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 v/-
 
 DIMINUTIVE 
 DRAMAS 
 
 2> JoL*. Jhiai
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR: 
 
 POEMS : 1914-1917 {Fourth Impression). 
 TRANSLATIONS : ANCIENT & MODERN. 
 
 PRINTED IN ENGLAND 
 BY THB WESTMINSTER PRKSS 
 41 Is HARROW ROAD, LONDON.
 
 DIMINUTIVE 
 DRAMAS 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE 
 
 BARING 
 
 / ' ' 
 
 LONDON 
 MARTIN SECKER
 
 77^ 6 003 
 
 These " Diminutive Dramas " first appeared in 
 the Morning Post and are reprinted here by the 
 courtesy of the Editor. 
 
 The Acting Rights are reserved, and the American 
 Acting Rights are the property of the Chicago 
 Little Theatre. 
 
 LONDON: MARTIN SECKER (LTD), 19.9
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 A. I. 
 
 WHOSE UNWRITTEN CHRONICLES ARE BETTER 
 THAN BOOKS AND WHOSE UNPRE- 
 MEDITATED SUGGESTION HITS A TARGET 
 BEYOND THE REACH OF ARTISTS 
 AND THE KEN OF CRITICS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1. Catherine Parr i 
 
 2. The Drawback io 
 
 3. Pious ^)neas 20 
 
 4. The Death of Alexander 29 
 
 5. The Greek Vase 37 
 
 6. The Fatal Rubber 46 
 
 7. The Rehearsal 56 
 
 8. The Blue Harlequin 68 
 
 9. The Member for Literature 79 
 
 10. Caligula's Picnic 88 
 
 11. The Aulis Difficulty 97 
 
 12. Don Juan's Failure 107 
 
 13. Calpurnia's Dinner-Party 116 
 
 14. Lucullus's Dinner-Party 124 
 
 15. The Stoic's Daughter 133 
 
 16. After Euripides' " Electra " 143 
 
 17. Jason and Medea 153 
 
 18. King Alfred and the Neat- Herd 162 
 
 19. Rosamund and Eleanor 169 
 
 20. Ariadne in Naxos 177 
 
 21. Velasquez and the " Venus" 185 
 
 22. Xantippe and Socrates 193
 
 CATHERINE PARR 
 
 OR 
 
 ALEXANDER'S HORSE 
 
 Scene. — London. Breakfast chamber in the Palace. 
 King Henry VIII and Catherine Parr are 
 discovered sitting opposite to each other at the 
 breakfast table. The King has just cracked a 
 boiled egg. 
 
 King Henry. My egg's raw. It really is too 
 bad. 
 
 Catherine. Yesterday you complained of their 
 being hard. 
 
 King Henry. And so they were. I don't want 
 a hard egg, and I don't want a raw egg. I want them 
 to be cooked just right. 
 
 Catherine. You are very difficult to please. The 
 egg was in boiling water for three minutes and a half. 
 I boiled it myself. But give it me. I like them like 
 that. I will boil you another. 
 
 King Henry. No, it's too late now. But it is a 
 fact that you have no idea how to boil an egg. I 
 wish you'd let them do them in the kitchen.
 
 2 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 
 
 Catherine. If they're done in the kitchen you 
 complain because they're not here when you come 
 down, and if they are here, you say they're cold. 
 
 King Henry. I never say anything of the kind. 
 The cook boils eggs beautifully. 
 
 Catherine. She shall boil them to-morrow. 
 
 King Henry. One would have thought that a 
 woman of your experience might at least know how 
 to boil an egg. I hate a watery egg. (Pensively) 
 Poor dear Katie used to boil eggs beautifully. 
 
 Catherine. Do you mean Catherine Howard or 
 Katharine of Aragon ? 
 
 King Henry. I was alluding to poor, dear, 
 misguided Katie Howard. Katharine of Aragon 
 never was my wife. The marriage was not valid. 
 
 Catherine. Well, Catherine Howard ought to 
 have known how to boil eggs, considering her mother 
 was a kitchenmaid. 
 
 King Henry. That is utterly untrue. Her 
 mother was a Rockford. 
 
 Catherine. You're thinking of Anne Bullen. 
 
 King Henry. Yes, yes, to be sure, Katie's mother 
 was a Somerset. 
 
 Catherine. You're thinking of Jane Seymour. 
 
 King Henry. Not at all. Jane Seymour was a 
 sister of Somerset's. 
 
 Catherine. All I know is that Catherine Howard's 
 mother was a kitchenmaid. And I think it's very 
 unkind of you to mention her to me. I suppose
 
 i CATHERINE PARR 3 
 
 you mean that you wish she were alive, and that you 
 loved her better than you love me. 
 
 King Henry. I never said anything of the kind. 
 All I said was that she knew how to boil eggs. 
 
 Catherine. You clearly meant to say that she 
 had all the qualities which I lack. 
 
 King Henry. You are most unfair. I never 
 meant to hint at any such thing. All I said was 
 that I hate a watery egg, and my egg this morning 
 was raw. 
 
 Catherine (rising and going to the door in a temper). 
 Well, the best thing you can do is to get rid of me, 
 and to marry some one who knows how to boil an 
 
 egg- 
 
 King Henry. Catherine, come back ! I really 
 
 didn't mean to offend you. You know how to boil 
 
 eggs very well. 
 
 Catherine (sitting down). One takes an endless 
 amount of trouble, and that's all the thanks one gets. 
 Don't think that I shall ever boil your eggs for you 
 again, because I shan't. 
 
 King Henry. I was thinking we might have a 
 little music this morning. I have composed a new 
 ballad which I should like to try over with you. It's 
 for viol and lute and voice. We might try it. 
 
 Catherine. I'm not sure if I have time. What 
 is it called ? 
 
 King Henry. It's called " The Triumph of 
 Love," and it begins : 

 
 4 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 
 
 Come list to Alexander's deed, 
 Great Jove's immortal son, 
 Who, riding on a snow-white steed, 
 To Babylon did come. 
 
 Catherine. " Son " doesn't rhyme with " come." 
 
 King Henry. It's not meant to. It's assonance. 
 
 Catherine. Do you mean Alexander the Great ? 
 
 King Henry. Yes, of course. 
 
 Catherine. The only thing is, his horse was 
 black. 
 
 King Henry. No, my dear, you're mistaken ; 
 his horse was white. 
 
 Catherine. Black — black as jet. 
 
 King Henry. But I know for a fact it was 
 white. 
 
 Catherine. Alexander's horse was black. Every- 
 body knows it was black. 
 
 King Henry. It was white. You can ask any one 
 you like. 
 
 Catherine. It was black. He was famous for 
 his black horse. There are hundreds of pictures of 
 him on his black horse — my father has got one. 
 
 King Henry. Then the painter made a mistake. 
 Plutarch, Xenophon, Aristotle all mention his white 
 horse. 
 
 Catherine. Black. 
 
 King Henry. But, my dear, how obstinate you 
 are ! I knotv it is white . 
 
 Catherine. Black, coal-black. 
 
 King Henry. Have you read Xenophon ?
 
 I CATHERINE PARR 5 
 
 Catherine. You are thinking of something else. 
 Even when we were children my father always 
 showed us the picture of Alexander's black horse. 
 
 King Henry. Well, I can easily prove it to you. 
 There's a Plutarch here in the bookcase. {He goes 
 to the bookcase and takes out a book.) 
 
 Catherine. I remember it particularly well be- 
 cause my brother had a black horse and we called it 
 " Bucephalus," after Alexander's black horse. 
 
 King Henry {turning over the leaves of the book). 
 If it had been black it would never have been called 
 Bucephalus — it would be absurd to call a black horse 
 Bucephalus. 
 
 Catherine. Not so absurd as calling a white 
 horse Bucephalus. 
 
 King Henry. He would never have chosen a 
 black horse. He was superstitious 
 
 Catherine. Just because you're superstitious 
 and believe in Saints, and worship images, you think 
 every one else is. As a matter of fact, he chose a 
 black horse on purpose to show he didn't care a pin 
 about superstitions 
 
 King Henry. Here it is — " xaKeTro? elvcu kcli 
 ko/uuo>] Suo-xpwtos" — " The horse was wild and 
 extremely difficult to manage." In fact, he had all 
 the characteristics of the white Thessalian horses of 
 that day. 
 
 Catherine. But it doesn't say it was white. And 
 Thessalian horses are famous for being black. 
 
 King Henry. You really are too obstinate for
 
 6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 
 
 words. I will find you the proofs in Xenophon. It 
 is distinctly stated that the horse was white. It is an 
 historical fact. Nobody has ever disputed it. 
 
 Catherine. But Plutarch, you see, practically 
 says it was black. 
 
 King Henry. Plutarch says nothing of the kind. 
 Besides, I now remember talking about this with 
 Wolsey, who was an excellent scholar. I distinctly 
 remember his saying one day : "As white as Buce- 
 phalus. It's quite a common phrase among 
 scholars. 
 
 Catherine. He must have said " As black as 
 Bucephalus." 
 
 King Henry. Of course, if you mean to say I 
 tell lies 
 
 Catherine. I don't mean that you tell lies, but 
 you are mistaken — that's all. 
 
 King Henry. But I tell you that there is no 
 mistake possible. I know it as well as I know my 
 own name. 
 
 Catherine. Your memory plays you tricks. Just 
 now you couldn't remember Catherine Howard's 
 mother's name. 
 
 King Henry. That's nothing to do with it. Be- 
 sides, I did remember it. I made a slip, that's all. 
 But this is an historical fact which I've known all 
 my life. 
 
 Catherine. I quite understand your memory 
 failing you. You have so many names to remember. 
 I expect you were confusing Alexander's black horse
 
 i CATHERINE PARR 7 
 
 with King Alfred's white horse — the white horse of 
 Wantage. 
 
 King Henry. Good gracious ! If you had a 
 smattering of education you wouldn't say such 
 things ! It comes of having no religion and no 
 education, and of not knowing Latin. A Lutheran 
 education is worse than none. Even Anne of 
 Cleves knew Latin. 
 
 Catherine. Thank Heavens, I don't know 
 Latin ! Stupid, superstitious language, fit only for 
 bigots and monks ! 
 
 King Henry. I suppose you mean I am a 
 bigot. 
 
 Catherine. You can turn what one says into 
 meaning anything you like. As a matter of fact, all 
 I said was that the horse was black. 
 
 King Henry. I'd rather be a bigot than a 
 Lutheran heretic. 
 
 Catherine. You know you're wrong and you 
 try to escape the point. That's just like a Tudor. 
 No Tudor could ever listen to reason. 
 
 King Henry. I must ask you not to insult my 
 family. 
 
 Catherine. You've insulted mine, which is a 
 far older one. My family has no blood on its 
 escutcheon. 
 
 King Henry. I won't stand this any longer. {He 
 gets up, opens the door, and calls) Denny, Butts, Page, 
 who is there ? 
 
 Enter a Page
 
 8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS i 
 
 Page. Your Majesty. 
 
 King Henry. Go and tell the Lord Chamber- 
 lain to make the necessary arrangements for trans- 
 porting the Ex-Queen to the Tower. 
 
 Page {puzzled). Yes, your Majesty. Does your 
 Majesty mean the late Queen's remains ? 
 
 King Henry. I said the Ex-Queen, you stupid 
 boy — Queen Catherine Parr. 
 
 Page. Yes, your Majesty. 
 
 King Henry. And tell him to give orders to the 
 Governor of the Tower to have everything ready for 
 the Ex- Queen's execution. 
 
 Page. Is the same ceremonial to be observed as 
 in the case of Queen Catherine Howard, your 
 Majesty ? 
 
 King Henry. Yes ; only there need only be 
 one roll of drums instead of two — at the end. {The 
 Page goes to the door.) And on the way ask Dr. 
 Butts whether Alexander the Great's horse was black 
 or white. 
 
 Catherine. It was black. {The Page bows and 
 goes out.) Well, since I'm to be executed I daresay 
 you will allow me to go and pack up my things. By 
 the way, you left your lute in my sitting-room yester- 
 day. I will bring it down. 
 
 King Henry. Wait a minute, there's no hurry. 
 
 Catherine. I beg your pardon, I have very little 
 time, and a great many letters to write. 
 
 King Henry {hesitating). And I wanted to have 
 some music.
 
 i CATHERINE PARR 9 
 
 Catherine. You don't expect me to accompany 
 you now, I suppose ? You had better find some one 
 else... I have got other things to think about during 
 my last moments on earth. 
 
 King Henry {laughing uneasily). I was only 
 joking, of course, my dear. You don't mean to say 
 you took it seriously. 
 
 Catherine. I am afraid I don't appreciate that 
 kind of joke. 
 
 King Henry. Come, come ; let bygones be 
 bygones, and let us have some music. I want to 
 play you my ballad. 
 
 Enter the Page 
 
 Page. If you please, your Majesty, I can't find 
 the Lord Chamberlain, and Dr. Butts says your 
 Majesty was quite correct as to the colour of 
 Alexander the Great's horse. 
 
 King Henry (beaming). Very good ; you can 
 go. You need not deliver the message to the Lord 
 Chamberlain. {The Page bows and retires.) And 
 now, my dear, we'll go and play. You se^, I knew 
 I was right. 
 
 [The King opens the door with a bow. 
 
 Catherine. It was black, all the same. 
 
 King Henry {indulgently, as if speaking to a child). 
 Yes, yes, my dear, of course it was black, but let's go 
 and have some music. 
 
 [ They go out 
 Curtain. 
 
 b
 
 II 
 
 THE DRAWBACK 
 
 Scene. — A corner in Kensington Gardens. A 
 summer evening. Discovered, sitting on a seat, a 
 girl, aged 21, pretty and neat, and a good-looking 
 young man, aged 27, dressed in a top hat and a 
 black morning coat. 
 
 He. But are you quite sure you will not change 
 your mind ? 
 
 She. I never change my mind once it is made 
 up. I often take a very long time to make up my 
 mind, but once I've made it up I never change. Now 
 my sister Alice is quite different. She never knows 
 her mind from one minute to the other. 
 
 He. But your father 
 
 She. Papa always does what I want. Besides, 
 directly he knows you it will be all right. And when 
 he knows that you're at the Bar he will be delighted. 
 He always wanted me to marry a lawyer. You see 
 Papa was at the Bar in his young days — I daresay 
 your father was too. 
 
 He (embarrassed). No, yes — I mean no. That's 
 to say he is in a way indirectly connected with the 
 Bar ; but my father's principal hobby is playing on
 
 ii THE DRAWBACK n 
 
 the harp. He gives himself up almost entirely to 
 that now. 
 
 She. I see. 
 
 He. Have you told your father yet ? 
 
 She. You told me I wasn't to until I'd seen you 
 again. 
 
 He. Yes, of course. I thought you might have 
 changed your mind. 
 
 She. As if that were likely. 
 
 He. And then, if you remember, I told you when 
 I, when you, when we settled everything that there 
 was a — er — drawback. 
 
 She. As if any drawback could possibly make 
 any difference. 
 
 He. I thought it might. 
 
 She. You mean to say that it is something which 
 might make me wish to change my mind ? 
 
 He. Exactly. 
 
 She. That shows you know me very little — but 
 what is it ? 
 
 He. You see it's a kind of confession. 
 She. I know what it is ; you want to tell me 
 you once loved some one else. 
 
 He. No, not that, I swear I never did. I may 
 have thought once or twice that I was in love, but 
 until I met you I never knew what love, what real 
 love, was. 
 
 She. And those other times when you thought 
 you were in love — were there many of them ?
 
 12 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS n 
 
 He. It only happened twice ; that's to say three 
 times, only the third time didn't count. 
 
 She. And the first time, who was she ? 
 
 He. I was quite young, only a boy. She was a 
 girl in an A. B.C. shop. 
 
 She. Was she pretty ? 
 
 He. Not exactly. 
 
 She. Did you propose to her ? 
 
 He. Yes, but she refused. 
 
 She. And that's all that happened ? 
 
 He. That's all. 
 
 She. And the second time ? 
 
 He. It was the parson's daughter down in the 
 country. 
 
 She. Did you make love to her ? 
 
 He. No, not really, of course, but we were friends. 
 
 She. Did you kiss her ? 
 
 He. Only once, and that was by accident. But 
 it was all years ago. 
 
 She. How many years ago ? 
 
 He. Let me see ; two, no, no, it must have been 
 four years ago. I'm not sure it wasn't five. She 
 married the curate. 
 
 She. And the third time ? 
 
 He. Oh ! that was nothing. 
 
 She. Who was she ? 
 
 He. She was an artist — a singer. 
 
 She. A concert singer ? 
 
 He. Almost ; that's to say she wanted to be one. 
 She sang in a music-hall.
 
 II 
 
 THE DRAWBACK 13 
 
 She. Oh! 
 
 He. Only a serious turn. She wasn't dressed 
 up or anything. She sang " The Lost Chord " and 
 songs like that. She was called " The New Zealand 
 Nightingale." 
 
 She. And you knew her ? 
 
 He. Very slightly. I had tea with her once or 
 twice. And then she went away. 
 
 She. Back to New Zealand ? 
 
 He. Yes, back to New Zealand. 
 
 She. Now I've made you confess everything. 
 Aren't you glad you've got it off your mind ? I 
 don't mind a bit, and I like you for being so honest. 
 
 He. But it's not that at all. It's nothing to do 
 with me. 
 
 She. Then who has it got to do with ? 
 
 He. My father. 
 
 She. You mean he won't approve of me ? 
 
 He. Of course I don't mean that. He'd simply 
 love you. 
 
 She. He's going to marry again. 
 
 He. No, it's not that. 
 
 She. He doesn't want you to marry. 
 
 He. No, it's nothing to do with me. 
 
 She. Then I don't understand. 
 
 He. It's something to do with him. 
 
 She. He's consumptive. 
 
 He. No ; his health is excellent. 
 
 She. He's lost his money,
 
 14 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS n 
 
 He. No ; he's very well off. You see it's some- 
 thing to do with his social position. A matter of — 
 I don't quite know how to put it. 
 
 She. But, Georgie, you don't think I'm such a 
 snob as to care twopence for social position and 
 conventions of that kind ? Your father is your 
 father — that's all that matters, isn't it ? 
 
 He. I know, I know, but there are prejudices. 
 
 She. Is it something your father's done ? Has 
 he been in the Bankruptcy Court ? I wouldn't care 
 a pin. 
 
 He. No, it's nothing he's done. It's something 
 he is. 
 
 She. He's a Socialist ! 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. Is he a Roman Catholic ? 
 
 He. Oh no ! He's Church of England. 
 
 She. I know ; he's a Liberal. 
 
 He. No ; he says the Liberals are just as bad as 
 the Conservatives. 
 
 She. Then he's a Little Englander. 
 
 He. On the contrary ; he's outside politics. He 
 belongs to no party. 
 
 She. He's a foreigner — by birth, I mean. 
 
 He. Not at all. 
 
 She. He's not a Mormon ? 
 
 He. No. It's nothing to do with politics or 
 religion or that kind of thing. It's his profession. 
 
 She. His profession ! But I thought — as if I 
 cared about his profession !
 
 ii THE DRAWBACK 15 
 
 He. But you might — there are some profes- 
 sions 
 
 She. You see, I know he's honest. 
 
 He. Oh ! you needn't have any fear. He's 
 perfectly honest, respectable, and respected. 
 
 She. Then what is it ? 
 
 He. I'd rather you guessed it. 
 
 She. How absurd you are ! I know what it is ; 
 he's somebody's agent. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. Then he's a schoolmaster. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She {tentatively). Of course, I know he was 
 never in trade ? 
 
 He. No, never. He has had nothing to do with it. 
 
 She. Is he on the stage ? 
 
 He. No ; he disapproves of actors. 
 
 She. He's a Quaker. 
 
 He. I told you it's nothing to do with religion. 
 
 She. Then, he's a photographer. Some photo- 
 graphers almost count as artists. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. Then it is something to do with art. 
 
 He. His profession certainly needs art and 
 skill. 
 
 She. He's not a conjurer ? 
 
 He. Conjurers are scarcely respectable. 
 
 She. I know, of course. He's a jockey. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. A bookmaker.
 
 1 6 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS n 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. A veterinary surgeon. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. Does he ever give lessons ? 
 
 He. Only to his assistants, whom he's training. 
 
 She. He's a prize-fighter. 
 
 He. Oh no ! 
 
 She. He's an Art-dressmaker. 
 
 He. No. You see it's something some people 
 might mind. 
 
 She. What can it be ? A dentist. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. How stupid of me. He's a literary man. 
 
 He. He's never written a line. 
 
 She. But you told me. I remember now. He 
 plays the harp. He's something musical ; but 
 nobody could mind that. He's a dancing-master. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. A commercial traveller. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. Of course not ; it's something to do with 
 art. But what could one mind ? 
 
 He. Not exactly art. It's more skill. 
 
 She. Is he a chiropodist ? 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. Or a Swedish masseur ? 
 
 He. Nothing like it. 
 
 She. Is it anything to do with officials ? 
 
 He. Yes, in a way. 
 
 She. Then I've guessed. He's a detective.
 
 n THE DRAWBACK 17 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. He's in the Secret Service. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. It's something to do with the police. 
 
 He. Not exactly. 
 
 She. With prisons. 
 
 He. In a way. 
 
 She. He's a prison inspector. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. A prison chaplain. 
 
 He. No ; he's not in Orders. 
 
 She. The prison doctor who has to feed the 
 Suffragettes. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. I've guessed. He's a keeper in a lunatic 
 asylum. 
 
 He. You're getting cold again. 
 
 She. Then it's something to do with prisons ? 
 
 He. Yes. 
 
 She. He's a warder. 
 
 He. No. 
 
 She. I don't know who else is in a prison, except 
 the prisoners. 
 
 He. He doesn't live in the prison. 
 
 She. But he goes there sometimes ? 
 
 He. Yes. 
 
 She. I give it up. 
 
 He. His duty is a disagreeable one, but some one 
 has to do it.
 
 18 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS n 
 
 She. He's the man who has to taste the prisoners' 
 food. 
 
 He. I didn't know there was such a person. 
 
 She. You must tell me. I'll never guess. 
 
 He {blurting it oat). Well, you see, he's the hang- 
 man. 
 
 [A Pause. 
 
 She. You mean he 
 
 He. Yes, he 
 
 She. Oh, I see. 
 
 He. Some people might mind thi3. He's going 
 to retire very soon — on a pension. 
 
 She. Yes ? 
 
 He. And, of course, he very seldom 
 
 She. Yes, I suppose 
 
 He. It's all quite private, of course. 
 
 She. Yes, of course. [A Pause. 
 
 {Looking at her watch) Good gracious ! I shall be 
 late for dinner. It's nearly seven o'clock. I must 
 fly. I was late yesterday. 
 
 He. Shall I — shall we meet to-morrow ? 
 
 She. No, not to-morrow. I'm busy all to- 
 morrow. 
 
 He. Perhaps the day after. 
 
 She. Perhaps I had better tell you at once what 
 I was going to write to you. 
 
 He. You think the drawback 
 
 She {indignantly). I wasn't thinking of that. 
 But I do think you ought to have told me directly 
 about those others.
 
 ii THE DRAWBACK 19 
 
 He. What others ? 
 
 She. Those women — the A. B.C. shop, the 
 clergyman's daughter, and that music-hall singer. 
 
 He. But you said you didn't mind. 
 
 She. I minded too much to speak about it. A 
 music-hall singer ! The New Zealand Nightingale ! 
 
 Oh ! to think that you, that I Oh ! the shame 
 
 of it. 
 
 He. But 
 
 She. There's no but. You've grossly deceived 
 me. You played with my feelings. You led me 
 on. You trifled with me. You've treated me 
 scandalously. You've broken my heart. You've 
 ruined my life. 
 
 He. But let me say one word. 
 jj She. Not one word. A girl in an A.B.C. shop ! 
 A clergyman's daughter ! and a music-hall singer ! 
 
 • He. You really mean 
 
 ~She. I've heard quite enough. Thank you, 
 Mr. Belleville. Please to understand that our 
 acquaintance is at an end. Good evening. (She 
 bows and walks away.) 
 
 Curtain.
 
 Ill 
 
 PIOUS ^)NEAS 
 
 Scene. — A room in Dido's Palace at Carthage. 
 Discovered : /Eneas, wearing a cloak of Tyrian 
 purple ; Serestus and Sergestus. 
 
 /Eneas (in a sharp military tone). Is everything 
 ready ? 
 
 Serestus. Aye, aye, sir. 
 
 /Eneas. No leave for either watches to-night. 
 We shall probably go to sea to-morrow morning at 
 four. I'll let you know later. 
 
 Serestus. Aye, aye, sir. 
 
 /Eneas. That's all. Don't any of you get 
 talking, and you, Sergestus, report seven minutes to 
 noon to me. 
 
 Sergestus. Aye, aye, sir. 
 
 [Sergestus and Serestus salute and go out L. 
 
 [/Eneas unrolls a chart. 
 Dido enters through a curtain C. ^neas 
 hastily conceals the chart. 
 
 Dido (cheerfully). Well ? 
 /Eneas. Good morning. 
 
 Dido. Are you busy ? If so I won't disturb 
 you.
 
 in PIOUS AENEAS 21 
 
 ./Eneas. No, no, I'm not at all busy. 
 
 Dido. I thought you were reading something 
 when I came in. 
 
 ./Eneas. I was only looking through some 
 accounts. 
 
 Dido. Aren't you cold in this room ? Wouldn't 
 you like a fire ? 
 
 /Eneas. No, thank you. I don't feel the cold. 
 
 Dido. It's blowing so hard to-day. I've been 
 for a walk. 
 
 /Eneas. Oh, is it ? I haven't been out this 
 morning. 
 
 Dido. I went for quite a long walk, past the 
 quays. 
 
 /Eneas. Do you think that was wise ? You 
 ought to be careful in this cold weather. 
 
 Dido. I like the cold. It reminds me of the day 
 you came. Do you remember how cold you all 
 were ? 
 
 /Eneas. Yes. 
 
 Dido. I'm sure you're busy. I'm sure I'm dis- 
 turbing you. 
 
 ./Eneas. Not in the least, I promise you. 
 
 Dido. ./Eneas. 
 
 .Eneas. Well ? 
 
 Dido. I've guessed ! 
 
 ./Eneas (uneasy and alarmed). What ? I don't 
 understand. 
 
 Dido (smiling). Your little surprise. 
 
 ./Eneas. What surprise ?
 
 22 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS in 
 
 Dido. I meant not to say, but I can't help it. 
 I found it out this morning by accident. I think 
 it's too dear of you to take all this trouble for me, 
 and to send a whole fleet to Tyre to bring me back 
 that purple dye which you promised me — the same 
 colour as your cloak, which / gave you. I meant 
 to pretend I didn't know, but I am so touched I 
 can't help it. 
 
 /Eneas. Oh ! the expedition to Tyre. Yes, I 
 was thinking 
 
 Dido. And when do they start ? 
 
 ./Eneas. It isn't quite settled. It depends. 
 
 Dido. Couldn't we go a part of the way with 
 them ? 
 
 /Eneas. No, I'm afraid that's quite out of the 
 question. The time of year, you see, is so bad. I 
 don't think you would enjoy it at all. It's very cold 
 and the sea will be rough. 
 
 Dido. I love a rough sea. Couldn't we go as 
 far as Sicily with them ? They're going to stop 
 there. 
 
 /Eneas. I don't think you could leave Carthage 
 just at this moment, could you ? 
 
 Dido. No, that's true. We couldn't very 
 well leave Carthage just now, could we ? Be- 
 cause King Iarbas has sent another threatening 
 message. 
 
 /Eneas. Again ? 
 
 Dido. Yes ; he threatens to attack Carthage 
 at once. He cannot get over the fact that we really
 
 in pious .#:neas 23 
 
 are married, and that I have a brave, dear, faithful, 
 darling husband to love and protect me for ever and 
 ever. 
 
 ^)neas. It certainly is most awkward. 
 
 Dido. What ? What does it matter to us what 
 he says and does ? 
 
 ^Eneas. Well, the fact is that I shall probably 
 have to go with the fleet. 
 
 Dido. Then I'll come with you. 
 
 /Eneas. My dear Elissa, that's impossible. 
 
 Dido. You don't mean to say that you're going 
 to leave me — your wife — alone and unprotected, 
 to face the invasion of a powerful, savage, and angry 
 king when there is absolutely no necessity for your 
 going at all ? 
 
 /Eneas. I can't possibly leave the fleet to Palin- 
 urus — our only pilot. Quite between ourselves he 
 doesn't know how to navigate — he once mistook 
 the Charybdis beacon for a star ... it was after 
 supper. . . . 
 
 Dido. Dearest, I quite understand. You must 
 put off the expedition. I promise you not to mind. 
 I don't really want the purple dye. We'll wait till 
 the season is more propitious. It was most dear of 
 you to think of it. 
 
 /Eneas. But I'm afraid it can't be put off. 
 Dipo. Why ? 
 
 /Eneas. Well, you see I have absolutely pro- 
 mised — I have definitely pledged myself — I have
 
 24 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS in 
 
 given my word of honour to visit my brother Eryx 
 in Sicily. 
 
 Dido. You can put that off until the spring. 
 
 .Eneas. I'm afraid it would be too late then. 
 You see the whole matter is most complicated. Eryx 
 expects me. I promised him to go, and if I don't 
 go now 
 
 Dido. What will happen ? 
 
 ./Eneas (vaguely). He won't be there. 
 
 Dido. Why ? Is he going away ? 
 
 /Eneas. And then there's another matter which 
 is still more important. I simply must visit my 
 father's tomb in Sicily. 
 
 Dido. You might have thought of that before. 
 
 .■■Eneas. I have constantly — but I put it off. 
 
 Dido. As you have put it off so long already, 
 you may just as well put it off a little longer. 
 
 ./Eneas. Yes, but there's Jove. 
 
 Dido. What has Jove got to do with it ? 
 
 ./Eneas. He wishes me to go. He is anxious that 
 I should go to Sicily and (pauses) to Italy. 
 
 Dido. Why to Italy ? 
 
 iENEAS. It's entirely for my boy's sake, Asranius 
 ... to establish a home for him. 
 
 Dido. And how long will you stay there ? 
 
 ./Eneas. It depends how things turn out. 
 
 Dido. A month ? 
 
 ./Eneas. I'm afraid it will be a little longer than 
 that. 
 
 Dido. Six weeks ?
 
 in PIOUS /ENEAS 
 
 /Eneas. You see it all depends on Jove. 
 
 Dido. I ask you as a favour to put off the whole 
 thing until the spring. 
 
 /Eneas. You know I would do anything you ask 
 me, but I'm afraid I can't do that. I would if I 
 could, but I can't. , 
 
 Dido. You mean you are determined to go to 
 Italy. 
 
 ,E!neas. It's the last thing I wish to do person- 
 ally, but Jove 
 
 Dido. Please leave Jove out of the discussion. 
 
 -Entas. After all I must go there some time or 
 other. 
 
 Dido. You are tired of me. 
 
 /Eneas. How can you say such a thing ? 
 
 Dido. I knew it at once. You are going to Italy, 
 and you're never coming back. 
 
 -Eneas. Of course I shall come back some time. 
 
 Dido {violently). Then it's true ! I knew you 
 were tired of me ! I've known it for a long time ; 
 but I never thought you could be so despicably mean 
 as to try to go away without saying a word. 
 
 -Eneas. But I never dreamt 
 
 Dido. You build a fleet on the sly, in the middle 
 of winter, to go to a strange country where you have 
 no ties. 
 
 jEneas. I beg your pardon, there's my brother 
 
 Dido. When wind and weather are at their 
 worst, simply and solely to get away from me 
 
 ^Eneas. But I swear
 
 26 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS in 
 
 Dido. Oh ! you don't expect me to believe for 
 a moment all that nonsense about Jove. If you 
 wanted to stay you wouldn't think twice about Jove. 
 You don't care a pin what may happen to me. You 
 have set everybody against me ; even my relations, 
 my brother, all the Numidians, and the whole of 
 Libya. You've ruined my reputation and given me 
 over to my enemies, and then you put it all upon 
 Jove. 
 
 ^neas. I beg you to listen, Elissa. I had never 
 for a moment meant to conceal my journey. 
 
 Dido. Then why tell all those silly lies about 
 Tyre and the purple dye ? 
 
 ^Eneas. I never said a word about Tyre and the 
 purple dye. It was you. 
 
 Dido. How can you tell such lies ? When I 
 asked you if the fleet was going to Tyre you distinctly 
 said Yes. 
 
 .fliNEAS. What I did say was that I was obliged 
 to go to Sicily to visit my father's tomb. That is 
 the simple truth. You can't expect me to wish the 
 whole world to think me unfilial ! As it is, I haven't 
 had a night's rest for months. My father's ghost 
 appears to me every night. 
 
 Dido. You expect me 
 
 ^)neas. Please let me finish. And only yester- 
 day I received a direct command from Jove, saying 
 I was to go to Italy at once and found a kingdom 
 there. Of course, if this only concerned myself I 
 shouldn't care, but there's my son Ascanius to be
 
 in PIOUS /ENEAS 27 
 
 thought of. I have no right to df fraud him of his 
 kingdom. If it were a question of inclination of 
 course I should stay here, and Italy's the last place I 
 want to go to. If I went anywhere I should go to 
 Troy ; but Jove has made my duty plain, and after 
 all a man must do his duty. 
 
 Dido. Your duty ! And I suppose it was a part 
 of your duty to deceive me, to ruin me, to stir up 
 enemies against me, and then to leave me defence- 
 less ! Me, your wife ! 
 
 /Eneas (angrily). 1 must point out that I warned 
 you at the time that our marriage was in no sense 
 legal or valid — it could never be recognised as an 
 alliance. 
 
 Dido (calmly). You are quite right. It is entirely 
 my fault. I thought you were a man of honour. I 
 believed your word. I thought you were a man. 
 I was mistaken. You were only a Trojan. I found 
 you shipwrecked, an outcast, starving, helpless, at 
 death's door. I saved your fleet. I rescued your 
 comrades from death. I saved you from destruction. 
 And this is my reward. The Greeks were right 
 when they burned Troy to the ground, killed your 
 men and made your women into slaves. They were 
 right to spare you, because you are not a man. Your 
 place is with the menials. Please don't think I shall 
 prevent you going to Italy. Don't imagine for a 
 moment I am going to argue with you. By all means 
 go and found a kingdom. I trust you will enjoy it 
 and that it will turn out better than Troy. I am
 
 28 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS m 
 
 sure you know best, and I am sure you know what is 
 best, and I am sure you are right. Don't imagine 
 that I mind, or that I shall miss you, for I shan't. I 
 am not the least annoyed at your going, I am only 
 surprised and vexed to find that a man who I 
 thought was honourable, and truthful, and brave 
 should turn out to be dishonourable, a liar, a coward 
 — and a mean coward. I am angry with myself for 
 having made such a mistake about a man, and 
 that you, by your foolish, silly, transparent lies and 
 shuffling should have shown me what a poor opinion 
 you have of me. I wish you a very pleasant journey, 
 and I hope you will do your duty in Italy as well as 
 you have done it in Carthage. 
 
 [She goes out C. 
 
 /Eneas (wiping his forehead with a handkerchief). 
 That's over ! 
 
 Enter Sergestus R. 
 
 Sergestus. Seven minutes to noon, sir. 
 
 ^neas. It's all right. We go to sea to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Sergestus. Aye, aye, sir. 
 
 [/Eneas goes out, whistling the tune " Good-bye, 
 Carthage, I must leave you." 
 
 Curtain.
 
 IV 
 THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 
 
 Scene from a Tragedy. — " The Life and Death of 
 Alexander." Anon. [Old Plays. Printed for 
 Peter Buck, at the 9ign of the Temple, near the 
 Inner-Temple-gate in Fleet-street, 1701.J 
 
 Act V. Scene iv. — Babylon. A bed-chamber in 
 Alexander's Palace. Alexander sleeping in 
 bed ; Roxana attending. 
 
 Roxana. Full thrice hath Phoebus bath'd in 
 Neptune's flood, 
 Thrice hath the pale-fac'd moon increas'd and wan'd, 
 But Alexander is uncomforted. 
 Not watchful care, nor drug9, nor natural simples 
 Can hold at bay the sickness which pursues him. 
 Methinks that treason whets his murderous knife, 
 And meditates a foul and bloody deed. 
 I dare not sleep. Have pity on my woes, 
 Immortal gods ! I know not friends from foes I 
 
 Enter a Slave 
 
 Slave. Madam. 
 
 Roxana. I know thou bringest some ill news.
 
 3 o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 
 
 Slave. Good madam, there is treason in the 
 palace. 
 The Queen Statira, envious of thy issue, 
 Is plotting murder. She hath a strange syrup, 
 Brew'd by a wizard in Arabia, 
 More direful than the hebenon which Medea 
 Did cull in Colchos by the yawning graves. 
 She purposes, when sleep shall seize thee wholly, 
 To give my Lord o' the juice. 
 
 Roxana. I thank you, slave, 
 
 I thank you, here is gold. 
 
 Slave. I thank you, madam. 
 
 [Exit Slave. Roxana feigns sleep. 
 
 Enter Queen Statira 
 
 Statira. My Lord, I come to say a last fare- 
 well. 
 Perchance the lying mist which seal'd thine eyes 
 Shall dissipate and we may be aton'd ; 
 And, deaf to false Roxana, thou'lt prefer 
 Thy Royal spouse, and cancel and defy 
 Her bastard's claim. 
 
 Roxana. Hence ! hence, foul murd'ress hence ! 
 Thou cursed thief who in the midnight season 
 Dost come to filch Great Alexander's soul 
 With mixture dire of hellish property, 
 Begone ! Thy treason is made palpable, 
 Thy baleful juice is harmless as pure water, 
 And thy dread weapon, turning on thyself, 
 Shall compass thine own ignomy.
 
 iv THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 31 
 
 Statira. Vain fool ! 
 
 Thy scolding frights me not. I am Statira. 
 Nor canst thou with false accusation 
 Raze from this brow the seal of royalty, 
 Nor take away the sov'ranty of birth. 
 Albeit supplanted by a saucy caitiff, 
 Albeit slighted, I was once a Queen ; 
 And I am still the daughter of Dairus, 
 The King, whom kneeling Emperors called the 
 
 Great. 
 Farewell, my Lord, with no more dreadful purpose 
 Have I come hither, than to say farewell. 
 I was thy spouse, and I will not importune 
 A faithless husband with a faithfulness 
 Unprofitable. So my Lord, farewell. 
 
 [Exit Statira. Alexander wakes. 
 Alexander. Roxana, take thy lute. My soul is 
 
 heavy. 
 Sing me asleep with music, let me rest. 
 
 Song 
 'Twas in the merry month of May, 
 
 When the sweet birds do sing, 
 That Proserpine — ah ! lack-a-day ! — 
 
 Did go a-gathering. 
 She stoop'd and cull'd the violet, 
 The pansy and the oxlip wet. 
 
 But gloomy Dis the maid espied, 
 
 And yoked his horses six, 
 And in his wagon drove a bride 
 
 Across the doleful Styx.
 
 32 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 
 
 'Twas in the merry month of May 
 
 She gathered flowers. Ah ! lack-a-day ! 
 
 Alexander. I thank you, 'tis a lulling melody. 
 I am a-weary. Sleep, impiteous sleep, 
 Unmitigable, uncorruptible gaoler, 
 Come, cloak my senses with thy leaden robe, 
 Lead me to durance in thy drowsy cell. 
 
 Enter Doctor 
 
 Doctor. How doth my Lord ? 
 
 Roxana. Ill, ill beyond the power 
 Of simples, drugs, and the physician's art. 
 In slumb'ry perturbation he'll converse 
 With images of his distemper'd fancy ; 
 Or he will bid me touch the instrument 
 And soothe his fever 'd spirit with a strain. 
 
 Doctor. Are you not weary ? It is now three 
 nights 
 That you have watch 'd. 
 
 Roxana. The canker of sharp grief, 
 The sleepless sorrow gnawing at my heart 
 Doth countervail outwearied nature's claim. 
 I shall not sleep till Alexander wakes 
 To health, or till he sleeps to wake no more. 
 But, softly. See, he stirs. 
 
 Doctor. Good night, sweet lady 
 
 Roxana. Good night to you. 
 
 [Exit Doctor. Roxana sleeps.
 
 iv THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 33 
 
 Alexander. The galleys ride at anchor ! 
 To-morrow we'll set sail for Italy, 
 Nor rest until we've pitch'd our tent in Rome, 
 And snatch 'd the insolent jewel of the West. 
 But yesterday the Afric oracle 
 Bespake to me an unconfined sway, 
 An orb and empery unparallel'd. 
 And thence, when the barbarians of the West 
 Are mild as leashed hounds beneath our yoke, 
 And when each sev'ral province hath subscrib'd, 
 To India we'll retrace our eager steps 
 And reach the undiscover'd sea beyond. 
 By the lush banks of Ganges, Alexander 
 Shall build a temple to his royal sire, 
 Great Jupiter. Thence we'll to Babylon, 
 And plant there our abiding seat of rule 
 In the fix'd centre of the universe. 
 North, south, and east and west shall our dominion, 
 Like the spread rays of gold Hyperion, 
 Pierce to the distant corners of the globe. 
 Oh look, Seleucus, look, Hephsestion, 
 Look, the Swarth King in jewell'd burgonet, 
 All clinquant, mounted on an elephant, 
 Advances with his congregated host. 
 On, veterans ! On, on, Bucephalus i 
 The ford ! The ford ! The villains fly ! Come, 
 
 Ho! 
 Clitus, awake, Roxana, O. 
 
 Roxana. My Lord ? 
 
 Alexander. Didst thou cry out ?
 
 34 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 
 
 Roxana. My Lord, I was asleep, 
 
 And knew not that I cried. 
 
 Alexander. Give me to drink. 
 
 Methought I was once more in India, 
 Crying my veterans to victory 
 Across the enchafed surges of Hydaspes. 
 My spirit fails. Come near to me, Roxana, 
 That I may breathe my last in fond adieu. 
 
 Roxana. Drink, my Lord, of this potion. It is 
 mix'd 
 Of herb-grace by a sure apothecary. 
 
 Alexander. Farewell, Roxana. Hie thee to my 
 mother, 
 Olympias, and tell her that I die 
 Her name upon my lips, a dutiful son. 
 Salute her with deep duty, say I needed 
 Her tenderness ; say that I am the shadow, 
 The mockery and ruins of her boy 
 Who manag'd and bestrid Bucephalus. 
 Remain with her, and let our only child 
 Be nurs'd and school'd in martial exercise, 
 And taught, as I was taught, philosophy. 
 Farewell, adieu ! The last of all the Greeks 
 Hath gone to meet Achilles. 
 
 Roxana. O my Lord ! 
 
 Enter Messenger 
 
 Messenger. Most gracious liege, the veterans 
 are here, 
 They press without.
 
 iv THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 35 
 
 Alexander. They shall be welcome. Ho ! 
 Come quickly, veterans, or I am dead. 
 
 Roxana. My Lord ! My husband ! 
 
 Enter Veterans 
 
 Alexander. Friends, farewell to you, 
 
 Friends all and brothers all and countrymen, 
 Born of one soil in Macedonia, 
 Tell Macedon of how we fought together 
 Beyond Hydaspes. Grieve not overmuch, 
 That with the world half-conquer 'd I must die, 
 Not fighting, but in bed, and like a woman. 
 I, to whom earth's huge globe was all too small, 
 Must occupy a niggard urn of dust. 
 I am for India. Come, Bucephalus, 
 One charge and we are masters of the world ! 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 Roxana. Great Alexander's dead. That soar- 
 ing spirit 
 Which fretted in the confines of the world, 
 Hath broken from its circumscribing clay. 
 Hyperion himself was not so bright, 
 Nor Mais so bold. Our Orient sun hath set. 
 Ashy eclipse shall darken the stale world : 
 Asia and Egypt to the furthest Ind, 
 And Greece, and Macedon, where he was born, 
 Shall mingle tears of everlasting woe. 
 Come bear his body hence, and build a pyre 
 More lofty than the walls of Babylon ;
 
 36 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS iv 
 
 And when the funeral's done, we'll bear his urn, 
 Obsequiously in sad procession, 
 Across the Libyan desert, to the grove 
 Where stands the Temple of his father Jove. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 THE GREEK VASE 
 
 Scene. — A garret on the top floor of a squalid house 
 in the Trastevere, Rome. Discovered : Gio- 
 vanni, a young sculptor, lying in bed, pale and 
 emaciated ; he coughs incessantly. The room is 
 quite bare. There are only two chairs and one 
 cupboard. It is very cold. There is no fire. By 
 the bedside sits a prosperous dealer. He wears a 
 frock-coat and a gold pince-nez. 
 
 Giovanni (zvearily). But I tell you it's not for 
 sale. 
 
 The Dealer. You might let me look at it. 
 
 Giovanni. What is the use ? I tell you I won't 
 sell it. 
 
 The Dealer. There can be no harm in your 
 showing it to me. 
 
 Giovanni (coughing). Not to-day. Can't you 
 see that I'm very ill and that talking tires me ? 
 
 The Dealer. Very well. I will call again to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Giovanni. You won't find me at home. 
 
 The Dealer. Are you going away ? 
 
 Giovanni. Yes, on a long journey.
 
 38 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 
 
 The Dealer. Abroad ? 
 
 Giovanni. Abroad. 
 
 The Dealer. To what country ? 
 
 Giovanni. They have prescribed me change 
 of air. They say it is the only thing which can cure 
 me. 
 
 The Dealer. You are going to the seaside ? 
 
 Giovanni. On the contrary, I am going to be 
 near a river. 
 
 The Dealer. The Arno ? Pisa, I suppose ? 
 
 Giovanni. No. 
 
 The Dealer. Not Paris ; that would be bad for 
 you. 
 
 Giovanni. Why do you think Paris would be 
 bad for me ? 
 
 The Dealer. In the first place it's very cold 
 there now, and then 1 don't think a large town is 
 what you need. 
 
 Giovanni. You are anxious that I should not go 
 to Paris. 
 
 The Dealer. I ? Not at all. Why ? I merely 
 meant that I thought you needed country air. 
 
 Giovanni. Yes, a villa on the Riviera for the 
 winter, and another for the summer at Amalfi with 
 a garden of rose9 ; or a chalet in the Tyrol ; or per- 
 haps an island in the Tropics with palm trees and a 
 yacht to sail about in — all that would do me good, 
 wouldn't it ? One doesn't have to pay for little 
 luxuries like that, does one ? They drop from 
 heaven into the pockets of starving artists.
 
 v THE GREEK VASE 39 
 
 The Dealer. Now, if you would only be reason- 
 able and show me that vase. I am sure we could 
 make enough money for you to take a trip to Albano. 
 The air there is beautiful. 
 
 Giovanni. Very well, you may see it. It's in 
 the cupboard. 
 
 [The Dealer goes to the cupboard and takes out 
 large black circular Greek vase with figures 
 painted on it. He observes it carefully. 
 
 The Dealer. This is not, of course, up to your 
 best form. I won't say that it is valueless. There 
 is, however, very little market now for this kind of 
 thing, and if I bought it I should probably have it 
 on my hands for years. 
 
 Giovanni. You needn't trouble about that. The 
 vase is not for sale. 
 
 The Dealer. But in the peculiar circumstances, 
 and since we have done business together for so many 
 years, I am willing to make an exception in this case. 
 How much do you want for it ? 
 
 Giovanni (savagely). I tell you it's not for sale. 
 
 The Dealer. Now, be reasonable. I will give 
 forty lire for it. 
 
 Giovanni. You amuse me immensely. 
 
 The Dealer. The vase is of no particular use 
 to me, and the fashion changes so quickly. Collectors 
 now are mad about Egypt and Japan. Greece is 
 finished. It's old, finished. Why, collectors now 
 prefer even Roman things to Greek. Giordani 
 says
 
 4 o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 
 
 Giovanni. You are wasting your breath. 
 
 The Dealer. I will give you forty-five lire. 
 Mind you, that's an enormous price, because, I 
 repeat, the vase is not up to your usual standard. 
 
 Giovanni. Please put the vase down on this 
 chair, there, next me. (The Dealer puts the vase 
 down on the chair next to Giovanni.) Thank you. 
 Now I wish you would go away. I am tired. You 
 tire me. (He coughs.) 
 
 The Dealer. Now, instead of a vase, if it had 
 only been a Japanese idol or a Renaissance figure, it 
 would be a very different matter. 
 
 Giovanni. When you bought my Simonctta 
 you said there was no demand for Renaissance work. 
 
 The Dealer. That was three years ago. It was 
 perfectly true then. The fashion changes so quickly. 
 
 Giovanni. I won't sell the vase. 
 
 The Dealer. Then, how do you propose to 
 live ? 
 
 Giovanni. Perhaps I have found a patron. 
 
 The Dealer. Ah ! Who is he ? 
 
 Giovanni. You would like to know, wouldn't 
 you ? 
 
 The Dealer. I wouldn't believe it of you. I 
 know you are far too honest to violate all the canons 
 of business etiquette and to play off one patron 
 against another. You have always dealt with me, 
 and I have always treated you handsomely — most 
 handsomely — you must admit that.
 
 v THE GREEK VASE 41 
 
 Giovanni. How much did you give me for my 
 large terra-cotta bust of Pallas ? 
 
 The Dealer. I was mad when I bought that 
 bust. I sold it for a quarter of what I gave you. I 
 had the greatest difficulty in getting rid of it. 
 
 Giovanni. How much exactly did you give me 
 for it ? 
 
 The Dealer. Of course, I could never give you 
 so much as that again. 
 
 Giovanni (impatiently). How much was it ? 
 
 The Dealer. I believe it was eighty-five lire. 
 I must have been mad. But times were better then. 
 There is no market for that kind of thing now, none 
 whatever. 
 
 Giovanni. So much the better for you, then, as 
 you won't lose money over my vase. 
 
 The Dealer. For old acquaintance' sake, I offer 
 you fifty lire ; there, you see ? 
 
 Giovanni. You make very good jokes. 
 
 The Dealer. Do you mean to say you think 
 that's too little ? 
 
 Giovanni. I said you make very good jokes. 
 You're a witty fellow. 
 
 The Dealer. You artists are so improvident. 
 You never know how many soldi there are in a lira. 
 
 Giovanni. You see we don't have very much 
 experience in counting lire. (He coughs.) 
 
 The Dealer. Ah ! if you only counted the soldi 
 the lire would take care of themselves.
 
 42 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 
 
 Giovanni. We don't always have the chance of 
 counting soldi. 
 
 The Dealer. To think of the position you might 
 be in now if you had only observed the elementary 
 rules of thrift. 
 
 Giovanni. And to think of the position you are 
 in by my not having done so ! 
 
 The Dealer. Yes ; here am I obliged, posi- 
 tively forced, to offer you for a trumpery vase at 
 least three times its value, and I give you my word 
 of honour that in offering you fifty-five lire for the 
 vase — for I am going to go as far as that — I shall 
 be out of pocket — out of pocket. Do you under- 
 stand ? 
 
 Giovanni. I quite understand, only if I were 
 you I shouldn't bring in the word " honour." 
 
 The Dealer. I don't understand. 
 
 Giovanni. You wouldn't. 
 
 The Dealer. Well, fifty-five lire ; it's a bargain ! 
 
 Giovanni. Suppose we talk about something 
 else. 
 
 The Dealer. You are all the same, you 
 artists. . . . You never will listen to reason. You 
 never will understand that business is business and 
 not 
 
 Giovanni. Charity. 
 
 The Dealer. In this case it is charity, pure 
 charity. I would not dream of buying the vase from 
 any one else. 
 
 Giovanni. I don't expect you would.
 
 v THE GREEK VASE 43 
 
 The Dealer. Why, Leonardi sold me only 
 yesterday a little ivory Perseus for thirty lire. 
 
 Giovanni. I made that Perseus, and you know 
 it ; otherwise you wouldn't have bought it. 
 
 The Dealer. Well, I'm a busy man, and I can't 
 waste my time arguing with you. I'll give you 
 sixty lire. That's my last word. 
 
 Giovanni. It's a great pity you didn't go on the 
 stage. 
 
 The Dealer. You think I'm trying to cheat you. 
 Surely 
 
 Giovanni. No, I don't think anything of the 
 kind. 
 
 The Dealer. Now, come, let me take the vase. 
 You've got no use for it here. Think what a nice 
 little trip to Albano will do for you. 
 
 Giovanni (coughing). You can't imagine how 
 greatly you tire me. 
 
 The Dealer. I never knew such an obstinate 
 fellow as you are. I'll make it seventy, but this is 
 positively my last word. You can take it or leave 
 it. 
 
 Giovanni. Oh ! Leave it for Heaven's sake. 
 Leave the vase, and leave me. (He coughs.) 
 
 The Dealer. You're surely not going to sell it 
 to some one else ; you wouldn't be so mean ! 
 
 Giovanni. W r ho knows ? 
 
 The Dealer. That kind of bluff, my friend, 
 won't do with me. I am too old a bird to be caught
 
 44 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS v 
 
 by a trick. Come now, I offer you seventy lire — 
 seventy whole lire. Do you understand ? 
 
 Giovanni. It's impossible. The vase is dis- 
 posed of. 
 
 The Dealer. Sold ! Impossible i You couldn't 
 do such a thing. You couldn't play me such a shabby 
 trick. Who has bought it ? 
 
 Giovanni. Nobody has bought it. 
 
 The Dealer. You are trifling. It isn't fair. 
 You are wasting my time. You know I'm a busy 
 man. 
 
 Giovanni. And you are wasting my time, and 
 I am a dying man. They say I can't live twenty- 
 four hours. 
 
 The Dealer. What nonsense ! There, you see 
 how foolish you are ! Now I tell you what I'll do. 
 I'll give you two hundred lire for the vase. It's 
 unheard of, but in view 
 
 Giovanni. I am a dying man, and this is our 
 last bargain. It has consequently no effect on future 
 dealings. The time at your disposal is short ; dying 
 men don't bluff, you must have the vase ; all this 
 makes your price jump up. Listen to me a moment. 
 {He takes a cutting from a nezvspaper out of his pocket.) 
 This is a cutting from an English illustrated news- 
 paper. A friend sent it me. It is the reproduction 
 of a photograph, and under it is written : " The 
 terra-cotta bust of Pallas, a work of the central period 
 of Greek perfection, the age of Pericles, after having
 
 v THE GREEK VASE 45 
 
 been rejected by the British Museum, has been pur- 
 chased for the Louvre for the sum of £6,000. While 
 congratulating the French nation on their acquisi- 
 tion, we cannot help asking ourselves what the British 
 Museum authorities," etc. I skip. But wait — 
 Here is a further comment which may interest you. 
 " Some of our criticasters have thrown doubts on 
 the authenticity of the vase." Now look at the 
 photograph. Perhaps you recognise the bust. 
 
 The Dealer. You don't mean to say you 
 think— 
 
 Giovanni (in a low voice). Be quiet. You see 
 this vase. (He takes the vase.) It's not for sale. 
 It never will be. Do you know why ? Because it's 
 my masterpiece, and because it's mine. This is 
 what I'm going to do with it. (He takes the vase 
 and throws it to the ground, shattering it to fragments.) 
 And now I can die in peace. Go ! 
 
 The Dealer. But 
 
 Giovanni. Go ! (Giovanni turns his head to 
 the wall) [Exit Dealer, mumbling. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 VI 
 THE FATAL RUBBER 
 
 Scene. — A Room in the Palace of the Louvre. Dis- 
 covered, seated at a card-table : Charles VI. 
 King of France, Isabeau de Baviere, the Queen, 
 the Dauphin, and Catherine, his sister. 
 
 The King. I think we might have some clean 
 cards. 
 
 The Queen. I won't play with those thick 
 English cards, it takes hours to shuffle them. Be- 
 sides, I think it's unpatriotic. 
 
 The King. Rubbish ! Games are outside 
 politics. 
 
 The Queen. I think it is unpatriotic just now, 
 when the war's going on, and I always shall think 
 so. 
 
 The Dauphin (yawning). What game are we 
 
 going to play to-night ? 
 
 The King. Pont d'Avignon. 
 
 The Queen. Pont d'Avignon. 
 
 The Dauphin. Biribi. 
 
 Catherine. Nain Jaune. 
 
 The Queen. We shall, of course, play Pont 
 d'Avignon. Your father wishes it.
 
 vi THE FATAL RUBBER 47 
 
 The King. Cut for deal. {They cat.) 
 
 The Dauphin. You and I play together, Papa. 
 
 [They change seats so as to be opposite one another. 
 
 The King. Cut for deal. {They cut.) 
 
 The Dauphin. It's Papa's deal. {The King 
 deals.) 
 
 The King. I leave it. 
 
 The Dauphin. I make no trumps. 
 
 Catherine. I double. 
 
 The Dauphin. I redouble. 
 
 The Queen. We're content. 
 
 The King. You've no business to say " we're 
 content." 
 
 The Queen. We play Hearts, of course, in 
 doubled no trumps. 
 
 The King. Never ; we always play the highest 
 of the shortest. Besides which it's Catherine who 
 doubled. 
 
 The Queen. I play Hearts. The Queen of 
 Hearts is called after me, so of course you must play 
 Hearts, Catherine. 
 
 The King. You ought to have said that before. 
 Besides in this case the rule doesn't apply. 
 
 Catherine {playing the tzco of Hearts to the 
 Dauphin). Put your cards down, Charles. 
 
 [The Dauphin puts his hand down. He has got 
 no Hearts, the ace, King, ten, Knave, and five 
 of Clubs ; ace, Queen, ten, and six of Diamonds ; 
 Queen, Knave, ten, nine of Spades. 
 The King. That's not a no-trumper. You
 
 48 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 
 
 might have made no trumps if it had been your 
 make. As for redoubling, it's too absurd. 
 
 [The Queen takes the trick with the Queen of 
 Hearts ; neither the King nor the Dauphin 
 has got any. 
 The Queen. No Hearts. How odd ! Then all 
 the rest are ours. I've got nine Hearts now. 
 
 The King. I beg your pardon. It's not at all 
 so certain. 
 
 The Queen. Very well, we'll play it. 
 Catherine. I can see your cards, Papa. 
 
 [They play ; the Queen rakes in her tricks ; in 
 the last round but one the King throws away 
 the ace of Diamonds instead of the ace of Clubs, 
 thereby enabling Catherine to make the King 
 of Diamonds. 
 
 The Queen (triumphantly). The Grand Slam ! 
 
 The Dauphin. You wouldn't have made it if 
 Papa had played properly, and not thrown away his 
 ace of Diamonds. 
 
 The King. I couldn't have done anything else, 
 and it wouldn't have made the slightest difference. 
 
 The Dauphin. We should have saved the slam, 
 that's all. 
 
 The King. In the first place you ought never 
 to have redoubled. 
 
 The Dauphin. I held excellent cards. 
 
 The King. You had nothing at all — absolutely 
 nothing.
 
 vi THE FATAL RUBBER 49 
 
 The Dauphin. Two aces ; ace, King, Knave, 
 ten of Clubs 
 
 The King. I had the ten of Clubs. 
 
 Catherine. No, Papa, I had the ten. 
 
 The Dauphin. I'm quite positive I had the ten. 
 
 The Queen. As a matter of fact I had the ten of 
 Clubs. 
 
 The King. .! know I had the ten. It's not the 
 slightest use discussing the matter. 
 
 Catherine. Oh, Papa, how can you say that ? 
 Of course you hadn't. 
 
 The King. I played this game before you were 
 born and I suppose I know if a hand is a no-trumper 
 or not. 
 
 The Dauphin. I had a much better hand than 
 Catherine's. She had no right to double. 
 
 Catherine. I had everything 
 
 The Dauphin. Besides which it wasn't fair. 
 
 Catherine. What wasn't fair ? 
 
 The Dauphin. To play Hearts. 
 
 The King. You're quite right, Charles, it wasn't 
 fair. 
 
 The Dauphin. You would never have played 
 Hearts, if Mamma hadn't told you to. 
 
 The Queen. I never told the child anything. I 
 only played according to the rules. 
 
 The King. In the first place the rule didn't 
 apply, and in the second place it's not the rule. It's 
 a stupid convention invented by the Italians.
 
 5 o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 
 
 The Queen. I always have played Hearts in 
 doubled no trumps, and I always shall. 
 
 The King. You might just as well give your 
 partner a kick under the table. 
 
 Catherine. I should have played Hearts in anv 
 case. 
 
 The Dauphin. What a lie ! 
 
 Catherine. It's you who tell lies. You said 
 you'd the ten of Clubs. 
 
 The Dauphin. We've always played from the 
 shortest suit before. 
 
 The King. Besides which, vou never said a 
 word about it until you saw your cards. 
 
 The Queen. Of course not, because I always 
 play Hearts. It's so much the best game. 
 
 The King. If you did that with other people 
 they'd consider it cheating. 
 
 The Dauphin. It was cheating. 
 
 Catherine. You needn't talk about cheating, 
 Charles. You cheated this morning at tennis — 
 twice. 
 
 The Dauphin. I didn't. You don't understand 
 the score. No woman does. 
 
 The King. Women have got no morals about 
 cards whatsoever. 
 
 The Queen. As a matter of fact we should have 
 won anyhow, if Catherine had played Hearts or not. 
 
 Catherine. Of course we should. 
 
 The Dauphin. Oh ! Really !
 
 vi THE FATAL RUBBER 51 
 
 The King. You couldn't possibly have made 
 the odd trick. 
 
 The Queen. We should have made at least four 
 tricks ; we couldn't help it. 
 
 The King. And you talk the whole time — no 
 wonder one loses. 
 
 The Dauphin. It's quite impossible to play when 
 they interrupt. 
 
 The King. And touch the cards. 
 
 The Dauphin. And tell each other what to play. 
 
 The King. And argue about every trick. 
 
 The Dauphin. And then never tell the truth. 
 
 The Queen. If I were you, Charles, I would 
 learn the rudimentary elements of the game. 
 
 The King. And not double when you've got 
 nothing. 
 
 Catherine. And not revoke. 
 
 The Dauphin. When did I revoke ? 
 
 Catherine. Last night. 
 
 The Dauphin. I didn't. 
 
 Catherine. I suppose it wasn't a real revoke, 
 just like I suppose you had the ten of Clubs just 
 now. 
 
 The Dauphin. So I had. 
 
 Catherine. You wouldn't dare play like that if 
 we were playing for money. 
 
 The Dauphin. Very well. If you think I cheat 
 I shan't play at all. 
 
 [He goes out of the room and slams the door. 
 
 The King. We'll play without him.
 
 52 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 
 
 Catherine. I'd much rather play without him. 
 Charles is quite impossible at cards — in fact at all 
 games. 
 
 The Queen. Whose deal is it ? 
 
 The King. We must begin a fresh rubber. When 
 one plays three, a game counts for a rubber. 
 
 The Queen. Charles ! 
 
 The Dauphin (opening the door). What is it ? 
 
 The Queen. Come back at once. Don't be so 
 silly. Your father wants to play. 
 
 The Dauphin. It's no good my playing if you 
 all say I cheat. 
 
 Catherine. I never said you cheated. 
 
 The Queen. Come back directly. {The Dauphin 
 comes 1)ack and sits dozen at the table sulkily.) 
 
 The King. Whose deal is it ? 
 
 Catherine. Mine. 
 
 The Dauphin. Mine. 
 
 Catherine. Papa dealt last time. 
 
 The Dauphin. No ; you dealt and I doubled. 
 
 Catherine. Papa dealt and left it. 
 
 The Dauphin. You dealt, because I remember 
 you nearly made a misdeal. 
 
 Catherine. I never make misdeals. 
 
 The Dauphin. Always. 
 
 Catherine. Very well. You'd better play with- 
 out me. 
 
 [She goes out and slams the door. 
 
 The King. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! They'll 
 drive me mad !
 
 vi THE FATAL RUBBER 53 
 
 The Queen {going to the door). Catherine, come 
 back this moment. Because Charles chooses to 
 make a fool of himself that's no reason why you 
 should. 
 
 Catherine. I don't want to play. It's no fun 
 playing with Charles. 
 
 The King. Oh ! do let's go on with the game. 
 Do try and not quarrel so, children. (Catherine 
 comes back and sits down.) 
 
 Catherine. I'll come back this time, but if he 
 says I cheat again, I shall never play again as long as 
 I live. 
 
 The Queen. Hush ! It's Catherine's deal. 
 
 Catherine. There, you see ! 
 
 The Queen. Hush 1 
 
 [Catherine deals. 
 
 The Queen (looking at her cards). I shouldn't at 
 all mind if it was left to me this time. 
 
 The King. You've no business whatever to say 
 a word. 
 
 The Queen. As if it made any difference ! 
 
 The King. It makes an enormous difference. 
 
 The Queen. Not in this case. 
 
 The King. That's nothing to do with it. It's 
 the principle that's wrong. 
 
 Catherine. I leave it. 
 
 The King. There you see ! 
 
 Catherine. Papa, I couldn't do anything else. 
 
 The Queen. I make no trumps.
 
 54 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vi 
 
 [The Dauphin leads a card ; the Queen puts 
 down her cards, revealing an excellent lead ; 
 Catherine hesitates a moment what to play 
 from dummy's hand, the Queen touches one of 
 dummy's cards to show. 
 
 The King. Isabeau, the dummy has no business 
 to touch the cards. That is cheating if you like. 
 
 The Queen (rising up in great dignity). I've 
 played cards for twenty-five years and have never 
 yet been called a cheat in my own house. 
 
 [She walks to the door. 
 
 Catherine. Mamma, Mamma, do come back. 
 
 The Dauphin (walking after her). Oh ! Do 
 come back ! 
 
 The King (getting up). Don't be so absurd. 
 You're all of you one worse than the other ! 
 
 The Queen. No, no, he called me a cheat. 
 
 The King. I never did anything of the sort. 
 
 The Queen. No wonder the children never speak 
 the truth when they've got such a father ! 
 
 The King. Now sit down and let's go on. 
 
 [They sit down. The King plays. Catherine 
 plays from her hand, and then the Dauphin. 
 Catherine again hesitates about dummy's 
 card, and the Queen again touches a card 
 showing her what to play. 
 
 The Dauphin. Papa, Mamma's cheated again. 
 The Queen (getting up). I won't have you say 
 that.
 
 vi THE FATAL RUBBER 55 
 
 Catherine (shouting). Oh ! Charles ! 
 The Dauphin (screaming). But she showed 
 you 
 
 [The King gets up and throws the cards to the 
 other end of the roo?n, kicks over the card- table, 
 and rushes to the door screaming. 
 
 The Queen (terror-stricken). Heaven have mercy 
 upon us, your father's gone mad ! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 VII 
 
 THE REHEARSAL 
 
 Scene. — The Globe Theatre, 1595. On the stage the 
 Author, the Producer, and the Stage 
 Manager are standing. A rehearsal of 
 " Macbeth " is about to begin. Waiting in the 
 wings are the actors who are playing the 
 Witches, Banquo, Macduff, etc. They are 
 all men. 
 
 The Stage Manager. We'd better begin with 
 the last act. 
 
 The Producer. I think we'll begin with the first 
 act. We've never done it all through yet. 
 
 The Stage Manager. Mr. Colman isn't here. 
 It's no good doing the first act without Duncan. 
 
 The Producer. Where is Mr. Colman ? Did 
 you let him know about rehearsal ? 
 
 The Stage Manager. I sent a messenger to his 
 house in Gray's Inn. 
 
 The First Witch. Mr. Colman is playing 
 Psyche in a masque at Kenilworth. He won't be 
 back until the day after to-morrow. 
 
 The Producer. That settles it. We'll begin 
 with the fifth act. 
 
 The First Witch. Then I suppose I can go.
 
 vii THE REHEARSAL 57 
 
 The Second Witch. \ And I suppose we 
 The Third Witch. > needn't wait. 
 
 The Stage Manager. Certainly not. We're 
 going on to the fourth act as soon as we've done the 
 fifth. 
 
 Banquo. But I suppose you don't want me. 
 
 The Stage Manager. And what about your 
 ghost entrance in Act IV ? We must get the busi- 
 ness right this time ; besides, we'll do the second 
 act if we've time. Now, Act V, Mr. Thomas and 
 Mr. Bowles, please. 
 
 The First Witch. Mr. Bowles can't come 
 to-day. He told me to tell you. He's having a 
 tooth pulled out. 
 
 The Stage Manager. Then will you read the 
 waiting gentlewoman's part, Mr. Lyle. You can 
 take this scrip. 
 
 [The First Witch takes the scrip. 
 
 Where is Mr. Thomas ? 
 
 The First Witch. He said he was coming. 
 
 The Stage Manager. We can't wait. I'll read 
 his part. We'll leave out the beginning and just 
 give Mr. Hughes his cue. 
 
 The First Witch (reading). " Having no witness 
 to confirm my speech." 
 
 The Stage Manager. Mr. Hughes. 
 
 The First Witch. He was here a moment ago. 
 
 The Stage Manager (louder). Mr. Hughes. 
 
 e
 
 5 8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vn 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth (Mr. Hughes, a young 
 man about 24) 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Sorry. (He comes on down 
 some steps L.C.) 
 
 The Producer. That will never do, Mr. 
 Hughes ; there's no necessity to sway as if you 
 were intoxicated, and you mustn't look at your 
 feet. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. It's the steps. They're 90 
 rickety. 
 
 The Producer. We'll begin again from " speech." 
 
 [Lady Macbeth comes on again. He looks 
 straight in front of him and falls heavily on to 
 the ground. 
 
 I said those steps were to be mended yesterday. 
 
 [The First Witch is convulsed with laughter. 
 Lady Macbeth. There's nothing to laugh at. 
 The Producer. Are you hurt, Mr. Hughes ? 
 Lady Macbeth. Not much. (The steps are re- 
 placed by two supers.) 
 
 The Producer. Now from " speech." 
 
 [Mr. Hughes comes on again. 
 
 The Producer. You must not hold the taper 
 upside down. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. How can I rub my hands and 
 hold a taper too ? What's the use of the taper ? 
 
 The Producer. You can rub the back of your 
 hand. You needn't wash your hands in the air. 
 That's better.
 
 vii THE REHEARSAL 59 
 
 [The dialogue between the Doctor and the 
 Gentlewoman proceeds until Lady Mao 
 beth's cue : " hour." 
 
 Enter the Doctor (Mr. Thomas). He waits R. 
 Lady Macbeth. " Here's a damned spot." 
 The Stage Manager. No, no, Mr. Hughes, 
 
 " Yet here's a spot." 
 The Producer. Begin again from " hands." 
 Gentlewoman. " It is an accustomed action 
 
 with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I've 
 
 known her to continue in this three-quarters of an 
 
 hour." 
 Lady Macbeth. " Yet here's a damned spot." 
 The Stage Manager. It's not " damned " at 
 
 all. That comes later. 
 Lady Macbeth. It's catchy. Couldn't I say 
 
 " mark " instead of " spot " in the first line ? 
 
 The Doctor (coming forward). That would 
 
 entirely spoil the effect of my " Hark ! ' You see 
 
 " mark " rhymes with " Hark." It's impossible. 
 The Producer. Oh ! It's you, Mr. Thomas. 
 
 Will you go straight on. We'll do the whole scene 
 
 over presently. Now from " hour." 
 Lady Macbeth. " Yes, here's a spot." 
 The Stage Manager. It's not " Yes," but 
 
 " Yet," Mr. Hughes. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. " Yet here's a spot." 
 
 The Doctor (at the top of his voice). " Hark ! " 
 
 The Producer. Not so loud, Mr. Thomas, that 
 
 would wake her up.
 
 6o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vn 
 
 The Doctor {in a high falsetto). " Har-r-rk ! 
 She spe-e-e-aks. I will . . . set . . . down." 
 
 The Producer. You needn't bleat that 
 " speaks," Mr. Thomas, and the second part of that 
 line is cut. 
 
 The Doctor. It's not cut in my part. " Hark, 
 she speaks." 
 
 Lady Macbeth. " Yet here's a spot." 
 
 The Stage Manager. No, Mr. Hughes ; "out 
 damned spot." 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Sorry. 
 
 The Producer. We must get that right. Now 
 from " hour." 
 
 Lady Macbeth. " Yet here's a spot." 
 
 The Doctor. " Hark ! she speaks." 
 
 Lady Macbeth. " Get out, damned spot ! Get 
 out, I say ! One, two, three, four : why there's 
 plenty of time to do't. Oh ! Hell ! Fie, fie, my 
 Lord ! a soldier and a beard ! What have we got 
 to fear when none can call our murky power to swift 
 account withal ? You'd never have thought the old 
 man had so much blood in him ! " 
 
 The Author. I don't think you've got those 
 lines quite right yet, Mr. Hughes. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. What's wrong ? 
 
 The Stage Manager. There's no " get." It's 
 " one ; two " : and not " one, two, three, four." 
 Then it's " Hell is murky." And there's no 
 " plenty." And it's " a soldier and afeared," and 
 not a " soldier and a beard."
 
 vii THE REHEARSAL 61 
 
 The Author. And after that you made two lines 
 into rhymed verse. 
 
 Mr. Hughes. Yes, I know I did. I thought it 
 wanted it. 
 
 The Producer. Please try to speak your lines 
 as they are written, Mr. Hughes. 
 
 Enter Mr. Burbage, who plays Macbeth. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. That scene doesn't go. Now 
 don't you think Macbeth had better walk in his sleep 
 instead of Lady Macbeth. 
 
 The Stage Manager. That's an idea. 
 
 The Producer. I think the whole scene might 
 be cut. It's quite unnecessary. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Then I shan't come on in the 
 whole of the fifth act. If that scene's cut I shan't 
 play at all. 
 
 The Stage Manager. We're thinking of 
 transferring the scene to Macbeth. {To the Author.) 
 It wouldn't need much altering. Would you mind 
 rewriting that scene, Mr. Shakespeare ? It wouldn't 
 want much alteration. You'd have to change that 
 line about Arabia. Instead of this " little hand," 
 you might say : "All the perfumes of Arabia will 
 not sweeten this hornv hand." I'm not sure it isn't 
 more effective. 
 
 The Author. I'm afraid it might get a laugh. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. Not if I play it. 
 
 The Author. I think it's more likely that Lady 
 Macbeth would walk in her sleep, but
 
 62 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS 
 
 VII 
 
 Mr. Burbage. That doesn't signify. I can 
 make a great hit in that scene. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. If you take that scene from 
 me, I shan't play Juliet to-night. 
 
 The Stage Manager (aside to Producer). We 
 can't possibly get another Juliet. 
 
 The Producer. On the whole, I think we must 
 leave the scene as it is. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I've got nothing to do in the last 
 act. What's the use of my coming to rehearsal 
 when there's nothing for me to rehearse ? 
 
 The Producer. Very well, Mr. Burbage. We'll 
 go on to the Third Scene at once. We'll go through 
 your scene again later, Mr. Hughes. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. Before we do this scene there's 
 a point I wish to settle. In Scene V., when Seyton 
 tells me the Queen's dead, I say : " She should 
 have died hereafter ; there would have been a time 
 for such a word " ; and then the messenger enters. 
 I should like a soliloquy here, about twenty or thirty 
 lines, if possible in rhyme, in any case ending with 
 a tag. I should like it to be about Lady Macbeth. 
 Macbeth might have something touching to say 
 about their happy domestic life, and the early days 
 of their marriage. He might refer to their court- 
 ship. I must have something to make Macbeth 
 sympathetic, otherwise the public won't stand it. 
 He might say his better-half had left him, and then 
 he might refer to her beauty. The speech might 
 begin :
 
 vii THE REHEARSAL 63 
 
 O clonrest chuck, it is unkind indeed 
 
 To leave me in the midst of my sore need. 
 
 Or something of the kind. In any case it ought to 
 rhyme. Could I have that written at once, and 
 then we could rehearse it ? 
 
 The Producer. Certainly, certainly, Mr. Bur- 
 bage. Will you write it yourself, Mr. Shakespeare, 
 or shall we get some one else to do it ? 
 
 The Author. I'll do it myself if some one will 
 read my part. 
 
 The Producer. Let me see ; I forget what is 
 your part. 
 
 The Stage Manager. Mr. Shakespeare is 
 playing Seyton. (Aside.) We cast him for Duncan, 
 but he wasn't up to it. 
 
 The Producer. Mr. Kydd, will you read Mr. 
 Shakespeare's part ? 
 
 Banquo. Certainly. 
 
 The Producer. Please let us have that speech, 
 Mr. Shakespeare, as quickly as possible. (Aside.) 
 Don't make it too long. Ten lines at the most. 
 
 The Author (aside). Is it absolutely necessary 
 that it should rhyme ? 
 
 The Producer (aside). No, of course not ; that's 
 Burbage's fad. 
 
 [Exit the Author into the wings. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I should like to go through the 
 fight first. 
 
 The Producer. Very well, Mr. Burbage. 
 
 The Stage Manager. Macduff— Mr. Foote
 
 64 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vn 
 
 Macduff. I'm here. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I'll give you the cue : 
 " Why should I play the fool and like a Roman 
 Die on my sword, while there is life, there's hope, 
 The gashes are for them." 
 
 Macduff. " Turn, hell-hound, turn." 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I don't think Macduff ought to 
 call Macbeth a hell-hound. 
 
 The Producer. What do you sifggest ? 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I should suggest : " False Monarch, 
 turn." It's more dignified. 
 
 Macduff. I would rather say " hell-hound." 
 
 The Producer. Supposing we made it " King 
 of Hell." 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I don't think that would do. 
 
 The Producer. Then we must leave it for the 
 present. 
 
 Macduff. " Turn, hell-hound, turn." 
 
 [They begin to fight with wooden swords. 
 
 The Stage Manager. You don't begin to fight 
 till Macduff says " Give thee out." 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I think we might run those two 
 speeches into one, and I might say : 
 " Of all men I would have avoided thee, 
 
 But come on now, although my soul is charged 
 
 With blood of thine, I'll have no further words. 
 
 My voice is in my sword." 
 Then Macduff could say : 
 " O bloodier villain than terms can well express."
 
 vii THE REHEARSAL 65 
 
 The Producer. We must consult the author 
 about that. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. We'll do the fencing without 
 words first. 
 
 [They begin to fight again. Macduff gives 
 Mr. Burbage a tremendous blow on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. Oh ! oh ! That's my rheumatic 
 shoulder. Please be a little more careful, Mr. Foote. 
 You know I've got no padding. I can't go on re- 
 hearsing now. I am very seriously hurt indeed. 
 
 Macduff. I'm sure I'm very sorry. It was 
 entirely an accident. 
 
 Mr. Burbage. I'm afraid I must go home. I 
 don't feel up to it. 
 
 The Stage Manager. I'll send for some 
 ointment. Please be more careful, Mr. Foote. 
 Couldn't you possibly see your way to take Scene 
 III, Mr.. Burbage ? 
 
 Mrj Burbage. I know Scene III backwards. 
 However, I'll just run through my speech. 
 
 The Stage Manager. What ? " This push will 
 cheer me ever " ? 
 
 Mr. Burbage (peevishly). No, not that one. You 
 know that's all right. That tricky speech about 
 medicine. Give me the cue. 
 
 The Stage Manager. " That keep her from her 
 rest." 
 
 Mr. Burbage. " Cure her of that : 
 
 Canst thou not minister to a sickly mind,
 
 66 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vn 
 
 Pull from the memory a booted sorrow, 
 
 Rub out the troubles of the busy brain, 
 
 And with a sweet and soothing antidote 
 
 Clean the stiff bosom of that dangerous poison 
 
 Which weighs upon the heart ? " 
 
 There, you see, word-perfect. What did I say ? 
 
 The Stage Manager. Yes, yes, Mr. Burbage. 
 Here's Mr. Shakespeare. 
 
 The Author. I've written that speech. Shall I 
 read it ? 
 
 The Producer. Please. 
 
 Mr. Shakespeare (reads). " To-morrow, and 
 to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
 To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
 Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more ; it is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. 
 Signifying nothing." 
 
 Mr. Burbage. Well, you don't expect me to say 
 that, I suppose. It's a third too short. There's 
 not a single rhyme in it. It's got nothing to do with 
 the situation, and it's an insult to the stage. " Struts 
 and frets " indeed ! I see there's nothing left for 
 me but to throw up the part. You can get any one 
 you please to play Macbeth. One thing is quite 
 certain, I won't. [Exit Mr. Burbage in a passion.
 
 vii THE REHEARSAL 67 
 
 The Stage Manager {to the Author). Now 
 you've done it. 
 
 The Author {to the Producer). You said it 
 needn't rhyme. 
 
 The Producer. It's Macduff. It was all your 
 fault, Mr. Foote. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Am I to wear a fair wig or a 
 dark wig ? 
 
 The Producer. Oh ! I don't know. 
 
 The Author. Dark, if you please. People are 
 always saying I'm making portraits. So, if you're 
 dark, nobody can say I meant the character for the 
 Queen or for Mistress Mary Fytton. 
 
 The Stage Manager. It's no good going on 
 now. It's all up — it's all up. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 VIII 
 THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 
 
 (WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. MAETERLINCK) 
 
 Scene. — A London street ; the houses are scarcely 
 visible in the diaphanous mist. On the right, 
 darkling, is a sausage shop ; on the left a green- 
 grocer's. The shop windows glimmer like opals. 
 
 Enter a Policeman. He is dressed in a 
 cerulean tunic, and his truncheon is transparent 
 and glows like a beryl. 
 
 The Policeman. It was not on my beat. It was 
 not on my beat. 
 
 Enter the Pantaloon. He is very old. 
 
 The Pantaloon. I am very old. I am so old 
 that I cannot remember things. I cannot remem- 
 ber names. 
 
 The Policeman. Move on. 
 
 The Pantaloon. I am always moving on. I 
 feel like a sea-gull. 
 
 The Policeman. Move on. I have already told 
 you to move on.
 
 vin THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 69 
 
 The Pantaloon. He told me to move on. He 
 said I would be obliged to move on. I am so old 
 that I forget what they say to me. 
 
 The Policeman. Your beard is like grass. It 
 is like the grass that grows over men's graves. I do 
 not like your beard. 
 
 The Pantaloon. You have no beard. Your 
 face is smooth. It has a hole on one side of it like 
 a cheese. The moon has a hole on one side of it. It 
 is foggy in the street. 
 
 [Pointing to the door of the sausage shop. 
 Behind that door there is no fog. 
 
 The Policeman. Nobody has ever opened that 
 door. The key of that door is lost. The lock is 
 broken. It is a useless door. 
 
 The Pantaloon. Years ago that door had a key. 
 There was a little red stain on the key. It wanted 
 cleaning. 
 
 The Policeman. It was a rusty key. 
 
 The Pantaloon. It was a latch-key. 
 
 The Policeman. It was lost on a Thursday. 
 
 The Pantaloon. On the Friday they came to 
 clean the key, but it was too dark to clean it. 
 
 The Policeman. On Saturday morning there 
 was no time. On Saturday afternoon the shops 
 were shut. 
 
 The Pantaloon. The shops were shut all 
 Sunday. 
 
 The Policeman. Monday wa3 Bank Holiday. 
 They went away on Monday.
 
 7 o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vm 
 
 The Pantaloon. It rained all day on Monday. 
 It poured with rain. The rain wa3 damp. It had 
 come from a damp place. It was wet rain. 
 
 The Policeman. They told me he was 
 wanted. 
 
 The Pantaloon. They asked me what time it 
 was. I said : " I am so old I have forgotten what 
 time it is. I cannot remember things." 
 
 The Policeman. They came back on Monday 
 night. When they came back they had forgotten 
 all about the key. 
 
 The Pantaloon. I said if you want to know 
 what time it is you must ask the policeman. The 
 policeman knows. 
 
 The Policeman. He knows. 
 
 The Pantaloon. What time is it ? 
 
 The Policeman. It is seven minutes to five. It 
 will soon be five minutes to five. 
 
 The Pantaloon. She goes out at five, every 
 day, for a walk. 
 
 The Policeman. She will walk through the fog 
 at five. She is sure to come. I am certain she will 
 come. 
 
 The Pantaloon. She will tell him he is wanted. 
 
 The Policeman. If he comes on to my beat I 
 will take him up. 
 
 The Pantaloon. He will never come on to your 
 beat. 
 
 Enter the Clown with a red-hot poker, 
 which shines like a carbuncle
 
 vin THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 71 
 
 The Clown. It is strange that we should meet 
 here again. We always meet at the same place and 
 at the same hour. 
 
 The Pantaloon. I am so old I had forgotten 
 I should meet you. When you walked down the 
 street I thought you were some one else. I thought 
 I had never seen you before. 
 
 The Clown. It is so foggy in the street and my 
 pok-r is getting cold. 
 
 The Pantaloon. If you put it in the fire it will 
 get warm again. 
 
 The Clown. There is no fire in the street. The 
 policeman says we may not light a fire in the street. 
 It is dangerous. It frightens the people. 
 
 The Pantaloon. Last time they lit a fire in the 
 street it was the 5th of November. 
 
 The Clown. The policeman was not there on 
 the 5th of November. 
 
 The Pantaloon. It was not on his beat. 
 
 The Clown. His beat is far away — on the sand. 
 
 The Pantaloon. There is a cave near his beat. 
 
 The Clown. There is a public-house near his 
 beat. There is a public-house quite close to his 
 beat. It has two doors. 
 
 The Pantaloon. One is marked " Public." He 
 never opens that door. 
 
 The Clown. The other is marked " Private " 
 He opens it and it swings backwards and forwards. 
 
 The Pantaloon. The people inside complain 
 of the draught. They are always complaining.
 
 72 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vm 
 
 The Clown. She waits for him on the other side 
 of the railings. 
 
 The Pantaloon. The railings are very strong. 
 They are black railings. They are in front of the 
 area. She hands things to him through the railings. 
 She gives him things to eat and things to drink. 
 
 The Clown. It is on his beat. 
 
 The Pantaloon. No, it is not on his beat, but 
 it is quite close to his beat. Your poker has got 
 cold. 
 
 The Clown. I will warm it. I will warm it on 
 the back of the policeman. He has a broad back. 
 
 [He rubs the Policeman with the poker. 
 
 The Policeman. That poker is warm. It is 
 much warmer than you think it is. (The Clown 
 rubs him again.) When you do that I feel strange. 
 1 feel as if a ruby were burning near me. 
 
 The Clown. I am warming you with my poker. 
 It is good to be warm. It is so cold in this street. 
 It never used to be so cold. It is foggy. The fog 
 makes me hungry and thirsty. I am so hungry that 
 I would like to eat a sausage. 
 
 The Pantaloon. I am so hungry that I would 
 like to eat many sausages, first one and then another. 
 I could eat six sausages. 
 
 The Clown. Let us go and take some sausages. 
 There are some sausages hanging in that shop. I 
 cannot see them through the fog, but I know there 
 are some sausages there.
 
 vin THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 73 
 
 The Pantaloon. I can see the sausages. They 
 are all huddled together like pigeons. 
 
 The Clown. They are close together like little 
 wood-pigeons. I like sausages. But before we go 
 I will warm the policeman. He is so cold. 
 
 The Pantaloon. It is not on his beat. 
 
 [The Clown rubs the Policeman with his poker. 
 
 The Policeman. When you do that I feel as if 
 this had happened before. I feel as if I were in a 
 strange room full of doors and lighted candles. I 
 do not like the feeling. 
 
 [The Pantaloon and the Clown go into the 
 sausage shop. 
 
 Enter Columbine 
 
 Columbine. I had nine sisters. They were all 
 blind, and they were all born on a Friday. Friday 
 is an unlucky day. 
 
 The Policeman. I have been waiting for you. 
 I thought you had gone to him. He is wanted. I 
 thought you had gone to tell him he is wanted. 
 
 Columbine. You never will find him. 
 
 The Policeman. I have been looking for him 
 since Wednesday. I am tired of looking. It was 
 not on my beat. 
 
 Columbine. You will never find him. He knows 
 you are looking for him. When he sees you coming 
 round the corner of the street he runs away round 
 the other corner. He runs quicker than you. No- 
 body runs so quickly as he does. 
 
 F
 
 74 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vm 
 
 The Policeman. I saw the end of his wand 
 yesterday. It was quite white. It was as white as 
 the milk in the pails. 
 
 Columbine. The milk in the pails is not 
 always white. Sometimes it is yellow. But his wand 
 is white. He hits people with it and he runs away. 
 He runs so fast nobody can catch him. 
 
 The Policeman. I saw the spangles of his 
 clothes the day before yesterday. They were all 
 gold. I looked again and I thought they were silver 
 spangles. I thought his clothes were red at first. 
 Afterwards they seemed to be green as leaves in the 
 orchard they cut down. 
 
 Columbine. Why did they cut it down ? 
 
 The Policeman. Because it was green. There 
 are too many green orchards. 
 
 Columbine. He changes his clothes so quickly 
 nobody knows what he has got on. 
 
 The Policeman. His clothes are like the scales 
 of fishes. They are like the scales of grey fishes in 
 the old pond. The old pond is full of fishes. It 
 ought to be dredged. 
 
 Columbine. Nobody will ever dredge the old 
 pond. The children fish in it. 
 
 The Policeman. His clothes are like the wings 
 of birds. Like the wings of owls, that fly about in 
 the tower, hooting. The tower is full of owls. It 
 ought to be pulled down. 
 
 Columbine. Nobody will ever pull down the 
 tower. The owls kill the mice.
 
 VIII THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 75 
 
 The Policeman. His clothes are like red sparks. 
 Like the sparks that fly from the horses' hoofs in 
 the crooked lane. The crooked lane is full of horses. 
 It ought to be made into a field. 
 
 Columbine. It will never be made into a field. 
 Too many people use the crooked lane. It leads to 
 the mill. It is the shortest way to the mill. 
 
 The Policeman. His clothes are like the blue 
 pebbles the old women drop into the stream. The 
 stream is full of pebbles. It ought to be dried up. 
 
 Columbine. It will never be dried up, because 
 the old women wash their clothes in it. It is not 
 pebbles they throw into it. It is blue from the blue- 
 bag. They throw it in to whiten the linen. 
 
 The Policeman. I do not know. It is not on 
 my beat. Some people say it is pebbles. Their 
 linen is all in holes. It is frayed linen. 
 
 Columbine. His linen is never frayed. 
 
 The Policeman. His clothes hide his linen. You 
 cannot tell what colour his clothes are. Sometimes 
 they are blue and sometimes they are red. 
 
 Columbine. Some people say they are grey 
 clothes — grey like the sand. 
 
 The Policeman. They told me they were blue. 
 I am sure his clothes are blue. 
 
 Enter the Clown through the zcindow 
 
 The Clown. I would have brought you some 
 sausages. I would have brought you a hundred
 
 76 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vm 
 
 sausages. They are made of pork. The pig was 
 killed on a Friday. 
 
 Columbine. Everything always happens on a 
 Friday. I was born on a Friday. 
 
 The Clown. I would have brought you more 
 sausages than I can eat myself. I would have 
 brought you more sausages than you can eat. 
 
 The Policeman. Nobody can eat more than 
 a certain amount of sausages. That is why they 
 are so sad in this street. I can eat a great many 
 sausages. 
 
 Columbine. It is a bad thing to eat too many 
 sausages. 
 
 The Clown. It is not right to go into a shop, 
 to take away the sausages, and to eat them. The 
 shopkeeper called him a thief because he took away 
 the sausages. 
 
 The Policeman. It is not on my beat. 
 
 Columbine. He was very hungry. 
 
 The Clown. He had no right to take away all 
 the sausages. There were none left for us. If he 
 had not taken away all the sausages I could have 
 brought them to you. He jumped down the chim- 
 ney. It was cleaned yesterday. He took away all 
 the sausages. He took away the sausages I would 
 have brought you. I had meant to bring them all. 
 
 The Policeman. What colour were his clothes ? 
 
 The Clown. I was so frightened when he took 
 away the sausages that I did not notice the colour of 
 his clothes. I think they were red clothes.
 
 vin THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 77 
 
 The Policeman. Were they not blue clothes ? 
 
 The Clown. They may have been blue clothes. 
 He jumped down the chimney and drew out his 
 knife. It was a steel knife, and there were spots on 
 the blade. He cut the string of the sausages from 
 the ceiling. They were all huddled together in the 
 ceiling like birds . . . like birds in the winter. 
 
 Enter the Pantaloon 
 
 The Pantaloon. He has taken away all the 
 sausages. I was going to bring you sausages to eat. 
 They were hanging from the roof like little fat mice. 
 But I am so old — I forget things. Then he came 
 with his knife and cut them down. You must take 
 him up. He has stolen the sausages. They were 
 not his sausages. 
 
 The Policeman. It is not on my beat. What 
 colour were his clothes ? 
 
 The Pantaloon. I am _so old I forget things. 
 I think they were green clothes. 
 
 The Policeman. Were they not blue clothes ? 
 
 The Clown (to the Policeman). You are so cold. 
 I will warm you with my poker. It is a red-hot 
 poker. 
 
 The Policeman. Whenever you do that I feel 
 strange. [The Clown rubs htm with the poker. 
 
 The Policeman. I will take away your poker. 
 I do not like to be made to feel strange so often. 
 
 [The Clown runs away and jumps through the 
 shop window. The Policeman runs after him.
 
 78 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS vm 
 
 At that moment the Harlequin — he is all blue 
 — darts round the street comer and runs off 
 with Columbine. 
 
 The Policeman. He has run away with her. 
 They said he would come when I was not looking. 
 I shall never catch him. His clothes were blue. 
 (To- the Pantaloon) I will take you up instead. I 
 will say you took the sausages. I will not speak the 
 truth. You will speak the truth. You will say he 
 took the sausages. But they will not believe you. 
 They will believe me. Now you shall come with 
 me, along. 
 
 The Pantaloon. I am so old. I feel as if all 
 this had happened before. 
 
 The Policeman. I will say it was on my beat. 
 
 [As he leads off the Pantaloon, the Clown 
 jumps out of the window and hits him zvith the 
 red-hot poker. 
 
 The Policeman. Whenever he does that I feel 
 strange. 
 
 [The Pantaloon escapes and fades into the fog. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 IX 
 THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 
 
 It having been settled that a Member for " Literature " 
 should be elected to the House of Commons, a 
 plebiscite was taken among the members of all the 
 literary clubs and societies in London. 
 
 The result was that Mr. M— x B— b— m, Mr. H— ll 
 C— e, Mr. R— d— d K— p— g, and Mr. J— e 
 K. J — E all received exactly the same number of 
 votes. In order to settle which of them should be 
 chosen, it was decided that these four authors 
 should each in turn address the same public meet- 
 ing, after which the election should be by ballot, 
 and the author chosen by the audience at the meet- 
 ing should be the Member for Literature. 
 
 Scene.— A hall at Battersea. On the platform are 
 
 a Chairman, a small Committee, and the four 
 
 Authors in question. 
 
 Mr. M — x B- B— M (rises to address the meeting)- 
 
 No politician I. 
 
 A Voice from the Back of the Hall. Then why 
 
 the do you come here to talk politics ? 
 
 Mr. M— x B — b — m. That, gentle public, is 
 what I wish carefully to avoid doing. You can lead
 
 80 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS k 
 
 me to the hustings, but you cannot make me think 
 — politically. Therefore bear with me a little. 
 Examine yourselves and you will see that, were you 
 in my position, you would do exactly what I am going 
 to do now. Candidature has been thrust upon me. 
 I am forced to speak to you, I am indeed anxious to 
 speak to you so that you may be able to choose one 
 of the three distinguished literary men, whom you 
 see before you on this platform, to be your Literary 
 Member, and I wish to prevent your choice falling 
 upon me. 
 
 I will put before you in chosen sentences, which 
 I have carefully arranged beforehand, the reasons 
 why I think you should not elect me. I do not want 
 to be elected. To elect me would indeed be an 
 unfriendly act. Such a choice would not only cause 
 me inconvenience, but it would bring to yourselves 
 neither profit nor pleasure. Be sure I should never 
 think of your interests, be surer still I should never 
 attend the tedious sittings at St. Stephen's. I have 
 listened to eloquence at the Oxford Union and 
 to the gentle rhetoric of Cambridge. Not for me 
 are the efforts of the half-witted and the wholly 
 inarticulate at Westminster, who stammer where 
 old Gladstone used to sing. If you have views I 
 am not privy to them, and from your sympathies I 
 am aloof. I know well enough that you — no more 
 than I — care a red farthing whether the label of your 
 Member be Liberal or Conservative. What you do 
 care for, and what leaves me frigid, is the figure
 
 ix THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 81 
 
 whom you can encourage by chaff or vex by sarcasm. 
 
 You want to hear that Lloyd George ought to be 
 thrown into a den of Suffragettes — {Hear, Hear) — 
 or that Winston Churchill is good and old. {Hear, 
 Hear.) You want to hear it not adumbrated, but 
 said emphatically and without the introduction of a 
 nuance, either that Mr. Balfour is infallible or that 
 he is invincibly ignorant. {Cheers and groans.) 
 
 Now, I care not whether Mr. Balfour be right or 
 wrong. I murmur to myself the jest of Pilate, and 
 I do not wait for the answer. And as to the province 
 of affairs which concerns you here, the province of 
 the Budget, the Fiscal Question, Home Rule, the 
 House of Lords, the Disestablishment of the Welsh 
 Church, and other falbalas, it is for me a vague land 
 into which Leonardo da Vinci never looked forward, 
 and about which I have not experienced the first 
 curiosity ; nor do I care whether Mr. Balfour be 
 inspired by an angel or an ape. {Liberal cheers.) 
 
 As to Mr. Asquith's claims, I am just as undecided 
 and just as indifferent. {Conservative cheers.) I 
 know nothing about the Education Bill or the Chil- 
 dren's Bill ; I have heard that one of these measures 
 will make " Hunt the Slipper " compulsory for 
 children under five years old, and that there is some- 
 where a clause being moulded which will prevent 
 boys over sixteen years of age from playing marbles 
 in the public thoroughfares. But since before long 
 children will have votes for themselves and be repre- 
 sented in Parliament — {cries of " Votes for Children")
 
 82 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS rx 
 
 — we can surely for the present leave these perplexing 
 questions gently suspended until they shall be dealt 
 with by those whom they more nearly concern. (A 
 little boy is carried out struggling and waving a mega- 
 phone.) 
 
 But you will say — our Imperial Policy ? Well, 
 I will be frank, I am in favour of the restoration of 
 the Heptarchy. Had I my way even Rutland 
 should have, not only Home Rule — (Liberal cheers) 
 — but a King, by Divine Right absolute. Of 
 course, I wish our present King to remain a 
 super-King of all the little Englands, of the 52 (or 
 is it 365 ?) counties of England. (Loud cheers.) As 
 for the Colonies, blood may be thicker than water, 
 but water, happily for us, is broader than blood — 
 (loud cheers) — and I have always been thankful that 
 we are separated from America, and from our other 
 high-spirited offsprings, by so broad an ocean as the 
 Atlantic. Our Colonies are our children. Their 
 place is in the nursery or at school. There let us 
 leave them to their ninepins, their whipping-tops, 
 their rocking-horses, and their marbles. Their 
 exploits can only weary us who are their grown-up 
 parents, we who are obliged to read their tri-monthly 
 reports, and to pay wages which we can ill afford for 
 their nurses and their ushers. 
 
 I hear a lady murmuring the words " Budget " 
 and " Fiscal Question " — magical words, it is true. 
 But we need hardly discuss them, because whatever 
 we say or do there will always be a Budget ; there
 
 ix THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 83 
 
 will always be a Fiscal Question, and a vague altern- 
 ative to it preached by an indignant and sanguine 
 Opposition. 
 
 Whatever our taxes may be, and however we have 
 to pay them, they will always have to be paid, and I 
 for one shall never pay them with ecstasy. (Cheers.) 
 Formerly the poor had the exclusive right of paying 
 taxes ; now it is rumoured that the rich have usurped 
 that privilege, and so grossly abused it that, the rich 
 having become poorer than the poor, the poor must 
 needs pay a super-tax. (Groans and cries of "Shame.") 
 Well, I only desire that there may always be people 
 so much richer than myself that they will pay me 
 cheerfully and generously for taking pains to write 
 what few will trouble to read. When the day comes 
 that there will be no more rich — (Oh, dreadful day !) 
 — Max's occupation will be gone, because even were 
 I then- to draw flaming seascapes in coloured chalk 
 on the paving-stones of Piccadilly, there will be no 
 one richer than myself to drop a bad halfpenny into 
 the saucer which shall hang under the card, so need- 
 lessly telling the passer-by what the pictures them- 
 selves proclaim : that the artist is blind. 
 
 I think I have now lightly shaken by the hand 
 the questions which, as the phrase goes, are at 
 issue, and although I have not given you my reasons 
 in clauses, headings, and sections, I hope I have 
 made it perspicuous to you that I do not wish to be 
 a member of Parliament, and that were I to be chosen, 
 I should not lift my eye-glass to justify your choice ;
 
 84 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ix 
 
 I would not sacrifice the whiff of a cigarette for all 
 the perfumes of St. Stephen's. But as a postscript, 
 I am in favour of full-dress debates ; and by that I 
 mean debates in the House of Lords where the Peers 
 are dressed in robe and coronet ; and these debates, 
 were I King of England, should be compulsory and 
 frequent. And as one postscript leads to another, 
 I will tell you that were a more competent Guy 
 Fawkes to blow up the House of Commons, and were 
 it never to arise from its ashes, I should say " Ouf ! " 
 
 [He sits down. Discreet cheers. 
 
 Mr. II — ll C — e (rises). Mr. Chairman, ladies 
 and gentlemen, loath as I have always been to obtrude 
 upon the public gaze 
 
 A Voice. Why, it's Shakespeare ! 
 
 Another Voice. No, it tain't. It's the Wax 
 Bust. 
 
 Mr. H — ll C — E. Loath as I have always 
 been 
 
 A Voice. As a Manxman, are you, or are you 
 not, in favour of Votes for Women ? 
 
 Mr. H — ll C — e. Loath as I am 
 
 The same Voice. He's not in favour of Votes 
 for Women and he's a Manxman ! (A terrific blast 
 is blown on toy trumpets and megaphones.) 
 
 Another Voice. Tails for Manx Cats. 
 
 Mr. H — ll C — e. Loath as I am 
 
 Voices. Votes for Women. (Loud uproar — 
 some women are ejected.)
 
 rx THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 85 
 
 [After a hurried confabulation it is settled that 
 Mr. R — d — d K — p — g shall address the 
 audience, and that Mr. H — ll C — e shall 
 speak later. 
 
 Mr. R — d — D K — p — g (rises). There was once 
 an Aunt-Hill. It was a small Aunt-Hill, and from 
 the summit to the base of it the distance was about as 
 long as the slip of an E.P. Tent. 
 
 The Aunts were busy. They worked all day and 
 sometimes all night. Now when Aunts work all 
 night it's worth going to see. The hill grew bigger 
 and bigger, and tunnels were burrowed, and after 
 some months the Aunts had annexed a whole forest. 
 They were pleased with themselves. 
 
 " The sun doesn't set on our Aunt-Hill," said one 
 Aunt. 
 
 " Our Aunt-Hill is the key of the Eastern forest," 
 said another. The Kingdom of the Aunts grew so 
 large that they sent some of their younger workers 
 to make Aunt-Hills beyond the forest. This they 
 did, and their Aunt-Hills grew big, too. Then the 
 Aunts were pleased and said : " We are the greatest 
 Aunts in the World." But one of the Aunts — he 
 wrote things for the other Aunts to read — said : 
 " Take care, you were small once ; and if you don't 
 go on working you'll be small again." But the Aunts 
 said he was a fool. Then the Aunts began to get 
 slack and look on at their little Aunts playing at rolling 
 the acorn.
 
 86 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS ix 
 
 Now in a neighbouring forest a rival Aunt set up 
 a hill and began training an army. 
 
 Then the Aunt who wrote things said : " Take 
 care, these new Aunts will grow strong and take 
 away your Aunt-Hill." But the Aunts didn't listen, 
 they went on looking at the Aunts playing at rolling 
 the acorn. And one of the leading Aunts said : 
 " He's a scaremonger, don't listen. He's a ' Jing- 
 aunt.' It's Unauntish to say such things." So 
 nobody cared, and the new Aunts came and took the 
 old Aunts' Aunt-Hill and made them all into slaves. 
 [Mr. R — d — D K — p — G sits down. (Cheers.) 
 
 Mr. J — e K. J — e (rises). Mr. Chairman, ladies 
 and gentlemen 
 
 A Voice. Does your mother know you're out ? 
 
 Mr. J — e K. J — E. Yes, but my mother-in-law 
 doesn't. (Terrific cheers.) Gentlemen, I don't think 
 I need say any more. I'm the only man so far who 
 has said to you a single word you've understood. 
 (Cheers.) So I think I'll let well alone. My politics 
 are Home Rule at Home, and down with Mothers- 
 in-Law. (Renewed cheering.) 
 
 [Mr. J — e K. J — e sits down. 
 [After brief consultation on the platform, Mr. 
 H — ll C — e rises again. 
 
 Mr. H — ll C — E. Loath as I am 
 
 Many Women. What about Votes for Women ? 
 
 [There is an uproar ; a scuffle and a fight. It 
 is impossible to continue the business, so the
 
 ix THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 87 
 
 question as to zvho shall be elected is put to the 
 Meeting. The people proceed to vote by ballot. 
 The votes are then counted by the Committee 
 in a room adjoining the platform. After an 
 interval the Chairman comes on to the plat- 
 form. 
 
 The Chairman. Ladies and gentlemen, I will 
 now have the pleasure of reading out the result of 
 the Election. The figures are as follows : — 
 
 Mr. J — e K. J — e (elected) . . . 333 
 
 Mr. R— d— d K — p— g . . . 12 
 
 Mr. M— x B— b— m. ... 3 
 
 Mr. H— ll C— e .... 2 
 
 [The Meeting breaks up amidst terrific cheers. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 X 
 CALIGULA'S PICNIC 
 
 Scene. — A large banqueting table in the centre of a 
 bridge, which stretches for three miles between 
 Puteoli and Baice. The Emperor Caligula 
 is reclining in the place of honour. There are 
 hundreds of guests. 
 
 Rufus {an intensely eager, bearded man to his neigh- 
 bour Proteus, a dandy). As I was saying, the whole 
 point of the question is this : all diseases come from 
 the secretion in the blood of certain poisons. Now 
 since we imbibe these poisons from certain food- 
 stuffs, what I say is — Cut off the poison at the supply. 
 
 Proteus {helping himself to roast boar zvith Huffing). 
 Yes, yes, perfectly. 
 
 Rufus. Cut off the poison at the supply. Prevent ; 
 don't try to cure when it's too late. You follow me ? 
 
 Proteus {absently). Exactly. {He gives himself 
 an additional helping of roast boar.) 
 
 Rufus. But there you are, helping yourself to 
 poison again. (Rufus gives up Proteus and turns 
 to his other neighbour.) 
 
 Hygerius {on Proteus's right, an aged Senator). 
 May I trouble you for the peacock ?
 
 x CALIGULA'S PICNIC 89 
 
 Proteus. I beg your pardon. (He passes the 
 peacock.) 
 
 Hygerius. I suppose these peacocks are im- 
 ported. 
 
 Proteus (not interested). I suppose so. 
 
 Hygerius. Now what I say is, the land's the 
 question. 
 
 Proteus (foreseeing a discourse on political economy). 
 The General is trying to catch your eye. 
 
 Hygerius. Where ? Where ? I don't see him. 
 
 Proteus. Right at the other end of the table. 
 (To his vis-a-vis, Demophilus, an officer) Were 
 you lucky yesterday ? 
 
 Demophilus. No, I lost. They told me 
 Chilon was a certainty. 
 
 Proteus. Ah ! Chilon. 
 
 Demophilus. He didn't do himself justice. 
 
 Proteus. Over-trained ? 
 
 Hygerius (to his vis-a-vis, Petronius, a fashion- 
 able philosopher). Now you no doubt agree with 
 me that nowadays the whole problem of agri- 
 culture 
 
 Petronius (upsetting a large bowl of wine on the 
 table on purpose). A thousand pardons ! It was too 
 awkward of me. 
 
 [Slaves come and mop up the mess. 
 
 Severus (a literary man, sitting on Hygerius's 
 left, to Petronius). " Spilt wine shall buy the 
 favour of the Gods," as Particus says. 
 
 Petronius. Have you seen Cossatius's play ?
 
 90 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS 
 Severus. Yes, it's clever, but 
 
 Hygerius. That kind of play ought not to be 
 tolerated. It undermines the principles of morality. 
 
 Severus. Morals have nothing to do with art. 
 
 Hygerius. I repeat that these kinds of plays are 
 the ruin of the Empire. 
 
 Petronius. I see you are on the side of the 
 " Extensionists." 
 
 Hygerius. I don't know what you mean by an 
 " Extensionist," but if you mean a Roman and a 
 patriot 
 
 Petronius. No, I mean a Greek and a swindler. 
 
 Proteus. Excellent eels — try them. 
 
 Rufus. Let me beg you not to touch them ; 
 they are full of poison. 
 
 Demophilus (alarmed). Poison ! Who's 
 
 poisoned them ? 
 
 Petronius. Rufus means they give you gout. 
 
 Proteus. I once knew a man who ate twenty- 
 seven eels for a bet. 
 
 Demophilus (really interested). Oh ! Did he 
 win ? 
 
 Proteus. Yes ; but he died afterwards. Hush ! 
 the speeches are beginning. 
 
 Petronius. Oh dear ! Oh dear ! 
 
 [The Prefect of Puteoli rises farther up the table. 
 
 The Prefect. Friends and citizens, and more 
 especially, citizens of Puteoli and Baia; : It is with 
 feelings of peculiar emotion that I rise to propose 
 that toast, which of all toasts is the nearest to the
 
 x CALIGULA'S PICNIC 91 
 
 heart and leaps most readily to the lips of a Roman 
 — I mean, of course, the toast of our beloved 
 Emperor. I may say that in all the vast extent of 
 this Empire, of which we are so justly proud, the 
 Emperor has no more loyal subjects than those of 
 Baiae and — (cheers) — ofPuteoli. (Cheers.) Although 
 in the past we of Puteoli may not always have been 
 able to see eye to eye with our neighbours of Baiae, 
 in matters of local administration, to-day, happily, 
 all such rivalry has ended. And to whom is this 
 due ? To whom but the Emperor, who, with his 
 knowledge of the Roman heart, has had the happy, 
 the graceful, nay, more, the truly Imperial and the 
 truly Roman idea of joining the two cities by this 
 elegant and monumental bridge. (Loud cheers.) 
 We of Puteoli are not quick to forget the benefits we 
 have received in the past from the Imperial Family. 
 And some of us who are here present remember 
 that auspicious and never-to-be-forgotten day when 
 the Emperor's illustrious father, the ever-memorable 
 Germanicus — (loud and prolonged cheers) — I say 
 many of us here present will recall that thrice-mem- 
 orable occasion when the illustrious Germanicus — 
 (loud cheers) — paid us a visit. Romans, I have no 
 wish to rake up things which are better forgotten ; 
 I have no desire to abuse the ashes of him who, 
 whatever his faults and his failings may have been, 
 is now for ever beyond the reach of our recrimination. 
 We Romans have a proverb which says : "Of the 
 dead nothing but good " — (cheers) — and you, citizens
 
 92 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS x 
 
 of Puteoli and Baias, have ever strictly observed, both 
 by precept and by practice, the wisdom that has been 
 handed down to us in the popular phrases of the 
 Roman people. (Cheers.) Therefore, it is with no 
 fear of being misunderstood, and in no carping or 
 unjust spirit, that I say that the example which our 
 beloved Emperor Caligula is daily setting us, both 
 in peace and in war, and in all the arts and graces of 
 life — this example is, I say, as it were, heightened 
 when we — and we of Puteoli and Baiae are especially 
 sensible of the fact — when we think of the short- 
 comings and the mistakes of the late and unfortunate 
 Tiberius — (hisses and groans) — shortcomings and 
 mistakes to which our present Emperor put so swift 
 an end, and out of whose ashes he bade our Empire 
 and our Government, our internal affairs and our 
 foreign policy, rise rejuvenated and splendid like 
 the Phoenix. (Cheers.) Citizens, I will detain you 
 no longer. All I will say is this : so long as we have 
 at the head of us one who is the pattern of what a 
 Roman gentleman should be, one who is at the same 
 time the elder brother and the father of his people, 
 so long as this shall be, so long will the Roman 
 Empire, throughout all its length and breadth, act 
 together in that same spirit of fraternal love and unity, 
 bound by ties as strong as that with which our 
 Emperor has to-day united and linked the people of 
 Baiae to the people of Puteoli. Citizens, I propose 
 the health of the divine Emperor. (Loud cheers, 
 The toast is drunk with enthusiasm.)
 
 x CALIGULA'S PICNIC 93 
 
 Hygerius. A first-rate speech. 
 
 The Prefect of Bai;e rises. Citizens, it is with 
 the keenest sense of my unfitness to so exalted a task 
 that I rise to propose the toast which is second on 
 our list, that toast which of all others, with the ex- 
 ception of that which we have just drunk, is most 
 grateful to Roman ears, namely, the Army. (Cheers. ) 
 Although not a soldier myself, my heart is with the 
 Army ; but I will go farther, I will say that all of us, 
 whatever our avocations may be, whether we be 
 lawyers, merchants, engineers, painters, poets, philo- 
 sophers, are in a sense soldiers of the Emperor. 
 (Cheers.) And Peace, citizens, has its battles as well 
 as War. (Loud cheers.) To-day we are gathered 
 together to celebrate one of those battles — a battle 
 which has ended in a triumph. (Cheers.) [Demo- 
 philus (aside). What battle ?] I allude to the 
 completion of this handsome bridge — (cheers) — 
 which is a notable — I may even say an unparalleled 
 example — of the triumph of man's will over the 
 elements. As the immortal poet Camerinus — (cheers) 
 — has said : 
 
 O'er vanquished Nature Man shall spread his sway, 
 And force the fretful ocean to obey. 
 
 (Cheers.) 
 And while the utmost credit is due to the skill and 
 patience with which the engineers, Demonax and 
 Hegias, of Corinth, have executed their stupendous 
 task, still greater praise is due to the Emperor, in
 
 94 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS x 
 
 whose fertile brain the great idea had its origin, and 
 without whose unceasing aid and constant interest, 
 it could never have been completed. (Cheers.) We 
 of Baiae know how keen was that interest, how valu- 
 able that aid, and we will never forget it. I have 
 said, citizens, we are all of us in a sense soldiers, and 
 it is a sight like this, an occasion such as to-day's, 
 that brings home to every Roman the self-sacrifice, 
 the patience, the stubborn will, and the dogged 
 persistence — qualities all of them essentially military 
 — of the Roman race. I therefore propose the health 
 of the Army, coupled with the name of its glorious 
 Commander-in-Chief, the Emperor. (Loud cheers. 
 The toast is drunk.) 
 Severus. He misquoted Camerinus. 
 
 [A Praetorian Officer rises. 
 
 The Praetorian Officer. Citizens, my trade is 
 to speak and not to act — I mean to act and not to 
 speak. (Loud cheers.) I am a humble particle of 
 what has so rightly been called the great dumb one. 
 (Cheers.) I thank you all very much for drinking 
 the last toast, and I in my turn have great pleasure 
 in proposing the toast which comes next on the list, 
 namely, the toast of Literature. (Cheers.) I am 
 not much of a literary man myself, but I greatly enjoy 
 reading the description of battles in the works of that 
 poet who, though not a Roman by birth, is practically 
 a Roman — I mean Homer — (cheers) — and also in
 
 x CALIGULA'S PICNIC 95 
 
 the great epic of our Roman Homer, I mean Camer- 
 inu9. (Loud cheers.) I propose the toast of Liter- 
 ature, coupled with that of the divine Emperor, who 
 as we all know, is a first-rate author himself. (Cheers.) 
 
 [Erotianus, an elderly poet, rises to reply- 
 
 Erotianus. Citizens, great and immortal names 
 have been mentioned to-day. Homer, Camerinus, 
 have lent by the very mention of their names a diviner 
 light to this already illustrious occasion. Nor has 
 our gallant friend in his masterly oration failed to 
 remind us of the talents, the brilliant and exceptional 
 literary gifts, of our noble Master. (Cheers.) I am 
 the last person who should address you on this theme. 
 (Cries of No, No.) We had hoped that Seneca — 
 (cheers) — whose verses are for ever on our lips, would 
 be present. Unfortunately a bad cold has detained 
 him in Rome. /Esculapius has conquered the Muses 
 — (cries of Shame) — and instead of a brilliant literary 
 light you have the flicker of a new artisan in the field 
 of letters. (Cries of No, No.) I am, if I may say so, 
 no more than a humble shepherd on the slopes of 
 Parnassus. But, citizens, those slopes are so high 
 and so wide that there is room on them for the greatest, 
 such as Homer and Ovid — (cheers) — and for the more 
 humble but none the less painstaking, such as Virgil 
 and myself. (Cheers.) I will now proceed to read 
 to you a short epic in six cantos which I have pre- 
 pared for this occasion. (Cheers. He clears his 
 throat.) It is called " The Bridge." (Cheers.)
 
 96 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS x 
 
 [The Emperor makes a signal, upon which a regi- 
 ment of Prcetorians, concealed in a neighbouring 
 tent, rush among the guests armed with swords 
 and sharp tridents, and proceed to toss them 
 into the sea. The meal breaks tip in confusion. 
 Some of the guests escape, but a large number 
 arc drowned, including Erotianus. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XI 
 THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 
 
 Scene. — Agamemnon's tent at Aulis. Discovered: 
 Agamemnon seated at a camp table writing. 
 
 Enter Iphigenia 
 
 Iphigenia. Do you want to speak to me, papa ? 
 
 Agamemnon {nervously). Yes, yes, a moment. 
 {A pause.) 
 
 Iphigenia. Well ? 
 
 Agamemnon. Sit down — on that chair — it's 
 more comfortable there. ... I . . . er . . . 
 {A pause.) 
 
 Iphigenia. If you've got nothing particular to 
 say, papa, I'll go, if you don't mind ; because 
 mamma wants me to help her with the dinner. The 
 cook is quite helpless 
 
 Agamemnon. Wait a minute. I do want to 
 speak to you very particularly. ... {A pause.) . . . 
 It's a lovely day again to-day. 
 
 Iphigenia. Really, papa 
 
 Agamemnon. It's not so irrelevant as you 
 think. You see, there's not a breath of wind. 
 
 Iphigenia. I know. They say it's quite im- 
 possible for you to start,
 
 98 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 
 
 Agamemnon. We shall have been here two 
 months next Tuesday. 
 
 Iphigenia. You mean next Saturday. 
 
 Agamemnon. Tuesday or Saturday, it's all the 
 same. 
 
 Iphigenia. It's a mercy we did stop here. 
 Mamma says that your linen was in a dreadful state, 
 and that if she hadn't come out she doesn't know 
 how you would have managed. 
 
 Agamemnon. Yes, I don't say that the stay 
 hasn't been of some use ; but now it is absolutely 
 essential that we should get to Troy. 
 
 Iphigenia. Why don't you start to-day ? 
 
 Agamemnon. Whenever we put to sea there's 
 either no wind at all, or a gale which drives us 
 straight back home. 
 
 Iphigenia. It is very tiresome, but it can't be 
 helped, can it ? 
 
 Agamemnon. Well, that's just it. I'm afraid 
 it can be helped. 
 
 Iphigenia. What do you mean, papa ? 
 
 Agamemnon. To cut a long story short, 
 Calchas consulted the Oracle this morning, and it 
 appears, he says, I mean the Oracle said, or rather 
 the goddess 
 
 Iphigenia. Which goddess ? 
 
 Agamemnon. Artemis. 
 
 Iphigenia. Oh, she's impossible. 
 
 Agamemnon. Well, as I told you, Calchas says
 
 xi THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 99 
 
 that it is Artemis who is causing the delay by sending 
 us adverse winds, and 
 
 Iphigenia. Can't something be done ? 
 
 Agamemnon. That is precisely the point. The 
 goddess has, through the Oracle, suggested a way 
 out of the difficulty, and it concerns you. 
 
 Iphigenia. Me ? What can I have to do with 
 it? 
 
 Agamemnon. Now, my dearest Iphigenia, I 
 want you to be reasonable. You always were a 
 sensible girl, and I want you to bring all your good 
 sense to bear on this ... in this . . . er . . . trying 
 occasion. 
 
 Iphigenia. I don't understand. 
 
 Agamemnon. I will go straight to the point. 
 Artemis says that we shall never leave Aulis unless 
 you consent to go through the form of being sacri- 
 ficed to her. 
 
 Iphigenia. What do you mean by " going 
 through the form ? " 
 
 Agamemnon. I mean that in all probability . . . 
 in fact, quite certainly, the sacrifice would be purely 
 a formal one, and that there is every chance ... in 
 fact, I may say it is almost certain that one of the 
 other gods or goddesses would intervene at the last 
 moment and prevent the sacrifice from being fatal. 
 
 Iphigenia. You mean to say that there is not 
 the slightest chance of my being killed — that it's 
 only a farce ? 
 
 Agamemnon. I won't go so far as that . . . but
 
 ioo DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 
 
 I will say that as far as we know every precedent in 
 the past 
 
 Iphigenia. Oh, bother the precedents. What 
 I want to know is this : Is there the slightest chance 
 of my being really sacrificed ? 
 
 Agamemnon. It is highly improbable, of course; 
 only you must consent ; you must behave exactly as 
 if you were going to be sacrificed ; you must express 
 your entire willingness to lay down your life for your 
 country ; and knowing what a patriotic, obedient, 
 filial child you are, I am certain this will be a positive 
 pleasure to you. 
 
 Iphigenia. I won't. 
 
 Agamemnon. You mean you won't even pre- 
 tend to 
 
 Iphigenia. I won't have anything to do with 
 it at all — I think it's monstrous, and I'm sure mamma 
 will agree with me. 
 
 Agamemnon. My dearest child, let me beg of you 
 not to say a word about this to your mother just yet. 
 
 Iphigenia. Of course I shall tell her. {Enter 
 Clytvemnestra.) Here is mamma. Mamma 
 
 Clyttemnestra. What is all this ? 
 
 Iphigenia. Papa says I must be sacrificed to 
 Artemis, in order that they may have a smooth pas- 
 sage to Troy, and to prevent Ajax being sea-sick. I 
 say I won't. (She begins to cry.) 
 
 Clytvemnestra (taking her in her arms). Of 
 course you shan't, my love — my darling. (To 
 Agamemnon) What is this ridiculous nonsense ?
 
 xi THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 101 
 
 Agamemnon. I assure you it is not my doing- 
 I merely repeated what Calchas had said. He con- 
 sulted the Oracle, and it appears that Artemis is 
 vexed : she is, in fact, very much displeased. She 
 says we shall never leave Aulis unless Iphigenia con- 
 sents to go through the form of being sacrificed — 
 of course it's only a matter of form — but she must 
 consent. 
 
 Clyttemnestra. I see. As long as I'm here 
 my child shall not degrade herself by being a party 
 to any ridiculous farce of this nature. I don't care 
 a bit if we do stay here. You ought never to have 
 come here for one thing. I always said it was 
 absurd from the first — just because of Helen's silly 
 escapade. If you can't get a fair wind you'll have 
 to go home ; but you shan't touch Iphigenia. 
 
 Enter a Maid 
 
 The Maid {to Clytvemnestra). The cook wants 
 to know whether the fish are to be boiled or fried. 
 
 Clyitemnestra {angrily). I told her fried. {To 
 Agamemnon) I must go and look after her. I'll 
 be back in a moment. 
 
 [Exit Clyttemnestra 
 
 Agamemnon. There, you see what you've done. 
 You've set your mother against the whole plan. 
 
 Iphigenia {crying). I hope I have. Of course, 
 if you want to kill me, please do . . . just {sobbing) 
 as if I were a sheep.
 
 102 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 
 
 Agamemnon. My dear child, do be calm. Who 
 ever talked of killing 
 
 Enter Calchas 
 
 Agamemnon. She won't hear of it. 
 
 Calchas. My dear child, please be sensible and 
 think of the interests at stake. Remember you are 
 grown up, and we grown-up people have to face 
 these things. 
 
 Iphigenia. I don't care what you say, I won't 
 be sacrificed — I won't be killed like a sheep. 
 
 Calchas. Even if the worse came to the worst, 
 I promise you you would feel no pain. I assure 
 you we have reached a pitch of perfection in the 
 working of these things which makes all accidents 
 impossible. Besides, think of the honour and the 
 glory. 
 
 Agamemnon. And it's not as if she would be 
 killed really. 
 
 Calchas. It's extremely improbable ; but even 
 if she were to lose consciousness and not recover, I 
 am sure most girls would envy her. Just think, 
 your statue would be put up in every city in Greece. 
 
 Agamemnon. All the poets would celebrate her. 
 
 Calchas. You see it's not as if she were 
 married. 
 
 Agamemnon. She has always refused every one. 
 
 Calchas. And now it's too late. 
 
 Agamemnon. Girls are so independent nowa- 
 days.
 
 xi THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 103 
 
 Calchas. They think nothing of tradition, 
 country, or of the respect they owe their parents. 
 They are ungrateful. 
 
 Agamemnon. They never think of what they 
 owe the goddesses. In my time . . . 
 
 Enter Odysseus 
 
 Iphigenia. I don't care what you say. I won't 
 be sacrificed. (She bursts into tears.) 
 
 [Odysseus whispers to Agamemnon and Calchas 
 to withdraw. They go out. 
 
 Odysseus. And how is our little Iphigenia 
 to-day ? 
 
 Iphigenia (drying her eyes). Quite well, thank 
 you ; only papa wants to kill me. 
 
 Odysseus. Kill you, my dear child ! I assure 
 you you are mistaken. Nobody, and least of all 
 your father, could dream of such a thing. You are 
 the life and soul of the expedition. It was only this 
 morning I wrote to Penelope to tell her how well 
 you were looking and what a difference it made to 
 all of us your being here. 
 
 Iphigenia. Papa wants me to be sacrificed. 
 
 Odysseus. You can't have understood your 
 father. Let me explain it to you. You know what 
 Artemis is : she's a charming goddess — quite charm- 
 ing — only she's touchy. Well, she happens to be 
 very much put out at this moment by the attention 
 that has been paid to the other goddesses ; and by 
 a very regrettable oversight her sacrifice has been
 
 io 4 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 
 
 neglected once or twice lately. Of course she is 
 put out ; but, believe me, the situation only requires 
 tact — just a little tact . . . and we all want you to 
 help us. . . . You see, if you don't help us we are 
 lost, and the whole expedition may be ruined, all 
 just for the want of a little tact at the right moment. 
 Now, nobody can help us as well as you can. You 
 see Artemis has taken a peculiar fancy to you. She 
 admires you enormously. I happen to know this 
 on the very best authority. She thinks you are far 
 more beautiful than your Aunt Helen. At the same 
 time she is just a shade hurt that you never take 
 any notice of her. Now, what we want you to do 
 is to consent to our stratagem : a delicate piece of 
 flattery which will soothe Artemis and make every- 
 thing all right. All you will have to do is to wear 
 the most beautiful dress — white and silver — and a 
 band of wrought gold studded with rubies round 
 your head, and to walk with your wonderful hair 
 reaching almost to your feet, in a procession of weep- 
 ing maidens to the Temple ; and there, after the 
 usual prayers and chants, you will sing a hymn to 
 Artemis, especially composed for the occasion, to a 
 flute accompaniment ; then, in the gaze of all the 
 crowd, you will kneel down before the altar, and 
 Artemis, flattered and pleased, will carry you off in a 
 cloud, and substitute a sheep or something else for 
 you. Every one will praise you ; you will have had 
 all the amusement of the festival, all the glory and 
 honour of the sacrifice, and none of the inconvenience.
 
 xi THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 105 
 
 Iphigenia {pensively). It would be rather fun. 
 Are you sure I shouldn't risk being killed really ? 
 Calchas said I probably would. 
 
 Odysseus. Calchas knows nothing about it at 
 all. I promise you that it's just as safe as if you 
 were going to sing at the festival of Bacchus. 
 
 Iphigenia. But what will happen to me after- 
 wards ? 
 
 Odysseus. That must be a secret between you 
 and me. Artemis has arranged that a charming young 
 man shall carry you away. I need not mention his 
 name, as you know it too well. It begins with an 
 A. But the marriage must remain a secret until 
 after the siege. 
 
 Iphigenia. All right, I will do it. I mean I will 
 pretend to consent, but there must be no question 
 of its really coming off. That you must swear. 
 
 Odysseus. I swear we shall sacrifice a sheep 
 instead of you, or if the worse comes to the worst 
 Achilles' slave, who is so like you. 
 
 Iphigenia. And then I shall really marry 
 Achilles. 
 
 Enter Clyttemnestra 
 
 Odysseus (to Clytvemnestra). It's all settled ; 
 only don't discuss it with Agamemnon. He doesn't 
 quite know how to deal with goddesses. He is — 
 you forgive me saying so — a little bit heavy. 
 
 Clyttemnestra (to Iphigenia). You don't mean 
 to say you've consented. I forbid it. ... I am 
 
 H
 
 106 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xi 
 
 your mother, and I positively forbid you to do any 
 such thing. 
 
 Iphigenia. I'm of age. I'm old enough to 
 judge what I can do and what I can't do. It's my 
 duty, and it's a question of principle ; and if I choose 
 to be sacrificed, nobody has the right to prevent me. 
 And I do choose. The one thing I've always longed 
 for all my life has been to die for my country. 
 
 [Exit Iphigenia in a passion. 
 
 [Odysseus looks at Clyttemnestra and smiles. 
 
 Clyttemnestra. Serpent ! 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XII 
 DON JUAN'S FAILURE 
 
 Lucasta. My mother will be down directly, if 
 you don't mind waiting. 
 
 Don Juan. On the contrary, I could wait a 
 hundred years in the company of one whom I know 
 not whether she be a goddess or a mortal. 
 
 Lucasta (blushing). It's very kind of you to say 
 so, sir, but I am very busy this morning. I am 
 wanted at the farm to see about the cows. 
 
 Don Juan. Fortunate cows ! But cannot they 
 wait a moment ? Surely there is no desperate 
 hurry ? 
 
 Lucasta. I am late already, sir, and I am loath 
 to keep people waiting. 
 
 Don Juan. How nice, how considerate and 
 charming of you. I adore those who are loath to 
 keep others waiting. It is the revelation of a 
 delightful nature. I am sure we shall be friends. 
 I feel as if we had always known one another. 
 
 Lucasta. Oh, sir, but I do not even know your 
 name ! I only know you are the Spanish noble- 
 man who was expected. 
 
 Don Juan (proudly). My name is one you
 
 108 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xn 
 
 may perhaps have heard of. I am Don Juan of 
 Seville. 
 
 Lucasta. One of our ponies is called Don 
 Juan — the old one. It takes the children out in a 
 cart : but he's lame now. 
 
 Don Juan (vexed). You must let me give you a 
 horse, a fiery steed fit to carry you, for I'm sure 
 you ride like Diana, and you shall call that Don 
 Juan. 
 
 Lucasta. Thank you, sir, but my mother says 
 one must never accept gifts from strangers. 
 
 Don Juan. But I am not a stranger. You must 
 not look upon me as a stranger. You must look 
 upon me as a friend. 
 
 Lucasta. Mistress Markham says that one has 
 no right to call people friends until one has known 
 them for seven years. 
 
 Don Juan. Who is Mistress Markham ? 
 
 Lucasta. She is our governess. 
 
 Don Juan. She knows nothing about it. 
 Believe me, all governesses are fools. 
 
 Lucasta. Not Mistress Markham. She know3 
 everything — even the Greek irregular verbs. 
 
 Don Juan. Well, let us admit, then, that there 
 is only one thing she doesn't know. 
 
 Lucasta. What, sir ? 
 
 Don Juan. The birth, the growth, and the 
 nature of our friendship. May not I claim to be a 
 friend ? You surely do not wish to regard me as 
 an enemy ?
 
 xii DON JUAN'S FAILURE 109 
 
 Lucasta {after reflecting). Well, I suppose there's 
 no harm ; because I do not suppose it is wrong to 
 make friends with old people. 
 
 Don Juan (laughing uneasily). I am old enough 
 to claim friendship with you ; but I am not so old 
 as all that. Do I look so very old ? 
 
 Lucasta (blushing). Oh no, sir. I never meant 
 that, I'm sure. All I meant was that you were old 
 compared with my friends. 
 
 Don Juan. Have you many friends ? 
 
 Lucasta. Oh yes ! There's Harry, who has 
 just left school ; and Philip, he is a student at Oxford ; 
 and Valentine, he is about to join the Yeomanry ; 
 and my cousin Dick, he is my greatest friend. 
 
 Don Juan. How old is he ? 
 
 Lucasta. He left school six months ago. He's 
 going to be a great soldier, like Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
 Don Juan. Oh ! and are you very fond of him ? 
 
 Lucasta. Very. He plays tennis better than 
 any one. Do you play tennis, sir ? 
 
 Don Juan. I'm afraid I don't. 
 
 Lucasta. Bowls ? 
 
 Don Juan. I'm afraid not either. 
 
 Lucasta. Rounders ? 
 
 Don Juan. I'm afraid I don't play any games 
 except draughts and lansquenet. 
 
 Lucasta. Lansquenet and draughts are indoor 
 games. We don't count them. Cousin Dick says 
 they are all very well for women.
 
 no DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xn 
 
 Don Juan. You see, I never have time for that 
 kind of thing. 
 
 Lucasta. Are you an officer, sir ? 
 
 Don Juan. Oh no ! 
 
 Lucasta. A sailor ? 
 
 Don Juan. No ; I hate the sea. 
 
 Lucasta. I suppose you are a discoverer. 
 Spaniards are such great travellers. 
 
 Don Juan. No ; I have only travelled in Europe 
 and for pleasure. 
 
 Lucasta. How stupid of me, sir. You are, of 
 course, a diplomatist. 
 
 Don Juan. No : I am merely a gentleman at 
 large. 
 
 Lucasta. Do you mean you follow no pro- 
 fession ? 
 
 Don Juan. No profession exactly, but many 
 occupations. 
 
 Lucasta. But how do you contrive to pass the 
 time ? 
 
 Don Juan. Well, you see, we Spaniards are 
 different from you English. We are less practical, 
 and more — what shall I say ?— more fiery, more 
 impatient, more romantic. We consider it quite 
 enough for a man who is a Spaniard and a nobleman 
 as I am, nay, more, we consider that such a man 
 can have no nobler occupation than to devote his 
 life, his heart, his brain to the constant and daily 
 service and worship of a beautiful woman.
 
 xii DON JUAN'S FAILURE m 
 
 Lucasta. Oh, I see ; you are engaged to be 
 married. 
 
 Don Juan. No, alas ! 
 
 Lucasta. Haven't you got enough money to 
 marry on ? 
 
 Don Juan. It's not that : my purse is equal to 
 my station. 
 
 Lucasta. Her parents, I suppose, have refused 
 their consent. 
 
 Don Juan. I have not yet asked them. 
 
 Lucasta. I wish you all success, sir. 
 
 Don Juan. But you don't understand, most 
 charming and gracious of Englishwomen. It is 
 true that I love. I am consumed with a love which 
 will never diminish nor die, a love that burns within 
 me like a raging fever ; but I have not yet dared to 
 speak it. The divine and adorable creature whom 
 I worship does not suspect the cruel plight I am in. 
 She ignores my flame. 
 
 Lucasta. Why do you not tell her, sir ? 
 
 Don Juan. Ah ! That is so easily said ! But 
 what if she were to take offence ? What if I were 
 by a too sudden and abrupt declaration of the passion 
 that consumes me to nip in the bud all chance of my 
 love finding a response in her breast ? What if I by 
 a too hasty word were to shatter my hopes for ever ? 
 
 Lucasta. Is she so very young ? Pardon me, 
 sir, if I am wrong in asking. 
 
 Don Juan. You could never do wrong. No 
 fault could ever mar those faultless lips. (Lucasta
 
 ii2 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xn 
 
 blushes.) I will tell you she is very young, and I 
 have only seen her once. 
 
 Lucasta. Then it was a case of love at first 
 sight ? 
 
 Don Juan. Yes, but love is a weak word to 
 express the great wave which has carried me away. 
 
 Lucasta. They say that love at first sight is often 
 mutual. 
 
 Don Juan. I pray Heaven that it may be so in 
 this case ; but I doubt if she has guessed my sweet 
 and bitter secret. She is so young, so innocent. 
 
 Lucasta. Is she fair or dark, sir ? 
 
 Don Juan. Her hair is the colour of your hair, 
 and, like yours, it has the glitter of sunshine, with 
 miraculous shades and adorable crisping curls like 
 those that wreathe your brow. Her skin is like 
 yours ; that is to say, a rose lately sprinkled with 
 dew. Her eyes are the colour of your eyes ; that is 
 to say, they have the radiance of the azure sky and 
 depth of the summer sea. Her nose is the pictured 
 semblance of your nose, delicate as a flower, tip- 
 tilted, transparent, enchanting. Her lips are like 
 your lips ; they put to shame ripe cherries, red roses, 
 and rubies ; and her teeth are like your teeth, more 
 perfect than Orient pearls. She has your carriage, 
 your grace and rhythm of movement, the stately 
 poise of your head, and the divine contour of your 
 form. She has the radiance of your smile and the 
 laughing music of your speech.
 
 xii DON JUAN'S FAILURE 113 
 
 Lucasta. It is very kind of you, sir, to compare 
 me to so well-favoured a person. 
 
 Don Juan. I am not comparing you to her. I 
 am comparing her to you. Until this morning I did 
 not know that such beauty could live and breathe. 
 
 Lucasta. Did you see her this morning for the 
 first time ? 
 
 Don Juan. Yes, it was this morning ; to-day is 
 the fatal day that has changed the earth for me to a 
 giddy ladder suspended between heaven and hell. 
 
 Lucasta. Then I know who it is. It is Electra 
 Harrington our neighbour. You saw her on your 
 way here. 
 
 Don Juan. Believe me, it was no Electra 
 Harrington. Electra Harrington would be a wrinkled 
 hag in comparison with the goddess whom I worship. 
 But tell me, do you think I might dare to plead my 
 cause ? Do you think there is the frailest hope of 
 her listening to my suit ? 
 
 Lucasta. Why not ? I am sure, sir, any girl 
 would feel very much flattered at the attentions of a 
 nobleman such as yourself. 
 
 Don Juan. But you said I was old. 
 
 Lucasta. Oh, sir, I told you I never meant that. 
 All I meant was that you were grown-up and a man, 
 and not a schoolboy like Philip. 
 
 Don Juan. Then you think that a maiden could 
 look at me without disgust ? 
 
 Lucasta. Oh, sir ! 
 
 Don Juan. Even if at first I found her heart
 
 ii 4 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xn 
 
 hard as adamant, if she will only let nie plead my 
 cause I feel certain I can soften it. That is all I 
 ask — a hearing. 
 
 Lucasta. I should tell her at once, sir, in your 
 place. Girls are often bashful. (She blushes.) 
 
 Don Juan. Then there is another grisly fear 
 that haunts me. She may already have given her 
 heart away. She may already have a betrothed. 
 
 Lucasta. That is not likely if it's any of the 
 girls in our county. They are all so young ; and 
 the others are married — except Dianeme, and then 
 she's a fright, so it could hardly be her. 
 
 Don Juan. Then you think I ought to be 
 bold? 
 
 Lucasta (clapping her hands). Oh yes, do be 
 bold ! 
 
 [Don Juan seizes Lucasta and endeavours to 
 kiss her. She gives him a very smart box on 
 the ears. 
 
 Lucasta. Sir, what does this unpardonable 
 liberty mean ? I thought you were a gentleman 
 and a nobleman. 
 
 Don Juan (kneeling). Forgive me. I thought you 
 had understood. I thought you must have guessed 
 — don't interrupt me, only hear me — I thought you 
 must have known when I described to you my 
 heart's desire ; when I told you that you had her 
 every feature ; but I was mad. It was unpardon- 
 able of me ; but hear me all the same, Lucasta ; 
 adorable, lovely, perfect Lucasta, 1 love you ; I
 
 xii DON JUAN'S FAILURE 115 
 
 love you passionately. I otter you my hand, my 
 life, my fortune. 
 
 Lucasta. Please get up, sir. I hate men who 
 kneel — they look so silly ; and if you are going to 
 talk nonsense any more I shall go upstairs. 
 
 Don Juan (rising). Then you mean that I may 
 not even hope ? 
 
 Lucasta (bursting into peals of laughter). For- 
 give me, but I can't help it. 
 
 Don Juan. It is really no laughing matter. 
 (He draws his sivord.) I am ready to stab myself. 
 
 Lucasta (still shaking with laughter). Please do 
 not be so foolish. Why, you're much older than 
 my father. Here is my mother. 
 
 Enter the Countess of Wessex, a handsome lady. 
 She curtsies deeply 
 Lucasta (aside to her mother). Oh ! he's so 
 funny. 
 
 [She runs aicay, vainly suppressing a peal of 
 laughter. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XIII 
 CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 
 
 Scene. — A room in Julius Cesar's house. Dis- 
 covered : Julius Caesar and Calpurnia. 
 
 Calpurnia. Catullus has accepted, so that will 
 make us thirteen. 
 
 Cesar. I won't sit down thirteen to dinner ; 
 it isn't fair to one's guests. 
 
 Calpurnia. What nonsense ! They none of 
 them mind. 
 
 C/esar. I beg your pardon. I happen to know 
 that Cicero is intensely superstitious. Of course I 
 don't mind personally, but one must think of others. 
 
 Calpurnia. Then what shall we do ? 
 
 C^sar. Ask some one else. 
 
 Calpurnia. Then you must get another man. 
 You are sure to see some one at the Forum. 
 
 Caesar. I will ask Calvus. 
 
 Calpurnia. How like a man. In the first place 
 he is in mourning. 
 
 Cjesar. Who for ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Quintilla, of course. 
 
 Caesar. We need not go into that. 
 
 Calpurnia. He won't go anywhere — at present
 
 xin CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 117 
 
 — but even if it wasn't for that, don't you see that 
 it would quite spoil the dinner to ask Calvus with 
 Catullus ? 
 
 Caesar. Why ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Because they both write poetry. 
 
 C^SAR. What does that matter ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Of course, if you want to spoil the 
 dinner 
 
 OESAR. Must it be a man ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Yes ; we have got quite enough 
 women. 
 
 Cesar. Why not ask Atticus ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Then we should have to ask Pilia. 
 
 Cesar. She hates going out. 
 
 Calpurnia. It is impossible to ask him with- 
 out her — and I won't ask her ; she would ruin the 
 dinner. Besides, I told you we can't have another 
 woman. 
 
 Cesar. What about Cinna ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Cornelia's got him. She always 
 gives a dinner the same night as I do, so as to take 
 away the people I want from me. 
 
 Cesar. I can't think of anybody. 
 
 Calpurnia. You will see some one at the Forum; 
 but mind you are careful, and don't ask some one 
 nobody else knows, or some one whom they all hate. 
 
 Cesar. There's nobody in Rome just now. 
 Enter a Slave, with a letter for Calpurnia 
 
 The Slave. They are waiting for a verbal 
 answer. [Calpurnia takes the letter and reads it.
 
 n8 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xm 
 
 Calpurnia. It is from Lucullus ; he wants us 
 to dine with him to-night — quite a tiny dinner, he 
 says — he wants us to taste some oysters from 
 Britain. 
 
 Caesar. I suppose we can't put off our guests ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Certainly not. It is unlucky. (She 
 sits dozvn at a table and writes an answer.) It is the 
 sort of thing that's sure to happen. I wish you 
 hadn't asked all these people. 
 
 C^£SAR. I didn't ask a soul. 
 
 Calpurnia (to the Slave). There's the answer. 
 [The Slave bows and retires. He returns again 
 immediately with another letter, which he gives 
 to Calpurnia. 
 
 Calpurnia. Is there an answer ? 
 
 The Slave. The slave is waiting. 
 
 Calpurnia (reading out). " Most illustrious 
 
 AND CELESTIALLY FAVOURED CALPURNIA " — it is from 
 
 the Persian Ambassador — " Pity me. The gods 
 are most cruel and unpropitious. Owing to the 
 extraordinary carelessness of my private secretary I 
 find that I have been engaged for several weeks to 
 dine with Lucullus to-night. As I only know hirn 
 slightly, I am sure you will understand that in this 
 case I must sacrifice pleasure to duty, and miss a 
 brilliant and charming evening. Alas, alas, pity 
 me ! — Your slave, Zoroaster Sorhab Jemshid." 
 (To the Slave) Say I quite understand. (Exi 
 Slave.) Jemshid always, always throws one over.
 
 xin CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 119 
 
 Enter the Slave with two letters. He gives 
 one to C;esar and one to Calpurnia 
 
 The Slave. Both waiting for an answer. 
 
 Calpurnia. Who is yours from ? 
 
 Caesar. Mark Antony. (He reads) " Dear old 
 Boy — I am frightfully sorry, but I can't dine with 
 you to-night. I have had a tooth pulled out this 
 morning, and the doctor says I mustn't go out, 
 worse luck. My respects to Calpurnia. I will 
 look in to-morrow if I am well enough. Don't 
 bother to come and see me, as I can't talk. — M. A." 
 
 Calpurnia. He's dining with Lucullus, of 
 course. If you had only let me engage that cook 
 from Gaul, nobody would ever throw us over. 
 
 Cssar. Who is yours from ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Lucilius. (She reads) " Most 
 
 ILLUSTRIOUS AND EXQUISITE CALPURNIA — I have got 
 
 into the most frightful muddle. Last Monday, 
 Lucullus asked me to dinner to-night, and accepted. 
 Then the next day I wrote to him and said I could 
 not dine with him after all, as I had to go into Court 
 the day after, and I should have to work all night. 
 The day after I wrote this letter my case was put off, 
 and then you kindly asked me to dinner, and of course 
 I accepted ; and now Lucullus has found out that I 
 am dining with you, and thinks I threw him over 
 for you. He says he's a man short, and that as I was 
 engaged to him first, I simply must come to his 
 dinner. So I am writing to know whether you
 
 120 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xm 
 
 could possibly let me off ? And as I have already 
 been obliged to throw Lucullus over twice lately, I 
 am sure you will understand that I cannot very well 
 come to you to-night. I am too sorry for words. — 
 Lucilius." 
 
 Cesar. I suppose the answer is " Very well " 
 in both cases. 
 
 Calpurnia. Yes. (Exit Slave.) Of course 
 they will all throw us over now. 
 
 C;esar. Well, in that case, the matter would be 
 solved, and we could dine with Lucullus. 
 
 Calpurnia. But they won't all throw us over. 
 Portia's certain to come. 
 
 Enter the Slave with two letters. He gives 
 them to Calpurnia 
 
 The Slave. No answer. 
 
 Calpurnia (eagerly). This is from Clodia. I 
 wonder what lie she will tell. (Reads) " Darling 
 Calpurnia — I am too, too miserable. Everything 
 has gone stupidly wrong. When you asked me to 
 dinner and said Friday, I thought Friday was the 
 ioth, and now I see it is the nth, and I have been 
 engaged for ages to that tiresome old Lucullus. Of 
 course I would throw him over at once, but 
 Metellus won't hear of it, and he says it will serve 
 me right if you never ask us again. So like a hus- 
 band ! It is too unlucky, darling, isn't it ? You 
 will feel for me, I am sure. — Your loving Clodia." 
 Well, Catullus won't come now.
 
 xin CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 121 
 
 Caesar. Is the other letter from him ? 
 
 Calpurnia. No. Of course they wouldn't send 
 them together. It is from Cicero ; if he can't come, 
 our dinner's ruined. (She reads) " Most honoured 
 and excellent Calpurnia — Owing to a quite un- 
 usual press of business I much regret to say that I 
 will be compelled to forgo the pleasure of enjoying 
 your kind hospitality to-night. The misfortune is 
 all the more heavy since I shall not only miss the 
 pleasure of enjoying your charming society, but also 
 the opportunity of discussing several matters of im- 
 portance with Caesar, which I was particularly anxious 
 to do. Believe me, I am consumed with regret, but 
 I will not waste your time in vain excuses and apolo- 
 gies, which seem only to increase my vexation without 
 diminishing the inconvenience I fear I may be causing 
 you. Hail and farewell. — M. T. Cicero." 
 
 Enter the Slave with a letter for Caesar 
 
 The Slave. No answer. (He goes out.) 
 
 C;esar (opening the letter). It is from Catullus. 
 (Reading) " A terrible catastrophe has happened. 
 Going home last night from the Esquiline I got my 
 feet wet, and this has affected my style ; my hexa- 
 meters are beginning to limp and my elegiacs are 
 gouty. The doctor says the only thing which can 
 cure me is a quiet night's rest and some oysters from 
 Britain. But it is unlikely that I shall find any in 
 Rome. In view of these distressing circumstances 
 
 I
 
 122 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xm 
 
 I fear I must put off coming to-night to yeur dinner- 
 party. Quite seriously, I am unwell. With a 
 thousand compliments to Calpurnia. — Wretched 
 Catullus." " P.S. — I was half engaged to Lucullus 
 to-night, so if you see him later, tell him I was going 
 to dine with you." 
 
 Calpurnia. How silly he is ! I shall never ask 
 him again. 
 
 Caesar. Who is there left ? 
 
 Calpurnia. Now, there are only Brutus and 
 Portia, Cassius and Cynthia. 
 
 Enter the Slave with a letter for Calpurnia. 
 She takes it 
 
 The Slave. No answer. (He goes out.) 
 
 Calpurnia. It is from Cynthia. I thought 
 she would throw us over too. (Reads) " Dearest 
 Calpurnia — Lucullus says you and Qesar and 
 Catullus and Clodia are all dining with him. Is 
 that right ? Am I dining with him or with you ? 
 Please arrange it with him. I will do exactly what 
 you like. — Your loving Cynthia." Now we have 
 only got the bores left, Cassius, Brutus and Portia. 
 I don't suppose we can very well put them off. 
 
 CiESAR. I think we might in this case. You see, 
 it is perfectly true that our guests have all thrown 
 us over, and it is much too late now to get any one 
 else. 
 
 Calpurnia. Very well. You must write to 
 Cassius and I will write to Portia.
 
 xin CALPURNIA'S DINNER-PARTY 123 
 
 CffiSAR. And then we can dine with Lucullus. 
 
 Calpurnia. Just as you think best ; but if 
 Brutus and Portia find it out they will never 
 forgive us. 
 
 C;esar. What nonsense ! Besides, perhaps 
 Lucullus will ask them. 
 
 Calpurnia. Never. (Reading out as she writes) 
 Dearest Portia — It is too unlucky, we are obliged 
 to put off our dinner-party after all, because every- 
 body has thrown us over ; we are dreadfully disap- 
 pointed, as we had so looked forward to seeing you. 
 We shall have our little dinner on the 19th instead 
 — Friday week. We do so hope you and Brutus 
 are free. — Yours, Calpurnia. 
 
 Oesar. That's all right. I will write to 
 Lucullus and say we will come, if he has still got 
 room for us. 
 
 Calpurnia. Just as you like ; but remember 
 that Brutus is touchy and that Portia never 
 forgives. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XIV 
 LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 
 
 Scene. — A room in Lucullus's house. Discovered : 
 Lucullus (an old man) and his Cook. 
 
 Lucullus. Of course, I don't say that it wasn't 
 a good dish ; but it was not Neapolitan peacock. 
 
 The Cook. They were straight from Naples ; 
 the same as we've always had, sir. 
 
 Lucullus (irritated). I'm not talking about the 
 bird, but about the dish. You know as well as I 
 do that Neapolitan peacock without anemone seed 
 is not Neapolitan peacock. And then the night- 
 ingales' tongues were over-roasted. They ought to 
 be roasted for twenty-three minutes and not one 
 second longer. 
 
 The Cook. They were only twenty-four 
 minutes on the roast. 
 
 Lucullus. There, you see, it was that extra 
 minute that spoilt them. You might just as well 
 not roast them at all as roast them for twenty-four 
 minutes. And then there were too many butter- 
 flies' wings round the sturgeon. 
 
 The Cook. The chief slave 
 
 Lucullus. I've told you over and over again,
 
 xiv LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 125 
 
 till I'm tired of saying it, that the chief slave ha9 
 nothing to do with the arrangement of the dishes. 
 That is your affair. The chief slave can arrange 
 the table, but he must not touch the dishes. The 
 look of a dish is just as important as the taste of it. 
 And then there was a pinch too much salt in the wild 
 boar sauce. 
 
 The Cook. The first sauceman has just lost his 
 wife. 
 
 Lucullus. That's not my affair. Please make 
 it clear that this must not happen again. The fact 
 is, ^milius, you're falling off — last night's dinner 
 wasn't fit to eat ; it was filthy ; the kind of food 
 one gets at Caesar's — sent for from round the 
 corner. 
 
 The Cook. If I may be so bold as to say so, we 
 were saying in the kitchen that these rehearsals of 
 dinners the night before the real dinner make us 
 nervous 
 
 Lucullus. All I can say is, if you can't cook 
 a good dinner twice running you'd better get 
 another place. The dinner wasn't fit to eat, and 
 if it's anything like that to-night I advise you to give 
 up trying to cook and to take to wrestling. That's 
 all ; you can go. 
 
 [The Cook blushes scarlet and goes outi 
 
 Enter a Slave 
 
 The Slave. Can you see Portia, the wife of 
 Brutus ?
 
 126 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 
 
 Lucullus. Yes ; show her in. 
 Enter Portia 
 
 Portia. It's such a beautiful morning that I 
 thought a nice brisk walk would do me good, and 
 as I was passing your door I couldn't help just look- 
 ing in. 
 
 Lucullus. I'm delighted. 
 
 Portia {sitting down). I wanted to ask you 
 whether you would mind giving your patronage 
 to the Old Slaves' Pensions Fund ? Cicero has 
 helped us a great deal, and Caesar has promised. 
 By the way, is Caesar dining with you to-night ? 
 
 Lucullus. Yes, I believe he is. 
 
 Portia. Well, he particularly wants to see 
 Brutus, and he said something about meeting us 
 here to-night, and as I had heard nothing from you 
 I thought I would just ask. The slaves are so 
 stupid about letters — not that I want very much to 
 dine out. You see, I'm very busy just at this 
 moment, and there's a Committee Meeting to-night 
 for the O.S.P.F. (She sighs.) But one can't always 
 think of oneself, and Brutus has been so depressed 
 lately. He sleeps badly, and we've tried everything. 
 The new Greek doctor has done him no good, and 
 we've tried fomented eucalyptus and poppy soup, 
 and the cold-water cure ; but it all seems to make 
 him worse, and the doctors say that what he wants 
 is society, and we so seldom see any one. 
 
 Lucullus. I shall be quite delighted if you
 
 xiv LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 127 
 
 both could come to-night. (He calls out) Lucius. 
 {Enter Slave.) Tell /Emilius at once we shall be 
 two extra to dinner to-night ; and tell him to get 
 some more hoopoe's eggs. 
 
 Portia. Of course, I didn't mean to propose 
 myself (she laughs nervously) — you mustn't think 
 that ; and have you really got room for us ? 
 
 Lucullus. Oh, there's plenty of room. (Pen- 
 sively) Do you like hoopoe's eggs ? 
 
 Portia (simpering). Well, they're dreadfully in- 
 digestible, but I must say I never can resist a good 
 hoopoe's egg. (Getting up) Then I can count on 
 your patronage ? 
 
 Lucullus. Certainly ; is there a subscription ? 
 
 Portia. Not for the patrons. You see 
 
 Lucullus. Yes, I see. 
 
 Portia. Good-bye. Thank you so much. 
 
 [Exit Portia. Lucullus sees her to the door 
 and returns. 
 
 Lucullus (pensively). Brutus never drinks wine. 
 
 Enter Slave 
 
 The Slave. The Queen of Egypt is here. /Emilius 
 says it's too late to cook dinner for twelve now without 
 spoiling it ; he says we're one too many as it is, and 
 that he can't get any more hoopoe's eggs, and that 
 there won't be enough to go round. 
 
 Lucullus. Show the Queen in. 
 
 [Exit Slave.
 
 128 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 
 
 Enter Cleopatra 
 
 Cleopatra. Don't get u,p, Lucullus ; I'm not 
 going to keep you a minute. I want to know if you 
 could possibly dine with me to-night. I've got 
 some dancing ; a little Persian girl — so clever — she 
 does a parakeet dance with live birds. 
 
 Lucullus. There's nothing I should like so 
 much, dear Egypt ; but I've got a dinner of my own. 
 Do you want a man ? 
 
 Cleopatra. I want two men, dreadfully. 
 
 Lucullus. I'll tell you who are coming — Mark 
 Antony. 
 
 Cleopatra. I don't know him. 
 
 Lucullus. Cicero. 
 
 Cleopatra. I'm afraid he wouldn't do. 
 
 Lucullus. Brutus and his wife. 
 
 Cleopatra {laughing). They don't know me. 
 
 Lucullus. Catullus. Oh, I forgot Caesar and 
 his wife. 
 
 Cleopatra. Of course Caesar would do beau- 
 tifully, but I suppose you couldn't spare him. 
 
 Lucullus. To tell you the truth, I've got too 
 many guests and not enough hoopoe's eggs to go 
 round, but 
 
 Cleopatra. Well, I happened to meet Caesar 
 quite by chance this morning, and he said that poor 
 Calpurnia had got one of her headaches and was 
 dying not to dine out, but you know how dear and 
 unselfish she is. So if you should put them off, I 
 think it would be rather a relief to her, and then
 
 xiv LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 129 
 
 Caesar could just run in for a moment to my dinner- 
 
 Lucullus. Certainly ; I'll say I've mistaken the 
 date. 
 
 Cleopatra. That is charming of you ; thank 
 you so much. And you must come and dine quite 
 quietly with me one night, and you might bring 
 Mark Antony ; I want to know him so much. 
 
 Lucullus. He's not interesting ; he bolts his 
 food. 
 
 Cleopatra. How funny i Just like Caesar. 
 Good-bye ; I must fly. 
 
 [Exit Cleopatra. 
 Enter Slave 
 
 The Slave. Clodia, the wife of Metellus Celer, 
 wishes to see you. 
 
 Lucullus. Show her in, and tell TEmilius we 
 shan't be two extra. 
 
 Enter Clodia 
 
 Clodia. It's too bad of me, Lucullus, to disturb 
 you so early in the morning. 
 
 Lucullus. On the contrary 
 
 Clodia. What a charming room. (Pointing to 
 a statue of Hermes) That's a Praxiteles, isn't it ? 
 
 Lucullus. No ; it's only a copy I had made by 
 a little man at Puteoli. 
 
 Clodia. I think it is wonderful. 
 
 Lucullus. It is clever. 
 
 Clodia. You got my note ? 
 
 Lucullus. Yes ; I'm delighted you can come. 
 
 Clodia. Well, that's justjvvhat I wanted to ex-
 
 130 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 
 
 plain. Metellus says you've asked Catullus, and 
 last night we were all dining with Pollio, and 
 Catullus was there. Of course, I don't know him 
 very well, but I've always been civil to him because 
 of Metellus, who happens to like him. Well, last 
 night he was so rude to my father-in-law that I 
 don't feel as if I could meet him again to-night. I 
 mean I don't think it would be right. Couldn't 
 you put him off and say he made you thirteen ? — 
 otherwise I don't think I can come, and I wouldn't 
 miss your dinner for worlds. 
 
 Lucullus (enchanted). Quite delighted, I assure 
 you, to render you the smallest service. I will write 
 at once. (He scribbles two notes.) Lucius ! (Enter 
 a Slave.) Take this note to Caius Valerius Catullus 
 at once, and this one to the Queen of Egypt, and tell 
 /Emilius we shall only be nine. (To Clodia) I 
 assure you it won't matter to him, as Cleopatra is 
 giving a dinner to-night and is looking out for a man. 
 I have written to tell her. 
 
 Clodia. Cleopatra ! Oh ! 
 
 Lucullus. Yes ; don't you like her ? 
 
 Clodia. Metellus hates Greeks ; and I only just 
 know her, but I do admire her. Metellus thinks 
 she's so second-rate. I don't see it. 
 
 Lucullus. She's cultivated. 
 
 Clodia. Yes ; Greeks always are. 
 Enter a Slave with a letter, which he gives to 
 Lucullus 
 
 The Slave. Waiting for an answer.
 
 xiv LUCULLUS'S DINNER-PARTY 131 
 
 Lucullus. May I read this ? 
 Clodia. Please. 
 
 [Lucullus opens the letter and looks at the signature. 
 
 Lucullus. It's from one of my guests — Cynthia. 
 I can't read it ; I'm so short-sighted and I left my 
 emerald upstairs. 
 
 Clodia. Shall I read it for you ? 
 
 Lucullus. That would be very kind. 
 
 Clodia (reads). " Dear Lucullus — I find I can 
 come to dinner after all. I have just found a letter 
 which has been going all over Rome for me for the 
 last week, from the King of Nubia, who had asked 
 me to-night (and of course it was a command), 
 saying that his dinner is put off. So I shall be 
 delighted to come to-night if I may. — Cynthia." 
 That will just make you a woman over, won't it ; 
 but it will be all right if I don't come. 
 
 Lucullus. On the contrary 
 
 Clodia. Of course it will. You see, I may just 
 as well come another night, and Metellus will come 
 without me — husbands are always so much nicer 
 without their wives. As a matter of fact, Metellus 
 didn't much want me to come, because my throat's 
 been rather bad lately, and he thinks I oughtn't to 
 go out at night ; so it all fits in. Good-bye, Lucullus. 
 
 Lucullus. Good-bye. (Exit Clodia.) She'll 
 go to Cleopatra's — after all, food is wasted on women. 
 Lucius ! 
 
 Enter the Slave
 
 132 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xiv 
 
 The Slave. If you please, sir, /Emilius has 
 killed himself ! 
 
 Lucullus. Then who's going to cook the 
 dinner ? 
 
 The Slave. The head sauceman says he can 
 manage the nightingales' tongues and the fish, but 
 he's no experience of peacock. 
 
 Lucullus. Peacock ! I should think not. He's 
 not to touch the peacock. (He walks up and down in 
 great agitation, thinking.) Tell the head sauceman 
 — who is it — Balbus ? 
 
 The Slave. Yes, sir. 
 
 Lucullus. Tell Balbus I will have dinner in 
 my room an hour and a half before the other dinner. 
 He can give soup, fish, pheasant, nightingales' 
 tongues, the cold boar pie which was left from 
 yesterday, and some hoopoe's eggs — and as for the 
 dinner, you can send out for it. Send now to 
 Varro's shop and order dinner for nine — eight 
 courses — anything you like. Go at once. They 
 may not be able to do it in time. 
 
 The Slave. If you please, sir, one of the slaves 
 was over at Varro's this morning about the extra 
 slaves to wait, and they said they had a dinner 
 ordered and countermanded by Calpurnia on their 
 hands. 
 
 Lucullus. That will do. But tell Balbus if 
 my nightingales are not satisfactory he shall be 
 impaled. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XV 
 THE STOIC'S DAUGHTER 
 
 Scene. — A room in the house of Burrus, Prefect of 
 the Prcetorian Guards of Nero. Burrus is 
 discovered in an attitude of despondency. 
 
 Enter a Slave 
 Burrus. Well ? 
 
 Slave. Caius Petronius would like to speak 
 to you. 
 
 Burrus. I will see him. 
 
 Enter C. Petronius— Petronius Arbiter, 
 middle- aged , but very elegant 
 
 Petronius. Good morning. I've come about 
 that dinner. The Emperor quite approves of the 
 list of guests. 
 
 Burrus. I don't suppose you wish me to come 
 now. 
 
 Petronius. Why not ? 
 
 Burrus. Well, after Lucius's — er — unfortunate 
 escapade 
 
 Petronius. My dear fellow, I assure you that's 
 not of the slightest consequence. If we had to be 
 responsible for our sons' misdeeds life would be- 
 come impossible. As it is, the Emperor, while 
 sympathising with your feelings
 
 i 3 4 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 
 
 Burrus. Please don't talk about it. You can 
 understand how inexpressibly painful it is to me. 
 
 Petronius. It might have been worse. He 
 might have gone on the stage. 
 
 Burrus. The gods spared us that. That 
 would have killed Emilia. 
 
 Petronius. I suppose she feels it dreadfully. 
 
 Burrus. It's not so much the thing she minds, 
 but the family name being dragged into publicity 
 — people making bets 
 
 Petronius. Yes, yes — but there's nothing to 
 be done. After all, when all's said and done it is 
 much less degrading to be a gladiator than an actor 
 — or a charioteer. Piso's nephew is a charioteer, 
 and Tigellinus's brother appeared on the stage for 
 some charity. 
 
 Burrus. I don't know what the world is 
 coming to. 
 
 Petronius. I suppose he'll drop it immediately. 
 Then I should send him abroad for a little, and the 
 world will forget all about it. These things are 
 forgotten so quickly. After all, boys will be boys. 
 Believe me, young men must sow their wild oats, 
 and the sooner they get it over the better. Well, 
 please give my respects to /Emilia, and I can count 
 on you for certain for the fifteenth ? 
 
 Burrus. I shall come without fail. 
 
 [Exit Petronius. 
 Enter /Emilia — Burrus's zvife
 
 xv THE STOIC'S DAUGHTER 135 
 
 Emilia. Well ? What did he say ? 
 
 Burrus. Nothing, practically. The Emperor 
 doesn't seem to have said anything. 
 
 Emilia. But do you mean to say you haven't 
 arranged anything ? 
 
 Burrus. What about ? The dinner-party ? 
 
 /Emilia. Dinner-party, indeed ! I mean about 
 Lucius not appearing at the Games again. 
 
 Burrus. No, I haven't. What is there to 
 arrange ? 
 
 /Emilia. You really are too helpless. You 
 must get him banished, of course — just for a short 
 time. 
 
 Burrus. I didn't like to — but I'll write to Seneca. 
 
 Emilia. Seneca's no use. Write to Petronius. 
 He'll arrange it without any fuss. 
 
 Burrus. I hardly like 
 
 /Emilia. If Lucius appears once more in the 
 circus as a gladiator I shall open my veins in my 
 bath. 
 
 Burrus. Oh, well, of course, if you insist 
 
 /Emilia. Yes, I do insist. 
 
 Enter a Slave 
 
 Slave. Lucius Annsus Seneca, and Annaeus 
 Serenus wish to see you. 
 Burrus. Show them in. 
 
 Enter Lucius A. Seneca, and A. Serenus 
 
 [Exit Slave
 
 136 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 
 
 Seneca. I've only just heard the news, or else I 
 would have come sooner. 
 
 Serenus. And I had no idea until Seneca told me. 
 
 Burrus. I suppose it's all over Rome by now. 
 
 Seneca. You mustn't take these things to 
 heart. 
 
 /Emilia. It's all very well for you to talk, 
 Seneca ; you haven't got a son. 
 
 Seneca. I would esteem it a privilege to be 
 visited by troubles of this nature. It is only the 
 noblest souls that the gods plague with such 
 disasters in order that, tempered by affliction, the 
 true steel, emerging triumphant from the trial, may 
 serve as an example to mankind. 
 
 Serenus. Not being a stoic, Burrus, I take a 
 different view of the incident. I consider that 
 man is born to enjoy himself, and that the oppor- 
 tunities of enjoyment are rare and far between. 
 Life is monotonous. If your son finds a relaxation 
 from the tediousness of existence in fighting as a 
 gladiator, by all means let him continue to do so. It 
 is a profession which calls forth many of the noblest 
 qualities of man. 
 
 /Emilia. But think of the family, Serenus. 
 Think of us, of my sisters, my sisters-in-law, my 
 cousins ; think of my husband and the harm that it 
 may do him professionally. 
 
 Seneca. Vain thoughts, I assure you, Emilia. 
 A man's merit depends on the aspirations of his soul 
 and not on the idle gossip of his relations.
 
 xv THE STOIC'S DAUGHTER i 37 
 
 Serenus. All one's relations are liars. It is 
 much better that they should say your son is a 
 gladiator who fights in public — which is true — 
 than that they should say he is a drunkard who drinks 
 in secret, which would be untrue. They would no 
 doubt say that, had they no other food for gossip. 
 
 Emilia. But Lucius never drinks. He had 
 never given us a day's anxiety until this. 
 
 Burrus. He got all the prizes at school. 
 
 ./Emilia. He was working so hard to become an 
 officer. 
 
 Serenus. Ah ! Over-education, I see. I assure 
 you the whole matter does not signify. 
 
 ./Emilia. It is breaking his father's heart. 
 
 Burrus. I shall never hold up my head in public. 
 
 Seneca. Come, Burrus, think of Brutus, and 
 what he had to endure from his son. 
 
 Serenus. Yes, and think of the many Roman 
 sons who have killed their fathers. 
 
 Seneca. In every evil, in every misfortune there 
 is always a seed of consolation. You must, of course, 
 deal kindly with him, but firmly, and I am convinced 
 he will listen to reason. 
 
 /Emilia. He wouldn't listen to us at all. We 
 all tried our best to dissuade him — except his 
 cousin Lesbia. Heartless woman ! It was entirely 
 her fault. 
 
 Burrus. He shall never cross this threshold 
 again as long as I live. 
 
 K
 
 138 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 
 
 Seneca. Set a noble example of forgiveness, 
 Burrus, and the world will be grateful to you. 
 
 Burrus. I will never set eyes upon him again. 
 He has disgraced himself and his family for ever. 
 There are certain stains of dishonour which can 
 never be effaced. 
 
 Enter a Slave 
 
 Slave. Paulina, the wife of Seneca, is here. 
 She wishes to speak to you. 
 Seneca. My wife ! What can she want ? 
 Burrus. Show her in. 
 
 [Exit Slave. 
 Enter Paulina 
 
 Paulina. Forgive me, Burrus, for forcing my 
 way in — they said you were not at home to any 
 visitors — but it is a matter of life and death — and 
 I must speak to Seneca. (To Seneca) I have been 
 hunting for you the whole morning, and it's by the 
 merest chance I found out you had come here. 
 
 Seneca. What is it ? 
 
 Paulina. A terrible catastrophe has befallen us. 
 
 Seneca. My Greek vases ! 
 
 Paulina No, it's nothing to do with your 
 horrible collections. 
 
 Seneca. Then don't you think we had better go 
 home and discuss the matter in private ? 
 
 Paulina. No, I want Burrus's help. 
 
 Seneca. What can have happened. 
 
 Paulina. It's Julia.
 
 xv THE STOIC'S DAUGHTER 139 
 
 Seneca. I suppose she's run away with some one. 
 
 Paulina. Oh no ; it's far worse than that. 
 
 Seneca. You mean 
 
 Paulina. I don't mean anything. I mean she 
 has disgraced us all. 
 
 Serenus. These little affairs blow over so 
 quickly. 
 
 Paulina. But you don't understand — you will 
 never believe it. The girl has become a Christian. 
 
 Seneca. A Christian ! 
 
 Burrus. No ! 
 
 Emilia. My poor Paulina ! 
 
 Serenus. Curious ! 
 
 Burrus. She must have been got hold of by the 
 Jews. 
 
 ./Emilia. They are terribly cunning ; and 
 people say they're everywhere, and yet one doesn't 
 see them. 
 
 Serenus. But surely there is nothing irretriev- 
 able about this. As long as nobody knows about 
 it, what does it signify ? 
 
 Seneca. You don't understand. It's a matter 
 of principle ; I could not possibly harbour a 
 daughter under my roof whom I knew to be a 
 traitor to the State. 
 
 Serenus. It is annoying. 
 
 Paulina. But you don't know the worst : she 
 has gone to prison. 
 
 Seneca (very angry). Well, I hope you will let 
 her know that she shall never come back to our
 
 i 4 o DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 
 
 home as long as she lives. Her conduct is not only 
 immoral, but it is immodest. It is inspired solely 
 and simply by a passion for self-advertisement. It 
 is this modern craze for publicity which is the 
 ruin of our children ; she is bitten by this same 
 passion for notoriety which — you will excuse me 
 saying so, Burrus — led your son to be a gladiator. 
 I call it vulgar, tawdry, Byzantine, hysterical, and 
 essentially un- Roman. 
 
 Serenus. But surely, my dear Seneca, nobody 
 can think it amusing to go to prison ? Think of 
 the risk. 
 
 Seneca. I beg your pardon. People of her 
 class risk nothing. They have got a morbid craze 
 for new sensations. 
 
 Serenus. Rather disagreeable sensations, aren't 
 they ? To be eaten by a tiger, for instance ? 
 
 Seneca. There's no question of that. It's only 
 the worst criminals who are treated like that. Am 
 I not right, Burrus ? 
 
 Burrus. Perfectly. A purely religious offender 
 is immediately released on making the mere outward 
 sign of allegiance to the State. An oath is not even 
 required. 
 
 Paulina. Well, that's just what I've come 
 about. The child is in prison, and it appears — it 
 is very foolish and obstinate of her, but Julia always 
 was an obstinate child — that she refuses to fulfil 
 the necessary formality, sacrifice, or whatever it is. 
 So I thought I would come to you, Burrus, and ask
 
 xv THE STOIC'S DAUGHTER 141 
 
 you just to say a word to the prison authorities 
 and then she could be let out — quite quietly, of 
 course. Nobody need know about it. 
 
 Burrus. My dear lady, you know how gladly 
 I would do anything in the world to be of use to 
 you. But in this case — and I am sure you will 
 understand — I cannot see my way ; indeed it is 
 quite impossible for me to take any action. You 
 see, Petronius's cousin was released three weeks ago 
 and smuggled out of the country, and the dema- 
 gogues got hold of it and complained to the Emperor, 
 who — courting popularity as usual — said it was not 
 to occur again. So you see in what an awkward 
 position we are placed. We can't make these dis- 
 tinctions simply between people of position and 
 others 
 
 Paulina. But it's always done. 
 
 Burrus. That's just why it can't be done this 
 time. The Emperor is extremely annoyed at people 
 of good family having anything to do with those 
 horrible Christians, and he's determined to stamp 
 this mania out. But all she has got to do is to 
 sacrifice 
 
 Paulina. But you don't realise how obstinate 
 the girl is. 
 
 Enter Lesbia, a lovely gay zooman, about tzoenty-five. 
 
 Lesbia. Good morning, good morning. I've 
 got some places for the Games, and Lucius comes 
 on at three. You must see him fight. He's too
 
 142 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xv 
 
 wonderful. And it's horrible of you not to go 
 and see him, and then they're going to throw all 
 the Christians to the lions directly afterwards, so 
 you must come. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XVI 
 AFTER EURIPIDES' " ELECTRA " 
 
 Scene. — A room in the house of Cinyras, at Athens. 
 
 [Reclining on couches round the tables are 
 Socrates, Alcander (a man about Athens), 
 Demetrius (a critic), Xenocles (a play- 
 wright), Antagoras (an important official), 
 Naucydes (a soldier), Heliodore (wife of 
 Cinyras), and her friends, Lycoris, 
 
 TlMARETA, NlCYLLA, and HEGESO. 
 
 Heliodore. Euripides has promised to come ; 
 but we won't wait for him. I don't know what you 
 feel, but I'm very hungry. 
 
 Naucydes. So am I. Makes one hungry, 
 don't you know — that kind of thing. Splendid 
 show. 
 
 Lycoris. What I say is, it's too long. It 
 lasted nearly all day. If he had made it about half 
 as long, it would be just as beautiful, and much 
 more enjoyable for us. Of course, I don't pretend 
 to be a judge, but I do say it's too long. 
 
 Cinyras. Much the best thing is to do as I do 
 and not go to the play at all. 
 
 Lycoris. No, I like a good play. But I don't
 
 i 4 4 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 
 
 care for Diophantus' acting. It's just the same 
 with Tityus. What I say is, Diophantus is always 
 Diophantus and Tityus is always Tityus. 
 
 Demetrius. But surely the business of the 
 actor is never to let his personality change ? 
 
 Nicylla. What did you think of the play, 
 Demetrius ? 
 
 Demetrius. I am afraid I must not tell you that 
 until my opinions are published. It wouldn't be 
 fair on the author. 
 
 Nicylla. And what did you think, Socrates ? 
 
 Socrates. I admired it immensely. 
 
 Hegeso. I thought it wonderful. I loved the 
 story. I loved Clytaemnestra's clothes, that won- 
 derful, dirty, wine-stained dress, and Electra's 
 pale, shivering, stone-cold mask ; and Orestes was 
 such a darling. So mad, and distraught, and 
 rebellious. 
 
 Heliodore. I thought it was marvellous. 
 
 Nicylla. I think it's so much better than 
 Sophocles' Electra. 
 
 Alcander. It's very clever, of course ; brilliantly 
 clever ; but it's not a play. It's really only a dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 Hegeso. But I was thrilled by the story and so 
 frightened. 
 
 Timareta. You know, it's not the story. It's 
 the acting. Apollodorus told me it's the acting. 
 It's wonderful. It's felt. I felt it. 
 
 Lycoris. I must say, I don't like that sort of
 
 xvi AFTER EURIPIDES' " ELECTRA " 145 
 
 play. I think it leaves a nasty taste in one's mouth 
 and one doesn't quite know why. I know it's very 
 clever. 
 
 Nicylla. Oh, Lycoris, how old-fashioned of 
 you ! Now don't you think Electra was right, 
 Socrates, to kill her mother ? 
 
 Socrates. We'll ask Euripides that when he 
 comes. My business is to ask questions 
 
 Naucydes (aside to Heliodore). And a great 
 nuisance he is, too, with his questions. 
 
 Socrates. And not to answer them. 
 
 Naucydes (aside to Heliodore). I don't believe 
 he knows what the answers are. 
 
 Nicylla. But don't you think, Demetrius, 
 that a girl is justified in taking the law into her 
 hands in such very exceptional circumstances ; or 
 do you think a girl's first duty is to her mother ? 
 
 Antagoras. I think she deserved a good 
 whipping, if you ask me. However, it's not the 
 story I object to. I mean, we all know the story, 
 and we're quite ready to see a new play on the sub- 
 ject, as long as it's treated reverently and decently ; 
 but one never knows with Euripides when he's 
 serious, or whether he's laughing in his sleeve the 
 whole time or not. Now I like /Eschylu9. 
 
 Xenocles. Poor Euripides ! He's shot his 
 bolt. 
 
 Nicylla. Do you think he's played out ? 
 
 Lycoris. What I say is this, that Clytasmnestra 
 thoroughly deserved to die, but Electra wasn't the
 
 146 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 
 
 person to kill her, and that as she did kill her 
 mother she ought to have been punished. 
 
 Timareta. It was Fate, that's what it was. 
 Apollodorus told me it was all Fate. 
 
 Hegeso. Yes, and she was so sad, so miserable ; 
 she couldn't bear doing it. She loved her mother, 
 although her mother had been so unkind, and 
 turned her out of that beautiful house into a cold 
 cruel hut, and only a herdsman to talk to. Don't 
 you agree, Naucydes, with me, that Electra was 
 cruelly treated ? She couldn't help it, could she ? 
 
 Naucydes. Rather an awkward case, don't you 
 know. Sort of fix when everything you do's wrong. 
 {He laughs loudly.) 
 
 Hegeso. And wasn't the music too heavenly ? 
 
 Alcander. It's like the play — clever ; but it 
 isn't music, any more than the play's a play. 
 
 Antagoras. I couldn't make head or tail of it — 
 but then I'm not musical. 
 
 Hegeso. Didn't you love those divine little 
 screams, like a saw cutting ice, and the noise the 
 cymbals made, like slippery sandals rushing down a 
 marble mountain ? 
 
 Nicylla. What did you think of the music, 
 Demetrius ? 
 
 Demetrius. There are no ideas in it, and it's 
 very thin ; there's no colour in it either, but a 
 certain amount of clever arabesque work. 
 
 Nicylla. Don't you think music acts on one's 
 sub-conscious superself without one's noticing it ?
 
 xvi AFTER EURIPIDES' " ELECTRA " 147 
 
 When I hear certain kinds of music I go quite mad, 
 and sometimes when I hear music I feel as if 
 I could understand everything. I am sure you 
 agree with me, Socrates. And now, do tell me : 
 Does music have an Apolline or a Dionysic effect on 
 you ? Sometimes it has a Dionysic effect on me and 
 sometimes an Apolline. 
 
 Socrates. What is music, Nicylla ? If you 
 can answer me that, I will tell you the nature of its 
 effect on me. 
 
 Nicylla. Music is the language of the soul. It 
 is to man what the perfume is to the flower. 
 
 Antagoras. Music's a nuisance. 
 
 Demetrius. Not necessarily ; but it is often 
 an interruption. 
 
 Alcander. And sometimes an accompaniment. 
 
 Lycoris. Yes, as in the play to-day. What I 
 say is, all this new music isn't music, but noise. 
 
 Antagoras. I agree with you ; it oughtn't to be 
 allowed. 
 
 Demetrius. But isn't all music noise ? 
 
 Hegeso. Yes ; delicious, heavenly noises, all 
 caught like tame mice and put in chains and made 
 to be obedient. 
 
 Heliodore. Don't let's discuss the music till 
 we've finished talking about the play. Now, Xen- 
 ocles thinks that Euripides is played out. 
 
 Xenocles. Euripides has talent, but he is 
 essentially mediocre ; his verses are vulgar and 
 facile. However, I've no doubt the sausage- sellers
 
 148 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 
 
 enjoy his plays. It is the kind of thing which 
 would appeal to them. And they say the Barbarians 
 find them extraordinarily profound. 
 
 Nicylla. Now, that's one of your paradoxes, 
 Xenocles. How brilliant he is, isn't he ? 
 
 Timareta. Apollodorus says his characters are 
 too natural. They are just what one sees every day. 
 
 Antagoras. Good gracious ! I hope not. 
 
 Nicylla. Now, Socrates, I know you admire 
 Euripides, and I always have admired him. I 
 always said from the first that he was far the 
 greatest playwright we'd ever had. I want to 
 know what Xenocles admires. 
 
 Xenocles. Well, there's Agathon, but no one 
 else. 
 
 Nicylla. And I'm sure you don't admire 
 Sophocles ? 
 
 Xenocles. The gods forbid. 
 
 Demetrius. His work is quite dead. I believe 
 his plays are still admired in Thrace. 
 
 Naucydes. I saw one the other day, and I'm 
 afraid I liked it. 
 
 Nicylla. Oh, Naucydes, how can you say 
 such a thing ? They're so empty. There's no 
 soul in them. No world-sympathy. No atmo- 
 spheric intuition. Nothing cosmic. And then 
 they say his verses are all wrong. Aren't they, 
 Xenocles ? 
 
 Xenocles. Sophocles undoubtedly wrote some
 
 xvi AFTER EURIPIDES' " ELECTRA " 149 
 
 good lines, but his philosophy is childish. It is 
 essentially Mid-Athenian. 
 
 Hegeso. Oh, I adore Mid-Athenian things. 
 I've had a room furnished in the Mid- Athenian 
 style with archaic busts ; you can't think how 
 quaint and charming it looks. 
 
 Heliodore. Won't you have a little more 
 partridge, Hegeso ? 
 
 Hegeso. No, thank you, dear. I never touch 
 food at this time in the evening. I can only eat a 
 little parsley and mint in the morning. 
 
 Heliodore. I'm sure you must be hungry after 
 all we've gone through. I confess I cried like a 
 child. 
 
 Timareta. That's what it is — Euripides is so 
 pathetic. He's not great and he's not mystic, but 
 he's pathetic. He touches one just here. (She 
 points to her throat.) Apollodorus told me he's 
 pathetic. He's got bathos. 
 
 Hegeso. I felt so sorry for Clytemnestra. I 
 was miserable when she screamed. I jumped up 
 in my seat and cried : " I can't bear it, I can't bear 
 it ; they're killing Clytaemnestra." And Callias, 
 who was sitting next to me, was so cross. (She helps 
 herself to a quail.) It has been a wonderful day. 
 
 Heliodore. Wonderful ! I've never been 
 through anything like it before. 
 
 Nicylla. I felt as if my soul had escaped and 
 was just floating in mid -ether between one world
 
 ISO DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 
 
 and another ; between the two gates, don't you 
 know. 
 
 Timareta. I was moved, that's what it was — 
 moved. I felt like — as if I were at a funeral — a 
 State funeral, with music and torches. 
 
 Alcander. Yes, it was certainly a fine perform- 
 ance. 
 
 Naucydes. By Zeus, yes ! 
 
 Demetrius. I don't mind saying that I was 
 interested. 
 
 Hegeso. I shall never get over it, never. I feel 
 as if it had all happened to me. (She helps herself to 
 another quail.) 
 
 Enter a Slave 
 
 The Slave. Euripides has sent to say he is very 
 sorry he can't come to supper. He is too tired. 
 
 Socrates. I am afraid I must leave you. I have 
 some pupils waiting for me at home. 
 
 Heliodore. Oh, don't go, Socrates. I haven't 
 spoken to you at all, and I have got so many things 
 to say to you. 
 
 Socrates. I'm afraid I must go. Farewell, and 
 a thousand thanks for your kind hospitality. 
 
 Demetrius. And I'm afraid I must go. I've got 
 to write about the play. 
 
 [Exeunt Socrates and Demetrius. 
 
 Heliodore. I must say I do think it's rather 
 thoughtless of Euripides to throw me over at the 
 last minute. I do think he might have let me know.
 
 xvi AFTER EURIPIDES' " ELECTRA " 151 
 
 You see, Socrates only came because of Euripides. 
 And you see what happens the moment he hears he's 
 not coming — he goes. 
 
 Xenocles. He always does that. He's spoilt. 
 I told you he was overrated. 
 
 Heliodore. I don't mind personally a bit. I 
 don't happen to care for him ; but I have asked 
 thirty people to come in afterwards to meet him, and 
 I do think it's selfish. 
 
 Lycoris. I could tell from his play he was 
 selfish. 
 
 Timareta. He's no heart, that's what it is. 
 He's heartless. Just like Electra — heartless. 
 
 Heliodore. But I do think Socrates might have 
 stayed. 
 
 Xenocles. Don't you understand why he's gone? 
 He didn't want to tell Euripides how bad he thought 
 the play was ! 
 
 Nicylla. Do you mean he really thinks it 
 bad ? 
 
 Xenocles. I'm convinced of it. 
 
 Antagoras. It's much worse than bad ; it's 
 undermining. 
 Alcander. Yes, I'm afraid it's a failure. 
 Hegeso. Oh no, don't say that, because I did so 
 
 love it. 
 
 Heliodore. I never liked Euripides. 
 
 Nicylla. I told you he was finished. I'm never 
 wrong. I knew it was all a mistake.
 
 1 52 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvi 
 
 Xenocles. He means well. 
 
 Antagoras. No, he doesn't ; that's just it. 
 
 Lycoris. What I say is, that those kinds of plays 
 do harm. 
 
 Antagoras. The man's an atheist. 
 
 Lycoris. He's a scoffer. 
 
 Antagoras. But Socrates is far worse than he is. 
 
 Nicylla. Oh, he's such a bore. 
 
 Hegeso. I love his little snub nose. 
 
 Heliodore. I shall never ask them again. 
 
 Alcander. Tiresome people. 
 
 Lycoris. What I say is, people like Socrates 
 and Euripides ought to be put in prison. 
 
 Nicylla. Especially Socrates. 
 
 Antagoras. So he will be, or else my name's 
 not Antagoras. He only deserves one thing, and 
 that's capital punishment. 
 
 Hegeso. Poor little Socrates ! But I hope 
 you'll let Euripides off. 
 
 Antagoras. He doesn't count ; he's only a 
 playwright. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XVII 
 JASON AND MEDEA 
 
 Scene. — A room in the house of Jason, looking on 
 to garden, at Corinth. Discovered : Jason 
 and Glauce. 
 
 Jason. I think you really had better go. She 
 may be in any minute now. 
 
 Glauce. Very well ; but you promise to tell 
 her to-day ? 
 
 Jason. I swear. 
 
 Glauce. It's all very well, but you said that 
 yesterday. 
 
 Jason. Yes, and I would have told her yester- 
 day, only I was interrupted 
 
 Glauce. I know ; the only thing I say is, 
 you must tell her to-day and do it nicely, because 
 I shouldn't like poor little Medea to be hurt. 
 
 Jason. No, of course not. Good-bye. 
 
 Glauce. Good-bye. Then to-morrow at 
 eleven, at the Creon Institute. 
 
 Jason. Very well, at eleven. 
 
 Glauce. And then we might — no. 
 
 Jason. What ? 
 
 Glauce. Nothing. I was only thinking we
 
 154 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvii 
 
 might have some food at the " Golden Fleece," 
 downstairs. 
 
 Jason. The whole of Corinth would see us. 
 
 Glauce. There is never a soul downstairs, and 
 I don't see now that it much matters. 
 
 Jason. It's a pity to make oneself conspicuous ; 
 your father 
 
 Glauce. You know best, but I should have 
 thought ■ — 
 
 Jason. That's Medea coming through the 
 garden. 
 
 Glauce. To-morrow, at eleven. 
 
 Jason. Yes — yes — to-morrow. (Glauce goes 
 out L.) 
 
 Enter Medea from the garden 
 
 Medea. I can't get any one for dinner to- 
 morrow night. We want somebody amusing. 
 
 Jason {wearily). Would Orpheus do ? 
 
 Medea. We've got too many heroes as it is. 
 And then, jf Orpheus comes, we shall be obliged to 
 ask him to play. 
 
 Jason. What about Castor and Pollux ? 
 
 Medea. Heroes again — and I think it's a mistake 
 to ask brothers together. 
 
 Jason. Heracles is staying at Corinth. 
 
 Medea. He would do beautifully. 
 
 Jason. I'm not sure he would do. He doesn't 
 get on with Admetus. 
 
 Medea. Why not ? Admetus ought to be 
 very grateful.
 
 xvn JASON AND MEDEA 155 
 
 Jason. For bringing back his wife from the 
 grave ? 
 
 Medea. Yes, of course. 
 
 Jason. Of course. (Jason looks pensive.) 
 
 Medea. Then we shall want another woman. 
 
 Jason. How would Ariadne do ? 
 
 Medea. What are you thinking of ? Theseus 
 is coming. 
 
 Jason. I thought all that had entirely blown 
 over. 
 
 Medea. We want an unmarried woman, if 
 possible. 
 
 Jason. I don't know any one. 
 
 Medea. Do you think we could get King 
 Creon's daughter by herself ? She's so pretty. I 
 mean Glauce. 
 
 Jason (blushing scarlet). I don't think — er — no 
 — you see — we can't very well. 
 
 Medea. Why not ? 
 
 Jason. She's a girl. 
 
 Medea. She goes everywhere. She doesn't 
 count as a girl. 
 
 Jason. Then we should have to ask King 
 Creon. 
 
 Medea. No, Alcestis will bring her. That 
 will do beautifully. I'll send a message at once. 
 
 Jason. For the sake of the gods, do nothing of 
 the kind. 
 
 Medea. But she'll do beautifully. 
 
 Jason. You don't understand. You see, King
 
 156 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvn 
 
 Creon has — he's — well, I don't quite know how to 
 say it. 
 
 Medea. What do you mean ? 
 
 Jason. Well, it's very awkward. The fact is, 
 King Creon has approached me politically — about 
 something 
 
 Medea. What has that got to do with asking 
 Glauce ? 
 
 Jason. No, nothing, of course, except that we 
 should have to ask him. 
 
 Medea. I've already told you that it's un- 
 necessary. 
 
 Jason (firmly). I shouldn't dream of asking her 
 without her father, and we can't ask him. 
 
 Medea. Why not ? 
 
 Jason. Oh, because he never does dine out. 
 
 Medea. I'm sure he would come here. 
 
 Jason. It's impossible. You see, to tell you 
 the truth — I've been meaning to tell you this for 
 some time, only I've never had the opportunity — 
 the King is rather severe about you. 
 
 Medea. Severe ! How ? 
 
 Jason. Well, you see, he's old-fashioned, and 
 he doesn't consider our marriage is a marriage. 
 
 Medea. We were married in the temple of 
 Aphrodite. What more does he want ? 
 
 Jason. He doesn't consider that a girl's marriage 
 is valid when it is made without the consent of her 
 parents ; and your poor dear father, you know, was 
 most unreasonable.
 
 xvn JASON AND MEDEA 157 
 
 Medea. Papa being silly has got nothing to do 
 with it. When a man and a woman are married in 
 a temple, with the proper rites, they are man and 
 wife. Nothing can ever alter the fact. 
 
 Jason. Yes, but it's not only that. Creon 
 goes much farther than that. He made me certain 
 revelations concerning some family business which, 
 I must say, surprised me immensely. 
 
 Medea. What family business ? 
 
 Jason. Well, it appears that soon after I started 
 for Colchis my father entered into secret negotia- 
 tions with King Creon, and signed an offensive and 
 defensive alliance with him, with the object of 
 safeguarding himself against Pelias. The word- 
 alliance remained secret. But at a State banquet 
 Creon laid great stress on the friendship between 
 himself and the ^olidae, and brought in the words 
 " friendly understanding " several times. Now in 
 the treaty, which was drawn up and published, to 
 mask the alliance, there were several secret clauses, 
 one of which concerned the Sardine Fisheries in the 
 Isthmus of Corinth, and the other — well — er, my 
 marriage. 
 
 Medea. Your marriage. 
 
 Jason. Yes, it is extraordinary, isn't it ? It 
 appears that during my absence, and without my 
 being consulted in any way whatsoever, I was 
 formally married, by proxy, of course, to Creon's 
 daughter Glauce — who was at that time a mere child. 
 It was further settled that as soon as she was grown
 
 158 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvii 
 
 up, the marriage would be announced and the King 
 would publicly adopt me as his heir. 
 
 Medea. No wonder he was annoyed at your 
 having married me. 
 
 Jason. Well, you see, he isn't annoyed at that, 
 because he says our marriage wasn't valid. 
 
 Medea. Not in the eyes of the law, perhaps ; 
 but I am sure Aphrodite would not only be pained, 
 but extremely angry if we cancelled vows which 
 were made in her temple. 
 
 Jason. No, that's just it. It appears he con- 
 sulted all the oracles and the priestesses, and the 
 Pythonesses, and they all say that our marriage is 
 not only illegal, but positively criminal, and that my 
 lawful wife, both in the eyes of man and of the gods, 
 is Glauce. 
 
 Medea. And my children ? 
 
 Jason. Well, about the children, opinion was 
 slightly divided ; but they inclined to think that, 
 if I adopted them, they would be considered 
 legitimate. 
 
 Medea. Legitimate ! I should hope so. But 
 what did you say to Creon ? I suppose you told 
 him you were very sorry, but that it couldn't be 
 helped. (She laughs.) Poor Glauce ! It's a shame 
 to make a girl so ridiculous. 
 
 Jason. I don't think you quite realise how 
 seriously Creon regards the matter. 
 
 Medea. I don't care an obol what he thinks.
 
 xvn JASON AND MEDEA 159 
 
 What I want to be told is how you told him what 
 you think. 
 
 Jason. Of course, I said that I felt highly 
 flattered. 
 
 Medea. But that you were married already. 
 
 Jason. No, it was no use saying that, because 
 — as I've already said twice — he does not think our 
 marriage counts. 
 
 Medea. Then what did you say ? 
 
 Jason. Oh, I said I would lay the matter before 
 you, and trust to your great good sense. 
 
 Medea. Do you mean to say that you did not 
 give him to understand that the whole thing was 
 altogether mad, absurd, and utterly preposterous ? 
 
 Jason. How could I ? After all, he is the King ; 
 and, moreover, he is backed up by all the legal and 
 hieratic authorities. I could do nothing. I was 
 quite helpless, quite defenceless. I simply had to 
 incline myself before his higher authority. 
 
 Medea. Oh, I see ; you accepted, in fact. 
 
 [She reflects a moment. 
 
 Jason. I didn't exactly accept. But what else 
 could I do ? 
 
 Medea. No, of course, it's quite simple. You 
 said that our marriage didn't count ; you would be 
 delighted to marry Glauce. 
 
 Jason. I didn't use the word " delighted." 
 
 Medea. " Highly honoured," perhaps ? 
 
 Jason. Something like that. 
 
 Medea. So you are engaged to be married ?
 
 160 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvn 
 
 (Without any irony in her voice) Well, I congratulate 
 you. 
 
 Jason. Not engaged. You see, the King 
 
 Medea (cheerfully). I know. You mean you 
 are married to Glauce theoretically, and now you 
 are going to make the marriage a reality. 
 
 Jason (intensely relieved at there not being a scene). 
 How clearly you put things ! 
 
 Medea. I'm delighted for your sake. She's a 
 charming girl, and I am sure she will make you very 
 happy. 
 
 Jason. But, Medea, what about you ? You 
 quite understand that I am ready to give up the 
 whole thing unless you are quite sure you don't 
 mind ? 
 
 Medea. My dear Jason, why should I mind ? 
 My only wish is that you should be happy. 
 
 Jason. I'm afraid that's impossible. I need 
 hardly say I am not in the least in love with 
 Glauce. 
 
 Medea. Of course not. But what about my 
 children ? 
 
 Jason. Ah, there's the difficulty. The King 
 says they will have to remain with me. But you 
 will be able to come and see them whenever you 
 like. 
 
 Medea. Oh, I see. 
 
 Jason. The King is very particular about 
 children being brought up by their father. He 
 thinks women make them into mollycoddles.
 
 xvii JASON AND MEDEA 161 
 
 Medea. Yes, of course. I suppose, since the 
 marriage ceremony has already been performed, you 
 won't have to go through it again. 
 
 Jason. It's unnecessary ; but I'm sorry to say 
 the King wishes it. 
 
 Medea. Then I suppose it will be soon. I 
 shall leave Corinth as soon as my things can be 
 packed. 
 
 Jason. The King wants the ceremony to be this 
 week ; but you mustn't inconvenience yourself in 
 any way. 
 
 Medea (smiling). No, I won't. Good-bye for 
 the moment. I am going out to buy Glauce a 
 present. [She goes out. 
 
 Jason sits down at a table and writes : 
 Loveliest and dearest Glauce — It is all over. I 
 have told her at last. She has taken it too wonder- 
 fully well. We must ask her to stay with us — later 
 —etc. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XVIII 
 KING ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 
 
 Scene. — Interior of a Neat-Herd's hut, near the 
 river Parret, in Somersetshire. 
 
 Enter a Neat-Herd, followed by King Alfred, 
 zvho is miserably clad and shivering from cold ; 
 he carries a bow and a few broken arrows. A 
 log fire is burning smokily in a corner of the hut. 
 
 The Neat-Herd {scratching the back of his head). 
 Reckon t' old 'ooman 'ull be baack zoon. 
 
 The King. We are very hungry. 
 
 The Neat-Herd. Reckon t' old 'ooman 'ull be 
 baack zoon. She be a baaking. 
 
 [The King sits down by the fire and warms 
 himself. Enter the Neat-Herd's Wife 
 with much noise and bustle ; she carries a 
 batch of newly-kneaded loaves on a tray, which 
 she puts down in front of the fire. The 
 Neat-Herd says something to her in an 
 undertone ; she mutters something in answer 
 about " strange folk." Then she goes up to 
 the King. 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. If ye be a-staying here 
 ye must make yournself useful.
 
 xviii ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 163 
 
 The King (rising and bowing politely). We should 
 be delighted to do anything in our power. 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife {looking at the King 
 with distrust, and talking very quickly). I'ze warrant 
 ye be strange in these parts. (To her husband) I 
 reckon we've no time to see after strange folk. We 
 all be hungry, and it's a mercy we've still got a morsel 
 of bread in the house to keep the children from ztark 
 ztarving, and that's zo. But if he'll look to t' baatch 
 whiles I zee to t' cows, maybe ee'll get a morsel for 
 his pains. (To the King) Now do ee be zure, stranger, 
 ye turn the baatch when they're done a one side. 
 
 The King (who has only partially understood 
 what she has said). We shall be delighted. (He 
 bows). 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife (to her husband). I 
 reckon he do be daaft. 
 
 The Neat-Herd. He's no daaft ; he be strange. 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. See ee turn the 
 baatch. 
 
 The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
 
 [The Neat-Herd's Wife goes out and slams the 
 
 door. 
 [The King sits again by the fire and begins to 
 mend his broken arrows ; after a pause : 
 
 The King. Do you care for verse ? — 
 poetry ? 
 
 [The Neat-Herd scratches the back of his head, 
 and after reflecting for some time : 
 
 The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR !
 
 1 64 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvm 
 
 The King. Then we will repeat to you a few 
 little things — mere trifles — we composed in the 
 marshes during our leisure hours. (He looks 
 pensively upwards.) 
 
 There are clouds in the sky, 
 
 I'm afraid it will rain. 
 I cannot think why 
 There are clouds in the sky. 
 Had I wings, I would fly 
 
 To the deserts of Spain. 
 There are clouds in the sky, 
 
 I'm afraid it will rain. 
 
 The King. That is a triolet. 
 The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
 The King. Here is another. It was written 
 in dejection. 
 
 I've had nothing to eat 
 
 For nearly two days. 
 It's beginning to sleet, 
 I've had nothing to eat ; 
 Neither oatmeal nor wheat, 
 
 Nor millet nor maize. 
 I've had nothing to eat 
 
 For nearly two days. 
 
 That is also a triolet — perhaps not quite so success- 
 ful. (He looks at the Neat-Herd inquiringly.) 
 The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
 The King. We will now repeat to you a 
 sonnet. It is adapted from Boethius. It is called 
 " Suspiria." 
 
 [He passes his hand through his hair and looks 
 upward towards the right.
 
 xvin ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 165 
 
 I used to sit upon an ivory chair, 
 And wear a jewelled crown upon my head ; 
 Fine linen draped in folds my carven bed, 
 With myrrh I used to smooth and scent my hair. 
 
 I used to play upon a golden harp, 
 And every one agreed I played it well ; 
 The servants bounded when I rang the bell ; 
 I used to feed on immemorial carp. 
 
 But now I wander in a pathless fen, 
 Unkinged, forsook, discredited, discrowned ; 
 I who was born to be the King of Men, 
 I who made armies tremble when I frowned, 
 
 I — in a neat-herd's damp and draughty hut — 
 Perform the menial duties of a slut. 
 
 Do you think the last rhyme weak ? (The Neat- 
 Herd does not answer.) We have also written a 
 ballade, but we cannot remember all of it. It is 
 addressed to Guthrum, King of the Danes. The 
 Envoi, however, runs like this : 
 
 Prince, you are having the time of your life, 
 From the Straits of Dover to Glaston Tor, 
 And writing it home to your Danish wife ; — 
 But where are the bones and the hammer of Thor? 
 
 If we had a harp with us we would sing you the 
 music, but we are sorry to say we lost it in the marsh 
 yesterday. 
 The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
 
 Enter the Neat-Herd's Wife 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. Be the baatch ready ?
 
 1 66 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvm 
 
 The King. Oh yes, of course. We shall be 
 delighted. 
 
 [He hurriedly lifts the tray with the loaves from 
 the hearth and places it on the table. 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. Drat th' man ! If 
 they bain't all burnt ! Ye take strange folk to 
 house, and aask un to mind the baatch and turn't, 
 and draat un if they doan't forget to turn when 
 they be burning. Ize warrant ye be ready enough 
 to eat un when they be done ! Drat the man if I 
 haven't half a mind to give un a beating with th' 
 rolling-pin ! Not a morsel shall ee get ; good-for- 
 nothing, idle vagabond, wastrel, ramscullion, thief, 
 robber. 
 
 The Neat-Herd. Easy, old woman, ee be th' 
 King ! 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. Well, and if that 
 bain't like a man, to let me tongue run on not 
 knowing nothing neither ! {Curtsying.) I'm zure 
 I beg your Majesty's humble pardon, and I'm zure 
 I knew nothing and meant no harm ; and my man 
 be that foolish not to tell a body that the King's self 
 be here, so homelike and all, taking pity on us poor 
 folk. I'm zure as I meant no harm, and I do for to 
 beg your Majesty's pardon, and that I do, an' right 
 humbly. 
 
 The King. Do not mention it. We assure you 
 it is not of the slightest consequence. It was ex- 
 ceedingly careless of us to burn your loaves — your 
 admirably kneaded loaves. And we most humbly
 
 xvin ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 167 
 
 and sincerely apologise. We are, we are afraid, 
 given to these fits, these sudden and unwarrantable 
 fits of absent-mindedness. 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. And me always 
 a-wanting to see a real Dane, too ! Only yester- 
 day I zaid t' Mary, " Mary," I do zay, " the Danes 
 be all over the country." " Lord-amercy," she 
 zay, " who be they ! " "I bain't zet eyes on one 
 on un yet," zay I, " but folks do zay as they be 
 mighty pleasant folk," zay I ; and now to have the 
 King of the Danes himself in my hut. . . . Well, 
 who'd a thought as zuch a thing would coom to me 
 an' mine ! 
 
 The Neat-Herd. Ye be mistaken, ye be. He 
 bain't the Danish King, he be t'other, he that wur 
 
 th' King of England — bor ! Alfred as was 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. What ? 
 The Neat-Herd. Th' King o' England as was 
 till th' Danes coom ower ! Alfred they called 'un ! 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. He as be driven 
 away, like ? 
 The Neat-Herd. Oo ! AR ! 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife (to the King). Oh, you 
 be he, be you ? Then ye ought to be ashamed 
 of yoursel', that ye ought, coming into strange 
 folk's houses at this time o' day, and begging for 
 bread ; and then when they've pity on ye for your 
 misery, and give ye the chance of turning an honest 
 penny by a piece of work as mony a man'd be glad 
 to get, and any child could ha' done better, forget-
 
 1 68 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xvm 
 
 ting to turn th' loaves and spoiling th' whole baatch ; 
 an' ye know well enow I can't baake again this 
 week — not that I mind th' baatch ; but I can't have 
 ye here, nohow ! Ye'd best be a-going, and that 
 quick ! Bor ! 
 
 The King. But cannot you possibly let us 
 remain here until to-morrow ? We are in need of 
 shelter for the night. 
 
 The Neat-Herd. Don't be too 'ard on him, old 
 'ooman. 
 
 The Neat-Herd's Wife. Be ye daaft ? 
 We'd ha' the Danish soldiers, th' archers, and th' 
 whole Danish army here in no time for a-sheltering 
 a traitor like, and a rubbul. I reckon we're honest 
 folk, and loyal servants of the King, and we bain't 
 be going to shelter any gurt rubbul here. I'ze 
 brought up to be loyal ; I'ze warrant I'm a loyal 
 servant till I do die. No rubbuls here. Out ye 
 go, ye scurvy traitor, and that quick, ye knave, 
 or else I'll bring my rolling-pin to ye ! Not that 
 I grudge ye a morsel. There, ye may take one 
 of them burnt cakes with ye, that ye may, and 
 enjoy it, too. And now out with ye, avoor one o' 
 th' neighbours caatch a sight on ye. Out, do ye 
 'ear me ! out ! 
 
 The King (sighing). Very well, we are going. 
 (To himself) Nothing fails like failure, but perhaps 
 a time will come. (He goes out peevishly, biting 
 his nails.) 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XIX 
 
 ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 
 
 Scene. — A room in Rosamund's house, " The Laby- 
 rinth," Woodstock. Discovered : Rosamund 
 (playing a harp) and Margery. It is night. 
 
 Margery. There's a lady wishes to see you, 
 milady. 
 
 Rosamund. A lady ! How can she have found 
 her way through the Labyrinth ? You know that 
 I'm not at home to any visitors. (She throzvs down 
 her harp.) 
 
 Margery. She said she wished to see your 
 ladyship very particular. 
 
 Rosamund. Who is she ? 
 
 Margery. She didn't give any name, but she 
 said that it was something about fortune-telling. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh ! she's the fortune-teller I heard 
 about — the gipsy. 
 
 Margery. She's not that sort, milady. 
 
 Rosamund. Do you mean she's a lady ? 
 
 Margery. She's dressed poor — but 
 
 Rosamund. What ? 
 
 Margery. Well, milady, I thought she had come 
 to beg, what with her poor clothes ; but when I said 
 
 M
 
 i To DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xk 
 
 as you were not at home to visitors, she ordered me 
 about like, so rough, that I saw at once she was a real 
 lady ; and then her shoes are beautiful, I'm sure, 
 the best red velvet. 
 
 Rosamund (pensively). I promised Henry not to 
 see any one— but then once can't matter — and I do 
 so want to have my fortune told. (Abruptly) Show 
 her in. (Exit Margery.) After all, Henry never 
 need know. And I don't see why I should never 
 see a soul. I am becoming quite rusty for want of 
 human society. Besides, Henry promised to let me 
 have my fortune told. 
 
 Enter Margery and Queen Eleanor. Queen 
 Eleanor is a commanding-looking woman, shabbily 
 dressed. Margery withdraws. 
 
 Rosamund (rising shyly). How do you do ? 
 
 Eleanor. Please sit down. I will sit down too. 
 (They both sit down.) You have got a beautiful house. 
 
 Rosamund. Yes, isn't it nice ? Mavis built it. 
 
 Eleanor. Mavis ! Really ? I've always con- 
 sidered him too extravagant for me. 
 
 Rosamund. You ought to come in the day time 
 and see the garden. The roses are beautiful this 
 year. I beg your pardon, but I didn't quite catch 
 your name. 
 
 Eleanor. Never mind about my name. I've 
 come to talk business. How long have you been 
 living here ? 
 
 Rosamund. Let me see, we — I mean I — go
 
 xix ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 171 
 
 in on Lady Day. But aren't you going to tell my 
 fortune ? 
 
 Eleanor. So you do wish your fortune told ? 
 
 Rosamund. Oh yes, please tell it me if you can. 
 
 Eleanor. All in good time. 
 
 Rosamund. But before you do so, you won't be 
 offended, I'm sure, if I ask you how you found your 
 way through the Labyrinth ? 
 
 Eleanor. Fortune-tellers know that kind of 
 thing by instinct. 
 
 Rosamund (greatly interested). Really ? Then 
 you must tell me who is going to be champion 
 at the Winchester Tournament, and whether (she 
 hesitates) 
 
 Eleanor. What ? 
 
 Rosamund. Oh ! Nothing. How do you tell 
 one's fortune ? By looking at the hand or in a 
 crystal ? 
 
 Eleanor. I will look at your hand first. Show 
 it me. No ; the left hand first, please. (Rosamund 
 gives her her left hand.) Yours is a most interesting 
 hand. The Mountain of the Moon is strongly 
 developed. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh ! How interesting ! What 
 does that mean ? 
 
 Eleanor. It means that you have a warm, 
 affectionate nature. 
 
 Rosamund. That's true. 
 
 Eleanor. You had several illnesses when you 
 were a child.
 
 1 72 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xk 
 
 Rosamund. Yes ; I had whooping-cough when 
 I was four, measles when I was seven, and scarlatina 
 when I was nine. 
 
 Eleanor. Exactly. You have more intuition 
 than judgment ; your first instincts are true, but 
 you are inclined to let them be overruled by your 
 second thoughts. 
 
 Rosamund. That's perfectly true. 
 
 Eleanor. You are very generous, but inclined 
 to be extravagant in dress. You are fond of 
 luxury, devoted to flowers, and you like soft stuffs. 
 You are fond of music, but you have more taste 
 than actual skill. You are quick-tempered, but 
 not resentful ; you are gentle, modest, and unassum- 
 ing, but inclined to be obstinate, if you are driven 
 beyond a certain point. 
 
 Rosamund. It's too wonderful ! 
 
 Eleanor. The Mountain of Jupiter is highly 
 developed ; Saturn fair, and Mercury almost im- 
 perceptible. That means you are ambitious but 
 easy-going, rather lazy, and most careless about 
 money matters. 
 
 Rosamund. It's like second sight. 
 
 Eleanor. You have had one great love affair in 
 your life. (She pauses.) 
 
 Rosamund. Do go on. 
 
 Eleanor. The man you love is tall ; he has 
 red hair, almost the colour of a ruby, and a violent 
 temper. He is impulsive, and often does things on
 
 xix ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 173 
 
 the spur of the moment which he regrets bitterly 
 afterwards. 
 
 Rosamund. Yes, yes. 
 
 Eleanor. He is a powerful man. He holds a 
 position of great importance in the State. 
 
 Rosamund. And will he love me for ever and 
 ever ? 
 
 Eleanor. You have a double line of life, and it 
 is marked with a star. 
 
 Rosamund. What does that mean ? 
 
 Eleanor. It means that the man you love is 
 threatened with a great disaster. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh ! How dreadful ! Is there no 
 means by which it can be averted ? 
 
 Eleanor. There is one way. 
 
 Rosamund. What is it ? Tell me quickly. 
 
 Eleanor (solemnly). By an act of willing self- 
 sacrifice on your part. That is to say, by your death 
 — self-inflicted, of course. If you give up your life 
 you will save your lover's. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh ! 
 
 Eleanor. And you will go down to posterity as 
 a devoted woman — a heroine. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh ! 
 
 Eleanor. But unless you perform this act of 
 self-sacrifice at once, it will be too late. The danger 
 is imminent. 
 
 Rosamund. What kind of danger is it ? 
 
 Eleanor. On that point the stars are reticent.
 
 174 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xk 
 
 Rosamund. But tell me more about the — 
 about him. 
 
 Eleanor. About whom ? 
 
 Rosamund. The man with ruby hair. Is he 
 married ? 
 
 Eleanor. Yes, and hence the trouble. He is 
 married to a high-born, noble, unselfish, generous, 
 gifted, and beautiful woman — a paragon. But I 
 am sorry to say, he has for a brief moment proved 
 faithless to her in thought — it is only a temporary 
 whim, of course ; but even a passing infidelity — 
 even though it be only an infidelity in thought — 
 is at once visited with a just retribution. It is because 
 of the infidelity that he is now meditating, that the 
 vengeance of the stars pursues him, and that danger 
 threatens. 
 
 Rosamund. It's not true ! His wife is horrible, 
 She has driven him away by her cold, callous 
 conduct. She's a scold. She bullies him. She 
 nags at him from morning till night. Besides 
 which she's very, very ugly, and dresses like a 
 scarecrow. 
 
 Eleanor. How dare you talk like that to me ! 
 On your knees, wretched minx ! 
 
 Rosamund. I don't believe you're a fortune- 
 teller at all. I don't believe you know anything 
 about it. 
 
 Eleanor. You are right. I am no fortune- 
 teller. I am the Queen. My name is Eleanor.
 
 xk ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 175 
 
 Rosamund. Oh dear ! You've no business to 
 come here. This is my house. 
 
 Eleanor. Your house, indeed ! However, I 
 have not come here to waste my time. I have 
 come, as I said before, on business. Here is a 
 dagger, and here in this vial is an effective but entirely 
 painless poison. I give you two minutes to choose 
 which way you will take it. 
 
 [She places the vial and the dagger on a small 
 table. 
 
 Rosamund (crying). Oh ! Go ! You frighten 
 me. 
 
 Eleanor. Now, do you hear what I say ? 
 Two minutes. 
 
 Rosamund (kneeling and sobbing). I can't. Oh, 
 please spare me ! I will do anything ; I will go 
 away — anywhere — to a nunnery ; but please spare 
 me. 
 
 Eleanor (with tragic grimness). One minute and 
 a half. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh, I'm so young ! I'm sure I 
 never meant any harm. Spare my life. Have 
 mercy ! 
 
 Eleanor. One minute. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh, you are cruel. I'm so young. 
 Think what it is to be young. 
 
 Eleanor. The time has elapsed. Now, which 
 is it to be ? 
 
 Rosamund (rising and drying her eyes). After 
 all, why should I ? (She takes the dagger and the
 
 176 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xk 
 
 vial and throws them on to the floor.) I won't take 
 either. So there ! You can do your worst. (She 
 calls) Here, Margery ! Rosalie ! Topaz ! Anselm ! 
 Richard ! Thomas ! Quick ! Help ! Murder ! 
 (Margery and a bevy of servants rush into the room 
 with torches and staves.) This fortune-teller has 
 insulted me ! Turn her out of the house at once ! 
 
 Eleanor. How dare you ! I'm the 
 
 Rosamund. Quick ! Quick ! Turn her out. 
 She's tried to poison me ! If you don't turn her out 
 at once I'll tell the King 
 
 [The servants turn out Queen Eleanor, who 
 struggles violently. 
 
 Rosamund. Mind, Margery, if there should be 
 any other visitors, I'm not at home. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XX 
 ARIADNE IN NAXOS 
 
 Scene. — A room in Ariadne's house at Naxos. 
 Discovered : Ariadne and (Enone, her 
 attendant. 
 
 Ariadne. When Theseus comes, show him in 
 here directly. I am expecting Dionysus in half an 
 hour. If he comes sooner, which he probably will 
 do, don't announce him, but show him into the 
 dining-room, and then come in here and make up 
 the fire so that I may know he's there. You quite 
 understand ? 
 
 (Enone. Yes, perfectly. 
 
 Ariadne. There is Theseus walking up the 
 drive. Go and let him in quickly. 
 
 [CEnone goes out. 
 [Ariadne arranges herself by a spinning-wheel, 
 near a fire where myrtle-twigs are burning, in 
 an attitude of simple, brave, and unaffected 
 dejection. She rubs her eyes with a silken 
 scarf to make them appear red. 
 
 Enter Theseus 
 
 Ariadne (smiling bravely). It's wonderful of 
 you to be so punctual.
 
 178 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 
 
 Theseus. Yes, I 
 
 Ariadne. Sit down here. Or do you mind 
 the fire ? 
 
 Theseus. No, I assure you. 
 
 Ariadne. Are you quite sure you don't mind 
 the fire ? 
 
 Theseus. I like it, really. 
 
 Ariadne. Perhaps you would like a screen ? 
 
 Theseus. No, I promise you. 
 
 [Ariadne rings a small silver hand-bell. 
 
 No, please don't ring. 
 
 Enter (Enone 
 
 Ariadne. You may just as well have the 
 screen. It's there. (Enone, will you please bring a 
 screen for the Duke ? The fire's so hot. 
 
 [(Enone goes out. 
 
 Ariadne. Would you like a little wine ? 
 
 Theseus. No, thank you, really ; I never drink 
 wine in the morning. 
 
 Ariadne. There's some in the next room, if 
 you would like to have some. 
 
 Enter (Enone, bringing a screen, which she puts in 
 front of Theseus 
 
 Theseus. Oh, thank you so much ! 
 
 [(Enone goes out. 
 Ariadne. Is that right for you ? 
 Theseus. That's perfect ! (With nervous 
 decision) I've come to tell you that I'm so sorry I
 
 xx ARIADNE IN NAXOS 179 
 
 was rude yesterday, and that of course I didn't 
 mean 
 
 Ariadne. When you get to Athens I want 
 you to do something for me. Do you think you 
 will have time ? Do you think you could possibly 
 remember it ? It would be too heroic of you if you 
 would. 
 
 Theseus. Of course I would ; but 
 
 Ariadne. It's the most tiresome commission 
 ... I want you to send me two pounds of Hymet- 
 tus honey. 
 
 Theseus. But I really wasn't thinking of 
 
 Ariadne. Will you have it sent by the next 
 messenger, care of the King, to Crete, and then I 
 shan't have to pay the duty ? 
 
 Theseus. But really, Ariadne 
 
 Ariadne. And you won't forget to give your 
 father a hundred messages from me, will you ? I 
 hope they've packed the Minotaur's head properly. 
 It would be a terrible tragedy if the horns were 
 broken. 
 
 Theseus. I haven't had anything packed yet. 
 I really 
 
 Ariadne. CEnone will help to pack for you. She's 
 a wonderful packer. (She rings the bell.) She packs 
 like an angel. 
 
 Theseus. But my slave can do it ; besides, I 
 
 really want 
 
 Enter CEnone
 
 180 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 
 
 Ariadne. Oh, OEnone, I want you to go round 
 to the Duke's house later — when the doctor comes 
 — and help to pack the Duke's things ; and at the 
 same time you might see that the slaves pack the 
 Minotaur's head properly. 
 
 CEnone. Yes. [She goes out. 
 
 Theseus. Ariadne, I must really tell you 
 
 Ariadne. Let me think : you will get to Athens 
 the day after to-morrow. You won't forget to let 
 me hear what kind of a crossing you have. And you 
 must take warm enough things with you. It's always 
 quite bitter on board that ship. But of course you're 
 a good sailor, aren't you ? 
 
 Theseus. I don't mind a long voyage, but 
 sometimes just crossing the isthmus upsets me. 
 
 Ariadne. I have got some wonderful stuff 
 iEsculapius gave me. It's quite harmless. You 
 take one dose two hours before starting and one 
 dose when you get on board ; then you lie down ; 
 but you must eat nothing. It's wonderful. It's 
 called Asphodol. I like the name so much, don't 
 you ? You had better have the Minotaur registered 
 straight through to the Piraeus. Then you won't 
 have any bother at the other ports with the Customs. 
 If you do have any tiresome bother, you can use 
 my father's name ; I will give you the passport he 
 had made out for us. I have scratched my name 
 out, but that will not matter. I have always found 
 them very civil in Greece. They let me bring in 
 bushels of silk from Tyre. You must give my love
 
 xx ARIADNE IN NAXOS 181 
 
 to Hippolyta, if you see her. She's not been well 
 lately. 
 
 Theseus. Really ? 
 
 Ariadne. No, poor darling ! I've been rather 
 worried and anxious about her. She's been having 
 that horrible neuritis again. I had a letter yesterday 
 from Athens, saying that she had lost her buoyancy 
 and had had to give up riding altogether ! Isn't it 
 too terrible ? She was such an inspired rider, wasn't 
 she, with those hands and that unerring judgment ? 
 I can't imagine anything more ironical and more 
 tragic ; and they say she's so brave about it. She 
 would be, of course. Don't you think people like 
 that always surprise one by being a little better than 
 their best in an emergency ? 
 
 Theseus. Yes. 
 
 Ariadne. Don't you think Hippolyta is the 
 most straight and true character we have ever 
 known ? 
 
 Theseus {uncomfortable). Yes, yes 
 
 Ariadne. And almost more beautiful than 
 anybody ? 
 
 Theseus. Yes, she is beautiful. 
 
 Ariadne. I love her straightness of line, and her 
 strong capable hands, and that magic cast in her left 
 eye, which gives a kind of strangeness to her face, 
 doesn't it ? 
 
 Theseus. She is very good-looking. 
 
 Ariadne. But don't you think much more than
 
 1 82 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 
 
 that ? Don't you put her almost higher than any- 
 body for charm ? 
 
 Theseus. I'd never thought about her like that. 
 
 Ariadne. And then isn't she quite unlike any 
 one else ? Doesn't one feel absolutely certain with 
 her, like one does with a perfect chariot-driver ? 
 
 Theseus. Yes, she has a very fine character. 
 
 Ariadne. Almost more than fine, isn't it ? 
 Something rare ? 
 
 Theseus. But, Ariadne, I really must 
 
 Ariadne. You needn't go yet. You've lots of 
 time to pack. (Enone will help with the packing. 
 You don't sail till sunset, do you ? Because of the 
 tide. I hope you've got the right pilot. The old 
 man with one eye. He's too charming. He's my 
 greatest friend. 
 
 Theseus. Ariadne 
 
 Ariadne. I shall watch you from the hill. I 
 shan't come down to the quay because of the crowd 
 — you might wave from the ship. You will be 
 able to see me. I shall stand next to the clump of 
 cypress-trees and watch the ship till she's out of 
 sight. There's a new moon to-night, just as there 
 was the first night you arrived at Crete. Do you 
 remember how papa bored you by talking about 
 astrology ? And you were so angelically kind to 
 him and patient. You bore it so well. It was like 
 you. I don't think you know how devoted papa is 
 to you, and how much he will miss you. 
 
 Theseus. Ariadne — please
 
 xx ARIADNE IN NAXOS 183 
 
 Ariadne. You won't forget to write and say 
 whether the Minotaur arrives safely, will you ? 
 Because papa will simply be longing to know, and 
 he'd be miserable if anything went wrong. 
 
 Theseus {getting up and knocking down the 
 screen in his agitation). Ariadne, I simply can't 
 bear this any longer. I must speak. You must and 
 shall hear me. The whole thing's a mistake — a 
 nightmare. I swear I didn't mean a thing yesterday. 
 It was too stupid of me to — to say — I mean I didn't 
 mean — I mean I lost my temper — just like any one. 
 Of course I didn't mean, really. 
 
 Enter QEnone. She brings in a large bundle of fire- 
 zvood, which she throws on to the hearth 
 
 Ariadne (getting up). I'm afraid you oughtn't 
 to stay another minute now, or else you will miss 
 the ship — CEnone will go with you and help you to 
 pack. Good-bye, Theseus. It's been too perfect, 
 hasn't it ? I have loved it all so. You won't forget 
 the honey, will you ? Two pounds. Now you'll 
 really have to run — and I have got the doctor coming 
 in one second. Good-bye, Theseus, and my best 
 love to your father and to dear Hippolyta if you see 
 her. CEnone, please go with the Duke. 
 
 [Ariadne shakes hands with Theseus. 
 
 Theseus. But, really 
 
 Ariadne. I'm afraid I must fly. I hope you'll 
 have a perfect crossing.
 
 1 84 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xx 
 
 Theseus {hopelessly). Good-bye, Ariadne 
 
 [He goes out very sadly with (Enone L. As 
 soon as they are gone, Ariadne gently opens a 
 door R. and calls : Dionysus ! 
 Enter Dionysus 
 
 Dionysus. Has he gone ? 
 
 Ariadne. Yes, at last, I think. Haven't I 
 managed it too beautifully ? He was longing not to 
 go away at all. 
 
 Dionysus. When does he sail ? 
 
 Ariadne. At sunset. Sit down. We've got 
 millions of things to say, haven't we ? Do you mind 
 the fire ? There's the screen there on the floor — 
 if you do 
 
 Dionysus. No, I love it. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XXI 
 
 VELASQUEZ AND THE " VENUS " 
 
 Scene. — Velasquez's studio. Dona Sol, a beauti- 
 ful dark-haired lady, elaborately dressed in stiff 
 farthingale, is sitting for her portrait. Velas- 
 quez is standing in front of an easel, vehemently 
 throwing paint on to the canvas with a large, 
 long brush. In the corner of the studio is an 
 open virginal. 
 
 Velasquez. Are you getting tired ? 
 
 Dona Sol. No, I never get tired of sitting ; I'm 
 so used to standing up at Court. 
 
 Velasquez. Would you mind turning your head 
 a shade to the left ? Yes, that's right. 
 
 Dona Sol. You will be careful about the nose, 
 won't you ? 
 
 Velasquez. Ah ! you've a very wonderful nose 
 from the painter's point of view. 
 
 Dona Sol. They always exaggerate my nose — 
 and I do so hate exaggeration, don't you ? 
 
 Velasquez {absently). Yes. 
 
 Dona Sol. Shall I be able to see the picture 
 to-day ? 
 
 Velasquez. I think so. It's practically finished 
 
 N
 
 1 86 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 
 
 now. I have only got to finish that piece of lace on 
 your left wrist. 
 
 Dona Sol. Shan't you want another sitting ? 
 
 Velasquez. No — I 
 
 Dona Sol. But Dona Anna had a dozen 
 sittings. 
 
 Velasquez. But she's fair — I find fair people 
 more difficult to paint. 
 
 Dona Sol. I can't see what there was to paint 
 in her at all. She's all bones. 
 
 Velasquez. That's just it. I can't get that 
 lace right. Do you mind if I play a tune on the 
 virginal ? 
 
 Dona Sol. No ; please do. 
 [Velasquez goes to the virginal and plays a wild, 
 rhythmic dance. 
 
 Dona Sol. Is that Moorish ? 
 
 Velasquez. No. English. Quaint, isn't it ? 
 It's what they call a Morris-dance. Isn't it 
 charming ? 
 
 Dona Sol. Yes. I love English music. It's 
 so uncivilised and fresh. 
 
 Velasquez. Yes, they are a wonderfully 
 musical people. (He breaks off in the middle oj tune.) 
 I 've got it. (He runs to the canvas and flings a piece 
 of white paint on to it.) Ah, that's it. It's 
 finished. 
 
 Dona Sol. What, the whole picture ? 
 
 Velasquez (with a sigh oj relief). Yes, the 
 whole picture.
 
 xxi VELASQUEZ & THE " VENUS " 187 
 
 Dona Sol. May I look ? 
 
 Velasquez. Certainly. 
 
 [Dona Sol gets down from the platform and 
 walks to the easel. 
 
 Dona Sol. It's wonderful, Velasquez ; quite 
 wonderful. I like it enormously. You haven't 
 quite finished the hands yet, have you ? 
 
 Velasquez. Yes, I think the hands will do 
 like that. You don't quite get the light where 
 you're standing. If you came here you'll see 
 better. 
 
 Dona Sol {moving). I think it's wonderful. 
 Only I should like the hands to be a little more dis- 
 tinct. The dress is beautiful, and so is the necklace. 
 But you've made my blue ribbon look green. 
 
 Velasquez. That's the sun on it. 
 
 Dona Sol. But it isn't green. It's blue. 
 Look at it. No amount of sun will make this blue 
 into green. 
 
 Velasquez. You see, the sun was full on it 
 yesterday. 
 
 Dona Sol. I think it's all perfect, except the 
 nose. My nose is tip- tilted, and you've given me a 
 nose like a potato. You must alter that. I know my 
 nose is difficult. 
 
 Velasquez (slightly darkening a shadow on the face). 
 Is that better ? 
 
 Dona Sol. Yes, that's better. But it's still a 
 little too heavy. You see, my nose is my best feature. 
 I don't mind what you do to my hair and my mouth.
 
 188 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 
 
 I don't want to criticise. I never do criticise my 
 own portraits. In fact, I think it's quite absurd for 
 the sitter to criticise a picture. But I do think I'm 
 a rather good judge of noses. Couldn't you make it 
 just a shade more delicate ? 
 
 Velasquez {giving the nose a touch with the 
 brush). Is that better ? 
 
 Dona Sol. Yes, that's better. I think that 
 really is better. (A pause.) Don't you think you 
 could make the eyebrows a little darker ? You've 
 made them so faint. And then I think the hair 
 ought to be a little brighter, and the expression a 
 shade less severe. I don't think you've quite got 
 my smile. I look cross . Of course I suppose I look 
 like that sometimes — when everything goes wrong. 
 Every one does look cross sometimes — but that's not 
 what I usually look like. 
 
 Velasquez (making a jew imperceptible alterations). 
 Is that better ? 
 
 Dona Sol. Yes, that's much better. I think 
 it's perfect. May I look at some of the other 
 pictures ? 
 
 [She walks round the studio till she finds several 
 canvases turned face backwards against a 
 heavy piece of furniture. 
 
 Velasquez. Let me help you. (He turns 
 several pictures round.) 
 
 Dona Sol. Ah, that's the King. It's quite 
 excellent. And that's the dear old Admiral. It's
 
 xxi VELASQUEZ & THE " VENUS " 189 
 
 exactly like him. Oh, and that's Dona Elvira — 
 how like, but how cruel ! — How could you do that ? 
 Didn't she mind dreadfully ? And what a dear 
 little girl ! That's not finished, I suppose ? Oh, 
 and I do love that seapiece. It's a storm, I suppose? 
 
 Velasquez. I'm afraid it's meant to be a man 
 riding in a field. It's just a study. 
 
 Dona Sol. Of course it is. How stupid of me. 
 I couldn't see properly. It's wonderful — quite 
 wonderful. And what's that large picture on an 
 easel over there with a curtain over it ? 
 
 Velasquez. Oh, that's nothing. It's only a 
 sketch — it's not finished. 
 
 Dona Sol. Do let me see it. 
 
 Velasquez. I'm afraid I can't, really. 
 
 Dona Sol. But I insist on seeing it. I've 
 been such a good sitter. Now I'm going to pull the 
 curtain off. 
 
 Velasquez. It's not my picture at all. It's 
 not by me. It's by one of my pupils. It's by 
 Mazo. 
 
 Dona Sol. Then of course I can see it. (She 
 pulls away the curtain, revealing a picture of Venus 
 looking into a glass.) Oh, but that's my head ! How 
 dared you do such a thing ? No wonder you didn't 
 want me to see it. Oh, how could you do such a 
 thing ? 
 
 Velasquez. But I assure you you're mistaken. 
 In the first place, I never painted the picture. I 
 never touched it. It's Mazo's work. And he did
 
 190 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 
 
 it out of his head. At least, he did it from a 
 model. It's meant to be Eros and Psyche or 
 Venus, I've forgotten which. 
 
 Dona Sol. How could you put my head on 
 such a hideous body ? I call it mean, odious, and 
 cowardly, and quite unpardonable. I shall burn 
 my picture. 
 
 Velasquez. But, my dear lady, do listen to me 
 for one moment. The picture's not my work. I 
 flatter myself really that I can draw a little better 
 than that. That's mere apprentice work. Just 
 compare it with my pictures. I never use those hot 
 reds and those dull, lifeless greys. Just compare it 
 with the other pictures. 
 
 Dona Sol (crying). How can I compare it with 
 the others ? You've never dared paint any one else 
 like that. 
 
 Velasquez. And then the face in the glass is 
 no more your face than it is mine. It's not the least 
 like you. It's a model's face. Mazo may have got 
 a hint, a suggestion, quite unconsciously from seeing 
 my picture, but nothing more. He's never set eyes 
 on you. 
 
 Dona Sol. I don't believe it's by Mazo. I 
 believe it's by you — or else you wouldn't have been 
 so anxious for me not to see it. 
 
 Velasquez. Well, I promise you that Mazo 
 painted that picture from a model — a flower girl. 
 I saw him do it. But to satisfy you, he shall get 
 another model and paint in a different face.
 
 xxi VELASQUEZ & THE " VENUS " 191 
 
 Dona Sol. That's the least you can do. 
 
 Velasquez. It shall be done to-day. Mazo's 
 coming here this morning. 
 
 Dona Sol. Will you promise me that the face 
 will be quite, quite different. 
 
 Velasquez. On my word of honour as a 
 Spaniard and as a painter. 
 
 Dona Sol (drying her eyes). Very well, I will 
 forgive you — on one condition. 
 
 Velasquez. What is it ? 
 
 Dona Sol. That you will change the nose in my 
 picture and make it less like a potato. 
 
 Velasquez. Of course I will. 
 
 Dona Sol. Very well then. Good-bye. I shall 
 come back to-morrow morning and see — but, oh i 
 what a shame ! 
 
 [Velasquez makes a low bow and leads her out. 
 He comes back and, opening a door into a room 
 adjoining the studio, he calls : Mazo ! 
 
 Enter Mazo 
 
 Velasquez. The " Venus " is by you. Do you 
 hear me ? You painted it. And you must change 
 the face. 
 
 Mazo. I don't understand — change it in what 
 way ? 
 
 Velasquez. You must change it altogether. 
 Paint in any face you like. And you must say you
 
 i 9 2 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxi 
 
 painted the whole picture. Do it at once, and put 
 your signature somewhere in the picture too. 
 
 Mazo. But, master, it's one of your greatest 
 triumphs. 
 
 Velasquez. I know that as well as you do — 
 nevertheless, that picture must go to the King and 
 be known to all the world as a Mazo, and not as a 
 Velasquez. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 XXII 
 XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 
 
 Scene. — A room in Socrates' house. Xantippe is 
 seated at table, on which an unappetising meal, 
 consisting of figs, parsley, and some hashed goat's 
 meat, is spread. 
 
 Enter Socrates 
 
 Xantippe. You're twenty minutes late. 
 
 Socrates. I'm sorry, I was kept 
 
 Xantippe. Wasting your time as usual, I 
 suppose, and bothering people with questions who 
 have got something better to do than to listen to 
 you. You can't think what a mistake you make by 
 going on like that. You can't think how much 
 people dislike it. If people enjoyed it, or admired 
 it, I could understand the waste of time — but they 
 don't. It only makes them angry. Everybody's 
 saying so. 
 
 Socrates. Who's everybody ? 
 
 Xantippe. There you are with your questions 
 again. Please don't try to catch me out with those 
 kind of tricks. I'm not a philosopher. I'm not a 
 sophist. I know I'm not clever — I'm only a 
 woman. But I do know the difference between 
 right and wrong and black and white, and I don't
 
 194 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxn 
 
 think it's very kind of you, or very generous either, 
 to be always pointing out my ignorance, and 
 perpetually making me the butt of your sarcasm. 
 
 Socrates. But I never said a word. 
 
 Xantippe. Oh, please, don't try and wriggle 
 out of it. We all know you're very good at that. 
 I do hate that shuffling so. It's so cowardly. I do 
 like a man one can trust — and depend on — who when 
 he says Yes means Yes, and when he says No means 
 No. ' 
 
 Socrates. I'm sorry I spoke. 
 
 Xantippe. I suppose that's what's called irony. 
 I've no doubt it's very clever, but I'm afraid it's 
 wasted on me. I should keep those remarks for the 
 market-place and the gymnasia and the workshops. 
 I've no doubt they'd be highly appreciated there by 
 that clique of young men who do nothing but 
 admire each other. I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned. 
 I was brought up to think a man should treat his 
 wife with decent civility, and try, even if he did 
 think her stupid, not to be always showing it. 
 
 Socrates. Have I by a word or hint ever sug- 
 gested that you were stupid ? 
 
 Xantippe. Oh, of course not — never. How- 
 ever, we won't discuss that. We will change the 
 subject, if you don't mind. 
 
 Socrates. But really 
 
 Xantippe {ignoring the interruption). Please 
 give me your plate. I will help you to the goat. 
 
 Socrates. None for me, thank you, to-day.
 
 xxn XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 195 
 
 Xantippe. Why not ? I suppose it's not 
 good enough. I'm afraid I can't provide the food 
 you get at your grand friends' houses, but I do think 
 it's rather cruel of you to sneer at my poor humble 
 efforts. 
 
 Socrates. I promise you, Xantippe, nothing 
 was farther from my thoughts. I'm not hungry. 
 I've really got no appetite for meat to-day. I'll 
 have some figs, if you don't mind. 
 
 Xantippe. I suppose that's a new fad, not to eat 
 meat. I assure you people talk quite enough about 
 you as it is without your making yourself more 
 peculiar. Only yesterday Chrysilla was talking 
 about your clothes. She asked if you made them 
 dirty on purpose. She said the spots on the back 
 couldn't have got there by accident. Every one 
 notices it — every one says the same thing. Of 
 course they think it's my fault. No doubt it's very 
 amusing for people who don't mind attracting 
 attention and who like being notorious ; but it is 
 rather hard on me. And when I hear people saying 
 " Poor Socrates ! it is such a shame that his wife 
 looks after him so badly and doesn't even mend his 
 sandals " — I admit I do feel rather hurt. However, 
 that would never enter into your head. A phil- 
 osopher hasn't time to think of other people. I 
 suppose unselfishness doesn't form part of a sophist's 
 training, does it ? 
 
 [Socrates says nothing, but eats first one fig and 
 then another.
 
 196 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxn 
 
 Xantippe. I think you might at least answer 
 when you're spoken to. I am far from expecting 
 you to treat me with consideration or respect ; but 
 I do expect ordinary civility. 
 
 [Socrates goes on eating figs in silence. 
 
 Xantippe. Oh, I see, you're going to sulk. First 
 you browbeat, then you're satirical. Then you 
 sneer at the food, and then you sulk. 
 
 Socrates. I never said a word against the food. 
 
 Xantippe. You never said a word against the 
 food. You only kept me waiting nearly half an 
 hour for dinner — not that that was anything new 
 — I'm sure I ought to be used to that by now — and 
 you only refused to look at the dish which I had 
 taken pains to cook with my own hands for you. 
 
 Socrates. All I said was I wasn't hungry — that 
 I had no appetite for meat. 
 
 Xantippe. You've eaten all the figs. You've 
 got quite an appetite for those. 
 
 Socrates. That's different. 
 
 Xantippe. Oh, that's different, is it ? One 
 can be hungry enough to eat all the fruit there is in 
 the house, which I was especially keeping for this 
 evening, but not hungry enough to touch a piece of 
 meat. I suppose that's algebra. 
 
 Socrates. You know I very rarely eat meat. 
 
 Xantippe. Really ? I hadn't noticed it. I 
 always hear of your eating meat in other people's 
 houses ; but my poor cooking is not good enough 
 for you. I'm sorry, but I can't afford those spicy,
 
 xxn XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 197 
 
 messy dishes. If I had a husband who had a real 
 profession, and worked, and did something useful to 
 earn his living and support his house and home, it 
 would be different ; only I think the least you could 
 do is not to sneer at one when one is only trying to 
 do one's best. 
 
 Socrates. I very rarely eat meat anywhere 
 now. 
 
 Xantippe. That's why you're looking so ill. 
 All the doctors say it's a mistake. Some people can 
 do without meat. They don't need it — but a man 
 who works with his brain like you do ought to eat 
 nourishing food. You ought to force yourself to 
 eat meat, even if you don't feel inclined to. 
 
 Socrates. I thought you said just now that I did 
 nothing. 
 
 Xantippe. There you are, cross-examining 
 me like a lawyer, and tripping me up. I've no 
 doubt it's very amusing for a professional philosopher 
 to catch out a poor ignorant woman like me. It's a 
 pity your audience isn't here. They would enjoy 
 it. However, I'm afraid I'm not impressed. You 
 can twist my words into anything you like. You 
 can prove I meant black when I said white, but you 
 know perfectly well what I mean. You know as 
 well as I do that your eccentricity has made you 
 thoroughly unpopular. And what I say is, it's just 
 these little things that matter. Now do put all that 
 nonsense away and have some goat. 
 
 Socrates. No, thank you. I really can't.
 
 198 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxn 
 
 Xantippe. It's excellent goat, and there's some 
 garlic in the sauce. I hate garlic, and it's there on 
 purpose for you 
 
 Socrates. Oh ! 
 
 Xantippe. Give me your plate. 
 
 Socrates. I'd really rather not. 
 
 Xantippe. It would do you all the good in the 
 world. 
 
 Socrates. But I've had quite enough. I've 
 finished. 
 
 Xantippe. I suppose you had dinner before 
 you came here, or you're going to have dinner 
 somewhere else presently. 
 
 Socrates. I haven't touched food since I left 
 the house. 
 
 Xantippe. Then it's quite ridiculous your not 
 eating. Let me give you some goat at once. 
 
 Socrates. I couldn't, really. Besides, I must 
 go in a minute. 
 
 Xantippe. There ! I knew it ! You're going 
 out to dinner. 
 
 Socrates. You are mistaken, Xantippe. 
 
 Xantippe. You'd far better tell me the truth 
 at once. I'm quite certain to find it out sooner or 
 later. You can't think how foolish it is to tell lies 
 and then be found out afterwards. You can't think 
 how much a woman despises a man for that — you 
 couldn't do anything more foolish. 
 
 Socrates. I promise you by all the gods that 
 I'm not going to dine elsewhere.
 
 xxn XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 199 
 
 Xantippe. I suppose you don't expect me to 
 fall into that trap ! Swearing by all the gods, 
 when every one in Athens knows you are a professed 
 atheist — when you do nothing but mock the gods 
 from morning till night — and, what's far worse, 
 make other people mock them too ; when I scarcely 
 like to have a slave in the house because of your 
 impiety — and your blasphemy. 
 
 Socrates. I really think you are rather unfair, 
 Xantippe. You will be sorry for this some day. 
 
 Xantippe. Then may I ask where you are 
 going ? 
 
 Socrates. I've got an important engagement. 
 
 Xantippe. And with whom ? 
 
 Socrates. I would rather not say, for your sake. 
 
 Xantippe. That's very clever and ingenious 
 to put it on me. But I'm tired of being bullied. 
 Even a worm will turn, and I demand to be treated 
 just for once like a human being, and with the 
 minimum of courtesy and frankness. I don't ask 
 for your confidence, I know that would be useless. 
 But I do ask to be treated with a grain of straight- 
 forwardness and honesty. I insist upon it. I have 
 borne your sneers, your sarcasm, and your sulkiness, 
 your irritability, your withering silence, quite long 
 enough. I will not put up with it any longer. 
 
 Socrates. Very well. Since you will have it, 
 I have been impeached by Lycon, Meletus, and 
 Anytus on some ridiculous charge, the result of 
 which, however, may be extremely serious — in fact'
 
 200 DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS xxn 
 
 it may be a matter of life or death — and I am 
 obliged to appear before them at once. 
 
 Xantippe. Oh dear, oh dear ! I always said so. 
 I knew it would come to this ! This is what comes 
 of not eating meat like a decent citizen ! 
 
 [Xantippe bursts into tears. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
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