBn, a,nd I after giving aTBig price for 
 the finest white boaxds__you'd find in 
 Connemara. 
 
 [She looks round at the boards] 
 
 Bartley. How would it be washed 
 up, and^w e afte r Jnoking each day for 
 nine days, a,nd_a strong wind -bloffiing a 
 while back from the west and south? 
 
 Matjrya. If it wasn't found itseU, 
 that wind is raising the sea, and there 
 was a star up against the moon, and it 
 rising in the night. If it was a hundred 
 horses, or a thousand horses you had 
 itself, what Is the price of a tnousand 
 
 horses against a son where there is one 
 son only ? 
 
 Hartley [working at the halter, to 
 Cathleen]. Let you go down each 
 day, and see the sheep-aren't jumping 
 in on the rye, and if the jobber comes 
 you can sell the pig with the black feet 
 if there is a good price going. 
 
 Maurya. How "would the like of 
 her get a good price for a pig ? 
 
 Hartley. [To Cathleen] If the 
 west wind holds with the last bit of 
 the moon let you and Nora get up weed 
 enough for another cock "for the kelp. 
 It's hard set we'll be from this day with 
 no one in it but one man to work. 
 
 Matjrya. It's hard set we'll be 
 surely the day you're drownd'd with the 
 rest. What way will I Uve and the 
 girls with me, and JL an old woman 
 looking for the grave? 
 
 [Hartley lays down the halter, 
 takes off his old coat, and puts 
 on a newer one of the same 
 flannel] 
 
 Hartley. [To Nora] Is she coming 
 to the. pier? 
 
 Nora [looking out]. She's -4)assing 
 the green head and leFtlng fall her_sails. 
 
 Hartley [getting his purse and to- 
 bacco]. I'll have half an hour to go 
 downj_-and-you^1 spe mp .poitiing again 
 in two days, or in threejdays, or maybe 
 in four da,ys if the wind isjBiaHT 
 
 Maurya! [turning round to the fire, 
 and putting her shawl over her head]. 
 Isn't it a hard and .cruel ^an won't 
 hear a word.-irom...an oI3~wonian, and 
 she holding him from the sea? 
 
 Cathleen. It's the life of a young 
 man to Jbe going, on the sea, and who 
 would listen to an old woman with one 
 thing and she saying it over? 
 
 BARTiS^T^ktngthB- halter]. I must 
 go now quicMy. I'll ride-do wn on the 
 reTTmare, and the gray pony 'U rufi 
 behind me. .. ; Th«-blessing of God 
 on you. [He goes out] 
 
 Matjrya [crying out as he is in the 
 door]. He's gone now, God ^are us, 
 
 and we'll not~gge'^im again. He[s 
 
 gone now, and when t£e blaoE^ght is 
 falling I'll have no sorri-eft me in the 
 world. 
 
 Cathleen. Why wouldn't you give 
 him ypiit-blessing"aiid he looldng. round 
 in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough is 
 on every one in this house without 
 your sending him out with an unlucky 
 word behind him, and a hard word in 
 his ear? 
 
Riders to the Sea 
 
 795 
 
 [Maurya takes up the tongs and 
 begins raking the fire aimlessly 
 without looking round] 
 
 NoEA [turning towards her]. You're 
 taking aw^j the turf from the cake. 
 
 CATHLBBN"['cryi7i^ oul^. — Ttte Son of 
 God forgive us, .Nora, we're after for- 
 ge1itiii:g"M8 bit of bread. 
 
 [She comes over to the fire] 
 
 Nora. Aiii. it's -destroyed he'll be 
 going till dacli-Bigh*raaid-he-after eat- 
 ing noEKng sincethfi,sun .went up. 
 
 Ch.i'sCES.If^tn/fmmg the cake out of the 
 oven]. It's destroyed he'll be, siirely. 
 There's no sense left on any person in a 
 house where an old woman will be talk- 
 ing foe. ever. 
 
 [Mattrta sways herself on her 
 stool] 
 
 Cathleen [cutting off some of the 
 bread and rolling it in a cloth ; to Maurya]. 
 Let you go dowsuJiow.tojifi.sE]Cing well 
 and "gixe- him— this— and. Jhe passing. 
 YoulTsee himjhen-and-the dark word 
 will be broTien, and you can say "God 
 speed you",jthe way he'll be easy in his 
 mind. " -- 
 
 Maurya [taking the bread]. Will 
 I be in it as soon as himself ? 
 
 Cathleen. If you go now quickly. 
 
 Maubya [stfi,ndimg^ up unsteadily]. 
 It's hard set J-am^io-waJk. 
 
 Cathleen [looking at her anxiously]. 
 Givft .her the stick, Nora, or maybe 
 she'll sUp- on the-big-stojies. 
 
 Nora. What stick? 
 
 Cathleen. The stick Michael 
 brougl^tufroaar-CeBfieinara. 
 
 Maubya [taking a stick Nora gives 
 her]. In the big world theold people 
 
 do_be JwarwiTg— th ings a.ft.ai! _iJtaTn for 
 
 their _song_anji__chiljiDMir-but in this 
 place itia_llia.ymmg-ta^-d»-be4eaving 
 tliiug£EehimL£c£.l<hem„tha>t-de-be old. 
 [She goes out slowly. Noba goes 
 over to the ladder] 
 
 Cathleen. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd 
 turn back qujeily. ~^She!s- ihat- sorry, 
 Godielp her, you wouldn't _know the 
 tlung,she'd do. 
 
 Nora. Is she gone round by the bush? 
 
 Cathleen [looking out.] She's gone 
 
 now, Thmw.it_llQwn quickly, for the 
 
 Lord knows when-she'U be out of it again. 
 
 'Hoja.Ajgetting the bundle from the loft]. 
 The young priest said he'd be passmg 
 to-tnorrow,laBd-jyje"jEt ligM 7gb' dowii^and 
 speak to him-belowif itTMibttaers they 
 are siirely. ~~ — - — ' 
 
 Cathleen [taking the bundle]. Did 
 he say what way they were found ? 
 
 NoBA [coming down]. "There were 
 two men," says he, J' and. they rowing 
 round "with "poteen before the cocks 
 crowed, and the oar of one of them 
 caught the body, and they passing the 
 black cliffs of the northT" 
 
 Cathleen [trying to open the bundle]. 
 Give me a kmfe, Nora, the string's 
 perished with the salt water, and there's 
 a black knot on it you wouldn't loosen 
 in a week. 
 
 Nora [giving her a knife]. I've 
 heard tell it was a long way..to,Dpnegal. 
 
 Cathleen [cutting the string]. It is 
 surely. There was a man in here a 
 while ago — the man sold us that knife 
 — and he said if you set off. waljdng from 
 the rocks beyoiid, it"~would be "seven 
 days you'd be in Donegal. 
 
 Nora. And what time would a man 
 take, and he floating ? 
 
 [Cathleen opens the bundle and 
 takes out a bit of a stocking. 
 The;yJlQoh_at them eagerly] 
 
 Cathleen [in~"a low voice]. The 
 Lord spare us, NoraJ-.i sn't it a q ueer 
 hard thing to say if it's his th^- are 
 surely? ^ 
 
 I Noba. I'U get his shirt off the hook 
 the way we can put the one flannel on 
 the other. [She looks through some clothes 
 hanging in the corner] It's not with 
 tUem,_CatMeen^nd where will it be? 
 ^"Cathleen? Tin tEnMng Bartley 
 put it on him in the morning, for his 
 own shirt was heavy ' withlira salt in it. 
 [Pointing to the corner] There's a bit of 
 a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give 
 me that and it will do. 
 
 [Nora brings it to her and they 
 compare the flannel] 
 
 Cathleen. It's the same .stuff, 
 Npra ;_ but if it is...ijselt_a*eirt— there 
 great" rolls" of it in the shops of Galway, 
 and isn't it many another man may have 
 a shirt of it as well as Michael himself ? 
 
 Nora [who has taken up the stocking 
 and counted the stitches, crying out]. It's 
 M ichae l|jCatMe.eTi, -it.'^ M"'^""^ ; God 
 
 spaje Ms "afiiilT^a.TH^ wTiaifi will >ioi-gQlf 
 
 say when she tears this story, and 
 Bartley on the sea? 
 
 Cathleen [taking the stocking]. It's 
 a plain stocking. 
 
 Noba: — Urs the second one of the 
 third pair I knitted, and I put up three 
 score stitcheS|_and I dropped four of 
 them. 
 
 Cathleen [counts the stitches]. It's 
 that numterjsjajt. [Crying out] Ah, 
 Nora, isa't it a bitter th ing to tMnk of 
 
796 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 hinr-floaj ting that T'^g^yjO-tt^, far north, 
 and no one to JseenlSimDut tte black 
 hags that do be flying on the sea? 
 
 Nora [svnnging herself round, and 
 throwing out her arms on the clothes]. 
 And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is 
 nothing left of a,man whiLwas a great 
 rojyer and. fisher, but a bit of an old 
 shirt and a plain stocking? 
 
 Cathlebn "[a/ier an instant]. Tell me 
 is herself coming, Nora ? I hear a Uttle 
 sound on the path. 
 
 Nora [looking out]. She is, Cathleen. 
 She's coming up to the door. 
 
 Cathleen. Put these things away 
 before she'll come in. Maybe it's 
 easier she'll be after giving her blessing 
 to Bartley,. and we won't let on we've 
 heard anything the time he's on the sea. 
 Nora [helping Cathleen to close the 
 bundle]. We'll put them here in the 
 corner. 
 
 [They put them into u hole in the 
 
 chimney corner. Cathleen 
 
 goes back to the spinning-wheel] 
 
 Nora. Will she see it was„crjring 
 
 I was? 
 
 Cathleen. Keep your back Jojhe 
 door the way the light 'U.not be on you. 
 [Nora sits down at the chimney 
 corner, with her hack to the door. 
 Matjrta comes in very slowly, 
 without looking at the girls, 
 and goes over to her stool at ths^ 
 other side of the fire. The cloth 
 with the bread is still in her 
 hand. The girls look at Tach 
 other, and Nora points to the 
 bundle of bread] 
 Cathleen [after spinning for a mo- 
 ment]. You jdid n't give him his bit of 
 bread ? " 
 
 [Matjrya begins to keen softly, 
 
 without turning round] 
 
 Cathleen. Did you see-Ja im ridi ng 
 
 down? [MAtTRYA goes on keening] 
 
 Cathleen [a little impatiently]. God 
 
 forgive vou-L-isait-i t a better thing t o 
 
 raise your voJ^e^lLd-t"^^ wha.t, ymi Re«^"i 
 
 thaaLto- be -makuig-lajnentation for a 
 
 thing that's done ? Did you^seeBartley, 
 
 I'm saying to you! " 
 
 Maurya [with a weak voice]. My 
 heart's broken from this day. 
 
 Cathleen [as before]. Did you see 
 Bartley ? 
 
 Maurya. I seen the fearfulest thin g. 
 
 Cathleen [leaves her wheel and looks 
 
 out]. God forgive you ; he's riding the 
 
 mare now over the green head, .and the 
 
 gray pony behind him. ' ' 
 
 Maurya [starts, so that her shawl falls 
 back from her head and shows her white 
 tossed hair. With a frightened voice]. 
 The gray pony, behind him. 
 
 Cathleen [coming to the fire]. What 
 is it ails you, at aU? 
 
 Maurya [speaking very slowly]. I've 
 seen the fearfulest.. thing ^.ny. person 
 has seen, since the day Bride, Dara 
 seen the dead man with the child in his 
 arms. 
 
 Cathleen and Nora. Uah. 
 
 [They crouch down in front of the 
 old woman at the fire] 
 
 Nora. Tell us wha,tit is you seen. 
 
 Maurya. I went dorwn to the spring 
 well, and I stood there saying a prayer 
 to myself. Then Bartley came .along, 
 and he ridingjsn, the red mare witE'^ie 
 gray pony behind him. [She puts up her 
 hands, as if to hide something from her 
 eyes] The Sc(n of God_5pajse. JU&.No'-a ! 
 
 Cathleen. What is it you seen. 
 
 Maurya. I seen Micha^^binaself. 
 
 Cathleen [speaking softly]. You did 
 not,_ mother; it wasn't Michael you 
 seen, for his body is after being found 
 in the far north, and he's got- a clean 
 burial by the grace of God. 
 
 Maurya [a little defiantly]. I'm after 
 seeing him this day, and.ie riding and 
 galloping. Bartley came first on the 
 red mare; and I tried to say "God 
 speed you", but something choked the 
 words in my throat. He_ went by 
 quickly ; and -ti-the-blBssihg of God on 
 you", sajTS^he, and lecrald-say^nothing. 
 I looked.jip then,.jijad I crying, at the 
 gray pony, and there was Michael upon 
 it — with fine-clo.thes-Qn,Jiinvan4 new 
 shoes on Jiis feet. 
 
 Cathleen [begins to keen]. It's de- 
 stroyed we are from this day. It's 
 destroyed, surely. 
 
 Nora. Didn't the young priest say 
 the Almighty God wouldn't leave her 
 destitute with no son Usjng ? 
 
 Maurya [in a low voice, but clearly]. 
 It's little the Uke of him knows of the 
 sea. . . . Bartley - will -fee— laat.^ow, 
 and let you call in Eamon and maki me 
 a good coffin out of the white boards, 
 for I won't liye_9i£teK-th£m. I've had a 
 husband, and husband's father, and six 
 sons in Ihis KousS|;^3te=-flne men, 
 though it was a hard birth I had with 
 every one of them and they coming to 
 the world — and some of them were 
 found and some of them were not 
 found, but they're gonejiow-tbe lotgf^ 
 them. . . . There were StephenrTtna 
 
Riders to the Sea 
 
 797 
 
 Shawn, were lost in the great wind, and 
 fm7nT^ - a.flT i r-iTr |■,^Tft~Ba. y pf ftra gnry of the 
 GoldenJifoutbj and-«arrie(i-up the two 
 of them on the one plank, and in by that 
 
 dobrr"^ "" 
 
 [She pauses for a moment, the 
 girls start as if they heard some- 
 thing through the door that is 
 half open behind them] 
 Nora [in u, whisper]. Did you hear 
 that, Cathleen? Did you hear a noise 
 mthgjiarth-east ? 
 
 ''"TCathleen [in a whisper]. There's 
 some one after crying out by the sea- 
 shore. ~'" ~' 
 
 Matjeta [continues without hearing 
 anything]. The,5&Jffias_gheamus and his 
 father, and his own fatKer again, were 
 lost in a dark night, and not a stick or 
 sign was seen of them when the sun 
 went up. There was Patch after was 
 drowned out of a ouragh that turned 
 over. I was sitting here with Hartley, 
 and he a baby, lying on my two knees, 
 and I seen — Wo — women, and three 
 womeru-Jitid foug— ^woiaen coming in, 
 and tieyOT0ssiiig_thems6lvesT and not 
 saying a wordi I looked out then, and 
 there. j rera t o pti r,nn 3.i. ii g- a ftorHihem, and 
 they holding a thing in the half of a red 
 sail, and water dripping out of it — 
 it was a dry day, Nora — and leaving a 
 track to the door. 
 
 [She pauses again with her hand 
 stretched out towards the door. 
 It opens softly and old women 
 begin td^ come in, crossing them- 
 selves'' on Ihe threshold, and 
 «■. kneeling down in front of the 
 
 f stage with red petticoats over 
 
 their heads] 
 Maurta [half in a dream, to Cath- 
 leen]. Is it Patch, or Michael , or 
 
 what is it awll? ' "' 
 
 CATfiEEBNl Michael is after being 
 found in.,t]igfarjafi£th,,-and when-he is 
 found there Eow could he be here in 
 this place ? 
 
 Matjbya. There does be a power of 
 young menfloatiflg-j:auiuL.ia. .the sea, 
 and what'-'Wiywould they know if it 
 was Michael they had, or another man 
 like him, for-wHSh a man'lg^nine days 
 in the sea, and the wind blowing, it's 
 hard set 'his own mother would be to 
 say what manjEas it. 
 
 Cathleen. It's Michael, _God spare 
 him, for they're after sen^ng us^.aJ'it 
 of hisoMhesJrbm tie far nortET 
 
 "[She reaches out and hands 
 Mattrya ihe clothes that be- 
 
 longed to Michael. Maurta 
 
 stands up slowly, and takes 
 
 them, in her hands. Nora looks 
 
 out] 
 
 Nora. They're carrying a thing 
 
 among them and there's water dripping 
 
 out of it and leaving a track by the big 
 
 stones. 
 
 Cathleen [in a whisper to the women 
 who have come in]. Is it Hartley it is? 
 
 One of the Women. It is surely, 
 God rest his soul. 
 
 [Two younger women come in and 
 pull out ihe table. Then men 
 carry in the bo dy of Ba rtley. 
 laid on a^plank, ivith a hit of a 
 'sail over it, and lay it on ihe 
 table] ' ~~ 
 
 Cathleen. [To ihe women, as they 
 are doing so] What way was he ' 
 drowned? 
 
 ■^tJiSir of THE Women. The gray pony 
 knocked him into the sea, and he was 
 was^3^oiiiOpEffigitltere is a great surf 
 on.-fee'W'hite-KMjkftr 
 
 ' [Matjrya has gone over and knelt 
 down at the head of the table. 
 The women are keening softly 
 and swaying themselves with a 
 slow movement. Cathleen and 
 Nora kneel at the other end of 
 the table. The men kneel near 
 the door] 
 Maurya [raising her head and speak- 
 ing as if she did not see ihe people around 
 her]. "They're all_gpne now, and there 
 isn't anything more the7'sea can.Sd to 
 me.. . . . Vu. have no call now iQ be 
 up "crying and praying when the wind 
 breaks from- th« south, and you can 
 hear the surf is in the east, and the surf 
 is in the west, making a great stir with 
 the two noises, and they hitting one on 
 the other. I'll have.nojsall now to be 
 going down and gettingJBcteJEaiter in 
 the" dark nights' after"^amhain, and I 
 won't care what way the sea is when the 
 other women will be keening. [To 
 Nora] Give me the Holy Water, 
 NQru5_there'^ a.small_sup:^il on-the-- 
 dresser. ' ' [Nora gives it to her] 
 
 Maurya [drops Michael's clothes 
 across Hartley's feet, and sprinkles the 
 Holy Water over him]. It isn.'tthat I 
 havenJl-prayedJEoX-XoUi -Eaitkffijjtojhe 
 Almighty God. It isn't that I haven't 
 said prayers in the da.r k'fiight " ffilfymr' 
 wouldn't know what I'd be saying; 
 but it's a great rest I'll have now, and 
 it'fe' time surely. It's a great rest I'U 
 have now, and great sleeping in the long 
 
798 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 nights after Samhain, if it's only a bit 
 of wet flour we do have to eat, and 
 maybe a fish that would be stinking. 
 
 [She kneels down again, crossing 
 
 herself, and saying prayers 
 
 under her breath] 
 
 Cathlben. [To an old man] Maybe 
 
 yourself and Eamon would make a 
 
 oofi&n when the sun rises. We have fine 
 
 white boards herself bought, God help 
 
 her, thinking Michael would be found, 
 
 and I have a new cake you can eat while 
 
 you'll be workiiigl 
 
 The Old Man [looking at the boards]. 
 Are there nails with them ? 
 
 Cathleen. There are not, Colum; 
 we didn't think of the nails. 
 
 Another Man. It's a great wonder 
 she wouldn't think of „the nails, and all 
 the coffins she's seen made already. 
 
 Cathleen. It's getting old she is, 
 and broken. 
 
 [Maueya stands up again very 
 
 slowly and spreads out the pieces 
 
 of Michael's clothes beside the 
 
 body, sprinkling them with the 
 
 last of the Holy Water] 
 
 Nora [in a whisper to Cathleen]. 
 
 She's -quiet now and easy ; but the day 
 
 Michael was drowned you could hear 
 
 her crying out from this-te-tfae^ spring 
 
 well. It's fonder she was of Michael, 
 
 and would any one have thought 
 that? 
 
 Cathleen [slowly and clearly]. An 
 old woman will be soon tired with any- 
 thing she will do, and isn't it nine days 
 herself is after crying and keening, and 
 making great sorrow in the house? 
 
 Maurya [puts the empty cup mouth 
 downwards on the table, and lays her 
 hands together on Bartley's feet]. 
 They're all together this time, and the 
 end is come. May the Almighty God 
 have mercy onJSartley's soul, and on 
 Michael's "soin, and on the souls of 
 Sheamus and Patch, and Stephen and 
 Shawn [bending her head] ; and may He 
 have mercy on my soul, Nora, and on 
 the soul of every one is left living in 
 the world. 
 
 [She pauses, and the keen rises 
 u. little more loudly from the 
 women, then sinks away] 
 
 Maurya [continuing]. Michael has 
 a clean burial in the far north, by the 
 grace of the Alrhighty God. Bartley 
 will have a fine coffin put of the white 
 boards, and a deep grave surely. What 
 more can we want-thsn-that? No man 
 at aU can be living for ever, and we 
 must be satisfied. " ~ 
 
 [She kneels down again and the 
 curtain falls slowly] 
 
THOMAS MUSKERRY 
 
 (1910) 
 By Padbaic Coltjm 
 
PADRAIC COLUM 
 
 Padbaic Colum is one of the younger members of the Irish Players. He has, 
 for some years, resided in New York, content to publish his plays, to utter signifi- 
 cant remarks regarding the trend of modern poetry, and to write poetry charac- 
 teristic of the modern manner. His career, as a dramatist, runs parallel to that 
 of Synge, and his work contains the usual amount of fervour towards religious and 
 national questions, which characterizes the work of so many of his contemporaries. 
 It would seem that there was somethihg outside the general scheme of the National 
 Theatre in the work of Padraic Colum ; for the Abbey Theatre managers have al- 
 lowed Mm to break from them and they have not always been cordial toward the 
 spirit of his dramas. 
 
 Much biographical data is to be had from a letter written the present editor 
 by Mr. Colum. It runs as follows : 
 
 New York, January 3rd, 1918. 
 I was one of the foundation members of the Irish National Theatre, joining 
 in 1903 a group whose prominent members were Mr. W. G. Pay, Mr. Frank 
 Fay, and Mr. Dudley Digges (who is now in New York, as Mr. George ArUss's 
 stage-manager). This group was recruited from certain Irish poHtical soci- 
 eties, and it came into existence for the purpose of play production, after the 
 last of their successive performances which the Irish Literary Theatre had 
 given. The Irish Literary Theatre, let me remind you, had been brought into 
 beiag by Mr. Yeats, Mr. Edward Martyn, and Mr. George Moore. Its object 
 was to give a performance for one week in a Dublin Theatre. The plays given 
 were written by Irishmen, Mr. Yeats himself, Mr, Martyn, and Mr. Moore in 
 collaboration with Mr. Yeats. 
 
 The players were English actors, and it seemed impossible at the time to 
 get Irish trained players. However, the Uttle group to which I referred had 
 a capable stage director in Mr. W. G. Pay, and a splendid elocutionist in Mr. 
 F. Fay. These two men gave a fine training to the amateur players they had 
 gathered around them, and, when the Irish Literary Theatre had given the last 
 of their performances, Mr. Yeats found them capable of producing his play, 
 "Cathleen ni Houlihan", and with this play and A. E.'s "Deirdre", the 
 Irish National Theatre began. Mr. Yeats, Lady Gregory, and J. M. Synge 
 joined the group. Some years afterwards, this original group split on a ques- 
 tion of administration. Originally every member of the group had a voice in 
 its policy. This made its management very unwieldy, and it was decided to 
 abolish this voting power and to create a directorate of four, — Mr. Yeats, Lady 
 Gregory, J. M. Synge, and W. G. Fay. I was amongst those who left the 
 theatre on that occasion. 
 
 The Irish National Theatre had already produced two plays of mine, ' ' Broken 
 Roil", and "The Land." "Broken Soil" was afterwards put into a different 
 
 sni 
 
802 Representative British Dramas 
 
 form and given the title of "The Fiddler's House." The play called "Thomas 
 Muskerry" was to follow these two plays. I had projected a series of plays 
 that was to have dealt with the various classes in Ireland, from the peasant 
 to the intellectual. The first of the projected series was "The Land." I 
 reached the middle classes with "Thomas Muskerry", which shows the life 
 of small offtcials in a small town. It should have been called "The Workhouse 
 Master", a title which would better fit its class conception, as you will see when 
 you think of the other titles, "The Land" and "The Fiddler's House." But 
 Lady Gregory had already used "The Workhouse Ward" as a title, and 
 rather than cause any confusion I dropped my original title. 
 
 After its first production in the Abbey Theatre, the play was attacked 
 as putting forward a degraded type of Irish Ufe. The weekly journal, Sinn 
 Fein, spoke of "Muskerry" as a dangerous phase of Irish literature. 
 
 These three Irish plays of mine, "The Land", " The Fiddler's House", and 
 " Thomas Muskerry", have for their motives the delineation of family life in 
 Ireland. In each play an individual interest stands out as against the group. 
 The tragedy in " Thomas Muskerry" arises from the fact that in the conflict 
 with this family group, the old man's life is frustrated and ruined.' 
 
 ' Colum and Lord Dunsany at one time collaborated. The latter has written as follows 
 to Mr. Edward Bierstadt: "Colum suggested that we should write a play together about 
 Alexander. He came to stay with me and I got out Plutarch and we read a bit about him 
 together. We agreed we would kill Clitus, but we had no plot. I got started on act three 
 and tried to get Colum started on another act, but I could not get him to begin. Probably 
 his instinct realized how futile was the suggestion which he had made and I had heartily 
 agreed to. Finally he asked me to leave him the killing of Clitus and to go on with the rest. 
 Well, at the pace I work, I very soon did all the rest, and I read it to Colum and he then very 
 generously released me from my promise to let him kill Clitus.'^ 
 
THOMAS MUSKERRY 
 By PADRAIC COLUM 
 
 COPTBIGHT, 1916, 
 
 Bt PADRAIC COLUM. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 "Thomas Muskerry" ia included in the volume of "Three Plays" by Padraic 
 Colum, published by Little, Brown, & Company, and is fully protected by copy- 
 right. It must not be performed either by amateurs or professionals, without 
 written permission. For such permission, and for the acting version with full stage 
 instructions, apply to The Paget Dramatic Agency, 25 West 45th Street, New 
 York. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Thomas Mtjskbrrt The Master of Garrisowen Workhouse 
 
 Mrs. Cbillt His Daughter 
 
 Cbopton Crilly His Son-in-law 
 
 Albert Crilly His Grandson 
 
 Anna Crilly His Granddaughter 
 
 James Scollard Thomas Muskerry's Successor 
 
 Felix TouRNOTrR . The Porter at Workhouse Lodge 
 
 Myles Gorman . . A Blind Piper 
 
 Christy Clarke A Boy reared in the Workhouse 
 
 Shanlby 1 
 
 MicKiE Gripes Paupers in Workhouse 
 
 An Old Man J 
 
 Scene Garrisowen, a town in the Irish Midlands. 
 
 "Thomas Muskerry" was first produced on May 5th, 1910, by the Abbey 
 Theater Company, at the Abbey Theater, Dublin, with the following cast : 
 
 Thomas Muskerry Arthur Sinclair 
 
 Mrs. Chilly Sara Allgood 
 
 Cropton Crilly .J. M. Kerrigan 
 
 Albert Crilly Eric Gorman 
 
 Anna Chilly Maire O'Neill 
 
 Myles Gorman Fred O'Donovan 
 
 Felix Tournotjr ' Sydney Morgan 
 
 James Scollard J. A. O'Rourke 
 
 Christy Clarke . . U. Wright 
 
 MicKiE Cbipes Fred Rowland 
 
 Tom Shanley Ambrose Power 
 
 An Old Pauper J. M. Kerrigan 
 
THOMAS MUSKERRY 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [The Master's office in Garrisowen Work- 
 house. It is partly an office, partly 
 a living room. To the right is a door 
 opening on corridor, and in the back, 
 left, a door leading to the Master's 
 apartments. There is an iron stove 
 down from back and towards right, 
 and a big grandfather's clock back 
 towards door of apartments. A 
 basket armchair down from stove, 
 and a wooden chair beside it. There 
 is a desk against wall, left, and an 
 offij^e stool before it. Down from this 
 desk a table on which is a closed desk. 
 On table are books, papers, and files. 
 On a wooden chair beside the arm- 
 chair is a heap of newspapers and 
 periodicals. There is a rack beside 
 corridor door, and on rack a shawl, 
 an old coat, a hat, and a bunch of 
 big keys. In the corner, right, is a 
 little cabinet, and on it a small mirror. 
 Above door of apartments a picture 
 of Daniel O'Connell. The grand- 
 father's clock is ticking audibly. It 
 is 8.4s P. M. The gas over desk is 
 lighted] 
 
 [Christy Clarke, a youth of about sevens 
 teen, is seated in the armchair read- 
 ing a periodical. His clothes are 
 threadbare, but brushed and clean. 
 He looks studious, and has intellec- 
 tual possibilities. The clock ticks 
 on, the boy reads, but with little atten- 
 tion. At the corridor door there is a 
 knocking. Christy Clarke turns 
 slightly. The door opens, and a tall 
 man in the ugly dress of A pauper is 
 seen. The man is Felix Tottrnour. 
 He carries in a bucket of coal. He 
 performs this action like one who has 
 acquired the habit of work under an 
 overseer. He is an ugly figure in his 
 pauper dress. His scanty beard is 
 coal black. He has a wide mouth 
 and discoloured teeth. His forehead 
 is narrow and bony. He is about 
 forty-five] 
 
 ToTJHNOUR [in a harsh voice, after 
 looking around]. Is he not back yet? 
 
 Christy [without stirring]. Is who not 
 back yet ? 
 
 ToTJRNotTR. The Master I'm talking 
 about. I don't know where he does be 
 going these evenings. 
 
 [He shovels coal into the stove] 
 
 Christy. And what is it to you 
 where he does be going? 
 
 TouRNOUR. Don't talk to me like 
 that, young fellow. You're poorhouse 
 rearing, even though you are a pet. 
 Will he be sitting up here to-night, do 
 you know? 
 
 Christy. What's that to you 
 whether he wiU or not? 
 
 ToTJENOUR. If he's sitting up late 
 he'll want more coal to his flre. 
 
 Christy. Well, the abstracts will 
 have to be finished to-night. 
 
 TouHNOUK. Then he will be stay- 
 ing up. He goes out for a walk in the 
 evenings now, and I don't know where 
 he does be going. 
 
 Christy. He goes out for a walk in 
 the country. [Tournour makes a leer 
 of contempt] Do you never go for a 
 walk in the country, Fehx Tournour ? 
 
 TouBNOTJR. They used to take me 
 out for walks when I was a little f eUow, 
 but they never got me out into the 
 country since. 
 
 Christy. I suppose, now that you're 
 in the porter's lodge, you watch every 
 one that goes up and down the road? 
 
 TouBNOUH. It, gratifies me to do 
 so — would you believe that now? 
 
 Christy. You know a lot, Pehx 
 Tournour. 
 
 TouRNOtTR. We're told to advance 
 in knowledge, young fellow. How long 
 is Tom Muskerry the Master of Gar- 
 risowen Workhouse? 
 
 Christy. Thirty years this spring. 
 
 TotTRNOUR. Twenty-nine years. 
 
 Christy. He's here thirty years ac- 
 cording to the books. 
 
 805 
 
806 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 TouRNouK. Twenty-nine years. 
 
 Chhisty. Thirty years. 
 
 TouRNouR. Twenty-nine years. I 
 was born in the workhouse, and I mind 
 when the Master came in to it. Whist 
 now, here he is, and time for him. 
 
 [He falls into an officious manner. He 
 closes up the stove and puts bucket 
 away. Then he goes over to desk, 
 and, with his foot on the rung of the 
 office stool, he turns the gas on full. 
 Christy Clark gets out of arm- 
 chair, and begins to arrange the 
 periodicals that are on wooden chair. 
 The corridor door opens. The man 
 who appears is not the Master, how- 
 ever. He is the blind piper, Myles 
 Gorman, who is dressed in the 
 pauper garb. Myles Gorman is a 
 Gael of the West of Ireland, with a 
 face full of intellectual vigour. He 
 is about sixty, and carries himself 
 vjith energy. His face is pale and 
 he has a frin^ge of a white beard. 
 The eye-balls in his head are con- 
 tracted, but it is evident he has some 
 vestiges of sight. Before the others 
 are aware who he is, he has advanced 
 into the room. He stands there now 
 turning the attentive face of the blind] 
 
 Gorman. Mister Muskerry! Are 
 you there, Mister Muskerry? 
 
 TouRNOTjR. What do you want, my 
 oul' fellow? 
 
 Gorman [with a puzzled look]. Well, 
 now, I've a favour to ask of your 
 honour. 
 
 TouRNOUR. Be off out of this to 
 your ward. 
 
 Gorman. Is that Mister Muskerry? 
 
 Christy. Mister Muskerry isn't 
 here. 
 
 Gorman. And who am I talking to? 
 
 Christy. You are talking to Felix 
 Tournour. 
 
 Gorman. FeUx Tournour ! Ay, ay. 
 Good night, Felix Tournour. When will 
 the Master be back? 
 
 TouRNOTjR [coming to him]. Not till 
 you're out of this, and back in your 
 ward. 
 
 Gorman. Wasn't there a boy speak- 
 ing to me? 
 
 Christy. Yes [speaking as if to a 
 deaf man]. The Master will be going 
 the rounds in a while, and you can 
 speak to him in the ward. 
 
 Gorman. I've a favour to ask the 
 Master, and I don't want to ask it be- 
 fore the others. [To Christy] Will 
 the Master be here soon, a viok vig? ' 
 
 Tournour [taking him by the 
 shoulders]. Here, now, come on, this 
 is your way out. 
 
 [He turns Gorman to the door. 
 
 As he is putting him out Thomas 
 
 Muskerry enters] 
 
 TouRNOTTR. This oul' fellow came 
 
 into the office, and I was leading him 
 
 back into his ward. 
 
 Muskerry. Leave the man alone. 
 [Tournour retreats to the stove 
 and takes up the bucket; after 
 a look behind he goes out and 
 closes the corridor door. Christy 
 Clarke takes the periodicals 
 over to table and sits down. 
 Myles Gorman has been eager 
 and attentive. Thomas Mus- 
 kerry stands with his back to 
 the stove. He is over sixty. He 
 is a large man, fleshy in face 
 and figure, sanguine and benevo- 
 lent in disposition. He has 
 the looks and movements of one in 
 authority. His hair is white 
 and long; his silver beard is 
 trimmed. His clothes are loosely 
 fitting. He wears no overcoat, 
 but has a white knitted muffler 
 round his neck. He has on a 
 black, broad-brimmed hat, and 
 carries a walking-stick] 
 Muskerry. Well, my good man? 
 Gorman. I'm here to ask a favour 
 from you. Master. 
 
 Muskerry. You should proffer your 
 request when I'm in the ward. How- 
 ever, I'm ready to give you my atten- 
 tion. 
 
 Gorman. I'm a blinded man. 
 Master, and when you're in the ward 
 I can't get you by yourself conveniently. 
 I can't come up to you like the other 
 oul' men and speak to you private 
 like. 
 
 Muskerry. Well, now, what can 
 I do for you ? 
 
 Gorman [eagerly]. They teU me that 
 to-morrow's the market-day, and I 
 thought that you might give me a pass, 
 and let me go out about the town. 
 
 Muskerry. We'll consider it, Gor- 
 man. 
 
 Gorman. Master, let me out in the 
 town on the market-day. 
 
 ' A mhic bhig, my little son. 
 
Thomas Muskerry. 
 
 807 
 
 Mtjskerry. We couldn't let you 
 out to play your pipes through the 
 town. 
 
 GoEMAN. I'm not thinking of the 
 music at all, Master, but to be out in 
 the day and to feel the throng moving 
 about, and to be talking to the men that 
 do be on the roads. 
 
 MusKEBBY. We'U consider it, Gor- 
 man. 
 
 [He takes off muffler, and puis it 
 on back 0/ armchair] 
 
 GoEMAN. Well, I'm very much 
 obhged to your honour. Good night 
 to you. Master. 
 
 [He passes Mttskeeey and goes 
 towards the door. Mtjskeeby 
 has been regarding him] 
 
 M0SKEBBY. TeU me this, Gorman, 
 were you always on the roads? 
 
 Gorman. I was driving cattle, and 
 I was deahng in horses. Then I took 
 up with an oul' man, and he taught me 
 the pipes. I'm playing the pipes ever 
 since, and that's thirty years ago. Well, 
 the eyes began to wither up on me, and 
 now I've only a stim of sight. I'm a 
 bhnded man from this out. Master. 
 
 Mtjskeeby. And what will you do? 
 
 Gorman. Oh, sure the roads of 
 Ireland are before me when I leave this ; 
 I'll be playing my bit of music. 
 
 [He moves to the door] 
 
 MusKEERY. Tell me ; have you any 
 family yourself?^ 
 
 GoEMAN. Ne'er a chick nor child 
 belonging to me. Ne'er a woman lay 
 by me. I went the road by myself. 
 Will you think of what I asked you, 
 Master? 
 
 Mttskeeey. I'll consider it. 
 
 Gorman. Good night to your 
 honour. Remember my name, Master 
 — Gorman, Myles Gorman. 
 
 [MusKEEEY stands looking after 
 Goeman] 
 
 MusKEEEY. Now, Christy Clarke, 
 I consider that the man gone out is a 
 very exceptional man. 
 
 Cheisty. Is it Myles Gorman? 
 
 MusKEEEY. Yes. I'd even say that, 
 considering his station in life, Myles 
 Gorman is a very superior man. 
 
 Christy. They say he's not a good 
 musician. 
 
 MusKEEEY. And maybe he's not. 
 I consider, however, that there's great 
 inteUigencS in his face. He stands 
 before you, and you feel that he has 
 the life of a young colt, and then you're 
 bound to think that, in spite of the fact 
 
 that he's blind and a wanderer, the man 
 has not wasted his life. 
 
 [MtrsKEEEY settles himself in the 
 armchair] 
 
 Cheisty. Will you give leave for 
 to-morrow? 
 
 MusKEBEY. No, Christy, I wiU not. 
 
 Cheisty. Why not, Mister Mus- 
 kerry? 
 
 MusKEBBY. That man would break 
 bounds and stay away. 
 
 Cheisty. Do you think he would? 
 
 MusKEEEY. He'd fly oflf, like the 
 woodquest flying away from the tame 
 pigeons. 
 
 Cheisty. He and his brother had a 
 farm between them. His brother was 
 married, and one day the brother told 
 Myles to go to DubUn to see a comrade 
 of his who was sick. Myles was home 
 in a week, and when he came back he 
 found that his brother had sold the 
 place and was gone out of the coun- 
 try. 
 
 MusKEEEY. His brother did wrong, 
 but he didn't do so much wrong to 
 Myles Gorman. 
 
 Cheisty. How is that, Mister 
 Muskerry? 
 
 MusKEEBY. He sent Myles Gor- 
 man to his own Ufe. He's a man who 
 went his own way always ; a man who 
 never had any family nor any affairs; 
 a man far different from me, Christy 
 Clarke. I was always in the middle 
 of affairs. Then, too, I busied myself 
 about other people. It was for the 
 best, I think; but that's flnished. On 
 the desk under your hand is a letter, 
 and I want you to bring it to me. 
 
 Cheisty [going through papers idly]. 
 ' ' I am much obhged for your favour — ' ' 
 
 MusKEEBY. That's not it. 
 
 Cheisty [reading another letter]. "I 
 am about to add to the obligations under 
 which I stand to you, by recommending 
 to your notice my grandson, Albert 
 CriUy— " 
 
 MusKEBEY. That's the letter. It's 
 the last of its kind. Bring it to me. 
 [Cheisty Claeke brings over the letter] 
 There comes a turn in the blood and a 
 turn in the mind, Christy. This while 
 back I've been going out to the country 
 instead of into the town, and coming 
 back here in the evenings I've seen the 
 workhouse with the big wall around it, 
 and the big gate going into it, and I've 
 said to myself that Thomas Muskerry 
 ought to be as secure and contented 
 here as if he was in his own castle. 
 
808 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Christy. And so you ought, Mister 
 Muskerry. 
 
 MusKERRT. Look rouud at the 
 office, Christy. I've made it as iit for 
 me as the nest for the wren. I'll spend 
 a few more years here, and then I'U 
 go out on pension. I won't Uve in the 
 town. I've seen a place in the country 
 I'd like, and the people will be leaving 
 it in a year or two. 
 
 Christy. Where is it, Mister Mus- 
 kerry? 
 
 Muskerry. I'll say no more about 
 it now, but it's not far from this, and 
 its near the place where I was reared. 
 
 Christy. And so you'U go back to 
 your own place? 
 
 MtTSKERRY. As Oliver Goldsmith 
 my fellow county man, and • I might 
 almost say, my fellow parishioner, says 
 — What's this the lines are about the 
 hare, Christy? 
 
 Christy. 
 "And like the Hare whom Hounds and 
 
 Horns pursue 
 Pants to the place from whence at first 
 he flew." 
 Muskerry. Aye. 
 "And like the Hare whom Hounds and 
 Horns pursue" — 
 
 [The clock strikes nine] 
 Christy. You weren't on the 
 rounds yet? 
 
 Muskerry [startled]. Would you be- 
 lieve it, now, it was nearly passing my 
 mind to go, on the rounds? [He rises, 
 putting the letter in his pocket] Where's 
 that fellow, Albert CriUy? He was to 
 have been in here to give me a hand 
 with the abstracts. Christy Clarke, go 
 down to Miss Coghlan's and get me two 
 novelettes. Bring me up two nice love 
 stories, and be here when I come back. 
 [Christy Clarke takes his cap 
 off rack and goes out. Thomas 
 Muskerry puts on his scarf, 
 goes to the rack and takes down 
 the bunch of keys. As he is go- 
 ing out Felix Tournour enters 
 with a bucket of coal. He car- 
 ries it over to the stove] 
 Muskerry. Now, Tournour, sweep 
 up this place. 
 
 [Thomas Muskerry goes out by 
 corridor door. Felix Tour- 
 nour takes brush from under 
 desk, left, and begins to sweep 
 in the direction of corridor door] 
 Tournour. Sweeping, sweeping ! 
 I'll run out of the house some day on 
 account of the work I've to do for 
 
 Master Thomas Muskerry. [He leans 
 on his brush in front of stove] I know 
 why you're going for walks in the 
 country, my oul' cod. There's them 
 in town that you've got enough of. 
 You don't want to go bail for Madam 
 Daughter, nor for Count Crofton 
 Crilly, your son-in-law, nor for the 
 Masters and Mistresses; aU right, my 
 oul' cod-fish. That I may see them 
 laying you out on the flags of Hell. 
 
 [He puts the brush standing up- 
 right, and speaks to it] 
 
 " The Devil went out for a ramble at night, 
 Through Garrisowen Union to see every sight. 
 The oul' men were dreaming of meat to come 
 
 near them. 
 And the Devil cocked ears at the words for 
 
 to hear them. 
 ' Twice a year we get meat,' said the toothless 
 
 oul' men, 
 ' Oh, Lord send the meat won't be too tough 
 
 again.' 
 To clear away dishes Mick Fogarty goes, 
 May the Devil burn the nails off his toes. 
 Deep dreaming that night of fast days before, 
 Sagging the walls with the pull of his snore, 
 In his chamber above Thomas Muskerry lay 
 
 snug. 
 When the Devil this summons roared in his 
 
 lug — " 
 
 [The door of the Master's apart- 
 ments is opened and Albert 
 Crilly enters. Albert Chilly 
 is a young man, who might be 
 a bank clerk or a medical student. 
 He is something of u dude, bvi 
 has a certain insight and v/it] 
 Albert [lighting a cigarette]. Is the 
 grandparent here, Tournour ? 
 
 Tournour. He's gone on the rounds. 
 Mister Albert. 
 
 Albert. What time was he up this 
 morning? 
 
 TouHNOUR. He was late enough. 
 He wasn't up in time to come to Mass 
 with us. 
 
 Albert. The old man will get into 
 trouble. 
 
 Tournour. If the nuns hear about 
 it. 
 
 Albert. He'll have to give the 
 whole thing up soon. 
 
 Tournour. He's well off that can 
 get somebody else to do the work for 
 him. 
 
 [He continues to sweep towards 
 
 corridor] 
 
 Albert. Tournour, you're a damned 
 
 clever fellow. I heard a piece of yours 
 
 yesterday that I thought was damned 
 
 good. 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 809 
 
 TouKNOUH. Was it a rhyme? 
 Albert. It was something called 
 "The Devil's Rambles." 
 
 ToTTENOtTR [taking a step towards 
 Mm]. Don't let the boss hear, and I'll 
 tell it to you, Mr. Albert. 
 
 [He holds the brush in his hands 
 and is about to begin the recita- 
 tion when Ckofton Chillt 
 enters from the Master's apart- 
 ments. Crofton Crilly has a 
 presentable appearance. He is 
 big and well made, has a fair 
 beard and blue eyes. A pipe is 
 always in his mouth. He is a 
 loiterer, a talker, a listener] 
 Chilly. Are you going to finish the 
 abstracts to-night, Albert? 
 
 Albert. I believe I am. Go on 
 with "The Devil's Rambles ", Tournour. 
 Chilly. I heard it in Keegan's. 
 It's damn good. 
 
 TotJHNOUB. I don't like saying it 
 before Mister CriUy. 
 
 Chilly [with easy contempt]. Go on 
 with it, man ; I'U leave a pint in Kee- 
 gan's for you. 
 
 TouBNOUR. Well, you mightn't like 
 it. 
 
 Chilly. Have done talking and go 
 on with it. 
 TouHNOTJH [recit 
 
 "In his chamber above — a — a person lay 
 
 Bnug, 
 When the Devil this summons roared in his 
 
 lug — 
 ' Get up,' said the Devil, ' and swear you'U be 
 
 true, 
 And the oath of allegiance I'U tender anew. 
 You'll have pork, veal, and lamb, jnutton- 
 
 chops, fowl and fiah. 
 Cabbage and carrots and leeks as you wish. 
 No fast days to you will make visitation, 
 For your sake the town will have dispensation. 
 Long days you will have, without envy or 
 
 strife. 
 And when you depart you'll find the same 
 
 life. 
 And in the next world you'll have your will 
 
 and your sway. 
 With a Poorhouse to govern all your own way. 
 And I'll promise you this ; to keep up your 
 
 state. 
 You'll have Felix Tournour to watch at the 
 
 gate.' " 
 
 Chilly. That's damn good. I must 
 get a copy of the whole of it to show at 
 l's. 
 
 [Tournour has swept as far as 
 the corridor door. He opens it 
 and sweeps down the passage. 
 He goes out and closes door] 
 
 Crilly. That's a damn clever fellow. 
 [He becomes anxious, as with a troubled 
 recollection. He goes to the little cabinet, 
 opens it, and takes out a bottle of whisky 
 and a glass. He pours some whisky into 
 the glass, and remains looking at himself 
 in the mirror. He smooths his beard. 
 He goes to the armchair with the glass of 
 whisky, the anxious expression still on 
 his face] This is a cursed town. 
 
 [He drinks] 
 Albert. Every town in Ireland is 
 a cursed town. 
 
 Chilly. But this is an extraor- 
 dinarily cursed town. Everybody's in 
 debt to everybody else. I don't know 
 what's to be done. Now, imagine that 
 fellow, James Covey, failing in business 
 and getting clear out of the town. 
 
 Albert. Covey seems to have done 
 it well. 
 
 Cbilly. God knows how many he 
 has stuck. 
 
 Albeb't. Well, he didn't stick the 
 CriUys for anything. 
 
 Crilly. Albert, you don't know how 
 these financial things work out. Do 
 you think would his brother settle? 
 Albert. Settle with whom ? 
 Chilly. Well . . . with any of the 
 . . . any of the people that have ... I 
 don't know. It's a cursed town. If I had 
 joined the police at your age, I'd have a 
 pension by this, and I mightn't care for 
 any of them. 
 
 Albert. I wish I had a job and I'd 
 wait on the pension. 
 
 Chilly. Oh, you'll be all right. 
 The grandfather is seeing about your 
 job. 
 
 Albert. If the grandparent gets me 
 that job I'll want two new suits at least. 
 Cbilly. 'Pon my soul, Albert, I 
 don't know what's to be done. [His 
 mind wanders off] 1 suppose the ab- 
 stracts have to go out in the morning. 
 
 Albert. They have. And damn all 
 the old man has done to them. 
 
 Crilly. The Guardians hear that 
 he's late in the mornings, Albert, and 
 some of them are beginning to question 
 his fitness to check the stores. 
 
 Albert. The old man ought to 
 resign. 
 
 Chilly. I suppose he ought. I'm 
 not wishing for his resignation myself, 
 Albert. You know your mother regards 
 it as a settled thing that he should come 
 and live with us. 
 
 Albert. The mother and Anna are 
 preparing for the event. 
 
810 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Crilly. How's that, Albert ? 
 
 Albert. Mother has James Seollard 
 in her eye for the new Master. 
 
 Chilly. Right enough ! SeoUard 
 would get it, too, and then he would 
 marry Anna. 
 
 Albert. That's the arrangement, I 
 expect. 
 
 Crilly. It mightn't be bad. Seol- 
 lard mightn't want Nancy's money 
 under that arrangement. StUl I don't 
 like the idea of the old man living in the 
 house. 
 
 Albert. The mother would never 
 think of letting him take himself and 
 his pension anywhere else. 
 
 Crilly. I don't think she would. 
 
 Albert. I wouldn't be surprised if 
 he did go somewhere else. I hear he 
 often goes up to that cottage in 
 Stradrina. 
 
 Crilly. What cottage, Albert? 
 
 Albert. Briar Cottage. I hear he 
 sits down there, and talks of coining to 
 live in the place. 
 
 Crilly [warningly]. Albert, don't 
 clap hands behind the bird. Take my 
 word, and say nothing about it. 
 
 Albert. All right. 
 
 Crilly. We'd have no comfort in 
 the house if youLr mother's mind was dis- 
 tracted. 
 
 [Mrs. Crilly enters from corridor. She 
 is a woman of forty, dressed in 
 a tailor-made costume. She has 
 searching eyes. There is something 
 of hysteria about her mouth. She 
 has been good-looking] 
 
 Crilly. Good night, Marianne. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Are you iinishing the 
 abstracts, Albert? 
 
 Albert. I'm working at them. It's 
 a good job we didn't leave the old man 
 much latitude for making mistakes. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly [closing door]. He'll 
 have to resign. 
 
 Crilly. Good God, Marianne. 
 
 [He rises] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Well. Let him be sent 
 away without a pension. Of course, he 
 can live with us the rest of his life and 
 give us nothing for keeping him. 
 
 Crilly. I don't know what's in 
 your mind at aU, Marianne. 
 
 [He crosses over to the cabinet, 
 opens it, and fills out another 
 glass of whisky] 
 
 Albert. Let the old man do what 
 suits himself. 
 
 Crilly [coming back to stove]. Do, 
 Marianne. Let mm do what suits him- 
 self. For the present. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. For pity's sake put 
 down that glass and listen to what I 
 have to say. 
 
 Crilly. What's the matter, Mari- 
 anne? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. James ScoUard came 
 to me to-day, and he told me about the 
 things that are noticed. . . . The nuns 
 notice them, the Guardians notice them. 
 He misses Mass. He is late on his 
 rounds. He can't check the stores that 
 are coming into the house. He may get 
 himself into such trouble that he'll be 
 dismissed with only an apology for a 
 pension, or with no pension at all. 
 
 Chilly. I don't know what's to be 
 done. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. If he could be got to 
 resign now, James ScoUard would have 
 a good chance of becoming Workhouse 
 Master. He would marry Anna, and 
 we would stiU have some hand in the 
 affairs of the House. 
 
 Chilly. Yes, yes. I think that 
 ScoUard could make a place for himself. 
 Albert. The old man won't be 
 anxious to retire. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Why shoiddn't he 
 retire when his time is up? 
 
 Albert. WeU, here he is what's 
 called a potentate. He won't care to 
 come down and Uve over CriUy's shop. 
 Mrs. Chilly. And where else would 
 he Uve, in the name of God? 
 
 Albert. He won't want to Uve with 
 our crowd. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. What crowd? The 
 boys can be sent to school, you'U be on 
 your situation, and Anna wiU be away. 
 [She seats herself in the armchair] I 
 don't know what Albert means when 
 he says that the Master would not be 
 content to Uve with us. It was always 
 settled that he would come to us when 
 his service was over. 
 
 [Albert, who has been going over 
 the books, has met something 
 that surprises him. He draws 
 Chilly to the desk. The two 
 go over the papers, puzzled and 
 excited. Anna Crilly enters 
 from corridor. She is a hand- 
 some girl of about nineteen or 
 twenty, with a rich complexion, 
 dark hair and eyes. She is well 
 dressed, and wears a cap of dark 
 fur. She stands at the stove, 
 behind her mother, holding her 
 
± ibuiiius iv± usniKii y 
 
 hands over the stove. Mrs. 
 Chilly watches the pair at the 
 desk] 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. We can't think of 
 allowing a pension of fifty pounds a 
 year to go out of our house. Where 
 will we get money to send the boys to 
 school? 
 
 Anna. Mother. Grandfather is go- 
 ing to live away from us. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. Why do you repeat 
 what Albert says? 
 
 Anna. I didn't hear Albert say 
 anything. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. Then, what are you 
 talking about ? 
 
 Anna. Grandfather goes to Mar- 
 tin's cottage nearly every evening, and 
 stays there for hours. They'll be leav- 
 ing the place in a year or two, and 
 Grandfather was saying that he would 
 take the cottage when he retired from 
 the Workhouse. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. When did you hear 
 this? 
 
 Anna. This evening. DeUa Martin 
 told me. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. And that's the reason 
 why he has kept away from us. He goes 
 to strangers, and leaves us in black 
 ignorance of his thought. 
 
 [Crillt and Albert are busy at 
 
 Crillt. Well, damn it all — 
 Albert. Here's the voucher. 
 Crillt. God ! I don't know what's 
 to be done. 
 Albert. It's a matter of fifty tons. 
 [Albert turns round deliberately, 
 leaving his father going through 
 the papers in desperate eager- 
 ness. Albert takes a cigarette 
 from behind his ear, takes a 
 match-box from his waistcoat 
 pocket, and strikes a light. He 
 goes towards door of apartments. 
 Mrs. Crillt rises] 
 Albert [his hand on the handle of 
 door]. Well so-long. 
 Mrs. Crillt. Where are you goihg? 
 Albert. I'm leaving you to talk it 
 over with the old man. 
 
 [Mrs. Crillt looks from Albert 
 to Crillt] 
 Crillt. The Master has let himself 
 in for something serious, Marianne. 
 
 Albert. It's a matter of fifty 
 pounds. The old man has let the 
 Guardians pay for a hundred tons of 
 coal when only fifty were delivered. 
 Mrs. Crillt. Is that so, Crofton? 
 
 Crillt. It looks like it, Marianne. 
 
 Albert. There were fifty tons of 
 coal already in stores, but the Governor 
 didn't take them into account. That 
 cute boy, James Covey, delivered fifty 
 tons and charged for the hundred. The 
 old man passed on the certificate, and 
 the Guardians paid Covey. They helped 
 him to his passage to America. 
 
 [He opens door and goes through] 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. They will dismiss 
 him — dismiss him without a pension. 
 
 Anna. Mother. If he gets the 
 pension first, could they take it back 
 from him ? 
 
 Crillt. No. But they could make 
 him pay back the fifty pounds in in- 
 stalments. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. Fifty pounds! We 
 can't afford to lose fifty pounds. 
 
 Anna. Who would find out about 
 the coal, father? 
 
 Crillt. The Guardians who take 
 stock. 
 
 Anna. And how would they know 
 at this time whether there was a hun- 
 dred or a hundred and fifty tons there 
 at first? 
 
 Crillt. The business men amongst 
 them would know. However, there 
 won't be an inspection for some time. 
 
 Anna. Suppose grandfather had got 
 his pension and had left the Workhouse, 
 who would know about the coal? 
 
 Crillt. The new Workhouse 
 Master. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. The new Workhouse 
 Master — 
 
 Crillt. Marianne — 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. Well? 
 
 Crillt. I think I'll stay here and 
 advise the old man. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. No. Go away. 
 
 Crillt [at door of apartments]. After 
 all, I'm one of the Guardians, and some- 
 thing might be done. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. You can do nothing. 
 We can do nothing for him. Let him 
 go to the strangers. 
 
 [Crillt goes out] 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. Anna-! 
 
 Anna. Yes, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. The Martins are not 
 giving up their house for a year or 
 two? 
 
 Anna. No, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Crillt. If he resigns now his 
 pension will be safe. There is nothing 
 else against him. 
 
 Anna. But some one will find out the 
 difference in the coal. 
 
812 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. It's the new Work- 
 house Master who will know that. 
 
 Anna [hardening]. But he could not 
 pass such a thing, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly [abandoning a position]. 
 Well, after your grandfather gets his 
 pension we could make some arrange- 
 ment with the Guardians. 
 
 Anna. Yes, mother. Hasn't grand- 
 father a hundred pounds invested in the 
 shop ? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. It's not a hundred 
 pounds. Besides, it's not an invest- 
 ment. 
 
 Anna [with a certain resolution in her 
 rich voice]. Mother. Is my money 
 safe? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. We could give you 
 the eighty pounds, Anna, but after that 
 we would need all the help we could get 
 from you. 
 
 Anna. Yes, mother. 
 Mrs. Chilly [again taking up a 
 position]. But if we help James ScoUard 
 to the place. 
 
 Anna [with determination]. Whether 
 Mr. ScoUard gets the place or does not 
 get the place, I'll want my fortune, 
 mother 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Very weU, Anna. If 
 we could get him to come over. . . . 
 [She sits in armchair] There's a lamb 
 in Ginnell's field ; you might call in to- 
 morrow and ask them to prepare it for 
 us. 
 
 Anna. Then grandfather is coining 
 to dinner on Sunday? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. We must get him to 
 come. 
 
 [Some one is coming up the pas- 
 sage. Anna's hand is on handle 
 of door. She holds it open. 
 Thomas Muskerry stands 
 there] 
 MtrsKEHHY [pleased to see her]. Well, 
 Nancy ! 
 
 Anna. Good night, grandpapa. 
 
 [He regards her with fondness] 
 Mrs. Chilly. Good night, father. 
 Muskerry. This Nancy girl is look- 
 ing remarkably well. [He turns to Mrs. 
 Chilly] Well, ma'am, and how are 
 you? I've written that letter for that 
 rascally Albert. 
 
 [He leaves his stick on table and 
 goes to desk. Mrs. Chilly 
 watches him. Anna comes to 
 her. Muskerry addresses an 
 envelope with some labour. Mrs. 
 Chilly notices a tress of 
 Anna's hair falling down. 
 
 Anna kneels down beside her. 
 
 She takes off Anna's cap, settles 
 
 up the hair, and puts the cap 
 
 on again. Having addressed 
 
 the envelope, Muskerry holds 
 
 up a piece of wax to the gas. 
 
 He seals the letter, then holds 
 
 it out] 
 
 Muskerry. Here's the letter now, 
 
 and maybe it's the last thing I can do 
 
 for any of ye. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. You axe very good. 
 
 [Muskerry goes to them] 
 Muskerry. In season and out of 
 season I've put myself at your service. 
 I can do no more for ye. 
 
 [She takes the letter from him. His 
 resentment is breaking down. 
 He sits on chair beside arw/- 
 chair. He speaks in a recon- 
 ciling tone] 
 Muskerry. You're looking well, 
 Marianne. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I'm beginning to be 
 well again. 
 
 Muskerry. And the infant ? What 
 age is he now? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Little Joseph is ten 
 months old. 
 
 Muskerry. I dreamt of him last 
 night. I thought Joseph became a 
 bishop. He ought to be reared for the 
 Church, Marianne. Well, well, I've 
 nothing more to do with that. [He 
 settles himself in the armchair] Did 
 Christy Clarke bring in the papers? 
 
 Anna. Christy Clarke hasn't been 
 here at all, grandpapa. 
 
 Muskerry. Stand here till I look 
 at you, Nancy. [Anna comes left of 
 stove] I wouldn't be surprised if you 
 were the best-looking girl in the town, 
 Nancy. 
 
 Anna [without any coquettishness]. 
 Anna Crilly is not going into competi- 
 tion with the others. [She wraps the 
 muffler round him, then kisses him] 
 Good night, grandpapa. 
 
 [She goes out by corridor door] 
 Mrs. Crilly. Thank you for the 
 letter for Albert. 
 
 Muskerry. I think, Marianne, it's 
 
 the last thing I can do for you or yours. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. WeU, we can't teU a 
 
 bad story of you, and things are weU 
 
 with us. 
 
 Muskerry. I'm glad to hear that. 
 I was thinking of going to see you next 
 week. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Come to dinner on 
 Sunday. We are having a lamb. 
 
xnomas musKerry 
 
 aid 
 
 MusKEBKY. What sort is the lamb ? 
 
 Mrs. Ckilly. Oh, a very young 
 lamb. Anna will make the dressing 
 for you. 
 
 MusKEHBY. I'll send round a bottle 
 of wine. Perhaps we'll be in the way of 
 celebrating something for Albert. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Nancy was saying 
 that you might Uke to stay a few days 
 with us. 
 
 MusKEERY. Stay a few days ! How 
 could I do that, ma'am? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. You could get some- 
 body to look after the House. James 
 SooUard would do it, and you could stay 
 out for a few days. 
 
 MusKERBY. Well, indeed, I'll do no 
 such thing. What put it into your head 
 to ask me this ? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Nancy said — 
 
 MtrsKERRY, Let the girl speak for 
 herself. What's in your mind, woman? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Well, you're not look- 
 ing well. 
 
 Mttskerry. I'm as well as ever I 
 was. 
 
 Mbs. Crilly. Others do not think 
 
 BO. 
 
 Mttskerry. I suppose you heard 
 I was late a few mornings. No matter 
 for that. I'm as well as ever I was. 
 No more talk about it; I'm going on 
 with the work. 
 
 [He rises and goes over to desk] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I'm sorry to say that 
 no one else thinks as weU of you as you 
 do yourself. 
 
 MusKERRY. Well, I'll hear no more 
 about it, and that's enough about it. 
 Why isn't Albert CriUy here? 
 
 Mbs. Chilly. WeU, he was here, 
 and he is coming back. 
 
 MusKEBBY. I'U want him. [He 
 takes up a card left on the desk. He 
 turns round and reads] — "You have 
 let the Guardians pay for a hundred 
 tons. James Covey deUvered only 
 fifty tons of coal." Who left this here? 
 
 Mbs. Chilly. I suppose Albert left 
 it for you. 
 
 Muskerhy. The impudent rascal. 
 How dare he address himself hke that 
 to me? [He throws card on table] 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Perhaps he found 
 something out in the books. 
 
 Muskebry. No matter whether he 
 did or not, he'U have to have respect 
 when he addresses me. Anyway it's 
 a he — a damn infernal he. I was in 
 the stores the other day, and there was 
 eighty tons of coal still there. Cer- 
 
 tainly twenty tons had been taken out 
 of it. The Provision Check Account 
 will show. [He takes up a book and 
 turns round. He goes back some pages. 
 He lets the book fall. He stands there 
 helpless] I suppose you all are right 
 in your judgment of me. I'm at my 
 faihng time. I'U have to leave this 
 without pension or prospect. They'll 
 send me away. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. They had nothing 
 against you before this. 
 
 Mttskebey. I was spoken of as the 
 pattern for the officials of Ireland. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. If you resigned now — 
 
 MtrsKEEEY. Before this comes out. 
 [He looks for help] Marianne, it would 
 be Uke the blow to the struck ox if I 
 lost my pension. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. If you managed to 
 get the pension you could pay the 
 Guardians back in a lump sum. 
 
 Mttskerry. If I resigned now, where 
 would I go to? 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. It was always under- 
 stood that you would stay with us. 
 
 Muskeeey. No, Marianne. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. You'U have the place 
 to yourself. The boys wiU be going 
 to school, and Albert wiU be away, 
 too. Anna and myself wiU look after 
 you. 
 
 MusKERRY. I could Stay for a 
 while. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Oh, well, if you have 
 a better place to go — 
 
 Mttskebey. Remember what I said, 
 Marianne. I've worked for you and 
 yours, in season and out of season. 
 There should be no more claims on 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. There are no more 
 claims on you. 
 
 MirsKEHBY. I'm willing to leave in 
 the shop what I put into the shop. Let 
 Anna know that it will come to her from 
 me. I'U write to the Guardians to-night 
 and I'U send in my resignation. I 
 venture to think that they'U know their 
 loss. 
 
 [Mrs. Chilly goes out quietly by 
 corridor door] 
 
 Mttskerry [by himself]. And I had 
 made this place as fit for me as the 
 nest for the wren. Wasn't he glad to 
 write that card, the impudent rascal, 
 with his tongue in his cheek? I'U con- 
 sider it again. I won't leave this place 
 till it fits myself to leave it. 
 
 [Christy Clarke enters by cor- 
 ridor d.oor with papers] 
 
814 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 MusKEKBT. They want me to resign 
 from this place, Christy. 
 
 Christy. You're thirty years here! 
 Aren't you, Mister Muskerry ? 
 
 MtrsKERRT. Thirty years, thirty 
 years. Ay, Christy, thirty years; it's 
 a long time. And I'm at my failing 
 time. Perhaps I'm not able to do any 
 more. Day after day there would be 
 troubles here, and I wouldn't be able 
 to face them. And in the end I might 
 lose my position. I'm going to write out 
 my resignation. 
 
 [He goes to the desk and writes. 
 Christy is at table. Mus- 
 kerry turns round after writ- 
 ing] 
 Muskerry. No one that comes here 
 can have the same heart for the poor 
 that I had. I was earning in the year 
 of the famine. I saw able men strug- 
 gling to get the work that would bring 
 them a handful of Indian meal. And 
 I saw the little children waiting on the 
 roads for relief. [He turns back and goes 
 on with letter. Suddenly a bell in the 
 House begins to toll] What's that for, 
 Christy? 
 
 Christy. Malachi O'Rourk, the 
 Prince, as they called him, is dead. 
 
 Muskerry. Aye, I gave orders to 
 
 toll him when he died. He was an 
 
 estated gentleman, and songs were made 
 
 about his family. People used to 
 
 annoy him, but he's gone from them 
 
 now. Bring me a little whisky, Christy. 
 
 [Christy goes to Cabinet. Mus- 
 
 - K'EnnY follows him] 
 
 Christy. There's none in the bottle. 
 
 Mister Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry [bitterly]. No, I suppose 
 not. And is that rascal, Albert Cnlly, 
 coming back? 
 
 Christy. He's coming, Mister Mus- 
 kerry. I left the novelette on the table. 
 Miss Coghlan says it's a nice love 
 story. "The Heart of Angelina", it is 
 called. 
 
 Muskerry. I haven't the heart to 
 read. 
 
 [The bell continues to toll. 
 Christy goes to door] 
 Christy. Good night, Mister Mus- 
 kerry. 
 
 Muskerry. Good night, Christy. 
 [Christy Clarke goes out through 
 apartments. Thomas Mus- 
 kerry is standing with hand on 
 armchair. The bell tolls] 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [In Chilly's, o month later. The roc 
 is the parlour off the shop. A gla 
 door, right, leads into the shop, ai 
 the fireplace is above this door. . 
 the back, right, is a cupboard doi 
 Back is a window looking on I 
 street. , A door, left, leads to oth 
 rooms. There is a table near sh 
 door and a horse-hair sofa back, t 
 armchair at fire, and two leathe 
 covered chairs about. Convention 
 pictures on walls, and two certificat 
 framed, showing that some one in t. 
 house has passed some Intermedia 
 examinations 
 
 Itis the forenoon of an April day. Mr 
 Chilly is seated on sofa, goii 
 through a heap of account book 
 Anna Chilly is at windoi 
 Cropton Chilly enters from U 
 shop] 
 
 Chilly. It's all right, Marianne. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. WeU? 
 
 Chilly. The Guardians insisted o 
 appointing an outside person to tal 
 stock of the Workhouse stores. It's tl 
 new regulation, you know. WeU, tl 
 job lay between young Dobbs an 
 Albert, and Albert has got it. I don 
 say but it was a near thing. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I hope Albert wi 
 know what to do. 
 
 Chilly. He'R want to watch tt 
 points. Where's the Master? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. He's in his room u] 
 stairs. 
 
 Chilly. Was he not out this morning 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. He's not dressed ye 
 
 Chilly. He was more particuls 
 when he was in the Workhouse. 
 
 Anna. I know who those two chi 
 dren are now. They are the new ga 
 manager's children. 
 
 Chilly. He's a Scotchman. 
 
 Anna. And married for the seeon 
 time. Mother, Mrs. Dunne is going 1 
 the races. Such a sketch of a hat. 
 
 Mhs. Chilly. It would be bett( 
 for her if she stayed at home and looke 
 after her business. 
 
 Anna. She won't have much bus 
 ness to look after soon. That's the thii 
 time her husband has come out ( 
 ParreU's public-house. 
 
 Chilly. He's drinking with tl 
 Dispensary Doctor. Companion! 
 They're the curse of this town. Mar 
 anne. [He sits dowi 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 815 
 
 Anna. She's walked into a blind 
 man, hat and all. He's from the Work- 
 house. 
 
 Ceilly. He's the blind piper out of 
 the Workhouse, Myles Gorman. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. There's no one within. 
 You should go into the shop, Anna. 
 
 Anna. Yes, mother. [She crosses] 
 James ScoUard is coming in, mother. 
 
 Mes. Crillt. Very well, Anna. 
 Stay in the shop until Mary comes. 
 
 [Anna goes into the shop. Ceilly 
 moves about] 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. You're very uneasy. 
 
 Ceilly. Yes, I am uneasy, Mari- 
 anne. There's some presentment on 
 me. Fifty pounds a year is a good 
 pension for the old man. He's a month 
 out now. He ought to be getting an 
 instalment. 
 
 [Anna comes in from shop] 
 
 Anna. Mother, the doctor's daughter 
 is in the shop. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. What does she want? 
 
 Anna [imitating an accent]. Send up 
 a pound of butter, two pounds of sugar, 
 and a pound of tea. 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. These people are pay- 
 ing nobody. But we can't refuse her. 
 I suppose we'U have to send them up. 
 Be very distant with her, Anna. 
 
 Anna. I've kept her waiting. Here's 
 a letter, mother. 
 
 Mes. Ceilly [taking letter]. When 
 did it come, Anna? 
 
 Anna. It's just handed in. 
 
 [Anna goes out. Mes. Ceilly 
 opens letter] 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. It's from the bank. 
 They want me to call. What does the 
 bank manager want with me, I wonder? 
 
 Ceilly. I have something to tell 
 
 you, Marianne. I'll teU you in a while. 
 
 [He takes a turn up and down] 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. What do you want 
 to teU me? 
 
 Ceilly. Prepare your mind, Mari- 
 anne. 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. What is it? 
 
 Crilly. I owe you money, Mari- 
 anne. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Money ! How do you 
 owe me money? 
 
 Crilly. That cute boy, James 
 Covey, who took in all the town — 
 
 Mrs. Crilly [rising]. Covey! My 
 God ! You backed a bill for him? 
 
 Ceilly. I'll make a clean breast of 
 it. I did. 
 
 Mes. Ceilly [toith fear in her 
 How much is it? 
 
 Crilly [walking away to window]. 
 I'll come to that, Marianne. 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. Did any one back 
 the bill with you? 
 
 Chilly. I obliged the fellow. No 
 one backed the biU with me. 
 
 Mes. Crilly. Does any one know 
 of it? 
 
 Ceilly. No, Marianne. 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. The bank. . . . Tell 
 me what happened. 
 
 Ceilly. "The bank manager sent for 
 me when he came to the town after 
 Covey cleared. 
 
 Mes. Crilly. We had four hundred 
 pounds in the bank. 
 
 Chilly. We had, Marianne. 
 
 Mes. Chilly. TeU me how much 
 was the biU. 
 
 CRiLLy. There's no use in beating 
 about the bush. The bill was for three 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 Mes. Chilly. And what has the 
 bank done ? 
 
 Ceilly. I'm sorry to say, Marianne, 
 the bank has taken the money over from 
 our account. ' 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. You've ruinpd us at 
 last, Crofton Crilly. 
 
 Ceilly. You should never forgive 
 me, Marianne. I'll go to America and 
 begin life again. 
 
 [He turns to go out by shop] 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. We have no money 
 left. 
 
 Ceilly. A hundred pounds, Mari- 
 anne. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. That's Anna's money. 
 
 Crilly. Scollard should be satisfied. 
 
 Mes. Chilly. Anna insists on get- 
 ting her money. 
 
 Ceilly. Very well, Marianne. I'll 
 leave it aU to yourself. 
 
 [Jambs Scollahd comes in. Anna is 
 behind him. Scollaed has an 
 account book in his hand] 
 
 Scollard. Good morning, Mrs. 
 Crilly. Good morning, Mr. Crilly. 
 
 Mes. Ceilly. Good morning, Mr. 
 
 ScoUard. [Ceofton Crilly turns to go] 
 
 Anna. Don't go, father. 
 
 Scollahd. Don't go, Mr. Crilly. 
 
 I have something particular to say to 
 
 yourself and Mrs. CriUy. 
 
 Mes. Crilly. Sit down, Mr. 
 ScoUard. 
 
 [Anna brings chair, and Scollard 
 sits center. Anna stands 6e- 
 hind him. Mes. Ceilly sits 
 left of him] 
 
816 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 ScoLLABD. I am here to propose 
 for the hand of your daughter, Miss 
 Anna Crilly. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. We have nothing to 
 say against your proposal, Mr. Scollard. 
 
 Chilly. Won't you take something, 
 James ? 
 
 Scollard. No, thanks, Mr. Crilly. 
 I never touch intoxicants. 
 
 [Cropton Crilly goes into shop] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. We couldn't wish for 
 a better match for Anna. But I feel 
 bound to tell you, Mr. Scollard, that 
 we have had a very severe loss in our 
 business. 
 
 Anna. What is it, mother? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I don't mind telling 
 you. Mr. Crilly has made himself re- 
 sponsible for a biU on the bank. 
 
 Scollard. In whose interest, Mrs. 
 Crilly? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. He backed a biU for 
 James Covey. A bill for three hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 Anna. Oh, mother ! 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. It's a dead sure loss. 
 I don't know what we are to do, Anna. 
 
 Scollard. This is very bad, Mrs. 
 CriUy. 
 
 [Crofton Chilly comes back from shop. 
 He brings in a glass of whisky. He 
 puts whisky on chimney-piece] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. The bank has taken 
 over three hundred pounds from our 
 account. 
 
 Chilly. Perhaps Scollard — 
 
 Scollard. What were you saying, 
 Mr. Crilly? 
 
 Chilly. Oh, I was just thinking — 
 about a bill you know — If some one 
 would go security for us at the bank — 
 
 Anna. Father, what are you saying? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. It's unnecessary to 
 talk hke that. In spite of your foolish- 
 ness, we stiU have a balance at the 
 bank. 
 
 Anna. My portion comes to me from 
 my grandmother, i 
 
 Scollard. May I ask, Mrs. CriUy, 
 is Miss Crilly's portion safe? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. It is safe, Mr. 
 Scollard. 
 
 Scollard. I have been definitely 
 appointed Master of the Union, and I 
 may say that Anna and myself are 
 anxious to marry. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. It needn't be soon, 
 Mr. ScoUard. 
 
 Scollard. After Easter, Mrs. Crilly. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. But that's very so( 
 
 Scollard. I am anxious to set 
 down, Mrs. CriUy. I'm on my way 
 a meeting of the Board of Guardia; 
 but before I go I'd like to have soi 
 more information about your loss. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Anna's portion is r 
 touched, but we could hardly afford 
 let the money go from us now. 
 
 Scollard. Is that so, Mrs. CriUy 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Three hundred pour 
 is a very severe loss. 
 
 Scollard. Very severe, inde( 
 StiU, you understand, Mrs. CriUy, i 
 difficulties of taking such a step 
 marriage without adequate provision. 
 
 Crilly. Damn it aU, man. Ma 
 anne and myself married without ar 
 thing at aU. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly [bitterly]. Anna woj 
 be such a fool as her mother. 
 
 Crilly. WeU, ScoUard has his po 
 tion, and we helped him to it. 
 
 Scollard. I acknowledge that. 
 
 Anna. Isn't my portion eigh 
 pounds, mother? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Yes, Anna. But ] 
 like to teU Mr. ScoUard that it woi 
 come as a strain on us to let the mon 
 go at once. 
 
 Scollard. I daresay, Mrs. Crilly. 
 
 Anna. But, mother, wouldn't t 
 money be safer with us? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. WeU, I leave t 
 whole thing in the hands of Mr. ScoUaJ 
 
 Scollard. Anna and myself ha 
 been talking things over, Mrs. CriUy. 
 
 Anna. And we don't want to beg 
 life in a poor way. 
 
 Scollard. We see the advanta 
 of being always solvent, Mrs. CriUy. 
 
 Anna. James has ambitions, a 
 there's no reason why he should] 
 venture for the post of Secretary of t 
 County Council when old Mr. Dot 
 retires. 
 
 Scollard. In a few years, M 
 CriUy, when I had more official expe 
 ence and some reputation. 
 
 Anna. Then he would have sev 
 or eight hundred a year. 
 
 Scollard. As I said, a man li 
 myself would want to be in a perfec 
 solvent position. 
 
 Anna. Besides, James has no mon 
 of his own. 
 
 Scollard. I never had the ohai 
 of putting money by — Family ca 
 Mrs. CriUy. 
 
 Anna. And we don't want to be; 
 Ufe in a poor way. 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 817 
 
 Meb. Chilly. You won't want the 
 whole of the money. I'll give you forty 
 pounds now. 
 
 Ceilly. And forty when the first 
 child is born. 
 
 Anna. Oh, father, how can you say 
 such a thing? 
 
 ScoLLAED. I need only say this. 
 Anna and myself were talking over 
 affairs, and we came to the conclusion 
 it would be best not to start with less 
 than eighty pounds. [He rises] I have 
 to go down to the Board Room now, for 
 there is a meeting of the Guardians. 
 
 [He goes towards door] 
 
 Ceilly. Won't you take a glass? 
 
 ScoLLAED. No, thanks, Mr. Crilly. 
 I never touch stimulants. Good day 
 to you all. 
 
 [He goes out. Cbopton Ceilly 
 goes after him] 
 
 Mes. Crilly. Anna, you won't be 
 deprived of your money. 
 
 Anna. Then what's the diflBoulty, 
 mother? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Let half of the money 
 remain with us for a while. 
 
 Anna. But, mother, if I don't get 
 aU my money, what security have I 
 that what's left will be good in six 
 months or a year? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I'U watch the money 
 for you, Anna. 
 
 Anna. It's hard to keep a hold on 
 money in a town where business is going 
 down. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Forty pounds will be 
 
 fiven to you and forty pounds will be 
 ept safe for you. 
 
 Anna. Forty pounds! There's not 
 a small farmer comes into the shop but 
 his daughter has more of a dowry than 
 forty pounds. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Think of all who 
 marry without a dowry at all. 
 
 Anna. You wouldn't have me go to 
 James Scollard without a dowry? 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Well, you know the 
 way we're situated. If you insist on 
 getting eighty pounds we'll have to 
 make an overdraft on the bank, and, 
 in the way business is, I don't know 
 how we'll ever recover it. 
 
 Anna. There won't be much left 
 out of eighty pounds when we get what 
 suits us in furniture. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. I could let you have 
 some furniture. 
 
 Anna. No, mother. We want to 
 start in a way that is different from this 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. You'll want all the 
 money together? 
 
 Anna. All of it, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. You'll have to get it 
 so. But you're very hard, Anna. 
 
 Anna. This house would teach any 
 one to look to themselves. 
 
 Mrs. Ceilly. Come upstairs. 
 [Anna goes, IM[ Three hundred poimds 
 of a loss. Eighty pounds with that. 
 I'm terrified when I think. 
 
 [She goes after Anna] 
 
 [Ceofton Crilly comes in from shop. 
 He takes glass of whisky from table, 
 and sits down in armchair] 
 
 Ceilly. I don't know what Mari- 
 anne's to do at all. She has a shocking 
 lot to contend with. Can anything be 
 got from the old man, I wonder? 
 
 [Albeet Ceilly comes in by door, left] 
 
 Albert. Well, pa. 
 
 Chilly. Well, Albert. What's the 
 news in the town, Albert? 
 
 Albert. They say that you've 
 backed a bill for Covey. 
 
 Ceilly. If your mother hears that 
 kind of talk she'll be vexed, Albert. 
 
 Albert. But did you back the bill? 
 
 Chilly. For Heaven's sake, let me 
 alone, Albert. Yes, I backed the biU. 
 
 Albert. How much? 
 
 Ceilly. You'll hear all about it from 
 your mother. 
 
 Albert. They say the bill was for 
 three hundred. 
 
 Crilly. It was three or thereabouts, 
 i Albert. 'Pon my word, father, the 
 mother wiU. have to take out a manda- 
 mus against you. 
 
 Chilly [with parental dignity]. Don't 
 talk to me in that way. Sir. 
 
 Albert. It's scandalous, really. I 
 expect you've ruined the business. 
 
 Crilly. I hate the world and aU its 
 works and pomps. 
 
 Albert. I believe you've done for 
 the business. I'm going away. 
 
 Chilly. Then you've got the other 
 appointment? 
 
 Albeet. Temporary clerkship in the 
 Land Department. I wonder would the 
 mother let pie have the money for 
 clothes ? 
 
 Ceilly [desperately]. Don't mention 
 it at all to her. 
 
 Albert. I have a card from a Dublin 
 tailor in my pocket. If I could pay him 
 for one suit, I could get another on 
 tick. 
 
818 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Chilly. I tell you not to talk to 
 your mother about money. That fellow, 
 SeoUard, has put her out. 
 
 Albert. How's that? 
 
 Chilly. Money again. Wants the 
 whole of Anna's portion down. And 
 Anna's backing him up, too. I don't 
 know how your mother can stand it. I 
 don't Uke Scollard. Then you won't be 
 staying on, Albert, to do the stock- 
 taMng in the Workhouse? 
 
 Albert. No; they'll have to get 
 some one else. I'm glad to be out of 
 that job. 
 
 Chilly. I'm not sorry, Albert. 
 
 Albert. The mother would expect 
 me to do something queer in my report. 
 
 Chilly. Between you and me, 
 Albert, women aren't acquainted with 
 the working of affairs, and they expect 
 unusual things to happen. Who wiU 
 they make stocktaker, now? 
 
 Albert. Young Dqbbs, hkely. I 
 suppose the whole business about the 
 coal will come out then? 
 
 Chilly. I suppose it will; but say 
 nothing about it now, Albert. Let the 
 hare sit. 
 
 Albert. What does the old man 
 think about it now? 
 
 Chilly. He's very close to himself. 
 I think he has forgotten all about it. 
 
 Albert. I wouldn't say so. 
 
 Chilly. Who's that in the shop, 
 Albert? 
 
 Albert. Felix Tournour. 
 
 Chilly [rising]. I wonder what they 
 think about Scollard in the Poorhouse. 
 
 [He and Albert go into the shop as 
 MusKBRHY enters from left] 
 
 [MtjSKERRY is untidily dressed. 
 
 His boots are unlaced. He 
 
 walks across the room and 
 
 speaks pettishly] 
 
 MxJSKEBHY. They haven't brought 
 
 my soup yet. They won't give much of 
 
 their time to me. I'm disappointed in 
 
 Anna Crilly. Well, a certain share in 
 
 this shop was to have gone to Anna 
 
 Crilly. I'll get that share, and I'll 
 
 hoard it up myself. I'll hoard it up. 
 
 And the fifty pounds of my pension, 
 
 I'll hoard that up, too. 
 
 [Albert comes in from shop] 
 Mttskbrry. That's a black fire that s 
 in the grate. I don't Uke the coal that 
 comes into this place. 
 Albert. Coal, eh, grandpapa. 
 MusKERHY. I said coal. 
 
 Albert. We haven't good stores 
 here. 
 
 MtrsKEHRY. Confound you for your 
 insolence. 
 
 Albert. Somebody you know is in 
 the shop — Felix Tournour. 
 
 Mttskerhy. Bid Tournour come in 
 to me. 
 
 Albert [talking into the shop]. You're 
 wanted here, Tournour. Come in now 
 or I'll entertain the boss with "The 
 Devil's Rambles." [He turns to Mtts- 
 kerhy] I was given the job of stock- 
 taking. 
 
 MusKERRY. That's a matter for 
 yourself. 
 
 Albert. I don't think I'll take the 
 job now. 
 
 Mttskerhy. Why won't you take it? 
 
 Albert. I don't know what to say 
 about the fifty tons of coal. 
 
 Muskerry. I was too precipitate 
 about the coal. But don't have me at 
 the loss of fifty pounds through any of 
 your smartness. 
 
 Albert. All right, grandfather ; I'U 
 see you through. 
 
 Mttskerhy. Confound you for a 
 puppy. 
 
 [Felix Tournottr enters. He looks 
 prosperous. He has on a loud check 
 suit. He wears a red tie and a 
 peaked cap] 
 
 Albert. The Master wants to speak 
 to you, Tournour. 
 
 'ToTTHNOTTH. What Master? 
 
 Albert. The boss, Toiurnour, the 
 boss. 
 
 Muskerry. I want you, and that's 
 enough for you, Tournour. 
 
 Albert. I suppose you don't know, 
 grandpapa, that "Toumour has a mid- 
 dling high position in the Poorhouse now. 
 
 Muskerry. What are you saying? 
 
 Albert. Tournour is Ward-master 
 now. 
 
 Muskerry. I wasn't given any 
 notice of that. 
 
 Albert. Eh, Tournour — 
 
 " The Devil went out for a ramble at night, 
 Through Garrisowen Union to aee every sight. 
 He saw Felix Tournour — 
 
 Tournour. 
 
 "He saw one in comfort, of that you'll be 
 Bure. 
 
 With his back to the fire stands Felix Tour- 
 nour." 
 
 [He puts his hack to fire] 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 819 
 
 Albert. Well, so-long, gents. 
 
 [He goes out by shop door] 
 
 Muskerry. Let me see you, Tour- 
 nour. 
 
 TouHNOUR. I'm plain to be seen. 
 
 Muskerry. Wiio recommended you 
 for Ward-master? 
 
 ToTiRNOUR. Them that had the 
 power. I 
 
 Muskerry. I would not have done 
 it, Tournour. 
 
 TouRNOUR. No. And still, d'ye see, 
 I'm up and not down. Well, I'll be 
 going. 
 
 Muskerry. Come back here, Tour- 
 nour. I made it a rule that no Ward- 
 master should let drink be brought in to 
 the paupers. 
 
 Tournour. It's a pity you're not 
 Master still ! 
 
 Muskerry. What are you saying? 
 
 Tournouk. It's a pity that you're 
 not stiU the Master over us. 
 
 Muskerry. Tournour, you're for- 
 getting yourself. 
 
 Tournour. Well, maybe you , are 
 still the Master. 
 
 Muskerry. How dare you speak 
 to me with such effrontery ? How dare 
 you? 
 
 Tournour. I dunno. I'm going 
 away now, if your honour has nothing 
 more to say to me. [He turns to go] 
 
 Muskerry. You shaU not. You 
 shall not, I say. 
 
 Tournour. What? 
 
 Muskerry. You shall not go away 
 until you've apologised to me. 
 
 Tournour. Don't be talking, 
 Thomas Muskerry. You're not Master 
 over me. 
 
 MuBKEBRY. Not the Master over 
 you? 
 
 Tournour. No. There's an end to 
 your sway, Mr. Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry. Go out of the house. 
 No, stay here. You think I'm out of 
 the Workhouse. No. That's not so. 
 I've claims, great claims, on it stiU. 
 Not for nothing was I there for thirty 
 years, the pattern for the officials of 
 Ireland. 
 
 Tournour. Twenty-nine years, I'm 
 telling you. 
 
 Muskerry. The Guardians will take 
 account of me. 
 
 Tournour. And maybe they would, 
 too. 
 
 Muskerry. What's that you're say- 
 ing? 
 
 Tournour. The Guardians might 
 
 take an account of Thomas Muskeny 
 in a way he mightn't hke. 
 
 [He goes to door] 
 
 Muskerry. Come back here, FeUx 
 Tournour. 
 
 Tournour. I'm not your sub-ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Muskerry. Stand here before me. 
 
 Tournour. You and your before 
 me! Your back to heaven and your 
 belly to hell. 
 
 Muskerry. Go away. Go away 
 out of this. 
 
 Tournour. Don't try to down-face 
 me. I know something about you. 
 
 Muskerry. About me ! 
 
 Tournour. Aye, you and your fifty 
 tons of coal. [Muskerry goes back 
 from him] Great claims on the Work- 
 house have you. The Guardians will 
 take account of you. Will they ? Talk 
 to them about the fifty tons of coal. 
 Go and do that, my pattern of the 
 officials of Ireland ! 
 
 [Tournour goes out by shop. 
 Muskerry stands with his 
 hands on the armchair] 
 
 Muskerry. This minute I'U go 
 down to the Guardians and make my 
 complaint. [He notices his appearance] 
 I'm going about all day with my boots 
 unlaced. I'm falling into bad ways, bad, 
 slovenly ways. And my coat needs 
 brushing, too. [He takes off his coat and 
 goes to window and brushes it] That's 
 Myles Gorman going back to the Work- 
 house. I couldn't walk with my head 
 held as high as that. In this house I 
 am losing my uprightness. I'U do more 
 than lace my boots and brush my coat. 
 I'U go down to the Guardians and I'U 
 pay them back their fifty pounds. 
 
 [Anna Crilly comes in from left with a 
 bowl of soup] 
 
 Anna. Here's your soup, grandpapa. 
 
 Muskerry. I can't take it now, 
 Anna. [He puts on his coat] 
 
 Anna. Are you going out, grand- 
 papa? 
 
 Muskerry. I'm going before the 
 meeting of the Board of Guardians. 
 
 Anna. Are you, grandpapa? 
 
 Muskerry. Yes, Anna, I am. I'm 
 going to pay them back their fifty 
 pounds. 
 
 Anna. And have you the fifty 
 pounds? 
 
 Muskerry. Your mother has it for 
 me. 
 
820 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Anna. Sit down, grandpapa, and 
 take your soup. 
 
 Mtjskerry. No, Anna, I won't take 
 anything until my mind is at rest about 
 the coal. A certain person has spoken 
 to me in a way I'U never submit to be 
 spoken to again. 
 
 [Mrs. Chilly comes in] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. What has happened 
 to you? 
 
 MusKERRY. Felix Tournour knows 
 about the coal, Marianne. He can dis- 
 grace me before the world. 
 
 Anna. And grandpapa wants to go 
 before the Guardians and pay them 
 back the fifty pounds. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Wait until we consult 
 Mr. ScoUard. [Anna goes out] 
 
 Mtjskerry. No, Marianne. I'm 
 not going to be a party to this any 
 longer. I'm going before the Guardians, 
 and I'll pay them back their fifty pounds. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Fifty pounds. From 
 what place is fifty pounds to come so 
 easily ? 
 
 Mtjskerry, I'll ask you to give me 
 the fifty pounds, Marianne. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I'll do no such thing. 
 Anna is getting married, and she claims 
 her fortune. 
 
 Mtjskerry. Anna getting married. 
 This was kept from me. And who is 
 Anna getting married to ? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. To James ScoDard. 
 
 Mtjskerry. To James Scollard. 
 And so Anna is getting married to my 
 successor, James Scollard. My suc- 
 cessor. How well I knew there was 
 some such scheme behind shifting me 
 out of the Workhouse. And Anna 
 Crilly was against me all the time. 
 WeU, weU, well. I'U remember this. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I'm at great losses 
 since you came here. 
 
 MusKEHRY. I'm at greater losses, 
 Marianne. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. What losses are you 
 at? 
 
 MusKERRY. The loss of my trust, 
 the loss of my dignity, my self-respect, 
 and — 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I think we did aU we 
 could for you. 
 
 Muskebhy. I'm going out now to 
 pay back the Guardians the sum due 
 to them from me. I want fifty pounds 
 from you. I claim it, and I have a 
 right to claim it. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. We have no money 
 at all. Listen. Crofton CriUy backed 
 a bill for James Covey, and three hun- 
 
 dred pounds has been taken from our 
 account. 
 
 Muskerry. Three hundred pounds ! 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Yes. Three hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 Muskerry. He backed a bill for 
 three hundred pounds. And do you 
 think, Marianne Crilly, there can be 
 any luck, in a house where such a thing 
 could happen? I tell you there is no 
 luck nor grace in your house. [He puts 
 on his hat and goes to cupboard to get his 
 stick. He opens the cupboard. He turns 
 round. Greatly moved]. My God, my 
 God. I'm made cry at the things that 
 happen in this house. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. What is it? 
 
 Mtjskerry. The good meat I 
 brought in. There it is on the floor 
 and the cat mangling it. I'll go out of 
 this house, and I'U never put foot into 
 it again. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. And where wiU you 
 go? 
 
 Mtjskerry. I'U go before the Board 
 of Guardians and I'U ask them to pro- 
 vide for me. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. What do you want 
 me to do for you? 
 
 MusKEHHY. Give me fifty pounds, 
 so that I can pay them off now. 
 
 M'JS. Crilly. Haven't I told you 
 the way I'm straitened for money? 
 
 Muskerry. You have stiU in the 
 bank what would save my name. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Don't be unreason- 
 able. I have to provide for my children. 
 
 Muskerry. Your children. Yes, 
 you have to provide for your chUdrea. 
 I provided for them long enough. 
 And now you would take my place, my 
 honour, and my self-respect, and pro- 
 vide for them over again. [He goes out] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I'll have to put up 
 with this, too. 
 
 [Anna re-enters] 
 
 Anna. Where has he gone, mother? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. He has gone down to 
 the Workhouse. 
 
 Anna. What is he going to do, 
 mother ? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. He says he wiU ask 
 the Guardians to provide for him. 
 
 Anna. It's not likely .they'U do that 
 for a man with a pension of fifty pounds 
 a year. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I don't know what 
 wiU happen to us. 
 
 Anna. He'U come back, mother. 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 821 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. He will. But every- 
 thing will have been made public, and 
 the money wiU have to be paid. 
 
 Anna [at the window]. There he is 
 going down the street, mother. , 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Which way ? 
 
 Anna. Towards the Workhouse. 
 And here's the doctor's daughter com- 
 ing into the shop again, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I'll go out and see 
 her myself. [As she goes out she hands 
 Anna a cheque] That's the last cheque 
 I'E be able to make out. There's your 
 eighty pounds, Anna. 
 
 [She goes into the shop] 
 
 Anna. We can begin to get the 
 furniture now. 
 
 [She sits down at the table and 
 makes some calculation with a 
 pencil] 
 
 [curtain] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 The infirm ward in the Workhouse. En- 
 trance from corridor, right. Forward, 
 left, are three beds with bedding 
 folded upon them. Back, left, is a 
 door leading into Select Ward. This 
 door is closed, and a large key is 
 in lock. Fireplace with a grating 
 around it, left. Back, right, is a 
 window with little leaded panes. 
 
 It is noon on a May day, but the light in- 
 side the ward is feeble. 
 
 Two paupers are seated at fire. One of 
 them, MicKiE Gripes, is a man of 
 fifty, stooped and hollow-chested, but 
 with quick blue eyes. The other man, 
 Tom Shanley, is not old, but he 
 looks broken and listless. Mylbs 
 Gorman, still in pauper dress, is 
 standing before window, an expect- 
 ant look on his face. 
 
 Thomas Muskerry enters from corridor. 
 He wears his own clothes, hut he has 
 let them get into disorder. His hair 
 and beard are disordered, and he 
 seems very much broken down. 
 Nevertheless, he looks as if his mind 
 were composed. 
 
 Muskebhy. It's dark in here, 
 Michael. 
 
 Gripes. It is, sir. 
 
 Muskerry. I find it very spiritless 
 after coming up from the chapel. Don't 
 pass your whole day here. Go down 
 
 into the yard. [He stands before the 
 window] This is the first fine day, and 
 you ought to go out along the country 
 road. Ask the Master for leave. It's 
 the month of May, and you'll be glad 
 of the sight of the grass and the smell 
 of the bushes. Now here's a remarkable 
 thing. I venture to think that the like 
 of this has never happened before. 
 Here are the bees swarming at the 
 window pane. 
 
 Gorman. You'll hear my pipes on 
 the road to-day. That's as sure as the 
 right hand is on my body. 
 
 [He goes out by corridor door] 
 
 Gripes. Myles Gorman must have 
 been glad to hear that buzzing. 
 
 Muskerry.' Why was Myles glad 
 to hear it? 
 
 Shanley. He was leaving on the 
 first fine day. 
 
 Gripes. The buzzing at the pane 
 would let any one know that the air 
 is nice for a journey. 
 
 Muskerry. I am leaving to-day, 
 myself. 
 
 Gripes. And where are you going, 
 Mr. Muskerry? 
 
 Muskerry. I'm going to a place of 
 my own. 
 
 [Muskerry goes into the Select 
 Ward] 
 
 Gripes. I'U tell you what brought 
 Thomas Muskerry back to the Work- 
 house to be an inmate in it. Living in a 
 bad house. Living with his own. That's 
 what brought him back. And that's 
 what left me here, too. 
 
 Shanley [listlessly]. The others have 
 the flour, and we may hawk the bran. 
 
 [An Old Pauper comes into the ward. 
 His face looks bleached. He has 
 the handle of a sweeping-brush for a 
 staff. He moves about the ward, 
 muttering to himself. He seats him- 
 self on chair, right] 
 
 The Old Man [speaking as if think- 
 ing aloud]. I was at twelve o'clock 
 Mass. Now one o'clock would be a late 
 Mass. I was at Mass at one o'clock. 
 Wouldn't that be a long time to keep a 
 priest, and he fasting the whole time? 
 
 Gripes. I'U teU you what Thomas 
 Muskerry did when he left the bad 
 house he was in. 
 
 [He puts coal on the fire] 
 
 The Old Man. I was at one o'clock 
 Mass in SMbbereen. I know where 
 Skibbereen is well. In the County 
 
822 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Cork. Cork is a big county. As big as 
 Dublin and Wieklow. That's where the 
 people died when there was the hunger. 
 
 Gripes. He came before the meet- 
 ing of the Guardians, and he told them 
 he owed them the whole of his year's 
 pension. Then he got some sort of a 
 stroke, and he broke down. And the 
 Guardians gave him the Select Ward 
 there for himself. 
 
 Shanley. They did well for him. 
 
 Cripbs. Why wouldn't they give 
 him the Select Ward? It's right that 
 he'd get the little room, and not have to 
 make down the pauper's bed with the 
 rest of us. 
 
 Shanley. He was at the altar to- 
 day, and he stayed in the chapel after 
 Mass. 
 
 Gripes. He'll be here shortly. 
 
 The Old Man. Skibbereen! That's 
 where the people died when there was 
 the hunger. Men and women without 
 cofBns, or even their clothes off. Just 
 buried. Skibbereen I remember well, 
 for I was a whole man then. And the 
 village. For there are people Uving in 
 it yet. They didn't all die. 
 
 Shanley. We'll have somebody else 
 in the Select Ward this evening. 
 
 Gripes. That's what they were 
 talking about. The nuns are sending 
 a patient up here. 
 
 Shanley. I suppose the Ward- 
 master win be in here to regulate the 
 room. [He rises] 
 
 Gripes. Aye, the Ward-master. 
 FeUx Tournour, the Ward-master. 
 You've come to your own place at last, 
 Felix Tournour. 
 
 Shanley. FeUx Tournour will be 
 coming the master over me if he finds 
 me here. [Shanley goes out] 
 
 Gripes. FeUx Tournour ! That's 
 the lad that will be coming in with his 
 head up like the gander that's after 
 beating down a child. 
 
 [Christy Glarkb enters. He carries a 
 little portmanteau] 
 
 Christy. Is Mr. Muskerry here? 
 
 Gripes. He's in the room. [A sound 
 of water splashing and the movements of a 
 heavy person are heard] Will you be 
 speaking with him, young feUow? 
 
 Christy. I will. 
 
 Gripes. Tell him, like a good little 
 boy, that the oul' men would be under 
 a favour to him if he left a bit of tobacco. 
 You won't forget that? 
 
 Christy. I won't forget it. 
 
 Gripes. I don't want to be in tl 
 way of Felix Tournour. We're goir 
 down to the yard, but we'll see M 
 Muskerry when he's going away. 
 
 [Gripes goes on 
 
 Muskerry {within]. Is that yoi 
 Christy Clarke ? 
 
 Christy. It is, Mr. Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry. Have you any new 
 Christy? 
 
 Christy. No news, except that m 
 mother is in the cottage, and is e; 
 pecting you to-day. 
 
 Muskerry. I'll be in the cottag 
 to-day, Christy. I'm cleaning mysel 
 \A sound of splashing and moving v,bou 
 The Guardians were good to get th 
 httle house for me. I'd as lieve b 
 there as in a mansion. There's aboii 
 half an acre of land to the place, an 
 I'll do work on the ground from time t 
 time, for it's a good thing for a man t 
 get the smell of the clay. 
 
 Christy. And how are you i 
 health, Mr. Muskerry? 
 
 Muskerry. I'm very well in healtl 
 I was anointed, you know, and afte 
 that I mended miraculously. 
 
 Christy. And what about the per 
 sion? 
 
 Muskerry. I'm getting three hut 
 dred pounds. They asked me to reaUz 
 the pension. I hope I have life enoug 
 before me. 
 
 [He comes out. He has on trouser, 
 coat, and starched shirt. Th 
 shirt is soiled and crushed] 
 
 Muskerry. On Saturdays I'll d 
 my marketing. I'll come into the towi 
 and I'U buy the bit of meat for m 
 dinner on Sunday. But what are yo 
 doing with this portmanteau, Christy! 
 
 Christy. I'm going away myself. 
 
 Muskerry. To a situation, is it? 
 
 Christy. To a situation in Dublin 
 
 Muskerry. I wish you luck, Ghristj 
 [He shakes hands with the boy, and si 
 down on u, chair] I was dreaming o 
 new things all last night. New smrti 
 new sheets, everything new. 
 
 Christy. I want to be something. 
 
 Muskerry. What do you want t 
 be? 
 
 Christy. A writer. 
 
 Muskerry. A writer of books, is it 
 
 Christy. Yes, a writer of books. 
 
 Muskerry. Listen, now, and te 
 me do you hear anything. That's tl 
 sound of bees swarming at the window 
 That's a good augury for you, Christ; 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 823 
 
 Christy. All life's before me. 
 
 MusKERBY. Will you give heed to 
 what I tell you ? 
 
 Christy. I'll give heed to it, Mr. 
 Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry. Live a good life. 
 
 Christy. I give heed to you. 
 
 Muskerry. Your mother had great 
 hardship in rearing you. 
 
 Christy. I know that, Mr. Mus- 
 kerry, but now I'm able for the world. 
 
 Muskerry. I wish success to all 
 your efforts. Be very careful of your 
 personal appearance. 
 
 Christy. I wiU, Mr. Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry. Get yourself a new 
 cravat before you leave the town. 
 
 Christy. I'll get it. 
 
 Muskerry. I think I'd look better 
 myself if I had a fresher shirt. 
 
 Christy. I saw clean shirts of yours 
 before the fire last night in my mother's 
 house. 
 
 Muskerry. I wish I could get one 
 before I leave this place. 
 
 Christy. Will I run off and get one 
 for you '! 
 
 Muskerry. Would you, Christy? 
 Would it be too much trouble? 
 
 [Muskerry rises] 
 
 Christy. I'll go now. 
 
 Muskerry. You're a very wiUing 
 boy, Christy, and you're sure to get 
 on. [He goes to a little broken mirror on 
 the wall] I am white and loose of flesh, 
 and that's not a good sign with me, 
 Christy. I'll tell you something. If 
 I were staying here to-night, it's the 
 pauper's bed I'd have to sleep on. 
 
 [Mrs. Crilly comes to the door] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Well, I see you're 
 making ready for your departure. 
 
 Muskerry [who has become uneasy]. 
 I am ready for my departure. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. And this young man 
 has come for you, I suppose? 
 
 Muskerry. This young man is 
 minding his own business. 
 
 Christy. I'm going out now to get 
 a shirt for the Master. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. A starched shirt, I 
 suppose, Christy. Go down to our 
 house, and tell Mary to give you one 
 of the shirts that are folded up. 
 
 Muskerry. The boy will go where 
 he was bid go. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Oh, very well. Run, 
 Christy, and do the message for the 
 Master. [Christy Clarke goes out] 
 
 Muskerry. I don't know what 
 brought you here to-day. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Well, I wanted to 
 see you. 
 
 Muskerry. You could come to see 
 me when I was settled down. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Settled in the cottage 
 the Guardians have given you? 
 
 Muskerry. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly [mth nervous excite- 
 ment, restrained]. No one of us wiU ever 
 go near the place. 
 
 Muskerry. Well, you'll please 
 yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. You put a slight on 
 us all when you go there to Uve. 
 
 Muskerry. Well, I've lived with 
 you to my own loss. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Our house is the best 
 house in the town, and I'm the nearest 
 person to you. 
 
 Muskerry. Say nothing more about 
 that. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Well, maybe you do 
 right not to live with us, but you ought 
 not to forsake us altogether. 
 
 Muskerhy. And what do you mean 
 by forsaking you altogether ? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. When you leave the 
 place and do not even turn your step 
 in our direction it's a sign to all who 
 want to know that you forsake us 
 altogether. 
 
 Muskerry. What do you want me 
 to do? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Come up to Cross 
 Street with me, have dinner and spend 
 the night with us. People would have 
 less to talk about if you did that. 
 
 Muskerry. You always have a 
 scheme. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Come to us for this 
 evening itself. 
 
 Muskerry. I wish you wouldn't 
 trouble me, woman. Can't you see 
 that when I go out of this I want to go 
 to my own place? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. You can go there to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Muskerry. Preparations are made 
 for me. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. You don't know what 
 preparations. 
 
 Muskerry. Two pounds of the best 
 beef-steak were ordered to be sent up 
 to-day. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I wouldn't trust that 
 woman, Mrs. Clarke, to cook potatoes. 
 
 Muskerry. Well, I'll trust her, 
 ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly [taking Muskerry's 
 sleeve]. Don't go to-day, anyway. 
 
 Muskerry. You're very anxious 
 
824 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 to get me to come with you. What do 
 you want from me? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. We want nothing 
 from you. You know how insecure our 
 business is. When it's known in the 
 town that you forsake us, everybody will 
 close in on us. 
 
 MusKERKT. God knows I did every- 
 thing that a man could do for you and 
 yours.. I won't forget you. I haven't 
 much Ufe left to me, and I want to live 
 to myself. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I know. Sure I lie 
 awake at night, too tired to sleep, and 
 long to get away from the things that 
 are pressing in on me. I know that 
 people are glad of their own way, and 
 glad to live in the way that they Hke. 
 When I heard the birds stirring I cried 
 to be away in some place where I won't 
 hear the thing that's always knocking 
 at my head. The business has to be 
 minded, and it's slipping away from us 
 like water. And hsten, if my confine- 
 ment comes on me and I worried as I 
 was last year, nothing can save me. 
 I'U die, surely. 
 
 MusKERRY [moved]. What more do 
 you want me to do ? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Stay with us for a 
 while, so that we'U have the name of 
 your support. 
 
 MusKERRY. I'll come back to you 
 in a week. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. That wouldn't do at 
 all. There's a reason for what I ask. 
 The town must know that you are with 
 us from the time you leave this. 
 
 MusKEERY [with emotion]. God help 
 me with you aU, and God direct me 
 what to do. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. It's not in you to let 
 us down. 
 
 [Muskerey turns away. His 
 
 head is hent. Mrs. Crilly 
 
 goes to him] 
 
 MxTSKBRRY. Will you never be done 
 
 taking from me? I want to leave this 
 
 and go to a place of my own. 
 
 [MtJSKERRY puts his hand to his 
 eyes. When he lowers his hand 
 again Mrs. Chilly lays hers 
 in it. Christy Clarke comes 
 in. MrsKBRRY turns to him,. 
 Muskerry has heen crying] 
 Muskerry. Well, Christy, I'll be 
 sending you back on another message. 
 [Mrs. Crilly makes a sign to 
 Christy not to s-peak] 
 Muskerry. Go to your mother and 
 teE her — 
 
 Christy. I met my mother out 
 side. 
 
 MtrsKEBRY. Did she get the thing 
 that were sent to her? 
 
 Christy. My mother was sent awa; 
 from the cottage. 
 
 Muskerry. Who sent your mothe 
 away from the cottage ? 
 
 Christy. Mrs. Crilly sent her awaji 
 
 Muskerry. And why did you di 
 that, ma'am? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I sent Mary to hel] 
 to prepare the place for you, and th 
 woman was impertinent to Mary — 
 
 Muskerry. Well, ma'am? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I sent the womai 
 away. 
 
 Muskerry. And so you take it o] 
 yourself to dispose of the servants ii 
 my house? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I daresay you'll tak 
 the woman's part against my daughtei 
 
 Muskerry. No, ma'am, I'll tak 
 no one's side, but I'U tell you this, 
 want my own life, and I won't be in 
 terfered with. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I'm' sorry for wha 
 occurred, and I'U apologise to the boy' 
 mother if you hke. 
 
 Muskerry. I won't be interferec 
 with, I tell you. From this day ou 
 I'm free of my own life. And now 
 Christy Clarke, go downstairs and tel 
 the Master, Mr. ScoUard, that I wan 
 to see him. 
 
 [Christy Clarke goes out 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I may as weU tel 
 you something else. None of the thing 
 you ordered were sent up to the cottage 
 
 Muskerry. Do you teU me that? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. I went round to th 
 shop, and everything you ordered wa 
 sent to us. 
 
 Muskerry. And what is the mean 
 ing of that, ma'am? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. If the town knew yoi 
 were going from us, in a week we woul 
 have to put up the shutters. 
 
 Muskerry. WeU, I'U walk out q 
 this, and when I come to the road V. 
 go my own way. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. We can't prevent you 
 
 Muskerry. No, ma'am, you can' 
 prevent me. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. You've got your dis 
 charge, I suppose? 
 
 Muskerry. I've given three houri 
 notice, and I'll get my discharge now. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly [at corridor door]. W 
 can't prevent you going if you hav 
 the doctor's discharge. 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 825 
 
 Muskerry. The doctor's discharge ! 
 He would have given it to me — 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. You can't leave with- 
 out the doctor's sanction. 
 
 Muskerry. Out of this house I will 
 go to-day. [James Scollard enters] 
 
 ScoLLARD. I beheve you want to 
 see me, Mr. Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry. I do, Mr. Scollard. 
 I am leaving the house. 
 
 Scollard. I will be glad to take up 
 the necessary formaUties for you, Mr. 
 Muskerry. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. First of all, has the 
 doctor marked my father off the in- 
 firmary list ? 
 
 Scollard. No, Mrs. Crilly. Now 
 that I recall the hst, he has not. 
 
 Muskerry. I waited after Mass 
 to-day, and I missed seeing him. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. My father was seri- 
 ously iU only a short time ago, and I do 
 not believe he is in a fit state to leave 
 the infirmary. 
 
 Scollard. That certainly has to be 
 considered. Without the doctor ex- 
 pUoitly sending you down to the body 
 of the house you are hardly under my 
 jurisdiction, Mr. Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry. Mr. SooUard, I ask you 
 to give me leave to go out of the Work- 
 house for a day. You can do this on 
 your own responsibility. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. In the present state 
 of his mind it's not Ukely he would 
 return to-night. Then n anything 
 happened him your situation is at 
 stake. 
 
 Muskerry. I'm not a pauper. I'll 
 go out of this to-day without leave or 
 license from any of you. 
 
 Scollard. As you know yourself, 
 Mr. Muskerry, it would be as much as 
 my situation is worth to let you depart 
 in that way. 
 
 Muskerry. Well, go I will. 
 
 Scollard. I cannot permit it, Mr. 
 Muskerry. I say it with the greatest 
 respect. 
 
 Muskerry. How long will you keep 
 me here? 
 
 Scollard. Until the doctor visits 
 the house. 
 
 Muskerry. That will be on Mon- 
 day morning. 
 
 Scollard. And this is Saturday, 
 Mr. Muskerry. 
 
 Muskerry. And where will you 
 put me until Monday ? 
 
 Scollard. Other arrangements will 
 be made for you. 
 
 Muskerry. It's the pauper's bed 
 you would give me ! 
 
 Scollard. The old arrangements 
 wiE continue. Can I do anything 
 further for you, Mr. Muskerry? 
 
 Muskerry. No, you can do nothing 
 further for me. It's a great deal you 
 have done for me ! It's the pauper's 
 bed you have given me ! 
 
 [He goes into the Select Ward] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Sit down, Mr. 
 Scollard. I want to speak to you. 
 
 [Mrs. Chilly seals herself at the 
 table. Scollard sits down also] 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. The bank manager is 
 in the town to-day, and there are people 
 •waiting to tell him whether my father 
 goes to our house or goes away from us. 
 
 Scollard. No doubt there are, Mrs. 
 CriUy. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. But you have noth- 
 ing to do with that, Mr. ScoUard. 
 
 Scollard. No, Mrs. CriUy. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. I have my own battle 
 to flght, and a hard battle it is. I have 
 to make bits of myself to mind every- 
 thing and be prepared for everything. 
 
 Scollard. No doubt, Mrs. CrUly. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. There are people 
 who will blame me, but they cannot see 
 into my mind. 
 
 Scollard. WiU you come down to 
 the parlour, Mrs. Cnlly? 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Yes, I'll go down. 
 
 [She remains seated, looking out steadily 
 before her. Myles Gorman comes 
 in. He is dressed in his own clothes] 
 
 Scollard. Well, Gorman, what 
 brings you back to the ward ? 
 
 Gorman. I just want to do some- 
 thing to my pipes, Master. 
 
 Scollard. Very well, Gorman. You 
 have your discharge, and you are free 
 to leave. 
 
 Gorman. Oh, in a while I'U be 
 taking the road. 
 
 [He seats himself at the fire and 
 begins to fix the bag of his pipes] 
 
 Scollard. Now, Mrs. Crilly, come 
 down to the parlour. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. Yes. 
 
 Scollard. Anna is waiting to see 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly [rising]. He wiU be 
 well cared for here. 
 
 Scollard. He wiU, Mrs. Crilly. I 
 will give him all attention. 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. He expected to be in 
 a different place to-day, but delay does 
 little harm. 
 
826 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 ScoLLARD. Come down to the par- 
 loirr, Mrs. Crilly, and drink a glass of 
 wine with us. 
 
 [They go out. The door of the Select Ward 
 opens, and Thomas Mttskerry ap- 
 pears. He has got u, stroke. His 
 breathing makes a noise in his 
 mouth. As he moves he lags some- 
 what at the right knee. He carries 
 his right hand at his breast. He 
 moves slowly across ward. Felix 
 TouRNOUR enters, carrying a bunch 
 of keys] 
 
 TouRNOTTR. And where are you 
 going? 
 
 Mttskerry [in a thickened voice]. 
 Ow — out. 
 
 [Motioning with left hand. He 
 moves across ward, and goes 
 out on door of corridor] 
 
 ToTJRNOTJR. Well, you're not getting 
 back to your snuggery, my oul' cod. 
 [He goes into the Select Ward and begins 
 to pitch Mtjskerry's belongings into the 
 outer ward. First of all come the pillows 
 and clothes off the bed] And there s .your 
 holy picture, and there's your holy 
 book. [He comes out holding another 
 book in official binding. He opens it and 
 reads] "Marianne, born May the 20th, 
 1870." [He turns back some pages and 
 reads] Thomas Muskerry wrote this, 
 1850 — 
 
 " In the pleasant month of May, 
 When the lambkins sport and play, 
 
 As I roved out for recreation, 
 I spied a comely maid, 
 Sequestered in the shade. 
 
 And on her beauty 1 gazed in admiration. 
 
 " I said I greatly fear 
 
 That Mercury will draw near, 
 
 As once he appeared unto Venus, 
 Or as it might have been 
 To the Carthaginian Queen, 
 
 Or the Grecian Wight called Polyphemus.'' 
 
 [Muskerry comes back to the 
 ward. He stands looking 
 stupidly at the heap Tournotjr 
 has thrown out. Tottrnodr 
 throws down the book. Mtts- 
 kekby goes towards the open 
 door of the ward. Felix Totjr- 
 NouR closes the door delib- 
 erately, turns the key and holds 
 the key in his hand] 
 Tournotjr. You have no more to 
 
 do with your snug httle ward, Mi 
 Muskerry. 
 
 [He puts the key on his bunch an 
 goes out] 
 
 Muskerry [muttering with slack lip 
 and cheeks]. It's — it's — the pau - 
 pauper's bed they've given me. 
 
 Gorman [turning round his face 
 Who's there? 
 
 Muskerry. It's — it's — Thoma 
 Muskerry. 
 
 Gorman. Is that the Master? 
 
 Mttskerry. It's — it's the pauper' 
 bed they've given me. 
 
 Gorman. Can I give you any hand 
 Master? 
 
 Muskerry. I'U want to make — 
 the bed. Give me a hand to make th 
 bed. [Gorman comes over to him] M; 
 own sheet and blanket is here, 
 needn't lie on a pauper's sheet. Whosi 
 bed is this ? 
 
 Gorman. It's the middle bed 
 Master. It's my own bed. 
 
 Muskerry [helplessly]. What bee 
 will I take, then? 
 
 Gorman. My bed. I won't be here 
 
 Muskerry. And where are yoi 
 going? 
 
 Gorman. I'm leaving the house thii 
 day. I'll be going on the roads. 
 
 Muskerry. Myles — Myles Gor 
 man. The man that was withoui 
 family or friends. Myles Gorman 
 Help me to lay down the mattress 
 Where will you sleep to-night, Mylei 
 Gorman ? 
 
 Gorman. At Mrs. Muiman's, i 
 house between this and the town o: 
 BaUinagh. I haven't the money t( 
 pay, but she'll give me the place foi 
 to-night. Now, Master, I'U spread th< 
 sheet for you. 
 
 [They spread the sheet on the bed 
 
 Muskerry. Can you go down th( 
 stairs, Myles Gorman? I tried to ge' 
 down the stairs and my legs failed me. 
 
 Gorman. One of the men wiU leac 
 me down. 
 
 Muskerry [resting his hand on th 
 
 bed and standing up]. Sure one of th( 
 
 men will lead me down the stairs, too. 
 
 [Myles Gorman spreads blanke 
 
 on bed. He stands up, take. 
 
 pipes, and is ready to go out 
 
 Muskerry becomes more feeble 
 
 He puts himself on the bed] 
 
 Muskerry. Myles — Myles Gor 
 man — come back. 
 
 Gorman. What will I do for you 
 Master? 
 
Thomas Muskerry 
 
 827 
 
 Muskerry. Say a prayer for me. 
 Gorman. What prayer will I say, 
 Master? 
 
 Muskerry. Say " God be good to 
 Thomas Muskerry." 
 
 Gorman [taking off his hat]. "God 
 be good to Thomas Muskerry, the man 
 who was good to the poor." Is that 
 all. Master? 
 Muskerry. That's — that's all. 
 
 [Gorman goes to the door] 
 Gorman. In a little while you'll 
 hear my pipes on the road. 
 
 [He goes out. There is the sound 
 of heavy breathing from the bed. 
 Then silence. The old pauper 
 with the staff enters. He is 
 crossing the ward when his 
 attention is taken by the humr- 
 ming of the bees at the window 
 pane. He listens for a moment] 
 The Old Pauper. A bright day, 
 and the clay on their faces. That's 
 what I saw. And we used to be com- 
 ing from Mass and going to the coursing 
 match. The hare flying and the dogs 
 stretching after her up the hill. Fine 
 dogs and fine men. I saw them all. 
 
 [Christy Clarke comes in. He goes to 
 table for his bag. He sees the figure 
 on the bed, and goes over] 
 
 Christy. I'm going now, Mister 
 Muskerry. Mister Muskerry! Mister 
 
 Muskerry! Oh! the Master is dead. 
 [He runs back to the door] Mrs. Crilly. 
 Mrs. CriUy. [He goes back to the bed, and 
 throws himself on his knees] Oh ! I'm 
 sorry you're gone, Thomas Muskerry. 
 
 The Old Pauper. And is he gone 
 home, too ! And the bees hunxming and 
 all! He was the best of them. Each 
 of his brothers could Hf t up their plough 
 and carry it to the other side of the field. 
 Four of them could clear a fair. But 
 their fields were small and poor, and 
 so they scattered. 
 
 [Mrs. Cbillt comes in] 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. Christy Clarke, what 
 is it? 
 
 Christy. The Master is dead. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. My God, my God ! 
 
 Christy. WiU I go and tell them 
 below? 
 
 Mrs. Chilly. No. Bring no one 
 here yet. We killed him. When every- 
 thing is known that wiU be known. 
 
 Christy. I'U never forget him, I 
 think. 
 
 Mrs. Crilly. What humming is 
 that? 
 
 Christy. The bees at the window 
 pane. And there's Myles Gorman's 
 pipes on the road. 
 
 [The. clear call of the pipes is 
 heard] 
 
 END OP PLAY 
 
THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 {1913} 
 By Lord Dunsany 
 
LORD DUNSANY 
 
 Those who are steeped in present-day drama are thoroughly aware of the true 
 import of Lord Dunsany's work. His appeal is the natural reaction against an era 
 of reahsm, of problematical approach toward the facts of life, instituted by Henrik 
 Ibsen, self-consciously preached by Bernard Shaw, and carried to the extreme of a 
 scientific passion by Eugene Brieux. In the stifling atmosphere of cUnical examina- 
 tion, where the fact is lauded as against the spirit, a refreshing zephyr, carrying with 
 it an aroma which is neither of the land nor of the sea, has brought Lord Dunsany 
 into his own. 
 
 Many times before have we had poets and dramatists representative of moods ; 
 but we have, after heralding these peculiar geniuses, seen their moods either drag 
 them down, or be forsaken by them for something more permanent. Therefore, 
 instead of talking with flnaUty about the peculiar genius of Lord Dunsany, let us 
 take him at his face value, and say that in this first period of his, which has been 
 untouched by the spiritual tumult of War, he represents an oasis in the desert of 
 what has now become stagnant realism. 
 
 Lord Dunsany has not come upon us without an inheritance back of him. 
 Apart from the fact that he is the eighteenth baron of his Une, which in itself shows 
 him well founded in Irish heraldry, after one has read his little plays it becomes 
 clearly evident that his literary significance owes something to the Irish renaissance. 
 We are told that he never would have thought of writing plays had it not been 
 for the encouragement of W. B. Yeats, who will be remembered in the future quite 
 as much for his services in giving us Synge as for his own poetic genius, displayed in 
 the writing of "Cathleen ni Hoiilihan." 
 
 A reviewer, in the London Bookman, confesses that she approached Dunsany's 
 "Fifty-one Tales " with a prejudice because the author was a "Lord " ; but she, who 
 had come to scoff, wrote a review sounding his praises. 
 
 The facts of Lord Dunsany's life have little to do with his genius or his point of 
 view. His social position may have served to give him the ironical slant which 
 is one of his most refreshing veins, and which often comes to the rescue in reliev- 
 iag him of a certain artificial gloom ; his love of hunting, his outdoor freedom — 
 all of these may be mingled in some way with his artistic expression. But Dun- 
 sany is a contradiction: aristocrat though he be, his sympathies are on the side 
 of the peasant class in Ireland ; fighter though he is in the cause of .England, his 
 political faith is one which cannot be entirely sympathetic with the political atti- 
 tude of England. Had he not a spirit naturally concerned with art and beauty ; 
 had he not a mind pricked to a keen discernment of the follies of civilization, his is 
 a temperament which very readily could have grown blase. But there is some- 
 thing invigorating about Lord Dunsany, despite his detachment in all the things 
 he writes. 
 
 Were he not Irish, with that inborn genius which the Irishman has for hvint; 
 in the atmosphere of unreality, once he has forsaken the real, we might declare that 
 
 831 
 
832 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Dunsany had taken the keynote of his work from Shelley's incomparable sonnet, 
 " Ozymandias." We might fm:ther assure ourselves that, spurred by the critical 
 impulse of Matthew Arnold, in such of his poems as "The Buried Life" and "The 
 Future", he was seeking, in all he wrote, for the real source of life, not to be found 
 in any located history, but in those pristine times which are ehaiacteristic of the 
 imagination. Even as Arnold sang : 
 
 What girl 
 
 Now reads in her bosom as clear 
 
 As Rebekah read, when she sate 
 
 At eve by the palm-shaded well ? 
 
 Who guards in her breast 
 
 As deep, as pellucid, a spring 
 
 Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? 
 
 — so does Dunsany turn away from the dull, sluggish current of life in which he 
 finds himself, and creates not only a theogony of his own invention, but a geography 
 of the world as well. 
 
 It is a comparatively easy matter to fall into a mood, and to give one's self up 
 entirely to it. But Lord Dunsany's invention measures genius because of the fact 
 that, even though his plays are lacking in the essential humanity which marks 
 our greatest dramas, even though his gods are more irrevocable and more ironically 
 revengeful than the Hebrew God, in their dealings with men, whatever he writes 
 is fraught with the philosophic fervour which, though it be not original, never- 
 theless indicates his constant concern regarding the morals of existence. 
 
 Lord Dunsany has reigned supreme in American theatrical attention during re- 
 cent years. He may bo said to have come into his own in this period. A few 
 people have been reading him since 1905, and some of his plays have graced the 
 repertory of the Abbey Theatre since 1909. He has been a journalist, a theatre 
 reviewer, and has published an essay on "Romance and the Modern Stage." The 
 literary world has, therefore, had opportunity, in the past twelve years, to judge 
 Dunsany. Yet, not until now' has popularity fallen upon him. Wherever a small 
 group of enthusiastic lovers of the play are to be found to-day, we may be certain 
 of witnessing some amateur performance of one of Dunsany's very actable little 
 pieces. 
 
 It is easy to sum up the general attitude of Lord Dunsany toward Ufe. He is 
 thoroughly convinced that machinery and the complications of modem existence 
 have kept us from the immediate discovery of our more important life ; that, to 
 quote him, "too much information about the fads and fashions of empty lies is 
 stealing, year by year, the traditions and simpUeity even of rural people." Yet he, 
 too, creates a machinery of drama equally as complicated. 
 
 In his mythology, "The Gods of Pegana", he declares that wisdom is not in 
 cities, nor is happiness to be found in wisdom ; he insists that the gods, thousands of 
 years ago, being in mirthful mood, cried out, "Let Us call up a man before Us that 
 We may laugh in Pegana." That is the philosophical stream permeating the 
 dramas he has written. He is forever showing the smallness of man before the 
 inevitable greatness of the gods of his own creation. 
 
 You find this attitude in "The Queen's Enemies", "The Gods of the Moun- 
 tain", and "The Glittering Gate." Not only is this peculiar to him, but Lord 
 Dunsany is one who does not recognize any good to man coming from life in cities. 
 
Lord Dunsany 833 
 
 His stories and his plays ring the persistent note of wanting to escape, as Keats 
 would say, being "in city pent." He chants this belief in "The Tents of the 
 Arabs " ; it is the attitude which brings him much humour in that little tale he calls 
 "The Hen." 
 
 One very quickly reaches the insistent note in Dunsany, even as one feels, after 
 having read two or more of his plays, his insistent mood. It is dominant, whether 
 he is reviewing a play or whether he is estimating the poetical work of others. 
 
 In 1910, he witnessed Synge's "Deirdre of the Sorrows", which was played in 
 London, and he came away with the impression that it was not a drama native of 
 cities ; that it was too full of wonder. And to live is to wonder, according to Dun- 
 sany. "Dreams are true while they last", sang Tennyson, "and do we not live 
 in dreams?" This is, likewise, Dunsany's question to us all. He is against the 
 factory, and against the half-penny newspaper life. But though he himseU travels 
 continually in an unknown land, he is not blind to man's attachment to earth. 
 
 Synge is never far away from the fields of men [he writes] — his is not 
 the inspiration of the skylark remote from earth ; our wonder at his fancy is as 
 our wonder at the flight of the white owl low down near beautiful fields. And 
 what things he has found there : new things even about death. There is in this 
 play the old Greek defiance of death. 
 
 When Dunsany's enthusiasms are called into play, he is one who is willing to 
 rate high where his affections have fallen. His critical designation is generous, 
 and he is as eager to credit Synge with characteristics applicable to Homer as he is 
 to measure his peasant-poet friend, Francis Ledwidge, by the same standard. After 
 reading Ledwidge's "Lyrics", we see, not the greatness of Homer, but the simple 
 beauty of Wordsworth. Nevertheless, there is a boyish warmth to Lord Dunsany's 
 appreciation, "Poets are all incomparable," he confesses, and then, with his sug- 
 gestive irony, he adds, "It is only the versifiers who resemble the great ones." In 
 writing a tribute to his peasant-poet, who later met death fighting with him in the 
 Great War, he adds this hope, which must indeed measure his own hope, that "not 
 too many will be attracted to this book on account of the author being a peasant, 
 lest he come to be praised by the 'how-interesting' school.; for know that neither 
 in any class, nor in any country, nor in any age, shall you predict the footfall of 
 Pegasus, who touches the earth where he pleaseth and is bridled by whom he wiU." 
 
 It is said that when Dunsany was a boy his reading was watched carefully. 
 He was confined mostly to the Bible, to Grimm and Hans Andersen, and to the 
 literature and mythology of Greece. These were his models, and there are some en- 
 thusiastic adherents who see in Dunsany's prose the influence of the King James 
 version of the Testaments ; who measiu"e his poetic imagination by the direct influ- 
 ence he had from Greek legend. They claim for him that he has invented a Fate 
 out of Pegana as inevitable and as binding as the Fate which permeates the dramas 
 of Sophocles and Euripides. 
 
 Lord Dunsany does not credit himself with such greatness. He is more modest 
 than his adherents picture him. It is easy to see that he writes in his particular 
 mood because, untaxed by cloying fact, his imagination is free to wander where it 
 will. We give his genius credit for this ability to wander, and we take at its face 
 value what he has to say regarding his workmanship. Facility moves his pen; 
 this confession is found in a letter i^iaiming that "The Queen's Enemies" is the one 
 
834 Representative British Dramas 
 
 of his plays possessing a borrowed theme ; he thus forestalls that critic who found 
 the counterpart to this play in Professor Jerram's "Anglice Reddenda", under the 
 title of "A Woman's Revenge." 
 
 "It was not only easier, but more amusing, to imagine her character [the 
 Queen's] and all the names of her enemies than to be bothered with reading about 
 her. And since she was a live woman, whenever the Sixth Dynasty was thriving 
 in Egypt, I think she came a little m.ore aUve out of my fancy than she might have 
 done out of some dusty book." In other words, Dunsany is forever pointing the 
 way for one to escape facts, which are dull and belong by rights, as he confesses, to 
 "journalists, pohtioians, owners of encyclopedias, and manufacturers of ugly 
 things." 
 
 People are forever reading into Dunsany what he does not wish them to read. 
 In his correspondence, he declares: "When I write of Babylon there are people 
 who cannot see that I write of it for love of Babylon's ways, and they think I'm 
 thinking of London still and our beastly Parliament." 
 
 Dunsany pleads that he needs no explanation ; that whatever beauty is in his 
 little plays of mood must be taken unanalyzed and in total effect. A close 
 scrutiny would be justified only were the pieces fraught, as Synge's "Riders to the 
 Sea" and "The Shadow of the Glen" are fraught, with human valuation. He 
 declares that he wants "to write about men and women and the great forces that 
 have been with them from their cradle up — forces that the centuries have neither 
 aged nor weakened. Not about people who are so interested about the latest mas- 
 cot or motor that not enough remains when the trivial is sifted from them." But 
 even at that, his people escape him in an ether which leaves us unmoved, yet 
 curious. 
 
 He has selected for his themes very simple stories — -"so simple," he writes, 
 "that sometimes people of this complex age, being brought up in intricacies, 
 even fail to understand them." He will not have read into "The Gods of the 
 Mountain" anything more than that irony which comes when a person finally gets 
 what he wants. Here are some beggars who wish to be gods, and pretend to be ; 
 the real gods come along and make them gods, and in the granting of their desire 
 lies the punishment. 
 
 Writing to Stuart Walker, of the Portmanteau Theatre, who was about to put 
 on "The Golden Doom", Lord Dunsany referred to the time-element in his plays. 
 He said : 
 
 The "public" must needs know exactly "when it all happened", so I never 
 neglect to inform them of the time. Since man does not alter, it does not 
 in the least matter what time I put, unless I am writing a play about his 
 clothes or his motor-car, so I put "about the time of the fall of Babylon." 
 It seemed a nice breezy time, but "about the time of the invention of Carter's 
 Pills" would of course do equally well. Well, the result was that they went 
 to the British Museum and got the exact costumes of the period in Babylon, 
 and it did very nicely. There are sure to have been people who said, "Now, 
 my children, you shall come to the theatre and enjoy yourselves, but at the 
 same time you shall learn what it was really like in Babylon." The fact 
 is the schoolmaster has got loose and he must be caged, so that people can 
 enjoy themselves without being pounced on and made to lead better lives, like 
 African natives being carried away by lions while they danced. 
 
Lord Dunsany 835 
 
 This is quoted because so little has been written about Lord Dunsany that we 
 have to rely entirely on his self-revealed spirit to judge wherein the manner of the 
 man and the mood of his plays are one. Not only must the gods be laughing a little 
 at our over-estimate of Lord Dunsany, but he himself must be chuckling at the 
 apparent ease with which he has "put it over" on his admirers. One accepts all 
 his parables in the "Fifty-one Tales", and finds in them agreeableness of style, 
 beauty of thought, striking poetic expression, and the kind of irony one falls into 
 after reading La Fontaine for some time, though La Fontaine beats him at the 
 human game. No critic will deny him one bit of the inherent genius which such 
 imaginative work requires — such a style is easy to imitate, but not so easy to orig- 
 inate. Nor is story-telling acquired through imitation. Lord Dunsany's creative 
 sense has literally come from himself. However much a reader of fairy tales he may 
 have been in his youth, however much people may say that they could easily learn 
 the "trick" by saturating themselves in the "Arabian Nights", the fact remains 
 that Lord Dunsany correlates imaginative facility with marked skill in story- 
 telling. 
 
 To the historian of the drama a chronological arrangement of Dunsany's plays 
 may be suggestive. But, in fairness to him, we must take in bulk the seven little 
 dramas we have seen and read, determining therefrom whether he has yet mastered 
 the one-act form ; whether, from the act divisions of " The Gods of the Mountain ", 
 or "King Argimenes", he would be capable, in the future, of mastering the longer 
 form of play writing. It is our opinion that the Dunsany mood, as he now has 
 stated it, would not spread effectively over a wide surface without the introduction 
 of a more human element ; without dealing with more passion than one finds in such 
 a beautiful little piece as "The Tents of the Arabs", which is Dunsany's irony re- 
 garding cities coupled with some of his most feeling poetry. There is an historical 
 play, "Alexander", yet to be published. It was started in collaboration with 
 Padraic Colum ; but all that remains to mark that association is Colum's dedication 
 affixed to his drama, "Mogu the Wanderer." Is this Dunsany piece "located his- 
 tory"? 
 
 Relieved of the same machinery which, in his earlier period, bound Maeterlinck 
 to certain formal expression, and which forever oast a peculiar shadow over the short 
 stories of Edgar Allan Poe, we do not realize as yet what Lord Dunsany would be. 
 Certainly, such a quaint, frivolous conceit as "The Lost Silk Hat" could never fore- 
 shadow "that he would be happy in the atmosphere of society drama. There is not 
 one of his plays which, as yet, has hinted at a national consciousness, like Yeats's 
 "Cathleen ni Houlihan." He does not seem to be wedded to the cause of the Irish 
 Theatre. Nor has he, from the Irish standpoint, made use of the folklore of Ireland. 
 Interested though he may be in preserving the peasant beauties, of his own country, 
 he has not himself come under that immediate influence, even though he is able 
 to appreciate it when it appears. 
 
 What does he say further regarding the poetry of Synge? Speaking of his style, 
 he writes : 
 
 New words like these on some great thing are needed in this age, when 
 thought is becoming moulded in old phrases. . . . The simple homeliness of 
 the words in this play [" beirdre"] reveals both for Synge and for the peasants 
 whom he knew a near familiarity with the world's great impulses such as war 
 and spring. Great words are often wrapped round nothingness, as echoes are 
 
836 Representative British Dramas 
 
 loudest in the emptiest cave. Tawdriness dresses herself gorgeously. But 
 when household words are used about the gods, we know that the gods are 
 very near to the household. 
 
 It has been claimed for Lord Dunsany that even as his "Fifty-one Tales" 
 may be taken as a dramatist's notebook, containing jottings which he may, or may 
 not, utilize later in his work, so his little dramas are themselves the quintessence of 
 reticence, wherein only essential dialogue is used. In proof of this, some enthusiasts 
 are prone to compare his method with that of Maeterlinck, in the early "mario- 
 nette" plays, like "The Princess Maleine", where repetition of dialogue is seemingly 
 trivial in its value. There are passages in Dunsany which are likewise ineffective 
 in their repetition. But, in the last analysis, Maeterlinck's repetition is not un- 
 conscious ; from it he wrings a psychological effect which Lord Dunsany does not 
 completely obtain. However compelling "The Gods of the Mountain" and "A 
 Night at an Inn" may be, and these are Lord Dunsany at his high- water mark, 
 we cannot, in any way, find a play of his whose greatness is comparable with 
 Maeterlinck's "The Intruder." Yet Dunsany has been compared with the Greeks ! 
 He has the weakness which always comes in the wake of romanticism, especially 
 when romanticism will not compromise with realism. Dunsany is weighted with 
 trappings which dull his psychology and its effect. 
 
 We may ask whether this dramatist has the power of individualizing his 
 characters. On close examination, we arrive at the conclusion that he can, al- 
 though his characterization is of the slightest stroke. There is an individuality 
 to Agmar, the beggar, in "The Gods of the Mountain", but his associates are a dead- 
 level group as character goes, more so than Maeterlinck's blind in "The Blind", 
 who at least show psychological variation. 
 
 One perceives differences of bearing in the two burglars who stand before "The 
 Glittering Gate", but not those human peculiarities which would make us inter- 
 ested rather than curious in regard to what they are doing there. Even Dunsany's 
 children in "The Golden Doom", about whom he has written, do not strike us with 
 that simplicity, with that nearness to heaven about them that characterizes Uttle 
 Yniold, for instance, in Maeterlinck's "Pelleas and Mglisande." 
 
 Enthusiastic though one may be about Dunsany's plays, it is not wise to place 
 his accomplishment too high in the rank of genius, though in him rests a most hope- 
 ful sign for the years to come. Were he to do nothing more, we might say that his 
 ' ' The Gods of the Mountain ' ' would establish him definitely in the history of modern 
 drama, but would not place him above Synge, — nor even above Yeats, who, were 
 he to fail in drama, would live in Irish poetry. Dunsany would, however, even 
 on the merits of this one play, be unique and abundantly dramatic in an external 
 way. 
 
 That Dunsany is sincerely interested in art may be seen from his financial con- 
 tributions to the Irish Theatre as recorded by George Moore, and his contributions 
 to the Theatre of Art in Florence, as recorded by Gordon Craig. His correspond- 
 ence with Stuart Walker, of the Portmanteau Theatre, shows that, though his 
 dramas are conceived with ease, there is a deflniteness in his mind as to their inter- 
 pretation. They are dramas that lend themselves very, readily to the new scenery, 
 even as his tales called forth all that was creative in their original illustrator, Sime. 
 And in the same way that the new scenery has its limitations, so have the Dunsany 
 dramas. 
 
Lord Dunsany 837 
 
 Dunsany has established a mannerism which is interesting, and all the more so, 
 coming at a time when people were growing impatient and weary of realism. In 
 his plays there is none of that big, poetic quality, of that universal appeal, which 
 characterizes Hazelton and Benrimo's "The Yellow Jacket.'' They are both 
 exotics, but "The Yellow Jacket", imitative though the work may be, of Chinese 
 convention, has more claim to greatness, if not to depth. When one witnesses 
 Dunsany's plays in succession, their mood begins to pall slightly, even as one some- 
 times tires of the thickness of Poe's morbid aroma. 
 
 At the Neighborhood Playhouse, in New York, "The Queen's Enemies" was 
 given with scenery which encompassed the very large imaginative locality of the 
 piece.' "A Night at an Inn" has been done in that same mysterious manner. 
 Breathless pauses, sepulchral tones, and shadowy action punctuate all of Dunsany's 
 dramas. Stuart Walker, in his Portmanteau Theatre, has given three of the little 
 plays with dignity of bearing and richness of colour. They have proven effective 
 because they have appealed to the wonder element which reaUstic dramas hereto- 
 fore discounted. That is why Dunsany is so potent a factor at present. 
 
 We do not wish to rate him too highly ; we wish to see a further development. 
 He is only forty. But he is inclined to take a fatalistic attitude toward the part 
 he is playing in the War. He escaped death in his campaign through the Trans- 
 vaal during the Boer War, traces of an experience which critics joyously announce 
 may be discovered in "King Argimenes." He has recovered from a wound received 
 during the Dublin riots. Thus far, he has moved safely through battle in France. 
 He writes : 
 
 Sometimes I think that no man is taken hence until he has done the work 
 that he is here to do, and, looking back on five battles and other escapes from 
 death, this theory seems only plausible ; but how can one hold it when one 
 thinks of the deaths of Shelley and Keats 1 
 
 But in case I shall not be able to explain my work, I think the first thing to 
 tell them [the public] is that it does not need explanation. One does not ex- 
 plain a sunset, nor does one need to explain a work of art. One may analyze, 
 of course ; that is profitable and interesting, but the growing demand to be told 
 What It's All About before one can even enjoy becomes absurd. 
 
 Yes, the more we consider Lord Dunsany, the more we are reminded of Shelley's 
 sonnet on "Ozymandias." He too is a traveller from an antique land, who has 
 witnessed the crumbling city of Ozymandias, King of Kings. 
 
 As he wrote in barracks, on January 4, 1917, to a friend : 
 
 Well, I suppose I am a great traveller : of any country that I have ever been 
 to I have scarcely ever written, — though all we see probably influences us, — 
 but it is of the countries I have not travelled in that I have written, the 
 longing for travel perhaps moving my pen, the spirit telling of lands where it had 
 gone and the body had not followed. For instance, I have travelled a thousand 
 miles up the Nile, and lived a while in the Sahara ; and I have written a tale of a 
 journey down a vast river called ' ' Idle Days on the Yan ' ' , and a tale of the Sahara 
 called "A Story of Land and Sea." But those tales were written before I made 
 the journeys that might be supposed to have influenced them. "How inaccu- 
 rate such tales must be," I can imagine some duU soul exclaiming ; but to such 
 a person I would say, " There are other things in the world than facts, my friend." 
 
838 Representative British Dramas 
 
 And I would leave him to go away and read Bradshaw, his railway guide, which 
 is the quintessence of fact, unspoiled by style, fancy, philosophy, enthusiasm, 
 mirth, or anything at all to stand in the way of a dull soul in silent commune 
 with unromantio fact. 
 
 Let us be thankful that the theatre has such a man as this working for it. But 
 let us, in our sincere estimate of him, save Dunsany from his ecstatic friends. 
 
THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN 
 By lord DUNSANY 
 
 Reprinted by permiBsion of the author, Lord Dunsany, from "Five Plays.' 
 Copyright, 1914, by Little, 'Brown, and Company. 
 
PERSONS 
 
 Agmab 
 Slag . 
 
 Ulp 
 
 OOGNO 
 
 Thahn 
 
 Mlan 
 
 A Thief . 
 
 OORANDEB] 
 
 Illanaun > Citizens 
 
 Akmos . J 
 
 The Dhombdary Men 
 
 Citizens, etc. 
 
 The Others 
 
 Scene : The East 
 
CAST 
 
 Beggars 
 
 First produced at the Haymarket Theatre, 
 following east : 
 
 OOGNO 
 
 Thahn 
 Ulf . . 
 Agmak . 
 Slag. . . 
 A Thief . 
 Mlan . . 
 ooeandeb 
 Akmos 
 Illanaun 
 Bashara . 
 Thtilbk . 
 Thohaemas , 
 Haz . . 
 Thbedbs . 
 
 LiRBA . . 
 
 bselunza 
 
 Thonion Alaba 
 
 Ylax . . 
 
 Ackabnees 
 
 A Dbomedary Man . . 
 
 Nbnnbk op the Meadows 
 
 Citizens 
 
 The Others 
 
 London, on June 1st, 1911, with the 
 
 ■ Mr. W. A. Warburton 
 Mr. Claude Rains 
 Mr. H. R. Hignett 
 Mr. Charles V. France 
 Mr. Charles Maude 
 Mr. Lawrence Hanray 
 Mr. R. P. Lamb 
 
 Mr. J. Dickson Kenwin 
 Mr. Ernest Graham 
 Mr. Grindon Bentley 
 Mr. F. G. Clifton 
 Mr. G. Can- 
 Mr. Kenneth Dennys 
 Mr. B. Hatton Sinclair 
 Mr. A. Jones 
 Miss Anne Carew 
 Miss E. Risdon 
 [ Miss V. Whitaker 
 Miss M. Ronsard 
 Mr. Norman Page 
 Mr. W. Black 
 Miss Enid Rose 
 
 ■ Mr. E. LyaU Swete 
 Mr. A. Ackerman 
 Mr. K. Black 
 
 Mr. H. Cooper 
 Mr. E. Leverett 
 Mr. G. Wilkinson 
 Mr. J. O'Brien 
 
 The scenery was designed and painted by Mr. Walter Bayes, with the exception 
 of the first set, for which designs were made by Mr. S. H. Sime. 
 
CAST 
 
 On October 27th, 1916, "The Gods of the Mountain'' was produced for a second 
 time in America, by Stuart Walker, in his Portmanteau Theatre, at Mount 
 Holyoke, Massachusetts. The east, which subsequently played 28 performances 
 during a repertory season in New York, was as follows : 
 
 Ulp . 
 
 OOGNO 
 
 Thahn 
 
 Aqmar 
 
 Slag . 
 
 A Thief 
 
 Mlan . 
 
 oobandbb 
 
 Illanatjn 
 
 Akmos 
 
 A Mother 
 
 An Old Woman Who Sells Wateb 
 
 A Dromedary Man 
 
 A Woman Who Sings 
 
 A Chaemeb op Snakes .... 
 
 ■ Mr. Edgar Stehli 
 Mr. Lew Medbury 
 Mr. Fra k J. Zimmerer 
 Mr. Stuart Walker 
 Mr. Gregory KeUy 
 Mr. Robert Cook 
 Miss Agnes Rogers 
 Mr. Willard Webster 
 
 Citizens \ Mr. Ward Thornton 
 
 . Mr. McKay Morris 
 Miss Florence WoUersen 
 Miss Judith Lowry 
 Mr. Edmond Crenshaw 
 Miss Dorothea Carothers 
 Miss Gitruda Tritjanski 
 
 The scenes, costumes, and properties for this production were designed by Mr. 
 Frank J. Zimmerer. Mr. Walker made use of music especially composed by Mr. 
 Arthur Farwell. 
 
THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Outside a city wall. Three Beggars 
 are seated upon the ground] 
 
 OoGNo. These d ays are bad for 
 b eggary . ' ' " 
 
 "Thahn. They are bad. 
 
 Ulp [an older beggar but not gray]. 
 Some evil has befalleil_±he-Heh ones of 
 t.hJH nit.y. They Jtake-aajoy-any longer 
 in 'JTgriBvnlaTigejbuta re become sour 
 a nd miserly^ itheart." Alas for "them ! 
 I sometimes~sigtetOr them when I think 
 of this. 
 
 OoGNO. Alas for them! A miserly 
 heart must be a sore afSiotion. 
 
 Thahn. A sore affliction indeed, and 
 bad for our calling. 
 
 OoGNO [reflectively]. They have been 
 thus for many months. What thing 
 has befaHeri them ? 
 
 Thahn! Some evil thing. 
 
 Ulp. There has been a comet come 
 near tb the'earithr oDate. andr-tbe-earth 
 ha8j15eeiL-. parehe d and sultry so that 
 the gods are drowsy ^Sd~"all those 
 thingstliat- are_ diYine in man, such as 
 bengvolenoe, druttkeimessr-' extrava- 
 ganee^andsongTEaxeJaded and died and 
 have^ not _befln replenished'byThe gods. 
 
 OoGNO. It has indeed been sultry. 
 
 Thahn. I have seen the comet o' 
 nights. 
 
 Ulf. The gods are drowsy. 
 , OoGNO. If they awake not soon and 
 make this city worthy again of our 
 order I for one shall forsake the oall- 
 ing~.and_ku2_ashop and sit at ease in 
 the shade jaaJOfaTtBr-f oi^-gain. ' 
 
 Thahn. You will keep a shop? 
 
 [Enter Agmar and Slag. Agmar, 
 though poorly dressed, is tall, im- 
 perious, and older than Ulf. Slag 
 follows behind him] 
 
 Agmar. ^s this a beefpar who speaks? , 
 OoGNO. "Yes, master, a poor beggarT 
 
 Agmar. How long has the calling 
 of beggaiy-easted ? . 
 
 •"GfoGNo. Since the building of the 
 first city, master. 
 
 Agmar. And when has a beggar 
 ever followed a trade? When has he 
 ever haggled and -battered and sat in a 
 shop? 
 
 Oogno. ,_Why:,_hfi_haajiever_done so. 
 
 Agmar. Are you he that shall be 
 first to forsake the calling ? 
 
 OoGNO. Times are bad for the call- 
 
 ing here. 
 
 Thahn. 
 
 Agmar. 
 caUing? 
 
 Oogno 
 
 They are bad. 
 
 So you would forsake the 
 
 843 
 
 The city is unworthy of 
 our caUing. TiB gods- are ~ drowsy 
 and all that is divine in man is dead. 
 [ro'"THiRD BEGGARj'"Are not the gods 
 drowsy ? 
 
 Ulp. They are drowsy in their 
 mountains away at Marma. The seven 
 green idols are drowsy. Who is this 
 that rebukes us? 
 
 Thahn. Are you some great mer- 
 chant, master? Perhaps you will help 
 a poor man that is starving. 
 
 Slag. My master a merchant ! No, 
 no. H e is no m er chant. My majiter is 
 no merchant." ~ 
 
 OoGNO. I perceive that he is some 
 lord in disguise. The gods have woken 
 and have sent him to save us. 
 
 Slag. No, no. You do not know 
 my master. You do not know him. 
 
 Thahn. Is he the Soldan's self that 
 has come to rebuke us ? 
 
 Agmae. I am a beggar, and an old 
 beggar. 
 
 Slag [with great pride]. There is 
 none like my master. No traveller 
 has met with cunning like to his, not 
 even those that come from Ethiopia. 
 
 Ulp. W e niake you welcome to o ur 
 town, upo n which an evil h agTatlen, 
 the daysJfiingJjadJlQLlieggar^ " 
 
844 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 Aqmah. Let none who has known 
 the mystgry of roads or has felt the 
 wind arising new in the morning, or 
 who has oalledTorth out of the souls 
 of men divine benevolence, ever speak 
 any more of any trade or of the miser- 
 ame gains of shop s and the ^ trading 
 men. 
 
 OoGNO. I but spoke hastily, the 
 times being bad. 
 
 AgmAE. L will pu t riffht, tVia timps 
 
 Slag. There is nothings that my 
 master cannot do. 
 
 Agmar [To Slag]. Be silent and 
 attend to me. I do not kao?iL_this 
 city. I have IravdledJiJO^-fac^aving 
 somewhat .exhau,s±ed-the-city_fltApkara! 
 
 Slag. My master was three times 
 knocked down and injured by carriages 
 there, once he was killed and seven 
 times beaten and robbed, and every 
 time he was generously compensated. 
 He had nine diseases, many of them 
 mortal — 
 
 Agmar. Be silent, Slag. — Have you 
 any-thieves among the oaUing here ? 
 
 Ulf. We have a few that we call 
 thieves here, master, but they would 
 scarcely s^em. thieves to you. They 
 are not good thieves. 
 
 Agmar. I shall need the best th ief 
 you have. 
 
 [Enter two citizens, richly clad, Illanatjn 
 and Oorander] 
 
 Illanaun. Therefore we will send 
 galleons to-Aidaspes. 
 
 Oorander. Right to Ardaspes 
 through the silver gates. 
 
 [Agmar transfers the thick handle 
 of his long staff to his left arm- 
 pit, he droops on to it and it 
 supports his weight; he is up- 
 right no longer. His right arm 
 hangs limp and useless. He 
 hobbles up to the citizens im- 
 ploring alms] 
 Illanaun. I am sorry. I cannot 
 help you. The^ehave been too many 
 beggars here anawe~nmst dechne alms 
 
 fOT-the gbbd'of the "town." ~ 
 
 Agmar [silling down and weeping]. I 
 have come from far. 
 
 [Illanaun presently returns and 
 gives Agmar a coin. Exit 
 Illanaun. Agmar, erect 
 
 again, walks back to the others] 
 Agmar. We shall need fine rai- 
 ment ; _ .lat^'-thii — tttef=^^sl5Srl— *t -once. 
 Let_it_rather_be^green^aiinent. 
 
 Beggar. I will go and fetch the 
 thief. [Exit] 
 
 Ulf. We will dress_ ourselves as 
 lor^S-and-iBipese-upnn the, city. 
 
 OoGNO. Yes, yes ; we will say we 
 are anihasaadQra_frQm_aJaj: Jand. 
 
 Ulf. And there will be good eating. 
 
 Slag [in an undertone to Ulf]. But 
 you do not know my master. Now 
 that you have suggested that we shall 
 go as lords, he wiU make a better sug- 
 gestion. He will suggest that we should 
 
 B eggars §,s_ kings ! 
 Ay. You do not_ 
 
 go as kir 
 
 TJlfT 
 
 Slag. 
 master. 
 
 Ulf. [To Agmar] What — do you 
 bidLjis do? 
 
 Agmak. You shall first come by the 
 fine jai ment in the manner I have 
 mentioned^ 
 
 Ulf. And what then, master? 
 
 Agmar. Why, the n we shall go as 
 gods. 
 
 Beggars. As gods ! 
 
 Agmar. As gods. Know you the 
 land through which I have lately come 
 in my wanderings ? Marma, where the 
 gods__areo^yfid__frailL.^een stone in 
 the mduntams] They sit all seven of 
 them against the hills. They sit there 
 motionless and travellers worship them. 
 
 Ulf. Yes, yes, we know those gods. 
 They are much reverenced here, but 
 they are flrnw!i;y and sg nd us no thing 
 beautiful. ~" 
 
 Agmar. They are of gr een jad e. 
 They si t cross-legged with lEeir right 
 elbows resting on their left h agds, ty 
 right foreflhgef pbmtmg upward. We 
 will "oOme into the~city ffisguised, from 
 the direction of Marma, and wiU claim 
 to be these gods. We must be seven 
 as they are. And when we sit we must 
 sit cross-legged as they do, with the 
 right-handr-u^lif-ted. 
 
 Ulf. This is a bad city in which to 
 fall intoJihe-Jiajids-jjL-oppressors, tot 
 the j ud g es lack. amiabiU-ty-here as the 
 merchants lack benevolence., -ever jince 
 the gods forgot them. 
 
 Agmar. In our ancient calling a 
 man may sit at one street corner for 
 fifty yeaisTHoing the one thing, and 
 yet a day may oome when it is well 
 for him to rise Jip and do another thing 
 while the timorous man starves. 
 
 Ulf. Also it w&re-welL not to ang er 
 the gods. 
 
 Agmar. Is not aU life a beggary to 
 the gods? Do they^not^see all men 
 
The Gods of the Mountain 
 
 845 
 
 alw ays begg ing nf — ^them — a«d— asking 
 alms with incense, and bells, and 
 siibtlejevices ? 
 
 OoGNO. Yes, all men indeed are 
 beggars before the gods. 
 
 Agmab. Does not the mighty Soldan 
 often sit by the agate altar in his royal 
 temple as we sit at a street corner or 
 by a palace gate? 
 
 Ulp. It is even so. 
 
 Agmak. Then wi ll the gods be glad 
 when we follow the iioly calling with 
 new devices and with subtlety, as they 
 are glad whfin thp prifi§ts_sing a new 
 song. 
 
 Ulf. Yet I have a fear. 
 
 [Enter Two Men, talking] 
 
 Agmar. [To Slag] G o you in to 
 the ^ty bpfftrp nfi nnd letnThara ka a 
 pr oT)Eeey there which saith th at the 
 gods^jgho are" a&YVen from gf een rock 
 in the m6iHrEaln~slia;ri"'orie~3ay^Mse in 
 Marma' and e omwiiCTg ig the guise of 
 men. 
 
 ""Slag. Yes, master. Shall I make 
 the prophecy myself? Or shall it be 
 foiiTid_in .gjome old HnnmneTit ? 
 
 Agmae. LeJ_some one hajre_seen it 
 once in some rare document. Let it 
 be'S gffkBirpf-in '^tfaB- mayket place . 
 
 Slao It shall belspokeirBf~ai%ster. 
 
 [Slag lingers. Enter Thiep and Thahn] 
 
 OoGNO. JlhisJ s our thief. 
 
 Agmak [encouragingly]. Ah, he is a 
 
 quicfc^Wef-- 
 
 Thief. I could only procure you 
 three __g3sen — taimfliija_ master. The 
 city^^is not now well supplied with 
 themj;_BlQrfiQX£r, it is a very suspicious 
 oityand without shame for the baseness 
 of its suspicions. 
 
 Slag.' [To a Beggab] J This i s not 
 thieying. 
 
 Thief. I could do no more, master. 
 I have not practised thieving all my life. 
 
 Agmab. You have got something : 
 it may serve our purpose. How long 
 have you been thieving? 
 
 TfiiEF. I stfllfiL2js£jwhen-I -was tBBT. 
 
 Slag [in horror]. When he was ten ! 
 
 Agmab. We must tear them up 
 and divide them amon gst the seven. 
 [To ThahW] Bring me auotberHaeggar. 
 
 Slag. When my master was ten 
 hgJiad-alrj Bady to ^slip by jught- out nf. 
 two cities. 
 
 OoGNO [admiringly]. Out ,of two 
 cities ? 
 
 Slag [nodding his head]. In his 
 native city they do not now _know- 
 what— beea mo of t he-geld«n cup that 
 stood in the Lunar Temple. 
 "Agmab. Yfis, into seven pieces. 
 
 Ulf. We will eaoh wtsafapieee of 
 it over our rags. '" "~~ 
 TfoBNoT Yes, yes, we shall look fine. 
 
 Agmab. That is not the way that 
 we shall disguise ourselves. 
 
 OoGNO. Not-eover our rags? 
 
 Agmab. No, no. The first who 
 looked closely would-sa^i,— ^^h«se- are 
 onl2^_beggarS;_Thefy have disguised 
 trieinselves." ■ ' 
 
 Ulf. What shall we do? 
 
 Agmab. Each of the seven shall 
 wear a piece of the green raiment 
 underneath his rags. And peradventure 
 here and there a Uttle shall show 
 through; and men shall say, "These 
 seven have disguised themselves as 
 beggars. But we know not what they 
 be." 
 
 Slag. Heatmyjgdsejnaster. 
 
 OoGNO [in admiration]. He is a 
 
 Ulf. He is an old beggar. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 [The Metropolitan Hall of the city of 
 Kongros. Citizens, etc.] 
 
 [Enter the Seven Beggars loith green 
 silk under their rags] 
 
 OoRANDBB. Who are, yo« — and 
 
 wban ca pnmp. yni ^^ 
 
 Agmab. Who may say what we are 
 or whence we^ome ? 
 
 OoRANDEB. What are these beggars 
 andjy hy do i ix sy oonie her e? — ' 
 
 Agmab! Who said to you that we 
 were beggars? 
 
 OoRANDER. Why do these men come 
 here? 
 
 Agmab. Who said to you that we 
 were men ? 
 
 hantNAUN. Now, by the moon ! 
 
 Agmab. My^ster. 
 
 Illanattn. What? 
 
 Agmar. My little s ister. 
 
 Slag^ Ou r httle s igter the moon. 
 
 She comes to us at evemng s~away in 
 the mountains oTTMarma. SlB~trips 
 over the"mounlams wEen~Bhe is young. 
 
846 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 W hen sh e is_xouDig„ and slender she 
 comes anS~danoes before us, and when 
 she is old and unshapely she hobbles 
 away from the hiUs. 
 
 Aqmae. Yet is she young again 
 and forever nimble with youth; yet 
 she ^come.&- dancing back. The years 
 are _aat.,a.bleL-to Biirk-hfit-Hor to bring 
 gray.hairs -to_ her brethren. 
 
 OoEANDEK. This is uot wonted. 
 
 Illanaun. ■ It is not in, aoeordanae 
 with custom. 
 
 Akmos. Prophecy hath_ao.t -thought 
 it^ 
 
 "Slag. Sh©^ comes to us new— and 
 nimble, remembering _oldap.iQyes. 
 
 OoRANDER. It were well that proph- 
 ets should_camg_aiui-speafc-4e- us. • — 
 
 Illanaun. This hath not been in 
 
 t he past . Let prophets come. Let 
 
 prophets "5peafc-to; us Bfrfgtufe thih^T" 
 
 [TTie Beggars seat themselves upon 
 
 the floor in the attitude of the 
 
 Seven Gods of Marma] 
 
 Citizen. I heard men speak to-day 
 in J)he_ market place. They speak of a 
 prophecy read sozneWhETErTDf^ old. It 
 says the seven gods shall" come from 
 Marma jn the^uiae of men. 
 
 Illanaun. Is this a true prophecy? 
 
 OoRANDER. It is all the prophecy 
 we have. Man without -prophecy is 
 like a sailor going, l5y_night~!TTCi — un- 
 charted-seas. He knows nXDt ■where 
 are the rocks nor jwhere_the havens. 
 To the man on watch all thln^~ahead 
 are black and the stars guide him not, 
 for he knows not what they are. 
 
 Illanaun. Should we not investi- 
 gate this prophecy? 
 
 OoRANDEE. Let us accept it. It is 
 as the small, unc^taiiriigh'(r-of a lan- 
 ternrcsmed it may be by a drunkard, 
 but along the shore of some haven. 
 Let us be guided. 
 
 Akmos. It may be that they are 
 buUsengvolent gods. 
 
 Aqmar. There is no benevolence 
 greater than our benevolence. 
 
 Illanaun . Then we need do Httle : 
 they,porte]ia" no danger to us. 
 
 Agmar. Therg^ is no anger greater 
 than out-anger. — " 
 
 OoRANDER. Let us make sacrifice 
 
 to them if they be gods: — 
 
 'A.KMos; WeTrumbl-y- worship you, 
 if__ya.be jBds. 
 
 "Illanaun [kneeling too]. You are 
 mightier than all men and hold high 
 rank among-ather gods and are lords 
 of this, our city,. ana~have the thunder 
 
 as your plaything and the whirlwind 
 and the eclipse and all the destinies of 
 human tribes — if ye be gods. 
 
 Aqmar. Let Jthfii pestilence not fall 
 at.,onoe upon thia cilyj_as it had indeed 
 designed to ; let not the earthquaKe 
 swaUow it all immediately . up amid 
 the howls of the thunder; let nofTn^ 
 furiated armies overwhelm those that 
 escape — if we be gods — 
 
 Populace [in horror]. If.we_be_gods-! 
 
 OoRANDER. Come, let us sacrifice. 
 
 Illanaun. Bring lambs. 
 
 Akmos. Quick ! Quick ! 
 
 [jixeunt some] 
 
 Slag [with solemn air]. This__gcuL4s 
 a very divine god. 
 
 Thahn. He is no common god. 
 
 Mlan. Indeed he hasTnaTie us. 
 
 Citizen. [To Slag] He will not 
 punish us, master? None of the gods 
 will punish us? We will make a 
 sacriSoeTlTgood-saoriflge: - 
 
 Another. We wiU sacrifice a lamb 
 that the priests have blessed. 
 
 First Citizen. Master, you are not 
 wroth with us? 
 
 Slag. Who may say what cloudy 
 dooms are roUing^ upin-^e-miad^of 
 the eldest of _the_gods? He is no 
 common^ iai3..Iiie-iis,_Jlnaeaj^epherd 
 went by him in^ Jhe—mouSffins- and 
 doubted as he went. He S6nt_a doom 
 after that shephard. '" 
 
 Citizen.' Master, we have not 
 doubted. 
 
 Slag. And the rljiom found him 
 on the hills at evfining. 
 
 Second Citizen. It shall be a good 
 sacrifice, master. 
 
 [Re-enter with a dead lamb and fruits. 
 They offer the lamb on an altar 
 where there is fire, and fruits before 
 the altar] 
 
 Thahn [stretching out a hand to a 
 lamb upon an altar]. That leg is not 
 being cooked alLaU. " 
 
 Illanaun. It is strange that gods 
 should be thus anxjous - about the co flk- 
 
 Uorandbr! It is strange certainly. 
 
 Illanaun. Almost I had said that 
 it was a man spoke then. 
 
 OoRANDER [stroking his beard and 
 regarding the Second Beggar]. Strange. 
 Strange, certainly. 
 
 Agmar. Is it then strange that the 
 god§_love_rMiS±fid.flfish£^ For this p ur- 
 
 prtsethey^^gp theJj gViyning. When 
 
The Gods of the Mountain 
 
 847 
 
 the Jightn ing fl ickers about the limbs 
 of men tE§fe~T5omes- to— -the -gods in 
 Manna a pleasant sm glL even a_smell 
 oLroa^ting. SometimesTEe ~g63si ^Being 
 pacific, are pleased to have roasted 
 instea d the flesh of lanab . It is all 
 one to tJie gods ; ietthe roasting-stop. 
 
 OoRANDER. No, no, gods of the 
 mountains ! 
 
 Others. No, no. 
 
 OoRANDER. Quick, let us offer the 
 
 fles h to them If-they-eat,_alHsjweIl. 
 
 [They offer it; the Beggars eat, 
 all but Agmar, who watches] 
 
 Illanaun. One who was ignorant, 
 one wha__did_jat_knQw, had almost 
 said that Jhex_ate like hun^y men. 
 
 Others. Hush"! 
 
 Akmos. Yet they look as though 
 they had--not-had_a._JiLeaJUlike this for 
 a lo^Tinie. 
 
 (JoRANDER. They h ave a,.Jiungry 
 look. 
 
 Agmar [who has not eaten]. I have 
 not ^a.tpr ) si nq ethe world w as—yery 
 new_aad_th£^^^_of^jfflJKas tenderer 
 tlra5r~now! THSSe" yoting6r__go3s~^Eave 
 learnedJhsJiaJjitjof-^ating^omtHe^ons . 
 ~-0Orander O oI3est^f divinittes, 
 partake, partake. 
 
 AgKsh; — It is not fitting— thafr-such 
 as I sh ou ld ea t. None eat but beasts 
 aflSIffiin;la53I3be_younger_g.Qds. The 
 sun and the moon and" the nimble 
 lightning and I — we may Hll and we 
 may madden, but we do not eat. 
 
 Akmos. If he -but" eat of our offer- 
 ing he cannot overwhelm us. 
 
 All. Oh, ancient deity, partake, 
 partake. 
 
 AgmaSt Enough. Let it be enough 
 that these have j jondfisoended to this 
 bestial and Jiuman habit. 
 
 Illanaun. [To Akmos] And yet 
 he is not unlifce- a bHggiti whom -4-.saiW 
 notjO-loag-akice. 
 
 OoEANDBR. BiitJifiggarsjaat. 
 
 Illanaun. Now-J-Jiever -knew a 
 b6ggaj__y6t-3ftb&-would refuse_ a_bowl of 
 WoldOTy_mne. 
 
 ASiosT ThjaJa-OO beggar. 
 
 Illanaun. Nevertheless let us offer 
 him.A-bo' wl of W cihteiy-wine. 
 
 Akmos. You do wrong to doubt 
 Mm. 
 
 TftSANAUN. I do but wish to prove 
 his divinity. I ;wilL-fetc]i-tbe Woldery 
 wine. [Exit] 
 
 Akmos. He will not drink. Yet if 
 he doM,_ti&n-4ie-wHnitHi-overwhelm us. 
 
 ; uC3Eep-lBm the wine. 
 
 Let_^^OTEe 
 
 [Re-enter Illanaun with a goblet] 
 
 First Beggar. It-is^WoMery wine ! 
 Second Beggar. It is Woldery ! 
 Third Beggar. A^pblet of Woldery 
 wine! 
 
 Fourth Beggar. O blaassdjlfiy ! 
 Mlan. happy times I 
 Slag. 0_my_TOS&-master ! 
 
 [Illanaun takes the goblet. All 
 the Beggars stretch out their 
 hands, including Agmar. Il- 
 lanaun gives it to Agmar. 
 Agmar takes it solemnly, and 
 very carefully pours it upon 
 the ground] 
 First Beggar. He has,^pilt*ti 
 Second Beggar. "He nas spilt it. 
 
 [Agmar sniffs the fumes, loquitur] 
 Agmar. It_is^^ttiiig.lLl3a.tiaii. — Our 
 angerJsjoioBwEat-a^ppeased. 
 
 Another Beggar. But it was Wol- 
 dery ! 
 
 Akmos [kneeling to Agmar]. Master, 
 I, am chadless, and I — 
 
 Agmar. Trouble us not now. It is 
 the hhtlr a.l, -wHtTJrTHe^^ds a.rpi flggiis- 
 
 tomed" t o -gp eak jtP^JiJifiL_gnds-_in the 
 language of the gods, and if Man 
 heard us he would guess the futility 
 of his destiny, which were not well 
 for Man. Begone! Begone! 
 
 One Lingers [loquitur]. Master — 
 Agmar. Begone ! 
 
 [Exeunt. Agmar takes up a piece 
 of meat and begins to eat it; 
 the Beggars rise and stretch 
 themselves: they laugh, but 
 Agmar eats hungrily] 
 OoGNO. Ah ! Nowwe have come 
 into our own. ' " 
 
 "f hahST" Now we bav p alrp s. 
 Slag. Master! My wise fnaster ! 
 Ulp. These are the good days, the 
 good days ; and yet I have a fear. 
 
 Slag. What~ao~3 TOU feai - ? "There 
 is nothing to feaj^ No man is as wise 
 as my master. 
 
 Ulp. I fear the gods whom we pre- 
 tend to be. 
 
 Slag. The god s? 
 
 Agmar [taking a chunk of meat from 
 his lips]. Co me hither. Sla^ . 
 
 Slag [going^up to him]. Yes, master. 
 
 Agmar. Wat ch in the doo rway while 
 
 I,^eat. [Slag goes to the doorway] 
 
 Sit in the attitude of a god. Warn 
 
 me if any of the citizens approach. 
 
 '" [Srsii sits-im-the- doorway in the 
 
 attitude of a god, back to the 
 
 audience] 
 
848 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 OoGNO. [To Agmar] But, master, 
 shall we not have Woldery wine? 
 
 AgmahT" We shall have aU things if 
 only we are wise at first for a little. 
 
 Thahn. Master, do~ any suspect 
 
 us? 
 
 Agmar. 
 
 Thahn. 
 master ? 
 
 Agmar. 
 to us — 
 
 Thahn. 
 
 Agmak. 
 [All 
 
 We must be very wise. 
 But if we are not wise. 
 
 Why, then death may come 
 
 O master! 
 — slowly. 
 
 stir uneasily except Slag, 
 who sits motionless in the door- 
 way] 
 Oogno. Do they believe us, master? 
 Slag [half turning his head]. Some- 
 one comes. 
 
 [Slag resumes his position] 
 
 Agmar [putting away his meat]. We 
 shall soon know now. 
 
 [All take up the attitude. Enter 
 One, loquitur] 
 
 One. Master, I want -the god _that 
 does not eat. 
 "Agmak. I am he. 
 
 One. Master, my child was bitten 
 in the throat by a.deathracWap_at_noon. 
 Spare him, master; im sitiU breathes, 
 but slowly. 
 
 Agmar. Is hejndeed-yaur child? 
 
 One. He is sufelymy child, master. 
 
 Aqmar. Was it your wont to thwart 
 him in his play, while he was strong 
 and well"?- 
 
 One. I never thwarted him, inaster. 
 
 Agmar. Whose child is Death? 
 
 One. Death is the child of — the 
 gods. 
 
 Aqmar. Do you that never-thwarted 
 your -child- in Jds-4day_§^k_this^of_the 
 gods? 
 
 One [viith some horror, perceiving 
 Agmar' s meaning]. Master! 
 
 Agmar. WeepL__naL For all the 
 houses that- men, haveTxiil3ed ar e th e 
 plajtsflelds-oLthis^ child of" th"e~fbds.~ 
 [The Man goes~away-in silence, 
 not weeping] 
 
 Oogno [taking Thahn by the wrist]. 
 Is this indeed a man? 
 
 Agmar. A man, a man, and until 
 just now a hungry one. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Same room 
 
 A few days have elapsed 
 
 Seven thrones shaped like mountain^ 
 crags stand along the back of the 
 stage. On these the Beggars are 
 lounging. The Thief is absent 
 
 Mlan. Never had beggars such- a 
 time. 
 
 Oogno. Air-<^e— £cuijta_and_tOTdOT 
 lamb ! — . "^^ 
 
 Thahn. 'Jia.JffialdOTyjivine ! 
 
 Slag. It was better to see my 
 master's wise devices than to have 
 fruit and lamb and Woldery wine. 
 
 Mlan. Ah! When they spieji on 
 him to see it he woj4d, eat. when_ they 
 went away ! , ^ 
 
 OoQNo. When they questioned him 
 concerning the gods, and Man! 
 
 Thahn. When they asEed him why 
 the gods permitted cancer! 
 
 Slag. Ah, my wise master ! 
 
 Mlan. H ow well h i§_spl^«m£_J"'g 
 succeeded ! 
 
 OoQNo. How far away is hunger ! 
 
 Thahn. It is even like to one of 
 last year's dreams, — the- trouble of a 
 brief night long ago. 
 
 Oogno [laughing]. Ho, ho, ho! To 
 see them pray to us. 
 
 Agmar. When we were beggars did 
 we not speak as beggars? Did we not 
 whine as they? Was not our mien 
 
 beggarly? 
 
 Oogno. 
 calling. 
 
 Agmar. 
 
 We were the pride of our 
 
 Then now that we are gods, 
 let ng-ho <ifi p'"'^°| and not m^cK our 
 worshippers! " " 
 
 Ulf. I think that -the gods do mock 
 thei*-woiahippers. 
 
 Agmar. The gods have never 
 mocked us. We are above all pin- 
 nacles that we have ever gazed at in 
 dreams. 
 
 Ulp. I think that when man is 
 high then most of all are the gods 
 ■srontJtajIXQok-him. " 
 ""Thief [entering]. Master! I have 
 beeiLwith jthose that know all and see 
 all. I have been~^With the thieves, 
 master. They know me for one of the 
 craft, but— thay— do-_not know m e as 
 brangjine-af us. ~ 
 
 "Sgmar. Well, well ! 
 
 Thief. There is danger, master, 
 there i£ great dan ger. 
 
 Agm'ar! You mean that, the y sus- 
 pect that we ai' e m e n. 
 
The Gods of the Mountain 
 
 849 
 
 Thief. That they have long done, 
 master. T. mean thfl.f, f,|ip v will Iqio w 
 it. Then we are lo st. 
 -AUMak^ Then tBfey do not know it. 
 
 Thief. They do not know it yet, 
 but they willknx)5S!U.t,_and we are lost. 
 
 AonBOjc: V^hen will they know it? 
 
 Thief. T hree days ago they-sus- 
 
 ggfttiPfl lis. 
 
 ■ Agmak. 
 pect ed us, 
 so? 
 
 Thief. 
 
 Agmar. 
 thief. 
 
 Thief. 
 
 More— than-yau— think sus- 
 bjiiJiajce-any-daKed-to say 
 
 No, master. 
 Then forget your fears, my 
 
 gn we nt on drgsag- 
 iOEe gods 
 
 5^ went to.MarmaJ 
 YeSj three days agp. 
 
 We are lost ! 
 
 They went three days ago? 
 Yes, on dromedaries. 
 
 They shou ld be back to- 
 
 the 
 the 
 
 daries th ree days ago 
 a t Marma. 
 
 'Agmak. 
 Thief. 
 
 OOGNO. 
 
 Agmar. 
 
 Thief. 
 
 Agmar. 
 day.^ 
 ^OGNO. We are lost ! 
 
 Thahn. We are lost ! 
 
 Thief. They must have seen 
 green jade idols sitting against 
 mountains. They will say, "The gods 
 are stiU at Marma." And we shall be 
 burnt. 
 
 Slag. ]|^^nasti^_jdll, yet Revise a 
 plan. 
 
 Agmar. , [To the Thief] Slip away 
 to some h'gh pla ce and l ook toward the 
 desert..iad-see— ttrw— loag- we have to 
 devise.a_plan. 
 
 Slag. My master wiU find a plan. 
 
 OoGNO. He has taken us into a trap. 
 
 Thahn. His wisdom is our doom. 
 
 Slag. He wiU find a wise plan yet. 
 
 Thief [re-entering]. It is too late ! 
 
 Agmar. It is, too la te ! 
 
 The_ dromedary men are 
 
 Thief. 
 hera^. 
 
 OoGNO. 
 
 Agmar. 
 
 We are lost ! 
 Be -sJieirt-!- 
 
 aust think. 
 
 [They all sit still. Citizens enter and 
 prostrate themselves. Agmar sits 
 deep in thought] 
 
 Illanattn. [To Agmar] Two holy 
 pilgrims have gone toyour "saored 
 shrines 7~'wh^|^s-Jg iia=^-eEe-jKOiit _to s it 
 before3xBJ_MtJih&niQuntains. [Agmar 
 says nothing] They return even now. 
 
 Agmar. They lett us here and went 
 to find the gods? A fish once took a 
 journey into a far country to find the 
 sea. 
 
 Illanaun. Mpsfr — i-flvBrBTir? deity, 
 their piety -is- so -grea*Hihat- they have 
 gone to worship even -your shrines. 
 
 "Agmar. I know these men that 
 haYfi__gEeat piety. TSuch — iHenj~haye 
 often prayed tome before, but ~ffieir 
 prayers are not acceptable. They little 
 love the gods ; their only care is their 
 piety. I know these pious ones. They 
 will say that the seven gods were still 
 atr Marma. They will lie ahdsay that 
 we— were still at Marnia. So shall 
 they seem more pious to you all, pre- 
 tending that they alone have seen the 
 gods. Fools shall beUeve them and 
 share in their damnation. 
 
 Oghander. [To Illanaun]. Hush! 
 You anger the gods. 
 
 Illanaun. I am not sure whom I 
 a nger. _ 
 
 • uorander. Itmay be they are the 
 gods. """ ^~ 
 
 Illanaun. Where are these men 
 from Marma? 
 
 Citizen. Here are the dromedary 
 men ; they are coming now. 
 
 Illanaun. [To Agmar] The holy 
 pilgrims from your shrine are come to 
 worship you. 
 
 Agmah. The men are doubters. 
 How the gods hate the word ! Doubt 
 ever contaminated virtue. Let them 
 be cast into prison and not besmirch 
 your purity. [Rising] Let them not 
 enter here. 
 
 iLLANAuJf. But oh, most reverend 
 deity from t h e Mountain, w e also 
 doubt, most reverend deity. 
 
 A'gmaji. YdiT^ave chosen. You 
 ha ve chose n— AnH yat. I't. ic; pf(f, t"" 
 
 late. Repent and cast these men in 
 
 prison^ and it_iM^yIInoF~5e~tooT'ate. 
 
 The -r/nrtS fi.qnp. n.Riifff ini>pt — Anf) yet 
 
 when they think upon damnation and 
 the dooms that are withering a myriad 
 bones, then almost, were they not 
 divine, they could weep. Be quick! 
 Repent of your doubt. 
 
 [Enter the Dromedary Men] 
 
 Illanaun. Most reverend deity, it 
 is ami^:tyTtoubt. 
 
 Citizens. Nothing has killed him ! 
 They are not the gods ! 
 
 Slag. [To Agmar] You have a 
 p lan, my master. Y"" >'?^">— Hr-i>laTi 
 
 Agmar. Not yet, Slag. 
 
 Illanaun. [to Oorander] These 
 are the men that went to the shiines 
 at Marma. " 
 
850 
 
 Representative British Dramas 
 
 OoHANDEB [in a loud, clear voice]. 
 
 Werejthe Gods of the Mountain seated 
 
 still at^Iafma, or were they not there ? 
 
 [The BuGGAHS get up hurriedly 
 
 from their thrones] 
 
 Dbomedaby Man. !Ihes__s[ere not 
 
 there. 
 
 ~ Illanaun. They, werejiot-there? 
 Dromedary Man,.- Their — shrines 
 ■WBEfi_empty. 
 
 OoRANDEB. Behold the Godsjof^the 
 Mountain ! 
 
 Akmos. They have indeed —come 
 Ijajjo-Marma. 
 
 OoRANDER. Come. Let us go away 
 
 to prepare^,.§aeBi&Q^. A _migh.t,y.-saeri- 
 
 flce to atone for our doubting. 
 
 [Exeunt] 
 Slag. My most wise master ! 
 Agmab. No, no, Slag. I do not 
 knpw what has befallen. When I 
 went by Marma only two weeks ago 
 the idols of green jade were stillseated 
 there. 
 
 We are saved now. 
 
 Ay, we are saved. 
 
 We are saved, but I know 
 
 OOGNO. 
 
 Thahn. 
 Agmar. 
 notJiQW. 
 
 OOGNO. 
 
 time. 
 Thief. 
 
 Never had beggars such a 
 
 I will go out and watch. 
 
 [He Weeps out] 
 
 Ulf. Yet I have a fear. 
 
 Oogno. a fear? Why, we are 
 saved. 
 
 Ulf. Last night I dreamed. 
 
 Oogno. What was your dream? 
 
 Ulf. It was nothing. 'I dreamed 
 that I was thirsty and one gave me 
 V^dery— wine ;- ■ -yet— there— was _a_f ear 
 in my~dream. 
 
 Thahn. When I drink — Woldery 
 wine Z..a]lualEaid-ot_nothmg. 
 
 ■ Thief [re-enteringl. Ths y are m ak- 
 ing a j!leasant_banciuetjS3y for us ; 
 they areEUing lambs, and girls are 
 there with_fr«its,-_and_ttLfirfi_Js to be 
 muchJSSToldery wine. 
 
 Mlan. Never had beggars such a 
 
 time. 
 Agmar. 
 Thief. 
 Mlan. 
 Thief. 
 Oogno 
 
 Do any doubt-crgTtow? 
 I do not know. 
 When wiU the banquet be ? 
 When the stars come out. 
 Ah ! It is sunset already. 
 There wiU be good eating. 
 
 Thahn. We shall see the girls come 
 in with baskets upon their heads. 
 
 Oogno. There wiU be fruits in the 
 bask'ts. 
 Thahn. All the fruits of the valley. 
 
 Mlan. Oh, how long we have 
 wandered along the ways of the world! 
 
 SL*&^-0h, how hard they were! 
 
 Thahn. And how dusty I 
 
 Oogno. A nd how lit tle wine ! 
 
 Mlan. How long we have asked 
 and asked, and for how much ! 
 
 Agmar. We to whom all things are 
 coming now at last ! 
 
 Thief. I fear lest my art forsake 
 me now- that good-things come without 
 steaUng. 
 
 Agmab. You will n eed y our art no 
 longer^ 
 
 Slag. The wisdom of my master 
 shall suffice us all our days. 
 
 [Enter a frightened Man. He kneels 
 before Agmab and abases his fore- 
 head] 
 
 Man. Master, we imp lore you, the 
 people .besee^ you..t ■ — '-—__ 
 
 [Agmab and the Beggars in the 
 attitude of the gods sit silent] 
 
 Man. Master, it is terrible. [The 
 Beggars maintain silence] It is terrible 
 whejL-yau-waader-iB--the.jBvening. It 
 is terrible on the edge of the desert 
 in the evening. Children die when 
 t hey se e-you. 
 
 Agmab. In the-desert^" When did 
 yoji_seeus? 
 
 Man. Last night, master. You 
 were terrible last night. You were 
 terrible in the -gloamingi_ When your 
 hands were stretched out and groping. 
 You were feeling for the city. 
 
 Agmab. Last night-d«-yDU_say ? 
 
 Man. You were terrible in the 
 g^saming! 
 
 Agmar. Yat_yourself saw us? 
 
 Man. Yes, m!aitef7~you , were ter- 
 rible^ -Ciildren too^saw yoii and they 
 died. 
 
 Agmar. You say you saw us ? 
 
 Man. Yes, master. Not as you are 
 now, but otherwise. We implore you, 
 
 master," not- to —wander at evening. 
 
 You are terrible in the gloaming. 
 You are 
 
 Agmab. You say we appeared not 
 aa_-we— are^Ji£rffi:.__How^-did. we ^app^ar 
 to you? 
 
 Man. Otherwise, master, otherwise. 
 
 Agmab. But how did we appear to 
 you? 
 
 Man. You were__aJL_segn, master, 
 all greea-4n -the-gloaming^-jill of rock 
 again as you usecL to_be Jn the moun- 
 tains. Master, we can bear to see 
 
ine uoas oj ine Mountain 
 
 851 
 
 Tha,t Js_hpw_we appeared to 
 
 ou in flesh like men, but when we 
 ee rock wa)king-4t— is -terrible, it is 
 errible. 
 
 Agmak. 
 ou? 
 
 Man. Yes, master. Rock should 
 iot_:^Jk;__S/;hen .cMldifitt see it they 
 [o not understand. Rook sliould not 
 ralk in the evening. 
 
 Agmar. There have been doubters 
 <£ late. Ara_^they_satisflBd? 
 
 Man. Master, t hey ar e terrified. 
 ipare.ugi_master. " " 
 
 Agmar. It is wrang-to- doubt. Go 
 ind-be-faithful. [Exit Man] 
 
 Slag. What have they seen, master ? 
 
 Agmar. They have seen their own 
 eajTS d^eingjnJthe^desert. They have 
 sen. something green after the light 
 ras gone, andsomajjhild has told them 
 Miale-thart-it-was-us. I do not know 
 (That they have seen. What should 
 ihey have seen ? 
 
 Ulf. Something was coming this 
 vay frpmjtha_d6sert, he said. 
 
 Slag. What~s]iould come from the 
 lesert? 
 
 Agmar. They are a foolish people. 
 
 Ulf. That man's white face has 
 ieen some frightful thing. 
 
 Slag. A frightful thing? 
 
 Ulf. That man's face has been 
 lear to some frightful thing. 
 
 Agmar. It is only we that have 
 Tightened them and their fears have 
 [aa,de them foolish. 
 
 an Attendant urith a torch or 
 lantern which he places in a re- 
 ceptacle. Exit] 
 
 Thahn. Now we shall see the faces 
 3f t he giris' when they come to the 
 banquet. 
 
 Mlan. Never had beggars such a 
 time. 
 
 Agmak. Hark! They are coming. 
 [ hear footsteps. 
 
 Thahn. The dancing girls! They 
 ire coming ! 
 
 Thief. There is no sound of flutes, 
 they said they would come with music. 
 
 OoGNo. What heavy boots they 
 iave; they sound like feet of stone. 
 
 Thahn. I do not like to -hpa.r -tJiAJr 
 ieavy tread. Those that would dance 
 to us mustjifi-light-of foot. 
 
 AgmahT^T shall not ^mile at them 
 f they are not airy. ' 
 
 Mlan. They are coming very slowly. 
 They should come nimbly to us. 
 
 Thahn. They should dance as they 
 come. But the footfall is like the foot- 
 fall of heavy crabs. 
 
 Ulf [in a loud voice, almost chanting]. 
 I have-arfeaTran-old-fear and a boding. 
 We have done iU in the sight of the 
 seven" gods. Beggars _W6— were and 
 beggars we should have remained. We 
 have given up our calling and come in 
 sight of our doom. I will no longer 
 let my fear be silent ; it shaU run about 
 and ccy; it shall go from me crying, 
 Uke a dog from out of a doomed city; 
 for my fear has seen calamity and has 
 known an evil thing. 
 
 Slag [hoarsely]. Master! 
 Agmar [rising]. Come, come! 
 
 [They listen. No one speaks. 
 The stony boots come on. Enter 
 in single file through door in 
 right of back, a procession of 
 Seven Green Men, even hands 
 and faces are green; they wear 
 greenstone sandals; they walk 
 with knees extremely wide apart, 
 as having sat cross-legged for 
 centuries ;_ their right arms and 
 right forefingers point upward, 
 right elbows resting on left 
 hands; they stoop grotesquely. 
 Halfway to the footlights they 
 left wheel. They pass in front 
 of the Seven Beggars, now in 
 terrified attitudes, and six of 
 them sit down in the attitude 
 described, with their backs to 
 the audience. The leader 
 stands, still stooping] 
 
 OoGNO [cries out just as they wheel 
 left]. The Gods of the Mountain! 
 
 Agmar [hoarsely]. Be still! They 
 ar e dazzled by the l ight. They may 
 
 not see. ua, ~ -" — 
 
 [The leading Green Thing points 
 his forefinger at the lantern — 
 the flame turns green. When 
 the six are seated the leader 
 points one by one at each of the 
 Seven Beggars, shooting out 
 his forefinger at them- -As he 
 does this each beggar in his turn 
 gathers himself back on to his 
 throne and crosses his legs, his 
 right arm goes stiffly upward 
 with forefinger erect, and u, 
 staring look of horror comes 
 into his eyes. In this attitude 
 the Beggars sit motionless while 
 a green light falls upon their 
 faces. The Gods go out] 
 
852 
 
 Representative British, Dramas 
 
 Presently enter the Citizens, some with 
 victuals and fruit. One touches a 
 ■'s arm and then another's] 
 
 Citizen. They are cold ; they have 
 turned to stone. 
 
 [All abase themselves, foreheads 
 to the floor] 
 
 One. We have doubted the m. W e 
 have doubted them. They have turned 
 to stone — becaitse — we have doubted 
 them. 
 
 Another. They were the true gods. 
 
 All. They were the true gods. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Adams, H. Davenport. Dictionary of the Drama. Vol. I. Philadelphia : J. B. 
 
 Lippinoott & Co. 1904. 
 Archer, William. English Dramatists of To-day. London, 1882. 
 
 About the Theatre. London, 1886. 
 
 Haymaking. Boston : Small, Maynard & Co. 1912. 
 
 The Theatrical World, 1893-1897. London. 
 
 W. C. Macready. New York : Longmans, Green & Co. 1890. 
 
 Baker, H. Barton. History of the London Stage and Its Famous Players, 1576- 
 
 1903. New York : E. P. Dutton & Co. 1904. 
 Bancrofts, The. Recollections of Sixty Years. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co. 
 
 1909. 
 Barker, Granville, and WilUam Archer. Schemes and Estimates for a National 
 
 Theatre. New York : Duffield & Co. 1908. 
 Barrie, Sir James M. The Plays of. New York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 1918. 
 
 [In progress of publication.] 
 Bates, Katherine Lee. English Drama, A Working Basis. WeUesley College, 
 
 1896. 
 Borsa, Mario. The English Stage of To-day. Translated from the original 
 
 Italian, and edited with a Prefatory Note by Selwyn Brinton, M.A. New 
 
 York : John Lane Co. 1908. 
 Boyd, Ernest A. The Contemporary Drama of Ireland. Boston : Little, Brown, 
 
 & Co. 1917. 
 Brereton, Austin. The Life of Henry Irving. (2 vols.) New York : Longmans, 
 
 Green & Co. 1908. 
 Brown, T. AUston. History of the New York Stage. (3 vols.) New York: 
 
 Dodd, Mead and Co. 1903. 
 
 Cambridge History of English Literature. Vol. XIII, Chap. VIII, pp. 255-274. 
 
 Also Vol. XIII : Bibliography, Chap. XIII, pp. 560-568. 
 Carter, Huntly. The New Spirit in Drama and Art. New York: Mitchell 
 
 Kennerley. 1913. 
 Chandler, F. W. Aspects of Modern Drama. New York : The MacmiUan Co. 
 
 1914. 
 Clark, Barrett. The British and American Drama of To-day. New York : Henry 
 
 Holt & Co. 1915. [Study outlines of Pinero, Jones, Wilde, Shaw, Barker, 
 
 Phillips, Hankin, Chambers, Davies, Galsworthy, Masefleld, Houghton, 
 
 Sowerby, Baker, Barrie, Francis.] 
 Cole, J. W. Life and Theatrical Times of Charles Kean. London, 1859. 
 Cook, Dutton. Hours with the Players. (2 vols.) London : Chatto and Windus. 
 
 1881. Nights at the Play. (2 vols.) London, 1883. 
 
 853 
 
854 General Bibliography 
 
 Dickinson, Thomas H. The Contemporary Drama of England. Boston : Little, 
 Brown, & Co. 1917. 
 Chief Contemporary Dramatists. Selected and edited. Boston : Hough- 
 ton Mifflin Co. 1915. 
 Dukes, Ashley. Modern Dramatists. Chicago : C. H. Sergei & Co. 1912. 
 
 Escott, T. H. S. Social Transformation of the Victorian Age. A Survey of Court 
 and Country. New York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 1897. 
 
 Faxon, T. W. (Editor). Dramatic Index. 1911 se?. Boston : Boston Book Co. 
 Pilon, Augustin. The English Stage. Being an Account of the Victorian Drama. 
 
 Translated from the French by Frederic Whyte, with an Introduction by 
 
 Henry Arthur Jones. New York : Dodd, Mead, & Co. 1897. 
 Fitzgerald, Percy. Sir Henry Irving. A Biography. Philadelphia : George W. 
 
 Jacobs & Co. 
 Forshay, Florence E. Twentieth Century Dramas. English — Irish — American. 
 
 Boston : Boston Book Co. 1917. 
 
 Grein, J. T. Premieres of the Year. London, 1901. 
 
 Henderson, Archibald. The Changing Drama. Contributions and Tendencies. 
 New York : Henry Holt & Co. 1914. 
 European Dramatists. Cincinnati : Stewart & Kidd Co. 1913. [Con- 
 tains essays on Wilde, Shaw, and Barker.] 
 George Bernard Shaw : His Life and Works. A Critical Biography. Cin- 
 cinnati: Stewart & Kidd Co. 1911. 
 Hale, Edward Everett, Jr. Dramatists of To-day. New York : Henry Holt & Co. 
 
 1905. [Pinero, Shaw, PhilUps.] 
 HoUingshead, John. Gaiety Chronicles. Westminster. Constable & Co. 1898. 
 Houghton, Stanley. Works. Edited with an Introduction by Harold Brighouse. 
 
 (3 vols.) London: Constable. 1914. 
 Howe, P. P. Dramatic Portraits. New York: Mitchell Kennerley. 1913. 
 [Essays on Pinero, Jones, Wilde, Barrie, Shaw, Hankin, Barker, Davies, 
 and Galsworthy.] 
 The Repertory Theatre. A Record and a Criticism. New York : Mitchell 
 
 Kennerley. 1911. 
 Bernard Shaw : A Critical Study. New York : Dodd, Mead, & Co. 1915. 
 
 Jackson, Holbrook. The Eighteen Nineties : A Review of Art and Ideas at the 
 
 Close of the Nineteenth Centiiry. New York: Mitchell Kennerley. 
 
 1914. 
 Jones, Henry Arthur. The Foundations of a National Drama. A Collection of 
 
 Lectures, Essays, and Speeches, deUvered and written in the years 1896- 
 
 1912. New York : George H. Doran Co. 1913. 
 The Renascence of the English Drama. Essays, Lectures, Fragments 
 
 relating to the Modern English Stage, written and delivered in the years 
 
 1883-1894. New York : The MacmiUan Co. 1895. 
 
 MacCarthy, Desmond. The Court Theatre, 1904^-1907. A Commentary and 
 Criticism. London : A. H. Bullen. 1907. 
 
bliography 855 
 
 Modern Drama and Opera. A Reading List. (Mulliken.) Boston: Boston 
 
 Book Co. 1911. Another more comprehensive edition issued in 1915. 
 Moore, George. Impressions and Opinions. New York : Brentano's. 1913. 
 Morley, Henry. A Playgoer's Notebook, 1851-1866. London, 1891. 
 
 Nettleton, George Henry. English Drama of the Restoration and Eighteenth Cen- 
 tury, 1642-1780. New York : The Maomillan Co. 1914. 
 
 Palmer, John L. The Censor and the Theatres. New York : Mitchell Kennerley. 
 1913. 
 The Future of the Theatre. [Read essays on comedy by Palmer and Mere- 
 dith.] London : G. Bell & Sons, Ltd. 1913. 
 Pease, Edw. R. The Hist ry of the Fabian Society. London, 1916. 
 Pemberton, T. Edgar. The Kendalls. 
 
 John Hare. [Reminiscences also in London Strand. 1908.] 
 Sir Charles Wyndham. 
 Pierce, John Alexander. The Masterpieces of Modern Drama. (2 vols.) I. Eng- 
 lish and American. Garden City : Doubleday, Page & Co. 1915. 
 
 Robertson, J. Forbes, and W. May Phelps. Life and Life-work of Samuel Phelps. 
 London : Sampson Low, Marston & Co. 1886. 
 
 Scott, Clement. The Drama of Yesterday and To-day. (2 vols.) New York : 
 
 The Maomillan Co. 1899. 
 Shaw, George Bernard. Dramatic Opinions 9,nd Essays. (2 vols.) New York: 
 
 Brentano's. 1906. [All of Shaw's plays are issued by Brentano's.] 
 Stahl, Dr. Ernst Leopold. Das Englische Theater im 19 Jahrhundert. Berlin, 
 
 1914. 
 Stoker, Bram. Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving. (2 vols.) New York : 
 
 The Maomillan Co. 1906. 
 Symons, A. Plays, Acting and Music. New York : E. P. Dutton & Co. 1909. 
 
 Tatloek, John S. P., and Robert G. Martin. Representative English Plays. From 
 the Middle Ages to the End of the Nineteenth Century. Edited, with 
 Introductions and Notes. New York : The Century Co. 1916. 
 
 Terry, Ellem. The Story of My Life. Recollections and Reflections. New York : 
 The McClure Co. 1908. 
 
 Toynbee, William. The Diaries of William Charles Macready, 1833-1851. (2 vols.) 
 New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1912. 
 
 Traill, H. D. Social England. (Victorian Period.) Vols. 1-6. London : CasseU 
 & Co. 1893-1897. 
 
 Walkley, A. B. Drama and Life. New York : Brentano's. 1908. 
 
 Playhouse Impressioiis. London. 
 Weygandt, Cornelius. Irish Plays and Playwrights. Boston : Houghton Mifflin 
 
 Co. 1913. 
 Wyndham, H. S. Annals of the Covent Garden Theatre. London, 1905. 
 
INDIVIDUAL BIBLIOGRAPHIES FOR PLAYS 
 
 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 Richard B. Knowles, " life of James Sheridan Knowles ", edited by Francis 
 Hervey, London, 1872 ; John Westland Marston, " Our Recent Actors ", London : 
 S. Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington, Ltd., 1890. 
 
 DOUGLAS JBRROLD 
 
 "Dictionary of National Biography"; John Forster, "The Life of Charles 
 Dickens", London: Chapman & Hall, 1873-1874; Blanchard Jerrold, "The Life 
 and Remains of Douglas Jerrold ", London: W. Kent & Co., 1859; Walter Jer- 
 rold, "Douglas Jerrold and Punch", London: Macmillan& Co., 1910; T. Edgar 
 Pemberton, "Charles Dickens and the Stage", London, 1888; W. Teignmouth 
 Shore, " Charles Dickens and His Friends ", London : Cassell & Co., 1909 ; M. H. 
 Spielmann, "History of Puncfe", London: Cassell & Co., 1895 ; Edmund Hodgson 
 Yates, "ECis Recollections and Experiences", London: R. Bentley & Son, 1884. 
 
 SIR EDWARD BULWBR-LYTTON 
 
 " Cambridge History of English Literature ", edited by A. W. Ward and A. R. 
 Waller, Cambridge: University Press, 1907-1916, Chap. XIII, pp. 417-442— Vic- 
 torian Era; "Dictionary of National Biography"; "Life, Letters and Literary 
 Remains", by his son, 2 vols., London : K. Paul, Trench & Co., 1883 ; "Richelieu", 
 London Theatre, 1882, 2 : 75. 
 
 DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 Montrose J. Moses, "Famous Actor-Families in America", New York: Thomas 
 Y. Crowell & Co., 1906; Charles Byre Pascoe, "The Dramatic List", Boston: 
 Roberts Brothers, 1879; Townsend Walsh, "The Career of Dion Boucicault", 
 New York : Dunlap Society, 1915. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Arlo Bates, "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon", The Belles-Lettres Series, Boston; 
 D. C. Heath & Co., 1904; W. L. Courtney, "Browning as a Writer of Plays", 
 Fortnightly Review, 39 : 888 ; T. Lounsbury, "Philistine View of a Browning Play". 
 Atlantic Monthly, December, 1899; Elizabeth McCracken, "Stage Productions ol 
 Browning's Plays", Poet-Lore, April-June, 1903, 14:115-131; Mrs. Sutherland 
 Orr, "Life and Letters of Robert Browning", London, 1891. 
 
 857 
 
858 Individual Bibliographies for Plays 
 
 TOM TAYLOR 
 
 John Coleman, "Charles Reade as I Knew Him", London: Treherne & Co., 
 1903; " Dictionary of National Biography"; T. Edgar Pemberton, "Lord Dun- 
 dreary : A Memoir of Edward Askew Sothern", New York : Knickerbocker Press, 
 191-; Thomas Pm-nell, "Dramatists of the Present Day" [by "Q"], London: 
 Chapman & Hall, 1871; M. H. Spielmann, "History of Punch", London: Cassell 
 & Co., 1895; Tom Taylor, "On Buckstone", London Theatre, December, 1879; 
 Tom Taylor, "Historical Plays", London: Chatto & Windus, 1877; Tom Taylor, 
 "Some Thoughts on the English Stage", Every Saturday, February 13, 1869; Tom 
 Taylor, "ViUemarque's Barsaz-Breiz", translated as "Ballads and Songs of Brit- 
 tany", London: MacmiDan & Co., 1865. 
 
 THOMAS WILLIAM ROBERTSON 
 
 William Archer, "Theatrical Year-book", 1904, p. 53 ; "Dictionary of National 
 Biography"; T. Edgar Pemberton, " Society and Caste", The Belles-Lettres Series, 
 Boston : D. C. Heath & Co., 1905 ; G. B. Shaw, " Dramatic Opinions and Essays", 
 Vol. II, p. 281, New York : Brentano's, 1906 ; E. A. Sothern, "Memoir of Lord Dun- 
 dreary", T.Edgar Pemberton, New York : Knickerbocker Press, 191- ; "Thomas 
 W. Robertson, The Principal Dramatic Works of", with memoir by his son 
 (2 vols.), London, 1889. 
 
 WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT 
 
 William Archer, "English Dramatists of To-day", London : S. Lowe, Marston, 
 Searle & Rivington, 1882; Rutland Barrington, "W. S. Gilbert", London Book- 
 man, July, 1911, Vol. 40, pp. 157-161 ; Prangois Collier and Cunningham Bridgeman, 
 "Gilbert and Sullivan and Their Operas", Boston: Little, Brown, & Co., 1914; 
 "Dictionary of National Biography"; Benjamin William Findon, "Sir Arthur 
 Sullivan: His Life and Music", London: J. Nisbet & Co., Ltd., 1904; "W. S. 
 Gilbert, An Account by Himself", London Theatre, April 2, 1883; W. S. Gilbert, 
 "A Stage Play", 3rd series, Playmaking, III, Dramatic Museum of Columbia Uni- 
 versity, Introduction by William Archer, 1916; Walter J. Wells, "Souvenir of Sir 
 Arthur Sullivan", London: Newnes, 1901. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 William Archer, "The Theatrical World", 1894, p. 208; Maurice F. Egan, 
 "Saint Thomas of Canterbury and Becket", Catholic World, December, 1885, Vol. 
 42, pp. 382-395; Paul Jellinghaus, "Tennyson's Drama 'Harold'", Dissertation, 
 Borna-Leipzig, 1905; Louis Griinert, "Tennyson's Drama Becket", Dissertation, 
 Weimar, 1913 ; Henry Irving, "Becket : A Tragedy in a Prologu-e and Four Acts", 
 by Alfred Lord Tennyson, as arranged for the stage, and presented at the 
 Lyceum Theatre , on February 6, 1893, London: Maomillan & Co., 1904; Henry 
 Jatnes, "Views and Reviews ", Boston : Ball Publishing Co., 1908 ; Hallam Tenny- 
 son, "Alfred Lord Tennyson: A Memoir, by his son" (2 vols.), London: Mac- 
 millan & Co., 1897. 
 
raphies for Plays 859 
 
 HENRY ARTHUR JONES 
 
 W. D. Howells, "Plays of Henry Arthur Jones", North American Review, 
 October, 1907, 186: 205-212; H. A. Joaes, "The Theatre of Ideas", New York: 
 George H. Doran Co., 1915; Henry Arthur Jones, "Introduction to the Law of 
 the Drama, by Ferdinand BrunetiSre", 1st series. Papers on PlaymaMng, III, 
 Dramatic Museum of Columbia University, 1914 ; Henry Arthur Jones, Introduc- 
 tions to "Michael and His Lost Angel" (The Macmillan Co., 1896), "The Cru- 
 saders" (1893), "Saints and Sinners" (1891), "Judah" (1894), "The Case of 
 Rebellious Susan" (1897), "The Divine Gift" (Duckworth, 1913); "Modern 
 Drama and Opera", reading list of the works of various authors, Boston: Boston 
 Book Co., 1911-1915. See General Bibliography. 
 
 OSCAR WILDE 
 
 "Dictionary of National Biography"; Frank Harris, "Contemporary Por- 
 traits", New York: Kennerley, 1915; Leonard C. Ingleby, " Oscar Wilde : Some 
 Reminiscences", London: T. W. Laurie, 1914 ; A. Ransome, " Life of Oscar Wilde, 
 A Critical Study ' ' , London : M . Seeker, 1912 ; Robert Harborough Sherard, ' ' Oscar 
 Wilde: the Story of an Unhappy Friendship", London: Hermes Press, 1902; 
 Robert Harborough Sherard, "The Real Oscar Wilde", London: T. W. Laurie, 
 Ltd., 1915. 
 
 ARTHUR WING PINERO 
 
 William Archer, "Theatrical World", 1895, Foreword by Pinero ; W. L. Court- 
 ney, "The Idea of Tragedy", Prefatory Note by Pinero, New York: Brentano's, 
 1900; H. Hamilton. Fyfe, "Arthur Wing Pinero, A Study", London, 1902; Paul 
 Hamelius, "Arthur Wing Pinero und das engUsche Drama der Jetztzeit", Brussels, 
 1900; Charles Hastings, "Le Theatre Prangais et Anglais", Paris, 1900, trans- 
 lated by Frances A. Welby, 1901; Clayton Hamiltoii (Editor), "The Social Plays 
 of Arthur Wing Pinero", Vol. I, "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray", "The Notorious 
 Mrs. Ebbsmith" (successive volumes to follow), New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 
 1917; "Modern Drama and Opera": reading list of the works of various 
 authors, Boston: Boston Book Co., 1911-1915; A. W. Pinero, "The Modern 
 British Drama", London Theatre, n. s. 35 : 346, June, 1895 ; A. W. Pinero, London 
 Theatre, n. s. 13: 317, June 1, 1889; A. W. Pinero, "Robert Louis Stevenson as a 
 Dramatist", 1st series. Papers on Playmaking, IV, Dramatic Museum of Co- 
 lumbia University, Introduction by Clayton Hamilton, 1914; Wilibald Stocker, 
 " Pineros Dramen ; Studien tiber Motive, Charaktere und Technik " {Anglia, Vol. 35, 
 pp. 1-79, Halle, 1911). 
 
 JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 W. L. Courtney, "Realistic Drama", Fortnightly Review, July, 1913, 100: 103- 
 110; Sheila Kaye-Smith, "John Galsworthy", New York: Henry Holt & Co., 
 1916 (Writers of the Day Series); John Galsworthy, "The Inn of Tranquillity: 
 Studies and Essays", New York : Charles Soribner's Sons, 1912 ; "Modern Drama 
 and Opera ", reading list of the works of various authors, Boston : Boston Book Co. , 
 1911-1915. 
 
860 Individual Bibliographies for Plays 
 
 ST. JOHN HANKIN 
 
 John Drinkwater, "The Dramatic Works of St. John Hankin" (3 vols.), New 
 York : Mitchell Kennerley, 1913. 
 
 H. GRANVILLE BARKER 
 "Modern Drama and Opera", reading list, Boston: Boston Book Co., 1915. 
 
 JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 Bulletin of BibUography, Vol. 8, No. 6, p. 158, April, 1915, Boston : Boston 
 Book Co. 
 
 WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 
 
 Ernest A. Boyd, "The Contemporary Drama of Ireland", Boston: Little, 
 Brown, & Co., 1917; Darrell Figgis, "Studies and Appreciations", London: J. M. 
 Dent & Sons, Ltd., 1912; Stephen Gwynn, "An Uncommercial Theatre", Fort- 
 nightly Review, 1902, 78: 1051, December; Katharine Tynan Hinkson, "Twenty- 
 five Years: Reminiscences", London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1913; J. M. Hone, 
 "William Butler Yeats, the Poet of Contemporary Ireland", Dublin: Maunsel & 
 Co., Ltd., 1915; Horatio Sheafe Krans, "William Butler Yeats and the Irish 
 Literary Revival", New York: Doubleday, 1904; "Modern Drama and OpMa", 
 reading list of the works of various authors, Boston : Boston Book Co., 1911-1915 ; 
 George Moore, "Hail and Farewell", also in English Review, 1914, 5: 167-180, 
 350-364; Forrest Reid, "William Butler Yeats, A Critical Study", New York: 
 Dodd, Mead, and Co., 1915; Samhain, files, 1901 seg., Dubhn: 1901-1908 ; Allan 
 Wade, "Bibliography of the Writings of WilUam Butler Yeats", Shakespeare Head 
 Press, also in Collected Works, Vol. VIII. 
 
 JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE 
 
 Maurice Bourgeois, "John Millington Synge and the Irish Theatre", London: 
 Constable & Co., Ltd., 1913; Darrell Figgis, "Studies and Appreciations", London: 
 J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., 1912; James Huneker, "The Pathos of Distance", New 
 York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1913; P. P. Howe, "J. M. Synge, Critical Study", 
 London: M. Seeker, 1912; John Masefield in " Dictionary of National Biography " ; 
 John Masefield, "John M. Synge : A Few Personal Recollections, with Biographical 
 Notes", New York: The Macmillan Co., 1915; W. B. Yeats, Collected Works, 
 London: Chapman & HaU, 1908; "The Cutting of an Agate", New York: The 
 Macmillan Co., 1912; J. B. Yeats, New York Sun, July, 1909. 
 
 LADY AUGUSTA GREGORY 
 
 Lady Gregory, "Our Irish Theatre, A Chapter of Autobiography", New York: 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1913; CorneUus Weygandt, "Irish Plays and Playwrights'', 
 Boston: Houghton Mifdin Co., 1913. 
 
mamaual tsioaographies for Plays 861 
 
 PADRAIC COLUM 
 
 Cornelius Weygandt, "Irish Plays and Playwrights", Boston: Houghton 
 Mifflin Co., 1913. 
 
 LORD DUNSANY 
 
 Edward Hale Bierstadt, "Dunsany, the Dramatist", Boston: Little, Brown, 
 & Co., 1917 (contains bibliographies and casts); Lord Dunsany, "Romance and 
 the Modern Stage", National Review, July, 1911, Vol. 57, pp. 827-835; Review of 
 "Eleanor's Enterprise", by George Birmingham, Saturday Review, December, 
 1911 ; Critique on Abbey Theatre, Saturday Review, June, 1910. 
 

 
 

 
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