Class Copyright ]s^^ I ^ ' ' COFfRIGHT DEPOSn^' The Lady of the Portrait From a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds THE BEAU OF BATH AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS OF EIGHTEENTH CENTURY LIFE BY CONSTANCE D'ARCY MACKAY AUTHOR OF ^^ Costumes and Scenery for Amateurs,'' ' ''''Patriotic Plays and Pageants,'''' ^^The House of the Heart, and Other Plays for Children,''^ etc. ILLUSTRATED FROM PORTRAITS NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY Copyright, igis, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY Published SeJ>te?nber, 1915 No performance of these plays may be given without full ac- knowledgment to the author and publishers. Where a play is not the title play of the volume, as in the case of Ashes of Roses, acknowledgment should be made to read as follows: "By Con- stance D'Arcy Mackay ; from The Beau of Bath and Other One- Act Plays; Copyright, 191s. by Henry Holt and Company ; Produced by arrangement with the publishers." Where a play is named in the title of the volume of course the acknowledg- ment need not state what volume it is from. Amateurs may produce the plays in this volume without charge. Professional actors must apply for acting rights to the author, in care of the publishers. THE QUINN & BODEN 00. PRESS RAHWAY, H. J. SEP 23 1915 ^CI,A411652 k^ PREFACE The one-act plays in verse which this volume con- tains are dramatic miniatures of some of the notables of the eighteenth century in England. All of the plays are of the same period. Therefore, if so desired, three or four of them may be given consecutively with no change of scene by the simple expedient of moving the furniture and having different lighting. Watteau- like screens, a clavier for a harpsichord, the right use of chintz and brocade, firelight, candlelight or moon- light skillfully managed, and the thing is done! Little theatres, theatres intimes, and studio stages are constantly showing that atmosphere may be cre- ated by the most simple effects, whether for amateur or professional. And surely the atmosphere of no century can be conveyed more easily by a mere touch than that of the eighteenth, with its wits and belles, its powder and patches, its mannered elegance, its brocades and lace. CONTENTS The Beau of Bath . . . . PAGE • 3 The Silver Lining .... • 13 Ashes of Roses . . . . 27 Gretna Green . 41 Counsel Retained .... • S3 The Prince of Court Painters • 75 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE The Lady of the Portrait . . Frontispiece Miss Linley 41 Edmund Burke 53 George Romney 75 THE BEAU OF BATH THE BEAU OF BATH CHARACTERS Beau Nash Jepson, his servant The Lady of the Portrait Place: Bath. Time : Christmas Eve, 1750. Scene: A room in the Beau's apartment. Furniture and hangings of faded splendor. Candles gleam in silver sconces. Christmas holly hangs here and there. At the left a fire burns on the hearth, first with small blue dancing flames, then deepening to a rosy glow. At the right there is an inlaid desk with candles burning on it. Toward background a door opening into another room of the apartment. In the center background hangs the life-sized por- trait of a lady dressed in the fashion of the early eight- eenth century. Her dress is a shimmer of rose-colored satin. Beneath her faintly powdered hair her face is young, dawn-tinted, starry-eyed. There are no other portraits in the room. At the rise of the curtain Beau Nash is discovered seated at a round lacquered table, center foreground. 3 4 THE BEAU OF BATH He is an old matij still very erect and stately, very much the great dandy. The soft light of the room hides whatever ravages of time there may be in his face. It also hides the fact that the sea?ns of the black velvet suit he is wearing are growing gray, and that the creamy lace ruffles that grace his sleeves and jabot have been very often mended. Near him stands his servant, an old man slightly stooped, wearing a shabby brown cloth suit with a buff vest and tarnished gold buttons. He looks at his master adoringly. Jepson" And is that all, sir? Beau Nash Bring my snuffbox. So! Where are the cards? Jepson (bringing a pack of cards on a silver tray). Here, sir. Beau Nash Now you may go. (Jepson pauses). You hesitate? Jepson (with feeling). Why, sir, I'm loath to see You sitting here alone. THE BEAU OF BATH 5 Beau Nash This room, for me, Is filled with memories. Jepson Aye, sir, I know. I've served you thirty years and seen the flow And ebb of fortune, and I cannot bear Night after night to Beau Nash Jepson, all that's fair Passes and fades. Even the eagle's wings Grow slow with age. Content with little things Is wisest. \_Jepson fetches a score pad and pencil from the desk, and stands waiting with them at his master s table. Jepsoist Yes, sir. Beau Nash (watching fire). See how strangely blue The little flames are. // it should be true . . . Jepson (puzzled). Sir? 6 THE BEAU OF BATH Beau Nash That a spell is wrought by candle light And gleaming flame when it shines faintly bright. When hours grow small and embers lower burn On Christmas night they say old loves return. 'Tis merely folly, Jepson. Ne'er again Shall I behold that brilliant courtly train Of wits and beauties, fops and gamesters gay — All that made life in Bath when I held sway. Time was, my nod would stop the Prince's dance: A belle was made by my admiring glance: 'Twas I who set the fashions in brocade, But — laurels wither and the roses fade. And now I sit alone. My reign is done. The wits and fops have vanished one by one. Jepson (moved). You were the King of all, sir. High and low Admired you. Beau Nash Thank you, Jepson. (Takes score pad and pencil.) You may go. \Exit Jepson, left, quietly and reluctantly, with a backward glance at his master who still dreams at fire. Everything passes. Naught remains of all Except that portrait smiling from the wall. [He crosses to the portrait, candlestick in hand. THE BEAU OF BATH 7 Disdainful Rosamond, you still look down As when you were the toast of all the town. Lips red as holly, eyes so archly bright Nay, but your beauty dims the candle's light! [He puts down the candlestick. 'Tis vain to wish for things that may not be ; Yet could you for one hour come back to me Would I not say all that I left unsaid In days gone by? But you are long since dead, While I, grown old, above the embers cower, [He goes hack to his chair. Or play a game to help me pass the hour When shadows flicker . . . and the candles blink Until I drowse . . , and ... [He nods and dozes in his chair. The Lady of the Portrait moves, smiles, slowly and gracefully steps down from the portrait, silently crosses to the table, her eyes on the Beau. She catches up a handful of cards. The Lady 'Tis my play, I think If I see rightly by the candle's gleam. Beau Nash (in a whisper). Rosamond! 8 THE BEAU OF BATH The Lady (lightly). Well, sir, do you always dream When you play cards with ladies? If 'tis so I think 'twere best to call my chair and go. Beau Nash (bewildered, passing a hand across his eyes). I thought . . . that you were dead . . . and I was old! The Lady (still lightly). Fie, sir, to think that hearts like ours grow cold ! And when I hear you call upon my name Shall I not step down from that gilded frame To spend an hour of Christmas night with you? Come! Let us gossip of the folk we knew! Lord Foppington, whose wit I did adore Beau Nash I thought Lord Foppington a monstrous bore! But Kitty Cavendish Taith, one mad night We drank her health from out her slipper white. The Lady (with spirit). I vow then you were tipsy, one and all. For Kitty's slipper was by no means small. THE BEAU OF BATH 9 Beau Nash Nay, let's have done with thrust and counter thrust! Ah, Rosamond, in days gone by you must Have known I loved you, yet you were so cold. The Lady (very low). I had been warmer, sir, had you been bold! Beau Nash Bold! At your feet dukes laid their coronets, I could but offer you some gambling debts. These, and the worship of a world-worn heart Would scarce pass coinage in Dame Fashion's mart. So I fought down my love for you, and yet Your slightest gesture in the minuet Would stir my pulses. With a covert glance I watched you through the mazes of the dance, So fair, so radiant But what need for me To tell you of my heart's poor comedy. Is that a tear which falls for it, my sweet? The Lady (very sweetly and gently). A tear is naught, sir. (She turns to him.) Ah, must I repeat My love in words before you will believe That I too loved in vain? (As their eyes meet her meaning grows clear to him.) Now I must leave, For 'tis not long until the clock strikes one. io . THE BEAU OF BATH Beau Nash And you loved me ! The Lady Our hour is almost done. I leave you to your firelight and your chair, And to your game that's always — solitaire! \JVith delicate tread, moving silently as a ghost, the Lady steps back into the portrait. The Beau dozes again. The rosy glow of the fire dies, leaving the room in utter twilight. Jepson enters. Jepson 'Tis bedtime, sir. The clock struck long ago. The embers on the hearth are burning low. Even the wav'ring candle feebly gleams. Beau Nash (with a startled glance about the shadowy room). So late! ... So dim! ... I have been dreaming — Dreams ! THE CURTAIN SLOWLY FALLS THE SILVER LINING THE SILVER LINING CHARACTERS Fanny Burney Richard Burney, her uncle Cephas^ an old servant Place: Chessington. Time: 1778. Scene: Library in Mr. Crisp's house. A pleasant room, a trifle littered with books and papers. All across the background, windows curtained in palely flowered damask. A hearth at left, with a fire burning rosily. Brass andirons. A bellows. Near the hearth, facing audience, a dark-wooden settle with a high back. It is handsomely carved and appears to be quite old. Candles in silver candlesticks are lighted on the hearth shelf, and there are also framed sil- houettes standing there. At right, near background, a door opening into atiother room of the house. Also at left, towards fore- ground, a round table with a lighted candelabra, sev- eral drawings in striking black and white. A brass inkstand, sand, quill pens, etc. All along the right wall a dark bookcase full to running over with books. Its top shelf is piled high with them. Their covers are 13 14 THE SILVER LINING mostly brown and musty. There are also black, dark blue and green ones, but none in bright colors. At the rise of the curtain Fanny Burney, rather small, delicate, with a girlishly pretty face and softly curling unpowdered hair sits writing at the table, a small work-bag and sampler lying on her lap. She wears a pale yellow dress, flowered in white, over a pale yellow petticoat, and a white lace fichu. Black velvet ribbon at her throat, and about her wrists. She is deep in her work when there is the sound of so?neone opening the door at right. With amazing swiftness Fanny drops her pen, sweeps the drawings over what she is writing, drops her sampler and bag on top of them, and is crocheting when her uncle, Richard Burney, enters. He is a tall, portly, ruddy ?nan, with a ?nost important manner. He wears a handsome plum-colored traveling suit, and cari-ies a long church- warden pipe which he lights without a " by your leave " at his first opportunity. Well, Fanny! Richard Burney Fanny Burney (surprised). Uncle! Richard Burney Cephas welcomed me. There's no one else about as I can see. (Fanny drops a flurried curtsey.) Where's Mrs. Gast? THE SILVER LINING 15 Fanny Burney In bed. And Daddy Crisp Has gone to London. Richard Burney Cephas, with his lisp, Has so informed me. And I also know Your father left here just three days ago, So I have missed him. Lord ! What a to-do ! I'm just from town myself. Child, how are you? Fanny Burney (prettily) . Quite well, and hope my kinsfolk are the same. Richard Burney (puffing at his pipe before the fire). Um. Yes. Fanny Burney What news ? Richard Burney The whole town rings with fame Of a new author, who has writ a book Called " Evelina." Ever5rwhere you look You see it advertised. Yet no one knows The author's name and rumor madly goes Naming first this one, and then that one. i6 THE SILVER LINING Fanny Burney (passionately). Oh, If they should ever guess ! (She grows pale.) Richard Burney They're sure to know Sooner or later. Burke sat up all night To read it. Said if he could guess aright The author's name, that fifty pounds he'd give, While Dr. Johnston cried out: "As I live I can't forget the book. It's my delight! " Why, Fanny! How you look! First red, then white. Fanny Burney (trying to speak without a tremor). You see, in Chessington, our life is dull, And everything you say seems wonderful, And stirs the heart like bells of London town, And so this — " Katherina " wins renown? Richard Burney Nay, " Evelina " so the novel's named. The author who has written it is famed Forever. 'Tis a puzzle. No one can Be positive who is the lucky man. If, when I've read it I have found 'twill do For you to read, 'twill be permitted you. THE SILVER LINING 17 Thank you. Fanny Burney (demurely). And busy. Richard Burney How's Charles? Fanny Burney My father's vastly well, Richard Burney Humph. I think that I could tell That without asking. Times are hard. I saw A friend of Charles' last night — young Clapperclaw Who swears that Clark wrote " Evelina." Fool! But when I said 'twas more like Fielding's school Mrs. Thrale looked at me the oddest way, Said: "Did you get the note I sent to-day? Go search for ' Evelina ' nearer home. If you would find her you've not far to roam." (Fanny turns and looks at him, aghast; but he con- tinues placidly.) I think she means that Anstey's written it. But, lord, I'm sure that he has not the wit! Although the strangest people try to write: Children and fools. I've not forgot the night Your father found you at it, clipped your wing. Forbade such nonsense and then burned the thing, And brought you to your senses. Pen and ink Are not for women, but for men who think. Females are cackling geese. 'Tis only men Who have the strength of mind to wield a pen. i8 THE SILVER LINING Fanny Burney (picking up pen from table). And yet this pen is made from a goose feather! Richard Burney (frowning). Well, pens and women do not go together. A bluestocking is a disgrace, (Yawns.) Heigho! The hour grows late. I'll take my candle. \^He crosses to table, takes candle, and pauses to pick up drawings for inspection. As he lifts one it catches on the manuscript beneath, and the latter sweeps to the floor, and falls with pages outspread. Fanny Burney (with a stifled excla?nation). Oh! Richard Burney (puzzled; then angry). What's this ? (Picks up a few pages.) Great heavens ! Fanny! Well, I swear You have been writing ! And you've hid it there Behind your sampler. Wait till Charles hears this! Fanny Burney (imploring him). Oh, Uncle Richard, if you'll THE SILVER LINING 19 Richard Burney Silence, miss! You should be shamed to look me in the face. Thank God that no one else knows this disgrace. How far has this thing gone ? Come, answer me. Who else has seen this rubbish besides me? Fanny Burney (terrified). Oh, Uncle- RiCHARD Burney (with mounting rage). Wait till Charles and I confer! Who else? Fanny Burney (between sobs). I've sent it to a publisher. Richard Burney (furiously). Fanny ! Don't tell me you have been so bold ! Fanny Burney (sobbing wildly). Oh, — worse — than — that ! The — book's — already- sold! 20 THE SILVER LINING Richard Burney (starting violently). Sold! Why, God bless me ! Fanny, you don't say That you got money for it? (He stares at her^ open- mouthed.) Fanny Burney (with a fresh burst of tears). Yes, to-day A — check — came Richard Burney (eagerly). For how much? Fanny Burney (choked with sobs). Two — ^hundred — pounds.* Richard Burney (staggered). Two hun Why, Fanny ! I am dreaming ! Zounds ! When did you write? Fanny Burney (struggling for self-control). A little, every day. I covered it with samplers and crochet. (She wipes her eyes.) * This is a slight exaggeration for the sake of dramatic effectiveness. THE SILVER LINING 21 Richard Burney (quite mollified). What's the book called ? Fanny Burney (trembling). 'Tis " Evelina." Richard Burney (stunned). You Wrote "Evelina"? (Fanny nods.) Lord! What a to-do ! When Burke hears this! That Clapperclaw's a fool! (With triumph.) I knew the book came from some other school ! (Expands as if talking to imaginary people.) " My niece, the authoress ..." Fanny Burney (approaching him humbly). Uncle, I know I've been deceitful, but I loved it so — My book. Forgive me. I won't write again. Richard Burney Eh? Oh, tut, tut! I wouldn't cause you pain For your — er — fault. 22 THE SILVER LINING Fanny Burney (with emotion). Uncle, if you could dream All that it meant to me, the thrill — the gleam — You'll never guess what dull hours I've beguiled. Richard Burney (patronizingly) . There ! There ! Remember you're my niece, dear child. One mustn't be too hard on what's one's own. Oh, Uncle! Fanny Burney (with quick gratitude). Richard Burney (condescendingly). If you want to be alone Sometimes, and write, I've no objection — none. Fanny Burney (radiant). Uncle! Richard Burney (to himself). And when I think how quick it's done Just write a book, and make two hundred pounds! [^Cephas appears at door right, an old man in snuff-colored livery. He carries a candle, and an iron ring with some large keys on it. THE SILVER LINING 23 Cephas Miss Fanny- Fanny Burney (to her uncle). Cephas wants to make his rounds And lock the doors. Richard Burney Then, child, good night. [Fanny takes a candle from the table. Mo- tions to Cephas to go. He exits, right, and Fanny drops a curtsey to her uncle. Fanny Burney Good night. Richard Burney (intercepting her). You think that you might write some more as bright As "Evelina"? Fanny Burney (modestly). I can try. Richard Burney Yes, do. \^Again Fanny etches him a dutiful curtsey. He smiles at her benignly between puffs of smoke as he stands with his back to the fire. 24 THE SILVER LINING She exits, rightj with her candle. Richard Burney puffs complacently, yet with the air of a man who must speak aloud in order to give vent to his feelings. His sentences come between enjoyable whiffs. Richard Burney Well, even if the hussy's socks are blue She's my own niece. One shouldn't be repining To find bliie stockings have a silver lining. The little baggage ! Lord ! Two hundred pounds ! Well, Charles can spend it fixing up his grounds! QUICK CURTAIN ASHES OF ROSES ASHES OF ROSES CHARACTERS Kitty Clive Horace Walpole Phyllis RoxANE, maid to Mistress Clive Call Boy Place : London. Time: A Spring night in 1741. Scene: The theatre dressing-room of Kitty Clive. The bare white-washed walls of the dressing-room are almost hidden by the softly tinted costumes that hang fro?n their pegs. There are also shimmering cloaks, a wig or so. A mask and domino. A mock- ermine robe. In background, right, a door with a light cloak hanging on it. When this door is opened, the dingy backs of stacked scenery show dimly. Against the wall of left background a spindle-legged dressing table glittering with silver paste boxes, brushes, smell- ing salts bottles, powder boxes, all of which are reflected with double glitter in the mirror that hangs above them. ■_ Lighted candles in silver sconces jut from each side of the ?nirror. There are six candles in each sconce, and their illumination falls like a soft glory 27 28 ASHES OF ROSES over the room. There are two damask chairs with gilt legs, one for Kitty Clive, and one for any chance visitor. The one for Kitty Ciive is in front of the dressing table. The other stands near and is covered with a frou-frou of stage dresses. At the rise of the curtain Kitty Clive is seated at the table with Roxane in attendance. The actress is sumptuous in blue and silver brocade, worn over a white satin petticoat. Her hair is dressed very high, and is white with powder. A necklace of pearls and diamonds glitters about her throat. Her cheeks and lips are rouged. Her great eyes sparkle under pen- ciled eyebrows. Her hands are thick with rings. On her white satin high-heeled slippers flash the most brilliant of buckles. Her white silk stockings have silver clocks. Roxane, a slim, sprightly creature, wears an old rose dress looped over an old rose and white- striped petticoat. A white kerchief and a frilled white cap on her dark hair. A saucy white apron. She holds a harems foot mounted in silver and a silver patch box.. Clive Quick with the hare's foot! Lud, your hands are slow! Nay, I spoke sharply. Next the patches. So! Fasten this bit of ribbon to the right, And set this diamond crescent well in sight. Then for this side-wise curl more powder bring. How look I now? Roxane Mistress, as fair as Spring. ASHES OF ROSES 29 Clive " As fair as Spring ! " God, what an age ago Since Spring and I were friends! I used to know The banks whereon the early violets grew Lifting their little faces deeply blue Yet not more deeply blue than a lad's eyes In those sweet days ere town had made me wise, Ere I had learned that flattery hides a dart, And fame feeds vanity, but not the heart. . . . Oh, those far days. ... (She speaks more to herself than to Roxane.) ROXANE (as a rap sounds on the door). Mistress! Clive (rousing herself). T,. , , , . 'Tis Walpole's rap. rsid him come m. [^Roxane opens the door. PFalpole enters, a distinguished-looking man with great charm of manner. He wears a suit of gray satin with the customary ruffles and flowered zvaistcoat. His tri-corn hat is tucked under his arm. His powdered wig is almost as elaborate as that of Clive herself. I knew you by your tap! \^She does not rise, but extends her hand, which he kisses gallantly. 30 ASHES OF ROSES Walpole My tap is ever at the Queen and Star. Clive Fie, Horace! What a flatterer you are! How many occupations you must fit To start as tapster, and to end as wit ! A courtier also! Walpole Never that with you. Clive (to Roxane). Go wait, Roxane, and call me ere my cue. [Exit Roxane. Clive turns to Walpole with genuine feeling. My deep, true friend. There are not many such. Walpole Pensive, sweet Kit? Clive (affecting to be busy with powder puff and hare's foot). Nay, Horace, 'tis the touch Of an old sadness that the waking year Wakes in my heart. We mouthe and stutter here, Snatching such tinsel as the town may fling. While out beyond the city it is Spring . . . ASHES OF ROSES 31 Spring in the country lanes where lovers stray, Spring! And the Devon hedgerows white with May! Hedgerows of Devon ! (Turns to Walpole.) Friend, there used to be A lad who walked in those green lanes with me And spoke of love. But I — I heard the town Calling me with a voice that would not down. I heard, I followed. London gave me fame. And all has changed since then — my life, my name. And yet I think I never can forget The garden where we parted. It was set With sweetbriar roses. 'Faith, I know not why - I tell you fragments of a day gone by, — Save that he said: "Dearheart, lest you return, A light shall ever in that window burn Through all the years." He had no subtle art. My country lover. Yet, against my heart To-night — his rose! (Takes a faded rose from the bosom of her dress.) Oh, Horace, you who know How vain and false and empty is the show, How foul the fawning, and how barbed the wit, Think me not mad to say farewell to it ! To quit the footlights for that candle's gleam, To seek that simple faith of which I dream. And find that the world lost for love is best ROXANE (rapping briskly and then entering). Mistress, a country zany, strangely dressed, Would speak with you. She comes from Devon way. 32 ASHES OF ROSES Clive (instantly interested). From Devon? Bid her enter. Walpole (rising). I'll not stay. Adieu, sweet Clive. Clive (to herself). From Devon! (Suddenly perceives that Walpole is going, and etches him an abstracted curtsey.) Oh, adieu! [Exit Walpole. Enter Phyllis, a young girl, with a sweet, rustic look. She wears a pale yellow muslin dress, faintly sprigged with white and a little pale yellow straw poke bonnet, with pale yellow strings tied under her chin. Long lace mitts. A little white woolen cloak with swansdown edging. From beneath the shade of her poke bonnet her eyes look out with child-like earnestness. She re- gards Clive with timid awe. Phyllis M}^ name is Phyllis. May I speak with you? ASHES OF ROSES 33 Clive (looking at her with great interest). Aye, child. Speak freely. Phyllis (shyly eager). Last night at the play I watched you. 'Twas so wondrous. You could sway The house to tears or laughter, swift as flame ! And so (though father knows it not) I came To-night to ask your counsel. You who know The secrets of the heart — its joy, its woe [Clivers first interest has waned a little. She goes on with her toilet, yet speaks very kindly and patiently to Phyllis. Clive Speak, child. But give me not too hard a task. Phyllis (gaining courage). Oh, Mistress, 'tis not for myself I ask! 'Tis for a friend Clive (absorbed with the art of her patch box). A friend — — 34 ASHES OF ROSES Phyllis (hurriedly). He lives alone In a thatched cottage that is near our own, And has a curious, rambling garden set With sweetbriar roses Clive (momentarily startled: then recovering herself). Roses? I forget Proceed, my child. Phyllis (with courage). And by a windowpane Each night, for years, through starlight and through rain Has shone a lighted candle. Clive (motionless). Ah! Phyllis (artlessly). They say That years ago his true love went her way To London town: and lest she should return And find the way all dark, he needs must burn That welcome gleam. Though she was fain to roam He felt that beacon light would guide her home. Home! ASHES OF ROSES 35 Clive - (deeply moved). Phyllis (timidly). Was it not a tender thing to do ? Clive (deeply). Aye. Phyllis (ardently). Oh, there seldom beats a heart so true. He loved her always. Clive (in a thrilled voice, staring a-dream at sornething Phyllis does not see). Always . . . ! Phyllis Until now. Mistress, indeed I scarce can tell you how He came to care for me, his neighbor's child. I doubted that he meant it. But he smiled And said that after storm came peace and rest. Great loves flamed high, but simple loves were best, And sound of children's voices and a fire Lit on the hearth for Autumn days I tire You with my selfish chatter. Mistress? 36 ASHES OF ROSES Clive (her face a mask). (searchingly.) You love him? Nay. Phyllis (with genuine passion). Oh, more deep than words can say ! Yet ever through my heart there runs a fear — If we were wed, that love of yester-year Might sometime lift the latch, and put to flight His heart's deep peace — ^set memory's torch alight — Re-ope the old wound, and the old, old pain Clive (after a moment). You need not fear — she'll not return again. Phyllis You think she will not — you who are so wise In the world's ways and see with such clear eyes — You think she will not? Clive (faintly smiling). I am quite, quite sure. ASHES OF ROSES 37 Phyllis (radiantly). Oh, Mistress, for such counsel words are poor To give in thanks. Clive (rising wearily, her face beneath its paint suddenly grown old). Nay, child. No thanks, I pray. But sometimes . . . when the year is white with May . . . Remember me. [Phyllis suddenly bends and kisses Clive's hand, shyly impulsive and adoring. Clive lays the other hand for a moment gently on the girl's shoulder, looking at the youth of her, and then dismisses her with a light imperious gesture. Now go, child. [Exit Phyllis. Call Boy's Voice (without). Ready, all! ROXANE (entering breathlessly and with importance). Mistress, they wait. It is the curtain call — The curtain call And there's the prompter's bell ! 38 ASHES OF ROSES Clive [^Looking at a jaded sweetbriar rose which she has taken from the bosom of her dress, and which now crumbles to dust under her touch, sifting like ashes through her fingers to the floor. Strange — for a moment since the curtain fell! CURTAIN GRETNA GREEN Miss Linlcy After tha portrait by Humphrey GRETNA GREEN CHARACTERS Maria Linley (secretly betrothed to Richard Brins- ley Sheridan) Thomas Linley, her father Avis Linley, her aunt Place: Bath. Time: 1772. Scene: The Linleys' home. A room that is a trifle shabby, furnished in the eighteenth century manner. Spindle-legged chairs up- holstered in faded damask. In the center background a door opening on the road without. Windows each side of it curtained with pale blue muslin flowered with pink roses. Under the window at right a spinet with music on the open rack, and piles of music placed on top of the spinet itself. At left a hearth with a fire burning. Toward back- ground a door. At right, against the wall, an inlaid spindle-legged writing desk and chair. Toward the center of the room, left, and facing audience, a winged chair upholstered in flowered chintz. 41 42 ^ GRETNA GREEN Toward the center of the room, right, also facing audience, a chintz-covered spindle-legged chair. At the rise of the curtain Avis Linley is seated with a sampler in her hand on chair, left, while near her at right, sits Maria Linley, with a book in her hand. Branched candlesticks on hearthshelf and spinet shed a soft radiance over the room. From outside the Autumn wind is heard blowing in fitful gusts. Avis Linley, who has fallen asleep over her work, is a woman of almost fifty, slender and upright as a willow luand. Her hair, faintly touched with gray, waves over a broad white brow. Her face, clear-cut as a cameo, is faintly tinged with pink. She wears a dress of pale blue chintz opening over a white petticoat. Maria Linley, her niece, has her aunt's clear-cut cameo- like features, the same delicate flush on her face. She is young, charming, and in spite of her success in public, rather diffident, with the manner of one who stands in positive fear of her elders. She is reading aloud as the curtains rise, and her voice suggests the singer. It is full, sweet, resonant. She wears a white dress flow- ered in scarlet roses, over a scarlet quilted petticoat. Her dark hair is unpowdered. Maria (reading). But all this happened very long ago In Greece's golden age, when to and fro GRETNA GREEN 43 Walked nymphs and shepherds, Phyllis, Corydon, And strange cold elves on whom the pale moon shone {She pauses. Then in the same low musical voice essays to call her aunt, leaning forward half-timidly as she does so. Aunt Avis ! Oh, Aunt Avis. She's asleep ! Perhaps if I go droning on she'll keep So. But how can I read when thoughts roam far! Oh, let my pent heart speak the things that are — And substitute my own words for this book. {She still holds the book, and continues to speak lullingly, as if she still read aloud. The lines all run together when I look. I will pretend to read and lull her sleep. Nor dare to stop. Have I the strength to creep Up to my room, and there prepare to go? I never knew an hour to pass so slow! And Richard said we were to meet at ten And take the chaise for Gretna Green. Or then If that should fail, we'll cross the sea to France. And either way 'tis Richard and Romance! Poor Aunt! (Looks at her.) What lover ever sighed for her ? I'm sure she never felt the least, least stir Of joy, or hope. Why all her time is spent In making elder wine, or liniment. Or playing on the harpsichord some tune As faded as herself. I think she'd swoon 44 , GRETNA GREEN If she could guess what is a-foot to-night. Or else she'd tell my father. That's a plight That I grow pale to think on. Nay, 'tis time That I were going ! (Clock strikes.) There's the half-hour's chime (Looks cautiously at her aunt.) And aunt still sleeps ! Well, those who love must dare. I can creep past again behind her chair And lift the latch as quiet as a mouse. (She puts down her book, after rising quietly.) Listen ! There's not a stir in all the house ! Father must be a-bed. I'll fetch my cloak. l^She pauseSj center. Her aunt still sleeps soundly. Watching her, with great caution Maria tiptoes to the door at left, and exits. For a moment her aunt continues to slumber, then slowly opens her eyes, drowsily stifles a yawn, and speaks sleepily. Avis Child, did I doze? [Hearing no answer she looks at Maria's vacant chair, and speaks with the confusion of sleep still upon her. I thought that someone spoke ! I must have dreamed it. (Yawns drowsily.) Though the wind blows drear The Autumn stars shine frostily, and clear. . . . Child! GRETNA GREEN 45 [She rises, takes her work, and pauses to look out the- window at right. Maria steals in on tiptoe, ready for departure. She is fastening a scarlet cloak with a hood, and does not per- ceive her aunt till she is almost at the outer door. Avis Maria (greatly startled). Why, Aunt Avis! Avis Can I trust my sight! That hood! That cloak! And at this time of night! Maria (faltering). I do protest 'twas but to take the air For a brief moment. Avis i (with meaning). Or a coach and pair. Maria (aghast: faltering). A coach — and Oh, Aunt Avis! Who has told? 46 ^ GRETNA GREEN Avis (composedly). Why, no one, child. I am not yet too old To read the signs where signs are to be seen, And this sign plainly points to Gretna Green. Maria (to herself : more and more amazed). To Gretna Green ! And yet she does not swoon ! Avis (quietly). 'Tis well you chose a night without a moon. Yet why go thus? Maria (on the verge of tears). There was no other way; For Richard spoke to father yesterday. I listened, trembling, and my father said That he would never see his daughter wed To anyone as portionless and poor As Richard Sheridan. (Sobs.) Or so obscure. . Avis And was this all? Maria Yes, all. Naught else I sv/ear. So it was either Gretna, or despair. Dick said : " At ten ! " And I could not refuse—— GRETNA GREEN 47 Avis The chaise ! At ten ! Then you've no time to lose ! Maria (utterly bewildered). "No time to lose /" Oh, she's gone quite, quite mad! l^Avis crosses swiftly to desk. Opens drawer. Takes out a jeweled trinket and money. Crosses to her niece. Avis Here, child, is a small trinket that I had When I was young. 'Tis for a wedding gift. And these few sovereigns may make a rift Of cheerful sunshine on some rainy day. Maria (with passionate gratitude). Aunt Avis! [^A step is heard at left. Avis Nay, be quick ! You must not stay ! Your father's coming. Kiss me, child. Adieu! All my heart's love and blessings go with you. \_Exit Maria, center. Avis has just time to snatch up her work when Thomas Linley enters. He is a lordly person in a suit of 48 . GRETNA GREEN dark brown velvet. He crosses at once to fire. LiNLEY Zounds! Not in bed yet, Avis? (He stands, rubbing his hands.) We'll have snow. (yawns.) On such a night — full thirty years ago — Do you remember — you were fain to run To Gretna with that linen draper's son? Avis Yes, I remember. LiNLEY (with self-satisfaction). And I stopped the chaise, And brought you back. Avis To empty, loveless days. Yes, I remember. LiNLEY (yawning). Where's Maria? Avis (with subdued fire). Safe/ GRETNA GREEN 49 LiNLEY (a bit startled). What do you mean? Avis Why, brother, how you chafe At the least word. Where should Maria be? LiNLEY Lord, the young baggage dares not cope with me ! I'm master of my own. (There comes the sound of wheels passing without.) Zounds, Avis! Hark! What's that without? Avis The wind wails through the darL LiNLEY But I heard sounds above the wind's shrill cry. Avis Naught but the post chaise, brother, passing by. QUICK CURTAIN COUNSEL RETAINED Edmund Burke From the portrait by George Romney COUNSEL RETAINED CHARACTERS Peg Woffington Richard Greville Edmund Burke Some unseen gallants, admirers of Peg Woffington Place: London. Time: 1750. A cold Spring night. Scene: The apartment of Edmund Burke. A room that gives evidence of extreme poverty. It is on the ground floor of what was once a fine man- sion, but is now a lodging-house dreary and down-at- heel. At background, left, a French window with rusty lock and broken panes, one of which is stuffed with an old hat. At right background a couch with a faded and tattered damask cover. At left center a hearth with a low fire. Andirons. A battered iron kettle on a hob. A dilapidated hearth- broom. Drawn near the hearth and facing audience a highbacked chair with arms, the remains of what was once a fine carved piece of furniture. Tossed over the back of it a lawyer's black gown, very frayed. 53 54 - COUNSEL RETAINED At right, near background, a door opening into the hall of the house. Near foreground a cupboard with a few dishes, etc. In the center of the room a black table with an iron strong box, a pile of battered law books, briefs, port- folios, papers. A chair drawn up to the right of this. On the table and mantelshelf are stubs of candles, two in battered pewter candlesticks, and one in the neck of a bottle. At the rise of the curtain the room is in absolute darkness, save for the red spark of the fire burning jewel-like in the gloom. A moment afterwards a hand from without tries the lock of the French window, and wrenches the window open. A woman in a dark cloak enters quickly, and lets in a flood of Spring moonlight that falls in a broad shaft across the floor. She has no time to close the window, but steps quickly into the shadows by the fire, and stands silent and motionless, her face hidden by the hood of her cloak. From outside comes an excited tumult of men's voices. First Voice Peg! Mistress Woffington! [Richard Greville steps through the window, a fine-looking young dandy in king's blue velvet, with white wig, small sword, flashing shoe-buckles. He gives a quick look about him, does not perceive the hooded figure and speaks back through the window. COUNSEL RETAINED 55 GrEVILLE r- She isn't here. (With another quick glance at the room.) Some pettifogger's lodgings. Gad! It's clear That she won't let us chair her through the town. Voices (without). Huzzah for Woffington! First Voice Come on! Second Voice We'll drown Our ardor at the Crown or Serpentine. [This is hailed with a cheer that instantly grows fainter as its givers move rapidly away. Woffington (with involuntary indignation). What! Will they drown my memory in wine! Greville (surprised and entranced). Peg! 56 > COUNSEL RETAINED WOFFINGTON (sharply). S-sh, I tell you! I will not be found. Wait till they leave. I'm weary of this round Of cheering and of torchlight. Let me be. [As she sinks into the chair near hearth the moonlight shows her wonderful mobile face. The sparkle of excitement and the immortal youth of the artist make her look younger than she really is. She gives the effect of being not more than two and twenty. Her thin black silk hooded cloak lined in flame- scarlet satin falls back and reveals that over a black taffeta petticoat she wears an over- dress of black gauze on which are thickly em- broidered broad love-knots of silver. She has a black lace scarf caught with a huge scarlet rose. Above the darkness of her dress her neck rises superbly white. She wears no jewels. Her dark hair is unpowdered. Her little slippers are of the finest make, and rest lightly on the ground like two black but- terflies. They are without buckles. Greville (bending over her). Why, Peg! Sweet Woffington! COUNSEL RETAINED 57 WOFFINGTON (closing her eyes for a moment and leaning back wearily in the chair). Ah, can't you see An actress may grow tired ? I'm fagged to death ! (Sudden impish humor lights her face. She opens her eyes.) Besides, you know, I wish to save my breath. I want a little left with which to speak. My case against Miss Spleen comes off next week. Greville Gad! So it does. I'm stupid to forget. Have you engaged your counsel? WOFFINGTON Nay, not yet. Sure, Mr. Greville, I have had no time. (Sagely.) But I'll be ready when the hour shall chime. Greville Who will you take? WOFFINGTON (with a gleam). 'Faith, set your mind at rest. I'll choose the one who can defend me best! Be sure of that. 58 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED Greville How did you come here? WOFFINGTON I Stepped in to let the crowd go sweeping by, And did what women can do when they will. Greville And what was that? WOPFINGTON (with a deliberate brogue). I managed to keep still! Greville (glancing scornfully about the rothn). Who do you think can own this — caravan? WoFFINGTON Sure, I don't know. It must be some poor man Who's having a hard time to make things meet. Well, may kind fortune set him on his feet! I was poor once. (Pensively.) Voices (in distance^ without). Huzzah ! COUNSEL RETAINED 59 WOFFINGTON I must stay here Until the streets without begin to clear. Fetch me a chair. Come back in half an hour. Meanwhile I'll rest. Greville I will obey. WOFFINGTON (slight brogue). More power To you, Dick Greville. [Greville smiles delightedly, kisses her hand, and exits through French window, which he half closes, so that W offington is left partly in light, partly in shadow. The moment he is gone a key turns in the lock of the door, right. W offington starts, looks towards door, and draws her cloak about her prepared for flight if flight prove necessary. Edmund Burke enters, young, shabby, careworn, wear- ing a black suit and a black cloak seen sharply for a moment as he takes a flint from his pocket and tries to strike a light. He has not seen Woffington, who instantly draws his old gown about her, and slips her arm into its sleeves. She stoops forward, rubs her handkerchief in the ash that has sifted out beyond the hearth, puts a smirch of it on her 6o COUNSEL RETAINED hands, tucks her feet under her, and hud- dling deep in the chair assumes a forlorn look, closing her eyes. She has slyly man- aged to pick up the hearth broom, and it lies against her knee. She might, seen in the shadow, be a crossing sweeper, instead of an actress. Meanwhile Burke has lighted the stump of candle standing in the neck of a bottle. As soon as it is lit he looks about and sees Woffington. Burke (astonished). What is this? Woffington (with the effect of astonishment, bewilderment, the " Where am I" look of a person just wakened). Why, oh! (She looks at him in consternation, pretends to gather her wits together. Speaks coaxingly, as one afraid of a reprimand.) There was a crowd outside, and so — and so I stepped in here a moment, and 'twas warm, And I dozed off Burke I'm sure you meant no harm. \He crosses, closes the window, but does not try to lock it. Then goes to hearth and COUNSEL RETAINED 6i lights the stumps of candles on the hearth- shelf. WOFFINGTON (very Irish throughout). None in the least, sir. Burke And your name is WOFFINGTON Meg Some people call me, and the others Peg. I like Meg best. l^She looks at hi?n with the engagingness of a gamin. Burke (kindly). Well, Meg, I greatly fear That I can only offer you small cheer. WOFFINGTON" I don't mind that. Burke Stale bread, stale cheese, scant light. [He has crossed to cupboard, right, and while he goes on talking to her sets between them on the table cracked plates, a loaf of bread, and some cheese. What do you do? 62 ' COUNSEL RETAINED WOFFINGTON (with an inspiration). I — sweep the boards at night! Burke A crossing sweeper ? WOFFINGTON (looking down on his cloak). 'Faith, I know 'twas bold To take this cloak: but I was tired and cold, And I Burke (with a whimsical glance at his supper table). Ah, the poor know the poor. Sit still. WOFFINGTON You're very kind. Burke I know how night can chill The very marrow. WOFFINGTON Are you Irish, too? Burke Yes. COUNSEL RETAINED 63 WOFFINGTON (slowly). If it's not — asking too much of you What is your name, sir ? Burke Burke. Unknown to fame. Just Edmund Burke. WOFFINGTON (sagely). That's a good Irish name. And it will bring you luck. Now, tell me true. What do you need most? Burke Clients. One or two Friends in the great world. WOFFINGTON Have you none? Burke Nay, none. WOFFINGTON (encouragingly). Keep up your heart. Perhaps you'll meet with one. 64 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED Burke (kindly). Why, thank you, Meg. WOFFINGTON You're welcome. Burke (bowing). Will you share My bread and cheese? (They begin to eat.) WOFFINGTON You offer me your fare As if I were a lady! Burke Aren't you? Isn't a lady one whose words ring true From a kind heart? WOFFINGTON There's Mistress Woffington — She's kind, they say, and yet she isn't one. Burke (indulgently). Isn't a lady? Woffington You have seen her? COUNSEL RETAINED 65 Burke Yes. As Harry Wildair, wearing a boy's dress With youthful swagger! Lovely! Debonair! The darling of the wits! WOFFINGTON (dryly: with malice). Then I dare swear You've never seen her in her right clothes ? Burke No. Not yet. WOFFINGTON But, sir Burke The times are hard, and so (He looks down regretfully at his shabby clothes, and makes a rueful gesture.) When I've more silver I shall go each night. WOFFINGTON (with deep conviction). You'd spend your good coin on a worthless sight. She's just an actress. (She manages to keep her hands in the shadow.) 66 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED Burke (quietly). Tell me what you mean. WOFFINGTON (with the proper amount of hesitation). Well, on the stage, sir, she may be a queen, But off the stage ! A zany, underbred, Without a scrap of learning in her head. Burke (indignantly). And I suppose her beauty's false as well? WOFFINGTON Sure, they do say (though you can never tell!) That underneath the powder and the paint You'll find a — something that is not a saint. Be silent! Burke (furious). [He rises, pale with anger. WOFFINGTON Oh, is Woffington your friend? Sure, sir, I had no meaning to offend. COUNSEL RETAINED 67 Burke (more quietly). Peg WoflGngton is not a friend of mine. I saw her once upon the stage. So fine, So true an artist that the gossips slur Her name through arrant jealousy of her (With growing power.) Who is as far above them as the light Of the first stars. Her genius burns as bright As does Orion. Can you look at her WOFFINGTON (to herself). (I often do!) Burke (sweeping on, unheeding). — without a great heart-stir Of Irish pride, to think what high renown Is worn by lovely Peg of Dublin town? (All the fire that will one day be his flames through his words.) From Ireland, land of all that's brave and sweet. . . . WOFFINGTON (provocatively). Famed for its lawyers, actresses, and — peat! (He turns from her indignantly.) Sure, don't be angry. I am Irish, too. 68 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED Burke (turning on her). Take shame, then, to yourself, to think that you Speak lightly of Peg Woffington WOFFINGTON (suddenly standing up, returning to her natural voice and manner, and tossing off his cloak so that the black and silver and scarlet of her costume shows up wondrously in the candlelight). Nay, hold! I think I know all that I need be told ! ril choose the one who can defend me best! Burke (with icy pride). Madam, I'm glad that we have proved a jest To pass your time, my poverty and I. Woffington (with a cry). How can you think that! Burke (bowing sardonically). And the moments fly When one is well amused. I trust that you Have spent your evening profitably. Do Remember me at court. (He bows again.) COUNSEL RETAINED 69 WOFFINGTON I shall, sir! [They have been too engrossed with their own emotions to notice GrevUhj who has opened the window and stepped in. Greville Peg, I've brought your chair. BURKEI (suddenly looking at her indignantly). You said your name was Meg. WOFFINGTON (with a return of her gamin accent). Well, Meg or Peg, 'tis very much the same: And even Shakespeare says: " What's in a name? " (Again the fine lady.) Mr. Burke, Mr. Greville. (Stiff bows. Woffington indicates Burke.) He's the one Who's to be lawyer for Peg Woffington. (Indicates herself.) Burke (staring at her, fascinated). Peg Woffington — you don't mean 70 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED WOFFINGTON (laughing). Man, you're blind! I'm Peg! (She sweeps him a curtsey.) Burke And I, who said you were unkind To mock me WOFFINGTON Find a client here instead ! The suit's against Miss Spleen. Say what you said To Meg, the crossing sweeper, and all will be well. Good night. [Greville pauses, waiting for her at the window, Burke (gazing at her). Good night. Your beauty's like a spell That holds thanks tongue-tied. WOFFINGTON (drolh). Wouldn't you have known We both kissed Ireland's gem — the Blarney Stone. (Curtseys.) Good night, then. COUNSEL RETAINED 71 [The men bow to each other, and Wofpngton starts to join Greville. Then turns impetu- ously, runs back to the table, tears the crim- son rose from her dress, kisses it lightly and tosses it to the table with a charming gesture. Here's success ! And great renown ! [She runs back, and exits hastily by way of the window, Greville following. Burke stands for an instant looking after her. Then he lifts the rose to his lips. Burke PegWoffington! The rose of Dublin Town. [He stands, smiling dreamily at the rose as the curtain falls. THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS George Romney From the portrait by himself THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS CHARACTERS George Romney (the Prince of Court Painters) Mary Romney, his wife Lucy Elridge, a neighbor's child. Place : A village in the north of England. Time: 1799: Scene: Mary Romney' s home. The living-room of a peasant-like cottage which, with its dark floor and walls of time-stained wood, and its great rafters, suggests the seventeenth rather than the eighteenth century. In center background a dark oak door opens on a wild bit of moorland stretching towards the western skyline. On each side of this door long narrow lat- ticed windows swinging inward, and curtained with faintly flowered muslin. At left a wide-mouthed hearth built of cobblestones. Iron andirons and an iron kettle on a hob. On the hearthshelf candles in pewter candlesticks, and a plate or two. Everywhere simplicity and frugality is mani- fest. A dark wooden settle by fire, facing audience. A dark-stained table in the center of the room. It 75 76 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS is round, and made of plain wood. There are also in other parts of the room some quaint sturdy chairs of dark wood set against the wall. Against the right wall a dark oak cupboard, contain- ing earthenware dishes, and a little food — such as a loaf of wheaten bread, butter, cheese, and honey. Be- yond this a churn, and a spinning wheel for Mary Romney's use. At the rise of the curtain a low fire is burning on the hearth, and through the open door and western windows the light of late afternoon shines on Mary Romney as she sits at her spinning wheel, right. She is not a young woman, but age has touched her lightly. Her figure is still straight and supple. Her snow- white hair only adds to the charming effect of the ivory pallor of her face. Her eyes have retained their look of youth, of a spirit that is never done hoping. There is about her an air of gentle strength. She wears a dress of dove-gray homespun, with a white linen ker- chief crossed on her breast. She has no trinkets or adornments of any kind, and needs none. As the cur- tain rises she is singing, her voice blending pleasantly with the hum of the wheel: Mary Romney Rest! Rest! Twilight is best. The day's storms die. Sleep. Sleep. White stars will keep their watch on high. [While Mary Romney sings, Lucy Elridge ap- pears on the threshold. She is a small child THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 77 of seven or eight years.: She wears a high- waisted' frock of white muslin^ plainly made, and white stockings with low black slippers laced with black ribbon above her ankles. On her head a mob cap of white swiss. She carries a little wicker basket with flowers in it. Mary Romney (rising). Come in. Lucy (entering). What do you sing? Mary Romney A lullaby That sends tired children off to sleep. Lucy (presenting flowers). You've none, You live alone — away from everyone. But I love you. And that is why I came. Mary Romney Thank you, dear Lucy. 78 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS Lucy And I love your name. Just " Mary Romney." (Dwells on it musically.) I've heard people say That someone married you, and went away. His name was Romney, too. And then you left The place where you were living. Mary Romney What a weft Do gossips weave! With what threads is it strung! Lucy (innocently sage). It happened long ago, when you were young. I heard it all. Something to you was sent. And since that time both food and warmth you've spent On the world's poor. Who are the world's poor? Mary Romney (quietly). Those To whom life gives the thorn, but not the rose. Lucy I do not understand. Mary Romney How should you, dear. THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 79 Lucy (coaxingly, leaning against Mary Romney^s knee). Tell me about " When you were young." Mary Romney I fear I cannot. (Staring before her.) Why, to think of such a thing Is like a dream. Black as the raven's wing My hair was then. Lucy And were your cheeks as pink As Mother's are? Mary Romney Yes. Is it strange to think That I was young once? Ah, time's wind can blow The reddest roses into flowers of snow. Lucy (puzzled). Like Winter? Mary Romney Aye. Lucy (innocently). Was he — was Romney old And cross like Gaffer Matthew? Did he scold? 8o TliE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS Mary Romney (deeply). No. (She forgets Lucy. Her face is lit by an inner flame.) He was young — young as the morning star, And blithe as Spring. (With sudden quiet.) But, child, those days are far. Too far to talk about. (Lucy turns reluctantly and takes her basket.) Dear, must you go? Lucy My Mother says my feet are always slow Upon the homeward way. \Mary Romney crosses to cupboard, takes out a pat of butter and a little tart. Mary Romney (indicating Lucy's basket). Child, will this hold A little pat of butter, bright as gold, And a small tart? Lucy I thank you. Mary Romney Now run home. I would not have you linger through the gloam. \^She kisses Lucy, who exits sedately, carrying her basket. For a moment Mary Romney THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 8i leans by the door watching her^ then she re- turns te her wheel. The light of afternoon has faded into the glow of sunset. As Mary Romney sits at her wheel a shadow falls across the doorway. She looks up and sees a slim dark man, worn, hut not bent with age. His hair is grizzled, and hangs loosely about his pale passionate face. He wears a weatherworn black cloak and black suit. A broad felt hat, with dilapidated brim, a very scarecrow of a hat. From under its brim the haunted eyes of the man look out like the eyes of a lost soul. Fatigue, hunger, de- spair have set their thumb-mark on him. He belongs to the Lost Legion of the world. Under his arm he carries a battered port- folio of black leather worn gray with time and exposure. No one would ever guess this apparition to be Romney. Least of all does Romney's wife guess it. Too many years have come and gone since their last meeting. Romney Could you give shelter to a traveler So worn and weary that he scarce can stir Another foot along the road? (Mary rises and looks at him pityingly.) I fear That I have startled you. And yet — look clear And see what begs a refuge! Bone and shred Can scarce work harm to any. (He coughs.) 82 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS Mary Romney (with swift compassion). Warmed and fed You shall be. Romney , Thank you — greatly. l^He crosses weakly to the fire. Mary crosses to the cupboard and brings him a plate of bread and a cup of cordial. Mary Romney Sit you down. Often do folk pass by here from the town, Early and late, and though I live alone I never have had cause to fear. Romney (sitSj leaning back, spent). A stone Is what the world gives when you ask for bread ; Yet you give this Mary Romney Eat, and be comforted. (Cheerily.) " Darkest before the dawn " the old wives say. Romney I am a traveler who has lost his v/ay. And followed ignus fatuus till the night Closed in on me, and left me without light. THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 83 Mary Romney (to herself). He wanders. Romney (half -hearing her). Aye. Oh, I have wandered far, And though the dancing wisp-light was a star, The light called "Art." Mary Romney You are an artist? (He bows.) Then You must have heard of him ! (Her voice thrills with pride.) Romney Him? Mary Romney Whom all men Praise. The great Romney. (The name transfigures her.) Romney He is great no more. Why, I have heard he goes from door to door Glad of a little charity. Mary Romney (proudly). You err. He is the prince of all court painters, sir. His friends are lords and duchesses. 84 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS ROMNEY They slip From him as rats desert a rotting ship That's settling down and down. Mary Romney / ' (torn). Is this thing true? Romney (his haunted eyes on her). Should I give falsehood as a coin to you Who are so kind? Mary Romney (passionately). Where is he? Romney Mary Romney Who can say. Had he no wife? Romney In some far yesterday I think he had. But when Sir Joshua said : " Forget your country marriage, and instead Take Art to wife," he left her. Well, his art Brought fame and money ; but his secret heart Like a closed house, was haunted by a ghost. . . , THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 85 Mary Romney (quietly). Yet there were other women. Romney (wearily). Oh, a host Of frilled and furbelowed great ladies. ... Mary Romney One Of these was called the Lady Hamilton, Was she not? (She lights a candle on the mantle- shelf.) Romney Yes. Mary Romney And he loved her? Romney Her face Bewitched the artist in him, and her grace Filled many a canvas. Mary Romney And he loved her. 86 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS ROMNEY (rousing himself). No. He loved her beauty. (With renewed quiet.) That was long ago, And all of it is like a tale that's told. (Bitterly.) Only one love did Romney's bleak heart hold And her he wronged. Mary Romney And will he not return? Romney (wryly). And say, " My wife, whose love I seemed to spurn, You did not share in my celebrity; But now I'm old and poor. Pray comfort me." (For an instant his face lights sardonically.) I think that Romney would not fall so low For all his faults. Mary Romney Does he — does Romney know Where his wife lives ? THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 87 ROMNEY Nay. Somewhere in the North. He's lost all trace. (Rises.) 'Tis time that I set forth Ere night falls utterly. (He opens his portfolio, fumbles in it, takes out a sketch.) I pray you take A little sketch, such as I used to make. 'Tis all the coin I have. (He coughs.) Mary Romney (amazed). 'Tis finely done. Aye, wondrous fine! [Before he has grasped what she is doing she takes another picture from the portfolio, the rosy portrait of a young and beautiful coun- try girl. Oh, let me see this one! Romney A sketch of Romney 's wife, made by himself From memory. Life-sized. Mary Romney (stooping at hearth and taking money from under loose stone). Beneath this shelf I have ten pounds and more. Sell this to me. (As if in explanation of her strange conduct.) It is so young! So fair! 88 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS ROMNEY (looking at it with the enthrallment of the artist). It cannot be. I cannot sell it. It is Romney's wife. Painted from memory. And true to life Each contour that I loved. Mary Romney You loved! Romney Yes, I Am Romney. \He looks at the picture as if held by a spell. For all that he sees or hears he is alone in the room. Mary Romney Romney! Romney Why, M^ith what a cry You speak my name. [They gaze at each other in the dim light. Mary Romney Mine also. \She faces him steadily. Romney snatches up the candle, looks at her. Puts it down. THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 89 ROMNEY God is just. He leads me, old and humble, in the dust Before your door [^His head is bowed for an instant. He cannot look at her. Slowlyj and with dread, he raises his eyes, and meets her answering look, her gesture towards him. Speaks brokenly, uncertainly. I, who should be reviled. . . . You can forgive me. . . . Mary Romney (with beautiful maternal tenderness). Why, you are my child. My genius child, who all day long must roam, And then at twilight sees the lights of home. Romney Mary! Mary Romney I ask no question of the past. What was mine at the first is now mine last. Romney (still brokenly: to himself). ' And ministering angels came to bless- Ah, but I have no right (Yet his eyes implore her.) 90 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS Mary Romney After day's stress Comes peace and twilight. Look, where the last bar Of sunset fades, the steadfast evening star! \Through the last rose of sunset and the gath- ering violet of dusk the white glimmer of the evening star is seen through the open door- way. Mary Romney, her hand on Romney^s shoulder, watches it, and with a half breath sings very low and soothingly, her voice a crooning murmur: Rest! Rest! Twilight is best. The day's storms die. Romney What do you sing? Mary Romney (with ineffable tenderness). A tired child's lullaby. [The music of the song is faintly continued by the orchestra as the curtain falls. BOOKS ON AND OF SCHOOL PLAYS By Constance D'Arcy Mackay HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'S PLAYS The author is a recognized authority on the production of plays and pageants in the public schools, and combines en- thusiastic sympathy with sound, practical instructions. She tells both how to inspire and care for the young actor, how to make costumes, properties, scenery, where to find de- signs for them, what music to use, etc., etc. She prefaces it all with an interesting historical sketch of the plays-for-chil- dren movement, includes elaborate detailed analyses of per- formances of Browning's Pied Piper and Rosetti's Pageant of the Months, and concludes with numerous valuable an- alytical lists of plays for various grades and occasions. $1.20 net (Feb., 1914). PATRIOTIC PLAYS AND PAGEANTS Pageant of Patriotism (Outdoor and Indoor Versions) : — *Princess Pocahontas, Pilgrim Interlude, Ferry Farm Epi- sode, *George Washington's Fortune, *Daniel Boone : Patriot, Benjamin Franklin Episode, Lincoln Episode, Final Tableau. Hawthorne Pageant (for Outdoor or Indoor Produc- tion) : — Chorus of Spirits of the Old Manse, Prologue by the Muse of Hawthorne, In Witchcraft Days, Dance Interlude, Merrymount, etc. The portions marked with a star (*) are one-act plays suitable for separate performance. There are full directions for simple costumes, scenes, and staging. 12mo. $1.35 net. THE HOUSE OF THE HEART Short plays in verse for children of fourteen or younger : — "The House of the Heart (Morality Play)— "The Enchanted Garden" (Flower Play) — "A Little Pilgrim's Progress" (Mor- ality Play) — "A Pageant of Hours" (To be given Out of Doors) — "On Christmas Eve." "The Princess and the Pix- ies." "The Christmas Guest" (Miracle Play.), etc. $1.10 net. "An addition to child drama which has been sorely needed." — Boston Transcript. THE SILVER THREAD And Other Folk Plays. "The Silver Thread" (Cornish) ; "The Forest Sprmg" (Italian) ; "The Foam Maiden" (Celtic) ; "Troll Magic" (Norwegian) ; "The Three Wishes" (French) ; "A Brewing of Brains" (English) ; "Siegfried" (German) ; "The Snow Witch" (Russian). $1.10 net. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK By GEORGE MIDDLETON POSSESSION With The Groove, The Black Tie, A Good Woman, Circles and The Unborn. One-act American Plays. (Just pub- lished.) $1.35 net. These plays respectively concern (1) A divorced couple and their little girl; (2) A girl's w^ish to escape village monotony; (3) a woman's reputation and a man's public usefulness; (4) The quiet tragedy of a mulatto maid; (5) A mother's sacrifice to keep a home for her daughter, and (6) Hovf an unknown woman brought a message to a young couple. EMBERS With The Failures, The Gargoyle, In His House, Ma- donna and The Man Masterful. One-act American Plays. $1.35. Richard Burton, in The Bellman: "Embers is a volume of sketches which show the trained hand of the expert and are, moreover, decidedly- interesting for their psychological value." Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: "The plays are admirable; the conversations have the true style of human speech, and show first-rate economy of words, every syllable advancing the plot. The little dramas are full of cerebration, and I shall recommend them in my public lectures." TRADITION With On Bail, Mothers, Waiting, Their Wife and The Cheat of Pity. One-act American Plays. $1.35. New York Times: Mr. Middleton's plays furnish interesting read- ing. . . . The author deserves praise for his skill and workmanship . . . succeeds admirably as a chronicler of striking events and as an interpreter of exceptional people in exceptional circumstances." NOWADAYS A. three-act comedy of American Life. $1.00. The Nation: "Without a shock or a thrill in it, but steadily interest- ing and entirely human. All the characters are depicted with fidelity and consistency; the dialogue is good and the plot logical." Alice Stone Blackwell, in Woman's Journal: "The spirit of the Twentieth Century is in his plays and also a spirit of justice anl gener- osity towards women." HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK A FEW RECENT PLAYS BY AMERICANS Beulah M. Dix's ACROSS THE BORDER A play against- war, showing in four scenes, two "beyond the border" of life, the adventures of a highly likable young Lieutenant. He goes on a desperate mission, finds The Place of Quiet and The Dream Girl, as well as The Place of Winds, where he learns the real nature of War, and finally in a field hospital tries to deliver his message. With 2 illustrations. 80 cents net. New York Tribune: "One of the few pleas for peace that touch both the heart and the intelligence. ... Its remarkable blending of stark realism with extravagant fancy strikes home. . . . It is well nigh impossible to rid one's mind of its stirring effect." New York Times: "Impressive, elaborate and ambitious. _. . . A voice raised in the theater against the monstrous horror and infamy of war. . . . The Junior Lieutenant has in him just a touch of 'The Brushwood Boy.' " Of the author's "Allison''s Lad" and other one-act plays of various wars ($1.35 net). The Transcript said, "The tech- nical mastery of Miss Dix is great, but her spiritual mastery is greater. For this book lives in the memory." Percival L. Wilde'a DAWN and Other One-Act Plays "Short, sharp and decisive" episodes of contemporary life. Notable for force, interest and at times humor. $L20 net. DAWN, a tense episode in the hut of a brutal miner, with a supernatural climax. THE NOBLE LORD, a comedy about a lady, who angled with herself as bait. THE TRAITOR is discovered by a ruse of a British command- ing officer. A HOUSE OF CARDS, about a closed door, and what was on the other side — tragic. PLAYING WITH FIRE, a comedy about the devotion of a boy and girl. THE FINGER OF GOD points the way to an ex-criminal by means of a girl he had never seen before. Uly A. Long's RADISSON: The Voyageur A highly picturesque play in four acts and in verse. The central figures are Radisson the redoubtable voyageur who explored the Upper Mississippi, his brother-in-law Groseil- liers, Owera the daughter of an Indian chief, and various other Indians. The daring resource of the two white men in the face of imminent peril, the pathetic love of Owera, and above all, the vivid pictures of Indian life, the women grind- ing corn, the council, dances, feasting and famine are notable features, and over it all is a somewhat unusual feeling for the moods of nature which closely follow those of the people involved. $1.00 net. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK CLARK'S CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY— Outline* for Its Study By Barrett H. Clark^ Editor of and Translator of two of the plays in "Three Modern French Plays." 12mo. $1.35 net. Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliographies for use in connection with the study of some of the more import- ant plays of Ibsen, Bjornsen, Strindberg, Tolstoy^ Gorky, TcHEKOFF, Andre\teff, Hauptmann, Sudermann, Wedekind, Schnitzler, Von Hoffmansthal, Becque, Le Maitre, Lave- DAN, DONNAY^ MaETERLINCK, RoSTAND, BrIEUX, HeRVIEU, GiAcosA, D'Annunzio, Echegaray, and Galdos. In half a dozen or less pages for each play, Mr. Clark tries to indicate, in a way suggestive to playwriters and students, how the skilled dramatists write their plays. It_ is intended that the volume shall be used in connection with the reading of the plays themselves, but it also has an inde- pendent interest in itself. Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: ". . . One of the most useful works on the contemporary drama. . . . Extremely practical, full of valuable hints and suggestions. . . ." Providence Journal: "Of undoubted value. ... At the com- pletion of a study of the plays in connection with the 'Outline' one should have a definite knowledge of the essentials of dramatic tech- nique in general, and of the modern movement in particular." Sixth Edition, Enlarged and with Portraits HALE'S DRAMATIST'S OF TO-DAY By Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr., of Union College. Rostand, Hauptmann, Sudermann, PiNERo, Shaw, Phillips, Maeterlinck "A Note on Standards of Criticism," "Our Idea of Tragedy," and an appendix of all the plays of each author, with dates of their first performance or publication, complete the volume, $1.50 net. New York Evening Post: "It is not often nowadays that a theatrical book can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weighted by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix and full index . . . uncommonly useful for reference." Brooklyn Eagle: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting^ himself with Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramatic critic. . . . . Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and sound critic. ... Most people will be surprised and delighted with Mr. Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness." HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY publishers new YORK