DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 The Literary Man's Bible 
 
 The Feminine Note in Fiction 
 
 The Idea of Tragedy 
 
 The Development of Maurice Maeterlinck 
 
 The Metaphysics of J. S. Mill 
 
 Constriutive Ethics 
 
 Studies New and Old 
 
 Studies at Leisure 
 
DRAMAS 
 
 AND 
 
 DIVERSIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 W. L. COURTNEY 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, Ltd. 
 
 1908 
 
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, 
 
 bread street hill, e.c., and 
 
 bungay, suffolk. 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bridals of Blood . . . . . . . i 
 
 Kit Marlowe's Death ...... 99 
 
 Gaston Bonnier: or, Time's Revenges . .127 
 
 Undine . . . . . . . . '175 
 
 Father Time and his Children . . . .239 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia ...... 249 
 
 On the Side of the Angels . . . . .275 
 
 357780 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/dramasdiversionsOOcourrich 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 
 

 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 ING Charles IX., King of France. 
 
 Henry, King of Navarre and Bearn (betrothed to Margaret), 
 
 a Huguenot. 
 
 Henry of Anjou, | j^_.^^j^^^^ ^^ ^. (,^^^j^^_ 
 
 Francis of ALEN90N, j ° 
 
 Henry of Guise, enamoured of Margaret. 
 
 Cardinal of Lorraine, Guise's Uncle. 
 
 Admiral Coligni, Huguenot General. 
 
 Rioux, Henry of Navarre's Aide-de-camp. 
 
 PoLTROT, Captain of the Guard — an assassin. 
 
 Ruggieri, Queen Catherine's confidant — a magician. 
 
 Marshal Tavannes, "^ . , /-. ^1 r a 
 
 , , ^ T^ ' y in the Catholic Army. 
 
 Marshal Gondi-Retz, J ^ 
 
 Prince Conde, ^ tt ^ /-u- r 
 
 Count Teugni, | ^''^S Huguenot Chiefs. 
 
 Catherine De Medici, the Queen-Mother. 
 
 FRAN901SE, Marquise De Fontanges, Lady-in-Waiting to 
 
 Margaret. 
 Margaret of Valois, sister to King Charles, betrothed to 
 
 Navarre. 
 A Chancellor, a Herald, Chamberlains, Gentlemen, and 
 
 Ladies-in- Waiting, Guards, and Pages. 
 
 In the Louvre, in Paris. August 1572. 
 
 *^* This play is founded on Ludwig Fulda's Die Bluthochzeit. For 
 most of the perversions of history the original author is responsible. 
 
SrNOPSIS OF SCENERr 
 ACT I 
 
 Hall in the Louvre. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene i. — Garden of the Louvre. 
 Scene 2. — Catherine's Room. 
 
 ACT III 
 State-Room in the Louvre. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene i . — In the Queen's Room. 
 
 Scene 2. — Ante-Chamber to Queen's Room. 
 
 Scene 3. — Turret-Chamber of Henry of Navarre. 
 
 T^e action of the piece occupies a feiv days at the end of the month 
 of August 1572. 
 
 The third Act is in the evening of August 2 'J^rd (St. Bartholomew^ 
 Day), and early hours of Sunday, August z^h (St. Bartholomew's 
 Day), 
 
 *^* The acting rights of this play are in the hands of Mr. H. B. 
 Irving and Mr. Laurence Irving, to whom they vrere bequeathed by Sir 
 Henry Irving. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — A Reception Hall in the Louvre, Alen^on and Act I 
 Anjou. ALEN90N is the curled^ empty-headed fop^ 
 Anjou is the soldier. 
 
 ALEN90N 
 [^Entering one door^ while Anjou enters from another^ Well, 
 is he coming ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Who ? The Huguenot ? 
 Ay, he is here. To-day he makes his entry. 
 Clad like a conqueror, to woo his bride, 
 And celebrate this cursed peace-making 
 'Twixc Catholic and heretic. 
 
 ALEN90N 
 
 'Tis strange, 
 I know not what it means. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Nor I, young brother. 
 Why comes be here, this Henry of Navarre, 
 Within our courts and in our merry Paris, 
 Bringing his sullen face of Huguenot 
 To mar our festivals ? I like it not ! 
 
 ALEN90N 
 'Tis the Queen's policy 
 
4 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I ANJOU 
 
 Oh, ay, the Queen's ! 
 The crafty Catherine gives our sister's hand 
 To this young hypocrite of Gascony, 
 And signs a lasting peace. I know not why 
 My sister Margaret should change her faith 
 And welcome to the Louvre our country's foes 
 To please the passing fancy of our mother. 
 
 ALEN90N 
 Nor I, in sooth. Why may not Margaret wed 
 An honest Catholic, the Duke of Guise, 
 Our princely cousin, whom, they say, she loves, 
 And who has loved her long ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 I cannot tell. 
 This policy's too crafty for my wit 
 To compass all its meaning. I can draw 
 A gallant sword to serve my country's cause — 
 I'll fight the Bourbon when and where he wills, 
 Catholic with Huguenot, on any field 
 To which he bids me come, in open war ; 
 But all this smooth-tongued cant of love and peace. 
 This new-formed amity of ancient foes, 
 This marriage with a cursed Protestant — 
 'Fore God, it sickens me ! 
 
 ALEN90N 
 
 I would I knew 
 What the Queen- Mother wills. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Here's Ruggieri ; 
 Mayhap, he'll tell us of those midnight spells 
 He whispers in our mother's private ear. 
 
 Enter RuGGiERi, the Magician, 
 Ruggieri ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 
 
 5 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 My lords ? 
 
 Act I 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Come hither, master, 
 
 
 VV C i<tlil WUUIU KIIUW 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 
 I pray you, pardon me. 
 I am in haste — the Queen desires my presence. 
 
 ALEN90N 
 
 [Stopping him.] Come, come, old Florentine — not quite 
 
 so fast ! 
 You are a potent wizard — as we know 
 Much to our cost — worker of miracles, 
 Italian sorcerer to Her Majesty, 
 And keeper of her secrets, fair and foul ; 
 Grant us a scanty minute of your time 
 To solve a problem which, believe me, sir. 
 Much weighs upon our hearts. 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 What troubles you, 
 My Lord Alengon ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 [Interrupting Alenqon.] Why, master, it stands thus. 
 France has a foe, whom all the sons of France 
 Must needs abhor 3 the Church an enemy 
 Whom every Catholic must hate, perforce. 
 He comes to Paris. In how many ways 
 Can one receive him, graciously and well. 
 With courteous hospitality and love. 
 Such as a foe deserves ? 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 I know not, sire. 
 How I should answer such strange questioning. 
 
6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I ALEN90N 
 
 Nor I, i'faith. 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 I pray you, let me go. [/i going. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 One moment, Ruggieri. There's a man — 
 Alen^on here, my brother, we'll suppose — 
 Who finds himself supplanted in his love 
 By some infernal villain. 
 
 ALEN90N 
 
 And, in sooth, 
 I am not always fortunate in love. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 He fain would rid him of his enemy — 
 
 What is the secret method of despatch 
 
 Taught in the foreign schools ? What tricks of art, 
 
 What subtle vengeance do Italians use 
 
 To end their quarrels and lay low their foes ? 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 My lords, I fear you mock me. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Nay, not so. 
 We know your mastery, we applaud your skill j 
 We fain would learn a lesson for ourselves. 
 Is it not so, Alen9on ? 
 
 ALEN90N 
 
 Ay, God's truth. 
 I love a maid, and much it doth perplex me 
 Why she doth love another. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 
 
 ANJOU Act I 
 
 Hear you that ? 
 Come, Ruggieri, you can help indeed : 
 What is the latest mode of alchemy, 
 Of witchery or poison ? 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 Oh, my lord, 
 If you be serious — nay, I know you are not — 
 Still — as a matter of mere pastime — I 
 Could teach you strange devices, which of late 
 I learnt in Florence. We can make a man 
 Wither in torment o'er the witches' fire. 
 A waxen image of the foe you hate 
 May melt itself away, and he, the while. 
 Be sickening to his death. Or else a letter, 
 A simple letter, may convey his doom. 
 He may be poisoned by a scented flower, 
 A glove — a taper — nay, it matters not 
 How small the implement — there is a way 
 To make it perilous. 
 
 It is a wondrous art. 
 
 ALEN90N 
 Say you so, indeed ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 \Musingly.'\ It is, in truth. 
 
 I thank you, Ruggieri ; fare you well. 
 
 You are a useful friend. Well, brother mine, 
 
 To-day we welcome Henry of Navarre, 
 
 To wed our Princess, Margaret of Valois — 
 
 A Huguenot to wed a Catholic — 
 
 By order of the Queen. 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 The Queen, my lord, 
 Hath doubtless a wise counsel in all this. 
 
8 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I ANJOU 
 
 Ay, and she keeps her counsel to herself, 
 No doubt as wisely. 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 Very true, my lord. 
 I humbly take my leave. [Poltrot crosses the stage.'] 
 
 Poltrot, the Queen 
 Desires your presence. She has work for you. 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 Whate'er her Queenship pleases. 
 
 [Exit RuGGiERi, followea by Poltrot, 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Marked you that ? 
 The Captain of the Guard is wanted too — 
 The paid assassin of our royal mother — 
 With Ruggieri, at this private council. 
 'Tis passing strange. I know not what it means. 
 Well, brother mine, we needs must wait th' event. 
 Come, we will to our duty, and receive 
 This new-found cousin, Henry of Navarre, 
 As the Queen bids. 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 I follow, brother. 
 [Anjou and Alencon exeunt. From R. u. E. 
 enter Margaret of Valois, with the 
 Marquise of Fontanges, her lady-in- 
 waiting. She comes down musingly^ with an 
 abstracted air. 
 
 Fontanges 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 Your Majesty ? 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 9 
 
 MARGARET Act I 
 
 I would I knew ! 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 What troubles you, Princess ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I cannot tell. 
 My royal consort, Henry of Navarre, 
 Calls himself Protestant. What does this mean ? 
 What is the secret difference of soul ' 
 
 Which makes him heretic ? I ought to know, 
 I am his future wife. What is the bar 
 Which keeps his heart from mine ? 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 \Astonhhed^ Alas, dear lady, 
 
 Has no one ever told you 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 All the shame. 
 The base reproach, with such a name can bear 
 For Christian ears ? Oh yes, they've told me that I 
 But do they speak the truth ? I cannot trust 
 The doctrines they instil, I want the truth. 
 The truth, d'ye hear ? and priestly hate hath none. 
 For see how strong must be the faith of those 
 Who give up all they have — their best, their dearest, 
 With willing hearts ! Can such a faith be false ? 
 I fear I am deceived by priestly talk. 
 Did Luther fail ? — the monk who stirred this storm ? 
 And if he failed — was it a fall from grace ? 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 [Looking offl] Your Majesty ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Who comes ? 
 
Act I 
 
 lo DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 The Prince of Guise ! 
 Enter Henry of Guise [hastily], 
 
 GUISE 
 
 What, Margaret ? And is the story true 
 That in the council of the royal mother 
 They wrung to-day a hesitating " yes " 
 From out your lips ? Did you consent at last ? 
 
 [Exit Fontanges. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Looking down.] They pledged my troth to Henry ot 
 
 Navarre 
 Early this morning. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 And your pretty vows, 
 All the sweet bonds which linked your soul with mine, 
 Torn into shreds and blown into thin air ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 My country — 'tis my country ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Country — bah ! 
 The change has other reasons. 'Tis a play, 
 A comedy for patriots, with the Guise 
 To give his blessing, as the curtain falls ! 
 But tell me this — if "country" be the reason. 
 Must France ally herself with heretics ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I hope so, Henry. When I gave my hand, 
 Tearing the memories of an early love 
 From out my heart, and pledged myself away. 
 Ah, then it was no queen who urged her will 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD ii 
 
 On a princess, nor mother on her child, Act I 
 
 But 'twas a nation's voice, the voice of France, 
 
 Which sounded in my ears and made me listen. 
 
 From all the thousand wounds her body bore, 
 
 From all the bleeding scars and desperate rents 
 
 Dealt in these holy wars, my country cried : 
 
 " Take for thy chosen spouse a Huguenot, 
 
 The Huguenot King, and stay this flow of blood. 
 
 Accept the bond which puts an end to hate : 
 
 Give the land peace, e'en tho' the price may be 
 
 The peace of thine own heart." My brother signed 
 
 The treaty of St. Germain r- 
 
 GUISE 
 
 What ! the King, 
 Thy brother Charles ? I warrant in his mind 
 There was more thought of sonnets, ritornels. 
 Of hawks and hounds, and all his other frippery 
 Than of the Calvinists ! A pretty King ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 You ever mock at him — yet well I know 
 That such a peace needs sanction by my hand. 
 I give myself, I make my sacrifice, 
 I wring it from myself with tears. Henry, 
 I pray thee do the same ! As Guise doth stand 
 Next to the King, the highest son of France, 
 Be thou the noblest Frenchman of them all ! 
 Make my task lighter ! Help me to forget ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 {With a sneer.] And Catherine told you that she sought 
 
 the peace 
 With such a purpose ? 
 
 Which made me yield 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 'Twas the only plea 
 
12 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I GUISE 
 
 [With a hitter laugh,'] That I can well believe ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Why do you laugh ? If not for such a purpose 
 What other could she have ? 
 
 GUISE 
 
 [Still Utterly^ I vi^as not there 
 
 To read her inmost soul, but this I knov^ — 
 When she speaks soft, 'tis then w^e dread her most ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Because of France she gives away her child, 
 She gives her willingly, despite her grief, 
 And with as good a heart her child obeys. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Is't so indeed ? Well, then, Queen Catherine 
 
 Has an obedient and submissive child ! 
 
 And Margaret has a mother whom she loves 
 
 Doubtless as much as — France — or as myself ! 
 
 Nay, say no more. A Guise is not so pliant. 
 
 He loves his friend and hates his enemy. 
 
 And cannot change at will his love and hatred 
 
 For a mere whim or stratagem of state ! 
 
 No more, no more — I am not apt at words. 
 
 Farewell, and blame me not ! From head to foot 
 
 I loathe this Bourbon with the hate of hell ! [Exit, 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Strikes hell and calls.] Fontanges ! 
 
 [Flourish of trumpets heard. 
 Hark ! 'Tis the trumpet of the King, my brother. 
 Who gives his escort to Navarre. 
 [Goes to window.] They come. 
 
 [Calls again.] Fontanges ! 
 
 Re-enter Fontanges. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 13 
 
 FONTANGES Act I 
 
 You called me, Princess ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 You saw the Duke ? What is this madness named 
 Which he can feel so keenly ? 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 If not love, 
 What else ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I know not. Will he always hold 
 My heart within the hollow of his hand ? 
 [Looking off.^ The bridegroom comes and I await my king. 
 [Exeunt Margaret and Fontanges. 
 
 J flourish is heard. Enter a detachment of Guards, 
 Courtiers, and Gentlemen-in- Waiting, followed by 
 King Charles IX. and Henry of Navarre. King 
 Charles signs to the Attendants ««^ Guards to retire^ 
 and comes down to the front of the stage^ where he sinks 
 into a chair. Henry of Navarre, gallant^ loud-voiced^ 
 and martial in his bearings remains standing. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 iWhat, King of France — and therefore, of the world — 
 [You in the Louvre, in merry-hearted Paris, 
 [Living a life of gloom ? Are we to bring 
 
 o men who dream at ease on Champagne slopes 
 [Sunshine and happiness from Gascony ? 
 'Nay — nay — in wit and beauty, wine and women, 
 [You have no rivals from the Pyrenees ! 
 'Where lurks the silent grief, my kingly coz ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 I Ah, but, my friend, all's well enough for you ! 
 The wine can bring the blood into your cheek ; 
 The women smile, and then your heart's aflame. 
 
14 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I I am not merry. In this sombre court 
 
 There is a cloud which broods in gloom above ; 
 We move within the shadow of some ill — 
 Some woe, disaster, doom — I know not what, 
 Which our sad hearts presage. And you, my cousin, 
 Come with that face of yours, that merry wit 
 Which sets our spirits jigging — by St. Denis, 
 Look on my face and yours ! Why, you are strong. 
 Well-favoured, handsome, made for love, a man 
 Fashioned and wrought in Nature's kindliest mould — 
 And I ? You see the old man's wrinkled face 
 Peering from eyes of youth ; in age a boy. 
 In heart, a grey-beard. And there's something else. 
 Listen ! \_Drawing him asidej] I have a mother in this 
 Louvre — [Pauses, 
 
 Have you a mother ? Nay, I know you have, 
 Joanna d'Albret, whom your people worship ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Worship ? 'Tis true. Oh, what a mother. Sire ! 
 I would you knew her and her tender love. 
 As shines the sun of May upon the world, 
 So from her soft eyes springs a fount of joy 
 For all who suffer and are tired. It makes 
 Them love their life again, and thank their God 
 For what He gave them. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Jstonished.] St. Denis ! How you preach ! 
 
 What are you, Henry ? Are you fool or knave ? 
 
 You seem light-hearted — and anon you change 
 
 All of a sudden, at a mother's name. 
 
 And rant and mouth — like priests at Christmastide. 
 
 What is my grief ? you asked. Well, I will tell you. 
 
 I have a mother, Henry, and I fear her ! 
 
 Hush, do not speak too loud ! Here in the Louvre 
 
 She sees and hears and spies o'er everything ! 
 
 I fear her, Henry, she can haunt my dreams, 
 
 1 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 15 
 
 She meets me when I wake, watches my sleep, Act I 
 
 Dogs me from room to room — I hear her voice 
 And cannot help but tremble ! 
 
 NAVARRE ' 
 
 Ah, poor King ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Now, by the Cross, I would I were a King ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 And if you were, what would your kingship choose ? 
 What would you do ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Smiling.] Why, cut ofF all their heads 
 
 Whose faces wore a fairer look than mine ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 What, mine among the rest ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 No doubt of that ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I thank you. Sire. I'm glad you are not King. 
 At least I live, until you claim your crown. 
 Well — and what else ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 A thousand other things ! 
 Whate'er my wondering fancy drove me to ! 
 I'd play at chess, or hunt with all my hounds 
 Here through these palace rooms j work at my forge, 
 Eat candied almonds, write some honeyed rhymes, 
 Some sonnets, pastorals — I know not what — 
 And my good mother, if she dared reproof — 
 I'd shut her in a cage, where she might fret. 
 And storm and rage, until her spirit failed 
 To see how happy Charles was ! 
 
Act I 
 
 I6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 And your land ? 
 Who would be King of France ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Whoever liked ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Good, Cousin Charles ! Then give the crown to me ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 No, no ; that may not be ! You are my fool, 
 My own Court fool, remember ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 That's no odds. 
 Then Folly becomes monarch — nothing else ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Oho, let's see ! And how would you begin 
 Your foolish rule ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I'd marry Margaret. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 What, is that folly ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Then I would invite 
 Huguenot and Catholic — whoever pleased — 
 To come as favoured guests of mine to Paris — 
 A splendid masquerade throughout the land ! 
 And we, meanwhile, would sit and watch the sport 
 Like foxes clad in lambs' skins — you and I 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Why, Henry, 'twould be royal sport indeed ! 
 But stay a minute — for you puzzle me — 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 17 
 
 You are already come as bridegroom, pledged Act I 
 
 To Margot's hand. The Huguenots are here 
 
 As guests of ours to celebrate this wedding. 
 
 It was my mother's thought, to which I gave 
 
 My own assent in writing ; for, my cousin, 
 
 'Tis she designs, I add my signature. 
 
 That is the way we govern ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Is it so ? 
 Then may the masquerade begin forthwith ; 
 And we will to our sheepskins. Oh, 'tis sport, 
 — Sport fit for kings — to sit and watch the world 
 From out some hiding-place, ourselves unseen ! 
 
 Enter Guise, Anjou, Alen^on. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Here comes the Prince of Guise to give you greeting, 
 
 Together with Alen^on and Anjou, 
 
 My brothers. They would bid you welcome, Henry. 
 
 [Charles retires and takes out his tablets^ 
 only half listening. 
 
 ALEN90N 
 ^Aside.l Yes, and to see what heretics are like. 
 Why he's for all the world like other men ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 My Lord of Anjou, we met last, methinks, on the 
 bloody day of Jarnac. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 {Indifferently^ I did not see you. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Nay, think again. I stood near Coligni on the battle- 
 field 
 
i8 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I ANJOU 
 
 Where is Coligni ? Has he not come among the 
 guests ? Where are the Chatillons ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 They're all coming. Coligni comes, my old warrior, 
 and my mother comes from La Rochelle. What ! did 
 you think that fear would make us hesitate to accept the 
 King's most gracious invitation ? Nay, we heretics are 
 jealous of our honour, even if you keep none with us. 
 Catholics, mayhap, don't need it. Your faith will have 
 none of it. 
 
 That's true enough. 
 
 ALEN^ON 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Well, let me see, where was I. Oh, at Jarnac. 
 When the fortune of the day was yours, and Prince 
 Conde, my uncle,'surrendered himself to you, we stood, do 
 you remember, face to face, to discuss the terms of peace. 
 Just behind you there was a drunken rascal — may Heaven 
 confound him for a knave ! — playing with his matchlock. 
 Off went the gun — a most regrettable accident, of course 
 — and my good uncle got a ball right through his .body. 
 You hewed the fool to the ground — no fault of yours — 
 but might not the shot just as well have struck Coligni, 
 who was standing hard by ? A most annoying accident, 
 was it not ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 \To Guise.] Is this joke or earnest? I know you 
 
 manage your sword better than your tongue, prince 
 
 \Lays his hand upon his sword, 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Anjou, patience ! [To Navarre.] And if that shot 
 had robbed you of your great leader, would it not have 
 struck down my father's murderer ? 
 
 I 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 19 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Coming down.'] Hold, peace, I say ! No more of 
 this ! We did not sign the peace of St. Germain in order 
 to recall these stale old stories ; are you going to quarrel 
 because I give my sister's hand to my enemy ? God's 
 death, you anger me to my grave ! Navarre ! Guise ! 
 take your hands off your sword-hilts ! 'Tis my com- 
 mand — the King's ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 [Aside,'] A pretty king, forsooth ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Will he tell me to my face that Coligni w^as a common 
 murderer ? That it was he who killed Francis of Guise 
 before Orleans ? Why, I know that the rascal, Poltrot 
 de Mere, was taken red-handed in the act and dragged to 
 Paris. Where is he ? 
 
 GUISE 
 
 What do I know of the man ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Or I? 
 
 ALEN90N 
 There I can help you. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 [In a low voice,] Hold your tongue ! 
 
 ALEN90N 
 Poltrot was appointed Captain of the Guard. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 What ! Guise's murderer made a captain ? And by 
 you? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 He means his brother. 
 
 Act I 
 
20 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I ALEN90N 
 
 No, I mean the murderer, Poltrot de M6r6. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Captain, is he ? Well, you have strange customs in 
 Paris. We barbarians have a different way with mur- 
 derers. We hang them to the nearest tree. Well, well, 
 noble princes, perhaps wine will help us to compose our 
 differences. Let the dead bury their dead. Let the 
 living live ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Silence, gentlemen, no brawling here ! / made the 
 peace, / asked the Prince of Navarre to this Court, /gave 
 him my sister's hand. / will be King here. Whoever 
 
 dares to contravene my wishes [ With a sudden change 
 
 of manner.'] Ah, here comes the Queen, my mother ! 
 
 [Charles goes to the background, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Aside.] A cordial welcome truly ! Here are friends, 
 True friends of mine, who love me — to my death ! 
 I must be cunning, where such guile abounds. 
 And take no step too far to be recovered — 
 Must watch and wait, and wait and watch again ! 
 
 Enter Catherine of Medici. With her the Cardinal 
 OF Lorraine, and her magician, Ruggieri. After her 
 enter Margaret, Fontanges, and other Court ladies 
 and gentlemen. Finally Poltrot and guards of honour, 
 who remain in the gallery. Catherine is apparently 
 praying, the Cardinal whispering the words in her 
 ear. She comes down without raising her eyes. 
 Navarre bends his knee and awaits her speech, 
 Charles furtively watches in the distance with some 
 restlessness. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 21 
 
 NAVARRE Act I 
 
 [/^side.] Margaret ! I dare not look upon her face, 
 Or my heart fails me. I must play my game. 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 [Presenting Navarre.] The Lord Prince Henry of 
 
 Navarre and Beam 
 Offers his homage to your Majesty. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Looking up.] Welcome, my Prince. 
 
 [Gives him her hand to kiss. Navarre rises from 
 
 his knees. 
 
 We have w^ith all our hearts 
 Longed for this day to heal the gaping w^ounds 
 With which for thirteen years our country suffers. 
 And find at last the vi^elcome boon of peace. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Oh, pardon me, my Queen. Grim politics 
 Are all my uncle's. Let me be the bridegroom. 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 [Presenting Margaret.] This is the bride, the Princess 
 Margaret. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 So please you, my Lord Prince, salute your bride, 
 Daughter of France, fair Margaret of Valois. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Somewhat pompously.'] O Queen of Beauty, deign to look 
 
 on me 
 The low^est of thy slaves. Naught is my life. 
 Empty and meaningless, save that thy hand 
 Lend it some grace and meaning. [Aside.] In good 
 
 sooth. 
 This formal love will end in deadly earnest, 
 For my heart fails me when I look on her ! 
 
22 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I MARGARET 
 
 [^Coldly.'] I will for ever serve and do thy will, 
 As in the sight of God, in all the claims 
 A husband makes upon a faithful wife. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Good sense and well delivered. But no love ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I pray you, ask my mother. She, who gave, 
 Will stand, I doubt not, proxy for the gift. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Earnestly.'] You love me not ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Startled.] I know not what you mean. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [ To Navarre.] Coligni comes ? And is your mother 
 here ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Ay, ay, my Queen. How could a day like this 
 Without my mother please me ? She's at Tours — 
 Her chair was not so fast as I could ride. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 With open arms I wait to greet her. Prince, 
 That noble Queen, who, like another Joan, 
 Great Joan of Arc, made all her warriors brave 
 Because her presence filled the camp with courage. 
 Now surely war is over — peace is signed. 
 Whate'er the issue, let all evil deeds 
 On both sides be forgiven. 
 
 RIOUX 
 
 [Outside.] My lord, my lord ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 23 
 
 CATHERINE Act I 
 
 What noise is that ? 
 
 Rioux comes hastily through the gallery to Navarre. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Going to meet him.] Rioux — my mother? Where's my 
 mother, Rioux ? 
 
 RIOUX 
 
 My lord — I cannot speak — Queen Joan is dead ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Stunned.] Dead? Joan of Albret ? Is my mother 
 dead ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [fFith a glance at RuGGiERi.] Dead ! [After a pause.] 
 Knight, tell us how she died. 
 
 Rioux 
 
 It was at Vaudemont, your Majesty, 
 
 We found your messenger. No one was near 
 
 When the Queen talked with him — yet I could see 
 
 By her bright eyes how joyfully she learned 
 
 Your royal welcome, and received your gift. 
 
 She could not well be merrier, as she pulled 
 
 The gloves you gave her on her eager hand. 
 
 Then on a sudden — ere an hour had fled 
 
 Her face had changed. I saw her press her hand 
 
 Upon her heart, she sank back with a groan, 
 
 And in their arms her ladies held — a corpse ! 
 
 [During these words Anjou and Alencon ex- 
 change glances. Catherine's <?«^ Navarre's 
 eyes meet^ and they remain staring fixedly at 
 each other, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Your messenger, my Queen — may he be seen ? 
 
24 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I CATHERINE 
 
 I fear me, no — he's on his way to Rome 
 Upon another errand. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [^Aside to Rioux.] Ah, my good Rioux, 
 
 Mark well her words. Is she not — wonderful ? 
 
 Oh, for the man who owns a mother still ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Nervously.'] I pray you, cousin, cease — you loved your 
 mother ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [TVith unconcealed warmth.] Oh, could you look into my 
 heart, my Prince ! 
 
 [ Then more bluntly^ remembering himself, 
 I loved her — that is all. A noble woman. 
 
 Cousin Charles, you have a mother still, 
 Whatever her mind may be 1 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Hush, cousin, hush ! 
 What, my Court fool — and in his eye a tear ! 
 
 1 pray thee be a man ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I must indeed ! 
 I have no right to mourn on wedding-days. 
 Be merry, lords and ladies. By our law 
 This is the bridegroom's day. We'll let the dead 
 Bury their dead, or bury them ourselves 
 With song and laughter. By your leave. Princess. 
 
 [Offers his hand, 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 You are not what you seem. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 What would you wish ? 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 25 
 
 MARGARET Act I 
 
 I wish as much as France may ask from you. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I never knew that gloomy politics 
 
 Could turn into a woman — Ventre St. Gris ! — 
 
 With kiss-inviting lips, like yours, sweet wife ! 
 
 I am no grave-digger. Come, nobles all, 
 
 We'll to the feast — and, Rioux, shut your eyes 
 
 And close your mouth. Should that which happens 
 
 come 
 Not to your liking, then like all that comes ! \^ings, 
 
 Le Prince de Cond6 
 II a ete tue : 
 Mais Monsieur FAmiral 
 Est encore a cheval — 
 
 [Navarre exit with Margaret, followed by 
 the Court ladies and gentlemen. Charles 
 looks after them^ and then falls into a seat. 
 Catherine, with Cardinal, Ruggieri, 
 and Poltrot, prepare to go out, 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Come, Charles, your hand ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 I'll follow you, Queen-Mother ! 
 
 [Exeunt Catherine, etc, 
 \Left aloney after pause bursts out boisterously singing with a 
 laugh."] 
 
 "Le Prince deCondd," etc. 
 
 \^Air taken up by Orchestra, 
 
ACT II 
 
 Act II Scene i. — In the Garden^ outside the walls of the Louvre, 
 
 Enter Navarre, a wreath upon his head^ and Alen^on. 
 The latter is drunky the former only simulates drunkenness. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Hillo, my gallant Prince, steady ! Stand still ! 
 
 ALEN90N 
 Easy enough to say that, but w^ho can stand still, with 
 the ground spinning round ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Ventre St. Gris I If I had known before what good 
 men and true Alengon, Guise, and Anjou were, when 
 the cups circle and the knives and forks are clattering 
 
 ALEN90N 
 And Cond^, Teligni, and all the other damned heretics 
 — Navarre, too, of course 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 We should never have got bloody coxcombs in twenty 
 battles ! Cousin, tell me — if you can possibly stand still. 
 They say that the Louvre is a conundrum, a building full 
 of mystery. What is hidden in these cellars ? 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 [Solemnly.] Powder-casks ! 
 26 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 27 
 
 NAVARRE Act II 
 
 Diantre ! I should have thought it was sack and 
 malvoisie ! And what is behind the wainscoting and 
 these walls ? The black eyes of witching maidens ? . 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 Black gun-barrels ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 H'm — not the most pleasant house for a marriage- feast. 
 Our liveries will be blood-red before we've done. And 
 this wing has been newly furnished, I hear, for the chiefs 
 of the '' damned heretics " ? 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 Look you here, friend. There's no hole or corner in 
 this Louvre but has its miracle ! The Medici — don't 
 speak too loud — has her magic everywhere. Here it 
 laughs and gibbers — there it groans and thunders — and 
 scares you out of your wits, before you know where you 
 are. And the Master Magician, Ruggieri, helps her at 
 the game — so they tell me. I saw him to-day slink into 
 the Queen's room with a picture in his hand — a picture 
 which, by the way, resembled you ! — only at a distance, 
 mind, only at a distance ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 \Laughs,'\ Will the old witch be trying her love charms 
 on me ? 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 I don't know. I can't stand being questioned. What 
 the devil are you, cousin — a dolt or a philosopher ? I 
 can't make you out ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Don't bother your head about it, my young friend ! 
 Time enough for that when you are sober. [Points off. 
 
28 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II ALENfON 
 
 [Staggers away.] All right ! [Aside.] A proper kind 
 of bridegroom for you ! Why, he even wanted to draw 
 secrets out of me — and that I couldn't stand ! [Exit, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Sinks into a garden seat.] So, in the very lap of 
 
 threatening Fate, 
 We play a silly game of hide-and-seek. 
 And while we tremble at the storm, we smile. 
 The distant thunder rumbles 'mid the blue, 
 The lightning quivers at the sunset's edge — 
 And I, a truant bridegroom, from the feast 
 Where beauty waits me, lurk and linger here, 
 Afraid to taste the rapture of those lips 
 Which seem to whisper of some fatal doom 
 To me — and her — and France ! 
 I came not to your side, sweet Margaret, 
 I could not come ! I do not care to claim 
 My royal bride, or even touch her hand. 
 While yet this damning doubt assails my soul. 
 Whether this revel be an ambuscade, 
 Or mean a lasting peace — if she be true 
 To me, her husband — or her fair face smile 
 To lure me to my fall 
 
 Enter Rioux, hatless, and with a drawn sword^ his hand 
 pressed on his arm. 
 
 RIOUX 
 
 My lord, they murder us ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Rioux — you have a wound ? 
 
 RIOUX 
 
 Don't trouble about me — a tiny scratch. 
 No more. The Admiral 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 29 
 
 NAVARRE Act II 
 
 Coligni — well ? 
 
 RIOUX 
 
 Was riding up the street of L'Auxerrois 
 Up to the Louvre, when from an open window 
 A shot came suddenly. Heavens ! am I come 
 Here to this town only to tell of murder ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 A shot ? Coligni fell ? 
 
 RIOUX 
 
 Coligni lives, 
 The ball but grazed his arm. He's here, my lord. 
 
 Enter CoLiGNi, h'ls arm bandaged. With him Anjou and 
 Guise ; and two young Huguenot chiefsy the young 
 Prince of Cond^ and Count Teligni. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Running to Coligni.] My father, you still live ? Thank 
 
 Heaven for it ! 
 Did not my message reach you ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Message — yours ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I warned you [recollecting himself^ — well, I warned you to 
 
 make haste. 
 Before the feast was over. Admiral, 
 A merry city — Paris ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 What is this ? 
 A wreath upon your head ? Is this Arcadia ? 
 
30 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II NAVARRE 
 
 A bridal guerdon, suitable for — peace ! 
 
 \Tears off the wreath. 
 My lord of Anjou, such a shot as this 
 
 [Pointing to CoLlGNl's arm. 
 Does little honour to your soldiers' skill. 
 Will you not hang the rascal, when you find him ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 We have done all we can to find the knave. 
 Lord Admiral, this is a sorry welcome. 
 We tender you apology. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 We hope 
 You will not think us the less glad to see you. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 No more, no more, I beg you, noble Princes. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 You're very welcome in our capital ! 
 
 [Anjou and Guise exeunt, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Aside,] So says the hunter, when the prey is snared ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 [Turning to Navarre.] Sire, will you tell me 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Rioux, cousins mine, 
 
 Teligni, Cond^, may I have a word 
 
 Here with the Admiral ? I pray you go 
 
 And, if no other sport attracts your minds. 
 
 Sharpen your swords — look to your armour well — 
 
 And wait the royal mother's trumpet-call ! 
 
 [Exeunt Teligni, Conde, and Rioux, looking 
 at each other with some bewilderment. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 31 
 
 COLIGNI Act II 
 
 My Prince ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Throwing himself into a garden chair ^ It's horrible, 
 too horrible ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Why, what is this ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Oh, vi^hy are you here, 
 My father ? And my messenger miscarried ! 
 Is Heaven void of angels — none to warn ? 
 Why have you come ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 The order of my King ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Ah, you must keep your word, e'en though it kill you ! 
 And all the Huguenot chiefs — chiefs of the faith 
 For which we shed our blood — imprisoned here ; 
 Locked in this bloody den of murderers. 
 Through me — through me — and this unholy marriage ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 What do you fear ? They've given us their word. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 And they will break it, whensoe'er they list. 
 No faith is kept with heretics ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 My Prince, 
 Who taught you that ? 
 
32 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II NAVARRE 
 
 He of the Lateran ! 
 Ask history for proof ! A million oaths 
 Proud Rome has broken ; and a million wrongs 
 Made consecrate for service in God's name ! 
 What shall I say ? You ask me what I fear — 
 I know not, for my thoughts in widest range 
 Can scarcely compass all that may betide, 
 And yet I fear — I fear. My bride I see not, — 
 I dare not see her. And I play my game 
 And wear the mask of folly j watch unseen 
 That wily snake of Florence, the Queen-Mother 
 Catherine. I cannot say — the danger's here — 
 I only know 'tis somewhere, everywhere ! 
 I call you " father." May not aching thoughts 
 Turn to my mother too ? My broken heart 
 Has shed a rain of bloody tears to-day. 
 While foolish jests were crowding to my lips. 
 You know it, Admiral r She's dead ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 God's will ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 No, 'tis the hired assassin's, 'tis her will. 
 That cunning connoisseur in deadly poisons, 
 Last viper of the Medicean brood ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Nay, that's some lying story of the gossips ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Then lies the wound upon your arm, Coligni, 
 Which for the first time proved your murderess 
 A bungler in the business of blood ! 
 And all the horror weighs upon my conscience ! 
 All that has come, or will come circling round 
 My single self ! And death, which left us free 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 33 
 
 On many fields of battle, finds his prey Act II 
 
 Trapped at the last, like vermin in a snare ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 These are but charges — none of them made good. 
 Your mother, maybe, was not really poisoned. 
 The shot which struck me was an accident. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Well, have it as you will. But I shall watch. 
 Still, are our troops advanced, as I suggested. 
 South of the city ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 They stand ready. Prince, 
 In case of peril. Do you come with me 
 To the King's presence ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 No ; whatever threatens. 
 You must protect yourself. The task is easy. 
 For Charles's temper is not harsh and cruel. 
 His mother's hands have maimed him. Yet, my friend, 
 Diplomacy, I fear, is not your gift. 
 You are but honest warrior. You are 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Fearless and true, the motto of my house ! 
 
 But, Sire, I pray you pardon this white hair, 
 
 Pardon the heart that loves you — if I dare 
 
 To ask of you a promise and an oath. 
 
 If there are plots — I know not if there be — 
 
 Yet if the things you fear take bloody shape 
 
 And drive us to our swords, remember. Sire, 
 
 You are the King on whom rests all our hopes ! 
 
 The Huguenot cause is yours, and, if you fall, 
 
 It, too, must perish. It is ours to die. 
 
 But you — the King — must live. I know you brave- 
 
 D 
 
34 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II A lion-hearted soldier. Yet you bear 
 
 A greater burden than a soldier's sword — 
 
 Your country's crown. I charge you, on your oath, 
 
 E'en in the darkest hour of doubt and danger. 
 
 Hold this the highest duty that you owe 
 
 To those you love and to our common faith — 
 
 Preserve our King alive ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Solemnly kissing his sword,] 'Fore God, I promise. 
 
 [Exeunt together. 
 
 Scene 2. — Catherine's room. A long pier-glass at back^ 
 reaching to the floor. There is a gallery at one side. 
 Enter Catherine and the Cardinal, Ruggieri 
 the Magician^ and a Chamberlain. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 The fool, the idiot, Poltrot ! What, only graze 
 Coligni's arm, and waste a shot ! [To the Magician.] Is 
 yonder mirror ready, as I bade you ? 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 I have prepared it as you wish, my Queen. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 The cheat cannot be guessed ? 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 Impossible, my liege. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Await my signal. [Ruggieri exit. To Cardinal.] 
 Now, my Lord Cardinal, what news from Rome ? 
 
 cardinal 
 The Holy Father thinks that a judgment of heretics, 
 sanctioned by the Church, will — primarily at all events — 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 35 
 
 bring profit and advantage almost solely to the crown of Act II 
 France. [Catherine looks at him uneasily.'] Therefore 
 it may be no more than reasonable that a kind of indemni- 
 fication or recompense to Rome may be paid by the 
 Louvre. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Well, have you made out the reckoning ? How much 
 is the papal blessing to cost ? Speak ! 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 If Henry of Navarre dies, together with the princes of 
 his house, there will be no need — so the Holy Father 
 thinks — to place the lands of Navarre and Beam into the 
 hands of any worldly regent 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 But ? 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 But they can be made into a province of the Church. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [^Gravely.'] The sagacity of Rome is truly wonderful ! 
 It never fails 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Never, my Queen. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Unless it encounters a sagacity greater than its own. 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 What means your Majesty ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Why, this. Margaret loves Guise. How if I make 
 this Guise the King of Navarre ? 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Then, in that case 
 
36 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II CATHERINE 
 
 She will become Queen-regent of Navarre and the 
 wife of the man she loves. You see, my plan is so 
 compact of love that I can hardly grant this time the 
 little request of Rome. 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 And if at the last moment the Holy Father refuses 
 his consent to the dealing with the heretics ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Cardinal, how old is the Holy Father ? 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Over sixty. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Over sixty ! An old man. Had you some thought 
 of becoming a candidate — when his Holiness expires ? 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 [^Hesitating and disconcerted.'] My own influence — my 
 princely birth 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Smiles.'] Send your nephew, the Duke of Guise, to me. 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 [Makes the sign of the Cross.] Benedicat tibi Dominus ! 
 
 [E,it. 
 
 Enter Margaret. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 You called me, mother ? 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 37 
 
 CATHERINE Act II 
 
 Yes, for a mother's heart 
 Is yearning for her child. I fain would have 
 Some little ray of sunshine. By the stars, 
 I love you, Margaret ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I know^ it, mother. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 You know^ it, yet you grieve, your cheek is pale ; 
 The mother, whom you love, has robbed her child 
 Of all her happiness. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Because of France ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 But now the end has come. Because of France, 
 I gave thee to him, and I take thee back. 
 Men tied the knot and men must let it loose, 
 Heaven did not will this marriage. Navarre's false ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Start/ed.] Almighty God, and why ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 He and his following die ! They stand accused 
 Of treachery to God and France. They die ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 What — the Huguenots ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 They only came to Paris 
 To form a plot against thy brother, Charles, 
 And the whole race of Valois. 
 
38 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II MARGARET 
 
 Was this the man 
 To whom I pledged my faith as loving wife ? 
 It cost him little, doubtless ; it was I 
 Who took the oaths and suffered — in my soul, 
 He came not to my chamber — now I see 
 The reason — nay, he could not, dared not come. 
 \To Mother^ You must have proofs, my mother, ample 
 
 proofs 
 Of such a shameful treason ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Proofs I have. 
 Which, when your brother hears, will make him king 
 Beyond his wont. Leave all the proofs to him. 
 You could not save him, even if you loved 
 The man whom now you hate. Give up the traitor, 
 And let him die ! My daughter, you are free ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Half sobbing,'] Ah, mother mine, 
 
 I would have suffered all, and borne my cross 
 
 Could but my pain have watered with my tears 
 
 The flowers of peace for France ! 'Tis over now ! 
 
 I tear the traitor's image from my heart ; 
 
 Last relic of a loveless love — 'tis gone ! 
 
 And I am free — am free ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Beloved child ! [Embraces her, 
 [Smiling.'] And shall we find in European courts 
 A second husband ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Never ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 39 
 
 CATHERINE ^^t II 
 
 Shall I ask 
 
 The Holy Sisters of the Heart of God 
 
 Dear love, how pale you grow ! And do you dare 
 Another wedlock with another Henry 
 
 Guise enters at hack. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 What mean you, mother ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Of the house of Guise ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I am but youAg, 
 
 Yet far behind me lies a childhood's dream. 
 When I could think of one who loved me well, 
 And whom I loved as no one else beside. 
 He seemed the princeliest knight within our Courts, 
 The truest, tenderest warrior. In his eyes 
 I saw the faith of one who could not swerve 
 A hair's-breadth from his duty or his love. 
 Not like this Huguenot rebel ! this false King 
 Of heretic traitors ! \^he sees Guise. 
 
 Ah ! The Prince of Guise ! 
 
 guise 
 
 \Comes forwara and falls on one knee before her?[ Margot ! 
 
 dear Margot ! let me claim thy hand ! 
 And let my knee fulfil its wonted task 
 Of joyful service at thy feet ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 My mother, 
 You sent for him ? That, surely, was not well ! 
 
40 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II CATHERINE 
 
 [To Guise.] You've spoken with my lord the Cardinal ? 
 
 GUISE 
 
 [Rising and kissing the Queen's hand,] I heard my fate as 
 
 in a waking dream. 
 As for the Huguenots, I knew your mind 
 Was set against them 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Hastily interrupting him.] They are traitors all ! 
 This hateful plot against our royal house — 
 You understand me, Prince ? — is in my hands. 
 No more of them. I have a sweeter task. 
 To-morrow Margaret is free, released 
 From all the vows she gave the Bourbon King. 
 The rest, perchance, you would prefer to hear 
 From younger lips. Heaven's blessing on you both ! 
 
 [Exit Catherine. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 [Aside,] The plot ? What plot ? I know not what she 
 
 means ! 
 But what care I ? [Aloud.] To-morrow, Margaret ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Excitedly.] Go, Henry, go ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Why do you tremble, dear ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 To-morrow I am free ; to-morrow, Henry ! 
 I think you love me — leave me for to-day ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Between to-morrow and to-day there lies 
 
 Only a moment — yet eternity 
 
 To all my wishes ! [Coming nearer and trying to clasp her. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD \\ 
 
 MARGARET Act II 
 
 Leave me for to-day, 
 I pray you, Henry ! \ls going, 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Whither are you going ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 To save me from myself ! Farew^ell, farewell ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 You love me, then ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 To-morrow you shall know ! \Runs out, 
 
 GUISE 
 
 She loves me ! Call my blood but stagnant water, 
 
 Or I will wring an answer from her lips 
 
 This very hour ! [Follows her. 
 
 Enter Charles followed by Coligni, who stands waiting, 
 Charles is engrossed in a paper, 
 
 CHARLES 
 [Reading?^ " Oh, kingly crown. 
 
 When cares o'erweight our hearts, from youth to age, 
 Will thy dread burden be our only wage ? " 
 Good. Who is here ? How like you these few lines ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Sire, 'tis a sonnet. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Ay, I have some skill 
 In turning out a verse. Why, are you not 
 Admiral Coligni ? Wherefore are you come ? 
 
42 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II COLIGNI 
 
 I came because you sent for me, my liege. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Your arm — you're wounded ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 'Twas an accident ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Stay, I remember now. My head is racked 
 With many thoughts. I have so much to think of ! 
 You cannot say / bade the villain fire ? 
 It was not I ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 No more, I pray you, Sire ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Nay, do not think it. They plan many things 
 
 Without my cognizance, and at the last 
 
 They ask me for my sanction and my seal. 
 
 Fm not so stupid as they think. I can 
 
 Make ritornels as well as other men. 
 
 Only in speech at times the right word fails me. 
 
 I bade you come, 'tis true, Lord Admiral, 
 
 But now it grieves me. You are much too loyal, 
 
 And loyalty is folly — as you know. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Nay, Sire, 'tis surely better to be loyal 
 
 Whate'er the cost. Your gracious message bade me 
 
 Come to your presence — not to be a guest. 
 
 But for some warlike service ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Yes, be seated. 
 Come nearer. I can look you in the face. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 43 
 
 I like to watch your eyes — 'tis passing strange — Act II 
 
 For most men's eyes I shun. Dost know, my friend, 
 You are to march to Flanders ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 [ Uneasily.'] Flanders, Sire ? 
 
 What is my business there ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Oh, pray you, ask 
 My mother, who is acting with the Spaniard, 
 Duke Alva, Philip's captain. At Bayonne 
 They lately shuffled cards — you know the man. 
 What is your business ? Why, hang heretics, 
 Flay, burn, behead the rebels, make a wager 
 Which of you two's the better murderer ! 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 [Drawing back.] You will not so dishonour my gray 
 
 hairs ! 
 What, old Coligni, hand in hand in blood 
 With the Dutch hangman — in the pay of Spain ! 
 Oh, pardon me, my liege — I speak too bold. 
 I know the perils gathering for France 
 Beyond the mountains, in Don Philip's Court ! 
 Where lie the troops which I must lead to Flanders ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Rochelle, or Chatillon — I know not. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 What ! 
 My Huguenots — my brothers in the faith ! 
 And I to lead them to a massacre 
 Of fellow-Christians in the Netherlands — 
 For Philip's greater glory ? Gracious Heaven, 
 This is no plan of yours, my honoured liege, 
 This devil's work is hatched by other brains ! 
 
44 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II CHARLES 
 
 Hush — do not speak so loud — do not revile them. 
 They've told me, till I think it must be true, 
 I owe to Heaven for my many sins 
 Atonement and some signal recompense. 
 They bid me do some act of penitence, 
 Some royal act ! To w^in eternal grace 
 There is but one v^^ay — so they ever tell me — 
 I needs must clear the land of heresy. 
 And wipe out Huguenots from sea to sea 
 To the last man. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Good God ! They poison bodies, 
 And now assail men's souls ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 What, Admiral ! 
 You dare to thwart my wishes — my commands ? 
 I've had men killed for less. Have you no fear ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Due reverence, my liege — I know not fear. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Praise Heaven, then, I've found a miracle, 
 
 A man who knows no fear ! Speak on, speak on ; 
 
 I give you leave to speak. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 I thank your Majesty 
 For this your gracious word. Ah, do not think 
 Coligni stands before you, but a man 
 Of flesh and blood like you, who loves his foe. 
 And knows the touch of human tenderness. 
 And human sorrow. Put aside your crown — 
 This gilded trouble which you sing in verse — 
 And be a man like me. Burst all the chains 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 45 
 
 Of royal habit — all this courtly pomp ; Act II 
 
 Let your heart speak, as though I were your father 
 And you my son. Naught severs us, believe me. 
 Except a book 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 A book ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 The Holy Bible 
 Which by the mouth of all the holy prophets 
 God hath revealed. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Yes, father, yes — speak on. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 They tell you that the blood of heretics 
 
 Is a sweet savour to eternal Heaven ; 
 
 God's writing in that Bible runs not so. 
 
 'Tis "Judge not and ye shall not be judged " ; or this, 
 
 " Love your enemies, bless them that curse you " — 
 
 Of such commands love is the true fulfilment. 
 
 [Catherine and the Cardinal appear in the 
 gallery behind, 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Is that so ? 
 'Tis not what they have taught me. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 No — the priests 
 Explain the book according to their needs. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 You have white hair — I do not think you lie. 
 " Love your enemies, bless them that curse you." 
 A wondrous text — I never heard the like ! 
 
46 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II Oh, "judge not that ye be not judged of God " — 
 That is a fearful fate ! But tell me more. 
 What else is in the book ? 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 " The time shall come 
 When many shall draw near to me and say, 
 
 * Lord, in thy name full many a work is ours, 
 Lord, in thy name we've spilled much human blood, 
 And in thy name have doomed to endless death.' 
 
 [A pause. 
 Then will the Lord reply to them in thunder, 
 
 * I made you ministers of endless Love, 
 And all ye know is Enmity and Hate. 
 Away, away — ye workers of all evil ! ' " 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Covers his face with his hands^ and falls on his knees.^ Have 
 mercy. Lord, have mercy on thy servant ! 
 
 [Catherine and Cardinal steal out of gallery, 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 [Lifts him up.'\ Yet whosoever cometh to His throne. 
 
 Lisping the childish syllables of prayer, 
 Shall find forgiveness, for He willeth not 
 A sinner's death. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 I pray you, give me truth. 
 Truth — what is truth ? 
 
 We can but love. 
 
 COLIGNI 
 
 Truth only dwells with God. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Then give this love to me, 
 God knows I need it, father. Mother's love 
 I never had, I never shall have more. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 47 
 
 I fain would pray. And therefore leave me, father. Act II 
 
 You shall not go to Flanders. Let me pray. 
 
 [COLIGNI exit. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 \^inks on his knees.] Beloved Saviour — dear Bartholomew, 
 
 Whose feast we keep to-morrow — at the stake 
 
 I promise thee a dozen heretics, — 
 
 All that I ask of thee's to save my soul, 
 
 Forgive — forget — 
 
 Be gracious, Lord, forgive — I cannot pray. 
 
 No prayer succeeds. 
 
 Enter Catherine and the Cardinal. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Stand up, I'll teach you prayer ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Shuddering.] You — mother — here ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 To open your blind eyes 
 Before the flames of Paris. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Paris ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Yes, 
 Before your city falls. You are the traitor ! 
 You have betrayed the Lord, betrayed the Church, 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 And doomed your soul to everlasting hell ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Ah, save me from this anguish ! Give me truth, 
 The truth. Who has the truth, my mother ? 
 
48 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II CATHERINE 
 
 [Pointing to the Cardinal.] Rome ! 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 This is the truth, King Charles, as it is written, 
 " He that is not with me is against me." 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Prepare thyself by penitence, my son. 
 
 To be forgiven. You think your mother cruel ; 
 
 You call her hard, and why ? Because I know 
 
 My duty as the widow of a king ; 
 
 My royal duty to the house of Valois, 
 
 And to the throne of France. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 And house and throne, 
 Are they in danger ? What is this you dream ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 If it be dream, I would some kindly sleep 
 
 Might win my eyelids to forgetfulness ! 
 
 I cannot count the days, the sleepless nights. 
 
 The slow-drawn hours, wherein I think and scheme 
 
 Both for the Valois, and the royal crown. 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 And all seems vain ! For look you, how the world 
 
 Is changing from the fashion of its prime, 
 
 The old world dying tardily, the new 
 
 Rising in might from out the womb of Time. 
 
 Our ancient service was of Reverence, 
 
 Of Faith, the humble worship of the Unseen ; 
 
 Of Trust, the simple credence in a God. 
 
 Now all is chaos and catastrophe ! 
 
 That cursed art of Mayence has laid bare 
 
 To vulgar eyes a prostituted truth. 
 
 The tree of knowledge is plucked bare of leaves ; 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 49 
 
 Men eat forbidden fruit, and, eating, die ! Act II 
 
 Till at the last, the monk of Wittenberg, 
 
 Spawn of the Devil, blasts the world with lies, 
 
 And Hell itself, bursting its barriers, 
 
 Roars at the portals of the Lateran ! 
 
 Monarchs and crowns go downwards in the crash 
 
 Of falling empires ; every slave's a king. 
 
 And kings are slaves. Wilt thou await thy doom, 
 
 Thou latest lily of the line of Valois, 
 
 Till the storm take thee, and thy battered leaves 
 
 Fall into nothingness ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 What must I do ? 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 It is commanded to maintain thy rights : 
 And make all earthly means secure this end. 
 Such is the ancient doctrine of thy house. 
 Look everywhere around thee — war and hate. 
 Carnage and ruin, pestilence and death, 
 O'erspread the land and prove the wrath of Heaven. 
 Thou art begirt with peril, learn thy task ; 
 Crush or be crushed ; destroy or be destroyed ! 
 
 {^Exit Cardinal. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 {Turning to Catherine.] What would you have me 
 
 do ? I will not lie 
 To those who are my friends, nor prove a traitor 
 To men who trust me ; everything but that ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 When you invited heretics to Paris 
 To see your sister wedded, and they came 
 Armed with a plan to overthrow your house, 
 I call that treachery and nothing else ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Startled.] What proof have you of that ? 
 
so DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Strikes a bell,'] Marshal Tavannes ! 
 
 [He enters. 
 His Majesty the King desires to know 
 What news you have of districts south of Paris ? 
 
 TAVANNES 
 
 My messengers report that troops in arms, 
 
 From Troyes to Chartres, are forming crescent-wise, 
 
 And threatening your city, 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Troops ? What troops ? 
 
 TAVANNES 
 
 The Huguenots, my liege. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Makes a sign to Tavannes.] You may retire. 
 
 [Tavannes exit, 
 [To Charles.] And have you put Coligni to the 
 
 proof ? 
 Goes he to Flanders ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Startled.] No, he would not lead 
 
 His forces 'gainst his brethren in the faith 
 
 To the Low Countries. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 I was sure of it ! 
 Will you peruse this paper ? [Gives him a letter, 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Reads,] " Queen Elizabeth of England is ready with 
 ships and money in case Admiral Coligni will support 
 the rising in Flanders, secretly." 
 How came this letter, mother, in your hands ? 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 51 
 
 CATHERINE Act II 
 
 'Twas captured in Boulogne. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Ah, and these troops ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Of two things one. Either they go to Flanders, 
 Or else they storm this drowsy capital 
 While we are feasting. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Oh, then, mother, help \ 
 Defend the crown of France, and save me. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [^spreading a paper before him at the table,"] Sign. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Bending over it.'] "The Huguenots in Paris," — "in 
 
 one night," — 
 " To the last man." Why, fifteen thousand souls 
 Are here in Paris ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 There is more than that. 
 Read further. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 "And in all the provinces 
 From sea to sea." Great Heaven 1 Words like these 
 Reek with the scent of blood. They drive me mad ! 
 This plan is hatched of devils j hell itself 
 Rewards its execution ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [^Showing another document^ to which hangs a seal.] 
 
 Will you hear 
 A message from his Holiness the Pope f 
 
52 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II CHARLES 
 
 [Reads.'] " A hundred thousand slaughtered Huguenots, — 
 I grant him absolution." [Laughs insanely.] 
 
 Only that ! 
 A paltry offering ! And I must sign, 
 Or else be damned ! Nay, mother, leave me one, 
 Leave me my Henry, for he drives the ghosts 
 Out of my head by all his merry jests. 
 And he's not dangerous ! Leave me my fool ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Better to leave the hundred thousand lives 
 Than just this Henry ! Spare his life and then, 
 Here in thy stead, this so-called harmless fool, 
 This Henry of Navarre is — King of France ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Navarre — the King ? What Henry, King of France ? 
 
 Nay, but my will- 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Fate laughs at all thy wills ! 
 Crush or be crushed — destroy or be destroyed ! 
 
 [She begins to make incantations. 
 By pains and tortures in the gulfs of hell 
 Which ye shall suffer if ye mock my w^ill — 
 Ay, for a thousand years — appear, appear. 
 Ye spirits of the nether world, appear, 
 Obedient to my summons ! Spirits come ! 
 
 [A flash of lightning and thunder, A gale of 
 wind blows through the room. Some of the 
 candles are blown out. In others^ the flames 
 visibly bend before the draught. 
 In yonder mirror show to us the face 
 Of him who, after Charles, shall wear the crown ! 
 Out of the clouds it comes ! Behold, behold ! 
 
 [Clouds of smoke rise^ and then the picture of a 
 king with sceptre and crown is seen for the 
 moment on the surface of the mirror^ after- 
 wards disappearing in smoke. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 53 
 
 CHARLES Act II 
 
 \Who approaches the mirror and then draws back."] Ha ! 
 
 A king's face ! 'Tis Henry of Navarre ! 
 Look, how it bends its scornful eyes on mine, 
 And waves its stolen sceptre ! Thunder and devils ! 
 Thou — if thou art a king — stand to my sword ! 
 
 [He advances towards the mirror with drawn 
 sword, then steps back. 
 Why, look you — it is gone ! Stand, coward, stand ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Touches his arm and points to the table.'] Impalpable is 
 Fate ! Kill flesh and blood ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Sobbing.] In flesh and blood I kill thee, cursed shape I 
 Defend thyself! Canst thou return and break 
 The marble ribs of thine imperial tomb ? 
 Then be my heir ! For with a pen-stroke — thus — 
 
 [Signs the paper. 
 I stab thee to thy death ! [Falls fainting to the floor. 
 
 [Catherine takes up the paper and holds it before 
 her triumphantly. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Crush or be crushed — destroy or be destroyed ! 
 
ACT III 
 
 Act III Scene. — State-room in the Louvre. At one side there is an 
 oratory. In the centre back there is a curtain^ behind 
 which some steps between pillars lead up to a balcony. 
 Late afternoon. In the background Catherine is 
 with the Cardinal in prayer. In the foreground are 
 the Dukes of Anjou and Guise, the Marshals 
 Tavannes and Gondi-Retz. Poltrot at back. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Getting up from her knees and coming forward.'\ 
 Are we ready, gentlemen ? My Lord Cardinal — you 
 represent the cause of Holy Church in France — will you 
 ask these Princes whether any one of them desires to 
 recall the solemn oath he pledged to you ? 
 
 cardinal 
 I ask, as the Queen desires. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Command my sword. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 And why ask me ? My work is war. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Marshal Tavannes, our troops will take up their 
 position before the Louvre. When eleven strikes all the 
 streets opening into the Square of the Louvre are to be 
 barricaded with chains. The houses of the Catholics 
 must have lights in them. Whoever appears in the 
 
 54 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD ' 55 
 
 thoroughfares without a white cross on his shoulder, dies. Act III 
 A shot from the tower of St. Germain will give the 
 signal for the festival to begin. In one night France 
 will win peace, or never again ! Henry of Guise, of all 
 the thousand victims, I desire but one at thy hands ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Navarre ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Navarre for myself ! For you — Coligni. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 By my father's blood, which cries to me from the 
 ground against this murderer — Coligni dies ! 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Death to the traitors ! — Traitors to Heaven and 
 France ! \_Exeunt Princes. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Your Eminence, I still require some ghostly help 
 from you. 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Can the Church help you ? We, who swing the 
 censer and bear the Cross — what can we do ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 You can do much. Throw open all the monasteries 
 of Paris — let them vomit forth their inmates into the 
 streets ! Let those who cannot wield the sword and 
 dagger, wave the crucifix ! 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Enough, my Queen. 'Tis an idea of which Tor- 
 quemada might be proud ! {Exit Cardinal. 
 
56 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III CATHERINE 
 
 Poltrot ! 
 
 PoLTROT advances, 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 Your Majesty requires me ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Arrest the King of Navarre to-night. 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 Where shall I find him ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 In the turret-chamber, 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 And if — if the King defends himself ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 I hope he may ! 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 What — that I may be forced to — you mean ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Away, knave ! What you mean, I mean ! 
 
 [Goes to door^ which Poltrot opens, 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 [Bowing low.] As you will, your Majesty. [Exeunt. 
 Enter Charles and Margaret. // is growing dusk. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Now you know all. The wicked thought was hers ; 
 - — 'Tis always she who fills my reeling brain 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 57 
 
 With such rank poison — and I signed my name. Act III 
 
 I signed my name — in sooth, it drives me mad. 
 
 And therefore have I sought thee, sister mine, 
 
 To see thy face and hear thy voice ! Great Heaven, 
 
 I needs must give my pent-up soul relief, 
 
 I needs must talk with some one. And you love, 
 
 You — you alone — in all this stupid world. 
 
 Your hapless brother. Margot is still here, 
 
 Margot will comfort me, as she was wont. 
 
 When in the bygone days, as boy and girl, 
 
 We played at Cluny. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Brother — brother mine 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Can you remember how in Cluny woods 
 
 We played together ? And I see you still 
 
 Shoot like a lizard through the golden green 
 
 Amid the sunshine, and your merry laugh 
 
 Trilled like the happy chatter of the birds ! 
 
 And the old gardener — is he living yet ? 
 
 I would I knew. \With a sudden change of manner. 
 
 Why should not Harry hold 
 The sceptre when Fm dead ? It matters not. 
 Naught matters now. I once was proud to think 
 The Valois line might long endure — but now — 
 I do not love my brothers, and the Queen, 
 Queen-Mother, Catherine, with her magic arts 
 I hate ! 'Twas jugglery which bent my will 
 And made me sign that paper — she it was 
 Who fooled my senses with the cursed tricks 
 Of black-souled Ruggieri and his crew. 
 And is there no revenge ? Why, Henry King, — 
 That cannot break my sleep ! With Henry King, 
 You would be Queen of France and wear my crown. 
 I should be happy then — and I would have 
 A little garden near the Cluny woods 
 Where I could train carnations 
 
58 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III MARGARET 
 
 [Smi/ing.] What, my brother, 
 
 When you were dead ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Sii/I absently.'] But Harry is a fool. 
 
 'Tis pity, Margot, and he loves you not. [A pause. 
 
 They say that Cousin Guise came somewhat late 
 From out your chamber. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Rising.'] Sire, you forget yourself. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Pettishly.] "Sire," "Sire," 'tis always "Sire" and 
 
 "Majesty"! 
 I hate these royal titles ! Oh, for love. 
 One little grain of love to ease my heart 
 And fill my eyes with tears. Come, sister mine, 
 I would not have you angry — let me throw. 
 Just for to-night, my royalty aside, 
 And be a brother merely. See, 'tis dark 
 Already over Paris — go and pray. 
 Pray for yourself and me — but leave her out, 
 Leave mother out, that God may hear your prayers ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Musingly.] The world was happy once and seemed to 
 
 smile : 
 Now all seems different. I drain the cup 
 Which all our fathers drained — the primal curse 
 Of sin and suffering — which from sire to son 
 Comes on our race like a descending flood. 
 I know not where I stand, between the love 
 Which once was mine — to take or throw away — 
 And all the horror of these new espousals. 
 
 [Covers her face with her hands. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 59 
 
 Act III 
 
 Enter Navarre through a secret door. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Margaret ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Who's there ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 'Tis I, — Navarre ! 
 Margaret of Valois, I vt^ould speak with you. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Sire, if men's lives are fastened, each to each. 
 By threads of destiny, we twain must be 
 Together to the fated end. Speak on. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I thank thee. Princess, hear me to the end. 
 I'll bare to thee my soul. When first I knew 
 That thou and I were plighted, and a peace 
 Assured 'twixt both our camps, I asked myself. 
 Are they in earnest, and does Paris want 
 A true alliance ? Then no price were high. 
 No sacrifice too great, e'en though the bride 
 Were something other than — fair Margaret ! 
 Our country's claim is clearly paramount. 
 No matter though the bridegroom be a man 
 Light-minded, foolish, fickle, as you know. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 \^Astontshed.'\ Not so, I find you changed. You are not he 
 Whom once I knew. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 We came to Paris, all 
 The Huguenot chiefs, with friendship in our hearts 
 
6o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III And swords in sheath — to find your Catholics 
 Armed to the teeth. I hastened to the Louvre 
 Before my men, to keep a watchful eye 
 On all that might befall. And had I come, 
 As gallant as your virgin fancy dreamed. 
 And had you learned to love me — did the Queen 
 In truth desire your happiness alone f 
 Was this her only object ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Nay — I know not. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Nor I, fair Princess — yet I needs must know. 
 Because of France I wore a mask of folly, 
 And made a mock of all my bridal rights — 
 The while I watched the Queen, to learn my fate. 
 Your fate and mine — the destiny of France ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 No more, no more ! My sorrow is past cure ! 
 I dreamed you only worthy of contempt, 
 I dared despise you, at my mother's bidding ! 
 It was my mother's act — it is her curse ; 
 She dooms to ruin everything she rules ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Blame not thyself, nor her ; I too have dreamed, 
 
 And found fulfilment bitter. When I lay 
 
 Upon my bed in utter wretchedness 
 
 Here in this Louvre, and the slow daylight crept 
 
 Across the growing whiteness of the sky, 
 
 I had a vision of what might have been. 
 
 I saw thy face grown kindly with a love 
 
 Of perfect faith in me : I saw myself 
 
 Upon a throne — the throne of France. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 6i 
 
 MARGARET , Act III 
 
 [Startled^ and to herself.] 'Tis thus 
 
 You are accused — but no, it cannot be ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Around us twain a race of happy brothers 
 
 Whom peace had cradled in forgetfulness 
 
 Of all the bloody past. From sea to sea 
 
 No hand was raised for strife, no swords were drawn. 
 
 No trumpet blown for warfare. With one voice 
 
 They hymned the God of righteousness and love — 
 
 One God for peaceful France ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 O cruel mother ! 
 O husband, husband ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Kneels.'] Nay, my Margot, thou 
 
 Wert centre of my dream, thy face enshrined 
 Queen of my vision, Queen of happy France, 
 Queen of my heart ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Draws back and speaks in a whisper.] Nay, Henry or 
 
 Navarre ! 
 Too late ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Too late ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [TVith a revulsion of feeling.] Yes. If of you and me 
 One is the baser, the less worthy, I — 
 'Tis I, and I alone. It were not just. 
 If on this day which severs us for ever — 
 Which tears apart the husband and the wife. 
 And leaves each solitary, friendless, lone — 
 
62 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III NAVARRE 
 
 \^tarUng^ Good God ! What mean you ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Smi/ing half sadly.'] Ah, I know it now, 
 
 I knew not love before. In innocence 
 
 Of virgin fancy, when my heart was young 
 
 I pledged my maiden vows and thought I loved. 
 
 'Twas long ago, before I saw your face. 
 
 We dream some early dream of wedded troth, 
 
 We see some face, some form of gallant mould, 
 
 And straightway think 'tis he ! Love comes not thus. 
 
 'Tis born of travail and of loneliness. 
 
 Not in the dawn, but in the midday heat. 
 
 Born of the spirit's anguish, in the fire 
 
 Of noontide passion, in its fiercest glow — 
 
 Too late ! too late ! too late ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Nay, Margaret, 
 I know not what you mean. 'Tis not too late, 
 I cannot leave you now, for if we love. 
 What need we else ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 'Twas a good angel, love. 
 Which brought thee to my side, which led us both 
 To make confessions. Yet, but tell me this ; 
 It is not true you plotted against Charles 
 To win his royal throne ? That dream of yours 
 Was only dream ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 By yonder cross. Princess, 
 I am no traitor ; and my dream concerned 
 The welfare of the people, not myself ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 63 
 
 MARGARET Act III 
 
 \With sudden energy,] For God's sake save yourself ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 In Heaven's name, 
 Tell me your meaning ? For your vv^ords convey 
 Some hint of awful danger ! Let me face it, 
 It only scares, unseen. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Look out and see. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Looking behind the curtain.'] I see a city slumbering in 
 
 peace. 
 Nay, w^hat is this ? Bodies of armed men 
 Are gathering around the Louvre ; each soldier wears 
 A white cross on his shoulder. [Stepping back.] Has the 
 
 scene 
 Of brooding horror, shrouded by the night — 
 Has it a name, a meaning ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 It is death. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Death ? And to whom ? The princes of my house — 
 Coligni ? Conde ? IJenry of Navarre ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 To-night ten thousand Huguenots are slain ! 
 To-night, this very hour. Ah, save yourself ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 In Heaven's name, 'tis false ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Yes, it is false ; 
 Tis not ten thousand ; forty thousand, rather, 
 
64 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III Fall throughout France this hour — my mother's work ; 
 She slips the leash, and the wild dogs of war 
 Are ravening in the streets. You see the peace 
 To which you were invited by the Queen ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Now I see light 1 The mystery is cleared, 
 
 The dragon takes its stand before our eyes, 
 
 Visible and palpable ; but what your part ? 
 
 And what is mine ? what is the doom I win 
 
 Here, in this charnel-house ? I go to meet 
 
 My foe ! [A going, 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Stay, Henry ! All the gates are barred, 
 You cannot leave the Louvre ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Within it, then ! 
 'Tis better so. V\\ hasten to my room, 
 And make each single drop of blood atone 
 A Huguenot's death ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Too late. A murderer stands 
 In every corridor. You cannot pass. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Well — Rioux, then ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Where is the knight ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 He lies 
 Within my tower chamber. He shall ride 
 Fast to the south for succour. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 65 
 
 MARGARET Act III 
 
 He must die. 
 You cannot save him. Save yourself. 'Tis all 
 That human skill may do. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I, too, v^ill die. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 What of your dream, then ? Was it sent from Heaven ? 
 If you are v^iser than great God Himself, 
 Here is the door, Navarre, step forth and die ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 \To himself?^ Ah, God — my promise to Coligni ! This, 
 
 Ay, this, is what his prescient mind foresaw ! 
 
 My blood cries out to die beside my friends. 
 
 But I have sworn, and I must keep my oath, 
 
 And bear the heavier burdens of a King. 
 
 \To Margaret.] Yet, if I stay, is there a corner safe 
 
 In the whole palace ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Yes, one corner — there ! 
 \Opening to the door of her bedroom, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Your bedroom. Princess ! 'Tis a bitter jest ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Nay, Henry, 'tis no jest ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 To-morrow, then. 
 Who finds me not to-night, will find me there 
 To-morrow ! [Drawing his sword.'] Better die than 
 
 live a coward ! 
 When does this carnival of blood begin ? 
 
 F 
 
66 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III MARGARET 
 
 They wait a signal from St. Germain's tower. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Are we so far already ? Let me go ! 
 
 \A cannon-shot is heard, 
 \Trm to push by her. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Not till you hear me speak. _ .'Tis my last word ! 
 Take but one step from out this room — but one — 
 To certain death — and I will plunge the steel 
 
 [Drawing a dagger. 
 Here in my heart. Your death shall be my own ! 
 Now — leave me, if you will ! I am no coward, 
 I am a Queen — a daughter of the Valois ! 
 And if your doom must come — and come through me, 
 Then Henry's wife shall die beside her lord ! 
 
 [Steps are heard. 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Dropping his sword-point and drawing her to him.] I 
 
 would my Huguenots could see you now ! 
 Brave wife and true ! [Is going. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Js the steps come nearer throwing herself before him.] Ah, 
 
 they are coming ! Hark ! 
 Quick, Henry, quick ! Nay, but I pray you, love. 
 You are the King France looks for — and my King, 
 My heart, my all ! For my sake, for our love's sake, 
 quick. 
 
 [She hurriedly ties a white ribbon on his arm and 
 pushes him into her room as a page enters 
 with the words " The Queen'' Margaret 
 sinks down. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 67 
 
 The bells begin to ring^ the firing has commenced^ but it is Act III 
 still some way off in the distance^ so that the dialogue is 
 not interrupted. Enter Catherine with the Cardi- 
 nal, ALEN90N, Anjou, Court Ladies, and Gentlemen 
 of the Chamber. All the Catholics wear a white cross 
 on their shoulders from this to the end of the Act. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Margaret rises.'] We fain would have you merry, 
 
 Margaret ! 
 We miss your presence in this festival 
 With all good Catholics to-night. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 To-night ! 
 And this a festival ? These clanging bells, 
 This roaring musketry 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 A firev/ork, child ! 
 Some entertainment and festivity 
 
 We ovfQ our honoured guests. [Turning round,] Come 
 here, to me ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Who is the murderer my mother calls ? 
 Will no one answ^er ? Must a bride's lips tell 
 The horrid truth ? 'Tis murder 1 In this hour 
 Ten thousand Huguenots die ! 
 
 So much the better ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 You know it, then ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [To ALEN90N.] And Alen9on — you — 
 
 What are you doing here ? Go forth and draw 
 
 Your sword for God's own glory ! 
 
68 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III ALENCON 
 
 \^ullenly,'\ By the Cross, 
 
 The night is dark. I am a son of France. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Turning to the Cardinal.] You, Cardinal, to your 
 
 office ! There are saints 
 To earn your blessing ! Every one who kills 
 A heretic is on his certain way 
 To Heaven to-night ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 I fear my daughter's soul 
 Hath caught the taint of heresy. 
 
 MARGARET^ 
 
 Speak on ! 
 I'm ready for the cloister. Have your will ! 
 I leave these human shambles to your hands ! 
 I was the snare — you cannot tell me more 
 Than what I know — the innocent decoy 
 To draw the Huguenots within the nets, 
 The long-spun nets of Death ! Do as you will, 
 And win eternal infamy to-night ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 \JVith a sneer.'] Methinks we're not so merry as we 
 
 like ! 
 Cardinal, a game of chess. My ladies, go — 
 Make love, and play, and dance ! [A Chamberlain places 
 a chess-board. The Ladies and Gentlemen of the 
 Court exeunt into the adjoining roomy whence is heard 
 the music of a gavotte or a minuet.] Alengon — 
 you 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 I go, dear mother, to the monastery, 
 To shoot in concert with Dominicans. 
 
 [ALEN90N exit. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 69 
 
 CATHERINE Act III 
 
 Open the curtains — let the cool night air 
 Blow in our faces. We would hear and see 
 Our faithful people's midnight revelry ! 
 
 \The curtains are drawn back^ and the windows 
 
 thrown open. Beyond the balcony the sky is 
 
 seen to be blood-red. 
 Where is my son, the King ? 
 
 PoLTROT enters and goes up to Catherine. 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 Your Majesty ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Looking up,] Navarre is dead ? 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 He died, as you commanded ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Was he within his room ? 
 
 POTTROT 
 
 Ay. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Bolted in ? 
 
 POLTROT 
 
 The door was open. I could see within 
 
 A figure on a cushion — fast asleep — 
 
 By the faint starlight I crept up to him, 
 
 And stabbed him as he lay. He only groaned. 
 
 The word " Navarre " came rattling from his throat. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Who now is Lord of France — ye spirits, say, 
 Liars and traitors — when King Charles is dead ? 
 
70 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III Enter Guise, and behind him a Page, carrying something 
 covered with a cloth on a silver tray. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 \To Guise.] Guise — cousin — take me hence — for 
 Heaven's sake ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [To Guise.] Coligni, Prince ? 
 
 GUISE 
 
 My father is avenged ! 
 \Beckons the Page, who comes forward and kneels, 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Ay, and the Catholics ! \She goes over to the Page and 
 lifts the cloth a little away from the audience,'] Fare- 
 v^ell, Coligni ! [Starts. 
 
 Look, Cardinal, he smiles. His features w^ear 
 
 The perfect peace of grace ! He died in peace ! 
 
 And this a heretic ? Can the devil's lies 
 
 Extend beyond the grave ? 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Sit anathema ! 
 'Tis hell's eternal triumph to deceive ! [Exit Page. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 My Lord of Guise, I owe you recompense. 
 I give it here. [Pointing to Margaret.] Receive it from 
 her lips ! 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Nay, Queen, there's other vvrork. Where is Navarre ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Navarre is dead. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Already ? Why, I hoped 
 To lay his head before my Margaret's feet. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 71 
 
 A 
 
 Out of my sight, assassin ! 
 
 MARGARET Act III 
 
 GUISE 
 
 {Astonished?^ Margaret ! 
 
 You had another message for my ears 
 But yesterday. [Turning to Queen.] And is he dead, in 
 truth ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 The answer lies within the turret-room. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 ril find it there ! [Exit. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Sobbing.] Oh, for a single word 
 
 To reach my mother's heart ! Oh, for the tongue 
 
 Of some inspired angel to awake 
 
 The tenderer thoughts of conscience, and give pause 
 
 To all this senseless butchery ! [Fal/s at her feet.] 
 
 Mother, spare, 
 Spare further slaughter ! Put an end to blood ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Quietly to Cardinal, resuming her chess.] Your castle 
 is in danger, Cardinal ! 
 
 Enter Charles, wildly excited, 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Begone, pale shadows ! Take that form away- 
 That form, gray-headed, with its kindly smile. 
 I cannot bear to look upon his face. 
 Why do ye dog me thus ? 
 
 cardinal 
 
 Is the King ill ? 
 
72 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III CHARLES 
 
 Bloodhounds ! ye rouse a tiger in my veins 
 
 Which scents the smell of blood — it will not sleep — 
 
 It will have blood — oh, for the love of God, 
 
 Will no one tell me if Coligni lives ? 
 
 I saw him but just now ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Where, idiot, where ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 I saw him in the corridor. He stood 
 As pale as death, with blood upon his face. 
 With hollow voice, as though from out his grave, 
 He stood and cried " Be King, at length a King ! " 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 A fancy — nothing more ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 A game of chess ? [Sits down, 
 I'll play. Move, mother. How much is the stake ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Your crown, my son ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Good, if I win I'm King ! 
 
 [He makes a move, 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Check to the Queen ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Jumping up.] Spirits and devils ! who — 
 
 Who made that move ! 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 The move is good, my liege. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 73 
 
 CHARLES Act III 
 
 You saw it not ? Why there it stood, and moved 
 My hand upon the board ! 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
 Who, Sire? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Coligni ! 
 I am not guilty of his blood, and yet 
 His spirit tortures me ! {With a change of manner. 
 
 Nay, if I must 
 Condemn a thousand innocents to murder 
 I will have one at least to be my prey ! 
 I want a Huguenot corpse ! A musket — quick ! 
 
 \^ei'Les the gun of one of the Guards, and springs 
 up into the balcony, 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Deafen this chattering madman ! Music ! there. 
 
 [Dance music begins again in the ante-room. 
 Outside in the streets there rolls up to the 
 windows the chant of marching Huguenots : 
 " Eine feste Burg " (" God is our strong 
 rock "). Then it is eventually drowned in a 
 discharge of musketry. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Looking up from her game.] What is that noise ? 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 [Entering.] The war-cry of the foe ; 
 The Huguenot chant of battle ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Hark, they sing. 
 " God is our rock." How many Gods, ye priests, 
 Can reign in Heaven, if their faith be vain ? 
 
74 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III CHARLES 
 
 [ShootsJl Aha ! he's hit ! He wallows in the street ! 
 His blood is maddening wine ! Give me some more 1 
 Another musket ! 
 
 [ The chant is over^ but a few voices remain singing. 
 
 '* Thou takest from us earthly life^ 
 Possessions, houses, children, wife." 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Peace I let this screaming cease ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [fFi/diy.] I will have blood ! A shot ! Another shot ! 
 [A single voice is heard, " The kingdom must be 
 ours" interrupted by a death-shriek as Charles 
 shoots him. 
 I have him ! See, he falls I Aha ! he's dead ! 
 
 \^As he turns round he sees — unseen by others — 
 CoLlGNl's ghost, standing on the steps leading 
 up to the balcony. 
 There ! there he stands ! I see him, standing there ! 
 He offers me a golden sceptre. See ! 
 He tells me to be King ! I will, pale ghost, 
 I will indeed be King ! Ah, he is gone. 
 
 [Totters down from the balcony. 
 You saw him, Margaret ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 My poor, poor Charles ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Wait — give me air ! I dare not look again. 
 Is't there ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Be King, and it will come no more ! 
 Undo your work, let the mad revel cease, 
 Withdraw your troops — I pray you end this murder. 
 Let live whoever lives. Be King, be King ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 75 
 
 CATHERINE Act III 
 
 What Insolence is this ? This puppet King 
 Must off to bed ! This night is wholly mine ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Mother, once more I ask you, stay your hand ; 
 
 Recall your orders ; if you have a heart 
 
 Stop this wild massacre, or else I swear, 
 
 Here at your feet, all duty I renounce. 
 
 You are no mother — I no more your child ! 
 
 \To Charles.] List to me, Charles. So help you Heaven 
 
 above, 
 My brother, be the King and give us peace ! 
 'Tis your good angel's voice ! 
 
 Enter Guise. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 You are betrayed, my Queen ! 
 In yonder turret-room there lies Rioux, 
 A halberd in his heart. 'Tis not Navarre ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Standing up.] What, not Navarre ! Nay, everything 
 
 was dark, 
 You could not see him. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 I was not alone, 
 A servant with me bore a torch. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Great Heaven ! 
 I am the more deceived. Where is Poltrot ? 
 
 [PoLTROT throws himself at her feet. 
 Away with him ! Away ! Navarre still lives ! 
 
 [Poltrot is led off by the Guards. 
 
76 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III CHARLES 
 
 Navarre still lives ? What ? He for w^hose one life 
 Paris is soaked in blood ? Ten thousand fall 
 And yet he lives ! St. Denis ! Here's a sign 
 For Charles to understand, a sign from Heaven 
 Which e'en the blind might see, the deaf might hear 
 Shoot out your lightnings, mother, I care not. 
 I will be King indeed. You shall obey. 
 What, in one night ten thousand of my people 
 Butchered in Paris, and in France still more ? 
 And I their King. — Nay, mother, I forgive, 
 Freely forgive you all the rest. He lives ! 
 Navarre still lives ! Nay, but this plot of thine 
 Is comedy indeed, my mother ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 \Who has followed him breathlessly ^ and falls on her knees,] 
 
 Heaven be praised ! 
 Charles takes his sceptre, Charles will yet be King. 
 Navarre is saved, is saved ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Going up to her.] Where is he, where ? 
 
 You know his hiding-place ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I know 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Threatening her with a dagger.] Where, then ? 
 
 Tell me, or else I'll kill you ! In the Louvre ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Your hands may find him. I will not betray ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 77 
 
 Act III 
 
 Enter Navarre from the side door, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Navarre is here. He will protect his wife. 
 Release her, Queen, and turn thy steel on me ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 What, in my daughter's bedroom ? Treason ! Treason ! 
 
 \To the Guards. 
 Arrest them both ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Stay ! Hither, officer ! 
 [To Catherine.] Your time is over. \To Officer.] 
 
 Hasten to the troops. 
 Show them my seal ! I bid the slaughter cease ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Who dares repeal my order ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [IVith dignity.] I, the King ! 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Act IV Scene i. — In the Queen's room. Catherine, Charles 
 IX., Anjou, ALEN90N, seated round a table, 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 And why compel a Valois by force to occupy a throne 
 which he despises ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Well, I might answer, because I shall thus uphold the 
 honour of my race in securing the Polish realm. I might 
 say Ventre St. Gris ! — like our good Harry, the Bourbon 
 King — and tell you that such is my will. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 Poles, too ! Is a Valois, a knight of France, to be sent 
 among wolves, to learn how to breed horses in the marshes ? 
 God's blood ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Take your courtly state with you from Paris. You 
 know you love the camp. In this country, brother Anjou, 
 there is nothing left to fight ; our heretics, thanks to our 
 mother, have been murdered long ago ; but there you will 
 find on your borders crowds, doubtless, of heathen folk. 
 Try your skill on them. 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 If he won't, I will. Give me a crown. So long as it 
 is made of gold, what care I what my subjects are called ? 
 I will play cards and pocket my taxes 
 
 78 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 79 
 
 CHARLES Act IV 
 
 Silence, Alen^on. This is a conference of men, not 
 blockheads. You are not permitted to have a voice. 
 
 ALEN^ON 
 
 As usual ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 \Fushes his chair back.] I close the conference. You 
 have tried the patience of a brother long enough ; I warn 
 you not to tempt the anger of a king ! [Exit. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Go and play cards, Alengion. 
 
 ALENCON 
 
 Yes, mother. [Exit. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 I will not go to Poland ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 You win go to Poland, if your mother bids you. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 You ? Have you any wish to accompany me ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 I have a wish to see you on Charles's throne within the 
 year. 
 
 ANJOU 
 
 I wish that myself. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Listen to me, Henry. The King, so far as I can see, 
 will not live till the year's end — he is weak and diseased 
 alike in body and in soul. The rest is in my hands. 
 Now go. 
 
8o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ^^^ ^ ANJOU 
 
 A year ? It may be so. Then shall I sleep all the 
 softer in the Louvre. To get at the kernel one must 
 needs bite through the shell. \Exlt. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 [Jlone,^ Not yet, not yet — my power has not yet ceased. 
 Not yet, King Charles ! 
 
 Rings a bell, A Chamberlain enters. 
 
 The Princess Margaret. \Exit Chamberlain. 
 1 needs must know how they get on together, 
 The husband and the wife. Can they be friends ? 
 Will she be in her husband's room to-night ? 
 
 Enter Margaret, dressed in black, 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Are we in mourning in the Court, Princess ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Yes, we, the country, the wide world and God. 
 My presence was required, your Majesty ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 " Required " ? " Your Majesty " ? I asked to see 
 My daughter, merely. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Not to seek her good, 
 As formerly, I hope ? Oh ! never, never more ! 
 
 \Comes nearer. 
 There is no blessing on your sleep. You wake 
 To curse the new-born day. Confess it all ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 8i 
 
 You hide it from the world, but Heaven's eye Act IV 
 
 Can find it out. The sword of Heaven's vengeance 
 Hangs o'er your head ; you see it — and you tremble ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 I Stand condemned — I cannot tell you why — 
 
 Ask me no questions, for my mouth is sealed. 
 
 I wait my sentence from the only lips 
 
 Which dare to tell the truth. Give me no love, 
 
 For love is agony. Come, daughter, come. 
 
 Call your whole heart of loathing to your lips. 
 
 And let me taste the rapture of your hate 
 
 In ample measure — let me be condemned. 
 
 Lies to the priest, but only truth to you ; 
 
 I will confess it all, and on my knees 
 
 Ask for your absolution. \Falls on her knees, 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 What is this ? 
 Is everlasting Nature in revolt ? 
 My mother on her knees ! Oh, if my words 
 Can free you from the chain of reckless sin, 
 Repent — repent 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 \Recovering her self. \ Nay, daughter 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Feel remorse — 
 Oh, tell me that you feel at least remorse ! 
 'Twas for our sins Christ came into the world. 
 And every man, and not the priest alone, 
 May grant his brother absolution. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Stay, 
 I was but faint — a momentary spasm. 
 Mere woman's weakness. 
 
82 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV MARGARET 
 
 Nothing more than that ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Come, child, no more ! We'll talk of other matters. 
 
 No more than that ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 CATHERINE 
 
 I seek your happiness ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 My happiness, you say ? Deck me with gold, 
 Place on my head a dozen queenly crowns, 
 You can no more — and it is all too little. 
 There is but one soil whence the flower can grow 
 Of perfect happiness — a heart at peace 
 With its own self and God. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 If we can loose 
 What God hath never joined, a loveless marriage, 
 Can that be mortal error ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Ah, the old creed. 
 The fatal creed of Rome ! I pray thee, speak. 
 Is it arranged that for the good of France 
 My fortunes from Navarre are severed ? Speak ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Not from the land of Beam and Navarre, 
 But from a heretic's side. The Pope of Rome 
 Gives his consent. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 'Twere better he had willed 
 That such an union should have ne'er been made. 
 Yet — 'twas God's will. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 83 
 
 CATHERINE Act IV 
 
 And Guise hath asked thy hand ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Guise ? No, I hate him ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Hate him ? What, so soon ? 
 And yet I heard the whisper of a story — 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I pray thee, mother, cease ; mayhap the cause 
 
 Of all my hatred is this selfsame story; 
 
 Who knows a woman's heart ? No more of Guise ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 So then you love Navarre ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 My lot is plain — 
 In all that he commands, through joy and pain. 
 Through sickness and through health, I cleave to Henry ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Turning away.] She gets beyond me, like her wilful 
 brother. \JVatclnng her narrowly. 
 
 Your husband waits to-night — the guards so tell me — 
 A lady in his rooms 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Angrily breaking out.] What's that to me ? 
 
 And so, good night ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 The guards well know the lady ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 And if they do, my mother knows the reason. 
 
 I pray you let me go, before you stain 
 
 Your lips by mentioning her name — good night ! 
 
84 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV CATHERINE 
 
 [Quickly^ forgetting herself,'] Then 'tis not you ? 'Tis 
 
 true you never visit 
 Your husband's chamber ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Suddenly attentive.'] If you needs must know it, 
 I will admit I've never done so yet ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Sweet child — I'm glad of it. It is not you ! 
 
 That peace and friendship is restored with Henry 
 
 Is truly welcome news. To-day I go 
 
 With all my Court to pay my solemn vows 
 
 Before the altar of the Innocents. 
 
 You will come with me ? No ? Well, as you will. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [After a restless pause.] What does she mean by this ? 
 
 I would I knew ! 
 Was there no note of triumph when she heard 
 I go not to his rooms ? Is there a plot 
 New-hatched against my husband's peace — and mine ? 
 For Catherine's hatred, when it's once aflame, 
 Knows neither pause nor end ! What shall I do ? 
 I'll warn my husband of the coming danger. 
 Alive or dead, my place is by his side ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. — Ante-chamber to Queen's Room, 
 
 Enter Fontanges. 
 
 fontanges 
 An urgent message from Her Majesty ? The Queen 
 expects me here ? What is her need of me ? She is not 
 wont to be so kind. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 85 
 
 Enter Catherine. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Marquise, do me a kindness as you happen to be here ? 
 Write me three lines, Marquise. Sit down and write : 
 " Sire, grant me the favour to receive in your rooms to- 
 night a lady, who, needing protection, would fain speak 
 with you, not as a king, but as a man of honour." 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 [J side.] My God ! What can this mean ? Her eyes 
 are glittering like a tiger's on the spring ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Address the letter : " His Majesty the King of Navarre." 
 [Jside.] A feeling of gallantry — the love of adventure — 
 that's the best bait ! 
 
 FONTANGES 
 
 [Jside.] Some danger threatens him. How can I 
 warn him ? 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Fontanges, I am obliged to you. Return to your room, 
 and — let us have roses on your cheeks to-mor'-ow ! 
 [Fontanges exit r. Catherine goes l., and calls.] 
 Officer of the guard ! 
 
 An Officer enters^ l. 
 
 The Marquise of Fontanges is put under strict arrest 
 until further orders. \^Exii Officer. Pushing open a side 
 door L. u. E.] Ruggieri ! 
 
 Enter Ruggieri. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Act IV 
 
 The tapers ? 
 
86 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV RUGGIERI 
 
 Madam, they are ready. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 You have tested them ? 
 
 RUGGIERI 
 
 Madam, I have. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 You have the keys of all the turret-rooms in the Louvre. 
 Navarre is gone falconing to St. Denis, w^e hear. Go 
 and put the tapers in the brackets in his room, and then 
 come back. [Exit Ruggieri. 
 
 [Alone.'] Not yet — not yet — my power has not yet 
 
 ceased. 
 Not yet, King Charles ! For thirty years I fought 
 And conquered. Shall I, fighting with a boy, 
 Yield up forthwith the victory in a day ? 
 Fate in the stars may threaten me with ruin, 
 I care not — I will tear her from her throne. 
 And she shall be my slave. I fought the fight 
 With thirty thousand Huguenots to the death, 
 And shall I fail in conflict with their King ? 
 I will not fail again. The hunter's craft 
 Is best and surest when he snares the game 
 In its own lair. [Exit, 
 
 Scene 3. — In Navarre's turret bed-chamber. The lights 
 are burning in the candelabra with peculiar brightness, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [Reading a letter^ A woman's hand ! the note perfumed 
 
 with roses ! 
 'Tis either the first blush of innocence, 
 Or some old maid in trouble. Which is it ? 
 Let's listen to the lady. What, to-night ? 
 In my own room ? Oh, it must be the old one ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 87 
 
 Lambkins have not the courage ! more's the pity ! Act VJ 
 
 What does she say ? She " needs protection," eh ? 
 
 Old maids are safe enough from man's pursuit ; 
 
 It cannot be the old one ! Beautiful, of course, 
 
 For ugliness, we know, protects itself ! 
 
 What shall I do ? I needs must see the lady ; — 
 
 So speaks the young, rash devil of my folly. 
 
 But there's another voice which whispers me, 
 
 Shut fast thy door, let no one enter here ! 
 
 Ah, that's the whisper of my better self, 
 
 The voice of secret love, the voice of her 
 
 Whose name eclipses every other name. 
 
 Whose light outshines all other lesser stars. 
 
 Sun of my life, lord of my firmament. 
 
 The sweetest name to swear by — Margaret ! 
 
 And shall I blush for shame, because my wife — 
 
 My wife — no other — satisfies my soul ? 
 
 I love her, as a guardian angel loves 
 
 His sinful child, I love her with my tears. 
 
 My faith, my reverence, my sincerest self; 
 
 Before her image I can kneel and pray 
 
 In dumb, forgetful silence. — Hush ! who comes ? 
 
 Enter Charles, in night attire. 
 King Charles, so late ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Late — is it very late ? 
 Are you alone ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Well, for the moment, Sire, 
 I am alone. What drives you from your couch ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Nettles and briars, Henry, nettles and briars ! 
 They sting, they burn, they blister. Oh, for sleep ! 
 
88 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV If I could only sleep ! There in my room, 
 
 Pale ghosts are always flitting. On the walls 
 They move in slow procession to and fro, 
 Pale, bloodless, ghastly phantoms ; as they pass 
 Each turns its eyeless socket on my face — 
 Huguenots, and Huguenots, and Huguenots — 
 Ten thousand ghosts, and ever more and more ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Poor, troubled King ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 We will change rooms, my Harry, 
 Or I will sleep near you. No ghosts come here. 
 If I could only banish that one face 
 So mild and gentle, with the snow-white hair, 
 Martyred Coligni, who will stand and smile — 
 If only he would frown ! — and strive to speak, 
 Save that some awful fetters chain his tongue — 
 Oh, it is frightful 1 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 'Tis thy mother, Sire, 
 To whom Heaven looks for vengeance, not thyself. 
 Nay, but take courage, steel thy fainting nerves. 
 Look Nature in the face ! They'll come no more. 
 These foolish ghosts ! See, we will range the woods 
 After the deer to-morrow ; or, if you will. 
 Dressed like the Caliph in the tale, we'll visit 
 Each street and alley, enter the rooms 
 And climb the balconies — as chance may lead. 
 Come — let us bury all this royal state 
 In sportj or feast, or idle merriment ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 By Denis, so we will ! Methinks we'll have 
 Some famous days together. You're the man 
 To doctor my weak soul. But listen, Harry. 
 Henceforth, we'll sleep together. In this room 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 89 
 
 I feel so strangely sleepy, for the air Act IV 
 
 Is free from angry ghosts. Yes, I will sleep ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 So be it ! While you sleep here in my room, 
 I will pursue your ghosts in yours, and see 
 What stuff they're made of. Never fear for me. 
 'Tis in your brain they gibber — not in mine ! 
 What papers have you, brother ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 My last will ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 What last, already — ere the first be signed ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 \Gloomily^ The first may be the last. 'Twill make 
 them stare ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Stare? Who? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 My brothers ! Catherine ! The world ! 
 
 My cousin, answer me. 
 
 What would you do if you were King of France ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 I'd put a fowl each Sunday, Ventre St. Gris ! 
 Into the dish of each good citizen. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 What, heretics too ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 What is a heretic. Sire ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Why, you, yourself, God help you ! Better change 
 Your faith, good Harry, or you will be damned. 
 
90 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV NAVARRE 
 
 That's like enough, for sundry lies I told, 
 Whereby I made a maiden's heart beat faster — 
 But not because I will not go to Mass ! 
 No more of that, I pray you. Now, good night ; 
 The air, methinks, is somewhat sultry here. 
 Ah, by the way, should any ghost appear 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 What's that you say ? 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Nay, do not be alarmed. 
 The kind I mean have human flesh and blood. 
 And if she comes, I pray you, press her hand ; 
 I warrant she'll be frightened more than you ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Looking up with a sad smi/e.] What, Margaret, is it ? 
 
 Make her happy, Harry. 
 Be happy both ; had I the power to bless, 
 Be sure I'd wish you happiness for ever ; 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 [fp^ho has turned away.] My God, if it were she ! but that's 
 
 absurd. 
 I will not so beguile my heart. Good night. 
 You'll tell me who it is to-morrow, Charles ; 
 To-night, I'm not at home. Her letter bore 
 No signature. Sleep peacefully, my King. 
 I go to fill my lungs with the night air 
 Upon the tower. May all good angels watch 
 Thy peaceful sleep ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Sleep — sleep ! 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Once more, good night ! 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 91 
 
 CHARLES Act IV 
 
 Good night ! [Navarre exit. 
 
 It h a comedy ! For years they've w^hispered, 
 Made all their plots, and spilt some human blood. 
 Now^, with a pen stroke, he whom ne'er they've asked 
 Opinion from, or thought about at all, 
 Brings — with a pen stroke — the whole house of cards 
 In headlong ruin. 'Tis true comedy ! [Wildly. 
 
 If I have nothing else to will away, 
 I have the crown. 
 
 Enter Margaret, in night attire. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 My brother ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Margaret ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 And Henry — where — 
 Where is my husband ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 And are you the one — 
 The lady seeking him ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I seek him for 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Dost love him, Margaret ? Is it love at last ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Why ask me ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Why — because it gives me joy 
 To see two happy and united hearts. 
 Mayhap I ne'er shall see the like again ! 
 
92 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV You ask for Henry — well, he went away, 
 Because the loving missive lacked a name. 
 Had it borne yours, I think he would have stayed. 
 Why, Margot — how you blush and droop your eyes 
 Shame-faced to the ground as though you were 
 A callow girl enamoured of a boy ! 
 You are in love ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Nay, jest not, brother mine, 
 This is no time for jests — 'tis deadly earnest ! 
 I came to warn my husband. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Danger is't ? 
 What danger ? Whence ? Where stands the peril ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Only this I know, 
 My husband's life is threatened in this room. 
 I came to share what peril may befall 
 Close by his side. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 True wife, true yoke-fellow ! 
 Still I am here, and here I shall remain, 
 I am the King — what if we waited here ? 
 Ay, that were wise — I think we will remain. 
 What was I saying ? Why, the air is dense. 
 As Harry said, it makes the brain spin round — 
 We two will wait and see this lady come. 
 This pretty dame who claims to visit Harry, 
 And catch her in the act with all the proofs 
 Of villainy upon her. By the Cross, 
 I'll send her to some far-off lonely tower 
 Hard by the ocean's marge, where she shall hear 
 Naught but the billows' melancholy plaint 
 Beating their life out on a desolate shore. 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 93 
 
 MARGARET Act IV 
 
 I, too, will Stay with thee and see what comes. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Right, sister mine — we twain will sit and watch. 
 Come, nestle here, and fold my mantle close 
 Around you, as I twine you with my arms. 
 I am the mother-bird who calls her chicks 
 Under her wings as soon as night-time comes — 
 Night with its unknown perils and alarms. 
 And I will shield you from the birds of prey 
 Who spy upon your loneliness and vex 
 Within your heart the heaven of your love. 
 What was that mournful song we used to sing 
 Of kingly lives, so anguish-fraught and drear. 
 So sweetly sad, so rich in piteous tears ? 
 
 [Chants in low voice to soft orchestral music. 
 As children in the vale where Cluny lies 
 
 We laughed for nothing : now in royal state. 
 Here in this Louvre, with sorrow-laden eyes, 
 
 We weep at every turn and trick of fate ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 We played with pebbles once and sang for joy, 
 But now our jewels are all wet with tears ! 
 
 Gold was our sunshine — gold without alloy : 
 How black our night is, girt with royal fears ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 At eve we sighed, because the light was done, — 
 The happy light which gave us time to 
 play ; 
 
 But now we dread the rising of the sun. 
 The dawning of some new and tragic day ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 No royal pomp, no guarded palace lends 
 
 The painless peace we fain would make 
 our own. 
 
94 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV CHARLES 
 
 A hungry beggar may have troops of friends. 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 But we are kings, and therefore all alone 1 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 How shall we end our chant of kings 
 forlorn ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 I end it thus : " Would God, we'd ne'er 
 been born ! " 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 \Repeats^^ " Would God we'd ne'er been born ! " 
 \After a short pause.] Is music sounding here ? No, all 
 
 is peace. 
 And yet what roar of cataracts is this 
 Which break in thunder from the mountain sides ? 
 Oh, for some Arctic sea, some polar stream 
 To cool this burning brow ! I melt in fire ! 
 How goes it with you, sister ? 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Well, indeed. 
 I sit alone within a deep green wood. 
 And wait and wait until my consort comes, 
 The noble quarry whom my soul desires. 
 Then will I spring upon his neck and hold 
 Him close, a willing prisoner in these arms. [Pause, 
 
 I knew a song of royal children once — [Pause, 
 
 Ah ! if my head would cease its throbbing pain ! 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 [Springing up with clenched hands.] Blood, blood, my 
 
 sweat is blood — the Huguenots' blood ! 
 See the great drops which trickle from my hands. 
 How ruby red they shine ! Is there no room 
 Untenanted by ghosts where I can stay ? 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 95 
 
 Ghosts ? No — a sick man's fancy ! 'Tis the air, Act IV 
 
 The poisoned air that kills. Rise, sister, rise. 
 The danger that we waited for has come — 
 We are betrayed. Where stands the enemy ? 
 
 \He reaches out wildly with a sword which he has 
 seized. 
 Not palpable to touch, unheard, unfelt — 
 Nay, this is devil's work. {Throws it away and gasps 
 
 down to the front of the stage.] I cannot breathe. 
 The air, the air is poisoned. Sister, rise. 
 Fly if you can. The mother's festering breath 
 Is wafted through the room. I pray you rise ! 
 
 [He has with difficulty dragged himself to her^ and 
 props up her drooping hcad^ bending over her. 
 Foam on her lips ! A cold sweat on her brow ! 
 Pray Heaven, 'tis not too late ! Oh, for one gleam — 
 One little gleam of thought to help me now. 
 Just the bare remnant of my consciousness. 
 
 \IIis eyes are fixed on the candelabra. 
 Where have I seen such tapers ? Eddying rings 
 
 Of vapour rise and curl \^teps nearer and looks at the 
 
 ground.] The ground is strewn 
 With glittering points of poison-laden dust. 
 Help ! Murder ! Help ! The very air is death ; 
 I drink in death in gasps of labouring breath. 
 This then was Henry's doom ! \^ei%es the bell and rings 
 
 continuously.] Oh ! that this bell 
 Might call all Paris to this treachery ! 
 
 [Pages and Gentlemen and Ladies of the Chamber 
 hurry in with lights. 
 Quick ! doors and windows open, take these lights away ; 
 Let the sweet air of night into the room. 
 
 \_The Pages change the candles and go out with the 
 old ones, 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 [Crooning to herself] 
 
 The bells ring out the marriage peal. 
 Why doth the bridegroom tarry ? 
 
96 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV CHARLES 
 
 Where are the women ? 
 Quick, give the Princess air ! 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 Where is the bride her vows to seal ? 
 Where is the priest to marry ? 
 Ah ! — my mother did it all. God rest her soul ! 
 
 \ls led to the window. The Women attend to her. 
 
 CHARLES ^ 
 
 Come to me. 
 
 [ Two Gentlemen that remain behind support him. 
 Now, God of justice, now I pray thee, strengthen 
 This nerveless hand of mine to give the stroke. 
 The final stroke which seals this testament. 
 In Heaven's stead I stand to show the world 
 Eternal justice lives. Doom to the Valois : 
 That is the sacred ordinance of Heaven. 
 Open this will. The name alone remains 
 Unsigned. \^JVrites.'\ 'Tis done. Go forth and summon 
 
 here. 
 Tear him from bed if need be, our State Councillor. 
 Bid him come quick to execute this deed. 
 
 \^Exit a Chamberlain. 
 So — all the rest is hardly worth a smile. 
 Now comes the end. \Sinks on a chair. 
 
 Enter Catherine with Pages, and from the other side Guise, 
 Guards, etc. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 What is all this ? What noise disturbs our sleep ? 
 
 You in this room, and where is Is not this 
 
 The turret-room of Henry of Navarre ? 
 
BRIDALS OF BLOOD 97 
 
 CHARLES Act IV 
 
 Ah ! Thou unholy agent of revenge, 
 If one were blind and deaf, one then might think 
 'Twas all mischance ; but God — believe me, mother — 
 Does not permit such trafficking w^ith Heaven. 
 
 GiJISE 
 
 What is the matter, Charles ? 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Nay, ask of her [pointing to Catherine], 
 If she will speak. Call Henry of Navarre. 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Nay, call a priest. 
 
 See, here he comes. 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Call Henry of Navarre. 
 
 GUISE 
 
 Enter Navarre. He clasps Margaret in his arms, 
 
 NAVARRE 
 
 Margot — my own — I find you then at last. 
 My love, my bride ! Nay, you are ill and pale. 
 You draw your breath in slow and painful gasps, 
 What strange event is here ? ' 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 Ah, there is much to say. 
 See, mother, how your cursed plan has failed ! 
 Her love hath kept her safe ! They are together — 
 They're one, at last ! So falls the house of Valois, 
 And Beam wins ! 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 Can this be Heaven's vengeance ? 
 
 H 
 
98 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV CHARLES 
 
 [ To Navarre.] Nay, leave her, brother mine, and bend 
 
 thine ear 
 Close to my mouth. I fain would speak a word, 
 A final word, ere death arrest my tongue. 
 I pray you, Henry, make the Church at peace. 
 Let each man, as he lives beneath thy rule, 
 Find his own path to Heaven. 
 
 Enter Chancellor, Heralds, and Pages. 
 
 Nay, Queen Catherine, 
 Your day is past for ever. Chancellor, now. 
 
 CHANCELLOR 
 
 \Keads,'\ " In the name of God and by order of the 
 King ! Herewith, with a sound mind, so may God help 
 us to everlasting peace, we appoint to the inheritance and 
 rule of our Kingdom Henry, the King of Navarre and 
 Beam " [Catherine stands transfixed, 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 \Raises himself with a final effort.'] Greet the new King ! 
 Greet Henry of Navarre ! 
 
 [Dies. The Herald breaks a staff with the words 
 " Le Roi est morty vive le Roi I " The 
 Guards salute. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Christopher Marlowe, poet and dramatist. 
 
 Sir Thomas Walsingham, Marlowe's friend and patron. 
 
 Thomas Nash, dramatist! 
 
 Thomas Lodge, poet Vifriends of Marlowe. 
 
 Edward Alleyn, actor J 
 
 Henry Chettle, a literary man. 
 
 Francis Archer, landlord of " Red Lion " Inn at Deptford. 
 
 Nan, Archer's housekeeper. 
 
 Scene. — " Red Lion " Inn at Deptford. 
 
 *^* The acting rights of this play are in the hands of Mr. George 
 Alexander. 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH 
 
 Scene. — " Red Lion " Inn at Deptford, Parlour with 
 sanded floor. Nan discovered laying table and making 
 preparations for a meal as the curtain rises. " Come 
 live with me and he my love " is sung as a quartette 
 behind stage. Nan laying table and hustling about 
 while music is going on. She sighs from time to time, and 
 goes finally to window and draws back curtain^ looking 
 out on a moonlit scene. 
 
 Time. — Evening of June i, 1593. 
 Enter Francis Archer {the landlord of the Inn). 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Why, how now, Nan, is everything ready for our 
 guests ? A noisy crew they will be, I warrant — ay, and 
 a quarrelsome one before the night is out ! 
 
 NAN 
 
 [Sighing.] Ay, Master Archer. [She still looks out of 
 window^ and does not turn round.] 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Master Archer ! Master Archer ! How many times 
 am I to tell thee, girl, that to thee I am not Master 
 Archer, but plain Francis — Francis, an it please you, 
 that loveth thee with as true and honest a love as ever 
 man gave to a maid. Is it moonlight to-night, Nan ? 
 
 lOI 
 
< J,r : t 
 
 19a, . , DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 NAN 
 
 Yes, Master Archer. 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Master Archer again ! Why, sweet Nan, bonny Nan, 
 know you not that moonlight is made for lovers ? [coming 
 close to her,] And that thou and I are very like to be 
 betrothed to-night ? [She turns away and goes back to table ; 
 he follows.] Didst thou not promise, girl, that it should 
 be even so ? Didst thou not swear to me that to-night, 
 after the clock had struck midnight, thou wouldst give me 
 a fair and straightforward answer, ay or nay ? Knowest 
 thou not that since my late wife died (God rest her soul !) 
 I have favoured no other maid, but only thee r I grant 
 you that my late venture was no profitable one. But 
 thou, Nan, will make more than amends for all I have 
 suffered ; and thy bright eye will clear my bosom of all 
 the perilous stuff of anger and petulance which have har- 
 boured there these many years past. Shall it not be so. 
 Nan ? Didst thou not make the promise I have said ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 Yes, Master Archer, I have promised ; but [as he comes 
 still nearer^ and tries to take her hand] after midnight, and 
 not before. 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Nay, Nan, I understand thee well enow. But thy 
 coldness disconcerts me. Art thou coy, lass, with me, 
 that hath loved thee these many months ; Art thou 
 afeard of me, that would take thee to his breast, like a 
 frightened and timorous bird ? Dost thou not know me, 
 child ? [He at last gets possession of her hand^ but she still 
 keeps her eyes turned away from him.] Is it something else. 
 Nan, that keeps thee from me ? [fiercely.] What is it ? 
 Who is it ? Thou shalt tell me. Nan ; ay, even if I tear 
 thy secret from out thy lips ! 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH 103 
 
 NAN 
 
 Nay, Master Archer ; I have naught to tell. Let me 
 go. [Bursts into tears.'] 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Now, by all the saints in Heaven, I will know ! Who 
 is it ? I ask thee again. It cannot be that one of the 
 gentry hath spoken soft things in thine ear ? Thou 
 wouldst never dare lift thine eyes so high. Who is it, girl ? 
 [roughly.'] Some simple swain, to whom thou hast plighted 
 thy troth long ago, before thou becamest housekeeper in 
 my service, and to whom thou yet feelest thyself bound ? 
 God's blood, but I am worth more than so clumsy a hind ! 
 No ? Who then ? Not one of these mad players and 
 playwrights, who go over the whole face of the earth in 
 paint and powder, cozening the face which Heaven hath 
 given them into the likeness of knave or hero, God or 
 devil ? Ah ! have I touched thee there ? Then was I a 
 thousand times right in asking their worshipful vagrancies 
 here, and watching their wild antics with thee. Which 
 is it. Nan ? for God is my witness, know I will, and that 
 soon. Is it that wild tragedy villain, Alleyn, who hath 
 debased himself into all the sins of Tamburlaine — so they 
 tell me — ay, and even hath given himself a false nose and 
 red hair, and masqueraded as Barabas, a Jew of Malta ? 
 or is it that whimpering Chettle ? or the cold, sneering 
 Nash ? or — may God confound him — is it that handsome, 
 careless, devil-may-care Kit Marlowe, with his saucy 
 manners and his sparkling eyes, who hath taken the whole 
 town by storm ? Nan, is it Kit ? God in Heaven, not 
 Marlowe ! Speak, girl, speak ! 
 
 NAN 
 
 [With face averted^ and frightened.] Let me alone. 
 Master Archer ; nay, but I will not be thus harried by 
 thee ! Let me alone, I say ! Have I not promised thee 
 that I will give thee my answer to-night ? Will not 
 that content thee ? 
 
I04 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Content me, no — nor any other man, who feeleth the 
 devil's own jealousy within him, as I do. Tell me fairly 
 and openly, Nan, is it Marlowe ? [with a change of manner.^ 
 Thou wilt not be hard-hearted. Nan ; thou wilt not be 
 so unkind to one who hath loved thee, and would fain 
 cherish thee all the years of thy life ? Say, Nan, thou wilt 
 tell me, wilt thou not ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 [Crying.'\ Nay, nay, nay, I cannot ; leave me go, leave 
 me go, Master Archer. See, how thy rude hand hath 
 hurt my wrist ! Unmannerly ! 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Unmannerly, sayest thou ? And what of thee, who 
 hast led me on from week to week and from month to 
 month with the ever-deferred promise that thou wilt be 
 mine ? Is that unmannerly ? What of thyself, who 
 hast played with so wanton a lightness on my heart's 
 strings until, as thou knowest full well, I have no thought 
 but of thee ; and then, when the happiness of thy posses- 
 sion seemed to be at last within my reach, thou fliest off 
 after some new fancy — some fresh young light-o'-love, no 
 sooner seen than desired ! Is that unmannerly ? Heaven's 
 truth ! Speak not to me of unmannerliness, when thou 
 canst thus throw off an old friend ! 
 
 NAN 
 
 Indeed, indeed, Master Archer, thou knowest that I 
 have always respected and — and — liked thee well enow. 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 [Bitterly.l Liked ! Respected ! And when some 
 beggarly young scapegrace of an actor and playwright, 
 some son of a cobbler, who hath already lamed himself in 
 his wild riots on the stage, and earned a fame at " the 
 Curtain " which should be the shame of honest men j 
 
KIT MARLOWE S DEATH 105 
 
 who hath disgraced the mother that bare him and the 
 
 learned colleges which have brought him up ; who is 
 
 notorious for his quarrels and his cups, ay, and his 
 
 mistresses ; who 
 
 NAN 
 
 [Breaking in.'] Thou shalt not thus wrong Master 
 Marlowe. I will not listen to thee. He hath ever been 
 kind of heart and open of hand to all who have been 
 in sorrow or in need. Why, only yester-even 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Ah 1 it is Marlowe, then ! \Jiercely,'\ Tore God, Nan, 
 thou and he shall live to repent this ! What, it is he 
 then that hath caught this silly, fluttering bird — who 
 hath taken all the gloss off thy butterfly wings ! And 
 I — well, I may go hang where and when it listeth me ! 
 But it shall not be so. Nan ! I swear it on my oath ! 
 He shall never hold thee in his arms as I am holding thee 
 now. [Clasps her.] This very night 
 
 Enter Lodge, Nash, Alleyn, Chettle, Sir Thomas 
 
 Walsingham. Nash holding a paper^ over which 
 they are all laughing immoderately^ with the exception of 
 Chettle. Archer leaves Nan, who escapes out 
 
 of the room^ and turning with a low how 
 
 [Exit Nan. 
 Your servant, gentlemen all ! 
 
 LODGE 
 
 Good even. Master Francis. Servant, be it ; and look 
 you, we be thirsty souls ; therefore serve us with some 
 wine, and be quick about it ; and we be hungry souls, 
 look you, therefore serve us with that same supper which 
 thou wottest of j and hurry thy legs about that too ! 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 \()hsequious^ Certes, gentlemen. Your appetites and 
 
io6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 your thirst shall not exceed my nimbleness. Ye shall be 
 served with a supper which hath been these ten minutes 
 awaiting you. 
 
 SIR THOMAS WALSINGHAM 
 
 Who was that comely wench, who so incontinently 
 fled our coming ? Methinks, if we are to be served by 
 her hands, we shall not do amiss, please God. 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 It's my housekeeper, my lord. 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Housekeeper, villain ! She is young enough to be thy 
 daughter. 
 
 LODGE 
 
 [Laughing.'] " Young enough and fair enough and free 
 enough to — cheat thee ! " Aha, Sir Thomas, thine eye 
 is ever for the wenches ! At thine age, too ! 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Well, well, the supper — and thy housekeeper. Archer 
 — especially the housekeeper ! [Exit Archer. 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 And now for the dying will and testament, friend 
 Nash. Out with it ; let us all hear thee, and let those 
 who have galled withers wince ! I care not, I. But who 
 would have thought our old friend Robin Greene would 
 have made such an ending ? 
 
 CHETTLE 
 
 [Rubbing his hands.'] Ay, ay, he was a kindly man 
 was Robin Greene. A kindly man and a thoughtful — a 
 rare writer of plays and a rare critic of his friends ! 
 
 LODGE 
 
 Peace, thou sallow-faced weasel, and let thy betters 
 speak. 
 
KIT MARLOWE S DEATH 107 
 
 NASH 
 
 [Reading from Greeners " Groatsworth of Wit Bought by 
 a Million of Repentance^'l "To those gentlemen his 
 quondam acquaintance that spend their wits in making 
 playes, R. G. wisheth a better exercise, and wisdom to 
 prevent his extremities." 
 
 LODGE 
 
 Poor friend Robin ! He died hard, so it is reported. 
 
 CHETTLE 
 
 Nay, gentlemen, peace. Let us hear him. 
 
 NASH 
 
 \Reading.'\ " If woeful experience may move you, 
 gentlemen, to beware, or unheard-of wretchedness intreat 
 you to take heed, I doubt not but you will look back 
 with sorrow on your time past, and endeavour with 
 repentance to spend that which is to come." 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Is not this brave ? A rare preacher ! say I. 
 
 NASH 
 
 [Reading.'] " Wonder not (for with thee will I first 
 begin), thou famous gracer of tragedians " 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Kit Marlowe ! Kit Marlowe ! 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 'Twere best he speak no ill of Marlowe in my presence. 
 What does the graceless villain say of Marlowe ? 
 
 CHETTLE 
 
 Peace, peace, gentlemen. I pray you listen. 
 
io8 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 NASH 
 
 [Reading.'] "Why should thy excellent wit be so 
 blinded that thou shouldst give no glory to the Giver ? 
 Is it pestilent Machiavellian policy that thou hast studied ? 
 O, peevish folly ! " Nay, friends, is not this infamous ? 
 I will not sully my tongue with such dying venom. 
 Hardly a year in his grave, and to leave such a legacy ! 
 I would that Kit were here to hear himself bespattered ! 
 
 CHETTLE 
 
 Nay, but proceed, Master Nash. There is much 
 sound wit and judgment in what is to come. 
 
 NASH 
 
 Proceed ? Not I. Is it thou, thou white-faced loon, 
 that hast given this pestilent rubbish to the world ? 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Ay, Chettle, art thou the editor ? 
 
 CHETTLE 
 
 Gentlemen, gentlemen, I pray you be just to me. 
 I have all the time of my knowledge of books hindered, 
 so far as it hath lain with me, the bitter inveighing 
 against scholars, and how in that I have dealt I can 
 sufficiently prove. As for this Marlowe, I am not 
 acquainted with him, and I care not if I never be. 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Well, then, if thou carest to have a whole skin, the 
 sooner thou departest the better for thee. Do I hear 
 Kit's voice ? [Marlowe's voice heard without^ singing. 
 
 NASH 
 
 Ay, begone with thee, Chettle ! If thou givest such 
 rubbish as this to honest men, beware their resentment ! 
 
KIT MARLOWE S DEATH 109 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Out with thee, thou knavish purveyor of malice ! 
 
 \^As they threaten^ Chettle slinh out L. 
 From door r. Nan comes in with tankards 
 and wine. From door c. enter Marlov^E, 
 flushed^ and as he comes in he sings : — 
 
 And saw you not my Nan to-day ? 
 
 My winsome maid have you not seen ? 
 My pretty Nan is gone away 
 
 To seek her love upon the green. 
 
 As he comes down he sees Nan, and puts his 
 arm round her waist and draws her to him. 
 Archer, who has followed Nan with dishes^ 
 sees the act. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [^Seating himself at table.] Well, comrades, how goeth it 
 with you ? Be ye merry, and I will give you a stave. 
 But an ye be mournful, I am not of your company 
 [looking after Nan, who has gone outy and sings'] — 
 
 My pretty Nan is gone away 
 
 To seek her love upon the green. 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Thou art come in time, friend Kit, for this varlct 
 Archer hath been like to upset the pasty on my lap, so 
 overjoyed is he at thy coming. [To Archer] Sirrah, 
 wilt thou put the dish down and be gone ? Come, thou 
 tragic histrio, AUeyn, repeat to him some of thy deep- 
 mouthed verses to frighten him ! 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 [JVith tragedy air.] "Holla, ye pampered jades of 
 Asia ! " [They all laugh.] 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Nay, nay, Tom Nash loveth not "the drumming 
 decasyllabon," eh, Tom ? " The swelling bombast of a 
 
no DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 bragging blank verse," eh, Tom ? But, my worthy sirs, 
 though I see many cups, yet there is to my mind a 
 miserable paucity of contents. Friend Archer, wilt thou 
 not remove that sullen face of thine, and let thy Nan 
 come in to replenish our emptiness ? 
 
 [Archer goes out sullenly. 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Who is this Nan, Kit ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [Carelessly.'] Nan ? She is what Archer calls his house-, 
 keeper, is she not ? 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Ay, ay, we know that well enough. But canst thou 
 tell us no more of her than what we know already ? 
 Did not my ears catch some ribald lines which thou wert 
 repeating in her honour, and did not my eyes see thy 
 tender salutation ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [Laughing.'] Each one to his own ! say I. Nay, in all 
 seriousness, gentlemen, she is a small chit that hath much 
 helped to relieve my dulness in this village while the 
 plague is raging in the town. I did her, or her mother, 
 some small kindness : I forget which it was, or what it 
 was ; and she hath in return done me the great kindness 
 of living in Deptford, whereby I have something whereon 
 to feast my weary eyes. [Nan comes in with more wine.] 
 Hast thou not. Nan ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 \Shyly.] I know not, Mr. Marlowe, what thou sayest. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [As she fills his cup.] Well, Nan, thou shalt give my 
 cup the benison of thy lips. Drink to me, lass. Nay, 
 I insist. [She touches the cup with her lips; Marlowe 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH iii 
 
 drains it down.] 'Fore Heaven, 'tis nectar now. "A 
 lass and a glass," saith the wise man. And now, Nan, 
 go thy ways, my bonny girl ; for we hard drinkers are 
 not meet company for thee. Go thy ways, lass ; go ! 
 
 [She goes out. 
 
 NASH 
 
 Confound thee. Kit ; thou always hast the devil's own 
 luck. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Which is more than I can say for thee, Tom, when thou 
 writest in the company of Robin Greene and decriest thy 
 learned friends as " idiot art-masters " ! [ The others laugh at 
 Nash's expense.] But what was the business over which ye 
 all looked so grave as I entered ? It was a thirsty business, 
 I'll be bound, or all the cups would not have been so 
 empty ! 
 
 NASH 
 
 We were reading Greene's testament, wherein, to his 
 shame, he hath said so many hard words of thee. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 So hast thou, Tom, in thy time, so hast thou ! Nay, 
 deny it not, man, nor think that it angereth me a jot. 
 Dame Nature hath given me a tough hide. 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 And a tender heart. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 That shall be as it may be. But read on, Nash, read 
 on. I would fain have some savoury morsel wherewith to 
 flavour my cup. 
 
 NASH 
 
 {Reading]. " Defer not till the last point of extremity " 
 — he is speaking of thee. Kit — " for little knowest thou 
 how in the end thou shalt be visited." 
 
112 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Like enough ! like enough ! Unvisited, unwept for, 
 and alone ! \_Thts in a half-asidcy with almost a serious 
 air.] 
 
 NASH 
 
 [Continuing.] " With thee I join young Juvenal, that 
 biting satirist. Sweet boy, might I advise thee, be 
 advised, and get not many enemies by bitter words." He 
 must mean thee, Tom Lodge. 
 
 LODGE 
 
 No. Am I not a gentleman of Lincoln's Inn, and a 
 Master of Arts ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Ay, a better Master of Arts than thou art a Doctor of 
 Divinity ! But he means not Tom Lodge, but Tom 
 Nash. Have we not all suffered from his biting 
 satires ? 
 
 NASH 
 
 I care not, whether it be I or he. But here is a 
 worthier passage. Listen, sirs, and tell me whether even 
 poor crazy Robin Greene speaketh not sometimes to the 
 point [reads] : " There is an upstart crow, beautified with 
 our feathers, that supposes he is as well able to bombast 
 out a blank verse as the best of you, and being an abso- 
 lute Johannes-factotum, is in his own conceit the only 
 Shakescene in a country." Aha, methinks he hath taken 
 off our young deer-stealer to a nicety ! 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Ay, that is the proper sauce wherewith to serve so 
 eminent a gosling 1 
 
 LODGE 
 
 Bravo, Robin ! Thou canst be young Juvenal too, 
 when it liketh thee ! 
 
KIT MARLOWE S DEATH 113 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [Starting up.] Now, 'fore Heaven, I think ye be too un- 
 charitable ! I care not what he saith of me or any of 
 you, but no man shall speak thus in. my presence of young 
 Will Shakespeare. 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Why, Kit, they say he is like to be thy rival ! 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Rival, sayest thou ? Nay, mistake me not. He is not 
 my rival, nor any man's. I tell ye all that when we are 
 lying in our graves, there will be one man who will be 
 living in men's mouths — Will Shakespeare ! When men 
 have forgotten the very names we bore, when all that we 
 have written becomes like letters on the sand or the water 
 — there is one name they will never forget — Will 
 Shakespeare ! Ye talk of me and of my mighty line ; 
 what is all that I have penned, weighed in the balances 
 against Will Shakespeare ? Why, gentlemen, he is but in 
 the first blush of his spring, and mayhap none of us shall 
 see his summer, but I tell ye that there are thoughts of his 
 and words which he hath written which ring in my ears 
 hke the divinest music, which cross the dull and muddy 
 air we breathe like lightning flashes of Heaven's own 
 blinding radiance ! I say nothing of the man himself, 
 how gentle he is and how modest, compared to our noisy 
 crew, and with how simple a life he is for ever rebuking 
 our mad escapades ; but if this speech be my last, I will 
 bear testimony to the finest mind and purest genius that 
 ever blest our English tongue with inimitable pearls and 
 diamonds — ay, the one man who, if fate so will that 
 our dear England be conquered by some foreign foe and 
 sink into obscurity and nothingness, will for ever redeem 
 our race and the common name we bear — because Will 
 Shakespeare was an Englishman ! [Marlowe sinks down 
 on his seat.] [J pause. 
 
 I 
 
114 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 Why, how now, Kit, this is tragedy indeed ! 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [Wearily.'\ Ay, ay, mayhap I am something over- 
 wrought to-night. Give me more to drink. Is it true 
 that men have sometimes a strange feeling that their end 
 is nigh, and that all their work is over ? Pshaw, this is 
 woman's weakness ! 
 
 NASH 
 
 Come, come. Kit. Tell us of thyself. Hast thou 
 been doing aught that is noteworthy ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [Brightening.'] Something here and there, by fits and 
 starts, as is my wont. Rememberest thou the tragedy of 
 Dido and those young school-boy essays of mistranslating 
 Virgil ? Well, Tom, there is work in that for thee. 
 The work tires me somewhat. Wilt thou take it in 
 hand ? 
 
 NASH 
 
 Ay, that I will, and welcome. Right proud am I to be 
 thy helper. 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 But hast thou nothing for me ? I would fain have 
 something to study that is thine — some character to take 
 the town, when this cursed plague is over. Hast thou no 
 new Barabas ? 
 
 Thus like the sad-presaging raven that tolls 
 The sick man's passport in her hollow beak. 
 And in the shadow of the silent night 
 Doth shake contagion from her sable wings — 
 
 Hast thou nothing like that, now ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [Smiling']. Maybe I have, and thou, my Alleyn, shalt be 
 my interpreter. 
 
KIT MARLOWE S DEATH 115 
 
 LODGE 
 
 What is it ? May we know ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 What say ye, gentlemen, to a new character ? A man 
 who hath something in him of Tamburlaine, and here 
 and there a likeness to thy friend \to Alleyn] Barabas ? 
 
 NASH 
 
 Perchance, too, there is a touch of Faustus ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Nay, nay, there is only one Faustus ! 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 And his name. Kit, his name ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Hebrew, sirs, Hebrew. The Hebrews have all the 
 vices and the intelligence of our time. Nay, now I be- 
 think me, I have made him a Moor. 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 But his name. Kit, his name ! 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Art thou not forward in thy haste ? His name is 
 Aaron. Wouldst thou hear somewhat of his speech ? 
 Well, give me a brimming cup to baptize my latest off- 
 spring. [They pour out wine in his cup^ which he swallows.^ 
 Again, lads, again. Aaron is a name somewhat dry in 
 the mouth, methinks. [Marlowe />«//; a MS. out of his 
 pocket and reads from the play of " Titus Jndronicus."] 
 
 [Nan stea/s in and listens by the door. 
 
 As when the golden sun salutes the morn. 
 And having gilt the ocean with his beams, 
 Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach 
 And overlooks the highest-peering hills 
 
 ^^nay^ it is sorry stuff. 
 
ii6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 NASH 
 
 Marlowe's line, nathless. 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 More, more, I pray thee. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 \Turm over a few pageSy and reads'] — 
 
 Madam, though Venus govern your desires, 
 
 Saturn is dominator over mine ; 
 
 What signifies my deadly-standing eye. 
 
 My silence and my cloudy melancholy ? 
 
 My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls 
 
 Even as an adder, when she doth unroll 
 
 To do some fatal execution ? 
 
 Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand. 
 
 Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. 
 
 LODGE 
 
 " D'^adly-standing eye " is good. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Good, quotha ? Nay, I am sick of it. Oh, that I 
 had the grace of Will Shakespeare to fashion my hard 
 verses to smoothest melody ! I care not if I never finish 
 it. [Seeing Nan, who has been listening with rapt 
 attention.'] Ah, Nan, art thou there ? Leave me, 
 gentlemen, I pray you. I fear I am not so lightsome 
 in my heart as you would desire. Leave me. 
 
 NASH 
 
 Leave you ? Not L 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Nor L 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 I pray you, do. 
 
 SIR THOMAS 
 
 What ! shall we humour him ? Then give us thy new 
 play to amuse ourselves withal. [Marlowe gives his MS.^ 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH 117 
 
 But we will return anon, Kit. Thou graceless villain, are 
 we to leave thee all the sweets ? Well, gentlemen, come. 
 {Exeunt Sir Thomas, Nash, Lodge, and 
 Alleyn. Marlowe h left with Nan. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Come hither, sweet. Hast thou been here all the 
 time, and I saw thee not ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 Nay, I only came when I heard the sound of thy 
 voice. Thou knowest that it rings like music in my 
 ears. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 A harsh note. Nan, believe me. There is no music in 
 my composition. Some force, maybe, and fervour, some 
 gift of high-sounding words which these lads, that are 
 my friends, do not attain unto. But no music. Nan — I 
 would there were ! — no unearthly melody like that which 
 haunts the least words of Will Shakespeare. But why 
 talk I thus to thee ? Come nearer and comfort me, lass, 
 for I feel strangely sick at heart. 
 
 NAN 
 
 Art thou ill, dear master ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 111 ? No, only moody and dispirited. No matter, let 
 us drink. 
 
 NAN 
 
 No, no {putting away his glass], I do not like thee in 
 thy company vein. I like thee by thyself, as when we 
 sometimes walk through the great solemn woods, and see 
 the shadows of the tall trees on the grass, and hear the 
 birds sing in the meadows. Ah, thou hast been a kind 
 friend to me ! 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 No, lass, no. 'Tis thou rather that has been kind to 
 
ii8 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 me. See here, sweet, I am but young in years. What 
 is my age ? 'Tis barely thirty, but methinks I have 
 lived too long. I have seen too much, or else I have 
 lived through my allotted space too fast. Whatever it 
 be, I am all avi^eary of the w^orld, and thy Kit Marlowe 
 is an old man before his time. My life hath withered up 
 my heart. 
 
 NAN 
 
 Nay, now, I know that thou speakest falsely. Hast 
 thou no heart, thinkest thou, when thou canst turn out 
 of thy way to be kind to a poor country lass like me ? 
 When thou savedst my mother's life with thy timely gifts 
 and still more kindly words, dost think thou hadst no 
 heart ? Ah, Master Marlowe, I know thee better. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 No more of that, I pray you. Come, let us be 
 merry, and talk of love, and laugh at death and old age. 
 Thou art a bonny child. Nan, and 'fore Heaven I love 
 thee well ! \Draws her to him and kisses her.^ Drink, 
 lass, drink ! Life is all glorious when we drink ! 
 
 NAN 
 
 When dost thou go away ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 What talk is this of going away ? Why, Nan, have I 
 infected thee with my dull spirits ? Maybe, I shall never 
 go away. 
 
 NAN 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 God's truth, I know not. What a strange life is this 
 of ours, when ever and anon there come visitings from 
 another world — when in the heyday of life there is the 
 
 sudden shadow cast across our path Why do I talk 
 
 thus to thee ? Drink, girl, drink ! 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH 119 
 
 NAN 
 
 Art thou ill ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [^Musing.'] Is there another world ? And is all that 
 we see and feel and touch the mere semblance of a dream 
 which shall roll away, and leave us bare and naked before 
 some dread Reality ? — I had a strange vision last night. 
 
 NAN 
 
 Tell me, kind master. I would fain know all thy 
 thoughts. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 I believe thou wouldst, for I have ever found in thee, 
 although that thou art but a village child, some touch 
 of poesy. Ay, let me tell thee. But let me feel thy 
 warm touch about my face ; let me link thy arms about 
 me. [He puts her arms round his necky she only half resisting.'] 
 Listen, child. Methought I was in some large plain, 
 and before me there was a mountain which bounded the 
 horizon, and it seemed that I must needs climb the 
 ascent. And though the way was steep, and I could see 
 others fainting by my side, to me it was an easy and 
 delightful task to climb the lower bases of the mountain. 
 And then, as I rose, I found that the mountain divided 
 itself into twin peaks — one of them all rocky and 
 precipitous, and the other slowly rising from the day into 
 some wondrous region of cloud and mist. And a voice 
 said, " Choose which thou wilt climb." And I said to 
 myself, " Let me choose the steep and arduous peak ; the 
 other only requireth patience, and surely all men can 
 attain to it." [Putting her from him and rising.] So I 
 climbed up the precipices, and my foot was light and my 
 hands were strong : nor could aught prevent my eager 
 haste, till I placed myself at last on the cold, stony top 
 of the hill I had chosen. And when I laid myself down 
 to rest, of a sudden there was thunder, and I heard a 
 pealing cry, " Live thou on thy peak alone." And the 
 
I20 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 clouds that rested on the other summit were swept aside 
 for a moment, and I saw that it was immeasurably 
 higher than mine. And again the awful voice, "Thou 
 hast chosen ill." — Nay, child, I have frightened thee with 
 my fancies. 
 
 NAN 
 
 \^Slowly\. When dost thou go away ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Again that question ? Why, Nan, how unkind thou 
 art to me in thus harping upon my going. When do I 
 go away ? Mayhap in a month, or a day, or never. 
 Dost thou love me, lass ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 Oh, do not ask ! 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 But thou must say, lass-^thou must say. Dost thou 
 love me ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 \_Shyly.'] Thou knowest that I do. Hast thou not 
 been all kindness and tenderness to me ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 I know not. Maybe I have been unkind, for in 
 certain ways, methinks, I have deceived thee. I would 
 not have thee mistake me. Nan. Think not that love — 
 the mere love of man for maid — can ever sway my heart. 
 It is not so ; I have a love within me — a passionate love, 
 which naught can assuage ; but it is not an earthly love. 
 They call me ' atheist,' do they not ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 Ay, sir ; I have heard so. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Atheist ; ay, so says Richard Bame. But it is not true 
 — at least, not true save in their narrow sense. I have an 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH 121 
 
 unearthly love about me for something to whicli I can 
 give no name. It is a haunting passion, an aspiration for 
 that w^hich hath never been, nor ever yet w^ill be : a mad 
 feverish thirst for the grand, the divine, the impossible. 
 There is for ever hovering in my restless head — 
 
 One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least 
 Which into words no virtue can digest. 
 
 Why — \laughing\ — what a sorry knave am I, that must 
 needs quote my ovv^n words, like some poor prating parrot ! 
 Dost love me, Nan ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 I love thee. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Love me not, love me not ! I only love my art. 
 
 NAN 
 
 Ah — but — nay, why shouldst thou care what my lot 
 may be ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 What is thy lot. Nan ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 I have promised Francis Archer that I will marry him. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Marry Francis Archer ? What, hast thou promised ? 
 No, 'fore God, thou shalt not marry him ; thou shalt 
 marry me. S'blood, I am sick of the town life. I will 
 stay here with thee. Wilt thou marry me, Naii ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 Ah — mock me not ! 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Mock thee ? not I ! Marry Francis Archer ? Never ! 
 Never ! Come, marry thee I will, willy nilly. When 
 shall it be ? To-morrow ? To-night ? {getting excited^ 
 
122 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 In sober truth, I will leave the world and live with thee. 
 I will marry thee now. Where is the priest ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 Nay, thou knowest that there is no priest here. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 No priest ? Nay, the ceremony shall be now. \Going 
 to the doovy wildly.'] Here, Nash, Lodge, Alleyn, come 
 in, all of you. \_They enter.'] Come in, come in and be 
 my witnesses in a solemn act of betrothal ! 
 
 NASH 
 
 What mad prank is this ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Nay, I am in sober earnest, or I shall be with one more 
 cup of wine. Come and be my witnesses. 
 
 LODGE 
 
 " Is this the face that launched a thousand ships " ? 
 [pointing to Nan.] 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Ay, and a pretty one, too ! Come, thou tragedy- 
 monger, Ned Alleyn, and be my priest. 
 
 alleyn 
 Thy priest, Kit ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Ay, art thou not an actor ? — which in good high- 
 sounding Greek means a hypocrite. Priest, actor, hypo- 
 crite, 'tis all one ! Come, marry us. \^He seizes Nan and 
 forces her down on her knees with himself in front ^Alleyn, 
 the others laughing.] 
 
KIT MARLOWE'S DEATH 123 
 
 Enter Archer. He stops appalled^ then rushes forward. 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Sirs, sirs, what mean ye by this foolery ? Let the girl 
 go! 
 
 NASH 
 
 Why, how now, thou moody knave ! Nay, we must 
 have no brawlers in church. \_Seizes him^ and attempts to 
 push him to the door. They struggle.'] 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Thou insolent varlet ! What, thou art going to marry 
 Nan, art thou ? Nay, let me get at him \to Lodge and 
 Alleyn, who stop and attempt to keep him back]. Nay, I 
 will turn him out of doors. 'Fore Heaven, I will murder 
 him ! Let me get at him, the drunken fool ! 
 
 [Marlowe, struggling with Lodge and Alleyn, 
 gets at last to Nash, who is struggling with 
 Archer. As they struggle the table is over- 
 turned^ and Archer seizes a knife on the 
 floor^ which has been upset from the table. 
 As Marlowe at last reaches him^ throwing 
 off his friends y Archer stabs Marlowe to 
 the heart. 
 
 ARCHER 
 
 Take that, thou vile seducer ! 
 
 [Marlowe secures the knife after a struggle^ 
 and holds it over Archer, then sinks back^ 
 and the knife falls on the floor. The others 
 rush up to hiniy and Archer escapes from 
 the room. 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Kit, Kit, look up, lad. Thou art not hurt ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Hurt ? Ay, past surgery. Nan, art thou there ? 
 
124 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 \^he comes forward^ trembling^ and lifts his head on her knee.^ 
 Lend me thy kerchief, lass, to stanch this bleeding. It 
 is draining my life. Look cheerily, lass, 'tis all one ; 
 and if it is not to-day, then it will be to-morrow. Nay, 
 nay, weep not, child. Thou knowest I would have 
 married thee ? 
 
 NAN 
 
 Ay, my dear lord \weeping\. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Well, then, I am thy husband. Fare thee well ! 
 Come, come, gentlemen, eye me not so sadly. Ye will 
 grieve, it may be, for a time, and anon ye will be merry 
 again. 'Tis all one. 
 
 LODGE 
 
 Let some one go and arrest the murderer. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Nay, let him go. He thought I had wronged him. 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Oh, Kit, Kit ! Thou wilt not die and leave us ? 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Needs must, sirs, when fate calls. Poor Kit Marlowe ! 
 'Tis a sorry ending to a sorry life ! Well, it would have 
 come hereafter. " O water, gentle friends, to cool my 
 thirst ! " [His head sinks down.] 
 
 NASH 
 
 Is he gone ? [They press some water to his lips.] 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 Nay, there is yet a flicker ere the light goes out. But 
 ah, my plays, my plays ! When comes another Tambur- 
 laine ? Will men write another " Faustus " ? And my 
 " Hero and Leander " ! I pray ye ask George Chap- 
 
KIT MARLOWE S DEATH 125 
 
 man to end it for me ; but when ? when ? And men 
 will judge me only by what I have written. Poor, poor 
 Kit Marlowe ! \His head sinks again.] 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 Nay, Kit, thy memory shall be dear to us. 
 
 MARLOWE 
 
 [Starting up.] Is it e'en so ? " Nay, nay, come not, 
 Lucifer ! See where Christ's blood streams in the 
 firmament ! " Ah, ah ! [shrieks]. [Recovering.] Nay, 
 friends, look not so terrified. It is but Faustus that 
 speaks. Will they remember me, think you, in the after 
 days ? Will they speak kindly of poor, wild Kit 
 Marlowe ? " Weep not for Mortimer, that scorns the 
 world, and as a traveller goes to discover countries yet 
 unknown." Oh, God ! God ! will death never come ? 
 I am but what I am — a poor froward boy, who hath 
 shipwrecked his life on the sharp rocks of circumstances 
 and fate. The fool hath said in his heart [Dies.] 
 
 ALLEYN 
 
 [Solemn/y] — 
 
 Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, 
 And burned is Apollo's laurel bough. 
 
 [" Comey live with w^," sung or played softly^ as the curtain 
 descends.] 
 
 Slow Curtain. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 
 
 OR 
 
 TIME'S REVENGES 
 
DRAMAriS PERSONjE 
 
 Gaston Bonnier, a well-to-do French farmer. 
 
 Pierre Bonnier, his son. 
 
 Le Petit Gaston, his grandson. 
 
 Marcel, a soldier. 
 
 Hortense, secretly married to Pierre. 
 
 Marthe, housekeeper to Gaston Bonnier. 
 
 ACT I 
 Interior of Gaston Bonnier's Parlour, 1854. 
 
 ACT II 
 Interior of Gaston Bonnier's Parlour (after sixteen years), 
 
 1870. 
 
 *^* Written for and performed by Professor Hubert von Herkomer, 
 R.A., at his theatre at Bushey. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 
 
 OR 
 
 TIME'S REVENGES 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — Parlour of a farmer's house in France^ early Act I 
 morning, 
 
 \As curtain ascends^ chorus of harvesUsong is sung. The song 
 continues in a subdued key through all the opening 
 sentences of the dialogue^ 
 
 Enter Marthe. 
 
 MARTHE 
 \Who draws aside the curtains and opens the windows.l 
 Sunshine and music. A lovely morning ! There could 
 not be a finer day for the harvest festival, and no one will 
 be better pleased than M. Gaston, w^ho loves to see all the 
 young folks around him enjoying themselves. Ah ! He 
 is a man with a heart of gold — I wish there were more 
 like him ! All round the country side there is no truer 
 friend to the labourers than M. Gaston. 
 
 Enter Hortense. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 [Puts her head in at the door, and then advances into the 
 room on tiptoe^ behind Marthe's back ; she puts her hands 
 
 129 K 
 
130 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I round Marthe's eyes and simulates a gruff voice."] Is this 
 the house of M. Gaston Bonnier ? [Then laughs merrily.'] 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, it's no good, my young lady, your trying to deceive 
 me, I could tell your footsteps among a thousand. But 
 you are early, Mademoiselle ! 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 No, it's you who are late. What, on a festival day like 
 this, and on such a lovely morning, to be only just down. 
 Lazy old Marthe ! [Turns her face round and kisses her.] 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Bless you. Mile. Hortense, we cannot all be such 
 early birds as you. But come and sit down and tell me 
 what you want. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 No, no, Marthe. I am in a hurry. Has M. Pierre 
 come down yet ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 M. Pierre, M. Pierre — what do I know about M. 
 Pierre ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Oh, don't tease me, you wicked old thing. You know 
 quite well I don't want to talk to you, and so you pretend 
 you cannot understand — just on purpose to annoy me. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Come, come, ladybird — don't fly out at me like that. 
 I know you, you young ladies, you are always in a hurry, 
 and if one does not answer you directly, you begin to 
 pout and call people all manner of unkind names. No — 
 I don't know anything about M. Pierre. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Dear old Marthe — you must not begin the day so 
 badly with so naughty a falsehood. Come, tell me, 
 there's a darling. [Kisses her.] 
 
GASTON BONNIER 131 
 
 MARTHE Act I 
 
 Oh yes, you expect to get over me with those soft 
 ways ! No, no ! 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Get over you, of course I do. Why you dear, silly old 
 Marthe, don't you know how I love you ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Not so much as you do a certain gentleman who shall 
 be nameless ! Oh, you don't deceive me. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 But, Marthe dear, has M. Pierre come down yet ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 There we go ! I've told you I didn't know anything 
 about M. Pierre, and you go on, just as if you didn't 
 believe me. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 But I don't believe you, I don't believe a word you say. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Did any one ever hear the like of that ? Ah, you saucy 
 child, there's no resisting you. Well, well, I will tell 
 you all I know about M. Pierre. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 {^Eagerly,'] Yes, yes. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Because I know nothing. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Oh, you dreadful old story-teller ! Didn't I tell you 
 you weren't to be believed ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Well then, what's the good of my speaking ? M. Pierre 
 is not down yet — will that content you ? 
 
132 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HORTENSE 
 
 I can see that with my own eyes. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 That was what you asked me, wasn't It ? And I 
 shouldn't think he would be down for some time yet. 
 He was very late last night. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 [Anxiously,'] Very late ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, he was sitting in his room very late — writing and 
 writing and writing — I think he was writing to his father. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 [Turning pale.] To his father ? To M. Gaston 
 Bonnier ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, why should he not ? Though, to be sure, he 
 has got him in the house and he might as well say all he 
 wants to, by word of mouth. But some people prefer 
 writing, when they are not quite sure of what they ought 
 to say. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Oh, M. Gaston frightens me. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, no, dearie, no. He is a man to love, not to fear. 
 He is a good, honest man, very just, and very clear- 
 sighted, and I don't think he would willingly wrong any 
 man. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 But he has got such hard eyes. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Well, he has suffered, you know, and that makes a 
 man hard sometimes. Poor M. Gaston, I don't think he 
 deserved to be treated as he was. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 133 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Why, how has he suffered ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Didn't you know ? Poor child, how should you ? 
 Well, you will know some day, and I may as well tell 
 you now. His wife ran away from him. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 His wife ran away from him ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, she was a girl belonging to this part of the 
 country — ^just like yourself. She ran away with a 
 soldier. And for this reason M. Gaston is sometimes 
 hard on country girls and doesn't like soldiers. He makes 
 an exception in favour of M. Marcel, though he is a 
 soldier, but I don't think he would like to see too much 
 of him, 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 And he does not make an exception in favour of me, 
 I am afraid. 
 
 [y/ voice is heard without^ " Is that yoUy Marthe F " 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 [Looh out of window.'] Ah, there is M. Marcel. Run 
 away, dear, I want to talk to him. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Well — mind you tell M. Pierre that I am waiting for 
 him outside — he promised to dance with me. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, yes. Mile. Hortense. [Hortense goes out.] Poor 
 little bird, she is too fond of M. Pierre, I am afraid. 
 And M. Gaston has such good cause to be angry at the 
 match ! What will come of it all ? 
 
 Act I 
 
Act I 
 
 134 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Enter Marcel. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Aha, Marthe, good morning, good morning ! 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Marthe indeed ! Madame Marthe, if you please, M. 
 Marcel. It's not too early to be polite ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Well, Mile. Marthe, then ! 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 I said Madame ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 And I said Mademoiselle ! Why, don't you know, 
 you are coming to the festival with me and going to 
 dance with me ? \H.e attempts to seize her round the waisty 
 but she laughingly retreats."] 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, no, M. Marcel. I am sure I am old enough to 
 be called Madame. But, be serious, if you can. I want 
 to talk to you. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Oh, bother seriousness ! No one can be serious on a 
 day like this. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 But you must be. I want to talk to you about M. 
 Pierre and Mile. Hortense. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Why, what about them ? They are lovers, aren't they ? 
 Just as much lovers as — as — you and I. \^Laughs,] 
 
GASTON BONNIER 135 
 
 MARTHE Act I 
 
 [Shaking her head,] If they were only lovers ! You 
 know how angry M. Gaston is, if any one couples their 
 two names together. Well, they are more than lovers, I 
 am afraid ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 More than lovers ? There is nothing greater than love 
 in this world, is there ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 I think they are already married. Hush ! Here comes 
 M. Pierre, not a word ! 
 
 Enter Pierre Bonnier. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Good morning, Marthe ! Marcel too ! Preparing 
 for to-day's holiday, eh ? I don't think there's a finer 
 looking woman in the village than Marthe — eh. Marcel ? 
 No, nor a better dancer, if she likes — eh. Marcel ? Upon 
 my word, if I hadn't other fish to fry, I should like to cut 
 you out, you rogue ! 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Mile. Hortense has been here, M. Pierre, asking how 
 much longer you would be before you were ready. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Mile. Hortense 1 Oh, I will go out to her at once. 
 
 [Prepares to go out,^ 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 But, M. Pierre, what shall I say to your father when 
 he asks for you ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Oh, say anything — say that Marcel here brought me 
 a message — that I was wanted at once ! Say anything 
 you like ! [Exit hurriedly. 
 
136 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I MARTHE 
 
 [Looking after him.'] Ah, M. Pierre, if only you 
 weren't so careless. You will have to suffer for all this 
 some day, I am afraid ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [At window.'] Look, there he goes, and there's Mile. 
 Hortense too ! 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 [At window.] A pretty pair ; as handsome a pair as 
 you would wish to see. [Music outside.] Look at them, 
 they are beginning to dance, ah, it makes one young 
 again ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Well, come and join them, come along ! [Puts his 
 arm round her waist, again she repels hifn.] 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, no, I have got my work to do, if you have none, 
 M. Marcel. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 But I have. I have got to speak to M. Gaston, only 
 you make me forget everything ! What is it you said 
 about their being married ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Oh, it is only my suspicion. Perhaps I am wrong. 
 Don't think any more about it. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 But why shouldn't they be married, if they want to 
 be? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Ah, you don't know, you can't imagine how angry M. 
 Gaston will be. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 137 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Oh, he will get over that, when he finds there's nothing 
 to be done. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Marcel, have you ever thought who Hortense is — I 
 mean who were her father and her mother, and where she 
 came from ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 \Careleisly.'\ No, who is she ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 I swore I would never tell a soul. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Well then, tell me — I am not a soul, no soldier is, so 
 far as I know ! 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Ah. don't laugh ! Well, I will tell you, because I think 
 you are a man to be trusted, and you have been a good 
 friend to us all. You remember that sad sorrow of M. 
 Gaston when his wife ran away with Captain Rivardier ? 
 Well, he took away M. Gaston's wife, but he left behind 
 his own child ! He wrote a brief note to M. Gaston 
 saying that to comfort his solitude he bequeathed him the 
 care of his daughter. Exchange — ah, I remember his 
 brutal words — exchange, he said, was no robbery ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 And Mile. Hortense is 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Captain Rivardier's daughter ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Phew — the devil ! 
 
 Act I 
 
138 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I MARTHE 
 
 Yes ! Poor little child ! She was brought up in the 
 village here, under the care of old Madame Plozet, to 
 whom I entrusted her. As for M. Gaston, he cannot 
 bear the sight of her. Poor man, she is always reminding 
 him of his loss ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [Meditative/yJ] H'm ! Does Hortense know all this ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, no, not a word. But you now understand why I 
 hope they are not married. I will tell M. Gaston you 
 are here. Poor, poor M. Pierre. [Exit. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 H'm, I wonder if it's true they are married ! But 
 how ? Pierre could never get his father's written consent. 
 Forgery ? It's not unlikely. M. Pierre is so head-strong 
 and he was bound to get into mischief before long. Poor 
 M. Pierre indeed ! Poor M. Gaston, I think ! He won't 
 be very pleased when he hears of it, especially as I have 
 got some news for him which will rather upset him this 
 morning. I almost wish I hadn't come to disturb this 
 holiday, but I hadn't another day to spare before I 
 go Eastwards. Heaven be praised that I have no 
 wife and no son ! All this marrying and giving in 
 marriage brings grey hairs on the head, and adds wrinkles 
 to the cheek — which would never do for a soldier. Ah, 
 here comes M. Gaston. 
 
 Enter M. Gaston Bonnier. 
 
 Good morning, Monsieur Gaston, I hope I see you well ! 
 
 bonnier 
 Well and hearty, thank you Marcel, well and hearty ! 
 But what brings you here so early ? 
 
GASTON BONNIER 139 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 \Aloud.'\ Oh, Fm off to-morrow to the Russian war, 
 and I thought I should Hke to see you all before I go. 
 To-morrow I join my regiment and then, hey for the 
 Crimea ! [Jsicle.] I cannot tell him yet. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Ah, rolling stones all you soldiers ! Here to-day, gone 
 to-morrow, with never a house to call your own, or any 
 spot in the wide world to be your home ! Upon my 
 word. Marcel, if you were not a good fellow, and one who 
 has been a kind friend to me in the past, I would not let 
 you come here to disturb us with your restless soldier-ways, 
 and your wild campaigning talk ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [Laughs.] I am not going to trouble you for long, any- 
 how ; only just a good-bye, and I am off. [Re^ective/y,] 
 I don't much care for the idea of fighting side by side 
 with those English, it is true ; but, still, fighting is 
 fighting, whoever may be your friends or enemies. [Aside.] 
 How can I tell him ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Sitting down.] Well, I am very glad to see you, 
 although you are a soldier. You have been good to me. 
 Marcel, indeed I don't know what I should have done 
 without you. Any news from — from Paris ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 It is just about that that I want to talk to you. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Yes, yes ; now that you are going out of France, who 
 is going to see that her money is paid to her, and that she 
 has all she wants ? Have you seen her lately ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [Reluctantly.] I don't think you need trouble much 
 about that. 
 
 Act I 
 
14© DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I BONNIER 
 
 Not trouble about that ? Ah, Marcel, that is the first 
 unkind word you have said to me ! Not trouble about 
 her ? Poor Clementine ! She is dead to me, ever since 
 she left me so cruelly, so cruelly, but she shall never want 
 her daily bread while I am alive. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [Slowly.'] She will not want her daily bread any more. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 What ? She hasn't made it up with that soldier fellow 
 who betrayed her ? Not that, not that. Marcel. 
 
 MARCEL 
 [Shakes his head."] No, no. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Something worse ! Fallen into some one else's hands ? 
 Ah, how you torture me ! Tell me at once ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 She is dead, Monsieur Gaston I 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Pause.'] Dead ! My Clementine dead ! Poor, poor 
 Clementine ! You broke my heart when you ran away 
 from me, and now, now that Heaven in its mercy has 
 taken you to itself, you almost break my heart a second 
 time ! Poor, poor Clementine ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Ah, do not make me wish I had never told you. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No, no, of course you had to tell me. I can bear it, 
 Marcel. Twenty years ago, when the wound was yet 
 fresh, I should almost have welcomed her death as the best 
 way out of the trouble. But now, time has, if not healed 
 
GASTON BONNIER 141 
 
 the wound, at least robbed it of its sharpest pangs, and Act I 
 Clementine has become a memory, a dream, an imagina- 
 tion, which, when it is gone, leaves me all the poorer for 
 its loss. Well, she is gone, with all the sorrow she 
 brought upon herself, and upon me ! Heaven be merciful 
 to us all ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 She died peacefully, and her last words were of you. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 God be thanked for that ! But my boy must know of 
 it. Where is Pierre ? Oh, at the festival, of course. How 
 strangely comes the news of her death on this day of all 
 days of the year ! But I must not spoil his happiness to- 
 day ', no, we older ones are made to bear these rude shocks 
 of fate, from which we must try to screen the younger 
 ones. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 That's right. Bonnier ! Let him have his merriment 
 while he can. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Of course, of course. And after^erriment, business 
 and sorrow. You know. Marcel, what I mean him to do ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Let him be a soldier, sir ! There is no other profession. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 A soldier ! I would rather see him in his grave. He 
 drew a lucky number in the conscription, thank Heaven ! 
 I hate all soldiers, ever since — well you know what I have 
 suffered at a soldier's hands. No, I mean him to study the 
 law and go to Paris and pass all his examinations, and be 
 an honour to himself and his father ! To-day I intend 
 to talk to him seriously about all this. No, whatever rude 
 blows fortune has given me, I have still a son, to be proud 
 
142 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I of and to love. Come, Marcel, let us go and see how our 
 people are enjoying themselves. 
 
 \The music begins without as Bonnier exits. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 In a moment, M. Bonnier, I will join you in a moment. 
 Where is Marthe ? I must know why she suspects — 
 hullo, here's the truant ! 
 
 Enter Pierre. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Truant ? Why truant ? What have I run away 
 from, or who has been asking for me ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Well Pierre, your father has been asking for you ! 
 What are you going to do, lad, when I am gone ? Don't 
 you wish you were coming with me to the Crimea ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 In some ways, yes. But I don't think my father 
 would ever allow it. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 There are other things your father wouldn't allow, 
 Pierre, besides soldiering. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 What do you mean ? [Marcel points significantly 
 outside where the music and dance are proceeding.^ Oh, 
 yes, of course. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 You are to go oft to Paris, young man, and become a 
 lawyer, that's what you are fated for ! So the sooner 
 you forget all this [pointing outside]^ the better for you. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 143 
 
 PIERRE Act I 
 
 \Moodily?^ Yes, I know. [Suddenly.] Look here, 
 Marcel, I am in a devil of a mess, and I'm hanged if I 
 know what to do ! . 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Out with it then, young man, there is no father 
 confessor like a soldier. If he does not forget to-day 
 what you have told him he is generally twenty leagues 
 away to-morrow, and so it makes little odds whether he 
 remembers or forgets ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Yes, I had better tell you. Well then, Marcel — 
 Hush ! Here she is. 
 
 [There is a hurst of singing. Hortense, with 
 three or four Girls in holiday clothes^ singing 
 the concluding notes of the song^ hound into the 
 room^ flushed with the dance. The other 
 Girls, when the song is over^ how to Hor- 
 tense and Pierre, and exeunt. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Where have you hidden yourself, you traitor ! [Stops.] 
 Oh, I see you are not alone, I beg your pardon. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 No, no, this is my oldest friend, M. Marcel. Marcel, 
 I don't think you have ever met Mile. Hortense ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Mademoiselle, I have the honour. [Bows low^ and 
 Hortense curtsies.] 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 M. Marcel is trying to tempt me to go with him to 
 the Crimea, Hortense, and he had almost persuaded me 
 when you came in. 
 
144 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HORTENSE 
 
 Then I am glad I have come in time — if M. Marcel 
 will pardon me. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 M. Pierre is only joking, Mademoiselle ; I think he is 
 only too happy where he is for me to try and take him 
 away. Well, I must rejoin M. Gaston. \To Pierre.] 
 You will find me outside when you want me. 
 
 \_BoiJus to HoRTENSE and exit. 
 
 [The music is very soft throughout the following scene."] 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 You were only joking Pierre, were you not ? You 
 weren't really serious ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Serious, about what ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 About the Crimea. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Silly child I Why, I must live. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Yes, but if you went to the Crimea, that would be the 
 way to die ! And what would become of me ? Ah, 
 Pierre dear, you don't know, you can't know. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Can't know what, little one ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 [Shyly.'] Oh, it so hard to put into words — [after a 
 pause] — how I love you. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Yes, I do, darling. And don't you know how I love 
 you ? [They kiss ; the music gets louder, Hortense starts 
 up.] 
 
GASTON BONNIER 145 
 
 HORTENSE Act I 
 
 Come on, Pierre, let us dance again ? But listen, sir, I 
 wont have you dancing with other girls ! How I hated 
 you when you were dancing with Amande ? Why, you 
 had actually got your arm round her waist [indignantly], 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Well, I couldn't dance with her if I had not got my 
 arm round her waist, could I ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Well then, you shouldn't dance with her at all ! I 
 am the only person you are to dance with, do you hear, 
 and 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 And this is the only waist I am to put my arm round, 
 eh ? [Draws her to himself^ putting his arm round her.] 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Dear Pierre ! Oh, it does seem so strange. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 What ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Why, that we are — put your ear close to my mouth 
 [whispers] — married ! Ever since yesterday ! What a 
 long way off yesterday seems to be. [Sighs.] 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Yes, that is why we have got to be serious, and think 
 about the future. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Oh, not to-day, not to-day ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Yes, dear, to-day ! I must tell my father sooner or 
 later, and it had better be got over at once. Heaven 
 knows what he will say ! 
 
 L 
 
146 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HORTENSE 
 
 To-day ? Oh, Pierre, I am so afraid of M. Gaston ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Nonsense, little one, what is done cannot be undone, 
 and whatever he may say or do, you and I are still man 
 and wife. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 {Hiding her face on his shou/der.] Not to-day, not 
 to-day ! Let us have one more day to enjoy ourselves 
 without thought for — for the future. See, you have quite 
 frightened me ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Come, Hortense, hold your head up and be brave. He 
 wants me to go to Paris and study for the law. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 And leave me ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 No, no, dear, he cannot separate us, you forget that. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 But you won't go to Paris ? What should I do in a 
 big city, without fields and flowers, where there is only 
 the hard pavement under one's feet and the pitiless sky 
 above one's head ? It would kill me, Paris 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 [Moodily,'} Well, it must be either that or the 
 Crimea. I don't see any other choice. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Oh, how hard life is ! Cannot we stay here always ? 
 No, no, of course, for you must work and I must work, 
 and we must earn a living, now [with a sad smile'] — now 
 that we are married ! And I suppose M. Gaston must 
 know ; but oh, the dream, the romance, what will become 
 of that ? 
 
GASTON BONNIER 147 
 
 PIERRE Act I 
 
 Why, it will remain where it is, little one, so long as 
 you and I love one another. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Dear, dear Pierre. 
 
 \While they kiss, M. Gaston Bonnier comes into 
 the room. He looks from one to the other in 
 astonished displeasure. 
 
 bonnier 
 Pierre, what does all this mean ? Mile. Hortense, 
 may I ask why you are here ? I wish to talk to my son 
 on an affair of business, and I wish to talk to him alone. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Whatever you have to say, there is no reason why 
 Hortense should not hear it ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Indeed ! And what do you say to that, Mademoiselle ? 
 Are you to be made privy to all our secrets? Are you 
 to affect an interest in whatever a father and son may 
 have in common ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Oh, M. Bonnier, indeed I don't want to offend you. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Then may I ask you kindly to leave my son here with 
 me ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Yes, I will wait for him outside. [Going.l 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 [Firmly.] No, Hortense, there is nothing, I feel sure, 
 
148 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I in what my father is going to say to me Which you may 
 not hear. Besides, you have a right to listen — as much 
 right as I have. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Getting angry.'] A right ? I don't quite see hov^^ that 
 can be. Why, Pierre, I know^ you are young and Mile. 
 Hortense is a pretty girl and you both see a good deal of 
 each other and are very good companions, and I dare say 
 you fancy you are in love w^ith each other. That is all 
 very well for a day of festival like this, when there is music 
 and dancing. But, unfortunately, I have to talk to Pierre 
 on a matter of business — a serious matter of business. It 
 is quite time that he should leave this idle life of flirting 
 and gossiping and begin to think about his career. Come, 
 Mademoiselle, I don't wish to say anything to hurt you, 
 but 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Father, stop 1 I beseech you. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No, Pierre, I must say what is in my mind. I have 
 been foolish not to have said it before, but at all events I 
 will delay no longer. Mile. Hortense, it is my wish that 
 Pierre should break this — what shall I call it ? — this idle 
 intercourse with you. You are neither of you children. 
 You must remain in the village with your — your other 
 friends, and Pierre must go to Paris. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Oh, M. Bonnier, do not be so hard and cruel ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 [Firmly,'] Father, what you say is impossible. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Impossible ! Nonsense ! I say it shall be. My mind 
 is made up ; that is enough. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 149 
 
 PIERRE Ac^ I 
 
 I repeat : it is impossible. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 What ! will you drive me to still harsher measures ? 
 Well, then, I command. Mile. Hortense, you see that 
 my house is no place for you at the present moment. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 [Looks tearfully from one to the other,'] What am I to do, 
 Pierre ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 What are you to do ? Great Heaven ! — and you ask 
 Pierre what you are to do ? Why, what is Pierre to you, 
 or what are you to Pierre, that you should interfere with 
 my wishes, my commands ? I have been a fool, I see, 
 not to have spoken before. Well, Mademoiselle, if you 
 will hear the truth, I will speak it. I would sooner see 
 Pierre in his grave than that he should marry — you. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Father, father, stop 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No, I will not stop. She shall hear everything, sinc« 
 she so chooses. Listen, Mademoiselle, I had a wife once, 
 a wife taken from this village, a pretty girl, just as you are. 
 She left me after five years of marriage. Left me for a 
 soldier, whose fine coat and dashing manners attracted 
 her more than my humble ways and work-a-day clothes ! 
 Left me and her little boy alone, to get on as best we 
 might : I without a wife, and he without a mother ! And 
 I swore a great oath then that I would sooner see Pierre 
 in his grave than that he should wear a soldier's coat or 
 marry a girl like you ! I swore it then, and I am not 
 going to break my oath now ! 
 
ISO DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HORTENSE 
 
 [Covering her face with her hands,'] Don't say that ! 
 Ah, don't say that ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Come, Pierre, you understand me better now. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Too late, too late. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Too late 1 What does the boy mean ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 I should have told you sooner. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Good God ! what do you mean ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Father, it is too late. We are already married ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Married ! You and Hortense married ? No, no, it's 
 impossible ! I say it is impossible, and it shall never be ! 
 Married ! Don't look at me like that, but speak, speak, 
 I cannot understand what you mean. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Hortense and I were married yesterday. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 And my consent ? [Pierre does not answer.'] My 
 consent, I say ? How did you get my written consent ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 [With a struggle,'] Father, I had to get it somehow ; 
 I — I — wrote it myself ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Forged it ? [Pierre does not answer.] Is that what 
 you mean ? Fool, fool, fool ! Ah, so it's you, is it. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 151 
 
 Mademoiselle, who have tempted my boy to his ruin ? Act I 
 My only boy ! May Heaven revi^ard you for what you 
 have done to a desolate father and his only son. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Hush I father, she is my wife. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Your wife ! We will see about that ! I refuse my 
 consent ! Pierre, you shall leave for Paris to-morrow — no, 
 to-day, this very hour ! You shall be separated from her 
 for ever ! Do you hear ? For ever ! Go out of the 
 room and pack up at once, or I shall curse you both! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 I cannot go without my wife. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Ah, Pierre, you were always a good son to me. Don't 
 break my heart. Don't break your father's heart ! You 
 know you have always been my darling, my love, my all ! 
 What is there that I would not have done for your sake ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 You make it very hard for me, father, but I cannot do 
 what you ask. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 You will not go to Paris ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 I will not leave my wife. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Once more, and only once. Will you leave Hortense 
 and do what I tell you ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 No, father, I cannot leave my wife. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Then, God knows I am driven to tell you, what I 
 thought should be for ever locked up in my heart. Look 
 
152 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I at that girl, Pierre ! look at Hortense, as she calls herself ! 
 Do you know who she is ? I will tell you. She is the 
 daughter of your mother's seducer. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Oh, father, father ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Yes, Rivardier's daughter ! He left his child, when he 
 took away my wife. Take her with you now if you like, 
 but I will never give my consent, never ! And without 
 it yours is no marriage, and your children will be ille- 
 gitimate. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 For God's sake, do not speak so wildly. There is 
 nothing wrong in our union. She is no blood-relation of 
 mine, and it is not her fault if her father was a villain. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Will you leave Hortense ? [Pierre takes Hortense 
 in his arms.] Then — Heaven be my witness, I wash 
 my hands of you both ! You have chosen your own path, 
 and you shall follow it to the end. From this time hence- 
 forth you are no son of mine. I cast you off, I renounce 
 you, I expel you from my doors ! Go where you like, 
 but never come into this house again ! I am no longer 
 your father, and you are no longer my son ! Go ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Enough, father, enough ! I will not stay any longer. 
 As you say. Heaven shall judge between you and me. I 
 shall go with Marcel to the war. [Goes out with Hortense 
 in his arms,] 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [A/one.] To the war ! Clementine dead ! My 
 Pierre a soldier ! And married to Hortense ! My God, 
 is this my doom ? 
 
ACT II 
 
 (1870) 
 
 Scene. — Parlour as before. Sixteen years afterwards. Act II 
 
 Time. — Late afternoon^ growing dusk. The stage is empty 
 as the curtain rises. 
 
 Drums — as of a regiment marching — are played just before 
 and as the curtain ascends^ and continue^ going away into 
 the distance^ during the opening of the Scene. 
 
 When curtain has gone up on an empty stage^ there is a soft 
 knock heard on the outside door §f the parlour^ which 
 after a time is repeated. 
 
 Enter Marthe with greyish hair. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 [Hurriedly and noiselessly.^ Who is there ? [Going to the 
 door.^ Can they have come ? Marcel told me that they 
 would be here soon. [Listens at door.] 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 [Outside.] Is that you, Marthe ? May we come in ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 [Opening door.] Yes — hush, do not make any noise. 
 
 [Enter PiERRE and Hortense. 
 M. Gaston may come in at any moment. 
 
 153 
 
154 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II PIERRE 
 
 Marcel told you we were coming, did he not ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, yes — ah, dear M. Pierre, how you are changed ! 
 And you too, Madame. But where is he, where is the 
 little boy ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 He is not very little, dear old Marthe, remember he is 
 now fifteen years old. Ah, how pleasant it is to see your 
 dear honest old face. \Kisses her,] 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 [Crying.] But the boy, the boy, where have you left 
 him ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 He is with Marcel. We thought it better to leave 
 him while we came to see how the land lay. And now, 
 Marthe, tell me, how is my poor old father ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 [To HoRTENSE.] Sit you down, dearie. Hush ! [Goes 
 to inner door.] Let me see if everything is quiet first. 
 [Opens door and looks within^ while the others sit down.] 
 Nothing's stirring in the house. He must have fallen 
 asleep. [Comes back to Pierre and Hortense.] 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 [Taking both Marthe's hands and looking in her face.] 
 You are changed too, Marthe. Have you been ill ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, no, only sad, and sorrow makes one old. But you 
 should see M. Gaston ! Such white hair, and such a 
 worn, troubled face — ever since, ever since you both went 
 away. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 155 
 
 PIERRE Act II 
 
 But he is well, Marthe, he is not suffering now ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Suffering ? He has never ceased to suffer since that 
 fatal day. Always muttering to himself, and moaning 
 that he has killed you. He thinks you were killed at 
 the Crimea — we all thought that — till Marcel told you 
 had got home, safe to Madame at Marseilles. But M. 
 Gaston still thinks you dead, and I have never been able 
 to assure him of your safety. Why did you never come 
 before ? 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 My poor father ! But it was no good coming, Marthe, 
 till many years had passed away and perhaps softened his 
 memory of the past. Besides, you know, I was badly 
 wounded, and was ill for a long time. Do you think he 
 has forgiven me, Marthe ? \eagerly^ 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 And me ? Has he forgiven me ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 \Crying^ Oh, I don't know, I don't know. He is so 
 old, and feeble, and querulous. Hush, I thought I heard 
 him. \Goes to door aga'in^ listens for a moment^ and returns?^ 
 Quick, quick, tell me what you intend to do ? 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 We came to ask you, Marthe. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 I thought we had better come boldly and see him. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, no, it would kill him, I think. \After a moments 
 pause^ while she listens.'] No, the only way is for Marcel to 
 bring the little boy. 
 
156 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II HORTENSE 
 
 But he will not be angry with little Gaston ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 I think not — I think he may be overjoyed to see him, 
 and there is no peace-maker like a child. Let him plead 
 your cause, and let us pray Heaven that all may be well. 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Well, you know best, Marthe, I think. But still 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Not another word, I hear his footsteps. Send Marcel 
 with the child — that's the only way. And now go, go I 
 beseech you. [Hurrying them to door.'] 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 God bless you, Marthe, you will take care of little 
 Gaston, if he comes ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, yes ! 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 [At door ; Hortense has gone out,] Remember, if any- 
 thing happens to the child, it will break his mother's heart. 
 Good-bye, Marthe. 
 
 [Goes out^ Marthe hurriedly shuts and locks the 
 door. Enter Bonnier with candle. He is 
 old and feeble, 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 So dark ! So dark ! Marthe, Marthe ! Where is she ? 
 They are always leaving me alone. 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, Monsieur, did you call me ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No — yes — I have forgotten what I wanted. What 
 time is it ? 
 
GASTON BONNIER 157 
 
 MARTHE Act II 
 
 Seven o'clock, Monsieur, I think. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Have I been asleep, then ? Did I dream that I heard 
 some drums beating and soldiers marching ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, Monsieur, it w^as no dream. Some troops have 
 just passed through the village, a fine body of men, vs^ith 
 their colours flying and their band playing. I suppose 
 they are going to the v^^ar. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 War, vvrar, it is always vi^ar ! No other w^ord seems to 
 ring like that in my brain ! It is alw^ays echoing there 
 from morning till evening. I hear it w^hen first I open 
 my eyes, and it is the last sound v^rhich I remember when 
 I get to sleep. Alw^ays war, war, war ! 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Dear M. Bonnier, never mind the war, I was wrong to 
 mention it. The Prussian war will not affect us much, at 
 any rate. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Not affect us much ? Ah, no, nothing matters much 
 now. But you are wrong if you think I feel no interest 
 in the war. Can I ever forget the war ? Why, war and 
 soldiers have been my ruin all through my life. They 
 robbed me of my wife, and then they robbed me of my 
 son. Curse the war ! No, no, I will never curse any- 
 thing again, never again ! Curses come home to roost ! 
 \GeU to chair in chimney-corner and sits down.] 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Try to sleep again, Monsieur ; the soldiers have gone 
 now. 
 
158 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II BONNIER 
 
 No, I am wide awake, I don't want to sleep. What 
 time was it when I left this room ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Three o'clock, I think. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Three till five. I have been sleeping two hours. Ah, 
 I remember now, I had a dream. I thought I saw nothing 
 but plains, covered with snow everywhere, blotting out 
 every road and tree and hedge in the landscape, a dead 
 white grave-cloth of snow over the face of nature. And 
 I seemed to be looking for something, searching and 
 peering about amongst the snow-heaps with my eyes 
 almost blinded with that eternal whiteness — digging with 
 bleeding fingers, and, though faint and weary, never 
 desisting from my patient, untiring search. I found it 
 at last, the little black wooden cross with the two letters 
 scratched roughly upon it, P.B. — Pierre Bonnier — marking 
 a soldier's grave. And then I was seized with a longing 
 to see him once again — my poor, poor boy, whom I sent 
 out to his death in the Russian war. I was all alone, 
 and no one would see me take the mould off his body, 
 and I would kiss him and hold him to my breast, and, if 
 God so willed, I would lie down by his side and share 
 with him a common grave. But when I had scratched 
 away the earth, it was not Pierre's body that I saw, but a 
 child, who looked up at me brightly, and called me by my 
 name. Then there was a sound of drums, and I awoke. 
 It was a strange dream, Marthe, wasn't it ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 [Half crying.'] Ah, Monsieur Bonnier, try and sleep again. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Do you think, Marthe, if I slept again I could go on 
 with that dream ? Maybe I should, and then perhaps I 
 
GASTON BONNIER 159 
 
 could understand it better. Yes, I will try to sleep again. Act II 
 Leave me, Marthe, I shall be all right by myself. [Marthe 
 goes out with candle ^ crying. The room is only lighted by fire- 
 light.'] Pierre ! Did you forgive me, I wonder, and all 
 my hard words, before you died ? Did you remember all 
 I had suffered in my past life, and how the remembrance 
 of my wife made me mad against Hortense ? Ah, but 
 you could not know that I had heard that very morning 
 that Clementine was dead ; no, you were not aware how 
 my nerves were all unstrung by what Marcel had told 
 me ! And then came that sudden revelation about your 
 marriage, and I went mad. Oh, my boy, if all the sorrow 
 and despair which I have felt — all the solitary anguish 
 that has been my lot since you left me — be any atone- 
 ment for my crime, you have no cause to hate me now ! 
 And I sent you to your grave, out there amongst the 
 Crimean snows, with a father's curse ringing in your ears. 
 And Hortense ? It was she who tempted you ; hers was 
 the fault, not yours, not yours. It was she whom I ought 
 to have cursed ; I cannot forgive her for all she has done ! 
 No, God help me, I cannot forgive her ! IPause.] Pierre, 
 did you call me ? I thought I heard your voice. I am 
 coming to you, I am coming, my son. Is it cold out 
 there under the snow ? No, I will take you in my arms 
 and warm you, Pierre, and we will be happy again and 
 forget all that is past. [Gradually going to sleepy You 
 are mine again, Pierre — forgive, forget — mine once more. 
 [Sleeps?^ 
 
 [There is a pause, then Marthe steals into the room 
 on tiptoe with the candle, and looks at him, 
 Marthe goes to the window and looks out, 
 and beckons to some one outside; then goes to 
 door, which she opens, noiselessly, and Marcel 
 enters, looking worn and grizzled. 
 
 marthe 
 Hush ! be very quiet ; he's asleep — speak low. 
 
i6o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II MARCEL 
 
 How he is changed ! Poor Monsieur Gaston. 
 
 MARTHE 
 [Speaking low and quickly. '\ Is he outside ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Yes, shall I bring him in ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Don't you think that will be the best way ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Yes, if you are sure that the joy will not kill him ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 We must run the risk of that. I^et the boy come in, 
 and we must leave them alone together. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Hadn't we better be in the room too ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 No, I think not. Better leave them alone. Oh, how 
 my heart beats ! Bring him in. 
 
 [Marcel goes and re-etiters with little Gaston, 
 both walking softly and on tiptoe. The boy 
 looks scared ; Marthe folds the boy in her 
 arms, 
 
 PETIT GASTON 
 
 [In a whisper, 1 Is that grandpapa ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Yes, darling, yes ; we will leave you together, and 
 when he wakes you must tell him who you are. Come, 
 Marcel. 
 
GASTON BONNIER i6i 
 
 MARCEL Act II 
 
 Remember, Gaston, he loves your father and your 
 father loves him ! 
 
 \Exeunt Marcel and Marthe with the light. 
 The boy is left alone with old Gaston, who 
 is sleeping in the easy chair. He stands watch- 
 ing him for some time in a quiet awed silence. 
 Then he goes closer to him and timidly lays 
 one hand on his arm. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 M. Bonnier, grandpapa. [Again a silence^ and the words 
 are repeated."] 
 
 bonnier 
 [In his dream.] Yes, Pierre, yes ; I hear you call. I 
 can't get through this snow. I am coming to you, dear, 
 but I am old — so old and weak ! 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Not Pierre, Monsieur ; it is I, Gaston. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Opens his eyes.] Not Pierre ? Ah, who is it ? 
 
 GASTON 
 
 It is I, Gaston, 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 My dream, my dream ! You are the child I found in 
 his grave. Who are you ? 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Gaston, le petit Gaston. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Gaston ! That is my name. Who gave you that 
 name I 
 
i62 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II GASTON 
 
 My father, Monsieur, my father ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 And your father's name was ? 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Pierre. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No, no — not that name. [WaUingly,'] Pierre is dead ; 
 he died long ago in the Crimea. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 He gave me the name of Gaston after his own father. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 His own father ? Come here closer — let me have a 
 look at you closer. In Heaven's name do not deceive me, 
 child. I am an old man — a poor, weak, foolish old man. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 It is true, grandpapa ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Eagerly.'] Yes, yes, I hope it is true ; or is it all part 
 of my dream ? Tell me over again. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 I am your grandson. Monsieur. My father called me 
 Gaston because his own father bore that name ; and my 
 father was called Pierre, and you are my grandfather. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Hush, hush — do not say it so loud. You will wake 
 me, and then the dream will pass away. Come, dear 
 \takes him in his arms], you shall whisper it in my ears. 
 Say it all over softly to me. This is too sweet a dream 
 to break. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 163 
 
 GASTON Act II 
 
 It is no dream, M. Bonnier. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Not that name — the other name you used just now. 
 Call me by that other name. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Grandpapa ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 My little grandson, my little Gaston ; oh, if this be a 
 dream let me never wake again, now that I have found 
 my Pierre again in you. [Holds him fondly in his arms^ 
 there is a pause^ then Marthe and Marcel enter softlyJ] 
 
 [Excitedly,'] Marthe, Marthe ! Look at him, tell me 
 who it is ; is it — can it be 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 \}Vho is half crying^ Yes, Monsieur Bonnier, it is your 
 grandson. Marcel brought him, ask Marcel here. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Marcel, you ? Do dead men come out of their graves ? 
 I thought you were dead in the Crimea with — with 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Me dead ! No, no. Bonnier, I am too tough to be 
 killed very easily. I am alive, thank God ! and I am glad 
 of it, since I have been able to bring you your grandson. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Yes, yes, my grandson, tell me about him. How did 
 you find him ? Where did you find him ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Well, I think it was he who found me, wasn't it, little 
 one? 
 
i64 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II GASTON 
 
 Yes, Monsieur Marcel, my father wrote and told me 
 whenever I was in trouble to ask for Marcel. Those 
 were his words. Mother showed them to me in a letter. 
 So I looked for you and found you. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Quite right, my boy ; Marcel will stick to you always, 
 for your own and your father's sake. Why, he told me 
 often in the Crimea to look after his child at Marseilles. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 You found him at Marseilles ? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Not much trouble about that ! I have seen a good bit 
 of them — Hortense and the little Gaston : have I not, 
 Marthe ? 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 It is true, Monsieur. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Yes, I have tried to do what I could for them, not 
 that that is much, for, as you told me many years ago, 
 Bonnier, we soldiers are rolling stones, and it is not often 
 that this particular stone has rolled to Marseilles. But it 
 is from Marseilles that I have brought him here. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 But you said the boy found you ? 
 
 GASTON 
 
 So I did, I went down to the quay and foimd him. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Quite true, little lad, quite true. You knew that 
 Marcel would come to you, whenever you wanted him. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 165 
 
 MARTHE Act II 
 
 \Breah in hurriedlyJ\ Come, Monsieur Bonnier, it is 
 not the time to tell over our tales — now that the little one 
 has come home. Let me bring in the wine. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 \JVith growing excitement.'] Yes, yes, Marthe, bring in 
 the wine. Here is Marcel — old dog ! I never knew 
 him refuse a glass of wine ! And I shall drink too, 
 and my little boy here shall drink and we will begin a 
 new life. Wine, Marthe, wine ! [Marthe goes out.] 
 [To Marcel.] Old friend, I think I should hardly have 
 known you. But I suppose we are both changed, both 
 grown old and grey ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Yes, Bonnier, time plays sad tricks with us old ones, 
 though it does not change our hearts. But you will get 
 young again now that little Gaston has come. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 We will all get young again ; Gaston shall teach us the 
 way. Aha, here comes Marthe ! [Enter Marthe with 
 winey etc.y and sets the things on the tahle^ which she draws 
 close to Bonnier.] Come, we will forget the past and live 
 in the present. There — now you. Marcel, shall sit there, 
 and my little grandson must sit here — by my side. Pour 
 out the wine, Marthe, pour out the wine ! We are going 
 to be merry and never be sorry any more 1 We are not 
 too old to be merry, are we. Marcel ? \They sit at table 
 and Marthe helps them.] 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Not I, at all events. Well, here's to you, Bonnier. 
 [Drinks.] With all my heart. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 That's not the proper toast ! No, no, we will first 
 drink to this young man ! Here, Gaston, here's to your 
 health, my boy. 
 
i66 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II MARCEL 
 
 Hear, hear ! Gaston, your good health. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 \Prinh to both.'] I hope you will both have a long life 
 and much happiness. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 If I have, it will all be owing to you, Gaston. Marthe 
 must drink too ! [ They all drink.] 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [After a deep draught.] Come, that's better ! Now I 
 don't care what happens in this war. If I Jive, so much 
 the better ; and if I die, it will be for France. Vive la 
 France ! [Drinks again.] 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Vive la France, et i bas les Prussiens ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [Laughing.] Hear him, hear the young patriot ! 
 That's right, my boy, stick to the text and you won't go 
 far wrong. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 War again, it is always war ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Well, if there wasn't war, what would an old soldier 
 like me do ? You don't suppose I could ever rest quietly 
 in a cottage and smoke my pipe in a chimney corner ? 
 No, vive la guerre ! say I. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Vive la guerre ! 
 
 MARTHE 
 
 Hush, Monsieur, hush ! [Pushes the table back away 
 from Bonnier.] 
 
GASTON BONNIER 167 
 
 GASTON Act II 
 
 Why ? I like hearing about war. My father is a 
 soldier ! Tell me about the war, Marcel ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 \Rising^ No time now, little one. I must be ofF. We 
 have had our marching orders, and I am not the one to 
 delay. One more glass, Bonnier, and then — a Berlin. 
 [Laughs as he drinks ; drums begin outside.] 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 War, always war ! Don't go yet, Marcel I 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 But I must, old friend ! France calls me, you don't 
 suppose that when the drums are beating and the flags 
 flying. Marcel is going to be a laggard ? Good-bye, old 
 friend, I have done the best service I could for you and 
 Pierre, and now I am ofF! Vive la guerre! Vive la 
 France ! A Berlin ! 
 
 GASTON 
 [Has been watching him with eager ^ wide-open eyes.] 
 Adieu, adieu, Marcel ! Mind you beat them — those 
 Prussians ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 All right, youngster ! Come, Marthe, you shall see me 
 to the door. Adieu ! 
 
 [Marcel and Marthe go out. There is a brief 
 pause while Petit Gaston^^« to the window 
 to see the last <?/Marcel. Opens window. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 There he goes, there he goes ! Oh, is he not fine 
 and strong. Marcel ! 
 
 [Drums, gradually dying away. 
 
i68 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II BONNIER 
 
 \Feehly and a Utile irritably.'] Yes, yes, come back and 
 shut the window, Gaston ! Come and sit by me ! Don't 
 let us talk about the war ! [Drums cease. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 [Cornes back.] But don't you like Marcel, then ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Marcel is a fine fellow — for a soldier. But you and I 
 have got something else to think about than war and 
 soldiers. Tell me about yourself. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 What shall I tell you ? About our life at Marseilles ? 
 Oh, may I tell you about my dear mother ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No, no, about your father. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Didn't you like mother ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 I — I — hardly knew your mother. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Oh, then, I will tell you all about her. I used to call 
 her "Angel." 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Aside.] The boy will kill me. [Aloud.] Your father 
 first, Gaston. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Father was a soldier, and he was always ready to die 
 for his country, and I am going to be a soldier too, and if 
 France calls me, I will die for her. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Gaston, I don't want you to be a soldier. 
 
GASTON BONNIER 169 
 
 GASTON Act II 
 
 Not a soldier ? What else is a man fit for ? Why, 
 father was a soldier ; didn't you want him to be a soldier ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 No. [%^5.] 
 
 GASTON 
 
 And yet he was one, why was that ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 He would be, Gaston, whether I liked it or no. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 And were you angry with him ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Aside.] What am I to say ? How cruel a child can 
 be! 
 
 GASTON 
 
 [Looks at him with wondering eyes.] My father was a 
 soldier, and you didn't want him to be. I want to be a 
 soldier, and you say no. Will you be angry with me 
 too ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No, no, Gaston, if you will stay at home with me and 
 forget all about wars. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 But that cannot be always. I want to be a soldier, 
 and fight the Prussians. I promised mother that I would, 
 and that is a promise I cannot break. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Irritably.] Your mother, your mother ! I tell you 
 I want you, Gaston, to be with me, 
 
 GASTON 
 
 I am sure you didn't like mother. [Suddenly.] Why 
 did you never have mother here ? [Bonnier does not 
 answer.] Was it because you were angry with father ? 
 
I70 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II BONNIER 
 
 Oh, Gaston, do not ask such questions. It's all long 
 ago now, and I don't want to remember the past. Be 
 kind to your old grandfather. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 ISlowly.l Yes, I will if I can. But I am not quite a 
 child. Monsieur. You cannot wish me to break a promise 
 to my mother, or forget my father's life. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 I never forget Pierre, Gaston. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 And yet you were angry with him ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 I was wrong, Gaston, I was wrong, and I have repented 
 it bitterly since ! I know it was my fault that he left 
 this house and became a soldier, but indeed, indeed, I 
 have suffered, ever since, ever since, God knows ! 
 
 GASTON 
 
 He left you because you were angry ? Oh, Monsieur, 
 tell me the truth ! It is right that I should know. I am 
 no longer a child. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Yes, Gaston, yes. I was angry and said wicked words, 
 and he went away. [y^side.] My God, do not punish 
 me by means of this child. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 And my mother — were you angry with her too ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Yes, because she took him away from me. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Did you forgive them ? 
 
GASTON BONNIER 171 
 
 BONNIER Act II 
 
 I forgave your father. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 But you never forgave my mother — is that true ? 
 [Bonnier is silent and hides his face in his hands with a 
 groan.] Monsieur ! [S/ow/y.] I think I must go vv^ith 
 Marcel to the war. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 No, no, anything but that, anything but that ! Oh, 
 my boy, my boy, you are all that I have now, all that I 
 have to remind me of Pierre. Do not leave me, I have 
 found you after many years, do not leave me. See how 
 old and worn I am, I cannot hope to live long. Stay 
 with me while I live, I beseech you, Gaston ! If I could 
 I would ask you on my knees. Yes, I, your grandfather, 
 would beg you on my knees not to leave me, old and 
 desolate and comfortless. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 [Slowly.] And would you forgive them now ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 Ah, it is all long ago ! Yes, I have forgiven them. 
 [With a long sigh.] 
 
 GASTON 
 
 Ah, grandfather. [Coming close to him and looking at him 
 earnestly.] Will you forgive them now ? 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Feebly.] Hush ! we must not talk about the dead. 
 
 GASTON 
 
 But they are not dead — they are alive. 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 [Half rises with a cry.] Not dead ! What do you 
 mean ? 
 
172 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II GASTON 
 
 They are alive, they are alive ! They are here in the 
 village; they are just outside. [Bonnier rises with a 
 choking cry and then falls back. Attempts to speak^ but 
 no articulate words will come.] Grandpapa, grandpapa, 
 don't look like that, [y^fter a pause^ in which Bonnier 
 tries to speak but cannot.] Speak to me, speak to me, 
 say something. Can you forgive them ? [As Bonnier 
 remains silent^ the boy looks at him for a moment in a scared 
 way^ then runs to door.] Marthe, Marthe ! Come — 
 quick ! 
 
 Enter Marthe, hurriedly followed by Pierre and 
 
 HORTENSE. 
 MARTHE 
 
 Ah, Heavens ! poor Monsieur Bonnier. [^Runs over to 
 himy supports his head.] Quick, some wine, wine ! 
 [Pierre y?//j a glass from thetable^ and Marthe on one side 
 of him, Pierre the other side^ hold him up and hold wine to 
 his lips. The boy remains kneeling in front of him ; Hortense, 
 shylyy at a little distance?^ 
 
 PIERRE 
 
 Oh, father, father, have I come too late ? 
 
 GASTON 
 
 \Wailingly^ Forgive them, forgive them ! Oh, what 
 have I done ! 
 
 BONNIER 
 
 \With an effort^ Pierre, Pierre, come to me. 
 [Pierre comes round and kneels in front. The boy drags 
 Hortense vuer^ and brings her before Bonnier, where she 
 too kneels^ 
 
GASTON BONNIER 173 
 
 MARTHE Act II 
 
 [Behind Bonnier.] Monsieur Gaston, say one word, 
 forgive them. 
 
 [Bonnier y^^i'/y lays one hand upon Pierre's head. 
 Then he lifts it to place it on Hortense's 
 head. As it gets nearly to her, the hand falls 
 nervelessly on his lap, and with a groan 
 Bonnier's head falls forward, and he dies. 
 In the far distance are heard the drums as the 
 curtain slowly descends.^ 
 
 Slow Curtain, 
 
UNDINE 
 
 A DREAM PLAY 
 
DRJMJTIS PERSONS 
 
 Undine. 
 
 Count Huldbrand of Ringstetten. 
 
 Bertalda. 
 
 Father Heilmann. 
 
 Fisherman. 
 
 Fisherman's Wife. 
 
 Bertalda's Foster-parents. 
 
 Shepherd. 
 
 Three Beggars. 
 
 A Blind Man. 
 
 Courtiers, Attendants, Crowd, etc. 
 
 . ACT I 
 Interior of Fisherman's Cottage. 
 
 ACT II 
 Hall of Castle of Ringstetten. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 A Mountain Gorge near Ringstetten. 
 
 *^* The acting rights of this play are in the hands of Mrs. Patrick 
 Campbell. 
 
 It has been translated into Spanish, and a performance given at 
 Barcelona, under the care of £. Franquesa Bach. 
 
UNDINE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. — Interior of Fisuerman^s cottage. It is evening. A Act I 
 staircase comes down from thi upper part of the cottage at 
 one corner: there is a fireplace in the centre with an ingle- 
 nook^ and a spinning-wheel stands at one side ofit^ where 
 the Fisherman's Wife is spinning. The Fisherman 
 enters by the door leading outside^ and^ as he enters^ a 
 gust of wind shows that outside a storm of rain and 
 wind is raging^ the windows are rattling with the 
 tempesty and the sound of a lashing rainstorm is heard 
 on the roof while the wind howls round the eaves. 
 While the Fisherman's Wife is seated very quietly 
 and placidly^ the Fisherman, after shutting the door^ is 
 restless and disturbed. He comes to the fireplace^ warms 
 himself for a moment^ then goes to the window^ and 
 returns once more to the fireplace. He glances at his 
 Wife, as though irritated by hir stillness, 
 
 fisherman 
 It is many years since we had such a storm — not 
 since Undine came to us. And the water is rising all 
 round, and cutting us off from the mainland. It makes 
 one uneasy and restless. Where is Undine ? How can 
 you sit there, wife, hour after hour, as though nothing 
 was happening — as though nothing was going to happen ? 
 
 wife 
 No one can alter fate. [She goes on spinning.'] 
 
 177 
 
 N 
 
178 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I FISHERMAN 
 
 Oh, I have not your patience. You sit there, just as 
 you have sat for years — spinning, spinning, spinning. 
 And the world is altering all the time. So many morn- 
 ings and evenings come and pass aw^ay ; and the sun rises 
 and sets, and the stars come out : and each day something 
 is happening which may change all our lives. I am very 
 uneasy and restless to-night. I feel that some change is 
 coming. I feel it in my bones. 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Well, husband, if it has to come, it will come. You 
 can do nothing but wait and receive at Fate's hands 
 whatever Fate has to give you. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 \Co7n'ing downstairs^ gaily singing,'] 
 
 Where is the Sea-King's home ? 
 There where the great fish roam, 
 In the heart of the deep sea's foam, 
 There is the Sea-King's home. . . . 
 
 Arkel, Sibol, Harald, Ktihleborn ! I hear you ! I hear 
 you ! [Dances round Fisherman's Wife and kisses her,] 
 I am coming ! I am coming ! [Goes to window.] 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Where are you going, Undine ? It is not a night for 
 you to leave the house. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Laughs]. Why not ? It is a night when all my kinsmen 
 are abroad ! Arkel, Sibol . . . [She opens the window.] 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Hark, how the winds are howling and the rain ... the 
 rain ! 
 
UNDINE 179 
 
 UNDINE Act I 
 
 Yes [shutting window], they are riding the wings of 
 the rain ! and I hear them caUing for me . . . their 
 voices are tossed along the paths of the storm ! I am 
 coming ! I am coming ! [She goes to door,] 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 [Coming up to her.] Undine, do not leave us ! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Blowing a kiss to him.] Only for a little w^hile ! I 
 am the child of the storm ! [Sings a few notes and then 
 goes out, laughing.] 
 
 [Fisherman goes to door — looks after her — then 
 shuts the door with a sigh and comes to fireplace. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 All the spirits of evil are in the air. I can hear them 
 muttering their spells. They whisper and whisper, and 
 then they do the mischief which God allows. Hark, 
 what was that ? [He crosses himself devoutly.] I thought 
 I heard a cry. Undine ! — [there comes a splash of water 
 against the window panes, followed by a wild laugh] — 
 Undine ! Come back ! Come home ! 
 
 WIFE 
 
 She will not come. She loves the storm. She is the 
 daughter of the winds and waves. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 No, no, she is our daughter — yours and mine, wife. 
 It is time she gave up her impish tricks. She is no 
 longer so young as when we found her. She is no more 
 a child. [He goes to the door and calls.] Undine! Come 
 home ! 
 
 VOICE IN DISTANCE 
 
 No — no — I am happy here ! [Laughter.] 
 
 [Fisherman ^huts dooj^ 
 
i8o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I WIFE 
 
 She will never be our daughter, husband. She is not 
 of our kith and kin. Is it red blood that flows in her 
 veins ? I do not know, nor do you. What is it that is 
 wanting in her face? Something which others have, 
 men and women like ourselves, but she has it not. She 
 has strange, uncanny ways. Can she be warm and loving 
 and kind ? Can she love ? I do not know, nor do you. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 She will be our daughter, I tell you, if you only give 
 her time. She will forget all her wild kindred and no 
 longer be the sister of winds and waves. And when she 
 loves a man, as woman loves, then the something you 
 speak of will come into her face, and we shall be proud 
 of her, and have our little grandchildren at our knees . . . 
 
 WIFE 
 
 I think not, I think not. She does not come to you 
 when you call. Call her, she will not obey ! 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Hark, what was that ? I thought I heard a cry. It is 
 the second time I have heard a cry. [^He goes to the 
 window : there is a knock at the door,] 
 
 THE VOICE OUTSIDE 
 
 Let me in, let me in, for the love of God ! 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Shall I open, shall I open the door, good wife ? 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Better not. It is Kiihleborn, it may be, Kiihleborn, 
 spirit of evil, disguised in some mad shape, come to mock 
 at us. 
 
UNDINE i8i 
 
 FISHERMAN Act I 
 
 But it may be some Christian soul. Yet who can be 
 abroad on so wild a night ? 
 
 \The knocking is repeated^ and the same voice, 
 
 WIFE 
 
 It may be Fate, good husband, knocking at our doors. 
 One must open the door when Fate knocks. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 [Going to door.] Come in, come in. I pray God all may 
 be well. 
 
 Enter Count Huldbrand, wet from the storm, 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I thank you, good friends. Peace be with you. I am 
 worn and wasted with travel, and I would fain rest 
 awhile, if I may. Good Lord, how the wind blows 
 to-night ! \H.e shivers.] 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Come to the fire, and welcome, sir. It is ill to be 
 abroad in storms like these. 
 
 [Huldbrand throws off c/oak, and comes 
 towards fire. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 We ask no questions, sir. We give all we can, warmth 
 and shelter. 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Nay, but we can give some poor morsel to eat, if the 
 knight be hungry. 
 
 huldbrand 
 I am hungry, good mother — and cold and wet. [Sits 
 down.] 
 
i82 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I The Fisherman bestirs himself to put bread and 
 
 cheese and beer from a cupboard on the table^ 
 the Knight watching him awhile^ and then 
 gazing into the fire abstractedly, 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [After a moment's pause."] You have not asked my 
 name, good friends, but I owe it to you and to your 
 hospitality to tell you. I am Count Huldbrand of 
 Ringstetten — perchance you know the castle ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Ay, ay. I have heard of it. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 But what a forest ! What a forest ! [Looks into the 
 fire gloomily.'] 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 You lost your way in our forest, sir ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes . . . All the devils of the air are abroad to-night ! 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Ay, ay. They ride the horses of the wind, and the 
 spirits of the forest come to meet them. Trouble and 
 woe, trouble and woe for those who have to pass them, 
 when they are at play ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [Shudders.] And the voices, and the whisperings, and 
 the thunder of their laughter ! I was mad to try the 
 journey. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 You were put to some proof, sir ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 No — well, in one fashion, yes. I was bidden by the 
 
UNDINE 183 
 
 lady Bertalda, the queen of the tourney, to pass through Act I 
 the forest. I could not be her liege-knight if I did not 
 accept her challenge. But it was a fool's errand I was 
 sent upon. I lost my horse, for he was frightened and 
 threw me, and galloped into the night. And I was forced 
 to make my way as best I could on foot. It was a fool's 
 errand — ^just to win a lady's smile. May I eat, good 
 mother ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Ay, sir, eat and drink. It is humble fare, but you are 
 welcome. 
 
 \The Knight eats silently and there is silence, 
 Suddenly there is a splash of water on the 
 window panes and a peal of laughter. The 
 Knight starts. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 What was that ? 
 
 fisherman 
 Nay, sir, do not start, it is only my wild madcap of a 
 daughter, playing us one of her tricks. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Your daughter ? And abroad such a night as this ? 
 
 fisherman 
 Yes, our daughter. Undine. She has ever been fond of 
 some roguery. But I would that she would come back 
 home. 
 
 wife 
 She is not of our kith and kin, Sir Knight. We lost 
 our own bairn, and heavy was our sorrow. Then was 
 this child. Undine, found asleep on the edge of the lake. 
 And we took her, and have brought her up as our own. 
 But in nature she belongs not to us, but to the waters 
 whence she came. Undine, the child of the wave. 
 
i84 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I FISHERMAN 
 
 Come, come, good wife. She will grow to be our very 
 own in time. She is but seventeen as yet. And dearer 
 to us every year that passes. \^Goes to the window^ opens it 
 and listens.] But I would fain see her face and know that 
 she is safe. Undine ! Undine ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 It cannot be well that she should be out and abroad 
 to-night. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 I am going out to find her, good wife. I cannot sleep 
 in peace, if she be not returned. 
 
 HULIDBRAND 
 
 And I will go with you and help you. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Nay, sir, I would not trouble you. You have had 
 walking enough to-ni^ht. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I am stronger now. Come, Fisherman, we will find 
 her. [Puts on cloak and hat and they go out together.] 
 
 WIFE 
 
 [Left alone^puts away the eatables in the cupboard and then 
 goes on spinning.] We do not know when Fate comes to 
 our doors, for she comes in many guises. But she must 
 always come in . . . there are no bolts and bars that will 
 keep her out. As I sit here and spin I think of many 
 things, and sometimes I know when Fate's moment has 
 arrived. Dark and strange is the forest, and dark and 
 strange the figure which moves through it . . . moving, 
 moving to our doors. What will the morrow bring ? 
 That which is born of to-day. It is fated, it cannot be 
 altered. [J chorus outside sings softly. 
 
UNDINE 185 
 
 CHORUS OF FATE Act I 
 
 High in the spaces of sky 
 
 Reigns inaccessible Fate : 
 Yields she to prayer or to cry ? 
 
 Answers she early or late ? 
 
 Change and re-birth and decay, 
 
 Dawning and darkness and light — 
 Creatures they are of a day. 
 
 Lost in a pitiless night. 
 
 Men are like children who play 
 
 Unknown by an unknown sea : 
 Centuries vanish away — 
 
 She waits — the eternal She. 
 
 Nay, but the Gods are afraid 
 
 Of the hoary Mother's nod ; 
 They are of things that are made. 
 
 She the original God. 
 
 They have seen dynasties fall 
 
 In ruin of what has been : 
 Her no upheavals appal — 
 
 Silent, unmoved, and serene. 
 
 Silent, unmoved, and serene. 
 
 Reigns in a world uncreate. 
 Eldest of Gods and their Queen, 
 
 Featureless, passionless Fate. 
 
 \The Fisherman's Wife puts away 
 spinning-wheel and exit to her room. 
 
i86 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I Scene 2. 
 
 Enter Count Huldbrand with Undine. Both are wet 
 with the rain^ and Undine's hair is blown about her 
 face. Undine is very quiet ^ with large wistful eyes. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I have found you, Undine. ... I have found you at 
 last. 
 
 undine 
 Yes, you have found me. You were always sure to 
 find me, for I have knovirn you a long time past ! 
 
 huldbrand 
 But how can that be, Undine ? I knew your name, 
 for your foster-father has told me, and your strange, wild 
 history. But how do you know me ? I have never seen 
 you before, nor have you seen me. 
 
 undine 
 I do not know your name — but that does not matter. 
 What is your name ? 
 
 huldbrand 
 Huldbrand — the Count Huldbrand, who lives in the 
 castle of Ringstetten. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Huldbrand, Huldbrand. I will try to remember your 
 name. But your name does not matter. I have known 
 you a long time. 
 
 huldbrand 
 No, no. Undine . . . that is impossible. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Does it seem to you so strange ? But I have dreamt of 
 you, and dreams tell the truth. 
 
UNDINE 187 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 When have you dreamt of me, Undine ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Oh, deep down in the blue waters, where all my child- 
 hood was spent. There were miles and miles of blue 
 sea above me, and all my fathers and brothers and 
 kinsmen were about me, and Kiihleborn used to watch me 
 with his big eyes. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Who is Kiihleborn ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Hush ! . . . you must not speak his name. He is my 
 uncle, and he never liked me to dream, because he knew 
 that in dreams I ceased to belong to the sea. Dreams 
 always take one into another world, and then one gets 
 restless. All love of change is born of dreams. And if 
 one desires change, then the old world slips away and the 
 new thing happens to one — the strange new thing which 
 is to give one a soul. . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 What do you mean. Undine ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 They told me I had no soul, it was Kiihleborn who 
 told me. "You have no soul. Undine," he said, "what 
 is the good of dreaming ? " And I said, " But it is a soul 
 I want ; why should I not dream ? " And he used to shake 
 his head and turn away. But for me the passion grew 
 stronger and stronger, the passion for the new thing, the 
 passion for a soul. And it was you whom I saw, you who 
 were to give me a soul. That is why I have come up 
 out of the deep waters to find you. . . . Long time have 
 I known you, Huldbrand 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 You are very beautiful, Undine. 
 
 Act I 
 
i88 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I UNDINE 
 
 Can one be beautiful if one has no soul ? I do not 
 think so. The soul must look out of the eyes. In the 
 deep world below the waters there are many shapes and 
 bodies and limbs which are beautiful, but no beautiful 
 faces, no beautiful eyes . . . they are all soulless . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 You are more beautiful than the women of my world. 
 Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 The women of your world, Huldbrand ? Are they 
 beautiful ? Tell me of them ... I have only seen my 
 foster-mother. [Laughs.'] Have you seen many fair 
 women, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Fairer than I am ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes. ... I do not know . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Beautiful women ? Have you seen one most beautiful 
 woman ? For to all of us there must be one most beauti- 
 ful thing — that for which the body is athirst and the heart 
 craves. I saw that in my dream — a face and a shape like 
 yours, Huldbrand. And that is why I knew you when 
 you came. But you — have you seen the one most 
 beautiful woman ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I do not know, Undine — perhaps — I thought so — once. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 You thought so once ? When did you think so ? Tell 
 me about her. What was her name ? 
 
UNDINE 189 
 
 HULDBRAND Act I 
 
 Never mind about her ? Let us speak about you. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No, no, I want to know her name. Should I like her ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Her name was Bertalda. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Bertalda — it is a beautiful name. But I do not like 
 her. Why do I not like her ? Was she good to you ? 
 Do you love her ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I do not know — perhaps. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Whose are those colours you are wearing ? Are they 
 Bertalda's ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 \^miling?^ Yes. . . . But . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Takes his hand and puts her teeth to itJ] I hate her . . . 
 I hate Bertalda ! [Her manner gets wilder.^ 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Oh, little cat ! Why did you bite me ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Gets up and goes away from him.'] What did Bertalda 
 make you do ? For all women make men do something. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 You hurt me, Undine. Why did you bite me ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Because I hate Bertalda. What did she make you do ? 
 
I90 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HULDBRAND 
 
 She made me come through the forest. She was the 
 queen of the tourney, and I wore her colours and had to 
 do what she ordained. And she challenged me to go 
 alone through the enchanted forest. But the forest 
 brought me to you, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Ah, yes, the forest ! I knew what must have happened 
 to you there. You had a strange time in the forest ! 
 \}Valt7.ing with slow steps?^ Many of my kinsmen were 
 round you, Arkel and Sibol and Harald, and — Kuhleborn ! 
 They were round you all the time, and they — teased you ! 
 \Laughs^ 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes — yes . . . but it is over now. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [5//// moving in slow dancing steps.^ I heard them calling, 
 calling all night. The spirit of the storm, and the spirit 
 of the trees, and the spirit of the waters. I knew that 
 they were holding high revels. And once the voices were 
 so loud that I went out, but they would not listen to me. 
 And again, a little later, I heard them crying — " He is 
 coming ! He is coming ! But Undine must not know ! 
 Stop him ! Stop him ! Bind him with your chains ! 
 Let him never get out of the forest, lest Undine should 
 see him and love him ! " I heard them plainly enough. 
 [Stops dancing.] But it was fated that you should come 
 here, and that I should see you, and that I should love 
 you. [Sings,] 
 
 There was a kingdom fair to see, 
 
 But pale, so pale, with never a rose : 
 
 The cold wind blows across the lea. 
 Westward the pale sun goes. 
 
UNDINE 191 
 
 There was a maiden, soft and dear, Act I 
 
 But pale, so pale, with never a rose : 
 Each quivering eyelid holds a tear, 
 
 Sea-ward her sad heart goes . . . 
 
 \Ends with' almost a sob. 
 
 You will not go away again, Huldbrand ? [Sits down again.'] 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 No — I shall not go away again. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 You will not leave me ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 No — I shall not leave you. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Am I beautiful, am I beautiful, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, yes. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 More beautiful than all ? More beautiful than — 
 Bertalda ? [Comes over to him and puts her hand on his 
 shoulder.'] 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes. Put your face near mine. Ah, you are beautiful, 
 Undine ! You are like the spring coming over the fields. 
 You are the dawn coming over the waters. You are the 
 first star that shines when the sun has gone down and 
 the twilight creeps over the land. You are the flower of 
 the earth, the fine-spun foam of the sea ! You are 
 beautiful — beautiful ! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Do you love me — do you love me, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, I love you. Undine. Put your face close to me — 
 
192 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I close. Your mouth — give me your mouth. Your sweet, 
 full lips. Ah ! \He kisses her,] Why do you tremble, dear ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 I love you, Huldbrand — I shall always love you. [She 
 kisses him.] 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Enter Fisherman with a priest^ Priest Heilmann, both 
 very wet. Undine goes forward to greet the Fisherman. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Undine \emhraces her\ you have come back, thank the 
 good Lord for His mercies. I knew you would come 
 back. [Turning to Knight.] You found her, Sir Knight ? 
 Nay, you might have let me know. I searched long and 
 far, and all in vain ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 And I only went down to the little river, and there on 
 the opposite bank was Undine. I crossed the river — 
 though she waved me back, for she knew the current to 
 be strong — and the waves tore and tugged at me as I 
 waded across. But I would not have Undine touch the 
 water again. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 You carried her over the water ? [The Knight 
 assents.] And you, Undine . . . are you glad to be 
 home ? You have made me very anxious to-night. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Yes, I am glad to be home. [She is very quiet throughout 
 this scene. She sits in a corner of the room^ watching every 
 one with big thoughtful eyes,] 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 But you, too, have found some one ? [indicating the 
 Priest.] 
 
UNDINE 193 
 
 FISHERMAN Act I 
 
 Yes. Come forward to the fire, Priest Heilmann. 
 Your dress is dripping with to-night's storm. 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 It is a good deed you have done in that you saved me 
 to-night. I thought to die in the forest. But God was 
 good to me. Perchance He hath still some work for His 
 servant to do. \Looh at Knight and Undine.] 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Come, let us draw close to the fire, all of us. My old 
 wife, I take it, has gone to bed. But we can talk awhile. 
 Take some food and drink. \The Priest shakes his head.'] 
 The storm is dying down, I think. 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 Nay, still the clouds press low upon the earth, and the 
 wind is still moaning round the eaves of the cottage, and 
 the waters are running in mad course — the waters which 
 divide us from the mainland, and bring us nearer this 
 strange lake. The lake, too, is full of voices. What do 
 they say to you. Fisherman ? What do they say to you, 
 Sir Knight ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 To me they say that Undine is returned. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 And to me that Undine is won. 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 And to me that God hath still some work for His 
 servant to do. Nay, what was that ? 
 
 [There is a burst of rain upon the window^ which 
 
 forces it open. All of them sit still and look 
 
 fearfully out into the darkness. Undine slowly 
 
 rises^ and remains standing^ spellbound. The 
 
 voice of KuHLEBORN is heard singing. 
 
 O 
 
Act I 
 
 194 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 [KUHLEBORN SingS.'\ 
 
 A night of storm 
 
 And a night of woe ! 
 And the sailors bold 
 And the ships of old 
 Are hidden and buried for aye 
 In the deep sea's mystery — 
 Long, long ago ! 
 
 The ships are torn 
 
 And the men are dead : 
 And their names are lost 
 And their bones are tost 
 Hither and thither, to and fro, 
 Where no man may see and no man know — 
 r the deep sea's bed ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Whose voice was that ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 It was Kiihleborn's. \^he goes over to the window, mutter- 
 ing some words, and moving her arms. The window closes 
 again. The Priest holds up the cross hanging on his girdle.'\ 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 There is witchery here. Devil or angel, man or fiend, 
 I bid thee leave us. ... I ban thee from our sight . . . 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Nay, Father, we hear many such sounds, night and 
 day. I pray you, be not concerned. For Undine knows 
 how to govern these spirits. She talks to them in their 
 own tongue, and they obey. Draw nearer the fire. 
 The whole night has been alive with voices. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Ay, that is true. \_He shudders.'] 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 And for me it hath been a night of peril and of trial. 
 The devil in many shapes hath been at my side : and 
 
UNDINE 195 
 
 strange, muttering shapes of temptation and sin have Act 1 
 plucked at my girdle. . . . Not only storm and wind 
 and rain have buffeted me. These I could bear. But 
 hell hath been let loose and all Satan's messengers have 
 been abroad. Fiends have sate upon the back of w^inds, 
 and the thunder hath echoed w^ords of fearful blasphemy. 
 . . . Is my penance complete, O God, is my penance 
 complete ? [Undine looks at him with wonder. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 What is your penance, good Father ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Is there some sin for which you have had to atone ? 
 Tell us, if your lips be not sealed. 
 
 [Undine comes forward with her eyes fixed on 
 the Priest, and sits by the side of the 
 Knight on the ground^ with her head 
 resting against his knee. 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 Ay, I will tell you. For it is ill to bear a burden 
 alone. Seven days ago I set out from a convent, because 
 for me there was no longer a life within its holy walls. 
 Only by suffering could I redeem what I had done. 
 I had failed to save a soul. 
 
 undine 
 Failed to save a human soul ? [She watches him 
 intently.^ 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 An old man was dying, and to me it had been ordered 
 to take to him the holy elements ere he died. I was to 
 be with him at eleven — no later, for he was sinking fast, 
 and I had some journey to travel ere I could reach him. 
 But at ten deep sleep overcame me, I know not from 
 what cause. And when I awoke at last and hurried to 
 his side, it was too late. He was dead. His soul had 
 
196 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I gone unshriven to the other world, and the fault was 
 mine, the fault was mine ! Eternally mine ! [He covers 
 his face with his hands.^ 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Nay, but we cannot help the tyranny of sleep. 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 Sir Knight, can a man win the whole world if the 
 cost be the loss of a soul ? The fault was mine, the sin 
 was grievous. There could be no excuse or pardon for 
 a sin like this. Many waters will not wash away the 
 deep stain of wilful transgression. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 And the penance. Father ? 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 The abbot bade me wander forth on a hopeless quest. 
 I was to seek through all the land, nor ever rest by day 
 or night in the shelter of a home, until I had given a 
 soul — given a soul in compensation for the soul I had 
 lost. Is this not a hopeless task ? For where and how 
 can I give that with which all human beings are born — 
 God's gracious gift of a soul, which lifts us from the 
 brute ? Nay, even now I am wrong to linger here. 
 I may not take shelter in a home, till my task be done. 
 And that, alas, it can never be ! Woe is me, for I am 
 undone, for ever and ever ! God's penance is harder 
 than I can bear 1 
 
 l^He rises slowly from his seat with a deep sigh. 
 
 Undine goes over to him and lays her hand 
 
 on his arm. 
 
 undine 
 Holy Father, what is a soul ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Hear the child ! What is a soul ? Why, we all 
 know that ! Nay, mind her not, Father, 
 
UNDINE 197 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 But let the child speak, and let the Father answer. 
 What is a soul ? 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 Ah, my child, I can only tell in part. It is that by 
 which we live in this world and that by which we hope 
 to live in the world to come. God gives it to us that we 
 may be removed from the beasts that perish, and that 
 we may know Him . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Does it hurt, the soul ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Why, what means this strange question ? How can 
 the soul hurt ? Hush, hush. Undine . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I think I know what Undine means. ... Is it .true 
 that things have more power to hurt us because we have 
 a soul ? 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 Ay, ay. Evil can hurt us, because we have a soul. 
 Passion and sin can stain our lives, remorse can sting our 
 conscience, because we have a soul. But . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Is it good to be hurt, to be stained, to be stung . . . ? 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 My child, it hath been so ordained, that by suffering 
 men should become good. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Can one love without a soul ? {Looking away from 
 Priest and nestling against Huldbrand.] You can tell 
 me, Huldbrand, for the Father knows little, maybe, 
 about love. 
 
 Act I 
 
198 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HULDBRAND 
 
 Tell me yourself, Undine, for indeed I cannot say 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 I think one may love without a soul ... as the birds 
 and the beasts love. But the love of human beings seems 
 to be different from this. I cannot explain it altogether, 
 but there seems to look from the eyes of men and w^omen 
 something which will make the man die for the woman, 
 and the woman live for the man. Before we love, we 
 think mostly for ourselves, but when we love we think 
 always, always, always, for that which is more than 
 ourselves . . . the thing to which the heart clings. 
 \The storm seems to rise again without. '\ \With a change 
 of manner, '\ Hark ! I hear the wind sighing and the 
 waters moaning ! Kiihleborn, Kuhleborn. . . . No, no, 
 I do not want a soul ! I want to be free — free ! 
 Kuhleborn ! \^he goes to the window^ throws it open and 
 looks out. Then turning round.'\ Shall I sing to you, good 
 Father ? Listen to the song of the winds and waters. 
 
 [She chants the same song that Kuhleborn had 
 sungy and as she sings, a soft chorus outside, 
 repeating the same words, grows louder and 
 louder. 
 
 [Undine sings. 1 
 
 A night of storm 
 
 And a night of woe ! 
 And the sailors bold 
 And the ships of old 
 Are hidden and buried for aye 
 In the deep sea's mystery — 
 Long, long ago ! 
 
 The ships are torn 
 
 And the men are dead : 
 And their names are lost 
 And their bones ar« tost 
 Hither and thither, to and fro, 
 Where no man may see and no man know — 
 r the deep sea's bed ! 
 
UNDINE 199 
 
 PRIEST Act I 
 
 [Rises and goes over to her.] Child, what are you ? 
 I conjure you to tell me. [He raises the crucifix and 
 Undine is cowed,] 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 I am Undine, the child of the wave ... I cannot 
 harm you. But you can harm me. No — I do not want 
 a soul. It frightens me, it frightens me ! 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 [To Fisherman.] Whose child is this ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 It is ours, holy Father, my wife's and mine. It has 
 been ours for many, many years. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No — no. I am the child of the sea-depths, born or 
 the foam and the surge. My father is the Lord of the 
 Mediterranean, and Kuhleborn is my uncle ; and my 
 cousins are Arkel, and Sibol, and Harald ! I want no 
 soul ! I want no soul ! Why should I suffer pain and 
 sorrow and remorse ? 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 Child, God hath sent me to you : He hath still some 
 work for His servant to do. Is it not strange that I 
 should come after seven days' wandering — I that had lost 
 a human soul by my folly and neglect — to find that 
 I may, if Heaven so will, give a soul ? ... I do not 
 rightly understand who you are, nor what is the strange 
 kinship with the winds and waves of which you boast. 
 But this at least I dimly see . . . that you are soulless, 
 and that God gives you the chance, the one chance, to 
 become human and to know Him , . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Petulantly.] I am the spirit of the dancing waters. 
 I will have nothing to do with your pain and sorrow and 
 
200 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I remorse. . . . Ktihleborn, Kiihleborn ! \^he goes to the 
 window and opens //.] 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 Then my penance must remain unfulfilled ; the hard 
 yoke laid on me ... I must go forth from your home, 
 Fisherman ... I must fare on my way alone ... 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 [Anxiously.'] Undine, have you no pity for the holy 
 Father ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Undine, Undine ! Do you renounce my love ? You 
 cannot love without a human soul. You said so yourself. 
 [Undine looks wistfully at Huldbrand.] And your 
 dreams. Undine ? Did you not dream that you would 
 find me and put your hand in mine ? Was not this the 
 passion of your youth ? Why, then, do you start back — 
 now when the time comes to win a human soul ? Have 
 you forgotten, have you forgotten. Undine ? 
 
 undine 
 [Slowly.] No, I have not forgotten. [She shuts the 
 window^ against which there comes a rattle of water and 
 wind.] Peace, peace, Kiihleborn ! It is fated that so it 
 should be. No one can escape the thing that is doomed ! 
 And it is better that I should live the new life . . . 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 God be with thee, my daughter, for thou seest more 
 than all of us. It may be that thou wilt suffer if thou 
 becomest human ; but thou shalt know joy and sorrow 
 and love — the things which are of great price. And for 
 awhile, maybe, thou shalt taste all the blessedness of 
 human warmth and the kindness of human hearts . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Whose manner has become very quiet and who has come 
 
UNDINE 201 
 
 hack to HuLDBRAND.] Say it again, say it again, Huld- Act I 
 brand ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Say what again. Undine ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 That you love me. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I love you. Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 I love you, Huldbrand. I shall always love you. {^he 
 kisses him.] 
 
 [Starting away."] But will you always be kind to me ? 
 Never say a harsh or bitter word ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Never, never, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 For, indeed, you must not be angry with me, if you 
 would keep me by your side. Hark, how the spirits of 
 the air are storming outside I Hark, how Kiihleborn 
 raves ! For he knows that I am going away from him, 
 from the old home ... to the new home — where all 
 will be strange. Never be angry with me, Huldbrand . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Never, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 For if you speak bitter words to me, by the sea, or by 
 the river, by running streams or dancing fountains, then 
 will the spell be undone, and I shall go back to Kiihle- 
 born ! It is by love that I am winning a human soul, 
 and if love fails then the human soul is lost. . . . Do you 
 understand, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I understand. [He gives her his hand.'] 
 
202 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I UNDINE 
 
 Holy Father, give us your blessing. Make us man and 
 wife. 
 
 PRIEST 
 
 \Raises his hands over them as they kneel.'] If his love be 
 thine and thine be his, then I pronounce you, Huldbrand 
 and Undine, to be man and vv^ife. God's blessing rest on 
 you. [ They risej] 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 [Embracing Undine.] God be with you, my child. 
 You are my child at last ! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Going back to HuLDBRAND.] Say it again, say it again, 
 Huldbrand ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I love you, I love you. Undine. [They kiss.] 
 
ACT II 
 
 [Some weeks elapsej] 
 
 Scene i. — At Castle Ringstetten. It is midday. The Act II 
 scene is a large hall opening on a balustrade looking over 
 the courtyard. There is a fountain with gushing water 
 at the end of the hall. The hall is full of guests^ as it 
 is the day of welcome for Count Huldbrand and his 
 wife Undine. Among the guests are the Fisherman 
 and his Wife, whose appearance causes some surprise 
 and derision ; but they are evidently there for a purpose. 
 Constant movement is seen in the crowds and laughter. 
 There are three Beggar Men and one Blind Man 
 with dog on the steps, 
 
 first beggar 
 It is a good day for us when the Count comes home. 
 
 BLIND MAN 
 
 Is the day fair ? Does the sun shine ? 
 
 SECOND beggar 
 
 The day is fair, but there is no sun ; and there are 
 dark clouds gathering in the west. 
 
 THIRD BEGGAR 
 
 And what may that mean ? Can you tell us that ? 
 
 BLIND MAN 
 
 Joy and sorrow combined : sorrow coming in the 
 evening. 
 
 203 
 
204 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II FIRST BEGGAR 
 
 But joy at midday. It is a good day for us when the 
 Count comes home ! 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 When does the Count come ? 
 
 THIRD BEGGAR 
 
 We know not : he is waited for now. 
 
 WIFE 
 
 \To blind man.'] Why sayest thou sorrow comes in 
 the evening ? 
 
 BLIND MAN 
 
 Nay, it is not given to me to say why. I see not with 
 my eyes. I see only with the eyes of the soul. 
 
 WIFE 
 
 [Shaking her head.] Ay, ay, no one can tell how the 
 day will end. What must be, will be. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 And Undine comes too — Count Huldbrand's bride ! 
 
 SECOND BEGGAR 
 
 [Pointing,] See how the water rises and falls in the 
 fountain ! 
 
 BLIND MAN 
 
 Is the water angry ? Does it rise and fall as though in 
 pain and fury ? 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Why should the water be angry ? 
 
 BLIND MAN 
 
 Nay, I know not. I only know that which I see 
 with the eyes of my soul. 
 
 FIRST BEGGAR 
 
 It is a good day for us when the Count comes home ! 
 
UNDINE 205 
 
 Enter Bertalda, with her foster-parents^ who^ being 
 people of dignity^ are shown up to the dais, 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 \To her parents."] It is now some weeks since I saw 
 Count Huldbrand, and I marvel at men's fickleness. 
 For, indeed, when I saw him last he was the victor in 
 the lists, and I the queen to whom, after his battles, he 
 made obeisance. And he made me a certain promise and 
 asked for my gloves. But I said that he should have my 
 gloves only when he had been through the forest, wherein 
 no man is safe, and come back to me again. And now 
 he comes not to beg of me any guerdon for his loyalty 
 and the performance of his word, but as a disloyal knight, 
 who has fallen in love with some leman's eyes, and brings 
 her home as his bride ! Truly I marvel that a i^w 
 weeks should make so great a change ! 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 [Coming up to her,] I pray you, good lady, to pardon 
 me, but how soon is the Lady Undine expected to arrive ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Haughtily.'] You had better ask one of the attend- 
 ants. I know no Lady Undine. 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Not know the Lady Undine ? Why, she is my 
 daughter, and the wife of a worthy knight. Count 
 Huldbrand of Ringstetten ! 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Nay, she is no daughter of ours, I would have you 
 know,, fair lady, although my good man here is for ever 
 thinking and saying so. She is our foster-daughter, given 
 us by kind Heaven, when our own was lost. [To herself] 
 I know not how all this will betide ! 
 
 Act II 
 
2o6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II THE PEOPLE 
 
 [Watching eagerly and pointing to distance^ suddenly raise 
 a cheer,'] Long live Count Huldbrand ! Long live Sir 
 Huldbrand of Ringstetten ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Worthy knight, indeed ! And long live his wife, 
 Undine, the fisherman's daughter ! 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 [Eagerly.'] Ay, ay. I say Amen to that ! Long live 
 Undine ! 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 [Laughing at him.] Thy daughter ! A likely story ! 
 Tell us, old greybeard ! [They crowd round hi?n.] 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Ay, sirs, she is my daughter. At least [looking round 
 anxiously for fear of his wifs correction] she is our foster- 
 daughter — a fair g'rl and a beautiful, and the very apple 
 of my eye 
 
 WIFE 
 
 Nay, good man, hold thy tongue. Dost see how all 
 the folk are laughing at thee ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 There is good cause for laughter if this tale be true. I 
 am glad I let the old man talk. [Coming over to 
 Fisherman.] She is your daughter, old fisherman t 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Ay, my lady, our foster-daughter. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 And her name is — what did you say ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Undine, my lady. 
 
UNDINE 207 
 
 A til 
 
 BERTALDA A 
 
 And how came she to be Count Huldbrand's wife ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 The Count came to my cottage — my cottage by the lake 
 — through the forest, the dreadful forest, wherein no man 
 is safe ; and because rest is sweet after toil, and safety 
 welcome after danger, he fared well and happily with me 
 and my old wife. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Yes — and Undine ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 She is a child of springs and seas and running water, and 
 she found grace in the eyes of the Knight. So they were 
 wed, and a Priest, who was with us, gave her his blessing 
 and made them man and wife. 
 
 WIFE 
 
 I wonder at thee, that thou talkest so much. What 
 matters all this to the good lady ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Nay, I thank you, good fisherman. \Goes up.'\ 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 [Shouting.'] They come, they come I Here are the 
 Count and his bride. Long live the Count Huldbrand ! 
 Long live his bride ! 
 
 [There is a general commotion^ while Huldbrand 
 and Undine, preceded by Heralds and Ser- 
 ving-men, appear at the balustrade^ having 
 came up from the courtyard^ and then pass 
 through hall to the dais. Loud acclamations 
 are heard and then music and song of Choir, 
 The Heralds blow a fanfare. Undine is 
 looking here and there — with a pleased and 
 happy smile — and as she sees Fisherman and 
 Wife she greets them heartily. Her eyes 
 finally rest on the fountain and she grows 
 pensive for a moment. 
 
Ac» n 
 
 208 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 My friends ! I thank you for your welcome home. I 
 am glad of your presence here on a day which means so 
 much for my happiness, and, I hope, yours also. And I 
 present to you my bride — my bride, Undine, who is as 
 joyful to be with you all as I am. 
 
 \Cheers ; Undine bows and smiles. 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 Long live Count Huldbrand's bride, Undine ! 
 
 [Bertalda and her foster-parents go up to 
 HuLDBRAND, who presents Undine to them. 
 They remain talking while Undine slowly 
 moves towards the fountain. She bends over 
 it. The people are slowly fling out, 
 
 undine 
 
 Kuhleborn ! KUhleborn ! Will you not leave me this 
 one day in peace ? Nay, I know thy message, and I will 
 deliver it faithfully. Peace, peace, Kiihleborn ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 What says your wife. Sir Count ? Did I not hear her 
 speak ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 No — I did not hear her say anything. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 I thought she said some words at the fountain. See, she 
 is now wholly engrossed with the old fisherman and his 
 wife. Perhaps she prefers their conversation to ours. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Why, yes, in some sort that may be true. They are 
 her parents. Come hither, Undine. 
 
 [Undine comes back to dais, 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 You know well the fisherman and his wife, it seems. 
 Can it be true, as I have heard, that they are your parents ? 
 
UNDINE 209 
 
 UNDINE Act II 
 
 \With a slow^ sweet smi/e.'] No — they were very good 
 to me at the cottage by the lake. They are, in truth, my 
 foster-parents. But I am not of their kin, I am the child 
 of the waters. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Not now. Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No — that is true. I was the child of the waters until I 
 married you. Now I am Count Huldbrand's wife. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Laughs]. One cannot so easily change one's blood by 
 marriage, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No, Bertalda, one cannot easily change one's blood. For 
 you, too, hold to your own proper ancestry and carry 
 about with you the blood of your father and mother. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 What do you mean ? My parents came with me to 
 this hall to wish you and the Count welcome. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Your foster-parents, Bertalda. But you do not belong to 
 them, for you were given to them by the will of Heaven 
 as a foundling. They have been very good to you, as 
 my foster-parents have been to me ; and you have lived 
 with them now for many years, just as if you had been 
 their very own. But I can give you your real father and 
 mother. Your real father and mother are here ! [Point- 
 ing to Fisherman and Wife.] 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Mere fisherfolk ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 What nonsense is this, Undine ? 
 
2IO DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II UNDINE 
 
 It is not nonsense, Huldbrand. I know what I am 
 saying, for the secret has been told me — by those you 
 wot of. These two, the fisherman and his wife, lost 
 their child and then found me. Their lost child was 
 taken to Ringstetten and she stands there ! [Pointing to 
 Bertalda.] Are you not glad to find your kith and 
 kin ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Is your wife mad, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Hush, hush. Undine, do not speak such wild words. All 
 these things — secret messages, hidden mysteries, marvel- 
 lous relationships — belong to your past. They have 
 nothing to do with the present, remember. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 But indeed, indeed, what I say is true. \To Bertalda.] 
 Are you not glad to find your father and mother ? And 
 you [turning to Fisherman], are you not glad to get back 
 again your own child ? 
 
 FISHERMAN 
 
 Nay, nay, you are my child, Undine ; I want no 
 other. 
 
 WIFE 
 
 And what have we to do with fine ladies ! We live 
 as we can, and we do that which Fate allows. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Ha If crying.] Will no one believe me? Not you — 
 or you — or you ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [Sternfy.] Where did you learn these fancies, Un- 
 dine ? With whom have you been talking by the way ? 
 Are these two [pointing to Fisherman and Wife] in this 
 
UNDINE 211 
 
 plot? \They shake their heads and move off.'] Or is this Act II 
 fine story only your invention ? I had thought differently 
 of you, Undine. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 She wishes to get rid of me, Huldbrand, that is what 
 she desires. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 There is no plot. There is no invention. It is true. 
 He told me. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 He told you ? Who ? [Undine is silent.'] Was it 
 Heilmann, the priest ? [Undine is silent.] Who was 
 it ? \^He comes over to her and seizes her by the hands.] 
 Tell me. You shall tell me. 
 
 undine 
 [Slowly,] It was Kiihleborn. Oh, let me go ! 
 
 huldbrand 
 [Throwing her off.] I thought all that was over. I 
 hoped you were beginning a new life ! But you have 
 deceived me, it appears. Undine. You have made a 
 mock at Bertalda. You have filled me with shame. 
 
 [Undine, bursting into tearsy goes sadly through 
 the hall. The Fisherman and his Wife 
 hold out their hands to her^ and she goes out 
 with them. As she passes the steps the fountain 
 bubbles furiously. First Beggar Man is on 
 the steps. 
 
 FIRST beggar man 
 
 It is a good day for us when the Count comes home ! 
 
 Scene 2. — Bertalda and Huldbrand alone, A silence, 
 
 bertalda 
 I congratulate you on your wife, Huldbrand. 
 
212 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II HULDBRAND 
 
 Nay, she was overwrought — tired, maybe, with her 
 journey. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Is that so ? To me she seemed not so much tired 
 as 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 As what, Bertalda ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Well, if she was mad, there was some sense and method 
 in her madness. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 You must forgive me if I ask you a question, Huld- 
 brand. For, indeed, in some senses, I have a right to 
 know. When you went through the forest and found 
 Undine at the cottage by the lake, did you have some 
 talk, you two, about each other and about the past ? Did 
 she tell you anything about herself, and did you tell her 
 anything about yourself? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, we talked — we talked of many things. But I do 
 not, of course, remember all that we said. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Oh, I know that Undine is more beautiful than I am, 
 and beauty has its privileges. When a man talks to a 
 beautiful woman he is not thinking of what she says, but 
 of what she is. It is enough for him that something 
 lovely and exquisite and gracious is before his eyes. So 
 when you were talking to Undine, it was Undine's beauty 
 you were thinking of, not of the precise words she was 
 
UNDINE 213 
 
 uttering. But perhaps you may remember what you Act II 
 told her about yourself? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, Bertalda, I think I do. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Did you tell her why you had passed through the 
 forest, for example ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, I said I was under some sort of challenge and 
 promise, so that I must needs pass through — on the 
 honour of my knighthood. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 And you mentioned my name ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Then I quite understand Undine's little plot, Huld- 
 brand ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Was it a plot, Bertalda ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 You gave it that name yourself! But if Undine 
 knew that you loved me before you loved her — or, shall I 
 say, that we had talked together before ever such a woman 
 as Undine had been heard of — why it is just possible that 
 she was — what shall I say? — jealous ? You are silent, 
 Huldbrand — but is it not, at least, possible ? And, after 
 all, what do you know of Undine ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Bertalda, Bertalda, she is my wife. 
 
214 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II BERTALDA 
 
 Yes, I know she is your wife, but what do you know 
 of her, of her ancestry, of her character, her nature ? 
 Who is this Kuhleborn of whom she speaks ? And why 
 does she mutter to herself when she thinks no one is 
 noticing her ? There is something strange and uncanny 
 about her, and you know it. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Bertalda, she is my wife. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Oh yes, she is your wife ; but is she the wife for 
 Count Huldbrand of Ringstetten ? How will Count 
 Huldbrand be able to live with all these Kuhleborns and 
 this love of fountains and this muttering of spells and 
 incantations ? What is Count Huldbrand's place in a 
 home shared with elves and sprites and hobgoblins ? Have 
 you thought of all this ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Oh, Bertalda, do not talk of these things ; she is my 
 wife. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 And I — have I no right to be heard ? Is Bertalda so 
 wholly forgotten ? What were the words you said to 
 me only a few weeks ago ? For whose sake did you go 
 through the forest ? Who was the queen of the tourney 
 when you fought so stoutly in the lists ? Is it the same 
 Huldbrand who whispered soft words of love in my ear, 
 and who asked of me, as the gage and testament of his 
 plighted troth, my gloves ? Will you ask of me my 
 gloves now, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Bertalda, Bertalda . . . 
 
UNDINE 215 
 
 BERTALDA Act II 
 
 Ah, Huldbrand, Huldbrand, is man's memory so short ? 
 I have not forgotten, Huldbrand, for woman's love has 
 deeper roots — it cannot be torn up and flung aside so . 
 easily. [Coming close to lum,'] Huldbrand, v^ill you take 
 my gloves now ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 No, no — Bertalda . . . 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 See, I offer them to you, Huldbrand. I will give you 
 my gloves and you shall give me that little chain you 
 wear. It shall be my necklace, and it shall never be 
 taken from my neck. . . . Just for memory's sake, 
 Huldbrand, will you grant me this little boon ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, Bertalda [s/owly'jy I will give you the chain and 
 welcome. But your gloves I may not have . . . no — 
 no . . . they cannot belong to me — now. [Gives her the 
 chain. ^ 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Will you not put the chain round my neck, Huld- 
 brand ? For memory's sake ? [He is putting the chain 
 round her neck. She holds up her face to him.] For memory's 
 sake, Huldbrand ? [He bends, as he kisses her.] 
 
 [The stage grows dark. The fountain plashes 
 noisily. There is a flash, and Kuhleborn 
 is heard singing. Terror of Bertalda, 
 who clings to Huldbrand. In the midst 
 of the turmoil. Undine comes in, and the 
 stage grows light again. They start apart. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Kuhleborn ! Kiihleborn ! Will you never leave me 
 
2i6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II free ? Peace ! Peace ! \She goes over to fountain^ which 
 becomes calmed.^ 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I know not what sort of peace we are likely to have 
 here, Undine. But is there never to be any breaking of 
 the old ties which bind you to these spirits of yours ? 
 What kind of new life is this — such as you promised — 
 nay, swore to me on your wedding-day ? You are false 
 to your oath, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Ah, Huldbrand, it is not I who am false to our oaths 
 — the oaths we both made when we were wed. For, 
 indeed, the spirit of the waters is not wroth without cause, 
 nor is he wont to vex himself for naught. I know not 
 what may have stirred his anger, but 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Perhaps it is I, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Perhaps — I know not. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 \To Huldbrand.] You hear how madly she is set 
 on driving me forth ? First, the false story about my 
 parentage : and now the suspicion that I vex her 
 attendant . . . devils 1 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 For shame, for shame. Undine. What has Bertalda 
 done that you thus pursue with spite and jealousy ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 \^adly\. I pursue her with spite and jealousy ? Of 
 what, then, should I be jealous ? Nay, I know not 
 whether it be she or you or I with whom the spirit of the 
 waters is wroth. But, Huldbrand, I beseech you, look 
 
UNDINE 217 
 
 not on me so coldly and strangely. Ask yourself what I Act II 
 have done. Have I failed in my vi^ifely duty ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 These interruptions from the spirit world, this constant 
 reminiscence that I won you in spite of winds and waves 
 — they make me mad. I thought the old order had 
 changed when Father Heilmann gave us his blessing. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 It is not likely to be a peaceful house, where spirits of 
 evil are abroad. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [With a sigh.] We must have the fountain closed, 
 Huldbrand. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 The fountain ? But it has been here in this hall for 
 years. It belongs to my father and grandfather and the 
 past generations of my house. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Nevertheless, I beg of you, have it closed. If there be 
 a great stone placed on the top, so that no water can 
 bubble through, then the spirits of the water cannot 
 make their presence known, and I shall be at rest and 
 you once more content with me. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Close the fountain ? What silly tale is this ? For 
 myself I like the fountain ! 
 
 [She goes over to it^ playing with the necklace 
 which Huldbrand had given her. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Bertalda, Bertalda, do not go near the fountain ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Why not ? I am not afraid of it. I have known it 
 
2i8 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II for years. Dear fountain, we are old friends, are we 
 not ? 
 
 \^he bends over it. Suddenly a hand comes from 
 the fountain and snatches the necklace away, 
 Bertalda gives a cry. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Oh, my necklace, my necklace ! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Bertalda, what is it ? What have you lost ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 My necklace, my necklace ! The necklace which 
 Huldbrand gave me ! Give it back to me ! \She holds 
 out imploring hands to the fountain.'\ 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Slowly.'] The necklace Huldbrand gave you ? When ? 
 Why ? C5h, Huldbrand ! [She covers her face with her 
 hands.] 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 My necklace ! Can you not help me, Undine ? You 
 are in league with these spirits ! Ask them to give it 
 back! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Am I to help her, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [Turning away.] Of course. If you can. Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Very well, if you wish it. 
 
 [Undine goes slowly over to the fountain^ and, 
 bending over it, sings a little crooning song. 
 
 I weave the spell of the wayside streams 
 
 Where the wise old willows grow : 
 There is peace, there is peace, 'neath the tender beams 
 
 When the westering sun is low. 
 
UNDINE 219 
 
 I weave the spell of the twilight hour Act II 
 
 Which all mortal things obey ; 
 There is sleep, there is sleep, when the shadows lower 
 
 At the close of the long, long day. 
 
 [Then she dips her hand into the water and brings 
 out another necklace^ made of coraly which she 
 offers to Bertalda. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Here, Bertalda. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 But this coral gaud is not my necklace ! I want no 
 present from your evil spirits, Undine. I want the neck- 
 lace with great pearls which Huldbrand gave me. Huld- 
 brand, speak to her ; speak to this sorceress of yours, who 
 is not content with her lies and slander, but steals . . , 
 what is yours and mine . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [Striding over to fountain.'] Come, come, I have had 
 enough of this. I do not choose to have my presents 
 exchanged in this fashion ! [He seizes the coral necklace 
 from Bertalda's hands and flings it away.] There ! I 
 wash my hands of all your devilries ! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Covers her face and bursts out weeping.] Oh, Huld- 
 brand, Huldbrand ! 
 
 huldbrand 
 Is it not time ? Have I not borne with all this foolery 
 long enough ? When I married you, I did not marry all 
 the wild heritage of the past. I married you for what 
 you are — not for what you had been. The Undine 
 whom I brought away from the cottage by the lake was 
 quiet, tender, submissive . . . not a witch in league with 
 spirits ! 
 
220 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II UNDINE 
 
 Oh, Huldbrand — and am I not even now quiet, tender, 
 submissive ? Can I help it that when you bring me near 
 fountains and streams and running water the old links 
 which bound me to the sea, with my father in the 
 Mediterranean and with Kiihleborn, revive and grow 
 strong again ? Did I not warn you of this ? Did I not, 
 only a moment ago, bid you close up this fountain for 
 fear of what might happen ? Did I not beg Bertalda not 
 to go near ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I have nothing to do with all this. I only know that 
 Undine my wife must have no relations with Undine the 
 daughter of the floods ! I thought that this was your 
 promise when we plighted our troth in the cottage. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Oh, be patient, dear Huldbrand, For it only needs a 
 little patience, a little love, a little sympathy, and all will 
 be well. Gradually the whole past will wear itself away 
 and be forgotten like a dream. But you must love me, 
 you must love me, Huldbrand ! Only love can work the 
 miracle of change, or bring a soul to its full maturity. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Laughs.^ The daughter of the fisherman is too 
 modest ! Listen to the small and insignificant boon she 
 asks ! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Nay, it is not much for love to ask or love to grant. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 And my life meanwhile ? Is it to be one constant 
 storm, haunted by all these demons of evil who scruple 
 not to rob by force the gifts I choose to make ? Or is it 
 only to you that I may be allowed to give gifts ? 
 
UNDINE 221 
 
 UNDINE Act II 
 
 Oh, Huldbrand, why did you give your necklace to 
 Bertalda ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Ah, there, I suppose, is the root of the whole matter, 
 Undine. But understand me, once for all, I shall give 
 gifts when the fancy takes me, and I shall give them 
 to whomsoever I choose. 
 
 \_The fountain bubbles up once more. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [^Looking with alarm at the fountain.'] Oh, Huldbrand, I 
 beg of you not to speak so loudly ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Laughs once more.] Are you master in your own house, 
 Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I intend to be, and my wife must be something 
 different from this . . . witch. 
 
 [Fountain bubbles up again. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [Throwing herself on her knees before him.] Oh, Huld- 
 brand, Huldbrand, do not say such terrible words ! See — I 
 will do all you ask. I will try to be the wife you wish, 
 there is no single thought or desire of yours that I will not 
 seek to understand, and — if it be possible for me — carry 
 out. I will work for you, tend you in health or sickness, 
 surround you with my tenderest love, live for nothing 
 else save you — you — you. Only do not look at me so 
 angrily ; do not say such cruel words. Remember that 
 I warned you, and you promised not to be angry with 
 me. You promised, you promised, Huldbrand. Have 
 you forgotten ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Will you banish once for all these associates of yours, 
 
22 2 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act 11 ^jjQ jj^g jj^ fountains and waters ? Will you swear to 
 me that there shall be no more interruptions from the 
 spirit world ? Will you break this power which Kiihle- 
 born exercises over you and over my house ? Am I to 
 have peace or war ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Be patient, be patient, Huldbrand. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 No, I will not be patient. I mean to have peace. 
 Will you swear to me that henceforth you . . . 
 
 [Fountain bubbles with greater violence. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Oh, Huldbrand, you know I cannot yet . . . it is not 
 possible yet ... 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [FuriousJ] Very well, then, my mind is made up. In 
 the name of all the witches, go and live with them, and 
 leave us mortals in peace ! Sorceress as you are, there is 
 no room for you in my house ! Out of my sight . . . 
 witch! [There is a blinding flash of lightning^ the stage 
 grows dark, Kuhleborn comes forth from the fountain 
 and clasps Undine in his arms. There is a long roll of 
 thunder, 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 [As she fades away.] Huldbrand . . . Huldbrand . . . 
 [Terror ^Bertalda, who runs to Huldbrand. 
 He holds her close for a moment. He then 
 sternly repels her^ and she runs out. Huld- 
 brand, leftaloney stands for a moment^ gazing 
 fixedly after Undine, takes a few steps after 
 her^ and returns. Then falls on his knees and 
 holds out his hands, 
 
 huldbrand 
 Undine . . . Undine . . . 
 
ACT III 
 
 [J week e/apses.] 
 
 Scene i — J wild gorge of the mountains near Ringstetten Act III 
 through which a stream runs. It is late after noon y 
 whichy as the scene progresses^ changes through sunset to 
 twilight. There are large boulders and rocks. On the 
 crest of one of the environing hills is a wayside crucifix. 
 Father Heilmann and a Shepherd meet in the gorge, 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 [To Shepherd.] You are searching for something ? 
 
 SHEPHERD , 
 
 Ay. It is difficult to find them sometimes when they 
 stray away. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 What is it you are looking for ? 
 
 SHEPHERD 
 
 A sheep. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 I will help you, for I too am looking for something. 
 
 SHEPHERD 
 
 What is it ? 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 A human soul. It is difficult to find it sometimes 
 when it strays away. 
 
 223 
 
2 24 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III SHEPHERD 
 
 Ay, ay, maybe I shall find my sheep before you find 
 your human soul. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 I don't know. It is possible. Shall we help each 
 other ? 
 
 SHEPHERD 
 
 I am willing enough. But I know a sheep when I 
 see it, and . . . 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 You do not know a human soul ? 
 
 SHEPHERD 
 
 [fVith a laugh.'] Well — no. It is your business, 
 human souls : just as mine is sheep. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 Yes, we are both shepherds. You know the country 
 well ? 
 
 SHEPHERD 
 I ought to. I have been over it since I was a boy. 
 But the sheep are foolish things, when you leave them 
 by themselves, and sometimes they fall down the gorge 
 and break their legs. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 Yes, yes. Human souls are foolish things, too, when 
 left to themselves. They are very apt to fall, or else 
 they are driven away by cruelty or stupidity or careless- 
 ness J and then it is a long search to recover them again. 
 
 SHEPHERD 
 [Who has climbed upy and stands by the crucifix.] You 
 will see the country better, if you stand up here. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 Yes. The Cross will help both you and me. 
 
 [He climbs up. Meanwhile Huldbrand comes 
 down the gorge. There is a distant hollo. 
 
UNDINE 225 
 
 SHEPHERD Act III 
 
 Ah, Father, there is my mate calling to me. Mayhap, 
 he has found the sheep ! Good luck be with you ! 
 
 \Exiu 
 HEILMANN 
 And God aid you ! 
 
 \They both disappear over the crest of the mountain. 
 
 [HuLDBRAND sits and nngs^ 
 
 Why do you turn away, 
 
 Face that was always kind ? 
 If life hath gone astray, 
 
 Is nothing left behind ? 
 
 You ask — must this be true, 
 
 We pass and we forget ; 
 With love for what is new, 
 
 For old a bare regret ? 
 
 Not so : in worlds grown gray, 
 
 New good we shall not find ; 
 Why do you turn away. 
 
 Face that was always kind ? 
 
 HEILMANN 
 [Re-enters.] Ah, here is one of my penitents ! Has 
 he found his sheep, I wonder ? [He climbs down.] 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Father Heilmann, you ? Let me help you. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 Nay, let me help you, my son. I think you need it 
 more than I. You have not found Undine ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 No. I have not seen her since she disappeared from 
 Ringstetten. I have looked everywhere, but Kiihleborn 
 keeps his secret well. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 Have you asked yourself why she had to leave you ? 
 
 Q 
 
226 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III HULDBRAND 
 
 Oh, Father, I know full well. I was wroth with her, 
 exceeding wroth : and that, too, when I had promised 
 never to be angry with her. I have done wrong. Father, 
 a great, irremediable wrong ! And now she has left me 
 for ever ! 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 And Bertalda ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 Speak not of her. She was to blame as well as I. I 
 drove her from the castle. I shall not see her again. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 My son, you have done grievous wrong. But we 
 must both look for Undine, lest she perish for ever. The 
 burden lies as heavy on me as on you. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Nay, Father, you have not driven her away. 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 But it was I who helped to give her a human soul. 
 Her love for you inspired her with longing : the clasp of 
 your arms fulfilled her desire. But it was the Divine 
 blessing that my lips were allowed to utter which set the 
 seal on the bond. And as I found a human soul to 
 lift off my own shoulders the penance that was set on 
 me : so must I re-discover it again to save a human soul 
 from perdition. Woe is me, if I find her not ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 Must she parish, if we find her not ? 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 Surely — for then she returns to the spirits and demons 
 from whom we delivered her. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 {^adly.l Nay — may it not be better that she should 
 return to her old home ? Was she not a stranger in 
 
UNDINE 227 
 
 our midst, an exile amongst men of rough speech and Act III 
 wild ways, such as I ? 
 
 HEILMANN 
 
 And you, my son, what will you do without her ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Mea culpa ! I have done wrong and I must suffer. 
 £<S/V5 down wearily by a stone, ^ 
 
 HEILMANN 
 [Mounting the pass again.] Come up to the Cross, my 
 son ! The Cross may help you. [He goes over the crest 
 of the hill and disappears.'] 
 
 Scene 2. — Bertalda is seen coming down the gorge. The 
 sun is setting. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 [Rests his head upon his hand.] Nay, how shall Priest or 
 Cross help me now ? When that which we know to be 
 the highest has come into our life, and we have driven it 
 away, what help is it to make moan and say we have 
 sinned ? The Light has gone ! The Light has gone ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 [Has come down during Huldbrand's speech and creeps 
 swiftly like a snake behind him.] Can I help you, Huld- 
 brand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Bertalda ! You here ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 Yes, Huldbrand, I am here. Why did you drive me 
 away ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 [Sitting up and facing her with anger in his eyes.] Why did 
 I drive you away ? I will tell you. Because you crept 
 
228 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III like a snake between me and my happiness. Because you 
 tempted me when I was weak, and played upon my folly 
 till I grew mad. Because you made me think I was to 
 be master in my own house, when I had wedded a Queen. 
 Because it was you, you above all others, who have torn 
 Undine from my arms . . . 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Enough, enough, Huldbrand. You drove me away 
 because I told you the truth — that there could be no 
 happiness in your marriage. Did not your marriage 
 fail \ 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes ! But it is not her fault. 
 It is not Undine's fault. I know it now. No, it was 
 not the fault of the Queen, nor of him who should have 
 been her slave. The fault was yours . . . yours . . . 
 yours ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 \With a slight smile.'] And in no sense yours ? [Huld- 
 brand does not answer!] Not yours ? [Huldbrand sinks 
 down and bows his head on his hands.] Come, come, Huld- 
 brand, you were not wont to be a fool. See now, I do not 
 wish to pain you. I will say no word but what is wise. 
 I will not even say that you were to blame. You are a 
 man . . . that is all, and, like a man, you wanted certain 
 things. Every man, all the world over, wants . . . 
 
 huldbrand 
 Why have you come here ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Oh, I will not pain you. Every man, all the world over, 
 wants certain things . . . warmth and happiness and 
 human love. He wants round him the home of common 
 joys and common hopes. He wants round him the arms 
 of some one like himself, a woman who knows and 
 understands. It is not much that he wants, after all . . . 
 only peace and rest and a woman's face, after his everyday 
 
 I 
 
UNDINE 229 
 
 struggle is over. He does not want coldness and aloofness, Act III 
 an icicle of purity . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 What are you saying, Bertalda ? 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Nay, ask yourself. Does a man always need a saint to 
 worship ? Does he really love an image on a pedestal ? 
 Is it a pleasure to him to be ever kneeling at a shrine ? 
 Is it ? Ask yourself. Does a man like to humble himself 
 in the dust before the woman he loves ? Oh, Huldbrand ! 
 Is not that on which a man's eyes love to fasten just a 
 woman's hair, a woman's flushing cheek, a woman's 
 heaving breast ? Something he can touch and fondle and 
 kiss ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 {^Hiding hh face on his knees ^ Retro me, Sathana. . . . 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Where would the husband be whose wife was a saint ? 
 I can tell you where he would not be . . . within the 
 walls of his own home. For what part or lot would 
 he have in that which was for ever above and beyond him, 
 a thing that had no human heart, a beautiful, passionless 
 . . . Undine ! . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 {Starts up."] You shall not say her name. Her name is 
 soiled by your lips. Bertalda — who may not say Bertalda ? 
 But Undine ! but Undine ! . . . 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Laughs.l And how are your lips better fitted to say 
 Undine ? You said her name once, when you thought 
 you loved her. Then you were angry with Undine, and 
 Undine left you. Would you not often have been angry 
 with Undine ? Undine . . . what is Undine ? Where 
 is Undine ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [A/most lifting his hand to strike hen] For Heaven's sake. 
 
230 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III do not tempt me too far. You do not understand . . . 
 let me remember that ! You cannot understand. Leave 
 me, for Heaven's sake, leave me ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 {Very coolly,'] Leave you ? What, as you have left me ? 
 Forgive me, Huldbrand, I v^as wrong to say one word 
 against Undine. She was fair and beautiful. But she is 
 gone. Where is she now ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Ah, do not mock me . . . you know I am alone. . . . 
 Yet, perchance, I may see her again. Leave me that one 
 hope . . . that one star in blackest night ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 And what of me ? Have you ever considered what you 
 have done to me ? There was a time when you loved 
 me, Huldbrand — nay, do not start and shake your head 
 — when you thought that you loved me. You asked of 
 me a pledge. You wore my colours through the forest. 
 You gave me your necklace. You kissed my lips. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Ah, my God ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 Is that all over, Huldbrand ? [She comes nearer to him.] 
 Is it ? [She puts her hand on his shoulder. He shakes it off.] 
 Oh, Huldbrand ! Huldbrand ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [Rising angrily, then controlling himself.] You do not 
 understand . . . you do not understand ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Bursting into tears.] Forgive me, I am weak and a 
 woman. We will not speak of that. The past is dead 
 . . . dead. But what of the future ? What is to become 
 of me ... of me whom you have kissed ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 What do you mean r 
 
UNDINE 231 
 
 BERTALDA Act III 
 
 Did you not kiss me, Huldbrand ? I thought it was you 
 . . . when you gave me the necklace ; do you remember ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Hush, hush ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 And where am I to go . . . now ? Bertalda, whom 
 Huldbrand kissed, to whose life he once laid claim, whose 
 gloves he begged, and to whom he gave the necklace from 
 his own neck. , . . Bertalda has no home. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [With some sternness,'] Go back to your parents, 
 Bertalda. . . . 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 To my parents ? But they are not my parents. 
 Undine was right. I know it all now, and they know it. 
 They are my foster-parents, as Undine said. They do 
 not belong to me, nor I to them. And my real parents 
 are a fisherman and his wife, who will have none of me 
 and who are gone ... I know not where. [Coming 
 close to Huldbrand again.] Huldbrand, I am alone . . . 
 alone ! 
 
 huldbrand 
 
 [Rising^ takei a pace or two backwards and forwards^ while 
 Bertalda y^//f on her knees and holds out her hands to him 
 in piteous appeal.] Bertalda, listen to me. God knows that 
 I am sorry for all that has been done ... for you and 
 for myself. I know that the fault is mine. It is not so 
 much yours as mine. I have been to blame throughout. 
 I was wrong when I asked to be your knight-errant 
 through the forest. I was wrong, doubly wrong, when I 
 ^ave you the necklace. I was wrong, doubly and trebly 
 wrong, when I let you move me to anger against Undine 
 . . . when you made me drive her back to her kindred. 
 It seemed to me then that I wanted my wife to be as I 
 am, as human as I. My punishment is greater therefore. 
 But I do not want it now. 
 
232 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III BERTALDA 
 
 \^lowly^ You do not want it now ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 No, Bertalda, my wrong was great, but I will not 
 make it greater. We do not make wrong right by- 
 adding thereto another wrong. It may be that you 
 tempted me somewhat . . . but I will say nothing of 
 that. I will say the fault was wholly mine. Only now, 
 that my eyes are open and I see aright, I will not again 
 choose blindness. 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 \With some wonder^ Blindness ? You call it blindness, 
 Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, blindness. If one moves in the dark, and some 
 kindly hand sheds light through an open door, one does 
 not care any longer for the dark. When the morning 
 dawns, the windows are thrown wide open and the night 
 is left behind. The brightness of the day leaves no 
 longing for the sombre shadows of the dark . . . 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Gathering herself up slowly^ scornfully^ on her feetJ] Is 
 this true, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 My morning has dawned . . . my day has come ! I 
 can never go back ! She came, who has made all things 
 different, my star of morning, my sunlight, my day ! I 
 can never go back ! 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [With concentrated anger.] You can never go back ! 
 Coward ! Liar ! Traitor ! [She hisses the words to 
 herself] 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 And if I never see her again it will always be the 
 same ! She will always be Undine, the child of the 
 
UNDINE 233 
 
 morning waves, my bride, my love, always my Undine ! Act III 
 [Father Heilmann h seen on the mountain ridge, 
 
 BERTALDA 
 
 [Through her teeth.'] You fool ! She has left you ! 
 She is gone ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [Sinking down ; Father Heilmann seeing Huldbrand 
 and Bertalda, is rapidly coming down the gorge,] 
 Gone ! Is she gone ? No, no, she is not gone. She is 
 always with me — I feel her presence here. She has not 
 wholly left me. Her breath is on my face. I see her 
 hair, her lips, her mouth ! Undine, come back ! come 
 back to me ! [He sinks forward^ face in his hands. 
 Father Heilmann is close to them,] 
 
 bertalda 
 [Behind him^ swiftly takes out a knife^ Fool ! . . . 
 [She raises her hand to plunge the knife into his necky when 
 her hand is seized by Father Heilmann from behind, 
 Huldbrand starts up^ and^ after a brief struggle^ Bertalda 
 is disarmed. She bursts into an agony of weeping.] 
 
 huldbrand 
 
 Bertalda ! 
 
 heilmann 
 My daughter, my daughter ! I have come in time. 
 Thank God, I have come in time ! Nay, do not speak ! 
 There is no need for words ! [Bertalda sobs.] No 
 need for words ! No need for tears . . . save for those 
 that will heal thee, if thou repentest. Come with me, 
 daughter, come with me ! Leave Huldbrand here — ^he 
 hath his own repentance to make. But thou . . . pray 
 Heaven that I may save thy soul ! Come with me ! 
 God hath still some work for His servant to do ! 
 
 [He takes her away^ she going with him^ sub- 
 missivey quiet, like a child. They pass 
 upward towards the Cross, where the Priest 
 stays for a moment with hands clasped. 
 
234 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III praying. Then they disappear, Huldbrand 
 
 throws himself once more on the ground. He 
 begins in a low voice the song. 
 
 [Huldbrand sings!\ 
 
 Why do you turn away, 
 
 Face that was always kind ? 
 If life hath gone astray, 
 Is nothing left behind ? 
 
 Scene 3. — The sun has set and a glimmering moonlight 
 begins. Huldbrand is seated with head bent by the 
 stone. As he repeats the verse with low voice^ some soft 
 music begins^ at first very quietly^ then louder. At last 
 Undine comes out of the running stream and stands over 
 Huldbrand. 
 
 [Undine sings^^ 
 
 Death and sorrow and sleep — 
 
 Here where the slow waves creep 
 This is the chant I hear. 
 
 The chant of the measureless deep. 
 
 What was sorrow to me 
 
 Then when the young life free 
 
 Thirsted for joys of earth 
 Far from the desolate sea r 
 
 What was sleep but a rest. 
 
 Giving to youth the best 
 Dreams from the ivory gate, 
 
 Visions of God manifest r 
 
 What was death but a tale 
 
 Told to faces grown pale, 
 Worn and wasted with years — 
 
 A meaningless thing to the hale ? 
 
 Death and sorrow and sleep — 
 Now their sad message I keep. 
 
 Tossed on the wet wind's breath. 
 The chant of the measureless deep. 
 
UNDINE 235 
 
 UNDINE Act III 
 
 Huldbrand ! 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 [Starting upJ\ Undine ! 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 You must not touch me, Huldbrand. I am no longer 
 yours. Only have I had leave to speak with you for a 
 while. For I saw you sad and lonely, and then I knew 
 that your love for Undine was not dead, and that you 
 would be glad to see her once again. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Ah, Undine ... 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Are you not glad, Huldbrand ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Yes, yes . . . but I know not what to say, 
 Undine . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No, for all things are now changed. We can neither 
 of us go back to the past, dear Huldbrand ; the will of 
 those mightier than ourselves has so ordained. But I 
 wished to see you once more, as, indeed, I think you 
 wished to see me. You have sought me for long, have 
 you not ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I have sought you. Undine — as a hungry man seeks 
 for bread, as a shipwrecked man strains his eyes to find 
 the land, as a dying man prays for the Holy Elements to 
 deliver his soul . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 But I may not deliver you, or at least not wholly. 
 We cannot alter the past, neither by tears nor by prayer ; 
 and what has once been done remains done to the end of 
 time. Perhaps I was foolish when I wished to become 
 human and to win my humanity by marrying you. I do 
 
236 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III not know whether I was foolish or not, but the time is 
 past for thinking of that. I have had my chance, and 
 somehow — through my fault or another's — I have failed. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Undine, I cannot speak as you speak. Whether you 
 were foolish or not in marrying me, Heaven knows ; but 
 I know that it was no madness in me to desire to marry 
 you. For you were my Ideal, and you still are : only I 
 have forfeited my Ideal, because I was too common and 
 coarse and headstrong to live in the purer air. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Do not say that, Huldbrand. The fault, I think, was 
 not altogether yours. How could I, child of the sea- 
 waves and the running water, hope to be veritably human 
 — to live the warm, fitful, inconstant, lovable life of 
 mortal men ? Only a miracle could have made my blood 
 one with yours or teach my pulses to keep tune with 
 yours. How could I hope to become all you wanted in 
 a wife ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Another man might have taught you. Undine, the 
 fault was mine that I could not. The highest life is 
 that which realizes the wonderful union of spirit and flesh 
 in our everyday existence. The man who paints a 
 picture does it ; the man who writes or sings does it. 
 Some men can marry the Ideal and bring her to their 
 hearth-side. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 But does she remain the Ideal r I know not, Huldbrand. 
 Perhaps I am not the Ideal. Or perhaps only in some 
 other world can I keep true to my nature . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Ah, Undine ! \l?auses.'\ 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Huldbrand ? 
 
UNDINE 237 
 
 HULDBRAND Act III 
 
 Will you not come back to me — after all ? May not 
 the miracle be wrought, even now ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No — no, Huldbrand, I may not come — it is not per- 
 mitted. I was only allowed to see you for a brief moment 
 or two . , . lest you should break your heart with longing. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 My heart is breaking now, Undine . . . 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No, no, Huldbrand. 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I cannot live without you, for you have taught me 
 things which I cannot forget. You have altered my life, 
 and I cannot take it up again, as though you had never 
 been. . . . Will you not kiss me, at least, Undine ? 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 No — no — I may not . . . unless . . , 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Unless 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Unless you choose to come to me. If I kiss you it will 
 kill you, Huldbrand. You will have to give up your 
 human life and live my life, wherever I am . . . 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 Wherever you are, I choose to be with you. . . . Kiss 
 me, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 And live not your life, but mine ? 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 And live your life — always. . . , Kiss me, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Think well, dear Huldbrand. Your mortal life is 
 sweet. 
 
238 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III HULDBRAND 
 
 But life with you is sweeter. . . . Kiss me, Undine. 
 \^He holds out his arms. She bends to him and kisses him.] 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I love you, Undine. 
 
 UNDINE 
 
 Say it again, Huldbrand, say it again, 
 
 HULDBRAND 
 
 I love you, Undine, I shall always love you. 
 
 [The scene gradually fades as Huldbrand and 
 Undine are clasped in each other's arms. 
 
FATHER TIME AND HIS 
 CHILDREN 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S CAROL FOR 
 BOYS AND GIRLS 
 
FATHER TIME AND HIS 
 CHILDREN 
 
 FATHER TIME 
 
 \^Seated by himself in a chair in centre of stage.'\ 
 I love them all ! I love them all ! 
 My merry months, from spring to fall ; 
 From summer's heat to winter's cold ; 
 They bring me happiness untold. 
 Unhid, they serve my least behest — 
 I know not which I love the best ! 
 
 JANUARY 
 
 [Peeping in from side of stage. ^ 
 May I come in ? 
 
 TIME 
 
 Come in, you rogue ! 
 What is the season's latest vogue ? 
 
 JANUARY 
 
 Oh, muffs and tippets, furry hats, 
 And all the gentlemen wear spats. 
 And all the ladies put on veils. 
 And ice is found in all the pails. 
 And little children hate their tubs, 
 And biting frost all noses rubs, 
 And old men wear a thicker vest — 
 Surely your Lordship likes me best ? 
 
 [Dances round him, and takes up a position by 
 the side of his chair. 
 
 241 R 
 
242 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 TIME 
 
 Wait till I see your sisters, dear. 
 Well, who is this ? Appear, appear ! 
 
 Enter February. 
 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 Your second-born, my worthy sire ! 
 Who comes with all the troubles dire 
 Of rain and sleet and blinding snow, 
 Which fill all eyes, and trickling go 
 Adown the backs of shivering men — 
 They do not like me much ; but then 
 I do not mind their hate confest : 
 You love me. Father, much the best ! 
 
 \Dances with January round his chair, 
 
 TIME 
 
 You saucy child ! Well, here's a kiss 
 To keep you quiet. Who is this ? 
 
 Enter March. 
 
 MARCH 
 
 I'm blustering March, a tyrant wild. 
 I am your Honour's noisiest child ! 
 All down the streets I make a rout 
 And turn umbrellas inside out. 
 And blow down slates and chimneys tall, 
 And drive men's hats in eddying squall ! 
 Each peck of dust I broadcast fling 
 Is worth the ransom of a king ! 
 
 \The Three Months dance together, 
 
 TIME 
 
 Mad creatures, cease ! Do what I bid ye ! 
 Your antics make me downright giddy ! 
 
FATHER TIME AND HIS CHILDREN 243 
 
 Enter April. 
 
 APRIL 
 
 I am a shy and trembling thing, 
 A fairy harbinger of spring. 
 With softest rain and gentlest gale 
 I woo the hill, the plain, the vale. 
 There's health and beauty in my breeze, 
 And when I weep 
 
 TIME 
 
 You make me sneeze ! 
 \^nee'Les loudly. 
 Be quiet, do, and join your friends. 
 
 \The Four dance. 
 Ah, who is this, who hither wends ? 
 
 Enter May. 
 
 MAY 
 
 All flowers and sunshine, soft I move 
 To teach poor mortals how to love ! 
 Young men and maidens courting go, 
 Whisp'ring their secrets sweet and low 
 Adown the lanes, begirt with May, 
 While cuckoo sings the livelong day. 
 And tender grass with dew is wet — 
 I am my Father's chosen pet ! 
 
 TIME 
 
 Don't be too sure, my winsome child — 
 I've known you anything but mild ! 
 
 \Dance as before. 
 But see ! — who comes ? 
 
 Enter June. 
 
 JUNE 
 
 The lovely June ! 
 When birds sing out a merry tune, 
 
244 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 And roses clamber round the porch, 
 Unclouded suns can, sometimes, scorch : 
 When men and boys at cricket play. 
 And welcome smiles Midsummer Day. 
 You like me best ? 
 
 TIME 
 
 I'm not quite clear ; 
 Sometimes your welcome's rather dear. 
 June Twenty-fourth's not always fine, 
 And when it rains 
 
 Enter July. 
 
 JULY 
 
 I come to shine ! 
 The grass is long and lush and sweet, 
 And all the sunny hours can fleet 
 With dancing steps across the lea 
 To summer's merry minstrelsy ! 
 There is no month throughout the year 
 Which wears a better, braver cheer ! 
 
 TIME 
 
 H'm — what about St. Swithin, pet ? 
 And forty days of constant wet ? 
 Well, next man in ! Come, look alive ! 
 We draw the stumps at half-past five ! 
 
 Enter August. 
 
 AUGUST 
 
 With oats and barley crowned am I — 
 A month of jocund revelry ! 
 The harvest wagon's heaped with corn, 
 The harvest moon shines on till morn ; 
 The fields are stripped 'mid rustic play — 
 St. Lubbock keeps Bank Holiday ! 
 
FATHER TIME AND HIS CHILDREN 245 
 
 TIME 
 
 IPouhtfully?^ 
 
 They say the British farmers swear 
 
 That you're not what you were, my dear ! 
 
 Bread is too cheap, love, nowadays. 
 
 And agriculture seldom pays ! 
 
 Well, better luck next year ! ^A gun goes off. 
 
 Come in ! 
 Good gracious ! What's that dreadful din ? 
 
 Enter September. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 With banging guns amid the stubble 
 I give the partridge endless trouble ! 
 Poor little bird, his fate is booked, 
 But he's so very nice when cooked ! 
 At Michaelmas the goose is roasted. 
 And oysters 
 
 TIME 
 
 Hush, enough you've boasted ! 
 Dear me, I hardly could be thinner — 
 D'you think I don't enjoy a dinner ? 
 Peace, little glutton ! Silence, pray ! 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 \_JVhispering to her Sisters.] 
 
 Is Father rather cross to-day ? 
 
 Enter October. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 October comes to give men cheer, 
 With purple grapes and mild-brewed beer ! 
 The days grow short, the nights are cold, 
 The year's beginning to be old. 
 
246 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 The streets are wet with constant mire, 
 And aren't we glad to get a fire r 
 
 TIME 
 
 \^hivering^ 
 
 Don't make me shiver ere I need. 
 You are a forward child, indeed. 
 Two months to Christmas ! Deary me ! 
 What is this wondrous form I see ? 
 
 Enter November. 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 Enwreathed in fog, all grim and gray, 
 I hide from human sight the day ; 
 The sun himself, a copper orb. 
 Can scarce the clinging mists absorb. 
 Poor London lives 'neath darkest sky, 
 And gas and water rates are high ! 
 
 TIME 
 
 Ugh ! Come to me, child ; no more faces 
 You're bright enough in country places, 
 Where cubs are hunted at the dawn 
 And pheasants shot from early morn. 
 Only in cities careless folk 
 Cannot as yet consume their smoke. 
 Aha ! At last my Benjamin, 
 My youngest child, comes tripping in ! 
 
 Enter December. 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 Holly and ice and pantomimes. 
 And minor poets' hackneyed rhymes 
 Of Noel and of Wenceslas, 
 Of turkeys, mince-pies, and the glass 
 
I 
 
 FATHER TIME AND HIS CHILDREN 247 
 
 Which always cheers the festive guest — 
 
 Surely I bring of boons the best. 
 
 To all who love a merry meeting, 
 
 A good old-fashioned Christmas greeting ! 
 
 TIME 
 
 You do, you do ! Come, take your places, 
 And range yourselves, with happy faces, 
 Before my chair. Come now, confess, 
 You want to hear a Father bless ? 
 Which do I love the best, you ask ? 
 H'm — let me see — a tedious task 
 To answer, that, and foolish, too ! 
 'Tis you, and you, and you, and you ! 
 
 [Pointing to them in turn, 
 I love you all, I love you all. 
 My merry months, from spring to fall ! 
 From summer's heat to winter's cold 
 You bring me happiness untold. 
 Unbid, you serve my least behest — 
 I know not which I love the best ! [Dance. 
 
 Curtain, 
 
; PERICLES AND ASP ASIA 
 
 I A FARCE 
 
DRJMJTIS PERSONS 
 
 Pericles, Prime Minister of the Athenian Republic. 
 
 Voice (of his wife). 
 
 AsPASiA, his Secretary and Typist. 
 
 Alcibiades, Pericles' cousin. A very forward young man. 
 
 Scene : Pericles' Study in his house at Athens. 
 
PERICLES AND ASPASIA 
 
 The Scene is laid in Pericles^ study in his house at Athens, 
 He is walking to and fro ^ composing his famous funeral 
 oration. Every now and then he goes to his desk and jots 
 down a few words. There is a typewriter at a separ- 
 ate table. Also on his desk is a telephone. Various 
 reports^ etc.^ are littered on his table. 
 
 The characters are supposed to be in Greek dress. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 [Repeating to himself] For we Athenians are lovers of 
 the beautiful, yet simple in our tastes. We cultivate the 
 mind without loss of manliness — without loss of manli- 
 ness An Athenian citizen does not neglect the 
 
 state, because he takes care of his own household. 
 
 VOICE OF HIS WIFE FROM WITHIN 
 
 Pericles, Pericles ! 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Yes, my dear. [Murmuring to himself] Because he 
 takes care of his household 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Pericles, are you busy ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Well yes, a little. [Murmuring to himself] An 
 Athenian citizen does not neglect the state. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Oh, I do not want to disturb you. I only wanted to 
 know whether you send five or six chitons to the wash 
 this week. 
 
 251 
 
252 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Six, my dear ; six, I think. {Murmuring to himself.'] 
 We cultivate the mind without loss of manliness. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 You have signed a cheque for the laundress, haven't 
 you ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Yes — no — I w^ill at once 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Well, leave it on your desk, then I need not disturb 
 you. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Yes — yes — of course. I'll do it in a few moments. 
 [Goes on murmuring.'] Because he takes care of his own 
 household — um — um . . . Even those of us who are 
 engaged in business have a very fair idea of politics. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 You remember the cheque is for two weeks, Pericles. 
 You didn't pay last week's bill. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 All right, my dear, all right — only tell me the amount. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Very well, I'll add it up and let you know in a minute 
 or two. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Let me see, where was I ? Oh yes — Wealth, we 
 employ not for talk or ostentation, but when there is a 
 real use for it. To avow poverty with us is no disgrace. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 It comes to 40 drachmae. You hear, don't you ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Yes, yes, I hear ; 50 drachmae. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Not 50, dear — 40. I am sure the woman charges 
 
PERICLES AND ASP ASIA 253 
 
 enough in all conscience. We needn't pay her more 
 than she asks ." . . \yoice slowly dies away in the dis^ 
 tance^ talking.^ 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Let me see — let me see. What did I say ? Oh yes — 
 To avow poverty with us is no disgrace. The true 
 disgrace lies in our doing nothing to prevent it. We 
 alone in Greece regard a man who takes no interest in 
 public affairs not as a harmless but as a useless character : 
 in other words, we cannot bear mugwumps. Above all, 
 every one of us, high or low, rich or poor, young or old, 
 is a lover of the beautiful. [^Repeats as he goes to desk.] 
 Yes, yes, lover of the beautiful. 
 
 Enter Aspasia. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 [Looking up as she enters.'] A lover of the beautiful 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Meaning me ? Oh, what a nice compHment ! Good 
 morning. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 My dear Aspasia, I am very glad to see you. But 
 . . . aren't we just a little late this morning — ^just a 
 little late, eh ? There are a lot of things . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Am I looking well to-day ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 You always look well. I say, there are a lot of 
 things . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Yes, but am I looking extra well ? Better than usual ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Of course, of course, but why ? What is the reason ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Oh,. Alcibiades writes that he is coming round here 
 
2 54 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 this morning. [Pericles grunts.] You don't like your 
 young cousin Alcibiades ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 He is a good-looking young man. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Good-looking ? I should think he was : but he is 
 much more than good-looking. He is beautiful — he is 
 an Adonis, a Narcissus, a young Apollo . . . 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 My dear Aspasia, why all this unnecessary enthusiasm ? 
 Alcibiades is, I say, a sufficiently good-looking young 
 man. But as I have a good deal of work to do . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 [Going to typewriter on table and taking off the cover.] 
 You clearly do not like your cousin. Why, I wonder . . . 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 I am not sure that I like young men. They are very 
 vain — and — and — extremely difficult to talk to ... I 
 mean, extremely difficult for me to talk to . . . and 
 they are rash and impetuous . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 \Who has seated herself before the typewriter.] In short, 
 they are young : I suppose that is the truth of it . . . 
 You have no sympathy with " Youth knocking at our 
 doors," as Hesiod says ... or was it Mimnermus ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 I really do not remember. The phrase is after all a 
 commonplace. Shall we begin ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Anyway, Alcibiades is coming here this morning. 
 You had better be out of the way. Shall I make the 
 usual excuse — necessity for spending the week-end in the 
 country ? You know that Cimon says that for a good 
 democrat you stay too much in the country houses of the 
 wealthy. 
 
PERICLES AND ASFASIA 255 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Confound Cimon ! 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 By all means. But that is precisely what he tries to do 
 to you when you speak at the Ecclesia . . . Well, what is 
 the subject of your dictation ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 I am composing the funeral oration for those who have 
 fallen in the war. Shall I begin ? um — um — um — I 
 will speak first of our ancestors, for it is right and becom- 
 ing that now, when we are lamenting the dead, a tribute 
 should be paid to their memory .... And if they are 
 worthy of praise, still more are our fathers, who added to 
 their inheritance, and after many a struggle transmitted 
 to us — their sons — this great Empire . . . our great 
 Empire. — Surely, Aspasia, your typewriter is more than 
 usually noisy this morning ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I don't think so. Perhaps your nerves are a little out 
 of order. You were supping with Socrates last night, I 
 think. Socrates is very hard-headed, is he not ? I mean, 
 nothing seems to make any impression upon him, does 
 it? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Would you mind taking what I say down in short- 
 hand ? You can type it afterwards — when Alcibiades is 
 here. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 \^Gatly.'] When youth knocks at our doors ? Oh, very 
 well. [She takes a notebook out of a drawer,'] Proceed . . . 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 [ up and down the room^ dictating,'] " Of the military 
 exploits by which our various possessions were acquired, 
 or of the energy with which we or our fathers drove back 
 the tide of war, Hellenic or Barbarian . . . 
 
2s6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 \^Lookingup and beginning to sharpen her pencil,'] Pericles, 
 do you think you are wise in magnifying war so much ? 
 You give so many opportunities to your enemies to criti- 
 cize your militarism and your Imperialistic spirit. Why, 
 only yesterday at our Beautiful Souls Club in the Lyceum, 
 Cleon — you know Cleon, rather a vulgar person, but de- 
 cidedly clever — spoke of the methods of barbarism with 
 which you had conducted the first campaign against the 
 Spartans. " Methods of Barbarism " is a phrase which 
 Pindar uses in one of his Olympian odes, if I remember 
 right. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Cleon be . Do you mean that low hound who 
 
 intends to impeach me for embezzling public money 
 contributed to the Parthenon r 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 My dear Pericles, let me remind you that we live in a 
 democratic age. As you once beautifully remarked, " We 
 are all Socialists now." Cleon represents " the belligerent 
 forces of the hitherto submerged levels of our social 
 state "... You recall your glowing words when he made 
 his first speech ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 He was a very short time ago the leader of the dock- 
 strike in the Piraeus. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Yes, and he is now the leader of the Radical section of 
 the Ecclesia. By the way, you still call yourself a Liberal, 
 do you not ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 H'm, yes — perhaps a Whig, an old Whig . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Oh, I thought the old Whigs went out with Solon . . . 
 Well . . . I'm waiting. . . [Ho/ds pencil poised.] 
 
PERICLES AND ASFASIA 257 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 What was I saying ? H'm . . . Oh yes ... I want to 
 say something about our glorious constitution. " Our 
 form of government does not enter into rivalry with the 
 constitution of others. We do not copy our neighbours, 
 but are an example to them. It is true that we are called 
 a Democracy, for the administration is in the hands of the 
 many and not of the few. But while the law secures 
 equal justice to all, the claim of excellence is heartily 
 recognized." That's all right, isn't it ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Yes, I see — your apology for being " an uncrowned 
 king." Didn't Thucydides call you an uncrowned 
 
 king ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 I believe he did so honour me. The phrase was 
 originally mine, of course. Well, to continue. " When 
 a citizen is in any way distinguished " 
 
 VOICE OF WIFE OUTSIDE 
 
 Pericles, Pericles, so sorry . . . 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Well I 
 
 VOICE 
 
 So awfully sorry to disturb you. But I have had to 
 give the cook notice, and she has been so rude, and 
 declares that she is going away this very minute. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Well, you must get another, then. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Oh, it is very easy to say get another. But a cook 
 does not grow on every gooseberry-bush, you know. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 How sweet to hear the words of divine Sappho ! You 
 recall that beautiful line of hers about the gooseberrv- 
 bush ? ^ ^ 
 
2 58 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Pericles, is Aspasia with you ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Of course. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 I suppose Aspasia could not cook the dinner, could she ? 
 Because if she would come into the scullery 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Really, your wife allows herself an unpardonable license 
 of speech ! 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 No, no. Absurd. Go to the Registry Office, my love. 
 We are busy. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 S^Going away.'\ Registry Office, indeed ! I don't know 
 what has become of all the good servants we used to be 
 able to get in Attica. Ever since the war began . . . 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 I really must pay my undivided attention to this speech. 
 Let me see, let me see . . . " There is no exclusiveness in 
 our public life, and in our private intercourse we are not 
 suspicious of one another, or angry with our neighbour if 
 he chooses to do what he likes. Our city is thrown open 
 to the world, and we never expel a foreigner . . ." 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 No Alien Acts, eh ? Fortunately for me, born in 
 Miletus. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 No, my dear. You are a most desirable alien. [Bows 
 in courtly fashion and goes on.] "Because of the greatness of 
 our city, the fruits of the whole earth flow in upon us, so 
 that we enjoy the goods of other countries as freely as 
 our own . . ." 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 [Thoughtfully.] You are sure that there is nothing 
 
PERICLES AND ASFASIA 259 
 
 to be said for a general tariff — for revenue purposes, of 
 course . . . 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 My dear, Cimon is a Protectionist. I am 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 A Free-trader ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Well, let me say a Retaliator. [Continues^] " And we 
 have not forgotten to provide for our weary spirits many 
 relaxations from toil ; we have regular games and dramatic 
 entertainments throughout the year . . ." [The telephone 
 bell rings.'] 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 D n ! I beg your pardon. Please answer the 
 
 telephone. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 \At telephone.] Hullo, yes, I am 72 Ceramicus. What 
 do you want ? Wrong number, I think. Please ring 
 off. Oh, it is you, is it ? Yes, I am Aspasia. [Listens.^ 
 Of course . . . Oh, you mustn't say that . . . you 
 naughty boy. Well . . . 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Who is it ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Hush, it's Alcibiades ... He says he is coming right 
 along in ten minutes time . . . [Puts up telephone.] We 
 had better get on. You were saying something about 
 dramatic shows. By the bye, you are not an admirer of 
 Euripides, are you ? " Our Euripides the new man," as 
 Alcibiades wittily says, parodying the line in Sophocles. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 No, I side with Aristophanes. I infinitely prefer 
 i^schylus. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 But you see the charm of Euripides for us women, 
 surely. He is the only dramatist who knows a woman's 
 nature, who can paint our strength and our weaknesses 
 
26o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Especially your weaknesses. He does not paint a flat- 
 tering portrait of women. He makes you all huntresses, 
 animals of prey, hunting down your quarry — man ! 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Oh, but think of the white-souled Candida, chaffing 
 the priest and flirting with her mad young poet ! Isn't 
 she true ? Isn't she real ? Isn't she vital ? Do you 
 remember the sequel, how Electra lied to her husband, 
 Pylades ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 What ? Oh yes, they are vital enough, those dreadful 
 women — especially that Aphrodite lady who pursued her 
 lover in a motor-car, wasn't it ? Shocking person. Why, 
 until Euripides came, we never had these terrible exhibi- 
 tions on our Attic stage of the effects of this ordinary — 
 what shall I say ? — unredeemed and unashamed Eros ! 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Yes. I believe that is exactly why Euripides conquered 
 Athens. He responded to a " felt want," as Hesiod used 
 to say in the advertisement columns of " Works and Days." 
 " It subsequently transpired " — you remember that pictur- 
 esque report of Euripides' triumph — "it subsequently 
 transpired that the reason of Euripides' astonishing and 
 phenomenal victory was that his drama corresponded to 
 a felt want ! " 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Of course, Sappho — and in some ways I venture to 
 think that you, Aspasia, are an intellectual descendant of 
 the poetess — introduced a certain colour and — er — warmth 
 into her odes — " All for love and the world well lost " — 
 that was her celebrated line, I think. But who was the 
 shameless young person who ran after her lover beyond 
 the pillars of Heracles ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Do not mock her, please. She was a Cosmic Energy, 
 a Vital Force. Hippolytus Tanner thought that he could 
 
PERICLES AND ASFASIA 261 
 
 overcome her by much speaking. He was rash enough 
 to defy her, and called her after the names of strange 
 Egyptian beasts. But Aphrodite Ann had the best of it 
 in the long run. Ha ! ha ! " Time and woman outlast 
 all things," as the Gnomic poet — I forget his name — says. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Shall I resume my speech ? If you don't mind, Aspasia, 
 as I have a good deal to get through . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Yes — in a minute. Of course Euripides' finest and 
 most topical piece is "Hellas' Other Island," or half- 
 island, in which the differences between Athenian and 
 Spartan character are so cleverly portrayed. The 
 dramatist absolutely proves that we can as little under- 
 stand the Lacedaemonian as he can understand us — a 
 beautiful moral, don't you think ? The man you dislike 
 is the man you don't know, or " to know all is to forgive 
 all," as Stesichorus puts it in one of his least familiar 
 songs. Which piece of Euripides do you admire the 
 most ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Damn and Super-Damn ! 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 [SweetlyJ] You haven't got the title quite accurately, 
 but I know which you mean. However, don't let us 
 waste any more time. I have to attend a meeting this 
 afternoon for the higher education of the ordinary 
 housewife. Rather necessary, I fancy. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 [With a glance at the door whence the voice of his wife 
 had been heard J\ Certainly, certainly. [Clears his voice.^ 
 Now I want to arrange my peroration, — something big 
 and fine about the mighty fallen. Let me see . . . let 
 me see . . . 
 
262 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 You ought to say something about the women of 
 Athens. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Ah, yes. " To a woman not to show more weakness 
 than is natural to her sex is a great glor)^ Her chief 
 honour is not to be talked about either for good or for 
 evil amongst men." 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I don't think I should say that. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Why not ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Well, my dear Pericles . . . it's rather a reflection on 
 me, you know. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Nonsense — of course you are different — every one knov^rs 
 that. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Different ? How different ? [Pericles is silent and 
 
 scratches his head.] Really, my dear Pericles, you are 
 
 hardly complimentary . . . You had better go on with 
 the mighty dead. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Um . . . um ..." The whole earth is the sepulchre 
 of famous men "... [There is a riotous knock at the door, 
 AsPAsiA jumps up.] 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Oh, that must be Alcibiades. You had better go now, 
 Pericles. We can finish this speech later. 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 [Irritably.] But cannot Alcibiades wait ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Oh no, youth never waits . . . When youth knocks 
 at our doors — you remember ? 
 
PERICLES AND ASFASIA 263 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 [Grumblingly picking up his papers^ etc.] Oh this youth, 
 this youth ! If youth had a little more knowledge, and 
 old age a little more power — I think, Aspasia, that was 
 one of the best epigrams I ever made in the Ecclesia 
 , , . [Jt the door.] 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Yes, dear, yes. Good-bye. [She pushes him out and 
 shuts the door. Whistles a tune^ arranges her hair at a glass. 
 Then runs across room to opposite door and admits Alcibiades.] 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 [Looks round room hurriedly.] I say, Spasy, are you 
 alone ? That's rippin'. How jolly you look ! 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 My dear boy, how often am I to remind you that I am 
 a " blue-stocking " ? I believe that is what Aristophanes 
 chooses to call educated women. His meaning is a little 
 obscure, because they are not in the habit of wearing 
 stockings, blue, or any colour, so far as I am aware. But 
 you must not treat a "blue-stocking" with such airy 
 frivolity. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, I say, that's all rot. . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 You ought to behave as respectfully to me as if I were 
 — what shall I say ? — a maiden aunt. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Aunt be jiggered ! Why, Spasy. . . . 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 And you must not call me by so vulgar a name. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 What's the matter with Spasy ? I cannot call you 
 Aspy, you know. You are a sort of cousin, after all. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Pericles is your cousin. 
 
264 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Well, and aren't you and Pericles one ? I mean, 
 wouldn't he jolly well like it if you were one ? By the 
 way, where is the G. O. M. ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 The G. O. M. ? What on earth do you mean ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, I don't know. Somebody — Cleon or Cimon or 
 some such josser calls him that. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 But what does G. O. M. mean ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Don't know, I am sure. Perhaps it means " God over 
 Mortals " or " Good Old Muddler " — something sarcas- 
 tical, you bet ! But where is my revered cousin ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 He is somewhere about the house — alone with his 
 great thoughts. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Jolly solitary business, I should think, to be closeted 
 with your ideas. Not for this child ! And what are you 
 doing ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I am going to type out some of his great thoughts. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Ugh ! \^hiversl\ Makes me cold all down my back- 
 bone, don't you know. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Silly boy ! Aren't you aware that when the Thun- 
 derer speaks all Hellas shivers ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Thunderer ! I thought that was the name of a news- 
 paper. 
 
PERICLES AND ASPASIA 265 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Nonsense. It is the name that Aristophanes gave him. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 I say, you seem jolly intimate with Aristophanes, That 
 is the second time you have mentioned him in five 
 minutes. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Have I not told you that I am an educated woman ? 
 I know all the men of light and leading in Athens. 
 ** Light and leading " — what a pretty phrase of Cratinus ! 
 
 [The scene gets gradually darker. "] 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Yes, and Anaxagoras is another of your pals — a bit 
 dangerous, that sort of pal, I imagine. Dreadful sceptic ! 
 Why, he says the moon is made of green cheese, doesn't 
 he? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 He never said anything so stupid ! 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Well, then, it must have been some other Johnny of 
 the same name. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 After all, he is not more dangerous than your friend, 
 Socrates. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, Soccy's a bit of all-right. He's a ripper, I can tell 
 you. He has got the strongest head for liquor in Athens. 
 And isn't he a quaint old bird ! [IVhistles a tune.] Bit 
 ugly, though : that's a drawback for you ladies, I suppose. 
 And such a nose ! My Lord ! just like a prize-fighter's. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I wish you weren't so vulgar, Alcy — I mean Alcibiades. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, don't mind me, old girl. I prefer Alcy or Biddy, 
 or anything you like. But, I say, Spasy ... 
 
^6^ DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Don't call me Spasy. . . . 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh come, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the 
 gander, as Orestes remarked to iEgisthus after he had 
 killed Clytemnestra. But tell me, Spasy — I mean Aspasia 
 — you don't really like history and philosophy, and all that 
 high-falutin' business which Pericles talks about, do you ? 
 I mean, you don't think that life consists only in using 
 long words, eh ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I am very fond of philosophy — and of Pericles. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Yes, yes, of course. But if I praise your frock and 
 your looks, and call you a deuced pretty girl, you don't 
 think me altogether an idiot, do you ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I think you a very silly boy. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, rot ! Every woman likes to be admired, and the 
 more educated a woman is, the more she wishes to be 
 admired for her face, and not for her mind. At all events, 
 that's my experience of the sex. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Oh, wise young philosopher ! You have been talking 
 to Socrates, haven't you ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 You're a jolly pretty philosopher, anyhow, and you 
 know in your heart of hearts you would rather be called 
 pretty than a philosopher. Come, isn't that so ? [Aspasia 
 looks down and is silent. '\ Eh, Spa — Aspasia ? 
 
 aspasia 
 Please do not talk such nonsense. Besides, I am busy. 
 [She goes back to typewriter. 1 How dark it has grown 1 
 
PERICLES AND ASPASIA 267- 
 
 Turn up the electric light, that's a good boy. \^He 
 switches on the light.'] That's better. Now to work. 
 [She bends over her work and begins to type^ 
 Alcibiades comes close and bends over her, 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 I say, I am not in your way, am I ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Naturally — you are very much in my way when you 
 get between me and the light. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 [Going to the other side of her.] " Your father was not 
 a glazier," as Polyphemus said to Ulysses when his eye 
 had been put out. No, but — bar chafF — are you fright- 
 fully busy ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Frightfully. Don't you see I am ? You had better 
 run away and play. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 It's raining rather fast. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Is it ? Only a shower. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 By Zeus, Pericles does use some big words, doesn't he I 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 That is because he has such big thoughts. I shall be 
 spelling some of these long words wrong if you chatter 
 so. . . . Do run away ! 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 All right, my honey, I won't utter a sound. [Pause 
 while the typewriter clicks^ and Alcibiades whistles a tune.] 
 The rain is coming down with a vengeance ! I say, 
 may I smoke ? [Aspasia nods her head without speaking. 
 He produces a cigarette-case and offers it to her. She shakes 
 her head.] Come, come, all literary ladies smoke, I've 
 seen them over and over again. They say it soothes their 
 
r268 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 nerves. Dreadfully nervous people, literary ladies ! You 
 v^on't take one ? Oh, all right. \^He takes out a match- 
 box^ strikes a match against his sandals^ and lights a cigarette^ 
 humming a tune as he does so. He strolls casually about the 
 roomy takes up a manuscript^ throws it down^ goes over to a 
 bust of Homer. '] I say, that's by Pheidias, isn't it ? [She 
 nods.] Clever chap, Pheidias. Who is the old fogey ? 
 Homer ? [She nods again.'] Of course it's all rot about 
 his vi^riting the Iliad, you know. Hesiod wrote it under 
 t'other chap's name. The cypher makes that plain 
 enough. All the literary critics are agreed. You think 
 Hesiod wrote Homer, don't you ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 [Without looking up.] My dear boy, do be quiet — 
 only for a few minutes. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, all right. [He whistles again, then comes back and 
 looks over her shoulder.] Hullo ! There's a jolly howler ! 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 [Stopping.] Where? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 [Pointing to page, hanging out of machine,] Why there ! 
 You have spelt " fiscalitis " with two I's. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Do you mean to tell me . . . [iS^^ looks up at him in- 
 dignantly, as he is bending over her, Their faces are quite 
 close^ and he kisses her. There is a low growl of thunder. 
 Both start away^ and there is a moment* s pause.] 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 What the dickens is that ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 [Who recovers first.] One of his big thoughts ! 
 Thunderer, you know. [She laughs and he joins her 
 rather nervously.] 
 
PERICLES AND ASPASIA 269. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Well, I wish he would keep his big thoughts to himself. 
 It makes a chap nervous. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Perhaps you smoke too many cigarettes, like the literary 
 ladies. Besides, it serves you right for \_pause\ criticizing 
 my spelling. Good-bye, I am going. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 I won't do it again, I promise. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 What do you mean by " it " ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Why, the spelling, of course. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Only the spelling ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Well, the etcetera. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 You promise not to repeat the etcetera ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 I promise — on the sacred word of an Injun. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 A — what ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 An honest Injun. Don't you remember what Xerxes 
 said to Themistocles ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I cannot think where you pick up your notions of 
 history. However, if you promise, I will stay — till the 
 rain stops. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 I say, what are you doing to-night ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Well, let me see. ... I have to go to a meeting of 
 the Beautiful Souls at the Lyceum. 
 
2 70 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 That's pretty steep, isn't it ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I don't suppose it would amuse you. I am going to 
 read them a paper on the right of women to vote at 
 elections, and Cleon will speak on Trade-Unions and the 
 Law. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Do you mean to tell me that it will amuse you ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Oh yes, I suppose so. I am a blue-stocking, please 
 remember. What's your programme ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, I'm thinking of going to a music-hall. I suppose . . . 
 you wouldn't come to a music-hall ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Alcibiades ! 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, I suppose you only care for a theatre and the 
 legitimate drama. Jolly slow, I think ! Why, if you 
 want to have something really artistic you should go to 
 the Hegemony and hear Aglae sing " Small Maria," or 
 watch Circe dance the cake-dance ! 
 
 \lt grows gradually lighterJ] 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 The — what ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 The cake-dance. Don't you remember your Iliad — 
 how Circe treated the companions of Ulysses to afternoon 
 tea and cakes ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Silly boy ! She turned them into pigs. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 [Indifferently."] Oh, I dare say. Anyhow, Aglae is 
 nppin' fun, and Leucothea — well, she's a dream. 
 
PERICLES AND ASFASIA ^71 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Why don't you go to a theatre ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Can't stand the long speeches. Besides, you can't 
 smoke in a theatre. Look here, I'll tell you what I'll do. 
 I'll compromise. I'll take you to one of Euripides' 
 plays. Come now, isn't there a play of his something 
 about Barbara ? That's pretty fair, isn't it ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I think it is a wonderful study of a woman. I should 
 like to see it very much 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Well, that's something, anyhow. I tell you what we 
 will do. What's the time ? About five ? And the 
 weather's cleared now. Well, we'll just run over to 
 Salamis by trireme, dine at the Basileia Restaurant, and 
 we can get back in lots of time for the show. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I thought the triremes were not running now. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh yes, they are. Your friends, the Archons, have 
 spent any amount of the people's money over them, so 
 they must keep them going. There'll be nobody on 
 board — there never is — so we shall have the trireme to 
 ourselves. Rippin' fun ! 
 
 ASPASIA 
 I should like to go. [Hesitating.'] But there's a lot ot 
 work to do, and Pericles has not finished his speech yet. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 More big thoughts ? Well, don't you think he ought 
 to wrestle with them by himself! I don't like thunder, 
 do you ? 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Is it not rather selfish to go ? 
 
272 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Well, you know that Protagoras says we ought to work 
 for the benefit of the greatest number. Greatest number, 
 number One. Eh, Spasy ? Or shall we say Two — you 
 and I r 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 You won't call me Spasy, will you, if I come ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh no, Aspasia, never again. 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Yes. \Hesitatmg^ But what excuse can we make — 
 or rather how can I excuse myself to Pericles ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 I'll tell you what, Aspasia. \He says the word slowly^ 
 resting on each syllable.'] If you will make my excuse I will 
 make yours. We will write them out big — big as the 
 great man's thoughts — on pieces of paper and leave them 
 for the great man to see. Come along. \^He drags her 
 to the tahle^ she half laughing^ half hesitating. He takes two 
 pieces of paper and gives her one^ keeping the other himself^ 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I really don't know what to say. 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Oh, anything will do. Have you got your fountain 
 pen ? All right, fire away. When you've finished lend 
 the pen to me. \IIe strolls away^ humming to himself She 
 pausesy writes . . . and turns the paper face downwards."] 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 Here is the pen. [He comes hacky writes, and turns his 
 paper down.] 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 All right ! Now let's see what we've written. 
 
PERICLES AND ASP ASIA 273 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 \Reads out.] " Alcibiades has gone to talk philosophy 
 with Socrates." 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 [Reads out.] " Aspasia has gone to lecture on Women's 
 Suffrage at the Lyceum." Hooray ! That's capital. 
 Come along ! [He seizes her hand and the two go laughing 
 to the door like a couple ofschool-children. At the door Aspasia 
 pauses.] 
 
 ASPASIA 
 
 I say, Alcy, you'll promise not to repeat the etcetera ? 
 
 ALCIBIADES 
 
 Honour bright, Spasy ! 
 
 [They go out laughing^ leaving the electric light 
 burning. After a pause Pericles comes slowly 
 in. He looks round the room^ and seems surprised 
 at seeing no one there. Then he goes to the 
 table and sees the two placards^ reads them to 
 himself nodding his head.] 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Yes, they are good, studious children, and I am proud 
 of them. [Looks round.] But they need not have left 
 the electric light on. Dear, dear, how extravagant 
 children are ! Sad lack of the economical habit. . . . 
 [He carefully puts the light out, then with a sigh.] Well, I 
 suppose I must finish my speech myself. [Sits down and 
 begins to arrange his papers.] 
 
 VOICE OF WIFE OUTSIDE 
 
 Pericles, are you there ? 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Yes, my love. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 Do you think you can dine at the club to-night ? There 
 will be no dinner at home, you know, because the cook 
 has gone. I hope you won't mind. I am dining out my- 
 self. [Foice slowly dies away in the distance.] 
 
 T 
 
2 74 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 PERICLES 
 
 Oh, Socrates, Socrates ! Was your Xanthippe like 
 this ? [Sighs deeply. Then turns over his papers^ and 
 begins,'] Let me see — let me see — " Every Athenian, while 
 he engages in political life, loves to keep his house in 
 order." " His house in order " — that, I think, is an original 
 phrase. I will suggest it to Sophocles for a new play. . , . 
 um . . . um ... I think I had finished that passage. [ Turns 
 over papers,] 
 
 [Writes.] " For the man who is master of himself is 
 master of the world." [Repeats.] Master of the world ! 
 [TVith a whimsical sigh as he bends over his writing,] 
 
 Curtain, 
 
 I 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE 
 ANGELS 
 
DRAMJriS PERSONS 
 
 Major Ralph Hawstorne. 
 Dr. Tom Raleigh. 
 Hon. Guy Daneborough. 
 Hon. and Rev. Charles Hargreaves. 
 Lord Vivian Rodney. 
 Mr. Robert Tidman. 
 Mr. Ray Luneville. 
 Tommy, crippled boy. 
 Jarvis. 
 Harvey. 
 
 Grace Mayhew. 
 
 Lady (Enid) Rolleston, a widow, sister to Hon. Guy Dane- 
 borough. 
 Mrs. Mayhew, Grace's Mother. 
 Lady Daneborough, Guy's Mother. 
 Mrs. Hargreaves. 
 Miss Angela Crompton. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 In Mrs. Mayhew's Cottage. (Afternoon.) 
 
 ACT II 
 At Lady Rolleston's. (Late afternoon.) 
 
 ACT III 
 The Same. (Evening.) 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 In Mrs. Mayhew's Cottage. (Morning.) 
 
 *^* This play was produced by " The Pioneers " at the Royalty 
 Theatre, Dec. i6, 1906. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE 
 ANGELS 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — Room in Mrs. Mayhew's cottage at Wootton-le- Act I 
 Hay^ Wharvedale^ Yorkshire, Broad window^ leading 
 out to rustic garden (c), bright with flowers and 
 sunshine. Door L. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 \Old^ pleasant-looking^ p-devant nurse, enters bringing in 
 Lady Rolleston.] Yes, Madam. [Looking at card,] 
 My Lady, I should say. I will tell Major Hawstorne you 
 are here. He is out in the garden, I think, or gone down 
 to the village. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Fashionably dressed lady of the world.] Out of doors ? 
 Why, I thought he was very ill. He has been ill, has he 
 not ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 [Smiling.] Not very ill. He has had the influenza — 
 for the sixth time, I think it is. He was always a terrible 
 boy for catching cold. [Lady Rolleston looks surprised.] 
 I ought to know, for I nursed him when he was a baby. 
 A terrible lad for catching cold. I used to say to his 
 mother, a lad you will always have to preach flannel to — 
 Jaegers, for choice. " Old Flannels," he used to call me. 
 But, lor' bless him ! he never would wear no flannel, when 
 he com'd to be a man. He said that it was all very well 
 for England, but it didn't do for India. It was them 
 
 277 
 
278 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I linen shirts that have been the ruin of his health — canvas 
 shirts and white ducks, and nothing warm next his heart ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You seem to be very well acquainted with Major 
 Hawstorne's physical health. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Yes, Madam — my Lady, I should say — I have known 
 him on and ofF for thirty-six years come next Michaelmas. 
 I was in the service of his mother ; a pretty, nice, delicate 
 woman she was, always ailing a bit, never what I might 
 call breezy and spry. Oh, I remember the time 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes, yes. I made Major Hawstorne's acquaintance in 
 India. He was never very strong. I only heard the 
 other day that he was here. I live not far off, about 
 twenty miles away, at Ottley-St.-Mary, How does he 
 come to be here ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Well, my Lady, it is like this. He was in London, and 
 going the pace, from all I can hear — he was always light- 
 hearted. Master Ralph — and then he gets the influenza. 
 They are always having the influenza in London, they 
 tell me. It comes regular, like the fogs and the showers 
 of blacks and the Rates and Taxes and the road-repairs. 
 "The streets are all up," writes Master Ralph to me, 
 " and I've got the influenza again, so, as the doctors tell 
 me to go down into the country, I am going to ask you 
 to put me up. If any one can cure me, it's you, dear old 
 Flannels." — That's what he calls me, and I hadn't seen 
 him since he went out to India with his regiment, and I 
 wrote to him to come here at once, and I'd cure him. 
 He was a poor, battered-looking thing when he arrived. 
 " Whatever have you been doing to yourself. Master 
 Ralph ? " says I. " Don't know," he says, " nothing 
 more than usual. Suppose I want a change of air.'* 
 " Change of air \ " I tells him, " it's change of habits 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 279 
 
 and change of life you want." Was he often ill in India, Act I 
 my Lady ? " 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Oh, he had jungle fever and touches of ague pretty 
 constantly, I fancy. He was not very careful of himself. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 Careful of himself ? No, he has never been that. 
 That's what his father has done for him, ay, and his 
 grandfather before him. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Afore interestea than she pretends to be,^ Does he come 
 of a bad or a delicate stock ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 Well, I wouldn't say that exactly. The Hawstornes 
 always held their heads high in Yorkshire. But the 
 grandfather was very free with his money, they tell me, 
 drank more than was good for him, spent all he got, 
 wasted his own and his wife's income, and died young. 
 The father — Ralph Hawstorne's father — was a cold, hard 
 man, whom no one seemed to understand, least of all his 
 wife. He made a good bit of money, and he certainly 
 never spent more than he could help upon his family ! 
 But when he came to die they found that he had been 
 keeping up more than one establishment, and that he had 
 left the greater part of his money away to a foreign lady. 
 My poor mistress, it fairly broke her heart, and she died 
 not long after him. So you see. Master Ralph is not 
 likely to be very careful about himself — what with the 
 drinking habits of his grandfather, and the bad, licentious 
 ways of his father. But he is the best of the three, I 
 reckon — a free, generous nature, and a good lad, if only 
 he would think a little about his health, and, as I say, 
 wear flannel next his heart ! I beg your pardon, my 
 Lady, I talk too much. 
 
28o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Oh no, you interest me greatly. I took a great fancy 
 to Major Hawstorne in India. Has he gone down to 
 the village, do you say ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Yes, he went out with my daughter about half-an-hour 
 ago. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Your daughter ? Is this your daughter ? \Taking up 
 a photograph from the table. Mrs. Mayhew assents. '\ 
 Oh, I see. \After a pause^ smiles.] My dear Mrs. — 
 Mrs. ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 Mayhew, my Lady. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Mrs Mayhew, I think you are quite right to make him 
 wear flannel next his heart — or perhaps I should say 
 [pointing to photo] Mile. Flannelette ! Well, please give 
 Major Hawstorne my card. I shall come back again 
 presently, if you will allow me. Or perhaps I shall meet 
 Major Hawstorne in the village. I am going in my 
 motor to meet my brother. Will you give him my card ? 
 I think he may like to see me. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 [Curtsying.] Yes, ma'am — yes, my Lady, certainly. 
 This way, please. [Shows her out by door l. After a 
 pause enters by window at c. Grace Mayhew, a simple^ 
 fresh-looking country girl^ very sweet and pretty^ with a lot 
 of flowers in her hands.] 
 
 GRACE 
 Mother — mother — where is she ? [Re-enter Mrs. May- 
 hew at L.] Oh, mother, who is the fine lady who has 
 been here ? I saw a motor at the gate. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 I don't know, and I don't much care. Oh, here is her 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 281 
 
 card — Lady RoUeston. Says she knew Master Ralph in Act I 
 India, and is much interested in him. But I must say I 
 didn't take to her. She has an ofF-hand, stand-out-of- 
 my-sunlight kind of way, which makes me cross. A 
 beautifully dressed woman of the world, I suppose. I 
 know the sort. No manners and no heart. 
 
 GRACE 
 India ? Oh, I see. Perhaps she met him at Simla. 
 Perhaps she is first cousin to Mrs. Hawksbee. Oh, I 
 forgot, mother, you have not read " Plain Tales from the 
 Hills." Nor had I, till Ralph — Major Hawstorne — gave 
 me Rudyard Kipling's novels. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 I don't quite understand her either. She called you 
 Mile. Flannelette, by the bye. What did she mean by 
 that ? 
 
 GRACE 
 [Laughing.'] Oh, if you are Madame Flannels, I 
 suppose I am Mile. Flannelette. Never mind her. 
 She has gone. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Yes, but she is coming back. She said she thought 
 Master Ralph would like to see her. 
 
 GRACE 
 [Disappointed,] Oh ! 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Where is Master Ralph ? 
 
 GRACE 
 He is close behind me, I think. He stopped to give 
 sweetmeats to the children in the village — and to help 
 the little lame boy in some trouble or other. I think 
 some bigger boys were bullying him. You know how 
 fond he is of children. 
 
282 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ^C' I MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 So he is, bless his heart ! He ought to have some 
 child of his own to love some day. [Grace looks away.] 
 But I hope he has not gone too far. He might easily get 
 a touch of sun after being laid up indoors. 
 
 GRACE 
 [Looking off?^ Oh, there he comes — followed by the 
 children as usual. 
 
 Enter Ralph Hawstorne hy the window. He has a small 
 crippled hoy in his arms^ and turns round to children 
 outside window, 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 There — youVe got my very last sweetmeat. Be ofF 
 with you. Run away and play. [Turning round /(jMrs. 
 Mayhew.] Aha, dear old Mother Flannels, here's a little 
 patient for you. Some horrid big boys were throwing 
 stones in the road, and our poor little friend here got his 
 leg in the way — what, wasn't it your leg ? Well, your 
 body, then, or your poor back, or something. Anyhow, 
 it hurted very much, didn't it ? And so I told him that 
 I would just take him back to Mother Flannels, and she 
 would put it all right for him. Poor little man ! There 
 — gently — better already, isn't it ? Take him away, 
 Flannels dear, and be a mother to him ! [Gives the boy 
 to Mrs. Mayhew.] 
 
 MRS. mayhew 
 
 Ah, Master Ralph, you've got a wonderful way with 
 children — a real good heart, I'm thinking. 
 
 hawstorne 
 Have I ? A really good heart ? Well — I wonder. 
 Oh, by the bye, Mrs. Mayhew, you have not seen my 
 ring anywhere, have you ? I miss it from my finger. 
 It's probably in my bedroom. Anyhow, have a iQok for 
 it, there's a dear ! 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 283 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 What, that wonderful ring with the three stones you 
 set such a store by ? Dear, oh dear ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Only two stones in it now, Mrs. Mayhew ! You 
 know I've managed to lose one. Anyhow, I don't want 
 to lose the whole ring. I do value it very much indeed. 
 You're sure to find it. Have a good look. Good-bye, 
 little man. [Cripple tries to speak.'] No, no, don't talk 
 any more. Mother Flannels will soon put you all right. 
 [Mrs. Mayhew and the little boy go out l. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Coming down^ musingly.'] A good heart. She says I 
 have a good heart. Grace dear, have I a good heart ? 
 You ought to know, 
 
 GRACE 
 Oh, don't ask me, Ralph. You know what my 
 answer will be. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Yes, but I meant a good heart, not a loving heart. 
 They are not the same thing, I fear. 
 
 GRACE 
 Are they not ? They are the same thing to me. I 
 cannot imagine love without goodness, or goodness without 
 love. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 My poor little child, it is very clear that you don't 
 know much about the world. Why, about one in every 
 thousand of the people in this over-populated world is — 
 perhaps — good ; but the remaining nine hundred and 
 ninety-nine can all love — after their fashion ! 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Oh, love after their fashion ! I didn't mean love ; I 
 meant LOVE ! 
 
 Act! 
 
284 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HAWSTORNE 
 
 Love in capital letters, eh ? Well, I'm very fond of 
 you, little vi^oman, and that's the end of it. And you're 
 the sweetest little friend I've ever met — or likely to meet, 
 more's the pity ! Heigh-ho, I vi^ish all our jolly time 
 was coming over again, don't you ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Why? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Because the beginnings of things are so sweet. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 And don't they go on being sweet ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 H'm, I don't know. You see, all kinds of horrid 
 irrelevant circumstances come in after a time and spoil 
 the first fine careless rapture. There are one's friends 
 and relations, for instance. I'd back friends and relations 
 to spoil any dream, however sweet. And then there's 
 the necessity for a change, the going back to one's normal 
 existence, the taking-up of the burden of one's workaday 
 life once more. You know the dew goes off the grass 
 when the stupid, commonplace sun begins to get hot, and 
 all the shadows grow hard and black, and there's no mist, 
 no atmosphere, no mystery left ! 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Ah, that's just where men differ from women. Women 
 are always looking forward, and men are generally look- 
 ing back. Women take their poetry with them into the 
 midday heat, and men like to keep it solely for the early 
 morning — before the work begins ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 You're a very wise little woman, Gracie, and I dare 
 say you're right. Come here, dear, and sit down. We 
 will keep the dew on the grass as long as we can, won't 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 285 
 
 we ? I'm a little gloomy to-day. \He takes out cigar- Act I 
 case and opens it abstractedly,'] 
 
 GRACE 
 
 What an odd cigar-case ! What do you keep in it ? 
 These are not cigarettes, are they ? [ Takes out cocaine 
 injections.'] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No, no, but they do just as well as cigarettes. {With 
 an uneasy laugh.'] I have to use these things for my 
 nerves. You know how influenza pulls one down. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 And ought you to take them ? Does the doctor know ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, Raleigh knows all right. In fact, he — he — 
 ordered them. [Putting case down on table.] I wish I 
 did not feel so gloomy. If I was really superstitious — 
 I should think that something was going to happen. I 
 suppose it is the loss of that ring which has upset me. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 And you say you're not superstitious ! Tell me, dear^ 
 why you value the ring so much — you promised to tell 
 me some time. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No, not to-day. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Yes, to-day — now. If something is going to happen, 
 if you — you — have to go away from me — and I cannot 
 think what worse thing can happen — will you not please 
 tell me — ^just for once ? It's not much to ask, is it ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes and no. If that stone had not tumbled out, it 
 would be easier to tell you. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Ah — please — please. 
 
286 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 -^^^ ^ HAWSTORNE 
 
 Very well, only don't blame me afterwards. Promise 
 you won't blame me. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Of course I promise. Why should I blame you ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 It was at Benares, when I was in India soldiering. I 
 remember that I had been having rather a rackety time 
 for several months — what with pig-sticking and polo and 
 card-playing and dances — and — and flirtations and all 
 that sort of thing. You don't know the kind of life a 
 soldier lives there. A good deal of it is beer and skittles, 
 I can assure you. Don't look so serious, little girl, or I 
 shall never get on with my story. Well, a mahunt, that 
 is a kind of priest, not very high-class, but a good deal 
 better than a fakir, took rather a fancy to me. Heaven 
 knows why ! I suppose I had done him some act of 
 kindness — nothing romantic. I believe I was kind to his 
 adopted son, and I got him some medicines which enabled 
 him to win a wholly fictitious reputation for wonderful 
 cures. This mahunt asked me to come and see him, 
 that I might choose whatever I liked out of his collection 
 of sacred trifles — amulets and relics, and so on. He was 
 a queer-looking devil, and his eyes didn't both look the 
 same way ; one of them was green and the other had a 
 yellowish tint, so far as I recollect. Not the most com- 
 panionable fellow to have an intimacy with. What's the 
 matter, Gracie ? 
 
 GRACE 
 Nothing, only [nestling closer to him] you rather frighten 
 me sometimes. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, this beggar rather frightened me, I think. He 
 
 looked me through and through, and said in his own 
 
 lingo that I was bound to come to a bad end — at least, 
 
 that was what I made out of his grumblings and incanta- 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 287 
 
 tions. And when from his store of odds and ends I Act I 
 chose a ring, he shook his head in the most solemn fashion, 
 and asked me to select anything else in his possession and 
 leave that alone. You know what an obstinate chap I 
 am, when I have once set my mind on a thing, don't 
 you, Gracie ? Well, the more he warned me off the 
 ring, the more determined I was to have that and no 
 other. Do you remember the ring ? 
 
 GRACE 
 Of course. Three queer-looking opals set in some 
 beautifully worked old gold — filigree work, do you call 
 it ? Anyhow, there was an inscription inside — wasn't it 
 Sanskrit, you told me ? — and the opals looked positively 
 alive ! They were always changing their colour in 
 different lights, and sometimes they looked quite angry ! 
 Oh, but there are only two now — one of the most beau- 
 tiful of them, full of changing, iridescent hues, is gone ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 What a romantic little puss you are ! Almost as 
 mystical as my friend, the mahunt. When he saw that 
 I had made up my mind to have the ring he told me a 
 long rigmarole as to how a Brahmin had given it to him, 
 and that originally the ring came from Tibet, or some- 
 where. Then he read the inscription. " What will be, 
 must be. To desire, to possess, to know — this is the 
 sum of human wisdom and human folly." That did not 
 tell one much, did it ? But you should have heard my 
 friend preach on this theme ! " My son," he said, " if this 
 ring is yours, then know that it is the ring of your fate. 
 It will grant you much that you wish, but each wish, 
 when granted, will take something away from its value. 
 It will become part of your life, it will live as you live, it 
 will die as you die. It is the mirror of your soul, a con- 
 science that rebukes, a god who condemns. Look at it, 
 if you would know what you are and where you are. 
 Its message is easy to learn, but what is lost of it can 
 never be regained." And a lot more of the same kind of 
 
288 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I talk, very impressive and serious — and rather alarming, I 
 remember, at the time that it w^as uttered. But you see 
 v^rhy, although I am not really superstitious, I don't v^^ant 
 it mislaid. I miss it so much. It is a kind of companion, 
 or judge, or critic, perhaps, of my existence. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 [Who has got up and looks really alarmed.l Oh, Ralph ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 What is it, dear ? Why have you gone so far from 
 me ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Oh, don't you see, don't you see ? Oh, it's terrible ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 There now, I told you that I didn't want you to know 
 the story. It's your fault ; you made me tell you. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 But the stone that is lost, the stone that is lost ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, what of it ? It's gone, and it can't be helped. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Yes, but do you remember when it was lost ? Do you 
 remember that it was missing after that night, when — 
 when [She breaks down^ and begins to sob^ 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 That night when you — yes, by Jove, you're right ! 
 
 GRACE 
 
 And don't you see what it means ? It is a bit of your 
 life gone. That is the punishment of us two, for what 
 we have done ! Oh, oh ! [She sobs?[ 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Musingly,] To desire, to possess, to know — yes 
 [aside\ and now I no longer desire. It's deuced odd ! 
 [Aloud.l Well, what's done can't be mended. What 
 will be, must be. Come, come, little woman, don't fret. 
 It's all right. Come here and kiss me. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 289 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Oh, but Ralph \^he comes over and sinks into his 
 
 arms.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, it's a bit of my life gone, as you say. But don't 
 you think it is worth it, when you have given me yours ? 
 Eh, Gracie ? You see, you make up for it. By Jove, I 
 should think you did ! [He pets her, and her sobs gradually 
 subside.] Cheer up, childie. Remember, you promised 
 not to blame me, didn't you ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Oh, I don't blame you, dear, only somehow all the joy 
 and the fresh young happiness seem to have gone out 
 of our lives. Tell me that they have not gone, Ralph ; 
 I can't bear to think they have. They will come again, 
 won't they ? It is not only the beginnings of things that 
 are sweet ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 The love remains, Gracie. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Yes — yes. Talk to me about it. I want to feel that 
 the love remains — that it is all round us and will not go 
 away. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Folding her in his arms.] Of course love will remain, 
 and even if I go away 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Are you going away ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 I may have to. I have got my life to lead, remember. 
 But I shall come back, little woman ; I shall come back, 
 to claim you as my very own. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 [Dreamily.] You will come back, and the dew will 
 
 u 
 
 Act I 
 
290 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I be on the grass — and we will find the ring again, and no 
 more stones shall be lost out of it. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Mayhew. They start apart, 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Master Ralph — Major Hawstorne, I beg your pardon. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Oh, bother Major Hawstorne ! What is it. Flannels 
 dear ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 It is a lady to see you — Lady Rolleston is her name. 
 
 [Looking at card.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Lady Rolleston ? What in Heaven's name is she 
 here for ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Oh, I forgot to tell you. Mother says that a lady 
 called while we — while you — were in the village, left 
 her card, and said that she would call again. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Pettishly.] Why the devil couldn't you say that I had 
 gone away, or was dead, or something ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 She is waiting outside. Master Ralph. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Oh, I suppose I must see her. Show her in. Run 
 away, Grace, and look for my ring. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 We will both look for your ring. 
 
 [Grace runs out by window c, Mrs. Mayhew 
 goes to door L., and after a moment's pause 
 ushers in Lady Rolleston. 
 
ON THE SIDE OE THE ANGELS 291 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW Act I 
 
 Lady Rolleston, please, sir. \^he goes out. There h a 
 pause.^ 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Jdvancing.] Well, Ralph, aren't you glad to see me ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 My dear Lady Rolleston, every one is glad to see you, 
 always. . . . You bring with you "the full effulgence 
 of summer," as your friend, the Simla poet, used to say. 
 By the way, how is that idiot — I beg pardon, that dis- 
 tinguished versifier — Ray Luneville ? And how, by all 
 that's wonderful, do I see you in Mrs. Mayhew's cottage 
 in this out-of-the-way spot ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You forget that I come from Yorkshire, and that my 
 brother Guy happens to have his shooting-box only five 
 miles from here. I hope to induce you to come and visit 
 us for the I2th. Guy has some capital shooting on 
 the moors. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Oh, delighted, I'm sure — that is — well, I don't know 
 if I can 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes, you can if you try. I want to have a talk with 
 you, Ralph. What is the matter ? You never used to 
 be so fidgety and gauche. You can't treat me altogether 
 like a stranger, can you ? Come, think, am I a stranger ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No, Enid, Heaven knows you are no stranger to me, 
 nor I to you. But time passes, as you are aware, and 
 circumstances change 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 And men alter, of course. It used to be said that 
 changeability was the characteristic of woman. How 
 false that is ! It is very difficult for a woman to change, 
 
292 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I while men Why, a man is a different being when 
 
 he is in tweeds from what he is in a dress suit. 
 He is practical in the morning, desperately athletic during 
 the afternoon, and romantic after dinner. He makes 
 love to you in a white tie, and he simply ignores your 
 existence when he has got on his shooting-boots ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Z)r//y.] Did you come here to tell me this ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 No, I want you to come and see me at Ottley-St.- 
 Mary. You will, won't you ? To tell you the truth, I 
 am more than a little bored, and I want some distraction. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 And do you think that I can represent this amiable 
 rUe of distractor ? You pay me too great a compliment ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Well — soy ons f ranches. You remember how you found 
 me at that hill station in India ? I was wrongly placed, 
 somehow. I don't think that it was altogether my fault, 
 but I seemed to be depaysee^ to be out of touch with my 
 surroundings — at war with my environment. I was 
 listless, moody, unnerved. You came and made things 
 better for me. Oh, I don't wish to flatter you ! You 
 had a sunnier temper than the others, and a wonderful 
 gift of — what shall I call it ? — delicate tact. You seemed 
 to understand me and put me right. We had long talks 
 together then, Ralph, and my life grew to be happier 
 through your companionship. It was a pity, perhaps, 
 that our friendship did not remain on the levels of the 
 philosophical and the Platonic — was it a pity, Ralph ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 That is not for me to say. Plato's mood requires a 
 genius to sustain, and I fear I am not a genius. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 293 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 \^milingi\ No — nor am I. What an extraordinarily 
 comfortable doctrine the Platonic friendship is ! How 
 admirably it smooths the way for a real flirtation ! I 
 wonder if the old Greek gentleman was a cynic or a 
 fool ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Plato ! How many errors have been committed in 
 thy name ! But perhaps he was neither naif nor 
 hypocritical. Perhaps Platonic love is a later doctrine, 
 an eighteenth-century or a nineteenth-century gloss — 
 foisted upon his real theory. I think I remember that 
 some ingenuous student declared that he would rather be 
 wrong with Plato than right with the rest of the world. 
 
 • LADY ROLLESTON 
 Well, we were all right with Plato — or all wrong with 
 him, whichever you like. But it was a splendid time — 
 a time to look back upon and remember — a sort of golden 
 summer full of sun and flowers ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I think you must be quoting from your idiot Simla 
 poet, aren't you ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 \Laughing^ Ah, Ralph, you were a little jealous of 
 my poor Ray Luneville ! Come, confess. Weren't you 
 a little jealous ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Had I any cause to be ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Suddenly getting serious,] No, Heaven knows you had 
 not. I loved you, Ralph — oh, why should I not say it 
 out ? I loved you with all my heart. Some people will 
 tell you it was the common talk at Simla that I had no 
 heart. They were good enough to call me beautiful, 
 
 Act I 
 
294 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I but they added that I was dangerous — gare a qui la touche I 
 Ralph, I don't think I knew that I had a heart till I 
 saw you. Whatever it was that beat in my heart — old 
 memories of an innocent youth, vague dreams of some 
 possible happiness, or, it might be, a still unforgotten 
 reverence for an ideal of goodness and confidence and 
 truth — woke up and sprang into life at your touch. 
 When you first put your arms about me, when you first 
 kissed me, then I knew that I could love. What else is 
 a heart but this ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Well, physiologists say that a heart is a rather hard- 
 worked pump, which sends blood down the arteries and 
 receives it back again through the veins. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ah, don't chaft me, dear. I cannot bear it to-day. I 
 have got back to the old mood, when everything 
 and everybody used to bore me — before I saw you first. 
 Oh, the flat, stale, unprofitable uses of life ! How dreary 
 is the dawning of each new day ! But I want to get out 
 of this desolate mood. I want the knight to crash his 
 way through the wood and cut the clinging thorns, and 
 wake the Sleeping Beauty. I want you, I want you badly. 
 Won't you come to me ? I loved you, Ralph ; I love 
 you still ! [^She goes close to htm and stretches out her hands.'\ 
 
 Enter Mrs. Mayhew, bringing in Guy Daneborough. 
 
 MRS. mayhew 
 I beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Guy Daneborough would 
 like to see you. 
 
 Enter Guy Daneborough. 
 
 GUY 
 [Florid, stout, commonplace, with signs on his face of hard 
 drinking and hard living.'] Ah, Hawstorne, glad to see 
 you. Sissie said you were here. Sissie wants you to 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 295 
 
 come to us for the shootin'. Pretty good shootin' I've Act I 
 got. D — — n it, it costs me enough, don't it, Sissie ? \^he 
 winces each time he alludes to her.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Lady Rolleston has been good enough to invite me, 
 Daneborough. We were just discussing the matter when 
 you came. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Discussin' ? What's the good of discussin' ? D n 
 
 it, man, come. We can put you up all right. Some 
 capital chaps comin' — good table, good drinks, jolly 
 company, and some clinkin' grouse drives. Eh, Sissie ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 I have been telling Major Hawstorne that we hope to 
 make him comfortable, if only he will honour us. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Hullo, Sissie, on the high horse, eh ? Don't he care 
 for our society ? You two used to be pretty chummy in 
 the old days up on the hills. What's up now ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Oh, Major Hawstorne has been rather ill, and he is 
 not quite sure whether he is sufficiently recovered to pay 
 visits. 
 
 GUY 
 
 [Half to himself.] D d silly stilted talk, all this! 
 
 [Jioud.] What's been the matter, Hawstorne ? Off 
 your feed ? Liver wrong ? See blacks before your eyes 
 in the mornin' ? Been going the pace, eh ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 I have been stupidly going through my sixth attack of 
 influenza. That is why I am living in this cottage with 
 my old nurse, Mrs. Mayhew. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Influenza ? Silly rot ! Come out on the moors, man, 
 
296 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I and take your place in a butt and watch for the grouse 
 to come flyin' over you ! That's the best remedy for all 
 this tommy foolery of influenza ! Sissie, talk to him. 
 Give him beans if he gets restive 1 If any one can 
 persuade him, you can. You used to turn him round 
 your little finger ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I am afraid my little finger has got out of vv^ork lately. 
 
 GUY 
 Oh, by the way, there's a chap outside waitin' to see 
 you. Suppose he's the doctor chap. Said he had an 
 appointment with you, but I told him I would not stay 
 two minutes. Shall I call him in ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 If Lady RoUeston will permit me. 
 
 GUY 
 Of course Sissie will let you see your doctor. We'll 
 hear what he says. If he has got any brains — and he'll 
 be an exception in his trade if he has — he'll advise you to 
 come to us. [Going to window and calling.^ Hi, you out 
 there ! Doctor, aren't you ? Well, come in and see 
 your patient. We all want your advice. 
 
 \By the window enters Dr. Tom Raleigh, a 
 young man^ clear-eyed^ alert, 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Raleigh, let me present you to Lady Rolleston and Mr. 
 Guy Daneborough — Dr. Raleigh. [Lady Rolleston 
 hows?^ 
 
 GUY 
 
 Oh, we've met outside. Go ahead, my good man ; 
 look at his tongue, feel his pulse, and just give him a 
 clean bill of health ! 
 
 RALEIGH 
 [Smiling,] That's easier said than done, Mr. Dane- 
 borough. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 297 
 
 GUY 
 
 Good Lord, man, it's easy enough. Look at me. 1 
 have a doctor in town and a doctor in the country. When 
 I feel out of sorts in London I go to my man in Harley 
 Street, and he says, " Go into the country, Mr. Guy. 
 What you want is fresh air, early to bed, and lots of 
 exercise." And when I am bored with the country I 
 go to my country friend, and he says, " What you want, 
 Mr. Guy, is a little excitement. You are rather dead-alive 
 down here. Capital tonic is excitement ! Run up to town 
 and enjoy yourself for a few weeks. You'll be all the better 
 for it." That's how they treat me ; and as both get 
 their guineas, and shove all responsibility off on each 
 other's shoulders, why, they're both satisfied. And so am 
 I, by Gad ! 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Charming arrangement, certainly. But then you are 
 probably an exceptionally healthy man. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Of course I am. I know how to treat myself. Take 
 a blue pill sometimes. If one don't do, then take a 
 second. Let 'em fight it out ! That's my way ! Well, 
 just make Hawstorne trim and fit, and tell him to come 
 shootin' with me. I'll take a turn round the garden, 
 meanwhile. Comin', Sissie ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I shall follow you in a moment or two. 
 
 [Guy goes out breezily. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 May I stay. Dr. Raleigh ? Or do you wish me to go ? 
 I am an old friend of Major Hawstorne. \^Looks appealingly 
 to Hawstorne.] 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Well, Lady Rolleston, I — [looks also to Hawstorne] I 
 don't suppose that I shall have much to say to Major 
 Hawstorne. 
 
 Act I 
 
298 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I HAWSTORNE 
 
 Or course, Lady Rolleston, if it doesn't bore you — 
 naturally, I am flattered. [^Looks half-annoyed^ half- 
 embarrassed^ 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 What is the matter with him ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Well, the pulse is better this morning. I think he is 
 picking up. If, as I understand, you are an old — er — 
 acquaintance of his, you are probably aware that Major 
 Hawstorne is not constitutionally strong — a certain ten- 
 dency to pulmonary affection, and these repeated attacks 
 of influenza are weakening. We are always a little 
 afraid about the lungs after influenza — especially in a case 
 like this. But if only he will take a little care of himself, 
 he will be all right. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 I'm afraid I never was one to take care of myself, 
 doctor ! [Laughs.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 What do you recommend ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Oh, Vm afraid I can only give the usual advice. He 
 must avoid excitement and late hours, and lead a primi- 
 tive, pastoral sort of life. His nerves are a little out of 
 order. Therefore I recommend as little wine and spirits 
 as possible, and lots of sunshine. I wouldn't drink spirits 
 at all if I were you, Hawstorne. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, Lady Rolleston, are you satisfied with the 
 diagnosis of my uninteresting case ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Disregarding him, and turning to doctor.] Don't you 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 299 
 
 think it would do him good to come and stay with us, at Act I 
 our shooting-lodge, for a week or so ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Oh — well — yes, certainly. If he does not stay up late 
 smoking at night, and does not overdo the exercise. He 
 must get to bed early. In many ways [hesitating] this 
 vegetable kind of existence in Mrs. Mayhew's cottage is 
 almost ideal for him. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Eagerly.] I would see that he went to bed early, and 
 I would do my best to look after him. Wouldn't I, 
 Ralph ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 You see, doctor, my fate is taken out of my hands ! 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 [Smiles rather uneasily.] In that case I have nothing to 
 say. I will look in again to-morrow morning, or later 
 this afternoon. Good morning, Lady RoUeston. Good 
 morning, Major Hawstorne. By the way, you will be 
 careful to take my advice on every point — on everv point, 
 won't you ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Oh yes. By the way, doctor, just have a look at a 
 boy who got hurt in a scrimmage in the village, will you ? 
 You will find him in the kitchen with Mrs. Mayhew. 
 
 [Doctor smiles, bows, and goes out L. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Looks triumphantly at Hawstorne.] Well, Ralph ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Indifferently.] Well, Enid ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 You see, I shall get my way ! 
 
Act I 
 
 300 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Of course. You usually do. It is your most charming 
 and most dangerous prerogative. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I assure you, I exercise it with ail prudence and 
 caution. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Since when ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Oh, since this morning ! I am going to turn over a 
 new leaf ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Another ? You will be getting to the end of the book 
 soon. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Oh, don't spar with me. I'm too happy to argue. 
 You are coming to me again, that's the great point. I 
 shall see you again, and be with you and talk to you — 
 just like the old time ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Not like the old time in every particular, I trust. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Don't be silly. Of course not [coming close to him and 
 taking his hand]. Ralph, I want you to promise . . . 
 What has become of that wonderful ring you used to 
 wear ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Unfortunately, I have mislaid it — only temporarily, I 
 hope. It is very annoying. I lost one stone out of it 
 the other day, which seems to have gone beyond recall. 
 And now the whole ring has disappeared. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Are the people in the cottage honest ? 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 301 
 
 HAWSTORNE Act I 
 
 As honest as the day. Why, they are probably search- 
 ing everywhere for the ring at the present moment, Mrs. 
 May hew and Grace 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Grace ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, Grace — that is Miss Mayhew. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Oh, the beautiful rustic maiden. Mile. Flannelette. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Why do you call her by that name ? Oh, I see, Mrs. 
 Mayhew is old Mother Flannels. I did not know that 
 you had heard me call her so. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Nor have I. But Mrs. Mayhew gave me at great 
 length her prescription to you to wear flannel next your 
 heart, and I thought that the daughter might possibly 
 enter into the treatment as Mile. Flannelette ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Don't laugh at her, Enid. She is very good and sweet, 
 and I am very fond of her. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Really ? Am I to be jealous ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Certainly, if you like. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Don't be so ridiculous, Ralph. Why, you are quite 
 cross ! Mayn't I say a word against your rustic divinity 
 — not even in fun ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Enid — no, I don't think you would understand. 
 
302 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 -A-Ct I LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, try me. I am not supposed to be quite a fool. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 I wonder if I can explain. You know me pretty 
 well, or at all events you did know a good deal about me 
 in India. We have acted in private theatricals at Simla, 
 and it was usually my stage duty to make love to you . . . 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You did it very well, Ralph, both on and off the stage. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, I suppose I did. And I lived the life out there 
 to the full. But I wonder if you can realize that one 
 sometimes gets dead sick and tired of that sort of existence 
 — all spangles, rouge-pot, and limelight — even when so 
 splendid and so materially real a woman as you is thrown 
 in ? And since I have been here I can confess to you 
 that I have been a bit anxious about my health, and 
 have tried hard to pull up in time . . . and . . . and 
 see things differently. I am afraid I am very clumsy 
 and stupid in explaining what I mean. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 On the contrary — you are very lucid, my dear. I 
 quite grasp what is in your ; mind. But I wonder 
 whether you understand yourself and your own nature. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Why— don't I ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, let me put it to you in this way. You are tired, 
 we will say, of society, and a bit off colour, as my brother 
 would phrase it in his singularly expressive speech ; and 
 you think that nothing is so good as simplicity, curds and 
 whey, haymaking, blue eyes, virtue, innocence, and all 
 the rest of it. Very well. The devil was sick, the devil 
 a monk would be. But how long would it take you to 
 
ON THE SIDE OE THE ANGELS 303 
 
 get tired of Arcadia ? I rather think that curds and Act I 
 whey would rapidly be found a bilious form of refresh- 
 ment — that haymaking entails the companionship of dis- 
 agreeable things that bite and sting — and that an eternity 
 even of blue eyes would pall on a fastidious taste. . . . 
 The devil was well, the devil a monk was he ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, but how about purity, innocence, and the rest of 
 it? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ah, my friend, how little you know yourself ! Primi- 
 tive virtues require primitive natures, not temperaments 
 like yours and mine. Do you remember how the fine 
 ladies at the French Court admired Watteau and tried to 
 be shepherdesses ? It was merely a pose, and they were 
 just the same artificial, vain, extravagant, and most amorous 
 ladies all the time. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 {Moodily?^ And is my life here at this cottage a mere 
 pose ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 No, it's a contrast, and all contrasts have their piquancy. 
 We live in zig-zags, most of us — action, reaction ; pres« 
 sure, rest ; excitement, calm. And you, poor boy, with 
 your keenly nervous organization, more than most of us. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 You are very worldly wise, Enid. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You are a big baby, Ralph. That is half your charm. 
 No amount of experience will ever prevent you from 
 making a fool of yourself. Please forgive my frankness. 
 I have become a philosopher since we met. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 \Hentating^ I dare say I've made a fool of myself down 
 here. 
 
Act I 
 
 304 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I have no doubt whatsoever that you have. But tell 
 me quite honestly, Ralph, have you not already begun to 
 be just a little sick of this cottage ? Just a tiny, v^^ee little 
 bit, eh ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Oh, I dare say — yes, I suppose I have. Oh, of course 
 you're right, Enid ; you alw^ays were a clever woman — 
 a great deal cleverer than me. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 \^oftly?^ Not cleverer, Ralph, only more practical. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I should not put the matter quite so delicately as you 
 have, but I agree with you in the main. Once eat 
 of the fruit of the tree, and you've got to take the conse- 
 quences. As Hamlet or Solomon says — I never can 
 distinguish between those two authorities — the dyer's 
 hand is steeped in what he works in. The sow that was 
 washed goes back to her wallowing in the mire ! Yes, I 
 suppose you're right. I haven't a dog's chance to reform ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Come to me, and I will help you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 \With a hitter laugh,'] What, to reform ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ah, don't laugh, Ralph ; it goes through me. Come 
 to me, dear, and I will be good and nice to you. And 
 we will be ever so wise and practical, and work at the 
 philosophy of life together, won't we ? [She is very near 
 him?^ You will come to Ottley-St.-Mary ? Promise 
 me, Ralph ? \She almost puts up her face to his^ 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Looking down into her eyes.] Yes, I will come. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 305 
 
 Enter suddemy Grace Mayhew by door l. After her first 
 sentence she stopSy embarrassed and confused. 
 
 GRACE 
 I have found your ring ! I am so glad I have found 
 your ring — Oh, I beg pardon. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 This is Lady RoUeston — Miss Mayhew. Miss Grace 
 Mayhevi^ — Lady RoUeston. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 I am very glad to see you, Miss Mayhew^. Major 
 Hawstorne has been singing your praises to me. He says 
 that you are a capital nurse. 
 
 GRACE 
 I am to be trained as a nurse, my Lady. That will be 
 my profession. [She goes up to Hawstorne.] Here is the 
 ring. I am so glad I found it. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Where on earth had it got to ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Oh, the oddest thing ! That little crippled boy had it 
 clasped tightly in his hand — the boy you brought in, you 
 know. He would not give it up at first, till I promised 
 to bring it straight to you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I suppose I must have given it to him to play with 
 \j)utting the ring on his €nger\ Many thanks. I am ever 
 so much obliged. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Who has been watching them.] You are going to 
 
 be released of your responsibilities for a time. Miss 
 
 Mayhew. Major Hawstorne is going to pay us a visit at 
 
 Ottley-St.-Mary. Good-bye. I shall send the motor 
 
 Act I 
 
3o6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act I for you to-morrow, midday. Will that suit you ? [Haw- 
 STORNE nodsI\ Well, good-bye. No, don't see me out. 
 I shall go by the garden. 
 
 \Exit Lady Rolleston hy window c. There 
 is a pausei\ 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Ralph, are you going ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, only for a few days. The doctor says it will do 
 me good. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 And will you come back ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Of course, Grace. I promised to come back, didn't I ? 
 Why, I must come back and look after you ! Oh, don't 
 cry, little woman. Can't you trust me ? 
 
 GRACE 
 Yes, Ralph, yes ; I will trust you. And you won't 
 forget ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No, no. Where is Mrs. Mayhew ? I want to speak 
 to her. 
 
 GRACE 
 In the kitchen. \^he watches Hawstorne go to door^ 
 L. He waves his hand to her^ and is going out.] 
 
 Oh, here's your cigar-case. You'll want that, won't you ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Embarrassed.] Thanks. 
 
 GRACE 
 [J/one.] He is going away. Oh, God ! will he ever 
 come back ? [She sinks down and covers her eyes with her 
 hands.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
ACT II 
 
 [J month has elapsed.] 
 
 Scene. — // is September. Hall sitting-room at Ottley-St,- Act II 
 Mary. It is late afternoon. Ladies are sitting in tea- 
 gowns round the fire. It is a coldy chilly day in autumn^ 
 and the afternoon tea is still on the table. 
 
 Ray Luneville is the only man. The ladies are Lady 
 RoLLESTON, Mrs. Hargreaves, Miss Angela 
 Crompton, Lady Daneborough {old lady). 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 [Slimy affectedy literary^ Oh, really, Mr. Luneville, you 
 should not say such naughty things ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Looking up from book.] What desperately wicked things 
 has Mr. Luneville perpetrated. Miss Crompton ? I really 
 ought to have wrarned you against him ! 
 
 ray LUNEVILLE 
 
 Dear Lady RoUeston, you have known of old my 
 virgin and immaculate mind. I feel safe in your judg- 
 ment of me. 
 
 MRS. hargreaves 
 
 [Aside to old Lady Daneborough.] Yes, I should 
 think Mr. Luneville was quite harmless. He seems to be 
 an old maid manquee. 
 
 LADY daneborough 
 [Rather deaf] Old maid ? Who said she was an old 
 maid ? To my certain knowledge she has refused three 
 offers of marriage. 
 
 307 
 
3o8 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ^Ct II MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 Dear Lady Daneborough, I don't think we are talking 
 of the same person. 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 I thought you asked me if Miss Crompton was an old 
 maid. Now I knew her mother very intimately, and 
 though the girl is a little awkward, and dresses abomin- 
 ably 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 No — no — no. I meant Mr. Luneville. [JVhispers.'] 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 Eh ? What .? Mr. Luneville .? Mr. Luneville an old 
 maid ? Ha, ha ! very good. Mr. Luneville [raising her 
 voice], why are you like an old maid ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 I suppose, because I am devoted to cats. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Dear me, now which of us is he devoted to ? This is 
 distinctly compromising ! Miss Crompton, have a care ! 
 Mr. Luneville's compliments are double-edged ! 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 Oh, we were talking of palmistry. Mr. Luneville 
 says that my hand is of the variety called psychological, 
 and that my headline is more strongly marked than my 
 heart. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 No wise woman shows her hand, either in cards or in 
 life. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Except sometimes to her partner, prospective or 
 actual ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Pray, Miss Crompton, is this a specimen of the naughty 
 things he says ? 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 309 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE Act II 
 
 Oh no. My great charm is my transparent goodness. 
 I assure you, it is r positive foible with me to be frank. 
 I am only wilful and obscure when I write. 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 What do you write, Mr. Luneville ? Please forgive my 
 ignorance. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 Don't mention it. ! Nearly every one is ignorant of 
 my works, I am glad to say. How dreadful it would be 
 if my verses were quoted in the daily newspaper ! Just 
 think ! The Motorist says that Mr. Luneville's verses are 
 really capital ! Oh ! 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 Pecuniarily rather useful, wouldn't it be ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 I don't think any one has ever seen my last book, 
 Suspiria Do/entis, referred to in any current periodical ? 
 Life has few consolations, but one of the greatest is 
 the knowledge that one stands alone and unknown, 
 " Fallentis semita vitae " — I beg your pardon ! 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 Have you achieved your ideal .? — to be unknown and 
 obscure ? 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 Oh, but I have read some of your pieces — " SoufH6 and 
 Sorrow," for instance, and " The Plaint of Pasiphae." 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Perhaps Mr. Luneville would not consider that your 
 knowledge of him interfered with his ideal. Miss 
 C romp ton. 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 You don't shoot, Mr. Luneville ? [Ray shakes his 
 
3IO DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II head^^ I thought not. Men who don't shoot usually 
 take to palmistry or poetry. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 It is their way of doing some damage, at all events. 
 No, I am afraid I am not interested in grouse or par- 
 tridges. They always seem to be suffering from disease. 
 Did your grouse suffer from disease, Lady Rolleston ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, I believe there has been some disease among the 
 birds. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 I thought so. And the early broods were washed 
 away by the bad weather in the spring. And the second 
 broods are too young to be shot before September, I feel 
 sure. And your brother says that he never knew such a 
 bad season before in his life. The records of sport are 
 very monotonous, my dear hostess. May I have another 
 cup of tea ? 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 Is not life very monotonous, Mr. Luneville ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Oh, that depends on the digestion. If the digestion is 
 good and the liver sound, as they generally are with 
 sportsmen, then, I admit, life can be very monotonous. 
 But there is always a charming variety of incidents if you 
 are dyspeptic I Think how differently eating appeals to 
 you if you are dyspeptic, or how brilliantly diverse appear 
 to you the characters and dispositions of your friends ! 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 Oh, Mr. Luneville ; how can you utter such para- 
 doxes ? I thought you had a conscience. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 My conscience is purely literary, I assure you, not 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 311 
 
 Besides, 
 ethical dyspepsia 
 
 social. Besides, what is conscience ? It is merely Act II 
 
 I 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 I cannot make out what he is talking about. I know 
 he insisted on having a large piece of cake after lunch. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Yes, that was the only way to give a taste to the sloe 
 gin. And now I am going to have a large piece of bun 
 to add piquancy to the Pekoe ! I study the science of 
 the appropriate adjunct. It's like finding the right 
 adjective in literary criticism. 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 \Grumhling in a loud whisper to herslf.] I should think 
 the man has been drinking. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 No, my dear Lady Daneborough, the true pick-me-up 
 is conversation with combative people. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 Oh, I am afraid I am not a pick-me-up ? I am not 
 combative. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 On the contrary, my dear young lady — you have all 
 the charm of a dazzling exception. Did you not say 
 that you had read my poems ? 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 She did not say she understood them. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 No, thank Heaven ! To be understood is to be vulgar. 
 Why, I don't understand myself ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Well, we are all in the same position. We none of 
 us understand you. 
 
Act II 
 
 312 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Then is the cup of my happiness full — unlike my tea- 
 cup, by the way. May I have some more tea — with lots 
 of milk ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ah, you are determined to keep on good relations with 
 cats, I observe. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 Indeed, yes. Cats are sublime. Do not all cats com- 
 bine real ferocity of nature with exquisite manners ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Looking across to Lady Daneborough.] I think he is 
 paying you a compliment, mother ? 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 Good gracious ! What hetise can I have committed ! 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Silence, Lady Daneborough. Silence is the only 
 
 hetise, 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You get tiresome, Ray. Run away and play — with 
 Miss Crompton, for instance ! 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 Oh, I am banished — the usual fate of the abnormal. 
 Miss Crompton, will you take pity on me ? Will you 
 share with me an abnormal half-hour in the drawing- 
 room ? 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 With pleasure, Mr. Luneville — if you will do all the 
 talking. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Ah, I am afraid that would be only too normal ! 
 
 [Ray and Miss Angela go out. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 313 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH Act II 
 
 Thank goodness he's gone. I never came across so 
 strange a specimen ! Is he a man gone wrong, or a 
 woman who has missed her vocation ? 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 I told you he was an old maid manquh ! 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 Well, anyhow, we shall have a little peace. I did not 
 hear half he said. I never before was so thankful for my 
 deafness. But if the other half has any resemblance to 
 what I did hear, the man ought to be in the Zoological 
 Gardens ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 I believe he studies the Encyclopedia Britannica, 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 I thought SO. That proves my point. Where on 
 earth did you pick him up ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I did not pick him up on earth. I found him on the 
 hills — at Simla. 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 Ah, by the way, Simla — what's the matter with your 
 friend Major Hawstorne ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Coldly,'] Is anything the matter with him ? 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 You know there is. He is as moody as he can be, as 
 nearly rude as his manners will permit him, and of a 
 most indifferent temper. Is he in love, or has he taken to 
 nipping ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, I see him coming down the drive — you had 
 better ask him yourself. 
 
314 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 That I certainly shall not. I will not run the risk of 
 having my head snapped off. Come, Mrs. Hargreaves, 
 let's leave him to his hostess — in the faint hope that she 
 may do him some good. I take a long time dressing. 
 
 [Mrs. Hargreaves and Lady Daneborough 
 go off. 
 
 Enter by hall door Major Hawstorne. He is much older- 
 looking than in the first acty and much worn and haggard, 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 \Gets Up and goes to him.] Well, Ralph, you're back 
 early from shooting ? 
 
 hawstorne 
 
 Yes. [Curtly.] Couldn't hit a d d bird — not even 
 
 [with a bitter laugh] after lunch. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 What's the matter ? It isn't like you to be so cross- 
 grained. Do you feel ill ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 No, I think not, only a little out of sorts. Don't 
 mind me. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Will you have some tea ? I will have some fresh made. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 No. I think I will have a brandy-and-soda. May I 
 ring ? [He goes to the bell.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Better have some tea. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No, thank you. [With sudden violence.] D n it all, 
 
 Enid, I suppose I may have what I like — I beg your 
 pardon, I don't know what has come over me. I don't 
 
ON THE SIDE OE THE ANGELS 315 
 
 seem to have any self-control. \The servant comes in.] Act II 
 A brandy-and-soda, please. [Exit servant. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Of course you can have what you like, Ralph. But 
 you used to listen to my advice sometimes. You used to 
 be guided by me. And now^ 
 
 HAWS TORN E 
 
 Yes, I know I am a beast. But, believe me, I am as 
 much surprised at myself as you can be. I don't recognize 
 myself — that's a fact. And, oh ! how I do hate my own 
 personality ! [Servant comes in with brandy-and-soda.] 
 Thanks. Not much soda, please. That will do. [He 
 dashes it off feverishly.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ralph, I try to do what I can, but you have gone 
 beyond me, somehow. I wish you would treat me as 
 your friend, and tell me whatever it may be you have got 
 on your mind. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Well, it's a little difficult. [With a shorty hoarse laugh.] 
 For I have got nothing on my mind. That's the ugly 
 part of it. I don't think of anything, and I brood, brood, 
 brood— God knows what about ! There is a sort of 
 cloud over me — or else I seem to have dived down rather 
 deep, and there are miles of green sea over me, and, try 
 what I will, I cannot get to the surface. And then, 
 good God ! my temper ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Can I do nothing ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I am not sure that any one can. The sun seems never 
 to shine in my sky ; it's always clouds, clouds, clouds, 
 and driving, pitiless rain. Can you guess what I did to- 
 day ? Oh, I may as well tell you. I was shooting as 
 jealous as possible, being in a thoroughly nasty mood, 
 
3i6 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II and missing more birds than I have ever done in all my 
 life ! And I seemed to get conscious that other people 
 were laughing at me — especially that swaggering young 
 Member of Parliament — what is he called ? — Vivian 
 Rodney, who sits for one of the northern constituencies 
 — in Cumberland, isn't it ? As ill-luck would have it, 
 he was next me, and whenever he fired I fired too, and 
 claimed his bird. At last he expostulated, and then I 
 called him a liar I Good Heavens, fancy telling a lie 
 oneself and then, out of sheer cowardice, calling another 
 chap a liar ! And all about some silly partridges ! But 
 I hate that Vivian Rodney, and Til see him damned 
 before I apologize ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 My poor boy. \^She comes over to him. He shrinks from 
 her touch.'] Go to bed. Don't come down to dinner. I 
 will send you something — or I will bring it myself — up 
 to your bedroom. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 What — ^just because I have had a bad day, and shot 
 vilely ? No, thank you ! And let that silly young ass, 
 Rodney, explain to the company how much in the wrong 
 I was, and that my only way of decent apology was to 
 go to bed ? You must think meanly of me ! Hang it 
 all, I'm not a coward, and I can stand my own racket ! 
 May I have some more brandy ? There's too much soda 
 in this glass. \^Rings the bell.'] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ralph, you're a child. No, you shall not have any 
 more brandy. You've had quite enough. Look at the 
 time ; it's half-past six, and we dine at eight. [Servant 
 comes in.] Jarvis, has the evening post come in ? 
 
 JARVIS 
 No, my Lady, I think not, but I'll inquire. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Oh, and — Jarvis, bring me a liqueur of brandy. [Servant 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 317 
 
 goes out.] You may think me a child, Enid, but, con- Act II 
 found it all, I have got a will of my own. You insisted 
 on asking me here, and now I've come I may at least 
 be permitted to do as I like 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Was it a mistake asking you here ? Oh, don't say it 
 was a mistake ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I don't know. Of course I have drifted, and you 
 have drifted. Probably you knew quite well we should 
 drift. But oh. Heavens ! that is nothing compared to the 
 deadly depression which comes over me ! This hideous, 
 opaque cloud of gloom, which is always round me, and 
 which I struggle against in vain ! How can one fight 
 with a cloud ? But it is choking me, I tell you — it is 
 choking me ! I can't breathe ! Oh, God ! [He lets his 
 head fall between his hands. She tries to stroke his head. He 
 fiercely resents^ No, don't touch me, please. I can't bear 
 it ! ^y the way \suddenly\ you are not wearing my ring 
 to-day. Where is it ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 I cannot wear it. You know I cannot wear it — with 
 my mother's eyes always on me, and Miss Crompton 
 watching me. I have got it upstairs in my room. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Fetch it, please ; do you mind ? I want to see it. Oh, 
 here's the brandy. 
 
 Enter Jarvis, with the liqueur of brandy and some letters. 
 
 JARVIS 
 The letters, my Lady. Your liqueur, sir. \Exit Jarvis. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 One, two, three, four for me. And three for you 
 Ralph. Very well, I will go and fetch your ring whi'e 
 you read your letters. \Exit Lady Rollesto/, 
 
 / 
 
3i8 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II HAWSTORNE 
 
 \By himself^ opening letters. The first letter is from Dr. Tom 
 Raleigh.] What does Raleigh want ? " My dear Major 
 Hawstorne," — hm — hm — hm — " I hope you are taking 
 care of yourself and not getting wet or sitting up late." 1 
 sat up late last night and got wet this afternoon. Oh, 
 bother, I can't read all this good advice. . . . What's 
 this ? " By the bye, forgive me if I once more warn 
 you against cocaine. It's all very well when you were 
 in actual pain, or your nerves were completely out of 
 order. Then I allowed it — very much against my will 
 — occasionally. But now that you ought to be in per- 
 fect health, with regular exercise, and out a good deal in 
 the fresh air " — fancy my being in perfect health ! — 
 "you ought never to look at it. Remember that its 
 action is in the highest degree deleterious. It is poison 
 for you." \He lets the letter fall on his lap^ and looks serious.] 
 Well, I have only taken it once or twice. Besides, my 
 nerves are wretchedly shattered, and I must do something 
 to steady them. [Takes up second letter.] From Grace. 
 . " My dear Ralph, you haven't written to me for a long 
 time, and I am afraid you have quite forgotten your poor 
 little friend." Really, I can't be expected to write to 
 her every day. What a nuisance she is 1 [He is about to 
 tear up the letter when he stops.] No, she is not half such a 
 nuisance as the other woman. What infernal bad luck 
 that I should have come across her again ! Grace is a nice 
 child — much too nice for me, I am afraid. But still — 
 if it comes to marriage — oh, that's absurd ! " You know 
 that you are never out of my thoughts, and that I have 
 your photograph on the mantelpiece in my bedroom." — 
 Poor little Gracie. [He is still reading the letter when enter y 
 boisterously^ Guy Daneborough, Lord Vivian Rodney, 
 Hon. and Rev. Charles Hargreaves, Robert Tid- 
 
 MAN.] 
 
 GUY 
 
 Hullo, Hawstorne, you gave us the slip ! D d poor 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 319 
 
 sport. You were quite right. But you might have told Act II 
 me you were going. You put poor Byles out terribly ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Looking up from the letter he is reading,'] What Byles, 
 your gamekeeper ? I thought I told him I was going 
 home. 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 Perhaps Major Hawstorne was feeling the weather. 
 All this rain and damp are terribly trying. It makes me 
 feel very rheumatic. 
 
 GUY 
 Oh, rot ! Have a hot bath. You'll preach all the 
 better next Sunday. Nothing like exercise and baths for 
 pulpit oratory ! 
 
 RODNEY 
 
 [Supercilious^ glass in his eye,] I see that Major Hawstorne 
 prefers another kind of protection against the weather. 
 Eh, what ? [Pointing to liqueur glass of brandy^ still un- 
 tasted.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Fery shortly,] Yes. Have some ? 
 
 RODNEY 
 No, thank you. I never drink between meals. 
 
 TIDMAN 
 Really ? Well, now, I wish I could say the same 
 myself, my Lord ! [He is an officious^ obsequious, deferen- 
 tial slave of the aristocracy.] I often think a glass of sherry 
 and bitters rather pleasant before dinner — or, say, a glass 
 of brown sherry. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [IVithout looking up,] You had much better copy the 
 virtue of Lord Vivian, Tidman. You couldn't have a 
 better example. 
 
320 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ^^^ ^^ RODNEY 
 
 Oh, as for that, it isn't virtue ; it is merely prudence, 
 
 don't you know. I can't both shoot and drink — eh, 
 what ? 
 
 TIDMAN 
 ^^niggering.^ Well, perhaps Major Hawstorne can ! He 
 is so strong. 
 
 RODNEY 
 
 \JVith a meaning look at Hawstorne.] Can he ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Getting up and going to fireplace?^ Rodney, I've got a 
 bad temper, and I'm sorry I behaved badly to you this 
 afternoon. I was in the wrong, and I missed most of 
 my birds. Well, I'm sorry — that's all. 
 
 RODNEY 
 Oh — that's all right ! We none or us are particu- 
 larly amiable when we shoot badly, don't you know — 
 except Tidman. He's always amiable — eh, what ? 
 
 TIDMAN 
 Oh, my Lord, you are too good ! 
 
 GUY 
 
 \lVho has been talking to Hargreaves.] What are you 
 people bickerin' about ? When the day's shootin's over — 
 well, it's over — that's what I say. Sorry you've all had 
 such bad sport — better luck next time. Come, it's nearly 
 time to dress for dinner. Perrier Jouet 89 to-night. 
 
 \Exit Hawstorne. 
 
 RODNEY 
 Well, Fm off too. What is it you recommend, Mr. 
 Hargreaves ? Hot bath ? Not a bad idea — eh, what ? 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 Our host said that it is a good tonic for pulpit oratory, 
 I believe. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 321 
 
 RODNEY Act II 
 
 What's good for pulpit is good for parliament — eh, 
 don't you think so ? \H.e goes outy obsequiously followed by 
 
 TiDMAN.] 
 
 GUY 
 
 Wait one minute, Hargreaves. Noticed anythin' queer 
 about Hawstorne ? 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 He seems to be — not quite himself. 
 
 GUY 
 Not quite himself! I should think not. Why, he 
 
 ain't the same man he used to be. D d good chap — 
 
 I beg your pardon ; can't help swearin'. Wretched form 
 to swear before a clergyman, I know. But it makes me 
 swear. 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 
 What do you notice — exactly ? 
 
 GUY 
 
 Well, it's like this. You know we used to see a good 
 deal of one another in India, and he was the smartest 
 officer in Simla. And then there's my sister Enid. She's 
 very fond of him, as I dare say you have noticed. She's a 
 bit rapid, of course, and all that, but she has a good heart. 
 Never cared for her late husband, though. Let me see, 
 where was I ? 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 
 You were talking about Lady RoUeston and Haw- 
 storne. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Of course. Well, I always thought that they were 
 goin' to hit off a match. Shouldn't have let them be so 
 much together otherwise. People talked a lot about them, 
 too. But I naturally believed it would be all right. And 
 now 
 
322 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II HARGREAVES 
 
 Yes. Has something interfered ? 
 
 GUY 
 No, not exactly, but I don't like the look of things. 
 He left India without proposin', but I thought when 
 they met again in England the event would come off. 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 
 They seem to be very fond of each other's society now 
 — if I may be pardoned for saying so. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Yes, but d n it all — I beg your pardon — he is so 
 
 strange and moody, and all that. I'm not sure whether 
 he is the right sort of husband for her. You see, I like 
 old Enid. She don't make herself pleasant to everybody, 
 I'm aware. But she's a good sort ; and I like Haw- 
 storne, too — at least, I used to. Can't make him out 
 now — and that's a fact. 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 
 But what can I do ? 
 
 GUY 
 Well — I thought if you had a chance, you might talk 
 to him a bit. You're a clergyman, you know, and all 
 that, and there's no offence if a clergyman says a straight 
 thing or two. Hawstorne may drink too much, for 
 aught I know. Anyhow, I'm quite upset about him. 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 
 It's a little difficult, but if I get a favourable oppor- 
 tunity 
 
 GUY 
 That's a good fellow. I knew you would. Talk to 
 him after dinner. Perrier Jouet 89, you know. Any one 
 
 • can talk on that wine ! D n it, what's the good of 
 
 being a clergyman if you can't intrude — beg pardon, I 
 don't mean that — interfere — no, that's not the word — 
 well, you know what I mean ! 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 323 
 
 HARGREAVES Act II 
 
 [Smiling.] You mean, give counsel and advice 
 
 GUY 
 
 Yes, it w^ill be very good of you. Wonder if he vi^ill 
 stand it, though ? 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 
 I vi^ill see what can be done. 
 
 [Exit Hargreaves. Js Guy is going out by another 
 door^ Lady Rolleston comes in hurriedly. 
 She is in a tea-gown. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Hullo, Sissie ! Not dressed yet ? What's up ? 
 
 LADY rolleston 
 
 I want to see Major Hawstorne — at once ! [Goes to 
 bell and rings.] 
 
 GUY 
 
 Well, he's dressing, I expect. Can't you wait till 
 dinner ? [Exit, 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 No, I can't. [She walks up and down the room. Enter 
 servant.] Ask Major Hawstorne to come here. Tell 
 him it's important. [Exit servant. She walks up and 
 down again. Suddenly she sees a letter lying on the floor ^ 
 dropped by Hawstorne. She takes it up^ hesitates a moment^ 
 then some words catch her eye^ and she reads.] " Forgive 
 me if I warn you once more against cocaine. Its action 
 is in the highest degree deleterious. ... It is poison to 
 you." [She stops.] Good God ! He is poisoning him- 
 self with cocaine ! Poor boy, poor boy ! [She sinks down 
 in a chair^ watching the door by which Hawstorne must 
 enter,] 
 
 [Hawstorne enters^ looking worried to the last degree. He 
 has on a dressing-jacket^ and is evidently half-dressed. 
 She starts forward as he comes in, and stops appalled at 
 the look in his face. He, too, stands at the doorway, 
 staring at her. There is a moment^ silence. 
 
324 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ^^^ II LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ralph 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 \Who looks dulled and only half-comcious^ Enid — you 
 sent for me 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Come to me — come nearer — I cannot talk to you if 
 you stand there. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes \He moves almost in a dream nearer her^ and 
 
 sinks into a chair.] Well 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I cannot tell you — I cannot tell you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Is there any need for telling ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Why — do you know ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No — but I don't seem to care. Does anything matter 
 — after this ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 After what ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 This [He holds out a letter to her^ which she takes 
 
 and is about to open.] Stop — why did you send for me ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Oh, Ralph, your ring ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Have you got it ? Yes ? Why don't you give it to 
 me ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I dare not ! 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 325 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Why, of course, I know. Has another stone gone ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Holding it out to him.] Yes. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Of course, I might have known it. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Read that letter [pointing to letter in her hand\ and you 
 will understand. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Opens and reads.] " I regret to have to inform you "... 
 What is this ? " Messrs. Allen, Judkins and Co." . . . 
 "unable to meet the demands of their creditors" — sus- 
 pended payment. Oh, Ralph ! Had you much money 
 with them ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Practically all my money was with them. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 And now 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, now I am a beggar, that's all. It's infernal 
 luck, or, rather, it's my usual luck. Oh, God ! Was 
 there ever such a poor, miserable, helpless devil in this 
 world as I ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 And the ring ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 D n the ring ! I have not had a moment's luck 
 
 since it came into my possession. Of course, the second 
 stone has gone. "To desire — to possess — to know." 
 Desire has failed — and possession has gone. Great 
 
 Act II 
 
326 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II Heavens, how long will knowledge remain to me ? [He 
 stands^ looking moodily at the ring. Lady Rolleston silently 
 looks up at him. In the silence comes from the drawing-room 
 the tinkle of a piano and a woman s voice singing " Love laid 
 his sleepless head."] Who's that ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Angela Crompton singing to Ray Luneville, I think. 
 Shall I ask her to stop ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 No; I have no right to interfere with their amuse- 
 ment. It's pretty maddening, isn't it ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 The music ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Yes, music, the world, life — everything 1 I suppose 
 every man only gets what he deserves, but it is hard to 
 bear — very hard to bear ! " The fathers eat sour grapes 
 and the children's teeth are set on edge." Is it my fault 
 that my grandfather was a drunkard and a spendthrift, 
 and my father a spendthrift and a libertine ? Never- 
 theless, I have to pay the debt to the full. I lose all that 
 makes life worth having — health, spirits, hope, money ! 
 Everything I touch fails. Friends desert me. Love has 
 long since left me. I am a wreck — bodily, mental, 
 social, moral. . . . Well, why don't you say something ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 It is not the time to say much — one must do something. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Do something ? I am sick of doing something. What's 
 the use ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, I am going to do something, Ralph. This is 
 not the only letter you had to-night. There was another. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 There were two others, I believe. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 327 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON Act II 
 
 You dropped one when you left the hall. It was from 
 Dr. Raleigh. I have read it. Here it is. \Holds out 
 letter to him J] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Thanks. So you know about that too — cocaine ? Well, 
 I'm glad. Better know the worst. Well ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I shall telegraph to Dr. Raleigh to come here — at once. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 What's the use ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Every use. He must look after you — without delay. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Indifferently.] Just as you like. I don't suppose it will 
 make much difference to me. He can't help me. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 We shall see. But that is not all. There is yourself 
 to be considered — your future — and we must think what 
 had best be done. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 You are very good to me, Enid. I always thought 
 you had a kindly heart, though you never gave yourself 
 a proper chance, if you will forgive me for saying so. 
 You wasted yourself over the trifling and the insignifi- 
 cant. I ought to know, for I did the same thing, and 
 it does not do in the long run. Only the big things 
 count, after all. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 And what are the big things, Ralph ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Oh, it isn't for me to preach — besides, preaching is 
 not in my line. But when one has had a facer, as I 
 
328 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II have — when one has gone through a lot of experience — 
 mostly tawdry and ignoble experience, as I have done 
 — there comes a queer sort of insight, born of one's 
 personal trouble, into the things that really matter in 
 this life. I do not for a moment say that, if I was 
 put all right at this moment I should ever be able to 
 attain to them. A stronger will than I have is wanted. 
 But it is something, I suppose, even to be able to see 
 from a distance the difference between the great shining 
 peaks of existence, and the drab-coloured, stupid com- 
 monplace plains. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Tell me, Ralph. I haven't often heard you talk like 
 this. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No, I dare say not. I have generally managed to frivol 
 away my time pretty successfully. But I imagine that 
 there are certain really good and satisfactory things — 
 honour and truth^ straightforwardness and simplicity, kind- 
 ness — oh yes, kindness above all, all the religion worth talk- 
 ing about is kindness — generosity — and — and . . . respect 
 and reverence for virtue . . . and . . . chastity. . . . 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You are a good fellow, Ralph, much too good to have 
 come down to — drink — and cocaine. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No — that's just the worst of it. I am not good. I 
 see the right and I don't do it. You see [with a sad^ wan 
 smi/e] I have still got knowledge left in my ring 
 [looking at it mournfully]. But what use is it to 
 know so clearly the right, and not have the will-power 
 to do it ? That is the sin against the Holy Ghost — 
 sinning against light. . . . [He shudders.'] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Let me help you, Ralph. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Listlessly.] Can you ? 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 329 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON Act II 
 
 Yes, I think so. Do you like me ? You don't dislike 
 me, at any rate ? I used to be something in your life. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, you are still, Enid, Heaven knows you are. I 
 have not got so many friends that I can afford to lose 
 one. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, now, let us look at the state of the case, quite 
 simply. You are down on your luck — very badly down 
 on your luck. Your health is bad ; you have been 
 staying up too late ; you have not been sleeping well ; 
 you have been drinking too much — and, because your 
 nerves are bad, you have been poisoning yourself with 
 cocaine. You see, I am not going to spare you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 All right. Go on. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, then, we will wipe you entirely out of the 
 account — as a non-negociable asset, because, to finish the 
 whole story, you are, to all intents and purposes, a 
 bankrupt. Is that so ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes — practically that is so. I suppose I shall have 
 about a couple of hundred pounds a year to live on. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 And debts ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes — pretty bad debts. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 So you are no good at all, dear boy — simply zero, Z 99. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 That's about the state of the case. Oh, d n that 
 
 piano ! [From the next room comes the sound of a marCs 
 
330 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II alto voice. Ray Luneville is singing^ " Why do they call 
 me a Gibson Girl F "] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Never mind the piano or Ray Luneville. If you count 
 as nothing, he represents a hopelessly minus quantity, so we 
 need not trouble about him. Ralph, I am going to ask 
 you a question. Is there any just cause or impediment 
 why you should not ask me to marry you ? [Ralph 
 starts.] Because if there is not I can put you financially 
 straight, you see. I will not pay you the bad compliment 
 of supposing that you would let me be your banker under 
 any other conditions. That's so, isn't it ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Good Heavens, Enid ! What are you saying ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Oh, something very simple. You may have forgotten 
 it, Ralph ; but long ago I told you I loved you. You 
 are the one man who has ever made me forget my 
 ordinary, worldly, social existence, and inspired me to 
 dream of other things. When that happens to a woman 
 — when she comes across a man who takes her out of 
 her wonted plane and transports her to a new level — 
 well, she never forgets the experience, or the man who 
 has worked the miracle. And I shall never forget you, 
 Ralph. I love you, and I ask you to marry me. . . . 
 What is your answer ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Enid. . . . [He hesitates.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, your answer ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 I had three letters by to-night's post, and they all 
 
 meant something to me. One was from Tom Raleigh 
 
 — that you read. Another was from Allen, Judkins and 
 
 Co. — that you hold in your hand. The third [fumbling in 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 331 
 
 his pocket] — the third [he holds it out to her] No, I Act II 
 
 think I would rather you would not read that. 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Tell me it yourself. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 It was from Grace Mayhew — the little girl at Wootton 
 le-Hay — the girl you laughed at. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Your rustic divinity ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Well ? [A pause.] Do you mean that if you marry 
 at all you ought to marry her ? that you are morally 
 bound to marry her ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes. 
 
 [There is silence^ and from the next room comes the 
 final verse, " 0^hy do they call me a Gibson 
 Girl ? " Ralph gets up, puts his fingers in 
 his ears, then walks to window, then comes 
 back again and flings himself into a chair. 
 The dressing-gong sounds, and Ralph winces.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Gets up.] We must go and dress. [She stops.] 
 Ralph . . . have you nothing else to say to me ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 No, nothing. . . . Enid, you have been very good to 
 me . . . much better than 1 deserve, and I am — well, 
 I don't quite know what words would exactly describe 
 me. But I thank you, Enid. I thank you — from the 
 bottom of my heart. , . . 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 My poor boy — forgive me ; but I think you are a bit 
 of a fool 1 
 
332 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act II HAWSTORNE 
 
 I'm afraid that's not the only word ! [Laughs bitterly,'] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 For once, let my worldly instinct help you. Do you 
 think that you have any right to make an absolute ship- 
 wreck of your life ? You have come very near it, Ralph, 
 but that's no reason why you should drive your ship straight 
 on the rocks. Do you mean to tell me that you are the 
 sort of man to marry the daughter of your old nurse ? 
 Do you think you could make her happy ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I don't know, but I would try. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You would try — for how long ? A year, six months, 
 a single month ? Don't you know — in your heart of 
 hearts — that both you and she would be perfectly 
 miserable ? Look at your ring. You have still got the 
 stone which means knowledge, and I presume that that 
 includes a certain knowledge of the world. . . . Besides 
 — I am almost ashamed to urge the point — but — don't 
 you think that you owe me something ? However, I 
 won't say anything further. Think it over. [She is 
 going to the door.] I must finish my dressing. . . . 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Enid — stop ! Don't go yet. Give me one moment 
 more. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Jt the door.] Is there anything still left to discuss ? 
 You see, I am in rather a difficult position. I really 
 ought to blush for what I have done already. Think 
 for a moment. It is not usually considered quite comme 
 il faut for a woman to propose marriage to a man. 
 I have asked you to marry me. It is thought outrageous 
 for a man to accept money from a woman ; I have 
 asked you to accept money from me. Both of these 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 333 
 
 social enormities I have committed — why ? Because we Act II 
 have been old friends and old lovers, and I thought I 
 might dare to overstep those unwritten social laws 
 which are so much more obligatory than the ordinary 
 provisions of the Decalogue. Well, what is the position 
 now? You refuse both my offers, and you tell me that 
 you are bound to marry another woman — the daughter of 
 your nurse. What is there left for me to do — but to 
 retire with as much grace as is possible to a woman so 
 scorned ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Scorned ? Oh, Enid, no ! Admired, respected, wor- 
 shipped with the gratitude of a full heart. ... 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 But not — loved ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I know you are my best friend — my only friend — my 
 only wise friend, kind, affectionate adviser and helper. I 
 owe you everything — everything ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 But not — love ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, yes ; love too ! Come back to me. I am so 
 hopeless, so solitary, so absolutely alone. Come back to 
 me. I want you. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You want me ? And if I come back, in what relation 
 do I come ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Anything you wish — anything. Whatever I could do 
 for you would be as nothing compared with what you 
 have done for me. Come back to me ! \He goes half- 
 way to the door where she is standing.^ Be my wife ! 
 
334 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ^^^ II LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Coming to him and holding out her hands."] My darling ! 
 \They kiss.] 
 
 [There is a pause. Then the door to the drawing- 
 room slowly opens. Lady Rolleston 
 swiftly leaves the hall. Ralph goes to the 
 table. Ray Luneville comes in in evening 
 dress^ a " hope I dont intrude " sort of air. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Hullo, Hawstorne, alone ? I thought I heard voices, 
 
 hawstorne 
 As you see. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 I say, aren't you dressed yet ? It's just dinner-time. 
 I have been dressed the last half-hour, singing in 
 the drawing-room. By the w^ay, I hope I did not 
 disturb you by my singing. I didn't know^ any one w^as 
 in the hall. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Were you singing ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Warbling, my boy, w^arbling ! A little playful way I 
 have ! They don't always appreciate me after dinner. 
 The big bulls of Bashan roar after dinner, and the linnet 
 has no chance. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, hop away, linnet ! I want to write a post-card. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 All right. See you at dinner. [He goes to door^ half 
 goes out^ then puts his head in.] Perrier Jouet 89 to-night ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Alone. Gets up^ strolls to fireplace. Takes a cigarette^ 
 lights ity puffs a few times^ then throws it away.] It was 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 335 
 
 the only thing to do, the only thing to do! Between Act II 
 the devil and the deep sea ! \Goes to window^ gazes 
 gloomily out, with his hands in his pockets.^ But how in 
 God's name am I to tell Gracie ? Poor child, poor child ! 
 [The dinner-gong sounds loudly. Ralph starts.'] Confound 
 it ! What a noise everything makes in this house 1 I 
 suppose it's these cursed nerves of mine. \^He throws 
 himself into a chair and stares in front of him.] I don't 
 see what else I could have done. [Then his head sinks 
 
 on the table.] Oh, d n ! D n everything ! [He 
 
 rolls up his sleeve, takes a cigarette-case out of his pocket, 
 and extracting a tube of cocaine and a syringe^ proceeds to 
 inject cocaine into his arm as the curtain falls.] 
 
ACT III 
 
 Act III The Scene is the same. The door at L. leads from the dtning- 
 room^ that at R. leads to drawing-room^ and there is 
 a door at c. which leads to the billiard-room and smoking- 
 room proper. The ladies^ who are discovered when the 
 curtain ascends^ have come in from dinner. There is 
 Lady Rolleston, who is seated at escritoire^ Miss 
 Angela Crompton at piano^ Mrs. Hargreaves 
 talking to {or trying to talk to) Lady Daneborough. 
 
 lady rolleston 
 
 \^Goes over and rings bell^ and then continues writing till 
 the footman enters. Enter Harvey.] Has Dr. Raleigh 
 come yet ? 
 
 HARVEY 
 
 No, my Lady. 
 
 lady rolleston 
 When was the telegram sent to him ? 
 
 HARVEY 
 
 About eight o'clock, my Lady. 
 
 LADY rolleston 
 Be sure you tell me the moment he arrives. Oh, and, 
 Harvey, here's a letter for the post. 
 
 HARVEY 
 [Takes letter.'] Yes, my Lady. [Exit. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Turns round from escritoire.] Miss Crompton, do you 
 mind not humming ? I am very sorry to bother you, but 
 " Love laid his sleepless head " gets on my nerves. 
 
 336 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 337 
 
 MISS CROMPTON Act III 
 
 I'm sorry, dear Lady Rolleston. You see, Mr. Lune- 
 ville is very fond of it. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Smiling.] Well, I don't wish to have a sleepless head, 
 whatever Mr. Luneville's ambitions may be on the 
 subject. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 Oh, he assures me that he sleeps very little. The 
 brain, he tells me, is rested in about an hour, whereas the 
 body takes seven or eight hours to recover, and as he only 
 exercises his brain, you see, he needn't sleep much. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Dear me ! I should have thought that, as he neither 
 exercises his body nor his brain, he needn't sleep at all ! 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 [Reproachfully.] You used to like Mr. Luneville 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 I like him very much now, my child, only sometimes 
 he is too — what shall I say ? — ethereal — like a dinner 
 consisting solely of hors d^ceuvres and entrees. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 Ah ! his talk is as light as thistledown. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Naturally. I should think his food was thistles. . . . 
 Forgive me. Miss Crompton. I am out of temper 
 to-night. I have got a sad headache. 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 [Looking up.] I am so sorry. Lady Rolleston. I thought 
 you looked far from well at dinner. 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 Eh ? What ? I thought the dinner very good — particu- 
 
 z 
 
338 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III larly that dish with all the truffles and what-d'ye-call-'ems 
 in it. What's its name ? Nothing wrong with the 
 dinner. 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 I didn't say anything was wrong with the dinner. I 
 thought something was wrong with Lady Rolleston. 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 Enid ? I suppose she was bothering about Ralph 
 Hawstorne. She has got him on the brain. 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 I thought he was particularly pleasant to-night. 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 Oh, he was positively brilliant ! How clever he is ! 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 Yes, he was even pleasant to me — a luxury in which he 
 has seldom indulged lately. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Irritably.'\ Oh, go to sleep, mother, until it's time for 
 your Bridge. 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 My dear, you need not fly down my throat because I 
 pass a criticism on Major Hawstorne, I told you this 
 afternoon that he was out of sorts. To-night he seems 
 better. That's all. ... I thought he drank too much, 
 by the bye, and ate too little. 
 
 [Lady R. turns away to the escritoire. Mrs. 
 Hargreaves crosses over to her.'\ 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 Dear Lady Rolleston, I know you are worried about 
 Major Hawstorne. My husband told me, while we were 
 dressing for dinner, that Mr. Daneborough had asked him 
 to keep an eye on him, and help him if he could. I am 
 sure he will do his best. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 339 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON Act III 
 
 Guy asked Mr. Hargreaves to — oh, good Heavens ! 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 Yes. If he only has an opportunity, I feel certain that 
 he will do him good. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Pithily.] I wish I could feel as certain. However, it 
 doesn't matter. Miss Crompton, you sat next to Major 
 Hawstorne. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 Yes, and he said such clever things ! Poor Mr. Lune- 
 ville, on the other side of me, was quite outshone, and 
 really looked quite sad. I remember that Major Haw- 
 storne recommended him to have some more champagne. 
 And he seemed so excited and his eyes sparkled so ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [S/ow/y.] Yes, he seemed excited, [y^brupt/y.] Did 
 he eat much ? 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 No, very little indeed. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ah 1 Did his hand shake, do you remember ? He 
 broke a wine-glass, I think. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 Yes. He said it was for luck. What a strange ring 
 that is which he wears ! There are two stones lost out 
 of it, and he says that they cannot be replaced. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Yes . . . yes ... he values that ring — quite absurdly. 
 Ah, here is Mr. Luneville, at all events, as a sort of 
 advance guard. [Enter Ray Luneville.] Tired of 
 men's society, Mr. Luneville ? 
 
340 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Longing for ladies' society — that is how I should put it. 
 What a barbarous custom it is to banish the ladies just 
 when the dull business of eating is over and talk begins to 
 run free. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Perhaps it is the freedom of the talk which makes the 
 ladies depart. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Ah, I observe you make the common confusion between 
 freedom and license. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 What is the precise distinction, Mr. Luneville ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Well, you see, if I say a risque thing, that is only 
 freedom, but if another man says a similar witticism, I call 
 it license. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Freedom, in fact, is what you claim for yourself; 
 license is the quality you impute to other people — admir- 
 able ! Well, that exactly explains why we ladies leave 
 the table after dinner. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 And also why I come here. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 Oh, Mr. Luneville, do you want to see what license 
 we ladies allow ourselves ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Heaven forbid ! my dear young lady. I am afraid I 
 could never understand the stories ladies tell each other 
 after dinner. Their interest is too esoteric. 
 
 Miss CROMPTON 
 
 Esoteric — oh, what a lovely word ! What does it 
 mean ? 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 341 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES Act III 
 
 The unmentionable ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 The piquantly peculiar ? 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 The too awfully awful ! 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 The idiotic !• 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Something of all these — especially the last, Lady Dane- 
 borough \with a how to her]. The esoteric is a fusion 
 of subtlety and inwardness, the abstruse, for which we 
 require some initiation 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Like your jokes ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Precisely — or like a lady's costume. Mystery, you see, 
 is the salt of life. I put it into my talk. You put it 
 into your dress. In either case, the result is fascinating. 
 
 Miss CROMPTON 
 
 How clever ! 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 
 [Grumblingly,'] What rubbish ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 And did other people's license interfere with your free- 
 dom in the other room ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Most grievously, I regret to say. There was no free 
 exchange. The Cobdenite conversationalist had no 
 chance. Talk was conducted on the principle of Protec- 
 tive tariffs — let me get the highest price for my commodity 
 and put a tax on yours. 
 
342 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 So the conscientious free-trader was out of it ? Who 
 monopolized the conversation ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Well, do you know, Major Hawstorne, I think, was 
 the chief offender. He was most selfish 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 Don't you like Major Hawstorne ? 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Oh, charming ! Sometimes a little obtrusive, perhaps. 
 He talks of philosophy, which he does not understand, 
 and of morality, which he does not practise, and of 
 manners, to which he can lay no claim. Within these 
 limits he is quite a good fellow. 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 
 What a curious testimonial ! I am afraid you are 
 jealous of Major Hawstorne ! 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 \Tq Miss Crompton.] Jealousy suggests such an ugly 
 shade of green. My favourite colour \looking at Miss 
 Crompton's dressi is rose-pink. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Well, here come the gentlemen, and here is Major 
 Hawstorne to answer for himself. 
 
 \Enter Major Hawstorne, Guy Daneborough, Lord 
 Vivian Rodney, Robert Tidman, Charles Har- 
 GREAVEs. Hawstorne has an excited manner^ and is 
 somewhat flushed. 
 
 hawstorne 
 What have I got to answer for ? Somebody been 
 attacking me ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Only Mr. Luneville has been suggesting some limita- 
 tions to your acquaintance with philosophy and ethics. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 343 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 What, Luneville ? Ha, ha ! I know his favourite 
 
 formula with his friends — "D d scoundrel — great 
 
 friend of mine — that's how he treats his nearest and 
 dearest ! Dangerous sort of chap, Luneville. 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 Dear me, what a compliment ! To be dangerous is to 
 be important. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Yes — important to avoid. But cheer up, Luneville ; 
 your books are specified as harmless — didn't you tell me 
 so, Mr. Hargreaves ? 
 
 HARGREAVES 
 [Looking shocked.] I — oh, no ! I — ah — I never read 
 erotic poetry. I was, I believe, telling you how rarely I 
 came across a modern novel which was harmless. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Or a modern woman either, eh ? [Laughs rather noisily,'] 
 Women are the devil — I beg pardon, present company, of 
 course, excepted ! 
 
 GUY 
 
 Come, Bridge, Bridge ! What are you all wastin' 
 time for ? Here's my old mother dyin' for a game I 
 Bridge ! Bridge ! [He fusses about noisily. Lady 
 Dane BOROUGH has already taken her seat at one of the 
 two tables.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Yes, it's quite time some of us settled down — quietly. 
 [Looking at Hawstorne.] 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE 
 
 The lilies and languors of cards are better than the 
 roses and raptures of talk, aren't they ? 
 
 Act in 
 
344 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III H AWSTO R N E 
 
 Especially to those who don't know how to talk. 
 Cards are like a band at dinner. Intended to conceal the 
 poverty of conversation ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Come and sit here by me, Ralph. There are quite 
 enough to play. 
 
 [At one table are Lady Daneborough, Mr. 
 Charles Hargreaves, Miss Crompton, 
 Ray Luneville. At the second are Mrs. 
 Hargreaves, Lord Vivian Rodney, Mr. 
 TiDMAN, and Guy Daneborough. Haw- 
 STORNE and Lady Rolleston come down R. 
 
 RODNEY 
 
 Doesn't Major Hawstorne care to play — eh ? 
 
 MR. TIDMAN 
 
 He probably prefers to talk to our hostess. 
 
 RODNEY 
 Burnt his bridges, in fact — eh, what ? 
 
 TIDMAN 
 Oh, my Lord ! [Laughs consumed/y.] 
 
 GUY 
 
 Can't think what people have to talk about all night. 
 Talkin' bores me to death. [They play, 
 
 LADY rolleston 
 
 Ralph, you are better, are you not ? 
 
 hawstorne 
 [IVho has alternations of excitement and sulkiness.] Better ? 
 Of course I'm better. Never felt so fit in my life. 
 
 lady rolleston 
 You frightened me rather at dinner — you seemed to be 
 so excited ! 
 
 hawstorne 
 Was I ? Well, I'm flat enough now. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 345 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON Act III 
 
 But oh, Ralph — how am I to help you, when you — 
 you take so much champagne ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Oh, don't mind me. I know how to manage myself 
 pretty well. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Yes, but you talked so much and so loud. You were 
 talking to the whole table, do you know ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 \Laughs,'\ I can't help it. If they are so silent, some 
 one must do the talking unless we are all to be a set of 
 mummies. Yes, I suppose I did talk — did you hear me sit 
 on Vivian Rodney ? I can't stand that chap — insufferable 
 young prig ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Was that when you broke a wine-glass ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Did I break a wine-glass ? I dare say. Somehow the 
 whole dinner passed like a dream — or a nightmare. I 
 pinched myself sometimes to see if I was awake. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Looking anxious.'] You know I telegraphed to Dr. 
 Raleigh ? He ought to be here soon. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 What the devil did you do that for ? I am all right. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You remember, I told you I was going to — before 
 dinner. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I don't remember anything of the kind. Confound it, 
 Enid, you might leave me alone. I can look after myself. 
 I don't want to see Raleigh. And I think it's not fair on 
 
346 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III me to send for him behind my back. You've got no 
 right to do anything of the kind. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Oh, Ralph, no right ? Not when you have asked me 
 to be your wife ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Oh yes ; I had forgotten that ! [With a hollow laugh.'] 
 By the bye, have you told any of these people — your 
 brother and mother ? I Suppose they ought to be told. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 No, I haven't said anything yet. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Well, it seems to me such glorious news ought to be 
 spread as widely as possible. Look here, I'll tell them. 
 [He rises.~\ 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 No, no, Ralph — not now. Besides, they are deep in 
 their game. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, now and here. Why not ? Confound their 
 Bridge. [Getting excited suddenly.'] Of course,! knew there 
 was something I had to tell them. I could not think 
 what the grand secret was all through dinner-time. Of 
 course, our engagement — I'll tell them at once. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 No, no. [She stops him.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Yes, yes, I tell you. Don't stop me. It is much too 
 splendid a thing to be kept secret any longer. Ha, ha ! 
 [ The laugh is bitter and hollow.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Oh, Ralph, don't be so wild, and don't laugh like that. 
 [She sinks in a corner helplessly.] 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 347 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Why not ? It is a real comedy. Some people might 
 even call it a tragic farce ! Ha, ha ! Look here, my 
 excellent and worthy friends. \He goes up U one of the tables.'] 
 I have got something much more interesting for you than 
 your stupid Bridge. [They look up surprised.] Here,Tiddle- 
 a-winks, my Lord Tom Noddy, or whatever you call 
 yourself [at the other table]. Miss Angela Crumpet, and 
 my dear friend and adviser Graveyard — forgive my 
 apparent excitement — but you will understand when you 
 hear my'news ! Confound the cards ! [He seizes Tidman's 
 hand of cards.] You couldn't have won with that hand 
 in a month of Sundays ! Much better listen to me ! 
 [He throws the cards down.] 
 
 TIDMAN 
 
 Really, Major Hawstorne ! 
 
 [They laugh at first, then get serious.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, really, Tiddle-a-winks ! Forgive me — I can't 
 remember your admirable name, but I think it has some- 
 thing to do with sea-salt ! Well — you would never have 
 guessed it — I am going to be married ! Why don't you 
 congratulate me — all of you ? Miss Crumpet, I really 
 think you might pay me the conventional compliments. 
 
 GUY 
 Hawstorne, I must ask you [Getting up.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Ask away, old chap. I'll tell you anything you want 
 to know. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I see you looking 
 rather surprised, and I hasten to relieve your embar- 
 rassment. I apologize for any chance inadvertence in my 
 phrases, or any inconvenience I may have caused you 
 by my abruptness. If I was a poet, like Loony Rayville 
 there, I could put the thing much more prettily. But you 
 know there are some situations in which a man is allowed 
 
 Act III 
 
348 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III a certain amount of rope — one is when he is going to be 
 hanged, and another is when he is going to be married ! 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 Going to be mad ! He's mad already ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Married, dear lady, not mad. You mistake the effect 
 for the cause. At present we're only in the initial stage. 
 But when a man is to be hanged or married, he desires to 
 make a sort of confession, or rhapsody, or swan-song — to 
 improve the occasion, in short ! Do not look alarmed, 
 Mr. Hargreaves ; I am not going to poach, more than I 
 can help, on your preserves. 
 
 MRS. HARGREAVES 
 
 Dear me ! Dear me ! Can nothing be done to put a 
 stop to this ? 
 
 GUY 
 
 Hawstorne, once more, stop this foolin'. We've had 
 enough. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 One moment, please. I ask for your patience. A 
 charming lady has consented to be my wife — at my 
 particular request. If marriages are made in Paradise, I 
 suppose engagements are at least worthy of Purgatory. 
 And observe the complete appropriateness of the affair. 
 For, clearly, the mere bachelor, the obstinate, pre- 
 destined bachelor, is admirably fitted for the Inferno — 
 what do you think, old Tom Tiddler's ground ? [He 
 slaps TiDMAN on the back, and laughs.'] The Adam in this 
 restored Eden is your humble servant. The Eve — well, 
 never mind the Eve for the present. Adam is a middle- 
 aged bankrupt — but still she takes compassion on him. 
 Adam is a man who has been known to drink too much — 
 but still she takes compassion on him. Adam has wasted his 
 youth and tarnished his manhood — but still she does not 
 turn her face away. Adam is not likely, for causes already 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 349 
 
 mentioned, to have a long life — but still she accepts what Act III 
 is left of him. You will observe that Eve undertakes 
 somewhat grave responsibilities. I can't think why she 
 assumes such a burden, can you ? 
 
 LADY DANEBOROUGH 
 I don't know why we should have to listen to the 
 ravings of a lunatic ! Guy, pray ring the bell for my 
 maid. 
 
 [Guy goes to bell Hawstorne anticipates him.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Allow me, my dear Lady. You are quite right to retire. 
 Such discussions are not suited to your virgin ears. 
 [Servant enters.] Lady Daneborough wants her maid 
 and her perambulator, if you please. [Mrs. Hargreaves 
 goes up to Lady Daneborough, offers her an arm^ and 
 exeunt together?^ That's all right. My discourse has 
 the effect of dispersing the congregation almost faster 
 than one of your sermons, honourable and reverend Mr. 
 Harrowgrave ! And now that all ladies and children 
 have left the court at the command of the presiding judge, 
 we will resume this distressing case. Let me see — where 
 was I ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Ralph — for Heaven's sake ! . . . \^he half rises.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Never mind. Eve dear ; we will come to you presently. 
 Marriage is a mystery, a holy covenant, a sacrament — 
 isn't it ? Don't shake your head. Loony rhyme-spinner ! 
 You can't find a good rhyme to " covenant," can you ? 
 or " sacrament " either ? Never mind. You ask the 
 parson if I am not right ! Well, for what reasons do we 
 enter the holy estate of matrimony ? Social convenience ? 
 Expediency ? A family arrangement ? Statecraft ? 
 Maternal diplomacy ? Passion ? Money ? Excellent 
 reasons for tying the matrimonial noose, aren't they ? 
 particularly the last ? My dear Miss Crumpet, don't 
 
350 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III blush ! Ask your amorous poet there. He will give you 
 admirable rhymes for love, but he will take devilish good 
 care to find something more practical and substantial 
 in his own interest ! Ha, ha ! But these are not the 
 only causes for wedlock ! I will give you another. Ne- 
 cessity ! My dear friends — because you must ! Because 
 you can't help yourself ! Adam has made an infernal 
 fool of himself all his life, and then, when he has played 
 his last stake, and sees ruin, moral, social, bodily, mental 
 ruin staring him in the face, when he is good for nothing, 
 and neither Heaven, nor Earth, nor Hell, offers him the 
 ghost of a chance, or the glimmer of a fading hope — he 
 marries ! When in doubt, play trumps, you know ! 
 When you have spent your bottom dollar, and in the 
 ranks of humanity have reached the class known as 
 Z 99 — you must either take orders — beg pardon, rector 
 — or get married — either lump it or leave it, ha, ha ! 
 Matrimony is the solace of a broken heart — like religion ; 
 the last refuge for the ruined — like the bankruptcy court ! 
 Then come the statelier bridals, of which the poet dreams. 
 Then comes the gracious Eve, who takes Adam for better 
 or worse — the worse, for choice. Then dawns the light 
 of a newer Eden — ha, ha, ha, ha ! \_He sinks down 
 suddenly^ in a quick and strange reaction.'] Oh, God ! how 
 tired I am ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Rising and going over to him.] Guy, for Heaven's 
 sake, take him away. Ring, and let's get him, to bed. I 
 have sent for his doctor. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Goodness knows what we're to do with him ! Here, 
 Luneville, take Miss Crompton away. She's frightened 
 out of her wits! 
 
 MISS CROMPTON 
 Oh, Mr. Luneville, yes — let us go into the drawing- 
 room. Anywhere — anywhere, out of this. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 351 
 
 RAY LUNEVILLE Act III 
 
 Dear Miss Angela — Angela — I will look after you. 
 Come with me. [Ray Luneville and Miss Angela go 
 out into drawing-room^ 
 
 GUY 
 
 Here, you fellows \to Hargreaves, Tidman, and 
 Rodney], help me. We must get him away. 
 
 tidman 
 \Officiously?[ Shall I ring ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 No — no. I don't want the servants to see him like 
 this. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Rousing himself.'] Go to bed ! Who said go to bed ? 
 Nonsense ! I am not tired. Let's play a round game or 
 something. Look here, Rodney, I will back myself 
 against you in anything you like — cards, billiards, running, 
 jumping, fighting. Five pounds each event. . . . Don't 
 be a cur — come on ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [Whispering.'] Oh, do humour him. Take him to 
 the billiard-room. I cannot bear any more. . . . 
 
 GUY 
 
 Come into the billiard-room, Hawstorne. It is cooler 
 there. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 All right. I want a whisky-and-potash and a smoke. 
 [Tidman opens the door c. Hawstorne goes 
 out^ digging Tidman in the ribs as he passes. 
 The others follow^ and the door is closed. 
 Lady Rolleston is left alone. She totters 
 to the bcll^ and then sinks down on chair r., 
 sobbing and almost fainting. Jarvis enters.] 
 
352 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III JARVIS 
 
 If you please, my Lady, Dr. Raleigh has just driven 
 up to the door. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Thank God ! 
 
 JARVIS 
 Shall I show him in ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Yes — no. Give me something to drink first . . . and, 
 Jarvis, just arrange the room a little. 
 
 [The other servant^ Harvey, comes in. Jar vis 
 goes out^ while Harvey arranges the room^ 
 picking up a chair that had fallen^ and the 
 cards^ which are strewn on the floor. Jarvis 
 re-enters with brandy-and-soda^ which he gives 
 to Lady Rolleston. After a pause. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Now, show Dr. Raleigh in, please. [Jarvis exit with 
 Harvey. Lady Rolleston goes to looking-glass^ then sits 
 at escritoire^ pretending to write.'] 
 
 Enter Jarvis, ushering in Dr. Raleigh. 
 
 JARVIS 
 
 Dr. Raleigh, my Lady. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 I am sorry to be so late. Lady Rolleston, but I was 
 out when your telegram came. I gather that there is 
 something urgent 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Oh, thank Heaven you have come. Dr. Raleigh ! 
 Yes, indeed ; I wanted you very badly, or I should not 
 have given you all this trouble. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 What is it ? In the first place I think I ought to 
 attend to you. You look very far from well. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 353 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Never mind about me. Of course, I sent for you 
 about Major Hawstorne. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Ah, so I feared. What has happened ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 The most dreadful things. He seems to have utterly 
 lost all control over himself, and just now we had a 
 terrible outbreak. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 You see, he was not fit to pay you a visit at all. I 
 was only too afraid of what might occur that afternoon 
 when I saw you at Mrs. Mayhew's cottage ; but both 
 you and he seemed 50 eager that the visit should take 
 place that I allowed myself to be over-persuaded. I was 
 wrong, evidently. You know what he is suffering 
 from ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Yes, we are old friends, you know, since his time in 
 India, and he showed me the letter you wrote to him. 
 You alluded to cocaine 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 He has been poisoning himself for months with the 
 wretched stuff. I kept him under strict control while he 
 was at Wootton-le-Hay. But even then he sometimes 
 broke my orders. It seems that he got into the habit in 
 England, after some repetition of the ague-fits which he 
 contracted in India. I suppose he was not very strong in 
 India ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes and no. He had lots of spirit, and was ready for 
 anything ; but he had fever very badly, and was much 
 pulled down. Then he was invalided home. 
 
 A A 
 
 Act III 
 
Act III 
 
 354 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 He told me that he was very liable to influenza 
 attacks. At all events, some one told him that cocaine 
 was good for the nerves — you know what great depression 
 is caused by influenza — and he got into the habit of 
 using it. Of course, the thing grew upon him ; these 
 habits invariably end by making the man or the woman 
 who indulges in them an abject, miserable slave. I don't 
 know whether you know the effects ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 I know something about morphia and the morphino- 
 maniacs. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Well, it's much the same — in many respects actually 
 worse. The victim, of course, requires more and more 
 to produce the desired result. It is highly stimulating, 
 and the reactions are dreadful. Sometimes the patient is 
 in the wildest spirits, and afterwards he is in the lowest 
 depths of despair. His temper is uncertain, his face 
 changes in colour, he suffers from sleeplessness and loss 
 of appetite, the hands tremble. But the moral effects 
 are still more lamentable. All self-control is lost, and 
 gradually every kind of distinction between right and 
 wrong vanishes. Above all, the instinct for truthfulness 
 disappears ; falsehood and deception become natural ; and 
 in the last and worst stages the victim is a hopeless liar. 
 \Loud laughter from adjoining room.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Don't — please, don't say any more ! [Shuddering.'] 
 It's too horrible ! 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Of course, Major Hawstorne is not so bad as that — 
 yet. But he has acquired, I am soiry to say, the irresist- 
 ible craving for the temporary feeling of happiness and 
 well-being which cocaine, like all similar drugs — hashish 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 355 
 
 and opium, for instance — produces. And at times he Act III 
 would almost sell his soul to get peace for his throbbing 
 nerves. By the way, where is he ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 In the next room, the billiard-room. 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Ah, I thought I heard his laugh just now. It is not 
 pleasant to hear — it's almost a maniac's laugh. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes, yes. But what is to be done ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 I must take him away, as soon as possible, and nurse 
 him. Foreseeing what might happen, I have brought a 
 nurse with me — a nurse whom he knows. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Can I not nurse him here ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 No, Lady Rolleston. There I am afraid I must be 
 firm. I must take him away with me. Did you say he 
 had had an outburst lately ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 A dreadful outburst — this evening — just now. He 
 has been in a queer state all the afternoon, and when he 
 came back from shooting he complained that he was out 
 of sorts, and could not hit anything. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Has he had any mental shock — something, I mean 
 to worry him ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes, he had a letter, I think, which upset him. It 
 came with j^ours by the evening post. 
 
356 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 ■Act III RALEIGH 
 
 Ah — he probably took cocaine before dinner to steady 
 his nerves. Feeling anxious and worried, he would be 
 almost sure to fly to the cursed drug. How and when 
 can I see him ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Shall I go into the billiard-room and ask him to come 
 here ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 No ; he would probably refuse, and lose his temper. 
 I must wait till he comes out of his own accord. He is 
 sure to have the usual reaction, and then he will get 
 moody and tired — at all events, he will be relatively quiet 
 and reasonable. ... I must see him alone. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 And you are sure that he cannot be nursed here ? 
 Surely it's better to get him to bed here ? for to-night ? 
 I would do everything you told me to, and take every 
 care of him. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 \Firmly?^ No, Lady Rolleston. Forgive me ; I must 
 insist. I am afraid [hesitating] that you may be — pardon 
 me once more — that you may be rather an exciting 
 agency for him in his present condition. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Oh, why ? I am very fond of him. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Pray do not say anything further on the point. If you 
 are fond of him, if you care for him at all, you will do 
 what you can to help him in this crisis. And by far the 
 best thing for him is to let me take him away from this 
 house, and — I regret to have to say it — from you. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 357 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Of course, if you say it is necessary, I must give way. 
 Oh, here is some one from the billiard-room. 
 
 Enter from billiard-room Guy Daneborough, almost purple 
 in the face. 
 
 GUY 
 Look here, Sissie, I can't stand this any more 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Guy, this is Dr. Raleigh. [Dr. Raleigh hows, 
 
 GUY 
 
 Raleigh, I'm devilish glad to see you. I'm a pretty 
 patient man, very long-sufFerin', and all that, but the 
 way Hawstorne has been going on is more than I can 
 stand. . . . Enid would have him here — I can't make 
 out why — I'm sure I didn't want him, and now Fm 
 
 d d if I know what we are to do with him. Get 
 
 him away, Raleigh, for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 I am here for that purpose. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 What has happened ? I thought he was quieter, 
 
 GUY 
 He was fairly quiet at first, and played pyramids all 
 right. Then he got excited again. He has cut my 
 cloth, of course. I don't mind that so much, although 
 the billiard-table is spoilt, and equally, of course, he has 
 spilt his drink all over the place. But he is so infernally 
 quarrelsome. He deliberately picked a quarrel with young 
 Vivian Rodney — I suppose he doesn't like him. Anyhow, 
 he wanted to fight a duel, -or somethin' ! . . . Oh, I 
 can't remember now what excited him. He had lost a 
 cigarette-case, on which he set great store, and he made 
 
 Act HI 
 
358 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III a devil of a row about it. . . . And then he jabbered a 
 lot about that ring of his. I couldn't make head or tail 
 of what he said — some rubbish about an Indian priest or 
 somethin'. He is mad — that's what he is — rank, roarin' 
 mad, and the sooner he is put into a lunatic asylum, the 
 better for us all. [Enter from billiard-room Lord Vivian 
 Rodney, Tidman, and Hargreaves.] Hullo, you chaps, 
 where have you left the maniac ? 
 
 RODNEY 
 He is quiet now. He has shaken hands with me, and 
 told me he was sorry. He's a rum lot — eh, what ? 
 
 TIDMAN 
 He was very insolent to you, my Lord. 
 
 RODNEY 
 
 So he was to you, Tidman. 
 
 TIDMAN 
 
 But it's different to me. 
 
 GUY 
 Is it ? Well, I should have thought an insult was an 
 insult all the world over ? Do you say he's quiet now ? 
 
 hargreaves 
 Yes — we left him at his own request. He said he 
 wanted to be alone. 
 
 RODNEY 
 By the way, he wanted to enter into a theological 
 discussion with Mr. Hargreaves. Odd fish, eh, what ? 
 
 hargreaves 
 He is very anxious to find that cigarette-case he was 
 talking about. I think, do you know, he half suspects us 
 of robbing him of it. He told us we were persecuting 
 him. That is probably why he wanted to be left alone — 
 in order to look for the case himself. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 5^9 
 
 GUY Act III 
 
 This is the doctor — Dr. Raleigh. Thank Heaven, our 
 responsibility is over ! 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Gentlemen, I wrill ask you to be good enough to leave 
 me to deal with him. Will you oblige me ? 
 
 GUY 
 
 Oh, certainly, certainly. With the greatest pleasure. 
 Come along. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 \Anxiously^ May I stay w^ith you, doctor ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 No, Lady Rolleston, I think not. 
 
 GUY 
 
 Well, we are very much obliged to you, Raleigh — very 
 grateful, in fact. Ring if you want any thin'. \The 
 gentlemen go out,] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Quite sure, doctor ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Quite sure. [Lady Rolleston goes out reluctantly. 
 
 [As soon as they have gone^ Dr. Raleigh rings 
 the helL After a moment the servant comes, 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Kindly ask the nurse I brought with me to come here, 
 to this room, as soon as possible. Bring her to the door. 
 You need not come in yourself. You understand ? 
 
 SERVANT 
 
 Yes, sir. \Exit, 
 
 [Dr. Raleigh proceeds to turn some of the lights 
 
 outy and leaves one only glimmering. Then 
 
 he throws open the windows^ and lets in a 
 
36o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III flood of moonlight. Then he waits. Presently 
 
 there is a knock at the door^ and a voice 
 without^ " ^hall I come in, doctor ? " {in a 
 whisper^ 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Yes, come in. 
 
 \The figure of a nurse — Grace — comes across the 
 moonlight, 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 Come here, in the shadow. We must wait. 
 
 GRACE 
 \JVhispers^ Where is he ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 IWhispers,^ In there. We must wait. 
 
 [There is a pause and a long silence. Then the 
 door of the billiard-room opens and Haw- 
 STORNE comes in. He looks frightfully haggard 
 in the moonlight, and dishevelled^ with large^ 
 staring eyes — as if he were walking in his 
 sleep. The nurse and doctor keep in the 
 shadow while he comes down. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 I must find it, I must find it. Where the devil can I 
 have dropped it ? All dark here. Confound it, where 
 are the matches ? \H.e goes to table and feels for match- 
 box, and then in his own pockets,'] I must have that — that 
 cigarette. I shall die if I can't have . . . [He speaks 
 dreamily. Then, after some search, he drops into a chair.] 
 I am so tired. I think I am dying. Death would be the 
 best thing of all for me. Oh, I hope I am dying. What 
 else remains ? [He puts his hands over his face, then drops 
 his hands 6n his knees. His fingers are clearly seen in the 
 moonlight. He looks down at his hands. Then suddenly his 
 eye is caught by his ring on his finger, and he stares at it — 
 incredulously at first, and then with growing alarm,] Good 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 361 
 
 God ! the ring ! the ring ! It has gone — the last stone Act III 
 
 has gone ! To desire — to possess — to know — all have 
 
 gone ! Is this the end ? \^He takes the ring off his finger^ 
 
 as though to fling it out of window. Then pauses^ No, no ; 
 
 I cannot throw it away ! It is all I have ! Oh, help, 
 
 help, help ! \^He screams at last in sheer terror^ then falls 
 
 on the floor ^ fainting. Dr. Raleigh turns up one light^ and 
 
 comes over to him.'] 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 He has fainted. \To Grace.] Is there any water in the 
 room ? 
 
 grace 
 Here is a half-finished glass of something — brandy-and- 
 soda, I think. [She brings over the glass which Lady 
 RoLLESTON had begun when Dr. Raleigh was announced,^ 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 That will do. [^He holds the glass to Hawstorne's lips^ 
 while he and the Nurse support his head.] That's better. 
 He is coming to. [Hawstorne slowly opens his eyes.] 
 
 hawstorne 
 
 [Faintly.] Where am I ? Who are you ? What do 
 you want ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 We are your best friends, Hawstorne. 
 
 hawstorne 
 [Whose eyes are fixed dn Grace.] Who are you ? Let me 
 see your face. Who is it ! 
 
 grace 
 It is I — Grace ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Grace — and you ? [Turning to Raleigh.] Raleigh ? 
 
362 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act III RALEIGH 
 
 Yes. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Grace, and Tom Raleigh ! Oh, thank God, thank 
 God! 
 
 \He sinks back^ happy^ into their arms.'] 
 
 Curtain, 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Four weeks have elapsed. The Scene is the same as Act I. Act IV 
 Mrs. Mayhew's cottage at Wootion-le-Hay, Wharve- 
 dale. Bright October sunshine ; open window c. Mrs. 
 Mayhew and Grace, dressed as a professional nurse^ 
 are dusting the room^ putting things in order ^ etc. The 
 little crippled hoy of Act I. is helping as best he can^ 
 hobbling about ^ and looking from time to time out of the 
 window c] 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 \Watching him.] What is it, Tommy ? You seem 
 quite excited this morning. 
 
 TOMMY 
 l^^ho speaks in odd^ jerky monosyllables.] Major — come — 
 soon ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Yes, Dr. Raleigh has allowed him to come down for 
 the first time this morning. 
 
 TOMMY 
 
 Major — better ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Yes, Tommy, much better, the doctor says. 
 
 TOMMY 
 
 Me — see — Major ? [Mrs. Mayhew turns to Grace.] 
 
 GRACE 
 Yes, if you are very good and quiet. Poor Major 
 Hawstorne is not strong, you know. He is ever so pale 
 and weak, and we must take lots of care of him. 
 
 363 
 
364 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV TOMMY 
 
 Me — take — care — him. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 You dear child ! \Kisses him.] Yes, you shall help 
 me to take care of him. Where are you going ? 
 
 TOMMY 
 Tell — children — village. [He limps out of open window^ 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 [Looking after him with a smile.] Oh, he has got some 
 little scheme, I think, on his mind. He is going to tell 
 some of the little children in the village about Master 
 Ralph. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 He is a dear little boy, and nothing can exceed his 
 gratitude and devotion to Major Haw^storne. You 
 remember his first appearance here ? 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 Yes — Master Ralph brought him in his arms and gave 
 him to me. He had been hurt. 
 
 GRACE 
 Tommy has never forgotten it. Nor yet the ring — do 
 you recollect ? He had it tightly clasped in his hand, and 
 it was ever so difficult to persuade him to give it up. He 
 often asks about the ring now, and wants to see it. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 
 What has become of the ring ? 
 
 GRACE 
 Oh, it's still on Major Hawstorne's finger — that is to 
 say, the frame of the ring. The stones are lost. . . . 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 Ah, the stones are gone, and he set such store by them ! 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 365 
 
 GRACE Act IV 
 
 [Smiling.] He thinks they are all lost. But I picked up 
 one — when — when I went with Dr. Raleigh to — to fetch 
 him home. He does not know yet. Don't tell him. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 Of course not. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 I want to keep it as a surprise for him to-day. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 Poor Master Ralph ! He wants all the pleasure we can 
 give him. Hush, what is that ? Don't I hear his foot- 
 steps outside ? 
 
 GRACE 
 Yes — yes. [She runs excitedly to the door L.] 
 [Enter Hawstorne supported by Dr. Raleigh. He is very 
 much pulled down — very pale and bloodless^ and apparently 
 walks with difficulty, Grace runs up and supports him 
 on the one side. Mrs. Mayhew pulls forward a long 
 easy chair by the window^ and they put Hawstorne 
 into it. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [In a weak voice and with a ghost of a smile.] Aha, 
 Mother Flannels, you see I am getting on famously — thanks 
 to Grace and this dear doctor. I shall soon pull round. 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW 
 [Crying.] Oh, dear, Master Ralph, I wish we could 
 do more for you. But it is a blessed sight to see you 
 downstairs again. . . . Do you feel any draught from the 
 window ? Doctor, is it safe for him to sit by an open 
 window ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Quite safe, Mrs. Mayhew. The air is the best thing in 
 the world for him. 
 
366 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV GRACE 
 
 It is almost as warm as July — a beautiful St. Luke's 
 summer ! 
 
 MRS. MAY HEW 
 Yes — yes — yes — but it's treacherous too. Has he got 
 flannel — thick flannel — round him ? 
 
 RALEIGH 
 He's all right, I can assure you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Dear old Mother Flannels I She thinks the whole 
 world can be cured by Viyella or Jaegers. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 
 She is not far wrong, either. Well — now that you are 
 comfortable I must go my rounds, and then I will call in 
 again. Remember, Nurse, he is not to be here too long. 
 Directly he feels tired he must go back to bed. Good- 
 bye, Mrs. Mayhew. Au revoir, Hawstorne. 
 
 [As he is going out by the window^ Tommy, who 
 is rushing in, runs full tilt against him. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Bless the boy ! What's up now ? Considering that 
 you are a cripple. Tommy, you manage to get over the 
 ground pretty fast. [He pats Tommy on the head and 
 exit.^ 
 
 tommy 
 Major — down — hooray ! 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Yes, Tommy, but you must not tire him. [Tommy 
 draws Grace aside and whispers in her earJ\ All right — 
 yes, now, at once. I will tell Major Hawstorne. 
 
 TOMMY 
 No — no — mum's the word ! [He hobbles out quickly. 
 
 ^ 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 367 
 
 MRS. MAYHEW Act IV 
 
 Bless US and save us ! Wherever is the boy off to 
 now ? [She goes out after him into the garden.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Grace dear. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Yes. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Come near to me, and call me " Ralph." 
 
 GRACE 
 Yes. . . . Ralph. [She goes over to him.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Am I really better ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Yes — the doctor gives a good account of you — and so 
 do I. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Am I going to live — after all ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Of course you are. Only we must take great care of 
 you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Ah, you are all so kind to me, so good and tender and 
 affectionate. But is it worth while keeping a man like 
 me alive ? Is it worth while, I wonder ? . . . 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Hush, hush ! You must not talk like that ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 I feel so utterly worthless and weak, such a wreck — a 
 mere rag of a man. Just look at these hands — they 
 
368 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV almost frighten me ! I don't dare to look at my face in 
 the glass. It must be horrible ! And sometimes an awful 
 craving comes on me, a craving for that — you know what 
 I mean. I think I would sell my soul to have that cigar- 
 ette-case again. I wonder what became of it ? It is 
 cruel to deny me, I only ask for such a little. Surely it 
 cannot be right to break a habit in so abrupt a fashion. 
 You ought to let a man down easily. Come, Grace, is it 
 kind ? 
 
 GRACE 
 Ralph dear, you know what Dr. Raleigh's orders are. 
 He believes in absolute cessation — stopping the thing once 
 and for all — at whatever cost. If you had any more of 
 that dreadful cocaine it would ruin you. You would go 
 back to all the bad ways. . . . 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 But surely some people are broken in gradually, by con- 
 tinually lessening doses. I remember a man in India who 
 was treated that way, and he got all right. . . . 
 
 GRACE 
 It was morphia, probably — not cocaine. No. [Firmly.'] 
 We must do what the doctor tells us, and not complain. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well, it's jolly hard upon a fellow. [Pettishly,'] Oh, 
 it's all very well for you to preach at me, but you don't 
 know what it feels like to have an aching, maddening 
 craving like mine. A little would satisfy me, you know 
 
 mly a very little. 
 
 GRACE 
 Dear, don't let us talk about it. Don't make it so hard 
 for me to refuse. [Tommy runs in again ^ 
 
 TOMMY 
 Major — all right ? 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 369 
 
 GRACE Act IV 
 
 Yes, Tommy. Ralph, Tommy has organized a children's 
 chorus to greet your first appearance downstairs. You 
 don't mind, do you ? It won't bore you ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 \Feehly^ Oh, it is very good of Tommy. Let him 
 do what he likes. Go ahead. Tommy. 
 
 [Tommy goes to window and makes signs. Outside 
 a row of small boys and girls is drawn up. 
 With a large paper-knife in his hand he 
 imitates with perfect gravity the conductor of 
 a hand^ heating time^ and saying " One — two 
 — three. Go I " The children begin wrong. 
 Tommy stops them by beating with his paper- 
 knife on the window-ledge^ waves his arms 
 and tries to pull them together. Then they 
 burst into a chorus^ " See the conquering hero 
 comes^ HAWSTORNE'sy^c^ gradually relaxes 
 into a smile^ as he sees Tommy's excited gestures. 
 
 GRACE 
 That will do, Tommy. We must not tire the Major. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Come here, Tommy. I want you to thank the children 
 for me, and give them these [putting some coins into his 
 hand] for sweetmeats. Tell them that I am very grateful 
 to them for their kindness, which I deeply appreciate, and 
 say how glad I am to see them all again. 
 
 TOMMY 
 [Strutting back to window. Tumbling his words over 
 one another.] Children — Major — very good — kindness to 
 you — 'preciate very much. Hooray! [They cheer ^^ommx 
 turns back again^ bows, and puts himself at the head of the 
 children^ who march off. Grace and Hawstorne laugh 
 happily. 
 
 B B 
 
370 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV HAWSTORNE 
 
 Happy little kids ! I was once like that, Grace, though 
 you may find it difficult to believe — ^just a chubby-cheeked, 
 curly-headed boy. What colour is my hair now ? 
 
 GRACE 
 [Bending over him tenderly.] Rather gray, Ralph. There 
 are a good many white hairs — more white than brown, 
 I'm afraid. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 It was golden once. Fancy a broken-down, good-for- 
 nothing failure like me having golden curly locks once ! 
 I remember my mother cried when they were cut off, and 
 kept them, done up in silver paper, in her jewel-case. 
 She was proud of me — then. 
 
 GRACE 
 May I have one of the golden curls, Ralph ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Yes, dear, if they still survive. They will remind you 
 that Ralph Hawstorne — wastrel, failure and ne'er-do-well 
 — was once an innocent-hearted child ! [He takes her 
 hand.] I am sorry I was pettish and stupid just now — 
 forgive me. You know that though you have always 
 been on the side of the angels, I am not quite fit for 
 Paradise ! 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Not yet, Ralph. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Ah, but you think I shall be ? Well, there's many 
 a bad man who has been dragged into Heaven by a good 
 woman. It won't be your fault, anyway, if I cannot 
 climb the steep path. But seriously, Grace, if I am to 
 remain angelic for five minutes you must get me some- 
 thing to do. 
 
 GRACE 
 Shall I read to you ? 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 371 
 
 HAWSTORNE Act IV 
 
 No, that will be your doing something, not me. Do 
 you think your gracious highness will permit me to smoke ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 I don't think one cigarette will hurt you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 \With a grim smile ^ One cigarette ! Ye gods, have I 
 come to this ! Well, half a smoke is better than no 
 tobacco ! It's better than nothing. But where shall we 
 get this precious cigarette ? I have not got any, and I 
 don't suppose Mother Flannels counts secret smoking 
 among her vices, does she ? Run down into the village 
 and get me some cigarettes, that's a good girl. I think I 
 could even tolerate a packet of Virginian from the post 
 office ! 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Oh, but I don't think I ought to leave you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Nonsense — it won't take you more than a quarter of an 
 hour. And you know I have not got such superabundant 
 activity that I am likely to get into mischief. I shall only 
 sit here, like a log, and count the minutes. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 You will promise not to try to move ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Honest Injun. Be off, Gracie, and come back soon. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 [Reluctantly. 1 Very well. Be a good boy while I am 
 away. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 If goodness means sitting absolutely still, as we were 
 taught in the nursery, I shall be a perfect model of recti- 
 tude. Run away. [Grace goes off quickly L. 
 
372 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV [Hawstorne, left alone ^ takes up a newspaper 
 
 which is lying close to him^ and tries to read. 
 He soon puts it down^ shakes his head despond- 
 ently. Then he whistles softly and gradually^ 
 gets drowsy^ almost falling to sleep. Enter 
 by the window Lady Rolleston, who 
 comes in very softly^ tiptoes over to him and 
 stands watching him for a moment or two.] 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Without opening his eyes.] Grace — is that you ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 No, it is not Grace. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Starting and looking up.] Enid ! Great Heaven — you ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes, it is I, Enid. I think it is about time that I 
 should see you. [He slightly shivers.] Four weeks 
 ago you left my house. Oh, I have tried to see you 
 several times before this, but have always been sternly 
 repulsed. You have such dragons to watch you — Dr. 
 Raleigh, perfectly courteous but obstinately firm, and your 
 friend Grace, who looks at me with the wild eyes of an 
 animal, as if I was going to take away something that 
 belonged to her. Well, I suppose you do belong to her 
 now, don't you ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Rather faintly.] Yes. How did you get here ? 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Not very difficult, my dear Ralph. It is such a lovely 
 October day that you naturally have your windows wide 
 open. So I did not trouble to go round to the front door, 
 but walked in through the garden. I don't quite know 
 how I managed to escape your dragons, though. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 They are out. I sent Grace out myself on a small 
 errand, but she will be back very soon. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 373 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON Act IV 
 
 Meanwhile we have a wholly unexpected opportunity 
 for a little talk. I, at all events, have been wanting such 
 an opportunity for a long time. You, poor fellow, have 
 probably been too ill to wai.t anything but doctors' stuff 
 and nursing \with a tenderer manner\ Are you better, 
 Ralph ? I have been rather miserable about you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 \Who speaks very shortly and for the most part keeps his 
 face turned away.] They tell me I am better, but I feel 
 very weak and low-spirited. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Poor old boy 1 I hope they are looking after you 
 properly. I suppose Miss Grace can be trusted, although 
 she can hardly be described as a trained nurse of much 
 experience. Oh, don't look angry ! [With a hard laugh.] 
 I will not try to show any unseemly jealousy of Mile. 
 Flannelette. By the way, how delighted her mother 
 must be to be able to preach to you again the sovereign 
 virtues of flannel. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [With a nervous^ irritable manner.] Why have you 
 come, Enid ? I thought you had passed out of my life 
 . . . after . . . after that . . . that breakdown. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON ' 
 
 Why have I come ? Really, Ralph, you are a little 
 unreasonable. Have I not the ordinary right of a friend 
 to pay you a visit of condolence and sympathy ? And 
 may I remind you — forgive me, if it is an unwelcome 
 reminiscence — that we are still, as a matter of fact, 
 engaged to be married ? [Hawstorne shudders.] Oh, 
 don't shudder. It's such a bad compliment to me, isn't it ? 
 Am I really so undesirable a person as all that ? Believe 
 me, I do not wish to lay any stress on the engagement. 
 Circumstances alter cases — very effectually sometimes. . . . 
 And when you were taken out of my house to be nursed 
 
374 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV by people who, to say the least, had a certain dislike of 
 me, and who would be sure to do their best to keep us 
 apart — why, then I felt that the fate of our engage- 
 ment had been practically decided. . . . Besides, it is 
 better for you and better for me that the thing should be 
 cancelled, finished, done with. . . , 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 [Repeats in a dreamy voice.'] Cancelled, finished, done 
 with. . . . 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes, dear, let us part, sans rancune — as old friends ought 
 to do. After all, Ralph, we have not been bad pals, you 
 and I. I dare say we have not done each other much 
 good, either at Simla or in Yorkshire. But that was not 
 altogether our fault. Men and women are born with a 
 particular nature, which is theirs by birthright. They 
 did not create that nature : it was given to them by their 
 fathers and grandfathers back to the fourth generation, 
 who bequeathed not only their good, but, more particu- 
 larly, their bad qualities. We did not start with very 
 good chances, it seems to me. I was born worldly and a 
 flirt. You were born a casual, careless, rackety sort of 
 fellow, with a good heart, and a certain tendency to hys- 
 teria. Upon my word, I think that, considering our 
 disadvantages, we did not do so very badly. We were 
 fond of each other, and perhaps we behaved without much 
 — what shall I say \ — discretion. I don't think if we had 
 married, we should either of us have been happy, and I 
 am inclined to believe that in our secret hearts we were 
 both aware of the fact. Meanwhile we were intimate 
 friends, and you helped me a good deal. I don't know 
 whether I helped you much, but, as Heaven is my wit- 
 ness, I sincerely wanted to help you. And I loved you, 
 Ralph, don't forget that. . . . 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 You were very good to me at Ottley-St.-Mary. I don't 
 know how to thank you. . . . 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 375 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON Act IV 
 
 Don't try to thank me, Ralph. I can't bear it. Our 
 mutual relations have gone beyond the region of mere 
 thanks and ordinary gratitude. I know that we have to 
 part. I am certain that it is the only wise course, the 
 only possible course. But let us part friends. I want you 
 to think kindly of me in your heart, as I most assuredly 
 will always think kindly of you. When you hear of 
 Enid Rolleston, let there be some tender memory which 
 prevents you from passing judgment on her. And when 
 I hear of Ralph Hawstorne, his name will always call up 
 a host of affectionate thoughts . . . and some tears. 
 Promise me that, Ralph, promise me that. . . , 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Don't talk to me, Enid. I can't bear it, I can't bear it I 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Recovering herself]. All right, old boy. I do not 
 want to pain you. I imagine that I always loved you a 
 bit more than you loved me. It is woman's way. And, 
 of course, my love was not your salvation, but your bane. 
 I will try to remember that. Well — that is over. \She 
 sighs.] Oh, by the way, I was almost forgetting one or 
 the reasons of my visit. You lost your cigarette-case in 
 my house. It was found after you left. I have brought 
 it to you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 My cigarette-case ! [For the first time he shows a glim- 
 mer of excitement.] Give it to me ! Give it to me ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Here it is. Why, how eager you are ! Have you 
 missed it as badly as all that ? Come, come, let me open 
 it and see what is inside. [She opens it and sees the cocaine 
 tubes.] Ah ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Give it to me ! You don't know how I wanted it ! 
 
376 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Wait, wait, wait — this is the cocaine, isn't it, that you 
 have poisoned yourself with ? You must not have that. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Oh, it's all right. You see, one cannot break a habit 
 ofF all at once. You must do it gradually, in lessening 
 doses. . . . 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 But what does Dr. Raleigh say ? Does he allow it ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Enid dear, you do not understand. . . . You see, if 
 one has become a drunkard, or a morphinomaniac — or 
 anything else that makes one a slave — the only way is to 
 break down the tyranny gently, so as to avoid the terrible 
 depression, the awful yearning of abstinence. It is all 
 right, I assure you it is all right. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 No, dear, no. I cannot think that is right. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Oh Enid, how can you be so cruel and unkind ! You 
 have been so nice to me, and talked so kindly and affec- 
 tionately as though you really understood me, and now, 
 when you can do me a great service, the greatest of all 
 services, you refuse. \He is half crying.'] How can a 
 woman, who says that she loves, be so unfeeling, so hard- 
 hearted I [Lady R. shakes her head.] Enid, darling Enid, 
 you have always been good to me, and I have been a cur 
 and a beast to you — but I will do anything — anything 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [With a sudden gleam in her eyes^ You will do any- 
 thing ? [Aside.] Oh, God ! what an awful temptation ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes, yes, anything, anything. . . . 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 You will do anything I ask ? 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 377 
 
 HAWSTORNE Act IV 
 
 Yes, what do you want me to do ? Anything, any- 
 thing 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 \To herself. 1 Oh, I can't resist — I can't resist ! \Aloud.'\ 
 Well, here is the tube. If I give it to you will you make 
 me a promise. . . . Shall our engagement stand ? Will you ? 
 
 [ There is a pause. Lady Rolleston stands with the tube 
 half held out in her hand, Hawstorne is in an agony 
 of doubt and hesitation. Suddenly the door at L. opens^ 
 and Grace bursts into the room. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Ralph ! . . . Lady Rolleston ! . . . What does this 
 mean ? What are you doing ? What is that in your 
 hand ? \^he seizes Lady Rolleston's wrist.] Give it to 
 me — I will have it. Good God ! It's a tube of cocaine ! 
 How dare you ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 [Cooliy.] I was restoring to Major Hawstorne his 
 property. Miss May hew. . . . 
 
 GRACE 
 
 [Indignantly.] And doing your best to kill him. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Come, come, do not let us be melodramatic. Major 
 Hawstorne lost a cigarette-case in my house. It was 
 found by the servants, and I have brought it back to him 
 — that is all. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 [With her face agiow.] Perhaps you do not understand. 
 I will try to think that you do not understand. Cocaine 
 is absolute poison to him in his present condition. Dr. 
 Raleigh and I have for four weeks kept him away from 
 all temptations. And he has cried for the drug, cried for 
 it — over and over again. But we know that if he once 
 
378 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV gave way all the good work of his reform would be use- 
 less. It has not been easy, Lady Rolleston, to refuse him 
 — especially when one loves him, as I do. Why should I 
 hesitate to tell you? I have loved him and refused him 
 the drug, because I knew that one relapse meant death ! 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 I knew Major Hawstorne before you did. Miss May- 
 hew. And — as truth-speaking seems in the air — I loved 
 him before you did. You have not got a monopoly of 
 affection for him. 
 
 GRACE 
 \^cornfully?\^ Loved him — you ! Yes, I know that 
 kind of love ! You loved him, and because you wanted 
 him all to yourself, you do not care what ruin you cause 
 so long as you have him in your hands. You loved him 
 — and yet you do not consider what harm happens to him, 
 what poison he imbibes, what dreadful form of death he 
 has to face ! You are the sort of woman who loves a 
 man, not for his sake, but for her own ; who will sacrifice 
 his best interests to her own passionate folly ; who prates 
 about her love and is not aware that it is only selfishness. 
 Love ? What is your love ? A stupid, sensual thing, a 
 madness of your nerves, a hysterical delirium ! Love ? 
 Why, it is only yourself that you are thinking of ! You 
 have not learned the first lesson of love. Love is not 
 selfishness, it is the sacrifice of self on the altar of a higher 
 faith ! And you dare to talk of your love ! \^he takes 
 the cocaine tubes out of the cigarette-case and throws them into 
 the fireplace, '\ 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Dear me. Miss Mayhew, I thought you had been trained 
 to be a nurse. I did not know you were qualifying yourself 
 for the stage ! However, so far as the cocaine goes, I 
 dare say you are right. . . . 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 379 
 
 DR. RALEIGH Act IV 
 
 \Who has stepped in through the window, and now comes 
 forward.'] She is undoubtedly right, Lady Rolleston. 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 Miss Mayhew's knowledge of these matters is obviously 
 greater than mine. Medicine is her sphere of education. 
 Nursing is her profession. It is not mine. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 [Stiffiy.'] I give you the benefit of your ignorance, 
 madam. I v^^ill admit that you did not understand v^^hat 
 you were doing. By the way, we will get rid of these 
 things — they are dangerous. [Picks up cocaine and puts in 
 pocket.'] And now may I be permitted to see you to your 
 motor ? Allow me. . . . 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 
 Yes, I will go. Good-bye, Major Hawstorne. Good- 
 bye, Miss Mayhew. ... I think you will judge me more 
 fairly hereafter, when you know all the circumstances. 
 Perhaps even your love has some selfish elements in it. 
 Think it over. Good-bye. 
 
 RALEIGH 
 Come- — we will leave the nurse to attend to her patient. 
 [They go out.] 
 
 LADY ROLLESTON 
 [With a shrug.] We will leave the man to the woman 
 who loves him. [They go out. Grace <7«^ Hawstorne 
 are left alone.] 
 
 GRACE 
 [Goes up to Hawstorne, who is sitting in the chair with 
 his head bowed in his hands.] My poor boy, my poor boy, 
 I am so sorry you have had all this bother, on the very 
 first day of your coming downstairs. You see, I ought 
 not to have left you, ought I ? 
 
38o DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV HAWSTORNE 
 
 Grace, I don't know what to say. It is all too humiliat- 
 ing and dreadful. No, I suppose I ought not to be left 
 alone for a single second. I cannot look after myself. 
 [With a wan smile.'] I am not to be trusted. I ought 
 to be treated ^like a child. But oh ! Will it be always 
 like this ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 No, no, dear. You will get stronger, if we take proper 
 care of you. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Honestly, Grace, I cannot understand myself. One 
 moment I seem to have some glimmering of reason, some 
 atom ot self-control and self-respect. And then the good 
 moment goes. There comes upon me another and a 
 blacker mood, in which I am not a man at all, but an 
 animal, growling and snarling for some forbidden food — 
 — a wild beast raging — madly, passionately, horribly — for 
 the raw meat it loves ! It is not the same ego. It is two 
 different personalities who war within my soul. I am 
 Jekyll when you are here, and Hyde when you go away. 
 And then after the mad struggle I feel the utter weariness, 
 the prostration — I am conscious of the dank, dead, cling- 
 ing mist of depression and despair. Oh, Grace, you don't 
 know all my misery, and my utter loneliness ! If only I 
 could really understand myself, have some real, steady 
 knowledge of what I am and what I ought to be ! 
 
 GRACE 
 
 [Taking his hand gently and stroking it, her eyes are caught 
 by the framework of the ring.] Poor old Ralph, I wish I 
 could help you, dear. Oh, by the way, I have got one 
 piece of good news for you. [Fingering the ring.] Let 
 me see — " to desire — to possess — to know " 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 All gone — all gone ! 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 381 
 
 GRACE Act IV 
 
 No, not all gone. Look here. [5^^ takes out a stone.'] 
 I found this — on the floor — at Ottley-St.-Mary — that 
 night when we — when I — came for you. So knowledge 
 remains, knowledge remains, after all ! 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 [Musing to himselfy as he touches the stone.] To know 
 the truth . . . and the truth shall make you free. . . . 
 Shall I win that freedom, Grace ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Yes, dear — if you do your best to keep your body sound 
 and your brain clear and unclouded. After all, the ring 
 was only a symbol — to illustrate a living truth. Desire 
 shall fail and possession shall cease, but knowledge is a 
 lasting treasure. Sometimes, I think, you have been in- 
 clined to lay too much stress on this ring. You have 
 regarded it as something deadly as well as precious, an 
 agent of evil to you. And, after all, it has only been a 
 poor sort of conscience, reminding you when you have 
 gone wrong, but not helping you to go right. Do not 
 let yourself be superstitious about it, as though it were a 
 talisman. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Have I been superstitious ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 A little, I think. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Well — suppose we get rid of it altogether. What do 
 you say ? 
 
 GRACE 
 I shall not mind. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Very well, then. [He slips the ring off his finger.] Give 
 
382 DRAMAS AND DIVERSIONS 
 
 Act IV me your hand, Grace. Now, one, two, three — and all 
 together. Out it goes. [The two hands throw the ring 
 out of the window.'] There, you can bury it in the 
 garden — do whatever you like with it ; only never let 
 any one get hold of it, and never let me see it agam. 
 Phew ! I am so glad to be quit of the beastly thing. 
 
 GRACE 
 
 So am I. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 And now, what remains for us to do ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 \JVho has suddenly got shy.] I don't know, Ralph, 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 No more do I. [IVith a smile.] Shall we send for 
 Tom Raleigh, and ask him ? Or do you think that your 
 mother, dear old Flannels, would give good advice ? 
 
 GRACE 
 I think we had better decide for ourselves. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 And not ask for any advice ? 
 
 GRACE 
 No — don't let us ask. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Except our own hearts ? 
 
 GRACE 
 
 Except our own hearts. 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 Ir we happen to have hearts. I wonder if I have ? Do 
 you think I have got any heart left, Grace ? 
 
 GRACE 
 I am sure you have — a very big, big heart — almost as 
 big as mine. 
 
ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 383 
 
 HAWSTORNE Act IV 
 
 How big is yours ? As big as this room ? 
 
 GRACE 
 As big as the world — as your world and mine, Ralph ; 
 as big as our past and our present and our future. Do 
 you remember when — long ago — you said that "only the 
 beginnings of things were sweet " ? 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Yes — and that the dew had a tendency to go ofF the 
 grass. 
 
 GRACE 
 Well, we have got to begin all over again, you and I. 
 I think we shall find the new beginning infinitely sweet. 
 And if we are tender and loving and true, I don't think 
 that the dew will ever go off the grass — or any cloud 
 darken our sky. . . . 
 
 HAWSTORNE 
 
 Ah, Grace, you were always on the side of the angels ! 
 Kiss me, dear. 
 
 \^he bends over htm as the curtain falls. ^ 
 
 THE END 
 
Richard Clay & Sons, Limitid, 
 bread street hill, e.c., and 
 
 BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. 
 
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