L"
1
i
n
THE ATLANTIC BOOK
OF
MODERN PLAYS
THE ATLANTIC BOOK
OF MODERN PLAYS
EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION, COMMENT
AND ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY
BY
STERLING ANDRUS LEONARD
Bepartment of Ertflish
The University of Wisconsin and
The Wisconsin High School
tlTfjE Atlantic iWontijIp J^vtii
BOSTON
The rights of production of these plays are in ettry case reserved by the
authors or their represeniatires. A'o play can be given publicly xcithout an
individual arrangement. The lair does not, of course, prevent their read-
ing in classrooms or their proiluction before an awlience of a school or in-
rited guests vhere no fee is charged; but it is, naturally, more courteous to
ask permission.
Cofyrigit, /gs/, by
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
Firpt imprcMion, Urccmhcr, 1911
Second Impreuion, April, 1911
'Printed in ihe Vnittd Statts oftAmerica
CONTENTS
Foreword
Acknowledgments
Introduction: On the Reading of Plays
Vll
ix
xi
The Philosopher of Butterbiggens
>► Spreading the News . -
The Beggar and the King
X Tides
Mle
Campbell of Kilmhor .
/ The Sun ....
The Knave of Hearts .
^ Fame and the Poet '::
The Captain of the Gate
^Gettysburg
Lonesome-Like
(''Aiders to the Sea .
■VThe Land of Heart's Desire
The Riding to Lithend
Harold Chapin
Lady Gregory
Winthrop Parkhurst
George Middleton .
Eugene O'Neill
J. A. Ferguson
John Galsworthy .
Louise Saunders .
Lord Dunsany
Beulah Marie Dix
Percy Mackaye
Harold Brighottse .
John Millington Synge
William Butler Yeats
Gordon Bottomley .
Questions for Discussion in Reading the Plays .
Notes on the Dramas and the Dramatists .
Annotated Bibliography of Plays and Related Books 298
1
14
34
45
64
84
100
107
134
144
160
177
197
211
236
281
284
1 Q I '7 '» "■•
A FOREWORD
/ We are at present in the midst of a bewildering quantity of
/ play-publication and production. The one-act play in particular,
chiefly represented in this volume, appears to be taking the place
of that rather squeezed sponge, the short story, in the favor of the
reading public. Of course, this tendency has its reaction in school-
rooms. One even hears of high-school classes which attempt to
keep up with the entire output of such dramas in English readings.
If this is not merely an apologue, it is certainly a horrible example.
The bulk of current drama, as of published matter generally, is
not worthy the time of the English class. Only what is measur-
ably of rank, in truth and fineness, with the literature which has
endured from past times can be defended for use there. And we
have too much that is both well fitted to young people's keen
interest and enjoyment, and beautifully worthy as well, for time
to be wasted upon tlie third- and fourth-rate.
Obviously, much of the best in modern play-writing has not
been included in this volume. Because of copyright complica-
tions the works of Mr. Masefield, Mr. Shaw, Mr. Drinkwater,
and Sir James Barrie are not here represented. The plays by
these writers that seem best fitted to use by teachers and pupils in
high schools, together with a large number of other dramas for
this purpose, are listed and annotated at the back of the book.
Suggestions as to desirable inclusions and omissions will be wel-
comed by the editor and the publishers.
Following in their own way the lead of the Theatre Libre in
Paris and the Freie Biihne in Germany, and of the Independent
and the Repertory theatres in Great Britain, numerous "little
theatres" and drama associations in this country are giving im-
pulsion and direction to the movement for finer drama and more
excellent presentation. The Harvard dramatic societies, the
Morningside Players at Columbia, Mr. Alex Drummond's Com-
munity Theatre at the State Fair in Ithaca, the Little Country
Theatre at Fargo, South Dakota, and similar groups at the Uni-
vili FORE^YORD
versity of California and elsewhere, illustrate the leadership of the
colleges. In many high schools, as at South Bend, Indiana,
more or less complete Little Theatres are active. The Chicago
Little Theatre, the Wisconsin Dramatic Society, the Province-
town Players, the Neij;hl)orhood Playhouse, in New York, and
others of that ilk, are well known and influential. Tliey arc ex-
tending the tradition of the best European theatres in their
attempts to cultivate excellent and individual expression in
drama. They realize that plays must be tested by actual per-
formance, — though not ntx'essarily by tlie unnatural demands
of success in competition with Broadway revues and farce-melo-
dramas, — and thus developed toward a genuine artistic em-
bodiment of the vast and varied life, the manifold and deep ideal-
ism of this country.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For their courteous and generous cooperation the editor is
greatly indebted to the authors and pubHshers of all the plays
included. He is equally grateful to other dramatists who were
personally as cordial in intention but quite impotent to grant
copyright privileges. In addition, he has received most friendly
and cordial criticism from friends and friendly strangers to whom
he appealed — among others, from Mr. Harold Brighouse; Mr.
Theodore Hinckley, editor of "Drama"; Mr. Clarence Stratton,
now Director of English at Cleveland, and author of a forth-
coming book on the Little Theatre in this country; Mr. Allan
Monkhouse, author of "Mary Broome" and "War Plays";
Professor Allan Abbot, of Teachers College, Columbia Univer-
sity; Mr. Frank G. Thompkins, of Central High School, Detroit;
Mrs. Mary Austin; Professor Earl R. Pence, of De Pauw Uni-
versity; Professor Brander Matthews; and Mrs. AHce Chapin.
Ladebtedness to many lists is obvious, particularly to that of the
Drama League and the Nation.il Council of Teachers of Eng-
lish, and that of Professor Pence in the "Illinois Bulletin."
"lie" is reprinted by special arrangement with the author and
with Boni and Liveright, publishers, New York. "He" is re-
printed from the volume "The Moon of The Caribbees" and
six other plays of the sea, which volume is one of the series of
plays by Mr. O'Neill, the series including " Beyond the Horizon,"
a drama in four acts, " The Straw," a play in three acts and five
scenes, "Gold," a play in four acts and "Chris" a play in four
acts.
INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS
The elder Dumas, who wrote many successful plays, as well as
the famous romances, said that all he needed for constructing a
drama was "four boards, two actors, and a passion." What he
meant by passion has been defined by a later French writer, Fer-
dinand Brunetiere, as a conflict of wills. The Philosopher of Butter-
biggens, whom you will meet early in this book, points out that
"what you are all the time wanting" is "your own way." When
two strong desires conflict and we wonder which is coming out
ahead, we say that the situation is dramatic. This clash is
clearly defined in any effective play, from the crude melodrama
in which the forces are hero and villain with pistols, to such subtle
conflicts, based on a man's misunderstanding of even his own
motives and purposes, as in Mr. Middleton's "Tides."
In comedy, and even in farce, struggle is clearly present. Here
our sympathy is with people who engage in a not impossible com-
bat — against rather obvious villains who can be unmasked, or
against such public opinion or popular conventions as can be
overset. The hold of an absurd bit of gossip upon stupid people is
firm enough in "Spreading the News"; but fortunately it must
yield to facts at last. The Queen and the Knave of Hearts are
sufficiently clever, with the aid of the superb cookery of the
Knave's wife, to do away with an ancient and solemnly rever-
enced law of Pompdebile's court. So, too, the force of ancient
loyalty and enthusiasm almost works a miracle in the invalid
veteran of "Gettysburg." And we feel sure that the uncanny
powers of the Beggar will be no less successful in overturning the
power of the King in Mr. Parkhurst's play.
Again, in comedies as in mathematics, the problem is often
solved by substitution. The soldier in Mr. Galsworthy's "The
Sun " is able to find a satisfactory and apparently happy ending
without achieving what he originally set out to gain. And the
same is true of Jock in Mr. Brighouse's "Lonesome-Like. " Or the
play which does not end as the chief character wishes may still
y
xii INTRODUCTION
prove not too serious because, as in "Fame and tlie Poet," the
situation is merely inconvenient and absurd rather than tragic.
Now and then it is next to impossible to tell whether the end-
ing is tragic or not; in the "Land of Heart's Desire" we must first
decide whether our sympathies are more witli Shawn Bruin and
with Maire's love for him, or with her keen desire to go
To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams
Are holding a continual festival.
It is natural for us to desire a happy ending in stories, as we
desire satisfying solutions of tlie problems in our own lives. And
whenever the forces at work are such as make it true and possible,
naturally this is the best ending for a story or a play. But where
powerful and terrible influences have to be combateil, only
a poor dramatist will make use of mere chance, or ctimpel
his characters to do what such people really would not do, to
bring about a factitious "ha{)py ending." With the relentless,
mighty arms of England engaged in hunting the defeat«il High-
lanflers after the Battle of CuUoden, a play like "CamplH-U of
Kilmhor," in which we sympathize with the ill-fated Stewarts,
cannot end hajipily. If tluy had yielded under pressure and be-
trayed their coinrddes, we might have pitied them, but we could
uot admire their action, and there would have been no strong
conclusion. In "Riders t«) the Sea," where tlie characters are
compelled by bitter poverty to face tlie relentless forces of storm
and sea, and in "The Hi«hiig to Lithend," we exptxt a tragic
end almost from tlu- first lines of the play. We recognize this same
dramatic tensity of hopth-ss confliet in many stories as wiU as
plays; it is most powerful in three or four novels by Cieorge Eliot,
(irorge Mi-redith, and Thonuis Hardy.
One of the best ways to understand these as real stage plays
«B through some sort of tlramatizjition. This dix-s not mean,
however, that they nei-d be pnvlueeil with elalH)rate scent-ry
and costunu"S, memorizing, and rehearsal; often the best under-
standing may b<* secured by quite informal rea<ling in the class,
with p«Thai)S a hat and cloak and a lath sword or two for prop-
erties. With simply a clear space in the cla.s.sriM)m for a stage, you
and your imaginations can give all the performance necessary for
realizing the.se plays very wdl inde<Hl. But, of course, you must
<I<-arly understand tlie lines and the play as a whole Ixfore you
try to take a part, so that you can read simply and naturally, as
INTRODUCTION xiii
you think the people in the story probably spoke. Some ques-
tions for discussion in the appendix may help you in talking the
plaj's over in class or in readmg them for yourself before you try
to take a part. You will find it sometimes helps, also, to make a
diagram or a colored sketch of the scene as the author describes it,
or even a small model of the stage for a "dramatic museum" for
your school. If you have not tried this, you do not know how
much it helps in seeing plays of other times, like Shakespeare's or
Moliere's; and it is useful also for modern dramas. Such small
stages can be used for puppet theatres as well. "The Knave of
Hearts " is intended as a marionette play, and other dramas —
Maeterlinck's and even Shakespeare's — have been given in this
way with very interesting efiFects.
If you bring these plays to a performance for others outside
your own class, you will find that the simplest and least preten-
tious settings are generally most effective. The Irish players, as
Mr. Yeats tells us, "have made scenery, indeed, but scenery that
is little more than a suggestion — a pattern with recurring boughs
and leaves of gold for a wood, a great green curtain, with a red
stencil upon it to carry the eye upward, for a palace." Mr, John
Merrill of the Francis Parker School describes the quite excellent
results secured with a dark curtain in a semicircle — a cyclorama
— for background, and with colored lights.^ Such a staging leaves
the attention free to follow the lines, and the imagination to pic-
ture whatever the play suggests as the place of the action.
1 John Merrill: "Drama and the School," in Drama, November, 1919.
L-
THE PHILOSOPHER OF
BUTTERBIGGENS^
HAROLD CHAPm
CHARACTERS
David Pirnie
Lizzie, his daughter
John Bell, his son-in-law
Alexander, John's little son
SCENE: John Bell's tenement at Buttcrbiggens. It cou'
sists of the very usual "tivo rooms, kitchen, and bath,"
a concealed bed in the parlor and another in the kitchen
enabling him to house his family — consisting of himself,
his wife, his little son, and his aged father-in-law —
therein. The kitchen-and-living-room is a good-sized
square room. The right wall (our right as we look at it)
is occupied by a huge built-in dresser, sink, and coal
bunker, the left wall by a high-manteled, ovened, and
boilered fireplace, the recess on either side of which con-
tains a low painted cupboard. Over the far cupboard
hangs a picture of a ship, but over the near one is a small
square vnndow. The far wall has two large doors in it,
that on the right leading to the lobby, and that on the left
appertaining to the old father-in-law' s concealed bed.
^ Included by special permission of Mrs. Alice Chapin. Permission to
present this play must be secured from Samuel French, 28 West 38th
Street, New York City, who controls all acting rights, etc., in this country.
2
2 THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS
The walls are distempered a brickish red. The ceiling
once was white. The floor is covered with bright linoleum
and a couple of rag rugs — one before the fire — a large
one — and a smaller one before the door of the concealed
bed.
A deal table is just to right of centre. A long flexible
gas-bracket depends from the ceiling above it. Anotlier
many-jointed gas-bracket projects from the middle of the
high mantelpiece, its flame turned down towards the store.
There are wooden chairs at the table, above, below, and to
left of it. A high-backed easy chair is above the fire, a
kitchen elbow-chair beloic it.
The kitchen is very tidy. A newspaper newly falleri to
the rug before the fire and another — an evening one —
spread flat on the table are (besides a child's mug and
plate, also on the table) the only things not stowed in their
prescribed places. It is evening — the light beyond the
little square window being the gray dimness of a long
Northern twilight which slowly deepens during the play.
When the curtain rises it is still light enough in the room
for a man to read if the print be not too faint and his
eyes be good. The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers
through the gray, shou-ing up icilh exceptional clearness
the deep-lined face of old David Pirnie, who w discov-
ered half-ri.sen from his armchair above the fire, standing
on the hearth-rug, his body bent and his hand on the chair
arm. He is a little, feeble old man with a udl-shaped
head and urather-bealen face, set off by a grizzled beard
and tvhisker.'<, wiry and vigorous, in curious contrast to
the wreath of snojcy hair that encircles his head. His
upper lip is shaven. He wears an old suit — the unbut-
toned waistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt. His
slippers are low at the heel and his socks loose at the
ankles.
THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS 3
The old man's eyes are fixed appealingly on those of
his daughter, who stands in the half-open door, her grasp
on the handle, meeting his look squarely — a straight-
browed, black-haired, determined young woman of six or
seven and twenty. Her husband, John, seated at the table
in his shirt-sleeves with his head in his hands, reads hard
at the paper and tries to look unconcerned.
David. Aw — but, Lizzie —
Lizzie (with splendid firmness) . It's nae use, feyther.
I 'm no' gaein' to gie in to the wean. Ye 've been tellin' yer
stories to him nicht after nicht for dear knows how long,
and he 's gettin' to expect them.
David. Why should he no' expect them?
Lizzie. It disna do for weans to count on things so. He's
layin' up a sad disappointment for himself yin o' these days.
David. He 's gettin' a sad disappointment the noo.
Och, come on, Lizzie. I 'm no' gaein' to dee just yet, an' ye
can break him off gradually when I begin to look like to,
Lizzie. Who 's talkin' o' yer deein', feyther?
David. Ye were speakin' o' the disappointment he was
layin' up for himself if he got to count on me —
Lizzie. I wasna thinkin' o' yer deein', feyther — only —
it 's no guid for a bairn —
David. Where 's the harm in my giein' him a bit story
before he gangs tae his bed?
Lizzie. I 'm no sayin' there 's ony harm in it this yinst,
feyther; but it 's no richt to gae on nicht after nicht wi'
never a break —
David. Whit wey is it no richt if there 's nae harm in it?
Lizzie. It 's giein' in to the wean.
David. Whit wey should ye no' gie in to him if there 's
nae harm in it?
Lizzie (keeping her patience with difficulty). Because it
gets him into the habit.
4 THE PHILOSOPHER OF RUTTERBIGGEXS
David. Rut why should he no' get into the habit if
there 's nae harm in it?
(John at the table chuckles. Lizzie gives him a look, but
he meets it not.)
Lizzie. Really, fey ther, ye micht be a wean yersclf , ye 're
that persistent.
D.\\^D. No, Lizzie, I'm no' persistent, I'm reasoning
wi' ye. Ye said there was nae harm in my tcllin' him a bit
story, an' now ye say I'm not to because it'll get him into
the haljit ; an' what I *m askin' ye is, where 's the harm o' his
gettin' into the habit if there's nae harm in it?
Lizzie. Oh, aye; ye can be gey clever, tvsnstin' the words
in my mouth, fcyther ; but richt is richt, an' wTang's wrang,
for all yer cleverness.
David (earnestly). I'mnobein'clevcr a va, Lizzie, — no'
the noo, — I'm just tryin' to make ye sec that, if ye admit
there's nae harm in a thing, ye canna s;iy there's ony harm
in it, au' (pathetically) I'm wantin* to tell wee Alexander a
bit story before he gangs to his bed.
John (aside to her). Och, wumman —
Lizzie. T'ts, John; ye 'd gie in tae onybody if they were
ju-st persistent enough.
John. Ile'sanauld man.
Lizzie (really exasperated). I ken fine he's an auld man,
John, and ye 're a young yin, an' Alexander's gaein' to be
anither, an' I'm a lone wumman among the lot o' ye, but
I *m no* gaein' to gie in to —
John (bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument).
Efter a', Lizzie, there's nae harm —
Lizzie (almost unth a scream of anger). Och, now you 've
stairtod, have you? llnrm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin*
about harm, and 1 "m talking al)out riiht an' wrang. You 'd
sec your son grow up a drunken kcelie, an* mebbe a thief an'
a murderer, so long as you could say there was nae harm
in it.
THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS 5
David (expostulating with some cause). But I cudna say-
there was nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only
when there 's nae harm —
Lizzie, Och. (Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble.)
Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander?
(Shuts door unth a click.)
David (standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more
in sorrow than in anger). She's no reasonable, ye ken,
John; she disna argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her
mither, but it 's a wee thing hard that the only twa women
I've known to be really chatty an' argumentative with
should ha' been just like that. An' me that fond o' women's
society.
(He lowers himself into his chair.)
John. They're all like it.
David (judiciously). I wudna go sae far as to say that,
John. Ye see, I ' ve only kent they twa to study carefully —
an' it 's no fair to judge the whole sex by just the twa exam-
ples, an' it were — (Running on) But it 's gey hard, an' I
was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special fine story the
nicht. (Removes glasses and blinks his eyes.) Aweel.
John (comforting) . Mebbe the morn —
David. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the
morn's nicht.
John. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last
nicht.
David (bitterly). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun'
it out.
John. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic.
David (between anger and tears, weakly). I canna help it.
I'm black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a
special fine story the nicht, an' now here 's Lizzie wi' her
richt 's richt an' wrang 's wrang — Och, there 's nae reason
in the women.
C THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS
John. We has to gic in to them though.
David. Aye. That's why.
( There is a pa use. The old man picks up h is paper again
and settles his glasses on his nose. John rises, and
tcith a spill from the mantelpiece lights the gas there,
which he then bejids to throw the light to the old man*s
advantage.)
David. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him?
John {erect on hearth-rug). Who?
David. Wee Alexander.
John, No.
David. Greetin' his heart out.
John. Och, he's no greetin'. Lizzie's wi' him.
David. I ken fine Lizzie's wi* him, but he's greetin' for
a' her. He was wantin' to hear yon story o' the kelpies up to
Cross Hill wi* the tram — (Breaking his mood impatiently)
Och.
John {crossing to table and lighting up there). It 's gettin'
dark gey early. We'll shin he haein* tea by the gas.
David {rustling his paper). Aye — {Siuldenly) There
never was a female philosopher, ye ken, John.
John. Was there no'?
David. No. {Angrily, in a gust) An' there never will be!
(Then more calmly) An' yet there's an' awful lot o* phi-
losophy about women, John.
John. Aye?
David. Och, aye. They *re that unreasonable, an ' yet ye
canna reason them down; an' they 're that weak, an' yet ye
eanna make them gie in tae ye. Of course, ye '11 say ye canna
reason doon a stane, or make a clod o' earth gie in tae ye.
John. Willi?
David. Aye. An' ye "11 be richt. But then I '11 tell ye a
stunc will na answer ye back, an' a clod of earth will na try
to withstand ye, so how can ye argue them down?
THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS 7
John (convinced) . Ye canna.
David. Richt! Ye canna! But a wumman will answer
ye back, an' shewill stand against ye, an' yet ye canna argue
her down though ye have strength an' reason on your side
an' she 's talkin' naething but blether about richt 's richt an'
wrang's wrang, an' sendin' a poor bairn off t' his bed i' the
yin room an' leavin' her auld feyther all alone by the fire
in anither an' — ye ken — Philosophy —
(He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again. John,
intensely troubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a
foot. The wails of Alexander can be heard muffled
by a farther door. John calls off.)
John. Lizzie.
(Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door
witha"Shsh.")
John. Yer feyther 's greetin'.
Lizzie (loith a touch of exasperation) . Och, I 'm no heedin' !
There's another wean in there greetin' too, an' I'm no
heedin' him neither, an' he's greetin' twicet as loud as the
auld yin.
John (shocked). Ye 're heartless, wumman.
Lizzie (vxith patience). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but
there's too much heart in this family, an' someone's got to
use their heid.
(David cranes round the side of his chair to catch what
they are saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but
with womanly firmness.)
Lizzie. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther,
but ye see, don't ye —
(A singidarly piercing wail from Alexander goes up.
Lizzie rushes to silence him.)
Lizzie. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're mur-
derin' him.
( The door closes behind her.)
8 THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS
David (nodding for a space as he revolves the icomans
altitude). Ye hear that, John?
Joiix. Whit?
David (ivith quiet irony) . She's vexed I should be disap>-
pointed. The wiiminan thinks she's richtl Women always
think they're richt — mcl)l)e it's that that makes them
that obstinate. {With the ghost of a twinkle) She's feart o'
the neighbors, thou^'h.
John {stolidly). A' women arc feart o' the neighbors.
David {reverting). Puir wee man. I telt ye he was
greetin', John. He's disappointed fine. {Pondering)
D' ye ken whit I'm thinkin', John?
John. Whit?
David. I'm thinkin' he's too young to get his ain way,
an' I'm too auld, an' it's a fine thocht!
John. Aye?
David. Aye. I never thocht of it before, but that 's what
it is. He's no' come to it yet, an' I'm past it. {Suddenly)
What's the most important thing in life, John?
(John opens his mouth — and shuts if again unused.)
David. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye 're wantin'
a' the time?
John. DifTerent things.
David {satisfied). Aye — different things! But ye want
them a', do ye no'?
John. Aye.
David. If ye had yer ain way yc'd hae them a', eh?
John. I wud that.
David {triumphant). Then is that no' wiiat ye want : yer
ain way?
John {enlightened). LoshI
David {warming tn iJ). Thai 's what life is, John —
gettin' yer ain way. First ye' re born, an' ye camia dae any-
thing but cry; but God's given yer mither cars an' ye get
THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS 9
ycr way by just cryiii' for it. (Hastily, anticipating criti-
cism) I ken that 's no exactly in keeping with what I 've
been saying aboot Alexander — but a new-born bairnie's an
aw^u' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets it past its infancy by
a dispensation of Providence very unsettling to oor poor
human understandings. Ye '11 notice the weans cease gettin'
their wey by j uist greetin' for it as shin as they 're old enough
to seek it otherwise.
John. The habit hangs on to them whiles.
David. It does that. (With a tiduMc) An' mebbc, if
God's gi'en yer neighbors ears an' ye live close, ye '11 get
yer wey by a dispensation o' Providence a while longer.
But there 's things ye '11 hae to do for yerself gin ye want to
— an' ye will. Ye '11 want to hold oot yer hand, an' ye will
hold oot yer hand; an' ye '11 want to stand up and walk, and
ye will stand up and walk; an' ye '11 want to dae as ye
please, and ye will dae as ye please; and then ye are prac-
tised an' lernt in the art of gettin' yer ain way — and ye 're
a man!
John. Man, feyther — ye 're wonderful !
David (complacently). I'm a philosopher, John. But it
goes on mebbe.
John. Aye?
David. Aye : mebbe ye think ye'd like to make ither folk
mind ye an' yer way, an' ye try, an' if it comes off ye 're a
big man an' mebbe the master o' a vessel wi' three men an'
a boy under ye, as I was, John. (Dropping into the minor)
An' then ye come doon the hill.
John (apprehensively). Doon the hill?
David. Aye — doon to mebbe wantin' to tell a wean a
bit story before he gangs tae his bed, an' ye canna dae even
that. An' then a while more an' ye want to get to yer feet
an' walk, and ye canna; an' a while more an' ye want to lift
up ycr hand, an' ye canna — an' in a while more ye 're just
forgotten an' done wi'.
10 TIIE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS
John. Aw, feji:her!
David. Dinna look sae troubled, John. I'm no' afraid to
dec when my time comes. It 's these hints that I 'm done vn
before I'm dead that I dinna like.
John. ^Yhat'n hints?
David. Well — Lizzie an* her richt's richt and wTang's
wrang when I think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story
before he gangs tae his bed.
John {gently). Ye are a wee thing persistent, fejlher.
David. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I'vegicdin. I'm
a philosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's
done wi'.
John. Aw, feyther!
David {getting loner and lower). It's gey interesting,
philosophy, Jolm, an' the only philosoi)hy worth thinkin'
about is the philosophy of growing old — because that's
what we're a' doing, a' living things. There's nae philos-
ophy in a stane, John; he's juist a stane, an' in a hmulrcd
years he '11 l)c juist a stane still — unless he 's broken up, an'
then he'll be juist not a stane, but he'll no' ken what's
happened to him, because he didna break up gradual and
first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an' then hae his wee
grandson taken awaj' when he was for tellin' him a bit story
before he gangs tae his bed. — It's yon losing ycr grip bit
by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes a philoso-
pher, John.
John. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther,
I 'd be better able to follow ye.
(Lizzie enters quietly aud clones door after her.)
John. Is he asleep?
Lizzie. No, he's no' asleep, but I've shut both doors,
and the neighbors eanna hear him.
JoH.N. Aw, Lizzie —
Lizzie {sharply). John —
Daviii. ^^^lit was I tellin' ye, John, about weans gettin'
THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS 11
their ain way if the neighbors had ears an' they lived close?
Was I no' richt?
Lizzie {answering for John with some acerbity). Aye, ye
were richt, feyther, nae doot ; but we dinna live that close
here, an' the neighbors canna hear him at the back o' the
hoose.
David. Mebbe that's why ye changed Alexander into
the parlor an' gied me the bed in here when it began to get
cold —
Lizzie (hurt). Aw, no, feyther; I brought ye in here to be
warmer —
David (placably). I believe ye, wumman — (with a
faint twinkle) — but it's turned oot luckily, has it no'?
(David waits for a reply but gets none. Lizzie fetches
needlework from the dresser drawer and sits above
table. David's /ac^ and voice take on a more thought-
ful tone.)
David (musing). Puir wee man ! If he was in here you 'd
no' be letting him greet his heart oot where onybody could
hear him. Wud ye?
Lizzie (calmly). Mebbe I'd no'.
John. Ye ken fine ye'd no', wumman.
Lizzie. John, thread my needle an' dinna take feyther's
part against me.
John (surprised). I'm no'.
Lizzie. No, I ken ye 're no meanin' to, but you men are
that thrang —
(She is interrupted by a loud squall from David, which
he maintains, eyes shut, chair-arms gripped, and
mouth open, for nearly half a minute, before he cuts it
off abruptly and looks at the startled couple at the table.)
Lizzie. Mercy, feyther, whit's wrang wi' ye?
David (collectedly). There's naethin' wrang wi' me,
Lizzie, except that I 'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit
story —
12 THE PIIILOSOPIIER OF BUTTERBIGGENS
Lizzie {firmly but very kindly). But ye 're no' goin' to —
(She breaks off in alarm as her father opens his mouth
preparatory to another yell, xvhich however he post-
pones to speak to John.)
David. Ye mind whit I was saying aboot the dispensa-
tion o' Providence to help weans till they could try for
theirselves, John?
John. Aye.
David. Did it no' occur to ye then that there ought to be
some sort of dispensation to look after the auld yins who
were past it?
John. No.
David. Aweel — it didna occur to nie at the time —
{and he lets off another prolonged wail).
Lizzie {going to him). Shsh! Feyther! The neighbors
will hear ye!!!
David {desisting as before). I ken fine; I'm no' at the
back of the hoose. {Shorter wail.)
Lizzie {abnost in tears). They'll be coming to ask.
David. Let them. They'll no' ask w<'. {Squall.)
Lizzie. Feyther — ye 're no' behaving well. John —
John. Aye?
J A7//AE {helplessly). Naething — feyther, stop it. They'll
think ye 're clean daft.
David (ceasing to howl and speaking xrith gravity). I ken
it fine, Lizzie; an' it's no easy for a man who has been re-
speckit an' lookit up to a' his life to be thought daft at
eighty-three; but the most important thing in life is to get
yer ain way. (Resumes wailing.)
Lizzie (puzzled, to John). Whit 's that?
John. It's his philosophy that lie was talking aboot.
David (firmly). An' I 'm gaein' to tell wee Alexander yon
bit story, tho' they think me daft for it.
Lizzie. But it 's no' for his ain guid, feyther. I '\ e telt ye
so, but ye wudna listen.
THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS 13
David. I wudna listen, WTimman! It was you wudna
listen to me when I axed ye whit harm — (Chuckles. —
Checking himself) No! I'm no gaein' to hae that ower
again. I've gied up arguing wi' women. I'm juist gaein'
tae greet loud an' sair till wee Alexander 's brought in here
to hae his bit story; an' if the neighbors — (Loud squall.)
Lizzie (aside to John). He's fair daft!
John (aghast). Ye'd no send him to —
IjIzzie (reproachfully) . John!
(A louder squall from the old man.)
Lizzie (beating her hands together distractedly). He'll be
— We '11 — He '11 — Och ! ! ! (Resigned and beaten) John,
go and bring wee Alexander in here.
(John is off like a shot. The opening of the door of the
other room can be told by the burst of Alexander's
voice. The old man's wails have stopped the second his
daughter capitulated. John returns with Alexander
and bears him to his grandfather's waiting knee. The
boy's tears and howls have ceased and he is smiling
triumphantly. He is of course in his night-shirt and a
blanket, which Grandpa wraps round him, turning
toward the fire.)
Lizzie (looking on with many nods of the head and smacks
of the lips) . There you are ! That 's the kind o' boy he is.
Greet his heart oot for a thing an' stop the moment he
gets it.
David. Dae ye expect him to gae on after he's got it?
Ah, but, Alexander, ye didna get it yer lane this time; it
took the twa o' us. An' hard work it was for the Auld Yin !
Man ! (Playing hoarse) I doot I 've enough voice left for a
— (Bursting out very loud and making the boy laugh.) Aweel !
Whit's it gaein' to be — eh.''
[Curtain]
SPREADING THE NEWS*
LADY GREGORY
CHARACTERS
Bartley Fallon James Ryan
!Mrs. Fallon Mrs. Tarpey
Jack Smith IVIrs. Tully
Shawn Early Joe Muldoon, a policeman
Tim Casey A Removable Magistrate
SCENE: The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall. Mrs.
Tarpey sitting at it. Magistr.\te and Pouceman
cjitcr.
Magistrate. So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and
sheep and mud. No system. What a repulsive sight !
Policeman. That is so, indeed.
Magistrate. I suppose there is a good deal of disorder
in this place?
Policeman. There is.
Magistrate. Common assault?
Policeman. It's common enough.
Magistrate, .\grarian crime, no doubt?
PoLicKLiAN. Tiiat is so.
Magistrate. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing
into houses?
' Included by spcci.al porniission of I^dy Gregory mid of Messrs. G . P.
Piif nam's Sons, the ptihlisliers of Srrrn Short Plays (1909*. nnil other vol-
umes of Lady Gregory's works, .\pplication for acting rights must be
made to Samuel rrcneb, <8 West 38lh Street, New York City.
SPREADING THE NEWS 15
Policeman. There was one time, and there might be
again.
^Iagistrate. That is bad. Does it go any farther than
that?
Policeman. Far enough, indeed.
IVIagistrate. Homicide, then! This district has been
shamefully neglected ! I will change all that. When I was
in the Andaman Islands, my system never failed. Yes, yes,
I will change all that. What has that woman on her stall?
Policeman. Apples mostly — and sweets.
Magistrate. Just see if there are any unlicensed goods
underneath — spirits or the like. We had evasions of the
salt tax in the Andaman Islands.
Policeman (sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of
apples). I see no spirits here — or salt.
INIagistrate {to Mrs. Tarpey). Do you know this town
well, my good woman?
Mrs. Tarpey {Iiolding out some apples). A penny the
haK-dozen, your honor.
Policeman {shouiing). The gentleman is asking do you
know the town! He's the new magistrate!
INIrs. Tarpey {rising and du/iking) . Do I know the town?
I do, to be sure.
IVIagistrate {shouting). What is its chief business?
IVIrs. Tarpey. Business, is it? What business would
the people here have but to be minding one another's busi-
ness?
Magistrate. I mean what trade have they?
Mrs. Tarpey. Not a trade. No trade at all but to be
talking.
Magistrate. I shall learn nothing here.
(James Ryan comes in, pipe in mouth. Seeing Magis-
trate, he retreats quickly, taking pipe from mouth.)
Magistrate. The smoke from that man's pipe had a
16 SPREADING THE NE\YS
greenish look; he may be growing unhceused tobacco at
home. I wish I had Ijrought my telescope to this district.
Come to the post-office; I will telegraph for it. I found it
very useful in the Andaman Islands.
(Magistrate and Policeman go out left.)
Mrs. Tarpey. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my
apples this way and that way. {Begiri:} arranging them.)
Showing off he was to the new magistrate.
{Enter Bartley Fallon and Mrs. Fallon.)
Bartley. Indeed it's a poor country and a scarce coun-
try to be living in. But I 'm thinking if I went to America
it 's long ago the day I 'd be dead !
Mrs. Fallon. So you might, indeed.
{She puts her banket on a barrel and begins putting par-
cels in it, taking them from, under her cloak.)
Bartley. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be
buried in America.
Mrs. Fallon. Never fear, Bartley Fallon, but I '11 give
you a good burying the day you'll die.
Bartley. Maybe it's yourself will be buried in the
graveyard of Cloonmara before me, Mary Fallon, and I
myself that will be dying unbeknownst some night, and no
one a-ncar me. And the cat itself may be gone straying
through the country, and the mice squealing over the quilt.
Mrs. Fallon. I^ave off talking of dying. It might be
twenty years you'll be living yet.
Bartley {with a deep sigh). I *m thinking if I '11 be living
at the end of twenty years, it 's a very old man I '11 be then !
Mrs. Tahi'KY {turns and sees them). Good-morrow,
Bartley Fallon; good-morrow, Mrs. Fallon. NVell, Bartley,
you'll find no cause for complaining to-day; they are all
saying it was a good fair.
Bartley {raising his voice). It was not a good fair,
Mrs. Tarpey. It was a scattered sort of a fair. If we did n't
SPREADING THE NEWS 17
expect more, we got less. That's the way with me always:
whatever I have to sell goes down and whatever I have to
buy goes up. If there 's ever any misfortune coming to this
world, it 's on myself it pitches, like a flock of crows on seed
potatoes.
Mrs. Fallon. Leave off talking of misfortunes, and
listen to Jack Smith that is coming the way, and he singing.
{Voice of Jack Smith heard singing)
I thought, my first love.
There 'd be but one house between you and me,
And I thought I would find
Yourself coaxing my child on your knee.
Over the tide
I would leap with the leap of a swan.
Till I came to the side
Of the wife of the red-haired man!
(Jack Smith comes in; he is a red-haired man, and is
carrying a hayfork.)
IMrs. Tarpey. That should be a good song if I had my
hearing.
Mrs. Fallon (shouting). It's "The Red-haired Man's
Wife."
Mrs. Tarpey. I know it well. That 's the song that has
a skin on it!
(She turns her back to them and goes on arranging her
apples.)
Mrs. Fallon. Where's herself. Jack Smith?
Jack Smith. She was delayed with her washing; bleach-
ing the clothes on the hedge she is, and she dare n't leave
them, with all the tinkers that do be passing to the fair.
It is n't to the fair I came myself, but up to the Five-Acre
Meadow I 'm going, where I have a contract for the hay.
We '11 get a share of it into tramps to-day.
(He lays dovm hayfork and lights his pipe.)
Bartley. You will not get it into tramps to-day. The
18 SPREADING TIIE NEWS
rain will be down on it by evening, and on myself too. It 's
.seldom I ever started on a journey but the rain would come
down on me before I 'd find any place of shelter.
Jack Smith. If it did n't itself, Bartlcy, it is my belief
you would carry a leaky pail on your head in place of a
hat, the way you'd not be without some cause of com-
plaining.
{A voice heard: "Go on, now, go on out o" that. Go on,
I say.")
Jack Smith. Look at that young mare of Pat Ryan's
that is backing into Shaughnessy's bullocks with the dint
of the crowd! Don't be daunted, Pat, I'll give you a hand
with her. {He goes out, tearing his hayfork.)
Mus. Fallon. It's time for ourselves to be going home.
I have all I bought put in the basket. Look at tluTc, Jack
Smith's hayfork he left after him! He'll be wanting it.
(Calls) Jack Smith! Jack Smith! — lie's gone through
the crowd; hurry after him, Bartley, he'll be wanting it.
Baktley. I'll do that. This is no safe place to be leav-
ing it. {lie takes np fork awkwardly and upsets the ba.^ket.)
Look at that now! If there is any basket in the fair upset,
it must be our own basket! {He goes out to right.)
IMus. Fallon. Get out of that ! It is your own fault, it is.
Talk of misfortunes and misfortunes will come. Glory be!
Look at my new egg-cups rolling in every part — and my
two pound of sugar with the pai)er broke —
IMits. Tahi'KY {turning from stall). God help us, Mrs.
Fallon, what happened your basket.'
Mils. Fallon. It's himself that knocked it down,
bad manners to him. {Putting things up) My grand sugar
tlmt's destroyed, and he'll not drink his tea without it. I
had i)est go back to the shop for mort\ much good may it
do him!
{Enter Tim Casey.)
SPREADING THE NEWS 19
Tim Casey. ^Vlle^e is Bartley Fallon, Mrs. Fallon? I
want a word with him before he'll leave the fair. I was
afraid he might have gone home by this, for he's a tem-
perate man.
'Mrs. Fallon. I wish he did go home! It'd be best for
me if he went home straight from the fair green, or if he
never came with me at all! Where is he, is it.^* He's gone
up the road (jerks elbow) following Jack Smith with a
hayfork.
(She goes out to left.)
Tim Casey. Follo\^ang Jack Smith with a hayfork! Did
ever anyone hear the like of that. (Shouts) Did you hear
that news, Mrs. Tarpey?
]Mrs. Tarpey. I heard no news at all.
Tevi Casey. Some dispute I suppose it was that rose
between Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon, and it seems Jack
made off, and Bartley is following him with a hayfork!
Mrs. Tarpey. Is he now? Well, that was quick work!
It 's not ten minutes since the two of them were here, Bart-
ley going home and Jack going to the Five- Acre Meadow;
and I had my apples to settle up, that Jo Muldoon of the
police had scattered, and when I looked round again Jack
Smith was gone, and Bartley Fallon was gone, and Mrs.
Fallon's basket upset, and all in it strewed upon the ground
— the tea here — the two pound of sugar there — the egg-
cups there. Look, now, what a great hardship the deaf-
ness puts upon me, that I did n't hear the commincement
of the fight! Wait till I tell James Ryan that I see below;
he is a neighbor of Bartley 's; it would be a pity if he
wouldn't hear the news!
(She goes out. Enter Shawn Early and IVIrs. Tully.)
Tim Casey. Listen, Shawn Early! Listen, Mrs. Tully,
to the news! Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon had a falling
out, and Jack knocked Mrs. Fallon's basket into the road,
20 SPREADING THE NEWS
and Bartley made an attack on Lira with a hayfork, and
away with Jack, and Bartley after him. Look at the sugar
here yet on the road !
Shawn Early. Do you tell me so? Well, that's a queer
thing, and Bartley Fallon so quiet a man!
Mks. Tully. I would n't wonder at all. I would never
think well of a man that would have that sort of a molder-
ing look. It's likely he has overtaken Jack by this.
(Enter James Ryan and Mrs. Tarpey.)
James Ryan. That is great news INIrs. Tarpey was tell-
ing me! I suppose that's what brought the police and the
magistrate up this way. I was wondering to see them in it
a while ago.
Shawn Early. The police after them? Bartley Fallon
must have injured Jack so. They would n't meddle in a
fight that was only for show!
]\Irs. Tully. AVhy would n't he injure him? There was
many a man killed with no more of a weapon than a hay-
fork.
James Ryan. Wait till I run north as far as Kelly's bar
to spread the news!
(lie goes out.)
Tim Casey. I'll go tell Jack Smith's first cousin that is
standing there south of the church after selling his lambs.
(Goes out.)
Mrs. Tully. I'll go telling a few of the neighbors I see
beyond to the west.
(Goe.f out.)
Shawn Early. I '11 give word of it beyond at the east of
the green.
(Is going out when Mrs. Tarpey aeizes hold of him.)
Mrs. Tarpey. Stop a miinite, Shawn Early, antl tell me
did you sec red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary, in any
place?
SPREADING THE NEWS 21
Shawn Early. I did. At her own house she was, drying
clothes on the hedge as I passed.
Mrs. Tarpey. What did you say she was doiug.?^
Shawn Early {breaking away). Laying out a sheet on
the hedge.
(He goes.)
Mrs. Tarpey. Laying out a sheet for the dead! The
Lord have mercy on us! Jack Smith dead, and his wife
laying out a sheet for his burying! (Calls out) Why did n't
you tell me that before, Shawn Early? Is n't the deafness
the great hardship? Half the world might be dead without
me knowing of it or getting word of it at all ! (She sits down
and rocks herself .) O my poor Jack Smith! To be going to
his work so nice and so hearty, and to be left stretched on
the ground in the full light of the day !
(Enter Tim Casey.)
Tni Casey. WTiat is it, Mrs. Tarpey? What happened
since?
Mrs. Tarpey. O my poor Jack Smith !
Tim Casey. Did Bartley overtake him?
Mrs. Tarpey. O the poor man !
Tim Casey. Is it killed he is?
Mrs. Tarpey. Stretched in the Five-Acre Meadow!
Tim Casey. The Lord have mercy on us ! Is that a fact?
IVIrs. Tarpey. Without the rites of the Church or a
ha'porth !
Tim Casey. Who was telling you?
Mrs. Tarpey. And the wife laying out a sheet for his
corpse. (Sits up and ivipes her eyes.) I suppose they '11 wake
him the same as another?
(Enter JVIrs. Tully, Shawn Early, and James
Ryan.)
Mrs. Tully. There is great talk about this work in
every quarter of the fair.
22 SPREADING THE NEWS
Mrs. Tarpey. Ochoiie! cold and dead. And myself
maybe the last he was speaking to I
James Ryax. The I>ord save us! Is it dead he is?
Tim Casey. Dead surely, and the wife getting provision
for the wake.
Shawn Early. Well, now, had n't Hartley Fallon great
venom in him.'
I\Ihs. Tilly. You may be sure he had some cause.
Why would he have made an end of him if he had not.'
{To Mrs. Tarpey, raising her voice) What was it rose the
dispute at all, Mrs. Tarj)ey ?
Mrs. Tarpey. Not a one of me knows. The last I saw of
them, Jack Smith was standing there, and Hartley Fallon
was standing there, quiet and easy, and he listening to
"The Red-haired Man's Wife."
Mrs. Tully. Do you hear that, Tim Casey.' Do you
hear that, Shawn Early and James Ryan? Hartley Fallon
was here this morning listening to red Jack Smith's wife,
Kitty Keary that was! Listening to her and whispering
with her! It was .she started the fight so!
SiiAW.v Early. She nuist have followed liini fri)in her
own house. It is likely some {xrson roused him.
Tlm Casey. I never knew, before. Hartl<>y Fallon was
great with Jack Smith's wife.
Mits. Tully. How would you know it? Sure it's not in
the .streets they would be calling it. If Mrs. Fallon did n't
know of it , and if I that have the next house to them diil n't
know of it, and if Jack Smith himself did n't know of it, it
is not lik(>ly you would know of it. Tim Casey.
Smawx Early. Let Hartley Fallon take charge of her
from this out so, and let hira provide for her. It is little
])ity she will get from any jH^rson in this parish.
Tim Ca.sky. How can he take charge of her? Sure he has
a wife of his own. Sure you don't think he'd turn soujKir
and in.iiiy her in a Protestant cliiireli?
SPREADING THE NEWS 23
James Ryan. It would be easy for him to marry her if
he brought her to America.
Shawtst Early. With or without Kitty Keary, beheve
me, it is for America he 's making at this minute. I saw the
new magistrate and Jo Muldoon of the pohce going into
the post-office as I came up — there was hurry on them —
you may be sure it was to telegraph they went, the way
he '11 be stopped in the docks at Queenstown !
'Mrs. Tully. It 's likely Kitty Keary is gone with him,
and not minding a sheet or a wake at all. The poor man,
to be deserted by his own wife, and the breath hardly gone
out yet from his body that is lying bloody in the field !
, {Enter Mrs. Fallon.)
Mrs. Fallon. What is it the whole of the town is talk-
ing about? And what is it you yourselves are talking about.''
Is it about my man Bartley Fallon you are talking? Is it
lies about him you are telling, saying that he went killing
Jack Smith? My grief that ever he came into this place at
all!
James Ryan. Be easy now, IVIrs. Fallon. Sure there is
no one at all in the whole fair but is sorry for you !
Mrs. Fallon. Sorry for me, is it? Why would anyone
be sorry for me? Let you be sorry for yourselves, and that
there may be shame on you forever and at the day of judg-
ment, for the words you are saying and the lies you are
telling to take away the character of my poor man, and to
take the good name off of him, and to drive him to destruc-
tion! That is what you are doing!
Shawn Early. Take comfort now, Mrs. Fallon. The
police are not so smart as they think. Sure he might give
them the slip yet, the same as Lynchehaun.
Mrs. Tully. If they do get him, and if they do put a
rope around his neck, there is no one can say he does not
deserve it !
24 SPREADING THE NEWS
Mrs. Fallon. Is that what you arc saying, Bridget
TuUy , and is that what you think? I tell you it 's too much
talk you have, making yourself out to be such a great one,
and to he running down every resj^ectahle person! A rope,
is it? It is n't much of a rope was needed to tie up your own
furniture the day you came into Martin Tully's house, and
you never bringing as much as a blanket, or a penny, or a
suit of clothes with you, and I myself bringing seventy
pounds and two feather beds. And now you are stiffer than
a woman would have a hundred pounds! It is too much
talk the whole of you have. A rope is it? I tell you the
whole of this town is full of liars and schemers that would
hang you up for half a glass of whiskey (turning to go).
People they are you would n't believe as much as daylight
from, without you'd get up to have a look at it yourself.
Killing Jack Smith indeed! ^^^lere are you at all, Bartley,
till I bring you out of this? My nice quiet little man! My
decent comrade! He that is as kind and as harmless as an
innocent beast of the field! He'll be doing no harm at all if
he'll shed the blood of some of you after this day's work!
That much would be no harm at all. {Calls out) Bartley!
Bartley Fallon! ^^^lere are you? {doing out) Did anyone
sec Bartley Fallon?
(.1// turn to look after her.)
Jamks Ryan. It is hard for her to believe any such a
thing, God help her!
(Enter Bartley F.\llon /rom right, carrying hayfork.)
Bautlkv. It is what I often said to myself, if there is
ever any misfortune coming to this world it is on myself it
is sure to come!
(.1// turn round anil fare him.)
Bartley. To be going about with this fork and to find
no one to take it, and no place to leave it down, and I want-
ing to be gone out of this — Is that you, Shawn I'arly?
SPREADING THE NEWS 25
{Holds out fork.) It's well I met you. You have no call to
be leaving the fair for a while the way I have, and how can
I go till I 'm rid of this fork? Will you take it and keep it
until such time as Jack Smith —
Shawn Early (backing). I will not take it, Bartley Fal-
lon, I 'm very thankful to you!
Bartley (turning to apple stall). Look at it now, Mrs.
Tarpey , it was here I got it ; let me thrust it in under the
stall. It will lie there safe enough, and no one will take
notice of it until such time as Jack Smith —
Mrs. Tarpey. Take your fork out of that ! Is it to put
trouble on me and to destroy me you want? putting it there
for the police to be rooting it out maybe.
(Thrusts him hack.)
Bartley. That is a very unneighborly thing for you to
do, Mrs. Tarpey. Had n't I enough care on me with that
fork before this, running up and down with it like the
swinging of a clock, and af card to lay it down in any place !
I wish I 'd never touched it or meddled with it at all!
James Ryan. It is a pity, indeed, you ever did.
Bartley. Will you yourself take it, James Ryan? You
were always a neighborly man.
Jajmes Ryan (backing) . There is many a thing I would
do for you, Bartley Fallon, but I won't do that !
Shawn Early. I tell you there is no man will give you
any help or any encouragement for this day's work. If it
was something agrarian now —
Bartley. If no one at all will take it, maybe it 's best to
give it up to the police.
Tim Casey. There 'd be a welcome for it with them
surely !
(Laughter.)
Mrs. Tully. And it is to the police Kitty Keary herself
will be brought.
26 SPREADING THE NEWS
Mas. Tarpey (rocking io and fro). I wonder now who
will take the expense of the wake for poor Jack Smith?
Bartley. The wake for Jack Smith!
Tim Casey, ^^^ly would n't he get a wake as well as an-
other? ^Vould you begrudge him that much?
Bartley. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you?
Shawn Early. The whole to\Mi knows of it by this.
Bartley. Do they say what way did he die?
James Ryan. You don't know that yourself, I suppose,
Bartley Fallon? You don't know he was followed and that
he was laid dead with the stab of a hayfork?
Bartley. The stab of a ha^-f ork !
Shawn Early. You don't know, I suppose, that the
body was found in the Five-Acre Meadow?
Bartley. The Five- Acre Meadow!
Tim Casey. It is likely you don't know that the police
are after the man that did it?
Bartley. The man that did it!
Mrs. Tully. You don't know, maybe, that he was made
away with for the sake of Kitty Keary, his wife?
Bartley. Kitty Keary, his wife! [SUs down bewildered.)
^Irs. Tully. And what have you to say now, Bartley
Fallon?
Bartley (crossing himself). I to bring that fork here,
and to find that news before nicl It is much if I can ever
stir from this place at all, or reach as far as the road!
Tim Casey. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and Jo
Mtildoon along with him! It's best for us to quit this.
Shawn Early. That is so. It is best not to be niixetl in
this business at all.
Jamks Ryan. Bad as he is, I would n't like to bo an in-
former against any man.
(All hurry away except Mrs. Tarpkv. trho remains be-
hind her stall. Enter Magistrate and Policeman.)
SPREADING THE NEWS 27
IVIagistrate. I knew the district was in a bad state, but
I did not expect to be confronted with a miu-der at the first
fair I came to.
Policeman. I am sure you did not, indeed.
Magistrate. It was well I had not gone home. I caught
a few words here and there that roused my suspicions.
Policeman. So they would, too.
IVIagistrate. You heard the same story from everyone
you asked?
Policeman. The same story — or if it was not altogether
the same, anyway it was no less than the first story.
IVIagistrate. What is that man doing? He is sitting
alone with a hayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder
was done with a hayfork!
Policeman {in a tvhisper). That's the very man they
say did the act, Bartley Fallon himself!
]VL\gistrate. He must have found escape difficult — •
he is trying to brazen it out. A convict in the Andaman Is-
lands tried the same game, but he could not escape my
system! Stand aside — Don't go far — Have the handcuffs
ready. (He walks up to Bartley, folds his arms, and stands
before him.) Here, my man, do you know anything of John
Smith?
Bartley. Of John Smith! Who is he, now?
Policeman. Jack Smith, sir — 'Red Jack Smith!
Magistrate (coming a step nearer and tapping him on the
shoulder). Where is Jack Smith?
Bartley (with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly) .
Where is he, indeed?
Magistrate. What have you to tell?
Bartley. It is where he was this morning, standing in
this spot, singing his share of songs — no, but lighting his
pipe — scraping a match on the sole of his shoe —
Magistrate. I ask you, for the third time, where is he?
28 SPREADING THE NEWS
Bartley. I would n't like to say that. It is a great mys-
tery, and it is hard to say of any man, did he earn hatred
or love.
Magistrate. Tell me all you know.
Bartley. All that I know — Well, there are the three
estates; there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there
is —
Magistr.\te. Nonsense! This is trifling! Get to the
point.
Bartley. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so?
That is the teaching of the clergy. Mayl)C you hold with
the old people. It is what they do be saying, that the shadow
goes wandering, and the soul is tired, and the body is taking
a rest — The shadow! (>>tarts up.) I was nearly sure I saw
Jack Smith not ten minutes ago at the corner of the forge,
and I lost him again — Was it his ghost I saw, do you
think?
Magistr.\te {to Policeman). Conscience-struck! lie
will confess all now!
Bartley. Ilis ghost to come before me! It is likely it
was on account of the fork! I to have it and he to have no
way to defend himself the time he met with his death!
Magistr.\te (fo Policeman). I must note down his
words. {Takes out notebook. To Bartley) I warn you
that your words are being noted.
Bautlky. If I h;id ha' run faster in the beginning, this
terror wouKl not be on meat the latter end! Maybe he will
cast it up against me at the day of judgment — I would n't
wonder at all at that.
Magistrate (writing). At the day of judgment —
Bartley. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me —
is it coming after nio always by day it will be, and strip-
ping the rlotluvs olT in the night time? — I would n't won-
der at all al I hat, being as I am an unfortunate man!
SPREADING THE NEWS 29
Magistrate {sternly). Tell me this truly. What was
the motive of this crime?
Bartley. The motive, is it?
IVIagistrate. Yes, the motive; the cause.
Bartley. I 'd sooner not say that.
IVIagistrate. You 'd better tell me truly. Was it money ?
Bartley. Not at all! What did poor Jack Smith ever
have in his pockets unless it might be his hands that would
be in them?
Magistrate. Any dispute about land?
Bartley (indignanily) . Not at all ! He never was a grab-
ber or grabbed from anyone !
Magistrate. You will find it better for you if you tell
me at once.
Bartley. I tell you I would n't for the whole world wish
to say what it was — it is a thing I would not like to be
talking about.
Magistrate. There is no use in hiding it. It will be dis-
covered in the end.
Bartley. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly
everybody knows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell
no lie; where would be the use? {Piits his hand to his mouth
and IMagistrate stoops.) Don't be putting the blame on
the parish, for such a thing was never done in the parish
before — it was done for the sake of Kitty Keary, Jack
Smith's wife.
Magistrate (to Policeman). Put on the handcuffs.
We have been saved some trouble. I knew he would con-
fess if taken in the right way.
(Policeman puts on handcuffs.)
Bartley. Handcuffs now! Glory be! I always said, if
there was ever any misfortune coming to this place it was
on myself it would fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's no
wonder at all in that.
30 SPREADING THE NEWS
{Enter Mrs. Fallos, foUoired by the re^i. She is looking
back at them as she speaks.)
Mrs. Fallo-V. Telling lies the whole of the people of this
town are; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot !
Speaking against niy poor respectable man! Saying he
made an end of Jack Smith! My decent comrade! There
is no better man and no kinder man in the whole of the
five parishes! It's little annoyance he ever gave to any-
one! (Turns and sees him.) What in the earthly world
do I see before me? Bartlcy Fallon in charge of the police!
Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, hartley, what did you do
at all at all?
Bartley. O ^Vlary, there h;is a great misfortune come
upon me! It is what I always said, that if there is ever any
misfortune —
]\Ihs. Fallon. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched
I am?
Magistrate. This man has been arrested on a charge
of murder.
Mrs. Fallon, Whose charge is that? Don't l)clicve
them! They are all liars in this place! Give me back my
man!
Maglstrate. It is natural you shouKl take his part, but
you have no cause of complaint against your neighbors.
He has been arrested for the murder of John Smith, on his
own confession.
Mrs. Fallon. The saints of heaven protect us! And
what did he want killing Jack Smith?
Magistuatp:. It is best you should know all. He did it
on account of a love-afTair with the murdered man's wife.
Mns. Fallon (sitting down). With Jack Smith's wife!
With Kitty Keary! — Ochonc, the traitor!
The Crowd. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor,
indeed.
SPREADING THE NEWS 31
Mrs. Tully. To America he was bringing her, Mrs.
Fallon.
Bartley. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you —
Mrs. Fallon. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any
word you '11 say ! (Stops her ears.) Oh, is n't he the treacher-
ous villain? Ohone go deo!
Bartley. Be quiet till I speak! Listento what Isay!
Mrs. Fallon. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming
to the town, so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like
that in his heart!
Bartley. Is it your wits you have lost, or is it I myself
that have lost my wits?
Mrs. Fallon. And it 's hard I earned you, slaving, slav-
ing — and you grumbhng, and sighing, and coughing, and
discontented, and the priest wore out anointing you, with
all the times you threatened to die !
Bartley. Let you be quiet till I tell you!
Mrs. Fallon. You to bring such a disgrace into the
parish. A thing that was never heard of before!
Bartley. Will you shut your mouth and hear me
speaking?
Mrs. Fallon. And if it was for any sort of a fine hand-
some woman, but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty
Keary, that's not four feet high hardly, and not three
teeth in her head unless she got new ones! May God re-
ward you, Bartley Fallon, for the black treachery in your
heart and the wickedness in your mind, and the red blood
of poor Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand!
(Voice of Jack Smith heard singing^
The sea shall be dry.
The earth under mourning and ban!
Then loud shall he cry
For the wife of the red-haired man!
Bartley. It's Jack Smith's voice — I never knew a
ghost to sing before. It is after myself and the fork he is
32 SPREADING THE NEWS
coming! (Goes back. Enter Jack Smith.) Let one of you
give him the fork and I will be clear of him now and for
eternity!
Mrs. T.\rpey. The Lord have mercy on us! Red Jack
Smith! The man that was going to be waked!
James Ryan. Ls it back from the grave you are come?
Shawn Early. Is it alive you are, or is it dead you are?
Tim Casey. Is it yourself at all that's in it?
Mrs. Tully. Is it letting on you were to be dead?
Mrs. Fallon. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary,
your wife, from bringing my man away with her to
America!
Jack Smith. It is what I think, the wits are gone astray
on the whole of you. What would my wife want bringing
Bart ley Fallon to America?
Mrs. Fallon. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you
she wants. Jack Smith, and to bring him away from my-
self. That's what the two of them had settled together.
Jack Smith. I'll break the head of any man that says
that! Who is it says it? (To Tim Casey) Was it yt)U said
it? (To Shawn Early) Was it you?
All Together (backing and shaking their heads). It
was n't I said it!
Jack Smith. Tell me the name of any man that said it!
All Together (pointing to Bartley). It wjis him that
said it!
Jack Smith. I/ct me at him till I break his head!
(Bartley backs in terror. Neighbors hold Jack Smith
back.)
Jack Smith (frying to free himself). Ix-t me at him! Is
n't he the j)leasant sort of a scarecrow for any wi^nan t<i be
crossing the ocean with! It 's back from the docks of New
York he'd be turned (trying to rush at him again), with a lie
in his mouth and trcachcrv in his heart, and anitthcr man's
SPREADING THE NEWS 33
wife by his side, and he passing her off as his own ! Let me
at him, can't you?
{Makes another rush, but is held back.)
]\L\GisTRATE (pointing to Jack Smith). Policeman, put
the handcuffs on this man. I see it all now. A case of false
impersonation, a conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice.
There was a case in the Andaman Islands, a murderer of
the Mopsa tribe, a religious enthusiast —
Policeman. So he might be, too.
Magistrate. We must take both these men to the
scene of the murder. We must confront them with the
body of the real Jack Smith.
Jack Smith. I'll break the head of any man that will
find my dead body !
IVIagistrate. I'll call more help from the barracks.
{Blows FoLiCEMAN^s whistle.)
Bartley. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack
Smith are put together in the one cell for the night, the
handcuffs will be taken off him, and his hands will be free,
and murder will be done that time surely!
^Magistrate. Come on!
{They turn to the right.)
[Curtain]
THE BEGGAR AND THE KIXG'
WINTHROP PARKIIURST
CHABACTERS
The King of a GRE-'^.T Country
Ills Servant
A Beggar
A chamber in the palace overlooks a courtyard. The season is
midsummer. The windows of the palace are open, ami
from a distance there comes the sound of a man's voice
crying for bread. The Kisa sits in a golden chair. A
golden crown is on his head, and he holds in his hand a
sceptre tvhich is also of gold. A Servant stands by his
side, fanning him wiih an enormous fan of peacock-
feathers.
The Beggar (outside). Bread. Bread. Bread. Give me
.some bread.
The Ki.ng (languidly). Who is that crying in the .street
for bread?
The Servant (fanning). O king, it is a l)eggar.
The King. Why does he cry for bread.'
The Servant. O king, lie cries for bread in order that he
may fill his belly.
' Reprinto<l from Drama, No. 3:1, Fcbrunry, 1910, by pormisaion of Mr
rurkhurst and the odltors of Drama. Copyri^jhtiHl. lOlS, as a (Irnm.itio
comjMjsifion, by Winthrop Piirkhursl. All rife'lifs of production re-
scrvid by aullior.
THE BEGGAR AND THE KING 35
The King. I do not like the sound of his voice. It an-
noys me very much. Send him away.
The Servant (bowing). O king, he has been sent away.
The King. If that is so, then why do I hear his voice?
The Servant. O king, he has been sent away many
times, yet each time that he is sent away he returns again,
crying louder than he did before.
The King. He is very unwise to annoy me on such a
warm day. He must be punished for his impudence. Use
the lash on him.
The Servant. O king, it has been done.
The King. Then bring out the spears.
The Servant. O king, the guards have already bloodied
their swords many times driving him away from the palace
gates. But it is of no avail.
The King. Then bind him and gag him if necessary. If
need be cut out his tongue. I do not like the sound of the
fellow's voice. It annoys me very much.
The Servant. O king, thy orders were obeyed even
yesterday.
The King (Jrowning). No. That cannot be. A beggar
cannot cry for bread who has no tongue.
The Servant. Behold he can — if he has grown another.
The King. What ! Why, men are not given more than
one tongue in a lifetime. To have more than one tongue is
treason.
The Servant. If it is treason to have more than one
tongue, O king, then is this beggar surely guilty of treason.
The King (pompously). The punishment for treason
is death. See to it that the fellow is slain. And do not fan
me so languidly. I am very warm.
The Servant (fanning more rapidly). Behold, O great
and illustrious king, all thy commands were obeyed even
yesterday.
36 THE BEGGAR AND THE KING
The King. How! Do not jest with thy king.
The Servant. If I jest, then there is truth in a jest.
Even yesterday, O king, as I have tokl thee, the beggar
which thou now hearest crying aloud in the street was slain
by thy soldiers with a sword.
The King. Do ghosts eat bread? Forsooth, men who
have been slain with a sword do not go about in the streets
crying for a piece of bread.
The Servant. Forsooth, they do if they are fashioned
as this beggar.
The King. \Yhy, heisbutanian. Surely he cannot have
more than one life in a lifetime.
The Servant. Listen to a tale, O king, which happened
yesterday.
The King. I am listening.
The Servant. Thy soldiers smote this beggar for crj'ing
aloud in the streets tor bread, but his wounds arc already
healed. They cut out his tongue, but he iininodiatcly grew
another. They slew him, yet he is now alive.
The King. Ah! that is a tale which I cannot understand
at all.
The Servant. O king, it may be well.
The King. I cannot understand what thou sayest,
citiier.
The Servant. O king, that may be well also.
The King. Thou art speaking now in riddles. I do not
like riddles. They confuse my brain.
The Servant. Behold, O king, if I sjx'ak in ridilles it is
l)ecause a riddle hjis come to pass.
(The Bec;oar's voice suddenly cnca out liyudli/.)
The Beggar (outside). Bread. Bread, (iive me some
bread.
The King. Ah! He is crj'ing out again. 1 1 is voice seems
to me louder than it was before.
THE BEGGAR AND THE KING 37
The Servant. Hunger is as food to the lungs, O king.
The King. His lungs I will wager are well fed. Ha, ha!
The Servant. But alas! his stomach is quite empty.
The King. That is not my business.
The Servant. Should I not perhaps fling him a crust
from the window^?
The King. No! To feed a beggar is always foolish.
Every crumb that is given to a beggar is an evil seed from
which springs another fellow like him.
The Beggar (outside). Bread. Bread. Give me some
bread.
The Servant. He seems very hungry, O king.
The King. Yes. So I should judge.
The Servant. If thou wilt not let me fling him a piece
of bread thine ears must pay the debts of thy hand.
The King. A king can have no debts.
The Servant. That is true, O king. Even so, the noise
of this fellow's begging must annoy thee greatly.
The King. It does.
The Servant. Doubtless he craves only a small crust
from thy table and he would be content.
The King. Yea, doubtless he craves only to be a king
and he would be very happy indeed.
The Servant. Do not be hard, O king. Thou art ever
wise and just. This fellow is exceedingly hungry. Dost thou
not command me to fling him just one small crust from the
window?
The King. My commands I have already given thee.
See that the beggar is driven away.
The Servant. But alas! O king, if he is driven away he
will return again even as he did before.
The King. Then see to it that he is slain. I cannot be
annoyed with the sound of his voice.
The Servant. But alas! O great and illustrious king, if
38 THE BEGGAR .WD THE KING
he is slain he will come to life again even as he did before.
The King. Ah! that is true. But his voice troubles me.
I do not hke to hear it.
The Servant. His lungs are fattened with hunger. Of a
truth they are quite strong.
The King. Well, propose a remedy to weaken them.
The Servant. A remedy, O king?
{He stops fanning.)
The King. That is what I said. A remedy — and do not
stop fanning me. I am exceedingly warm.
The Servant (fanning vigorously). A crust of ]>read, O
king, dropped from yonder window — forsooth that might
prove a remedy.
The King (angrily). I have said I will not give him a
crust of bread. If I gave him a crust to-day he would be
just as hungry again to-morrow, and my troubles would be
as great as before.
TjieSkkvant. That is true, O king. Thy mind is surely
Gllod with great learning.
The King. Therefore, some other remedy must lie
found.
The Servant. O king, the words of thy illustrious
mouth are as very meat-balls of wisdom.
The Kino (musing). Now let me consider. Tiiou sayest
he tloes not suffer pain —
The Servant. Therefore he cannot be tortured.
The King. And he will not die —
The Servant. Therefore it is useless to kill him.
The King. Now let me consider. I nui>t lliiiik of some
other way.
The Servant. Perhaps a small crust of bread. () king —
The King. Ha! I have it. I have it. I myself will order
him to stoj).
The Servant {horrified). O king!
THE BEGGAR AND THE KING 39
The King. Send the beggar here.
The Servant. O king!
The King. Ha! I rather fancy the fellow will stop his
noise when the king commands him to. Ha, ha, ha !
The Servant. O king, thou wilt not have a beggar
brought into thy royal chamber!
The King (pleased with his idea). Yea. Go outside and
tell this fellow that the king desires his presence.
The Servant. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt
surely not do this thing. Thou wilt surely not soil thy
royal eyes by looking on such a filthy creature. Thou wilt
surely not contaminate thy lips by speaking to a common
beggar who cries aloud in the streets for bread.
The King. My ears have been soiled too much already.
Therefore go now and do as I have commanded thee.
The Servant. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt
surely not —
The King (roann^a^Hm). I said, Go! (The Servant,
abashed, goes out.) Forsooth, I fancy the fellow will stop his
bawling when I order him to. Forsooth, I fancy he will be
pretty well frightened when he hears that the king desires
his presence. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
The Servant (returning) . O king, here is the beggar.
(A shambling creature hung in filthy rags follows The
Servant slowly into the royal chamber.)
The King. Ha! A magnificent sight, to be sure. Art
thou the beggar who has been crying aloud in the streets
for bread?
The Beggar (in a faint voice, after a slight pause). Art
thou the king?
The King. I am the king.
The Servant (aside to The Beggar). It is not proper
for a beggar to ask a question of a king. Speak only as thou
art spoken to.
40 THE BEGGAR AND THE KING
The King {to The Servant) . Do thou likewise. ( To The
Beggar) I have ordered thee here to speak to thee concern-
ing a very grave matter. Thou art the beggar, I under-
stand, who often cries aloud in the streets for bread. Now,
the complaint of thy voice annoys me greatly. Therefore,
do not beg any more.
The Beggar (faintly). I — I do not understand.
The King. I said, do not beg any more.
The Beggar. I — I do not understand.
The Servant (aside to The Beggar). The king has com-
manded thee not to beg for bread any more. The noise of
thy voice is as garbage in his ears.
The King (to The Servant). Ha! An excellent flower
of speech. Pin it in thy buttonhole. (To The Beggar)
Thine ears, I see, are in need of a bath even mure than thy
body. I said. Do not beg any more.
The Beggar. I — ^ I do not understand.
The Kino (making a trumpet of his hands and shouting).
DO NOT BEG ANY MORE.
The Bec;gar. I — I do not understand.
The Kin(j. Heavens! He is deafer than a stone wall.
The Servant. O king, he cannot be deaf, for he under-
stood me quite easily when I spoke to him in the street.
The King (/oThe Bkgcjar). Art thoudcaf.^ Canst thou
hear what I am saying to thee now?
The Beg(7ar. Alas! I can hear every wonl perfectly.
The Kinc;. Fft! The inii)udeuce. Thy tongue sludl be
cut out for this.
The Servant. O king, to cut out his tongue is useless,
for lie will grow another.
The King. No matter. It shall be cut out anj^way. (To
The Beggar) I have ordered thee not to beg any more in
the streets. What meanest thou by saying thou dost not
understand?
THE BEGGAR AND THE KING 41
The Beggar. The words of thy mouth I can hear per-
fectly. But their noise is only a foolish tinkling in my ears.
The King. Fft! Only a — ! A lash will tinkle thy hide
for thee if thou dost not cure thy tongue of impudence. I,
thy king, have ordered thee not to beg any more in the
streets for bread. Signify, therefore, that thou wilt obey
the orders of thy king by quickly touching thy forehead
thrice to the floor.
The Beggar. That is impossible.
The Servant (aside to The Beggar). Come. It is not
safe to tempt the patience of the king too long. His patience
is truly great, but he loses it most wondrous quickly.
The King. Come, now : I have ordered thee to touch thy
forehead to the floor.
The Servant {nudging him) . And quickly.
The Beggar. Wherefore should I touch my forehead to
the floor?
The King. In order to seal thy promise to thy king.
The Beggar. But I have made no promise. Neither
have I any king.
The King. Ho! He has made no promise. Neither has
he any king. Ha, ha, ha. I have commanded thee not to
beg any more, for the sound of thy voice is grievous unto
my ears. Touch thy forehead now to the floor, as I have
commanded thee, and thou shalt go from this palace a free
man. Refuse, and thou wilt be sorry before an hour that
thy father ever came within twenty paces of thy mother.
The Beggar. I have ever lamented that he did. For to
be born into this world a beggar is a more unhappy thing
than any that I know — unless it is to be born a king.
The King. Fft! Thy tongue of a truth is too lively for
thy health. Come, now, touch thy forehead thrice to the
floor and promise solemnly that thou wilt never beg in the
streets again. And hurry!
42 THE BEGGAR AND THE KING
The Servant (aside). It is wise to do as thy king cora-
mancls thee. His patience is near an end.
The King. Do not be afraid to soil the floor vdih thy
forehead. I will graciously forgive thee for that.
(The Beggar stands mofionlcis.)
The Servant. I said, it is not wise to keep the king
waiting.
(TiiE Beggar docs not more.)
The King. Well? (A pause.) Well? (In a rage) WELL?
The Beggar. O king, thou hast commanded me not to
beg in the streets for bread, for the noise of my voice offends
thee. Now therefore do I likewise command thee to remove
thy crown from thy forehead and throw it from yonder win-
dow into the street. For when thou hast thrown thy cro^Ti
into the street, then will I no longer be obliged to beg.
The King. Fft! Thou comraandcst vie! Thou, a beggar
from the streets, commandcst vie, a king, to remove my
crown from my forehead and throw it from yonder window
into the street!
The Begg.\r. That is what I said.
The King. Why, dost thou not know I can have thee
slain for such words?
The Beggar. No. Thou canst not have me slain. The
spears of thy soldiers are as straws against my body.
The King. Ha! We shall see if tiicy are. We shall see!
The Servant. O king, it is indeed true. It is even as he
has told thee.
The Bp:ggar. I have rerjuircd thee to remove thy croi^-n
from thy forehead. If so be thou wilt throw it from yonder
window into the street, my voice will cease to annoy thee
any more. But if tliou refuse, then thou wilt wish thou
hadst never had any crown at all. For thy days will be
filled with a terrible boding and thy nights will be full of
horrors, even as a ship is full of rats.
THE BEGGAR AND THE KING 43
The King. Why, this is insolence. This is treason !
The Beggar. Wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder
window?
The King. Why, this is high treason !
The Beggar. I ask thee, wilt thou throw thy crown
from yonder window?
The Servant (aside to The King). Perhaps it were wise
to humor him, O king. After thou hast thrown thy crown
away I can go outside and bring it to thee again.
The Beggar. Well? Well? {He points to the vnndow.)
Well?
The King. No! I will not throw my crown from that
window — no, nor from any other window. What ! Shall I
obey the orders of a beggar? Never!
The Beggar (preparing to leave). Truly, that is spoken
like a king. Thou art a king, so thou wouldst prefer to lose
thy head than that silly circle of gold that so foolishly sits
upon it. But it is well. Thou art a king. Thou couldst not
prefer otherwise. (He walks calmly toward the door.)
The King (to The Servant). Stop him! Seize him!
Does he think to get off so easily with his impudence !
The Beggar (coolly). One of thy servants cannot stop
me. Neither can ten thousand of them do me any harm. I
am stronger than a mountain. I am stronger than the sea !
The King. Ha ! We will see about that, we will see about
that. (To The Servant) Hold him, I say. Call the
guards. He shall be put in chains.
The Beggar. My strength is greater than a mountain
and my words are more fearful than a hurricane. This serv-
ant of thine cannot even touch me. With one breath of my
mouth I can blow over this whole palace.
The King. Dost thou hear the impudence he is offering
me? WTiy dost thou not seize him? What is the matter
with thee? Why dost thou not call the guards?
41 THE BEGG.\R AND THE KING
The Beggar. I will not harm thee now. I will onlj' cry
aloud in the streets for bread wherewith to fill ray belly.
But one day I will not be so kind to thee. On that day my
mouth will be filled with a rushing wind and my arms will
become as strong as steel rods, and I will blow over this
palace, and all the bones in thy foolish body I will snap
between my fingers. I will beat upon a large drum and
thy head will be my drumstick. I will not do these things
now. But one day I will do them. Therefore, when my
voice sounds again in thine cars, begging for bread,
remember what I have told thee. Remember, O king, and
be afraid!
{He walks out. The Servant, struck dumb, stares after
him. The King sits in his chair, dazed.)
TiikJ^I'SG {suddenly collecting his triU). After him! After
him! lie mu.st not be allowed to escape! After him!
The Servant {faltering). O king — I cannot seem to
move.
The King. Quick, then. Call the guards. He must be
caught and put in chains. Quick, I say. Call the guards!
The Servant. O king — I cannot .seem to call them.
The King. How! Art thou dumb? Ali!
(Thk Bkcoau's roicc is heard outside.)
The Beggar. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.
The King. Ah. {He iur?is toward the window, half-
frightened, and then, almost instinctively, rai.fcs his hands
toward his crown, and seems on the point of to.-<.s-ing it out the
window. Bui with an oath he replaces it and presses it firmly
on his head.) How! .Vm I afraiil of a beggar!
'VuEliF.ca.KH {continuing outside). Bread. Bread. Give
me some bread.
The Kino {with terrible anger). Close that window!
(The Servant stands stupent, and the voice of The
Beggar gri)ws louder as the curtain falls.)
TIDES ^
GEORGE MIDDLETON
CHARACTERS
William White, a famous Internationalist
Hilda, his wife
Wallace, their son
SCENE: At the Whites'; spring, 1917. A simply furnished
study. The walls are lined with bookshelves, indicating,
by their improvised quality, that they have been increased
as occasion demanded. On these are stacked, in addition
to the books themselves, many files of papers, magazines,
and ^^ reports." The large work-table, upon which rests a
double student lamp and a telephone, is conspicuous. A
leather couch with pillows is opposite, pointing toward a
doorway which leads into the living-room. There is also
a doorway in back, which apparently opens on the hall-
way beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of its gen-
eral disorder: it is essentially the workshop of a busy man
of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day
comes in through the window, flooding the table.
William White is standing by the window, smoking
a pipe. He is about fifty, of striking appearance: the
visual incarnation of the popular conception of a leader
^ Reprinted by permission of the author and of Messrs. Henry Holt
and Company, the publishers, from the volume, Masks and Other One-
Act Plays (1920).
46 TIDES
of men. There is authority and strength in the lines of h is
face; his whole personality is commanding; his voice has
all the modulations of a well-trained orator; his gestures
are sweejring — for, even in private conversation^ he is
habitually conscious of an audience. Othericise, he is
simple and engaging, icith some indication of his humble
origin.
On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand, Hilda
White, his icife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in
fact, though in appearance she is as one who has been
worn a bit by the struggle of many years. Her manner
contrasts with her husband's: her inheritance of delicate
refinement is ever present in her soft voice and gentle ges-
ture. Yet she, too, suggests strength — the sort which icill
endure all for a fixed intention.
It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have
been happy comrades in their life together, and that a deep
fundamental bond has united t!iem in spite of the different
social spheres from ichich each has sprung.
"White {seeing she has paused). Go o:\, dear; go on. Let \s
hear all of it.
IIii.DA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how dilTer-
ently he feels about the war.
White (unth quiet sarcasm). But it 's been so many years
sinee your respectable brother has houoretl me even with
the slightest allusion —
Hilda. H you eare for what he says — (continuing to
read the letter) — *' Remember. Hilda, you are an American.
I don't suppose your husband considers that an honor; but
I do."
White (interrupting). And what kind of an American
has he been in times of peace? lie's wrung forty per cent
profit out of his factory and fought every etTort of the work-
ers to organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites!
I
TIDES 47
Hilda (reading). "His violent opposition to America
going in has been disgrace enough — "
White. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.
Hilda. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (Reading)
" — been disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm
writing in the faint hope, if you are not too much under his
influence, that you will persuade him to keep his mouth
shut. This country will tolerate no difference of opinion
now. You radicals had better get on board the band wagon.
It 's prison or acceptance." (She stops reading.) He 's right,
dear. There will be nothing more intolerant than a so-called
democracy at war.
White. By God! It 's superb! Silence for twenty years
and now he writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will
be further disgraced by her radical husband.
Hilda. We must n't descend to his bitterness.
White. No : I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten
doctrine of forgiving my enemies.
Hilda. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all
differently.
White. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these
twenty years — ever since you married me — "out of your
class," as he called it.
Hilda. Oh, hush. Will. I 've been so happy with you I
can bear him no ill will. Besides, does n't his attitude seem
natural? You must n't forget that no man in this coimtry
has fought his class more than you. That hurts — espe-
cially coming from an acquired relative.
White. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell
you something you may not know. (Bitterly) Whenever
I've spoken against privilege and wealth it's been his
pudgy, comfortable face I 've shaken my fist at. He's been
so damned comfortable all his life.
Hilda. (She looks at him in surprise.) Why, Will, you
48 TWYS
surely don't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make
you out. What 's come over you these last weeLs? You've
always hecn above such personal bitterness; even when you
were most condemned and ridiculed. If it were anybody
but you I'd think you had done something you were
ashamed of.
White. AMiat do you mean?
'Hilda. Have n't you sometimes noticed that is what
i)itterness to another means: a failure within oneself? {He
goes over to chair and sits icithout answering.) I can tliink of
you beaten by outside things — that sort of failure we all
meet; but somehow I can never thviik of you failing your-
self. You've been so brave and self-reliant: you 've fought
so hard for the truth.
White {tapping letter). But he thinks he knows the truth,
too.
IIiLD.\.. He's also an intense nature.
White {thoughlfulhf after a pau.tc). Yet there is some
truth in what he says.
Hilda {.smiling). Rut you tliihrt like it — coming from
him?
White. It will be different with you and me now that
America's gone in.
Hilda. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is al-
ways farthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the
sort who would compromise to escai)e the persecution which
is the resource of the non-combatant.
{The phone ritigs: he looks al his watch.)
White. That 's for me.
Hilda. I^t me. {She goes.) It may Ix- Wallace. (.4/
phone) Yes: this is IIG Chelsea. Long Distance? {He
.starts as she says to him) It must be our boy. (.-1/ phone)
Who? Oh — 3/r. William White? Yes: he '11 be here. {She
hangs tip receiver.) She'll ring when she gets the connection
through.
TIDES 49
White (turning away). It takes so long these days.
Hilda. Furiny he did n't ask for me.
White. What made you think it was Wallace?
Hilda. I took it for granted. He must be having a hard
time at college with all the boys full of war fever.
White. And a father with my record.
Hilda. He should be proud of the example. He has more
than other boys to cling to these days when everybody is
losing his head as the band plays and the flag is waved. He
won't be carried away by it. He '11 remember all we taught
him. Ah, Will, when I think we now have conscription —
as they have in Germany — I thank God every night our
boy is too young for the draft.
White. But when his time comes what will he do?
Hilda (calmly). He will do it with courage.
White (referring to her brother's letter). Either prison or
acceptance !
Hilda. I would rather have my son in prison than have
him do what he felt was wrong. Would n't you?
White (evasively). We won't have to face that problem
for two years.
Hilda. And when it comes — if he falters — I '11 give
him these notes of that wonderful speech you made at the
International Conference in 1910. (Picking it up) I was
looking through it only this morning.
White (troubled). Oh, that speech.
Hilda (glancing through it with enthusiasm). "All wars
are imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas invest-
ments, trade routes, private control of ammunition facto-
ries, secret diplomacy — "
White. Don't you see that 's all dead wood?
Hilda (not heeding him). This part gave me new strength
when I thought of Wallace. (Reading ivith eloquence) "War
will stop when young men put Internationalism above
50 TIDES
Nationality, the law of God above the dictates of statesmen,
the law of love above the law of hate, the law of self-sacri-
fice above the law of profit. There must lie no boundaries in
man's thought. Let the young men of the world once throw
down their arms, let them once refuse to point their guns at
human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world will melt
away and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts of
men!
WuiTE (taking it from her). And I made you believe it!
What silly prophets we radicals were. {He tears ii up.)
Mere scraps of paper, dear; scraps of paper, now.
Hilda. But it was the truth; it still is the truth.
White. Hilda, there 's something I want to talk over
very, very seriously with you. I've l>een putting it off.
Hilda. Yes, dear.'' (The outer door is heard to bang.)
Listen: was n't that the front door.'
White. Perhaps it's the maid?
Hilda (a bit nervoiishj). No: she 's upstairs. No one rang.
Please see.
White (smiling). Now don't worry ! It can't possibly be
the Secret Service.
Hilda. One never knows in war times what to expect. I
sometimes feel I am in a foreign country.
(White goes slowly to the door in back and opens it.
Wall.\ce, their son, with valise in hand, is standing
there, as if he had hesitated to enter.
He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father's phys-
ical endowment and his mother's spiritual intensity.
The essential note he strikes is that of honesty. It is
apparent he is under the pressure of a momentous
decision which has brought him unexpectedly home
from college.)
White. Wallace!
Wallace (shaking hands). Hello, Dad!
TIDES 51
Hilda. Wallace! My boy!
(Wallace drops valise and goes to his mother's arms.)
Wallace (^vith deep feeling) . Mother!
White (after a pause). Well, boy; this is unexpected.
We were just talking of you.
Wallace. Were you?
Hilda. I 'm so glad to see you, so glad.
Wallace. Yes — yes — but —
White. There's nothing the matter?
Hilda. You've had trouble at college?
Wallace. Not exactly. But I could n't stand it there.
I ' ve left — for good.
White. I was sure that would happen.
Hilda. Tell us. You know we'll understand.
Wallace. Dad, if you don't mind, I 'd like to talk it over
with mother first.
White. Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand
by you just as she 's always stood by me — all these years.
(He kisses her.) I — I —
(He smooths her hair gently y looking into her eyes as she
smiles up at him.)
We must n't let this war hurt all we've had together —
you and I —
Hilda (smiling and turning towards her son). And
Wallace.
White. And Wallace. Yes. (Wallace looks away guilt-
ily.) Let me know when the phone comes.
(He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and
then comes to Wallace, who has sat down, indicating
he is troubled.)
Hilda. They made it hard for you at college?
Wallace. I don't know how to tell you.
Hilda. I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic
speeches, the billboards advertising the glory of war, the
52 TIDES
call of adventure offered to youth, the pressure of your
friends — all made it hard for you to be called a slacker.
Wallace. No, mother. I was n't afraid of what they
could call me. That was easy.
Hilda (proudly). You are your father's son!
\Yall.\ce. Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing,
you know that. And I could n't forget all you've told me.
That 's why I've had to think this out all these months
alone; why I've hesitated longer than most fellows. The
only thing I was really afraid of was being WTong. But now
I know I'm right and I'm going clean through to the limit.
Hilda. As your father said, I '11 stand l)y you — whatever
it is — if only you feel it 's right.
Wallace. Will you? Will you, mother? No matter
what happens? (She nods.) I knew you would. {Takinj
her hand) Then, mother, listen. I've volunteered.
Hilda (shocked). Volunteered!
W'ALLACE. Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night.
Hilda. To-night?
Wallace. Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind, I
could n't wait to be drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I
did n't want to be made to go.
Hilda (hardly grasping il). But you are too young.
Wallace. I lied about my age. You and father can stop
me if you tell the truth. That's why I've conic back. I
want you to promi.se you won't tell.
Hilda. Yoh ask me to aid you in what I don't believe?
Wallace. But you said you'd stick by nie if / thought
it was right.
Hilda. But —
Wallace (with fervor) . .Viid I tell you, mother, I do feel
it was right for America to go in. I see now we ought to
have declared war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we
ought to have gone in when the Lusitania was sunk. But
~*fl)S8pi8~"
TIDES 53
we've been patient. The President tried to keep us out of
it until we had to go in to save our self-respect. We had to
go in to show we were men of honor, not pussy-cats. We
had to go in to show the world the Stars and Stripes was n't
a dish-rag on which the Germans could dry their bloody
hands !
Hilda {gazing at him incredulously). You hate them as
much as that?
Wallace. Hate? No, mother, no. (As if questioning
himself) I really have n't any hate for the German people.
People are just people everywhere, I suppose, and they're
tricked and fooled by their rotten government, as the Presi-
dent says.
Hilda. Then why fight them?
Wallace. Because they're standing back of their gov-
ernment, doing what it says. And they 've got to be licked
to show them what kind of a government they have.
Hilda. At least you have no hate in your heart — that 's
something.
Wallace. Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it is n't for the
poor devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home
fellow here in America who sits in a comfortable armchair,
who applauds patriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does
nothing for his country but hate and hate — while we fight
for him. That 's the fellow I '11 hate all right when I sit in
the trenches. And that's why I couldn't look myself in the
face if I stayed out a day longer; why I 've got to go in; why
I 'm going to die if I must, because everybody ought to be
willing to die for what he believes.
Hilda. You are my son, too! For I would willingly have
died if it could have kept us out of this war.
Wallace. Yes. I am your son, too. And that 's why you
would n't respect me if I did n't go through.
Hilda. No. I would n't have respected you. But —
54 TIDES
but — (She breaks a hit, then controls herself.) You are
quite sure you're doing what 's right?
Wallace (tenderly). Would I have been willing to hurt
you like this?
IIiLUA [holding him close to her). My i)oy ; my boy I
Wallace. It'll be all right, mother.
Hilda. Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in
time: it's only the moments that hurt.
Wall-vce (after a pause). Then you won't tell my real
age, or interfere?
IIild.\. I respect your right to decide your own life.
Wallace (joyed). ^lother!
Hilda, I respect your dedication; your willingness to
sacrifice for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a
crime for me to stand in your way — even with my mother's
love. (He kisses her.) Do it all as cleanly as you can. 1*11
hope and pray that you '11 come back t o me. (Half breaking
doini and taking him in her arms). Oh, my boy; my boy.
Ix?t mc hold you. You'll never know how hard it is for a
mother.
Wallace (gently). But other mothers send their boys.
Hilda. Most of them believe in what their sonsare fight-
ing for. Mothers have got to believe in it ; or else how could
they stand the thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies
they brought forth in their own blooil? ( There is a pausetill
she controls herself.) I '11 help you get your things together.
Wali^\ce. And father?
Hilda. He will be angry.
Wallace. But you will make him understand?
Hilda. I'll try. Yet you must be patient witii him if he
does n't understand. Don't ever forget his long fight against
all kinds of Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those
who have always hated his radicalism and who, now, under
the guise of patriotism, are trying to render him useless for
TIDES 55
further attacks on them after the war. He's been perse-
cuted so by them — even back in the days when our press
was praising Germany and our distinguished citizens were
dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget all this, my
boy. These days are hard for him — and me — harder
perhaps than for you who go out to die in glory and praise.
There are no flags for us, no music that stirs, no applause;
but we too suflFer in silence for what we believe. And it is
only the strongest who can survive. — Now call your father.
Wax,L-\ce {goes to door). Dad! (He leaves door open
and turns to his mother.) I '11 be getting my things together.
(There is a pause. White enters.) Dad, mother has some-
thing to ask you. {He loohs from father to mother.) Thanks,
Httle mother.
(He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father
and mother stand facing each other.)
Hilda. Wallace has volunteered. {He looks at her
keenly.) He has lied about his age. He wants us to let him
go-
White. Volunteered?
Hilda. Yes; he leaves to-night.
White {after a pause). And what have you told him?
Hilda. That he must go.
W^hite. You can say that?
Hilda. It is the way he sees it.
White {going to her sympathetically) . Hilda.
Hilda {looking up at him tenderly). O Will, do you
remember when he was born? {He soothes her.) And all
we nursed him through afterwards; and all we taught him;
all we tried to show him about war. {With a shrug of her
shoulders) None of it has mattered.
White. War is stronger than all that.
Hilda. So we must n't blame him. You won't blame
him?
56 TIDES
White. He fears I will?
Hilda. He has always feared you a little, though he
loves you deeply. You must n't oppose him, dear. You
won't?
White {wearily). Is there any use opposing anybody or
anything these days?
Hilda. We must wait till the storm passes.
White. That 's never been my way.
Hilda. No. You've fought all your life. But now we
must sit silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come
back. Will, think of it; we are going to have a boy "over
there," too.
White. Hilda, has n't it ever struck you that we may
have been all ^vTong? (She looks at him, as she holds his
hand.) What could these frail hands do? How could we
poor little King Canutes halt this tide that has swept over
the world? Is n't it better, after all, that men should fight
themselves out; bring such desolation upon themselves that
they will be forced to see the futility of war? ^lay it not
become so terrible that men — the workers, I mean — will
throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord?
Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience
rather than talk — talk — talk?
Hilda (touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling).
Here is your answer to your o^nti question.
White. Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You
say yourself we can't oppose it. Is n't it better if we try to
direct the current to oiir own ends rather than sink by
trying to swim against it?
Hilda. Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who could
com[)r()inise.
White. But have n't we radicals been too intolerant
of cotni)romise?
Hilda. That has been your strength. And it is your
TIDES 57
strength I 'm relying on now that Wallace — Shall I call
him?
White (significantly). No; wait.
Hilda (apprehensive at his turn). Oh, yes. Before he
came you said there was something — (The phone rings.
They both look at it.) That 's for you.
White (not moving). Yes.
Hilda (hardly believing his attitude). Is — is it private?
White. No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (He
hesitates, then goes to phone as she stands expectant.) Yes,
Yes. Long Distance? Washington? (Her lips repeat the
word.) Yes. This is William White. Hello. Yes. Is this
the Secretary speaking? Oh, I appreciate the honor of
having you confirm it personally. Senator Bough is chair-
man? At his request? Ah, yes; war makes strange bed-
fellows. Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I'll be
ready. Yes. Good-bye.
(He hangs up the receiver and looks at her.)
Hilda. You, too!
White. I've been trying to tell you these last weeks;
but I could n't somehow.
Hilda. You were ashamed?
White. No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you.
Hilda. I 'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are
going to be part of this war?
White. I 'm going to do what I can to help finish it.
Hilda. By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime?
White. No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appoint-
ment on this commission because I 'm going to accept facts.
Hilda. Have the facts of war changed, or is it you?
White. Neither has changed; but I'm going to act dif-
ferently. I'm going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to
help direct the current.
Hilda. I can't beUeve what I am hearing. Is it you.
58 TIDES
"William \Miitc, spoaking? You who, for twenty years,
have stood against all war!
White. Yes.
Hilda. And now, wlicn the test comes, you are going to
lend yourself to it! You of all men!
White. Hilda, dear; I did n't expect you to accept it
easily; but I think I can make you sec if you will lot me.
JliLD A {poignantbj). If I will /W you ! Why, Will, I must
understand; I must.
White. Perhaps it will be difficult at first — with your
standards.
Hilda. But my standards were yours, Will. You gave
them to me. You taught me. You took a young girl who
loved you. You showed her the truth, and she followcil
you and has followed you gladly through liard years of
struggle and poverty because of those ideals. And now you
talk of my standards! Will, don't you see, I nui.ft under-
stand?
White. Dear, standards are relative things; they differ
with circumstance.
Hilda. Have your ideals only been old clothes you
change to suit the weather?
White. It's the end we must keep in mind. / have n't
changed or compromised one bit in that. I'm working in
changed conditions, that's all; working with all my heart
to do away with all war.
Hilda. By fighting one?
White {irifh eloquence). Yes. Because it is nece.s.sary.
I've come to see we can't argue war out of the world with
words. We've got to beat it out of the worM. It can't be
done with (Mir hands lifted up in prayer; it can only be done
with iron hands crushing it <U)wn. War is the mood of the
world. Well, I'm going to fight in my fashion. And when
it is over, I'm going to k«H'p on fighting; for the next war
TIDES 59
will be greater than this. It will be economic revolution.
It will be the war of capital and labor. And I mean to be
ready.
Hilda {listening incredulously). And to get ready you
are willing to link arms now with Senator Bough — a man
you once called the lackey of Wall Street — a man who
has always opposed every democratic principle.
White. Yes. Don't you see the Government is begin-
ning to realize it can't do without us? Don't you see my
appointment is an acknowledgment of the rising tide of
radicalism in the world? Don't you see, with the prestige
that will come to me from this appointment, I will have
greater power after the war; power to bring about the reaU-
zation of all our dreams; power to demand — even at the
Peace table itself, perhaps — that all wars must end?
Hilda. Do you actually beheve you will have any power
with your own people when you have compromised them
for a temporary expediency?
White {with a gesture). The leader must be wiser than
the people who follow.
Hilda. So, contempt for your people is the first thing
your new power has brought you! {He makes a gesture of
denial.) You feel you are above them — not of them. Do
you believe for a moment that Senator Bough has any-
thing but contempt for you, too?
White {confidently) . He needs me.
Hilda. Needs you? Don't you understand why he had
you appointed on that committee? He wanted to get you
out of the way.
White. Is n't that an acknowledgment of my power?
Hilda. Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a "re-
formed" radical. Why, WiU, he '11 use you in the capitals of
Europe to advertise his liberalism; just as the prohibition-
ist exhibits a reformed drunkard.
GO TIDES
White. And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be
stronger than he is, stronger than any of them.
IIiLD.\. No man is strong unless he does what he feels is
right. No, no. Will; you've convicted yourself with your
own eloquence. You've wanted to do this for some reason.
But it is n't the one you've told me. No; no.
White (angrily). You doubt my sincerity?
Hilda. No; only the way you have read yourself.
White. Well, if you think I 've tried to make it easy for
myself you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut
and habit of years? Easy to know my friends will jeer and
say I 've sold out? Easy to have you misunderstand? (Goes
to her.) Hilda, I'm doing this for their good. I'm doing it
— just as Wallace is — because I feel it's right.
Hilda. No; you should n't say that. You are not doing
this for the same reason Wallace is. He believes in this war.
lie has accepted it all simply without a question. If you
had seen the look in his eyes, you would have kno^^^l he was
a dedicated spirit; there was no shadow, no doubt; it was
pure flame. But you! You believe difTorcntly! You can't
hush the mind that for twenty years has thought no war
ever could henceforth be justified. You can't give yourself
to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You
sec power in it and profit for yourself. (He prolests.) That 's
your o\NTi confession. You are only doing what is expedient
— not what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives
with those of our .son. I sent him forth, without a word of
protest, because he wishes to die for his own ideals: you are
killing your own ideals for the ideals of others! (She turns
away.) Oh, Will, that's what hurts. If you were only like
him, I — I could stand it.
White (quietly, after a pause). I can't be angry at you —
even when you say such things. You've been too much a
part of my life, ami work, and I love you, Hilda. You know
TIDES 61
that, don't you, dear? (He sits beside her and takes her hand.)
I knew it would be diflScult to make you understand. Only
once have I lacked courage, and that was when I felt myself
being drawn into this and they offered me the appoint-
ment. For then I saw I must tell you. You know I never
have wanted to cause you pain. But when you asked me to
let Wallace go, I thought you would understand my going,
too. — Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young;
war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a
way to accomplish my ideals.
Hilda. Let 's leave ideals out of this now. It 's like bit-
ter enemies praying to the same God as they kill each
other.
White. Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that : Wallace
can't. It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes.
I '11 grant all that. Only, America has gone in. The whole
tide was against us, dear. It is sweeping over the world : a
brown tide of khaki sweeping everything before it. All my
life I 've fought against the current. (Wearily) And now
that I've gone in, too, my arms seem less tired. Yes; and
except for the pain I 've caused you, I 've never in all my
life felt so — so happy.
(Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with
tenderness in her eyes.)
Hilda. Oh, now. Will, I do understand. Now I see the
real reason for what you've done.
White (defensively). I've given the real reason.
Hilda (her heart going out to him). You poor tired man.
My dear one. Forgive me if I made it difiBcult for you, if I
said cruel words. I ought to have guessed; ought to have
seen what life has done to you. (He looks wp, not under-
standing her words). Those hands of yours first dug a living
out of the ground. Then they built houses and grew strong
because you were a workman — a man of the people. You
62 TIDES
saw injustice, and all your life 30U fought against those who
had the power to inflict it: the press; the comfortable re-
spectables, like my brother; and even those of your own
group who opposed you — you fought them all. And they
look at you as an outsider, an alien in your own country.
O Will, I know how hard it has been for you to be always
on the defensive, against the majority. It is hard to live
alone, away from the herd. It docs tire onetothe bone and
make one envious of the comfort and security they find by
being together.
White. Yes — but — ■
Hilda. Now the war comes and with it a chance to get
back; to be part of the majority; to be welcomed with open
arms by those who have fought you; to go back v. ith honor
and praise. And, yes, to have the warmth and comfort of
the crowd. That's the real reason j'ou 're going in. You're
tired and worn out with tiie fight. I know. I understand
now.
White {earnestly). If I thought it Wiis that, I'd kill
myself.
Hilda, There's been enough killing already. I have to
understand it somehow to accept it at all.
(lie stares at her, icondering at her xcords. She smiles.
He goes to a ehair and sits down, gazing before him.
The music of Over There w noic heard outside in
the street, approaching nearer and nearer. It is a mili-
tary band. Wallace e.rcitedly rushes in dressed in
khaki.)
Wallace. Mother, moliicr. The boys are coming down
the street. (Sees father.) Dad! Mother has lt>ld you?
Hilda (calmly). Yes; I've told him.
Wallace. And you're going to let me go, Dad?
Hilda. Yes.
Wallace. Oh, thanks, Dud (grasping his hand).
TIDES 63
I knew mother would make you see. (Music nearer.)
Listen! Is n't that a great tune? Lifts you up on your feet
and carries you over there. Gee, it just gets into a fellow
and makes him want to run for his gun and charge over the
top. (He goes to balcony.) Look! They're nearing here; all
ready to sail with the morning tide. They've got their
helmets on. You can't see the end of them coming down
the avenue. Oh, thank God, I 'm going to be one of them
soon. Thank God! I'm going to jfight for Uncle Sam and
the Stars and Stripes. (Calls off) Hurrah! (To them) Oh,
I wish I had a flag. Why have n't we got a flag here? —
Hurrah!!
(As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder.
Hilda has gone to White during this, and stands be-
hind him, with her arms down his arms, as he sits
there, gazing before him.)
Hilda (fervently). Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he
does ! !
(The music begins to trail off as White tenderly takes
hold of her hands.)
[Curtain]
ILE
EUGENE O'NEILL
SCENE: Captain Keeney's cabin on hoard the steam whal-
ing ship Atlantic Queen — a small, square compart-
ment, about eight feet high, ivith a skylight in the centre
looking out on the poop deck. On the left {the stern of the
ship) a long bench icith rough cushions is built in against
the wall. In front of the bench, a table. Over the bench,
several curtained portholes.
In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain s sleeping-
quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, lookiruj
as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall.
On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped sideboard.
On the sideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther for-
ward, a doorway leading to the companion way, and past
the officers' quarters to the main deck.
In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of
the ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The iralls of
the cabin are painted ichite.
There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which
comes through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating
one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are
alike dead. The silence is unbroken except for the mea.^-
ured tread of someone walking up and down on the poop
deck overhead.
It is nairing two bells — one o'clock — in the after-
noon of a day in the year 1S95.
ILE 65
At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense
silence. Then the Steward enters and commences to
clear the table of the few dishes which still remain on it
after the Captain's dinner. He is an old, grizzled man
dressed in dungaree jpants, a sweater, and a woolen cap
with ear-flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He stops
stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward
at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear
and listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he
hears makes his face darken and he mutters a furious
curse. There is a noise fromthe doorway on the rights and
he darts hack to the table.
Ben enters. He is an over-grown, gawky hoy vnth a
long, pinched face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap,
etc. His teeth are chattering with the cold and he hurries
to the stove, where he stands for a moment shivering, blow-
ing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the
verge of crying.
The Steward {in relieved tones — seeing who it is). Oh,
't is you, is it? What 're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the
stove where ye belong and ye '11 find no need of chatterin'.
Ben. It's c-c-old. (Trying to control his chattering
teeth — derisively) Who d' ye think it were — the Old
Man?
The Steward. (He makes a threatening move — Ben
shrinks aioay.) None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye.
{More kindly) Where was it ye ' ve been all o' the time —
the fo'c's'le?
Ben. Yes.
The Steward. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard mon-
key-shiiiin' with the hands and ye '11 get a hidin' ye '11 not
forget in a hurry.
Ben. Aw, he don't see nothin'. {A trace of awe in his
66 ILE
tones — he glances upward.) He just walks up and down
like he did n't notice nolx)dy — and stares at the ice to the
no'th'ard.
The Steward {the same tone of awe creeping into his
voice). He's always starin' at the ice. (In a sudden rage,
shaking his fist at the skylight) Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and
damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year — nothin'
to see but ice — stuck in it like a fly in molasses!
Ben (apprehensively). Ssshh! He'll hear ye.
The Steward (raging). Aye, damn him, and damn the
Arctic seas, and damn this stinkin' whalin' ship of his, and
damn me for a fool to ever ship on it ! (Subsiding, as if realiz-
ing the uselessness of this outburst — shaking his head —
sloivly, with deep conviction) He's a hard man — as hard a
man as ever sailed the seas.
Ben (solemnly). Aye.
The Steward. The two years we all signed up for are
done this day. Blessed Christ ! Two years o' this dog *s life,
and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half starved with
the food runnin* low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him
turnin' back for home! [Bilterly) Home! I begin to doubt
if ever I '11 set foot on land again. (Excitedly) What is it he
thinks he 's goin* todo? Kccj) us alluphcre after ourtimcis
worked out till the last man of us is starxod to death or
frozen? We've grub enough hardly to last out the voyage
back if we started now. What arc the men goiiT to do 'bout
it? Did ye hoar any talk in the fo'c's'le?
Ben (going over to him — in a half- whisper). They said
if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to
mutiny.
The Steward (ivith grim satisfaction). Mutiny? Aye,
'tis the only thing they can do; and serve him right after
the maimer he 's treated them — 's if they were n't no better
nor dogs.
ILE 67
Ben. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They 's clear
water's far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not
turnin' back for home, the men says.
The Steward (bitterly). He won't look nowheres but
no'th'rd where they 's only the ice to see. He don't want
to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gittin' the ile — 's
if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales.
{Shaking his head) I think the man 's mighty nigh losin' his
senses.
Ben (awed). D' you really think he's crazy?
The Steward. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him.
Did ye hear ever of a man who was n't crazy do the things
he does? (Pointing to the door in rear) Who but a man
that 's mad would take his woman — and as sweet a woman
as ever was — on a stinkin' whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to
be locked in by the rotten ice for nigh on a year, and maybe
lose her senses forever — for it 's sure she '11 never be the
same again.
Ben (sadly) . She useter be awful nice to me before —
(his eyes grow wide and frightened) she got — like she is.
The Steward. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would
have been hell on board without her ; for he 's a hard man —
a hard, hard man — a driver if there ever was one. (With a
grim laugh) I hope he's satisfied now — drivin' her on till
she 's near lost her mind. And who could blam6 her? 'T is a
God's wonder we 're not a ship full of crazed people — with
the damned ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're
afraid to hear your o^n voice.
Ben (loith a frightened glance toward the door on right).
She don't never speak to me no more — jest looks at me 's
if she did n't know me.
The Steward. She don't know no one — but him. She
talks to him — when she does talk — right enough.
Ben. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and
68 ILE
sew — and then she cries to herself without makin* no
noise. I've seen her.
The Steward. Aye, I could hear her through the door
a while back.
Ben {tiptoes over to the door and listens). She's cryin'
now.
The Steward (furiously — shaking hi.f fist). God send
his soul to hell for the devil he is!
(There is the noise of someone coming sloirhj doicn the
companionway stairs. The Steward hurries to his
stackcd-up dijihes. He is so nervous from fright thai he
knocks off the top one, irhich falls and breaks on the
floor. He stands aghast, trembling icith dread. Ben
is violently rubbing off the organ with a piece of cloth
which he has snatched from his pocket. Captain
Keeney appears in the doorway on right and comes
into the cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so.
He is a man of about forty, around fiic-ten in height,
hut looking much shorter on account of the enormow<
proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is
massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a
bkak hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped
mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is dressed
in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his
sea-boots.
He is followed into the cabin by the Second Mate, a
rangy six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face. 1 he
Mate is dressed about the same as the captain. He is
a man of thirty or so.)
Keeney. (( 'onies toward the Steward — irith a stern look
on his face. The Steward is visibly frightened and the stack
of di.shes rattles in his trembling hands. Keeney drairs back
his fist and the Steward shrinks away. The fist is gradually
lowered and Keesey speaks slowly.) *T would be like hitting
ILE 69
a worm. It is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this
tfuck not cleared yet.
The Steward (stammering). Y-y-yes, sir.
Keeney. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye ' ve been
below here gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy.
( To "Bun fiercely) Get out o' this, you ! Clean up the chart-
room. (Ben darts past the Mate to the open doorway.) Pick
up that dish, Mr. Steward!
The Steward (doing so vyiih difficulty). Yes, sir.
Keeney. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you
take a bath in the Bering Sea at the end of a rope.
The Steward (tremblingly). Yes, sir.
(He hurries out. The Second Mate walks slowly over
to the Captain.)
Mate. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel
should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That 's why
I asked you to come below.
Keeney (impatiently). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.
Mate (unconsciously lowering his voice). I'm afeard
there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things.
They '11 likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you
don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up
to-day.
Keeney. And d' you think you're tellin' me somethin'
new, Mr. Slocum? I 've felt it in the air this long time past.
D' you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin'
way they worked?
(The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in
the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman
primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping
and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin
with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the
spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping
her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at
her.)
70 ILE
Keeney (iciih rough tenderness). Well, .Vnnie?
Mrs. Keeney (as if aicakening from a dream). David,
I — {She is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway.)
Keeney {turning to him — sharply). Wait !
Mate. Yes, sir.
KeeneYi, D' you want anything, Annie?
Mrs. Keeney {after a pause, during ichich she seems to
be endeavoring to collect her thoughts). I thought maybe —
I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.
{She stands humbly awaiting his permission. He and
the Mate exchange a significant glance.)
Keeney. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below
to-day. There's nothing to look at on deck — but ice.
Mrs. Keexey {monotonou.'<li/). I know — ice, ice, ice!
But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.
{She makes a gesture of loathing.)
Keeney. You can play the organ, Annie.
Mrs. Keeney {dully). I hate the organ. It puts mo in
mind of home.
Keeney (« touch of resentment in his roice). I got it jest
for you.
Mrs. Keeney {dully). I know. {She turns away from
them and walks .slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of
the curtains and looks through a porthole; thcti utters an ex-
clamation of joy.) Ah, water! Clearwater! As far as I can
see! IIow good it looks after all these months of ice! (She
turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy.) Ah, now
I mu.st go upon deck and look at it, David.
Keeney (frowning). Best not to-dny, Annie. Best wait
for a day when the sun shines.
Mrs. Keeney (des^perately) . But the sun never shines
in this terrible place.
Keeney (a tone ofcomtnand in his voice). Best not to-day,
Annie.
ILE 71
IVIrs. Keeney (crumbling before this command — a6-
jecthj). Very well, David.
(She stands there staring straight before her as if in a
daze. The two men look at her uneasily.)
Keeney (sharply). Annie!
Mrs. Keeney (dully). Yes, David.
Keeney. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about
— ship 's business.
Mrs. Keeney. Very well, David.
(She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quar-
ters shut behind her.
Keeney. Best not have her on deck if they 's goin' to be
any trouble.
IVIate. Yes, sir.
Keeney. And trouble they 's goin' to be. I feel it in my
bones. (Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and exam-
ines it.) Got yourn?
Mate. Yes, sir.
Keeney. Not that we '11 have to use 'em — not if I know
their breed of dog — jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (Grimly)
I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've
had by land and by sea 's long as I kin remember, and will
have till my dyin' day, I reckon.
Mate (hesitatingly). Then you ain't goin' — to turn
back?
Keeney. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o'
me pointin' s'uthfor home with only a measly four hundred
barrel of ile in the hold?
Mate (hastily). No, sir — but the grub's gittin' low.
Keeney. They 's enough to last a long time yit, if they
're careful with it; and they's plenty o' water.
Mate. They say it 's not fit to eat — what 's left; and the
two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might
make trouble for you in the courts when we git home.
72 ILE
Keeney. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law
trouble they kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money.
I 've got to git the ile ! {Glancing sharply at the Mate) You
ain't turnin' no damned sea la^\yer, be you, Mr. Slocum?
Mate {flushing). Not by a hell of a sight, sir.
Keeney. \Miat do the fools want to go home fur now?
Their share o' the four hundred barrel would n't keep 'em
in chewin' tcrbacco.
Mate {slouiy). They wants to git back to their folks
an' things, I s'pose.
Keeney {looking at him scarchinghj). 'N' you want to
turn back, too. (Ti i e jMate looks doicn confusedly before h is
sharp gaze.) Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It 's writ do\%Ti plain in
your eyes. {With grim sarcasm) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you
ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.
Mate {indignantly). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.
Keeney {icith satisfaciion). I warn't much afcard o'
that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've
learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master,
if I be a hard one.
ISIate. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir — 'bout turnin'
home, I mean. {Desperately) But ^Irs. Keeney, sir —
seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like — what
with the cold an' batl luck an' the ice an' all.
Keeney {his face clouding — rebukingly but not severely).
That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer
a clear course o' that. (.1 pause.) The ice 11 break up
soon to no'th'rd. I could see it startin' to-day. And when
it goes and we git some sun. Annie '11 perk up. {.Another
pause — then he bursts forth) It ain't the danmed money
what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I
can't go back to Ilomcport with a measly four hundred bar-
rel of ile. I 'd (lie fust. I ain't never come back home in all
my days without a full ship. Ain't that truth?
ILE 73
Mate. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound,
an' —
Keeney {scornfully). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would
believe that — any o' them skippers I 've beaten voyage
after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin' —
Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms and the rest — and all o'
Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney what boasts
he 's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin' back
with a measly four hundred barrel of ile? " {The thought of
this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on
the marble top of the sideboard.) Hell ! I got to git the ile, I
tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It 's never been so
bad before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now
it 's breakin' up. In a couple o' days it '11 be all gone. And
they 's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't
never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile ! I got to git it
in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do
git it!
{There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in
rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening.
Then Keeney goes over to the door and looks in. He
hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter —
then closes the door softly. Joe, the harpooner, an
enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters
from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice
him.) (j)jM - '"-^ '
Keeney {turning and seeing him). Don't be standin'
there like a gawk, Harpooner. Speak up !
Joe {confusedly). We want — the men, sir — they want
to send a depitation aft to have a word with you.
Keeney {furiously). Tell 'em to go to — {checks him-
self and continues grimly) Tell 'em to come. I '11 see 'em.
Joe. Aye, aye, sir.
{He goes out.)
74 ILE
Keenet (with a grim smik). Here it comes, the trou-
ble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of
it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let
them make headway.
Mate {worriedly). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth,
sir? We might need their help.
Keeney. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle
this alone, Mr. Slocum.
{There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and fire
of the crew croxcd into the cabin, led by Joe. .1// are
dressed alike — siceaiers, sea-boots, etc. They glance
uneasily at the Captain, ticirling their fur caps in
their hands.)
Keeney {after a pause). Well? Who's to speak fur ye.'
Joe {stepping forward with an air of bravado). I be.
Keeney {eyeing him up and down coldly). So you be.
Then speak your say and be quick about it.
Joe {trying not to wilt before the Captain's glance and
avoiding his eyes). The time we signed up for is done to-day.
Keeney {icily). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.
Joe. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, fur's we kin see.
Keeney. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of
ile.
Joe. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye.
Keeney. The ice is breaking up.
Joe {after a slight pause during which the others mumble
angrily to one another). Tlie grub we're gittiii' now is rotten.
Keeney. It's good enough fur ye. Hotter men than yo
are have eaten worse,
{There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the croird.)
Joe {encouraged by this support). We ain't a-goin' to work
no more 'less you puts back fur home.
Keeney {fiercely). You ain't, ain't you?
Joe. No; and the law courts 'II say we was right.
ILE 75
Keeney. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea
now and I 'm the law on this ship. {Edging up toward the
harpooner.) And every mother's son of you what don't
obey orders goes in irons.
(There are more angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs.
Keeney appears in the doorway in rear and looks on
with startled eyes. None of the men notices her.)
Joe (with bravado). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and
take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?
(As he turns his head to look at the others, J^eeney*s
fist shoots out to the side of his jaw. Joe goes down in a
heap and lies there. Mrs. Keeney gives a shriek and
hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their
sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find
themselves confronted by the revolvers of Keeney and j J^
the Mate.) ^ i(-;:2:ioix ^^:^>ti:^^ -^r^
Keeney (his eyes and voice snapping). Hold still! (The
men stand huddled together in a sullen silence. Keeney's
voice is full of mockery.) You 've found out it ain't safe to
mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where
ye belong, and (he gives Joe's body a contemptuous kick)
drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see
shirkin' I '11 shoot dead as sure as there 's a sea under us, and
you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick!
(The men leave in cowed silence, carrying Joe vnth them,
Keeney turns to the IVIate with a short laugh and puts his
revolver back in his pocket.) Best get up on deck, Mr. Slo-
cum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin'
tricks. We '11 have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I
know 'em.
Mate. Yes, sir.
(He goes out, right. Keeney hears his wife's hysterical
weeping and turns around in surprise — then walks
slowly to her side.)
<
76 ILE
Keeney (putting an arm aruinul her shoulder — with
gruff tenderness). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's
all pj Lst and pone.
Irs. Kekney (shrinking away from him). Oh, I can't
bear it! I can't bear it any longer!
Keeney (gently). Can't bear what, Annie?
Mrs. Keeney (hysterically). All this horriljle brutaUt^
and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this
prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the sLleuce.
(After this outburst she calms dowji and icipes her eyes
with her handkerchief.)
Keeney (after a pause during which he looks down at her
with a puzzled frown). Remember, I warn't hankeriu' to
have you come on this voyage, Annie. ~'
Mrs. Keeney. I wanted to be with you, David, don't
you sec? I did n't want to wait back there in the house all
alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were
married — waiting, and watching, and fearing — with noth-
ing to kccf) my mind occufjiod — not able to ~n hanlitOQoli
lag school do^account of bein^ Dave Keeney '«j wifr. I used
to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I
wanted to be })y your side in the danger arul vigorous life of
it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make 30U out to4>e
in Ilomeport. And instead — (her voice grows tremulou.s)
all I find is icoand cold — and brutality!
(Her voice breaks.)
Keeney. I warned you what it'd be, Annie, "^^^^alin'
ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you l>etter
stay to home where you 've got all your woman's comforts."
(Shaking his head) But you was so set on it.
Mrs. Keeney (wearily). Oh, I know it is n't your fault.
David. Vou see, I did n't believe you. I guess I was
ilreaming about the old Vikings in the story-books and I
thought you were one of them.
^ ILE 77
Keeney (protestingly) . I done my best to make it as cozy
and comfortable as could be. (Mrs. Keeney looks around
her in wild scorn.) I even sent to the city for that organ for
ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times
when they was calms and things was dull like.
Mrs. Keeney (wearily). Yes, you were very kind, David.
I know that. (She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the
porthole arid looks out — then suddenly bursts forth.) I won't
stand it — I can't stand it — pent up by these walls like a
prisoner. (She runs over to him and throws her arms around
him, weeping. He puts his arm proteciingly over her shoulders.)
Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from
here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home,
David ! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the
silence were crushing down on my brain. I 'm afraid. Take
me home!
Keeney (holds her at arm^s length and looks at her face
anxiously). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You
got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen
you look this way before.
IVIrs. Keeney (laughing hysterically). It's the ice and
the cold and the silence — they'd make anyone look
strange.
Keeney (soothingly). In a month or two, with good luck,
three at the most, I '11 have her filled with ile and then we '11
give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.
Mrs. Keeney. But we can't wait for that — I can't
wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They
want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep
them. You must sail back. You 've got no excuse. There 's
clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all,
you 've got to turn back.
Keeney (harshly). I can't, Annie. -
Mrs. Keeney. Why can't you?
i
78 ILE
Keeney. a woman could n't rightly understand my
reason.
Mrs. Keexet (wildly). Because it's a stupid, stubborn
reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate.
You're afraid the other Captains will sneer at you because
you did n't come back with a full ship. You want to live up
to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and
starve men and drive me mad to do it.
Keeney {his jaw set stubbornly). It ain't that, Annie.
Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't
so much what anyone 'd say — but — (lie hesitates, strug-
gling to express his vieaning.) You see — I 've always done
it — since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back
— with a full ship — and — it don't seem right not to —
somehow. I been always first wlialin' skipper out o' Home-
port, and — Don't you see my meanin', Annie.' {He glances
at her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of
her, not hearing a word he is saying.) Anaiel -{She comes to
herself with a start.) Best turn in, Annie, there'«~a-gQod_
woman. You ain't well.
Mrs. Keeney {resisting his atiempts to guide lier to the
door in rear). David! Won't you please turn back?
Keeney {gently). I can't, Annie — not yet awhile. You
don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.
Mrs. Keeney. It'd be different if you needed the
money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.
Keeney {impatiently). It ain't the money I'm thinkin*
of. D* you think I'm as mean as that?
Mrs. Keeney {dully). No — I don't know — I can't
understand — (Intensely) Oh, I want to l>e home in the
old house once more and see my own kitchen again, and
hear a woman's voice talking to me and be al)le to talk to
her. Two years ! It seems so long ago — as if I 'd been dead
and could never go back.
ILE 79
Keeney {xwrried by her strange tone and the far-away look
in her eyes). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.
Mrs. Keeney {not appearing to hear him). I used to be
lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was
a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the
beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were
rolling in, and I 'd dream of the fine free life you must be
leading. (She gives a laugh which is half a sob.) I used to
love the sea then. {She pauses; then continues ivith slow in-
tensity.) But now — I don't ever want to see the sea again.
Keeney {thinking to humor her) . 'T is no fit place for a
woman, that 's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.
Mrs. Keeney {after a pause — passing her hand over
her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness). How long
would it take us to reach home — if we started now?
Keeney {frovming) . 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie,
with fair luck.
IVIrs. Keeney {counts on her fingers — then murmurs vnth
a rapt smile). That would be August, the latter part of Au-
gust, would n't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we
were married, David, was n't it?
Keeney {trying to conceal the fact that her memories have
moved him — gruffly). Don't you remember?
Mrs. Keeney {vaguely — a^ain passes her hand over her
eyes). My memory is leaving me — up here in the ice. It
was so long ago. {A pause — then she smiles dreamily.) It 's
Jime now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard
— and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the
house — they 're budding. ,..,__
{She suddenly covers her face with her hands and com-
mences to sob.)
Keeney (disturbed). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all
wore out cryin' over what can't be helped.
Mrs. Keeney (suddenly throwing her arms around his
\
80 ILE
neck ajid clinging io him). You love mc, don't you, David?
Keexe Y {in omazsd eniharrassment at this outburst) . Love
you? Why d' you ask me such a question, Annie?
Mrs. Keexey {i-liaking him — fiercely). But you do,
don't you, David? Tell me I
Keenev. I 'm your husband, Annie, and you 're my wife.
Could there be aught but love between us after all these
years?
Mrs. Keenev {uliaking him again — still more fi o re e l t^.
Then you do love me. Say it!
Keenev (simply). I do, Annie.
Mrs. Keenev. {Gives a sigh of relief — Iter Imru l e dro p io
her sides. Keeney regards her anxiously. She pasaes licr
hand uvntss Iwr eyes and murnLurs half to Jierself.) I soiue-
times think if we could only have luui a child. (KtKXEV
turns away from her^ deeply moved. IShc grabs his arm aiui
turns him around to face her — intensely.) And I 've always
been a good wife to you, have n't I, David?
Keeney {his voice betraying his emoiion). Xo man ever
had a better, Annie.
Mrs. Keeney. And I ' ve never asked for much from you,
have I, David? Havel?
Keeney. You know you could have all I got the power
to give ye, Annie.
Mh.s. Keeney {loilttty). Then do this, this once, for my
sake, for (iod's sake — take me home! It's killing me, this
life — the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going
mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can luar the silence
threatening me — day after gray day and cvi-ry day the
s-.ime. I can't bear it. (Sobbing.) I 'U go mad, I know I will.
Take me home, na\id, if you love me as you say. I'm
afraid. For the love of God, take me home!
(She throws her arms around him, weeping against his
shoulder. II is fare betrays the tremendous struggle go-
ing i>'i irilln'n Itiii). lie hohls In r out at tirvCs length.
ILE 81
his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders
sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks
at her tear-stained face.)
Keeney (dragging out the words with an effort). I '11 do it,
Annie — for your sake — if you say it 's needful for ye.
Mrs. Keeney {with wild joy — kissing him) . God bless
you for that, David ! I
(He turns aioay from her silently and walks toward the
companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter
of footsteps on the stairs and the Second Mate enters
the cabin.)
Mate (excitedly). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd,
sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear
water beyond, the lookout says.
(Keeney straightens himself like a man coming out of a
trance. Mrs. Keeney looks at the Mate with terri-
fied eyes.)
Keeney (dazedly — trying to collect his thoughts). A clear
passage? To no'th'rd?
IVIate. Yes, sii.
Keeney {his voice suddenly grim with determination).
Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.
Mate. Aye, aye, sir.
M tS. Keeney (appealingly) . David!
Keeney (not heeding her) . Will the men turn to willin' or
must we drag 'em out?
Mate. They '11 turn to willin' enough. You put the fear
o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.
Keeney. Then drive 'em — both watches. (With grim
determination) They 's whale t' other side o' this floe and
we 're going to git 'em.
Mate. Aye, aye, sir.
(He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the
sound of scuffing feet from the deck outside and the
Mate's voice shouting orders.)
82 ILE
Keeney (speaking aloud to himself — derisively). And I
was a-poin' home like a yallcr dog!
Mits. Keeney {imploringly). David!
Keeney (sternly). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when
you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't
know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good hus-
band for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.
Mnsi. Kkesey (supplicaiingly). David! Are n't you go-
ing home.'
Keeney {ignoring this question — commandingly) . You
ain't well. Go and lay dovm a mite. {lie starts for the
door.) I got to git on deck.
(lie goes out. She cries after him in anguish, " David ! "
A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes — then
commences to laugh hysterically and goes to the organ.
She sits down and starts to play wildly an old hymn.
Kee.vey reenters from the doorway to the deck and
stands looking at her angrily. Ile comes over arid grabs
Iter roughly by the shoulder.)
Keeney. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (She
laughs wildly, and he starts back from her in alarm.) Annie!
\Miat is it? (She does 7i't answer him. Keeney's voice trem-
bles.) Don't you know nie, Annie?
(He puts both hands oji her shoulders and turns her
around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up
at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her
lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences
softly to play the organ again.)
Keeney {swalloiring hard — in a hoarse whisper, as if he
had difficulty in speaking). You said — you was agoin'
mad — God!
(.1 long ivail is heard from the deck above: "Ah
bl-o-o-o-ow ! " A mo?nent later thcyi.KTK^s face appears
through the skylight. lie cannot see Mrs. Keeney.)
Mate (in great excitement). Whales, sir — a whole school
ILE 83
of 'em — off the starb'd quarter ' bout five mile away —
big ones !
Keeney (galvanized into action). Are you lowerin' the
boats?
ISIate. Yes, sir.
Keeney (with grim decision). I'm a-comin' with ye.
Mate. Aye, aye, sir. (Jubilantly) You '11 git the ile now
right enough, sir.
(His head is withdrawn and he can he heard shouting
orders.)
Keeney (turning to his vnfe) . Annie ! Did you hear him?
I '11 git the ile. (She does nt answer or seem to knoio he is
there. He gives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan.) I
know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind
— (anxiously) be you? I'll git the ile now right enough —
jest a Httle while longer, Annie — then we'll turn hom'ard.
I can't turn back now, you see that, don't ye? I 've got to
git the ile. (In sudden terror) Answer me ! You ain't mad,
be you?
(She keeps on playing the organ, hut makes no reply.
The IVlATE's/ace appears again through the skylight.)
Mate. All ready, sir.
(Keeney turns his hack on his vnfe and strides to the
doorway, where he stands for a moment and looks back
at her in anguish, fighting to control his feelings.)
Mate. Comin', sir?
Keeney (his face suddenly grown hard with determination).
Aye.
(He turns abruptly and goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not
appear to notice his departure. Her whole attention
seems centred in the organ. She sits with half-closed
eyes, her body swaying a little from side to side to the
rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move faster andf aster
and she is playing vdldly and discordantly as the Cur-
tain falls.)
'■f
CAMPBELL OF KIL:MII0R^
J. A. FERGISOX
CHARACTERS
Mary Stewart
MoRAG Cameron
DuGALD Stewart
Captain Sandeman
Arciiikald Campbell
James Mackenzie
SCENE: Interior of a lonely collage on the road from St man
to Rannoch in North Perthshire.
TIME: After the Rising of 171^5.
^Iorag is restlessly moving backwards and forwards.
The old woman is seated on a low stool beside the peat fire
in the centre of the floor.
The room is scantily furnished and the women are
poorly clad. Morag is barefooted. At the back is the dixir
that leads to the outside. On the left of the door is a small
window. On the right side of the room there is a door that
opens into a barn. Morag stands for a moment at the
windoic, looking out.
• Incltulcd by special pormission of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and
Gray, Glasgow.
CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR 85
MoRAG. It is the wild night outside.
^LuiY Stewart. Is the snow still coming down?
MoRAG. It is that, then — dancing and swirling with the
wind too, and never stopping at all. Aye, and so black I can-
not see the other side of the road.
IVIary Stewart. That is good.
(MoRAG moves across the floor and stops irresolutely. She
is restless, expectant.)
Morag. Will I be putting the light in the window?
Mary Stewart. Why should you be doing that? You
have not heard his call {turns eagerly), have you?
Morag (loith sign of head). No, but the light in the win-
dow would show him all is well.
IVIary Stew^art. It would not, then ! The light was to be
put there after we had heard the signal.
Morag. But on a night like this he may have been call-
ing for long and we never hear him.
Mary Stewart. Do not be so anxious, Morag. Keep to
what he says. Put more peat on the fire now and sit down.
Morag {with increasing excitement). I canna, I canna!
There is that in me that tells me something is going to be-
fall us this night. Oh, that wind! Hear to it, sobbing round
the house as if it brought some poor lost soul up to the
door, and we refusing it shelter.
Mary Stewart. Do not be fretting yourself like that.
Do as I bid you. Put more peats to the fire.
Morag {at the loicker peat-basket). Never since I . . .
^\^lat was that?
{Both listen for a moment.)
Mary Stewart. It was just the wind; it is rising more.
A sore night for them that are out in the heather.
(Morag puts peat on the fire without speaking.)
Mary Stewart. Did you notice were there many peo-
ple going by to-day?
86 CA^rPBELL OF KIL>niOR
MoRAG. No. After daybreak the redcoats came by from
f^truan; and there was no more till nine, when an old man
like the Catcchist from Killichonan passed. At four o'clock,
just when the dark was falling, a horseman with a lad hold-
ing to the stirrup, and running fast, went by towards
Rannoch.
Mary Stewart. But no more redcoats.'
MoRAG (shaking her head). The road has been as quiet as
the hills, and they as quiet as the grave. Do you think will
he come?
M\RY Stewart, Is it you think I have the gift, girl,
that you ask me that? All I know is that it is five days
since he was here for meat and drink for himself and for
the others — five days and five nights, mind you; and
little enough he took away; and those in hiding no' used
to such sore lying, I'll be thinking. He must try to get
through to-night. But that quietness, with no one to be
seen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag. They
must know something. They must be watching.
(A sound is heard by both iromen. They staiul listening.)
Mary Stkwakt. Haste you with the light, Morag.
MoRAO. But it came from the back of the house — from
the hillside.
Mauv Stkwart. Do as I tell you. The other side may be
watched.
(A candle is lit and placed in the irindow. Girl goes
hurrying to the door.)
Mary Stewart. Stop, stop! Would you be opening the
door with a light like that shining from the house? A man
would be seen against it in the doorway for a mile. And who
knows what eyes may be watching? Put out the light now
and cover the fire.
{Room is reduced to semi-darkness, and the door un-
barred. Someone enters.)
CAMPBELL OP KILMHOR 87
MoRAG. You are cold, Dugald!
(Stewart, very exhausted, signs assent.)
MoRAG. And wet, oh, wet through and through!
Stewart. Erricht Brig was guarded, well guarded. I
had to win across the water.
{The old woman has now relit candle and taken away
plaid from fire.)
IVL^RY Stewart. Erricht Brig — then —
Stewart (nods). Yes — in a corrie, on the far side of
Dearig, half-way up-
Mary Stewart. Himself is there then?
Stewart. Aye, and Keppoch as well, and another and a
greater is with them.
JVIajiy Stewart. Wheest ! {Glances at Morag.)
Stewart. Mother, is it that you can —
Mary Stewart. Yes, yes, Morag will bring out the food
for ye to carry back. It is under the hay in the barn, well
hid. Morag will bring it. — Go, Morag, and bring it.
(Morag enters other room or barn which opens on right.)
Stewart. Mother, I wonder at ye; Morag would never
tell — never.
IVL^RY Stewart. Morag is only a lass yet. She has never
been tried. And who knows what she might be made to tell.
Stewart. Well, well, it is no matter, for I was telling
you where I left them, but not where I am to find them.
]VL^.RY Stewart. They are not where you said now?
Stewart. No; they left the corrie last night, and I am to
find them {lohispers) in a quiet part on Rannoch moor.
IVLvRY Stewart. It is as well for a young lass not to be
knowing. Do not tell her.
{He sits down at table; the old woman ministers to his
wants.)
Stewart. A fire is a merry thing on a night like this ; and
a roof over the head is a great comfort.
88 CAMPBELL OF KILMIIOR
Mary Stewart. Ye '11 no' can stop the night?
Stewart. No. I must be many a mile from here before
the day breaks on Ben Dearig.
(MoRAG re'eniers.)
MoR-\G. It was hard to get through, Dugald?
Stewart. You may say that. I came down Erricht for
three miles, and then when I reached low country I had to
take to walking in the burns because of the snow that shows
a man's steps and tells who he is to them that can read; and
there's plenty can do that abroad, God knows.
Morag. But none spied yc?
Stewart. \Mio can tell.' Before dark came, from far up
on the slopes of Dearig I saw soldiers about; and away to-
wards the Rannooh Moor they were scattered all over the
country like i)lack flies on a white sheet. A wild cat or any-
thing that couldna fly could never have got through. And
men at every brig and ford and pass! I hiil to strike away
up across the slopes again; and even so ns I turned round
the bend beyond Kilrain I ran straight into a sentry shelter-
ing behind a great rock. But after that it was easy going.
MoR.\G. How could that be?
Stewart. Well, you sec I took the boots off him, and
then I had no need to mind who might see my steps in the
snow.
Morag. You took the boots ofT him!
Stkwart (Idtirjhing). I did that same. Docs that puzzle
your boiuiy head? How (1(h\s a lad take the boots ofT a red-
coat? Find out the answer, my lass, while I will be finishing
my meat.
Morag. Maybe he was asleep?
Stewart. Asleep! Asleep! Well, well, he sleeps soimd
enough now, with the ten toes of him pointed to the sky.
{The old iromnn luis {aken up dirk from tabic. She puts
it down lujain. Morag sees the action and pushes dirk
CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR 89
aioay so that it rolls off the table and drops to the floor.
She hides her face in her hands.)
Mary Stewart. Morag, bring in the kebbuck o' cheese.
Now that all is well and safe it is we that will look after his
comfort to-night. (Morag goes into barn.) — I mind well
her mother saying to me — it was one day in the black win-
ter that she died, when the frost took the land in its grip
and the birds fell stiff from the trees, and the deer came
down and put their noses to the door — I mind well her
saying just before she died —
{Loud knocking at the door.)
A Voice. In the King's name !
(Both rise.)
Mary Stewart. The hay in the barn, quick, my son.
(Knocking continues.)
A Voice. Open in the King's name !
(Stewart snatches up such articles as would reveal his
presence and hurries into barn. He overlooks dirk on
floor. The old woman goes towards door.)
Mary Stewart. Who is there? What do you want?
A Voice. Open, open.
(Mary Stewart opens door and Campbell of
KiLMHOR follows Captain Sandeman into the
house. Behind Kilmhor comes a man carrying a
leather wallet, James Mackenzie, his clerk. The
rear is brought up by soldiers carrying arms.)
Sandeman. Ha, the bird has flown.
Campbell {who has struck dirk with his foot and picked it
up). But the nest is warm; look at this.
Sandeman. It seems as if we had disturbed him at sup-
per. Search the house, men.
Mary Stewart. I'm just a lonely old woman. You
have been misguided. I was getting through my supper.
Campbell {holding up dirk). And this was your tooth-
9a CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR
pick, eh? Na! Na! We ken whaur we are, and wha we
want, and by Cruachan, I think we've got hiin.
{Sounds are heard from barn, and soldiers return with
^loRAO. She has stayed in hiding from fear, and she
still holds the cheese in her hands.)
Sandeman. What have we here?
Campbell. A lass!
Mary Stewart. It's just my dead brother's daughter.
She was getting me the cheese, as you can see.
Campbell. On, men, again: theother turtle doo will no'
be far away. {Bantcringly to the old wotnan) Tut, tut. Mis-
tress Stewart, and do ye have her wait upon ye while your
leddyship dines alane! A grand way to treat your dead
brother's daughter; fie, fie, upon ye!
(Soldiers reappear icith Stewart, whose arms arc
pinioned.)
Campbell. Did I no' tell ye! And this, Mrs. Stewart,
will be your dead sister's son, I 'm thinking; or aiblins your
leddyship's butler! Wcel, woman, I Ml toll ye this: Pharaoh
spared ae butler, but Erchie Campbell will no' spare anithor.
Na! na! Pharaoh's case is no' to be taken as forming ony
preccedent. And so if he doesna answer certain questions
we have to speir at him, before morning he'll hang as high
as Ilaman.
(Stew^vrt is placed before the table at jrhich Campbell
has seated himself. Two soldiers guard Stewart.
Another is behind Campbell's chair and another is
by the door. The clerk, >L\ckexzie, is seated at up
corner of table. Sandeman stands by the fire.)
Campbell (to Stewart). Weel, sir, it is within the cog-
nizance of the law that you have knowledge and in-
formation of the place of harbor and concealment used
by certain persons who are in a state of proscription.
Furthermore, it is known that four days ago certain
CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR 91
other proscribed persons did join with these, and that they
are banded together in an endeavor to secure the escape
from these dominions of His Majesty, King George, of
certain persons who by their crimes and treasons lie open
to the capital charge. What say ye?
(Stewart makes no reply.)
Campbell. Ye admit this then?
(Stewart as before.)
Campbell. Come, come, my lad. Ye stand in great
jeopardy. Great affairs of state lie behind this which are
beyond your simple understanding. Speak up and it will be
the better for ye.
(Stewart silent as before.)
Campbell. Look you. I '11 be frank with you. No harm
will befall you this night — and I wish all in this house to
note my words — no harm will befall you this night if you
supply the information required.
(Stewart as before.)
Campbell (imth sudden passion). Sandeman, put your
sword to the carcass o' this muckle ass and see will it louse
his tongue.
Stewart. It may be as well then, Mr. Campbell, that I
should say a word to save your breath. It is this: Till you
talk Rannoch Loch to the top of Schiehallion, ye '11 no' talk
me into a yea or nay.
Campbell (quietly). Say ye so? Noo, I widna be so very
sure if I were you. I've had a lairge experience o' life, and
speaking out of it I would say that only fools and the dead
never change their minds.
Stewart (quietly too). Then you'll be adding to your ex-
perience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and you'll have some-
thing to put on to the other side of it.
Campbell (tapping his snuff-box). Very possibly, young
sir, but what I would present for your consideration is this:
92 CAMPBELL OF KIL^mOR
WTiilc ye may be prepared to keep your mouth shut under
the condition of a fool, are ye equally prepared to do so in
the condition of a dead man?
(Campbell wails expectantly. Stewart silent as before.)
Cami'ijkll. Tut, tut, now, if it's afraid ye are, my lad.
with my hand on my heart and on my word as a gentle-
man —
Stewart. Afraid!
{He spits in contempt towards Campbell.)
Campbell (enraged). Ye damned stubborn Hicland stot.
(To Sandeman) Have him taken out. We'll got it
another way.
(Campbell rises. Stewart is moved into barn by
soldiers.)
Camphell (walking). Some puling eediots, Sandeman,
would applaud this contumacy and call it constancy. Con-
stancy! Now, I've had a lairge experience o' life, and I
never saw yet a sensii)le man insensible to the touch of
yellow metal. If there may be such a man, it is demonstrable
that he is no sensible man. Fideelity! quotha, it's sheer
obstinacy. They just see that ye want .something ot)t o'
tlicin, and they're so damned selfish and thrawn they
winna pairt. And with the natural inabcolity o' their brains
to hold niair than one idea at a time they canna see that in
return you could put something into their palms far more
profitable. (Sits again at table.) \\\rv\, bring Mistress
Stewart up.
(Old woman is placed before liini where son had been.)
Campbell (more ingratiatingly). Weel noo. Mistress
Stewart, good woman, this is a sair preileecament for ye to
be in. I would jist counsel ye to be candid. Doubtless yer
mind is a' in a swirl. Ye kenna what way to turn. Maybe
ye are like the Psalmist and say: "I lookit this way and
that, and there was no man to pecty me. or to have com-
CAMPBELL OF KILIVfflOR 93
passion upon my fatherless children." But, see now, ye
would be wrong; and, if ye tell me a' ye ken, I'll stand
freends wi' ye. Put your trust in Erchie Campbell.
Mary Stewart. I trust no Campbell.
Campbell. Weel, weel noo, I 'm no' jist that set up wi'
them myself. There 's but ae Campbell that I care muckle
aboot, after a'. But, good wife, it's no' the Campbells
we're trying the noo; so as time presses we'll jist "hirze
yonty" as they say themselves. Noo then, speak up.
(jNLa.ry Stewart is silent.)
Campbell (beginning grimly and passing through aston-
ishment, expostulation, and a feigned contempt for mother and
pity for son, to a pretence of sadness which, except at the end,
makes his words come haltingly) . Ah! ye also. I suppose ye
understand, woman, how it will go wi' your son? (To his
clerk) Here 's a fine mother for ye, James ! Would you be-
lieve it.'^ She kens what would save her son — the very
babe she nursed at her breast; but will she save him? Na!
na! Sir, he may look after himself! A mother, a mother!
Ha! ha!
(Campbell laughs. INL^ckenzie titters foolishly. Camp-
bell pauses to watch effect of his words.)
Aye, you would think, James, that she would remember
the time when he was but little and afraid of all the terrors
that walk in darkness, and how he looked up to her as to a
tower of safety, and would run to her with outstretched
hands, hiding his face from his fear, in her gown. The dark-
ness ! It is the dark night and a long journey before him now.
{He pauses again.)
You would think, James, that she would mind how she
happit him from the cold of winter and sheltered him from
the summer heats, and, when he began to find his footing,
how she had an eye on a' the beasts of the field and on the
water and the fire that were become her enemies — And to
94 CAMPBELL OF KLLMHOR
what purpose all this care? — tell me that, my man, to
what good, if she is to leave him at the last to dangle from a
tree at the end of a hempen roi)e — to see his flesh given to
be meat for the fowls of the air — her son, her little son !
^L\RY Stewart, My son is guilty of no crime!
Campbell. Is he no'! Wccl, mistress, as ye '11 no' take
my word for it, maybe ye '11 list to Mr. Mackenzie here.
What say ye, James?
^L\CKENZiE. He is guilty of aiding and abetting in the
concealment of proscribed persons; likewise with being
found in the possession of arms, contrary to statute, both
very heinous crimes.
Campbell. Very well said, James! Forby, between our-
selves, Mrs. Stewart, the young man in my o{)eenion is
guilty of another crime (snujfs) — he is guilty of the hei-
nous crime of not knowing on wiiich side his bread is
buttered. — (^ome now —
^L\RY Stewart. Yo durst not lay a finger on the lad, ye
durst not hang him.
Mackenzie. And why should the gentleman not hang
him if it pleesure him.'
(Campbell taps snuff-box and takes pinch.)
Mary Stewart (irith intcnsiti/). Carnj)l)ell of Kilinlior,
lay but one finger on Dugald Stewart and the weight of Ben
Cruachan will be light to the weight that will be laid on
your soul. I will lay the curse of the sc\ on rings upon your
life: I will call up the fires of Kphron, the i>lue and the green
and the gray fires, for the destruction of your soul: I will
curse you in your hoiuostead and in the wife it .shelters and
in the children that will never bear your name. Yea, and ye
shall be cursed.
Campbell. (Startled — betrays agitation — the snuff is
spilled from his trembling liand.) Hoot toot, woman I ye 're,
ye 're — {Angrily) \c auld beldame, to say such things
CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR 95
to me! I'll have ye first whippet and syne droont for a
witch. Damn thae stubborn and supersteetious cattle!
( To Sandeman) We should have come in here before him
and listened in the barn, Sandeman !
Sandeman. Ah, listen behind the door you mean ! Now
I never thought of that !
Campbell. Did ye not ! Humph ! Well, no doubt there
are a good many things in the universe that yet wait for
your thought upon them. What would be your objections,
now?
Sandeman. There are two objections, Kilmhor, that you
would understand.
Campbell. Name them.
Sandeman. Well, in the first place, we have not wings
like crows to fly ■ — ■ and the footsteps on the snow — ■ Second
point — the woman would have told him we were there.
Campbell. Not if I told her I had power to clap her in
Inverness jail.
Mary Stewart {in contempt). Yes, even if ye had told
me ye had power to clap me in hell, Mr. Campbell.
Campbell. Lift me that screeching Jezebel oot o' here;
Sandeman, we'll mak' a quick finish o' this. (Soldiers take
her towards barn.) No, not there; pitch the old girzie into
the snow.
Mary Stewart. Ye '11 never find him, Campbell, never,
never !
Campbell (enraged). Find him! Aye, by God I'll find
him, if I have to keek under every stone on the mountains
from the Boar of Badenoch to the Sow of Athole. (Old
woman and soldiers go outside.) And now. Captain Sande-
man, you an' me must have a word or two. I noted your
objection to listening ahint doors and so on. Now, I make
a' necessary allowances for youth and the grand and mag-
neeficent ideas commonly held, for a little while, in that
96 CAMPBELL OF KIL^mOR
period. I had tlieni myself. But, man, gin ye had trod the
floor of the Parliament Iloose in Edinburry as long as I did,
\\V a pair o' thin hands at the bottom o' toom pockets, ye'd
ha'e shed your fine notions, as I did. Noo, fine pernickety
noansense will no' do in this business —
Sandp:man. Sir!
C.wiPBELL. Softly, softly, Captain Sandeman, and hear
till what I have to say. I have noticed with regret several
things in your remarks and bearing which are displeasing to
me. I would say just one word in your ear; it is this. These
things, Sandeman, are not conducive to advancement in
His Majesty's service.
Sandeman. Kilmhor, I am a soldier, and if I speak out
my mind, you must pardon me if my words are blunt. I do
n(jt like this work, but I loathe your methods.
Campbell. IMislike the methods you may, but the work
ye must do! ^lethods are my business. Let me tell you
the true position. In ae word it is no more and no less than
this. You and me are baith here to carry out the provec-
sions of the Act for the Pacification of the Highlands. That
means the cleaning up of a very big mess, Sandeman, a very
big mess. Now, what is your special office in this work?
1 11 tell ye, man; you and your men are just beesoms in the
hands of the law-oiHcers of the Crown. In this district, I
order and ye soop! (He indicates door of barn.) Now soop.
Captain Sandeman.
Sandeman {in some agitation), ^^^lat is your purpose?
Wiiat are you after? I would give something to see into
your mind.
Camimiell. Ne'er fash aboot my mind: what has a sol-
dier to do with ony mental operations? It's His Grace's
orders that concern you. Out wi' your man and set him up
against the wa'.
Sandelman. Kilmhor, it is murder — munler, Kilmiior!
' CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR 97
Campbell. Hoots, awa', man, it 's a thing o' nae special
signeeficance.
Sandeman. I must ask you for a warrant.
Campbell. Quick then : Mackenzie will bring it out to
you.
(Clerk begins ivriting. Sandeman and soldiers lead
Stewart outside. Campbell sits till they are out.
Clerk finishes, Campbell signs warrant — a7id
former goes. Campbell is alone, save for Morag
Cameron, who is sitting huddled up on stool by fire,
and is unnoticed by Campbell.)
Campbell (as one speaking his thoughts aloud) . I ' ve been
beaten for a' that. A strange thing, noo. Beforehand I
would ha'e said naething could be easier. And yet —
and yet — there it is ! ... It would have been a grand
stroke for me . . . Cluny — Keppoch — Lochiel, and
maybe . . . maybe — Hell! when I think of it! Just a
whispered word — a mere pointed finger would ha'e telled
a'. But no! their visions, their dreams beat me. "You'll
be adding to your experience to-night, Mr. Campbell,
and have something to put to the other side of it,"
says he; aye, and by God I have added something to it,
and it is a thing I like but little — that a dream can be
stronger than a strong man armed. — Here come I,
Archibald Campbell of Kilmlior, invested with authority
as law-ofBcer of the Crown, bearing in my hand the power
of life and death, fire and the sword, backed up by the visi-
ble authority of armed men, and yet I am powerless before
the dreams of an old woman and a half -grown lad — sol-
diers and horses and the gallows and yellow gold are less
than the wind blowing in their faces. — It is a strange
thing that: it is a thing I do not understand. — It is a
thing fit to sicken a man against the notion that there are
probabeelities on this earth. — I have been beaten for a'
8
98 CAMPBELL OF K^L^^IOR
that. Aye, the pair o' them have beat me — though it 's a
matter of seconds till one of them be dead.
MoRAG (starting into upright position and staring at him;
her voice is like an echo to his) . Dead !
Campbell (turning hastily). \Miat is that!
MoRAG. Is he dead?
Campbell (grimly). Not yet, but if ye '11 look through
this window (he indicates icindoit) presently, ye '11 see him
gotten ready for death.
(He begins to collect articles of personal property, hat,
etc.)
MoRAG. I will tell you.
Campbell (astounded). WTiat!
MoR.\G. I will tell you all you are seeking to know.
Campbell (quietly). Good God, and to think, to think
I was on the very act — in the very act of — tell me — tell
me at once.
MoRAG. You will promise that he will not be hanged?
Campbell. He will not. I swear it.
MoRAG. You will give him back to me?
Campbell. I will give him back unhung.
MoRAG. Then (Campbell comes near), in a corrie half-
way up the far side of Dearig — God save me!
Campbell. Dished after a'. I've clean dished them!
Loard, Loard! once more I can believe in the rationality of
Thy world. (Gathers up again his cloak, hat, etc.) And to
think — to think — I was on the very act of going away
like a beaten dog!
]MoR.\G. He is safe from hanging now?
Campbell (chuckle.'i and looks out at irindow before reply-
ing, and w at door ivhen he speaks). Very near it, very
near it. Listen!
(He holds up his hand — a volley of musketry is heard.
KiLMHOR goes out, closing the door behind hitn. After
CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR 99
a short interval of silence the old woman enters and
advances a few steps.)
Mary Stewart. Did you hear, Morag Cameron, did
you hear?
(The girl is sobbing, her head on her arms.)
Mary Stewart. Och! be quiet now; I would be hsten-
ing till the last sound of it passes into the great hills and
over all the wide world. — It is fitting for you to be cry;
ing, a child that cannot understand; but water shall never
wet eye of mine for Dugald Stewart. Last night I was but
the mother of a lad that herded sheep on the Athole hills:
this morn it is I that am the mother of a man who is among
the great ones of the earth. All over the land they will be
telling of Dugald Stewart. Mothers will teach their child-
ren to be men by him. High will his name be with the teller
of fine tales. — The great men came, they came in their
pride, terrible like the storm they were, and cunning with
words of guile were they. Death was with them. ... He
was but a lad, a young lad, with great length of days before
him, and the grandeur of the world. But he put it all from
him. " Speak, " said they, " speak, and life and great riches
will be for yourself ." But he said no word at all! Loud was
the swelling of their wrath! Let the heart of you rejoice,
Morag Cameron, for the snow is red with his blood. There
are things greater than death. Let them that are children
shed the tears.
(She comes forward and lays her hand on the girVs
shoulder.)
Mary Stewart. Let us go and lift him into the house,
and not be leaving him lie out there alone.
[Curtain]
THE SUx\'
JOHN GAI^WORTIIY
SCENE: A Girl sits crouched over her knees on a stile close in
a river. A Man with a silrer badge stands beside her
clutching the xcom top plank. The Girl's leiel brows are
drawn together; her eyes see her memories. Tue Man's
eyes see The Girl; he has a dark, twisted face. The
bright sim shines; the quiet river flows; the cuckoo is
calling; the mayflowcr is in bloom along the hedge that
ends in the stile on the towing-path.
The Girl. God knows what 'c "11 say, ,Iiin.
The Man. Ix^t Mm. 'E's come too late, that 's all.
The Girl. lie couldn't come before. I'm friuhtoncd.
*E was fond o' me.
The Man. And are n't I fond of you? My Gawd !
The Giul. I out^ht to 'a' waited, Jim; with 'im in the
flphtin'.
The Man- (passionately). And what ahout me.' .Vre n't
I heen in the fightin' — earned all I could k-el.'
The Girl (touching him). Ah!
The M.\n. Did you —
(lie cannot .'^pcak the words.)
Tmio (iiuL. Not like you. Jim — not like you.
The Man. 'Ave a spirit, then.
' i'Voin Scrilmcr's Magazinr, .Muy. 1010. CopyriK'Iil liy Clmrlos .Scril>-
ucr's Sons; included hy spcnal porini.ssion of llic writer and publishers.
THE SUN 101
The Girl. I promised 'im.
The ]VIan. One man's luck's another's poison. I'v©-
seen it.
The Girl. I ought to 'a' waited. I never thought 'e'd
come back from the fightin'.
The Man (grimly). Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave.
The Girl {looking back along the toiv-path). TMiat'll 'e
be Kke, I wonder?
The Man {gripping her shoulder). Daise, don't you
never go back on me, or I should kill you, and 'im too.
(The Girl looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his.)
The Girl. I never could.
The Man. Will you run for it? 'E 'd never find us.
(The Girl shakes her head.)
The Man {dully). What's the good o' stayin'? The
world's wide.
The Girl. I 'd rather have it off me mind, with him
'ome.
The Man {clenching his hands). It's temptin' Provi-
dence.
The Girl. What's the time, Jim?
The Man {glancing at the sim). 'Alf past four.
The Girl {looking along the towing-path). 'E said four
o'clock. Jim, you better go.
The Man. Not I. I've not got the wind up. I've seen
as much of hell as he has, any day. What like is he?
The Girl {dully). I dunno, just. I've not seen 'im these
three years. I dunno no more, since I've known you.
The Man. Big, or little chap?
The Girl. 'Bout your size. Oh! Jim, go along!
The Man. No fear! WTiat's a bhghter Uke that to old
Fritz's shells? We did n't shift when they was comin'. If
you'll go, I'll go; not else.
{Again she shakes her head.)
102 THE SUN
The Girl. Jim, do you love me true? (For ansicer.
The Max takes her avidly in his arms.) I ain't ashamed —
I ain't ashamed. If 'e could see me 'eart.
The Man. Daise! If I'd known you out there I never
could 'a' stuck it. They'd 'a' got me for a deserter. That 's
'ow I love you !
The Girl. Jim, don't lift your 'and to 'im. Promise!
The ]VL\n. That's according.
The Girl. Promise!
The Man. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not ac-
countable — not always, I tell you straight — not since
I 've been through that.
The Girl (unih a shiver). Nor p'r'aps 'e is n't.
The Max. Like as not. It takes the lynchpins out, I
lell you.
The Girl. God 'elp us!
The Max (grimh/). Ah! We said that a bit too often.
\\ hat we want, we take, now; there's no one to give it us,
and there's no fear '11 stop us; we seen the bottom o* things.
The Girl. P'r'aps 'e'll say that too.
The Man. Then it'll be 'im or me.
The Giul. I'm frightened.
The Man {tendcrhj). No. Daise, no! (lie takes out a
knife.) The river's 'andy. One more or less. 'K shan't
'arm you; nor me neither.
The Girl (seizing his hand). Oh! no! Give it to me.
Jim!
The Man (smiling). No fear! (He puts it away.) Shan't
'ave no need for it, like as not. -Ml right, little Daise; you
can't be expected to see things like what we do. What 's a
life, anyway? I've seen a thousjind taken in five minutes.
I've se<*n dead men on the wires like flies on a fly-paper;
I've been as good as dead mes«'lf an 'undred times. I've
killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. 'E's safe, if 'e don't get
THE SUN 103
my blood up. If 'e does, nobody's safe; not 'im, nor any-
body else; not even you. I'm speakin' sober.
The GmL (softly). Jim, you won't go fightin', wi' the
sun out and the birds all callin'?
The Man. That depends on 'im. I 'm not lookin' for it.
Daise, I love you. I love your eyes. I love your hair. Hove
you.
The Girl. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin'
more than you in the whole world.
The Man. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me close!
(The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace.
The Girl starts from his arms and looks behind her
along the toioing-path. The Man draws back against
the hedge, fingering his side, where the knife is hidden.
The song comes nearer.)
I '11 be right there to-night
Where the fields are snowy white;
Banjos ringin', darkies singin' —
All the world seems bright.
The Girl. It's'im!
The Man. Don't get the wind up, Daise. I 'm here !
(The singing stops. A man's voice says: Christ! It's
Daise; it's little Daise 'erself! The Girl stands
rigid. The figure of a soldier appears on the other side
^of the stile. His cap is tucked into his belt, his hair is
bright in the sunshine; he is lean, wasted, brown, and
laughing.)
Soldier. Daise! Daise! Hallo, old pretty girl!
(The Girl does not move, barring the way, as it were.)
The Girl. Hallo, Jack! (Softly) I got things to tell you.
Soldier. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I
got things that 'd take me years to tell. 'Ave you missed me,
Daise?
104 THE SUN
The Girl. You been so long.
Soldier. So I 'ave. ^ly Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in
the Army. I said when I got out of it I'd huigh. Like as
the sun itself I used to think of you, Daise, when the
crumps was comin' over, and the wind was up. D' you re-
member that last night in the wood? "Come back, and
marry me quick. Jack!" Well, 'ere I am — got me pass to
'eaven. No more fightin', an' trampin,' no more sleepin'
rough. We can get married now, Daise. We can live soft
an' 'appy. Give us a kiss, old pretty.
The Girl (drairing hack). No.
Soldier (blankly). Why not?
(The Man, with a swift movement, steps along the hedge
to The Girl's side.)
The Man. That 's why, soldier.
Soldier (leaping over the stile). 'Oo are you, Pompey?
The sun don't shine in your insitlc, do it? 'Oo is 'e,
Daise?
The Girl. My man.
Soldier. Your — man! Lummy! "TafTy was a Welsh-
man, Taffy was a thief"! Well, soldier? So you've been
through it, too. I'm laughin' this mornin', as luck will 'ave
it. Ah! I can see your knife.
The Man (ivho has half drawn his knife). Don't laugh
at m£, I tell you.
Soldier. Not at you, soldier, not at you. (//<• look.ffrom
one to the other.) I'm laughin' at things in general. Where
did you get it, soldier?
The Man (wntchfiiUji). Through the hiiig.
Soldier. Think o' that! .\n' I never was touched. Four
years an' never was touched. An' so you've come an' took
my girl. Nothin' doin'! Ha! (Again he looks from one to the
other — then away.) Woll! The worlil's before me. (lie
laughs.) I '11 give you Daise for a lung protector.
THE SUN 105
The IVIan {fiercely) . You won't. I Ve took her.
Soldier. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got
a laugh in me you can't put out, black as you are ! Good-
bye, little Daise!
(The Girl makes a movement toward him.)
The Man. Don't touch 'im!
(The Girl stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into
tears.)
Soldier. Look 'ere, soldier; shake 'ands! I don't want
to see a girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I
seen too much o' sorrer. You an' me 've been at the back
of it. We 've 'ad our whack. Shake!
The Man. Who areyou kiddin'? Fou never loved 'er!
Soldier. Oh! I thought I did.
The Man (fiercely) . I '11 fight you for her.
(He drops his knife.)
Soldier (slowly). Soldier, you done your bit, an' I done
mine. It 's took us two ways, seemin'ly.
The Girl (pleading). Jim!
The IVIan (vnth clenched fists) . I don't want 'is charity.
I only want what I can take.
Soldier. Daise, which of us will you 'ave?
The Girl (covering her face) . Oh ! Him.
Soldier. You see, soldier! Drop your 'ands, now.
There 's nothin' for it but a laugh. You an' me know that.
Laugh, soldier!
The Man. You blarsted —
(The Girl springs to him and stops his mouth.)
Soldier. It's no use, soldier. I can't do it. I said I'd
laugh to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that,
an' all the stink of it; I've come through sorrer. Never
again! Cheer-o, mate! The sun's shinin'!
(He turns away.)
The Girl. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me !
106 THE SUN
Soldier {looking back). No fear, old pretty girl! En-
joy your fancy! So long! Gawd bless you both !
{He sings and goes along the path, and the song —
I 'II be right there to-night
\\'hore the 6cl(b are snowy white;
Banjos ringin', darkies singin' —
All the world S'^eins bright! —
fades away.)
The Man. 'E'smad.
The Girl {looking down the path, with her hands clasped).
The sun 'as touched 'ira, Jim!
Curtain ]
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS^
LOUISE SAUNDERS
CHARACTERS
The Manager
Blue Hose
Yellow Hose
1st Herald
2d Herald
POMPDEBILE THE ElGHTH, KiNG OF HeARTS
(pronounced Pomp-c/rbiley)
The Chancellor
The Knave of Hearts
Ursula
The Lady Violetta
Sex Little Pages
(The INIanager appears before the curtain in doublet
and hose. He carries a cap with a long, red feather.)
The Manager (bowing deeply). Ladies and gentlemen,
you are about to hear the truth of an old legend that has
persisted wrongly through the ages, the truth that, until
now, has been hid behind the embroidered curtain of a
rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts, who was no knave but
a very hero indeed. The truth, you will agree with me,
1 This play is fully protected by copjTight and may be used only with
the written permission of, and the payment of royalty to, Norman Lee
Swartout, Simmiit, New Jersey. Included by permission of the author
and Mr. Swartout.
108 THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It is only the
quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem what they
are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue,
pines shadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still
waters, the contemplative mystery of the hills — these
things which exist, absorbed but in their own existence —
these are the perfect chalices of truth.
But we, gentlemen and thrice-honored ladies, flounder
about in a tangled net of prejudice, of intrigue. We are
blinded by conventions, we are crushed by misunderstand-
ing, we are distracted by violence, we are deceived by hy-
pocrisy, until only too often villains receive the rewards of
nobility and the truly great-hearted are suspected, dis-
trusted, and maligned.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of justice and
also, I dare to hope, for your approval, I have taken my
puppets down from their dusty shelves. I have polished
their faces, brushed their clothes, and strung them on wires,
so that they may enact for you this history.
{He purls the curtains, revealing two Pastry Cooks in
flaring ichite caps and spotless aprons leaning over in
stiff profile, their wooden spoons, three feet long,
pointing rigidhj to the ceiling. They are in one of the
kitchens of Pompdebile the Eighth, King of
Hearts. // is a pleasant kitchen, tcith a row of little
dormer irindows and a huge stove, adorned with the
crest of PoMPDEiiiLE — a heart rampant, on a gold
shield.)
The Manager. You see here, ladies and gentlemen,
two pastry cooks belonging to the royal household of
Pompdebile the Eighth — Blue Hose and Yellow Hose, by
name. At a signal from me they will spring to action, and
as they have been made with astonishing cleverness, they
will bear every semblance of life. Hapjiily. however, you
need have no fear that, should they please you, the exulting
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 109
wine of your appreciation may go to their heads — their
heads being but things of wire and wood ; and happily, too,
as they are but wood and wire, they will be spared the
shame and humiliation that would otherwise be theirs
should they fail to meet with your approval.
The play, most honored ladies and gentlemen, will now
begin.
{He claps his hands. Instantly the two Pastry Cooks
co7ne to life. The Manager bows himself off the
stage.)
Blue Hose. Is everything ready for this great event?
Yellow Hose. Everything. The fire blazing in the
stove, the Pages, dressed in their best, waiting in the pantry
with their various jars full of the finest butter, the sweet-
est sugar, the hottest pepper, the richest milk, the —
Blue Hose. Yes, yes, no doubt. (Thoughtfully) It is
a great responsibility, this that they have put on our
shoulders.
Yellow Hose. Ah, yes. I have never felt more impor-
tant.
Blue Hose. Nor I more uncomfortable.
Yellow Hose. Even on the day, or rather the night,
when I awoke and found myself famous — I refer to the
time when I laid before an astonished world my creation,
"Humming birds' hearts souffle, au vin blanc" — I did
not feel more important. It is a pleasing sensation!
Blue Hose. I like it not at all. It makes me dizzy, this
eminence on which they have placed us. The Lady Violetta
is slim and fair. She does not, in my opinion, look like the
kind of person who is capable of making good pastry. I
have discovered through long experience that it is the heav-
iest women who make the lightest pastry, and vice versa.
Well, then, suppose that she does not pass this examination
— suppose that her pastry is lumpy, white like the skin of a
boiled fowl.
no THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
Yellow Hose, Then, according to the law of the King-
dom of Hearts, we must condemn it, and the Lady Violetta
cannot become the bride of Pompdebile. Back to her native
land she will be sent, riding a mule.
Blue Hose. And she is so pretty, so exquisite! \Miat a
law! What an outrageous law!
' Yellow Hose. Outrageous law ! How dare you! There
is nothing so necessary to the welfare of the nation as our
art. Good cooks make good tempers, don't they.' Must
not the queen set an example for the other women to fol-
low? Did not our fathers and our grandfathers before us
judge the dishes of the previous queens of hearts?
Blue Hose. I wish I were mixing the rolls for to-mor-
row's breakfast.
Yellow Hose. Bah! You are fit for nothing else. The
affairs of state are beyond you.
(Distant sound of trumpets.)
Blue Hose (nervously). What's that?
Yellow Hose. The King is approaching! The cere-
monies are about to commence!
Blue Hose. Is evcrj-thing ready?
Yellow Hose. I told you that everything was ready.
Stand still; you are as white as a stalk of celery.
' Blue Hose (counting on his fingers). Apples, lemons,
peaches, jam — Jam! Did you forget jam?
Yellow Hose. Zounds, I did!
Blue Hose (trailing). We are lost!
Yellow Hose. She may not call for it.
(Both stand very erect and make a desperate effort to ap-
pear calm.)
"RlxjeHohk (very nervous). "VMiich door? ^\'hich door?
Yellow Hose. The big one, idiot. Be still!
(The sound of trumpets increases, and cries of ''Make
way for the King.'' Two Heralds come in arul stand
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 111
on either side of the door. The King of Hearts enters,
followed by ladies and gentlemen of the court. Pomp-
DEBiLE is in full regalia, and very imposing indeed
ivith his red robe bordered with ermine, his crown and
sceptre. After him comes the Chancellor, an old
man vnth a short, white beard. The King strides in a
particularly kingly fashion, pointing his toes in the
air at every step, toward his throne, and sits down.
The Knave walks behind him slowly. He has a sharp,
pale face.)
Pompdebile {impressively). Lords and ladies of the
court, this is an important moment in the history of our
reign. The Lady Violetta, whom you love and respect —
that is, I mean to say, whom the ladies love and the lords —
er — respect, is about to prove whether or not she be fitted
to hold the exalted position of Queen of Hearts, according
to the law, made a thousand years ago by Pompdebile the
Great, and steadily followed ever since. She will prepare
with her own delicate, white hands a dish of pastry. This
will be judged by the two finest pastry cooks in the land.
(Blue Hose and Yellow Hose bow deeply.)
K their verdict be favorable, she shall ride through the
streets of the city on a white palfrey, garlanded with flowers.
She will be crowned, the populace will cheer her, and she
will reign by our side, attending to the domestic affairs of
the realm, while we give our time to weightier matters.
This of course you all understand is a time of great anxiety
for the Lady Violetta. She will appear worried — {To
Chancellor) The palfrey is in readiness, we suppose.
Chancellor. It is, Your Majesty.
Pompdebile. Garlanded with flowers?
Chancellor. With roses. Your Majesty.
Knave {bowing). The Lady Violetta prefers violets.
Your Majesty.
112 TIIE KNAVE OF HEARTS
PoMPDEBiLE. Let there be a few violets put in with the
roses — er — We are ready for the ceremony to com-
mence. We confess to a slight nervousness unbecoming to
one of our station. The Lady Violetta, though trying at
times, we have found — er — shall we say — er — satis-
fying?
Knave (bowing). Intoxicating, Your Majesty?
Chancellor (shortly). His Majesty means nothing of
the sort.
PoMPDEBiLE. No, of course not — er — The mule —
Is that — did you — ?
Chancellor (m a grieved tone). This is hardly neces-
sary. Have I ever neglected or forgotten any of your com-
mands. Your Majesty?
PoMPDEBiLE. You luivc, oftcii. Ilowcvcr, dou't be in-
sulted. It takes a great deal of our time ami it is most
uninteresting.
Chancellor (indignantly). I resign. Your Majesty.
PoMPDEBiLE. Your thirty-seveuth resignation will be
accepted to-morrow. Just now it is our wish to begin at
once. The anxiety that no doubt gathered in the breast of
each of the seven successive Pompdebiles before us seems
to have concentrated in ours. Already the people are clam-
oring at the gates of the j)alace to know the decision. lie-
gin. Let the Pages be summoned.
Knave, (boicing). Beg pardon. Your Majesty; beft)re
summoning the Pages, should not the Lady Violetta be
here?
PoMPDEBiLE. She should, and is, we presume, on tlie
other side of that door — waiting broatiilessly.
(The Knave quietly opens the door and closes it.)
Knavf: (boicing). She is not, Your Majesty, on the other
side of that door waiting breathlessly. In fact, to speak
plainly, she is not on the other side of that door at all.
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 113
PoMPDEBiLE. Can that be true? Wliere are her ladies?
Knave. They are all there. Your Majesty.
PoMPDEBiLE. Summon one of them.
(The Knave goes out, shutting the door. He returns, fol-
lowing Ursula, who, very much frightened, throws
herself at the King's feet.)
Pompdebile. Where is your mistress?
Ursula. She has gone, Your Majesty.
Pompdebile. Gone! Where has she gone?
Ursula. I do not know, Your Majesty. She was with us
a while ago, waiting there, as you commanded.
Pompdebile. Yes, and then — speak.
Ursula. Then she started out and forbade us to go with
her.
Pompdebile. The thought of possible divorce from us
was more than she could bear. Did she say anything be-
fore she left?
Ursula {tremhling) . Yes, Your Majesty.
Pompdebile. What was it? She may have gone to self-
destruction. What was it?
Ursula. She said —
Pompdebile. Speak, woman, speak.
Ursula. She said that Your Majesty —
Pompdebile. A farewell message! Go on.
Ursula {gasping). That Your Majesty was "pokey"
and that she did n't intend to stay there any longer.
Pompdebile (roar mgr). Pokey! 1
Ursula. Yes, Your Majesty, and she bade me call her
when you came, but we can't find her, Your Majesty.
{The Pastry Cooks whisper. Ursula is in tears.)
Chancellor. This should not be countenanced. Your
Majesty. The word "pokey" cannot be found in the dic-
tionary. It is the most flagrant disrespect to use a word
that is not in the dictionary in connection with a king.
114 THE KNAVE OF HE.\RTS
PoMPDEBiLE. We are quite aware of that. Chancellor,
and although wc may appear calm on the surface, inwardly
we are swelling, sicdling, with rage and indignation.
Knave {looking out the windoic). I see the Lady Violetta
in the garden. (He goes to the door and holds it open, bowing.)
The Lady Violetta is at the door, Your Majesty.
{Enter the Lady Violetta, her purple train over her
arm. She has been running.)
Violetta. Am I late? I just remembered and came
as fast as I could. I bumped into a sentry and he fell
down. I did n't. That's strange, isn't it? I suppose it's
because he stands in one position so long he — ^^ hy,
Pompy dear, what's the matter? Oh, oh! {Walking closer)
Your feelings are hurt!
Pompdebile. Dont call us Pompy. It does n't seem to
matter to you whether you are divorced or not.
Violetta {anxiously). Is that why your feelings are
hurt?
Pompdebile. Our feelings are not hurt, not at all.
Violetta. Oh, yes, they are, Pompdcl/ile dear. I know,
because they are connected with your eyel)ro\vs. \Mien
your feelings go down, up go your eyebrows, and when your
feelings go up, they go down — always.
Pompdebile {severely). Where have you been?
Violetta. I, just now?
Pompdebile. Just now, when you should have been out-
side that door waiting breathlessly.
Violetta. I was in the garden. Really, Pompy, you
could n't expect me to stay all day in that riiliculous i)an-
try; and as for being breathless, it's (piite impossil)le to l)e
it unless one has been jumping or something.
Pompdebile. What were you doing in the garden?
Violetta {laughing). Oh, it was too funny. I must tell
you. I found a goat there who had a beard just like the
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 115
Chancellor's — really it was quite remarkable, the resem-
blance — in other ways too. I took him by the horns and
I looked deep into his eyes, and I said, "Chancellor, if you
try to influence Pompy — "
PoMPDEBiLE (shouting). Don't call us Pompy.
ViOLETTA. Excuse me, Pomp —
(Checking herself.)
Knave. And yet I think I remember hearing of an em-
peror, a great emperor, named Pompey.
PoMPDEBiLE. We know him not. Begin at once; the
people are clamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients.
(The Tastry Cooks open the door, and, single file, six
little boys march in, hearing large jars labeled butter,
salt, flour, pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The Cooks
place a table and a large bowl and a pan in front of the
Lady Violetta and give her a spoon. The six little
hoys stand three on each side.)
Violetta. Oh, what darling little ingredients. INIay I
have an apron, please?
(Ursula puts a silk apron, embroidered with red hearts,
on the Lady Violetta.)
Blue Hose. We were unable to find a little boy to carry
the pepper. My Lady. They all would sneeze in such a dis-
turbing way.
Violetta. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He
has n't sneezed once.
Yellow Hose. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not
a little boy.
Violetta. Oh! How nice! Perhaps she will help me.
Chancellor (severely). You are allowed no help. Lady
Violetta.
Violetta. Oh, Chancellor, how cruel of you. (She takes
up the spoon, homng.) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of
the court, I propose to make (impressively) raspberry tarts.
116 THE KXAVE OF HEARTS
Blie Hosk. Heaven l)e kiml to us!
Yellow Hose {suddenly agitated). Your Majesty, I im-
plore your forgiveness. There is no raspberry jam in the
palace.
PoMPDEBiLE What! Who is responsible for this care-
lessness?
Blue Hose. I gave the order to the grocer, but it did n't
come. (Aside) I knew something like this would happen.
I knew it.
ViOLETTA (untying her apron). Then, Ponipdebile, I 'm
very sorry — we shall have to postpone it.
Chancellor. If I may be allowed to suggest. Lady
Violetta can prepare something else.
Knave. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect
has the privilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to
prepare.
\'ioletta. Dear rompdobilc, let 's give it up. It 's such a
silly law! Why should a great splendid ruler like you fol-
low it just because one of your ancestors, who was n't half
as nice as you are, or one bit wiser, said to do it.^ Dearest
Pompdebile, please.
PoMi'DEiuLE. We are inclined to think that there may be
something in what the Lady \ iolctta says.
Chancellor. I can no longer remain silent. Itisilucto
that ])rilliant law of Poinpdcliile the First, justly called the
Great, that all mcnil)ers of our niale sex are well fed, and,
as a natural con.sequcnce, hai)py.
Knave. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew
the sunlight.
Pompdebile. If we made an cllort. we could think of a
new law — just as wise. It only rc(|uires ctTort.
Chaistkllou. But the constitution. We can't touch
the constitution.
Pompdebile (starting up). We shall destroy the con-
stitution!
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 117
Chancellor. The people are clamoring at the gates !
PoMPDEBiLE. Oh, I forgot them. No, it has been carried
too far. We shall have to go on. Proceed.
VioLETTA. Without the raspberry jam?
PoMPDEBiLE (Jo Knave). Go you, and procure some. I
will give a hundred golden guineas for it.
{The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes for-
ward.)
Boy. Please, Your Majesty, I have some.
PoMPDEBiLE. You! Where?
Boy. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my
cinnamon jar — I could get it,
(Ursula takes it. The boy struggles with his pocket and
finally, triumphantly , pulls out a small jar.)
There!
VioLETTA. How clever of you ! Do you always do that?
Boy. What — eat raspberry jam?
ViOLETTA. No, supply the exact article needed from
your pocket.
Boy. I eat it for my lunch. Please give me the hundred
guineas.
ViOLETTA. Oh, yes — Chancellor — if I may trouble you.
{Holding out her hand.)
Chancellor. Your Majesty, this is an outrage! Are you
going to allow this?
Pompdebile {sadly) . Yes, Chancellor. We have such an
impulsive nature !
{The Lady Violetta receives the money.)
ViOLETTA. Thank you. {She gives it to the boy.) Now we
are ready to begin. Milk, please. {The boy who holds the
milk jar comes forward and kneels.) I take some of this milk
and beat it well.
Yellow Hose {in a whisper). Beat it — milk!
ViOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, tak-
ing great care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl.
118 THE KNA\T OF HE.VRTS
{To the little boy) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the
pepper, and then — one pound of butter. I hope that it is
good butter, or the whole thing will be quite spoiled.
Blue Hose. This is the most astonishing thing I have
ever witnessed.
Yellow Hose. I don't understand it.
ViOLETT.v (stirring). I find that the butter is not very
good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more
pepper to counteract it. That's better. {She pours in
pepper. The boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently.) Oh,
oh, dear! Lend him your handkerchief , Chancellor. Knave,
will you? (Yellow Hose silences the boy's sneezes irilh the
Knave's handkerchief.) I think that they are going to turn
out very well. Are n 't you glad. Chancellor? You shall
have one if you will be glad and smile nicely — a litlle
brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now for a
dash of vinegar.
Cooks {in horror). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar!
VioLETTA {stops Stirring). Vinegar will make them
crumbly. Do you like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darlini,'?
They are really for you, you know, since I am trying, by
this examj)le, to show all the wives how to please all the
husbands.
Pompdebile. Remember that they are to go in the mu-
seum with the tests of the previous Queens.
Violetta {thoughtfully). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that.
Under the circumstances, I shall omit the vine^'ar. We
don't want them too crumbly. They would fall about and
catch the dust so frightfully. The museum-keeper would
never forgive me in years to come. Now I dip them by the
spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice little boy's
raspberry jam — I 'm sorry I have to use it all, but you may
lick the sjjoon — put them in the oven, slam the door.
Now, my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest.
(She curtsies before the KiNc.)
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 119
PoMPDEBiLE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease
vnth. which you performed your task. You must have been
practising for weeks. This reheves, somewhat, the anxiety
under which we have been suffering and makes us think
that we would enjoy a game of checkers once more. How
long a time will it take for your creation to be thoroughly
done, so that it may be tested?
VioLETTA (considering) . About twenty minutes, Pompy.
PoMPDEBiLE (to Herald) . Inform the people. Come, we
will retire. (To Knave) Let no one enter until the Lady
Violetta commands.
(All exit, left, except the Knave. He stands in deep
thought, his chin in hand — then exits slowly, right.
The room is empty. The cuckoo clock strikes. Pres-
ently both right and left doors open stealthily. Enter
Lady Violetta at one door, the Knave at the other,
bachvard, looking down the passage. They turn sud-
denly and see each other.)
Violetta (tearfully). O Knave, I can't cook! Any-
thing — anything at all, not even a baked potato.
Knave. So I rather concluded. My Lady, a few minutes
ago.
Violetta (pleadingly). Don't you think it might just
happen that they turned out all right? (Whispering)
Take them out of the oven. Let 's look.
Knave. That 's what I intended to do before you came
in. It 's possible that a miracle has occurred.
(He tries the door of the oven.)
Violetta. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my hand-
kerchief.
Knave. The gods forbid. My Lady.
(He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and
brings out the pan, which he puts on the table softly.)
Violetta (with a look of horror). How queer! They've
120 THE KNAVE OF HE.VRTS
melted or something. See, they are quite soft and runny.
Do you think that they will be good for anything,
Knave?
Knave. For paste, My Lady, perhaps.
VioLETTA. Oh, dear. Is n't it dreadful!
Knave. It is.
ViOLETTA (beginning to cry). I don't want to be ban-
ished, especially on a mule —
Knave. Don't cry, My Lady. It 's very — upsetting.
ViOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The f^tcs
that I would give — under the starlight, with soft music
stealing from the shadows, fetes all perfume and deep mys-
tery, where the young — like you and me. Knave — would
find the glowing flowers of youth ready to be gathered in
all their dewy freshness !
Knave. Ah!
ViOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouKl n't I make a
pretty picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with
flowers, followed by the cheers of the populace — Long
live Queen Violetta, long live Queen Violctta! Those
abominable i'i\.xis\
Knave. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain.
ViOLETT.\. I am indeed. Is n't it fortunate.*
Knave. Fortunate?
ViOLETTA. Well, I mean it wouUl be fortunate if I were
going to be queen. They get so much flattery. The queens
who don't adore it as I do nuist be bored to death. Poor
things! I'm never so happy as when I am being flattered.
It makes me feel all warm and purry. That is another rea-
son why I feel sure I was made to be a queen.
K^■A^■E (looking ruefully at the pan). You will never be
queen. My Lady, unless we can think of something quickly,
some plan —
VioLKTT A. Oh, yes, dear Knave, jilease think of a plan nt
once. Banished people, I suppose, have to comb their own
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 121
hair, put on their shoes, and button themselves up the back.
I have never performed these estimable and worthy tasks.
Knave. I don't know how; I don't even know how to scent
my bath. I have n't the least idea what makes it smell
deliciously of violets. I only know that it always does smell
deliciously of violets because I wish it that way. I should
be miserable; save me. Knave, please.
Knave. My mind is unhappily a blank. Your Majesty.
ViOLETTA. It's very unjust. Indeed, it's unjust! No
other queen in the world has to understand cooking; even
the Queen of Spades does n't. Why should the Queen of
Hearts, of all people !
Knave. Perhaps it is because — I have heard a proverb:
"The way to the heart is through the — "
ViOLETTA {angrily, stamping her foot). Don't repeat that
hateful proverb ! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel
Hke crying when I hear it, too. Now see, I 'm crying. You
made me.
Knave. Why does that proverb make you cry. My
Lady?
ViOLETTA. Oh, because it is such a stupid proverb and
so silly, because it 's true in most cases, and because — I
don't know why.
Knave. We are a set of moles here. One might also say
that we are a set of mules. How can moles or mules either
be expected to understand the point of view of a Bird of
Paradise when she —
ViOLETTA. Bird of Paradise! Do you mean me?
Knave (bowing). I do, My Lady, figuratively speaking.
ViOLETTA {drying her eyes). How very pretty of you!
Do you know, I think that you would make a splendid
chancellor.
Knave. Her Ladyship is vain, as I remarked before.
ViOLETTA {coldly). As I remarked before, how fortunate.
Have you anything to suggest — a plan?
122 THE KNA\T OF HEARTS
Knave. If only there were time my wife could teach
you. Her figure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her
eyes stumble over it; but her cooking, ah — {He blows a
kiss) it is a thing to dream about. She cooks as nat-
urally as the angels sing. The delicate flavors of her
concoctions float over the palate like the perfumes of a
thousand flowers. True, her temper, it is anj-thing but
sweet — However, I am conceded by many to be the most
happily married man in the kingdom.
ViOLETTA (sadly). Yes. That's all they care about here.
One may be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every
other way, but if one can't cook nobody loves one at all.
Knave. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for
holding such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature
whispers that perhaps after all they are not far from right,
and as my lower nature is the only one that ever gets any
encouragement —
ViOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be
done — I shall have to be banished?
Knave. I 'm afraid — Wait, I have an idea ! (Excitedly)
Dulcinea, my wife — her name is Dulcinea — made known
to me this morning, very forcil)ly — Yes, I remember, I 'm
sure — Yes, she was going to bake this very morning
some raspberry tarts — a dish in which she particularly
excels — If I could only procure some of them and bring
them here!
ViOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could
you, I mean, would you? Is there time? The court will
return.
(They tiptoe to the door and listen stealihily.)
Knave. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone
come in until I get back, if you can help it.
(Tie jumps on the table, ready to go out the window.)
ViOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it.
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 123
It is the custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen
at her coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor.
Knave (turning back). Oh, please don't. My Lady, I
implore you.
VioLETTA. Why not?
Knave. It would give me social position, My Lady, and
that I would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue
about that, my wife and I ! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and
the higher she climbs, the less she cooks. Should you have
me made Chancellor, she would never wield a spoon again.
ViOLETTA {pursing her lips). But it does n't seem fair,
exactly. Think of how much I shall be indebted to her.
If she enjoys social position, I might as well give her some.
We have lots and lots of it lying around.
Knave. She would n't. My Lady, she would n't enjoy
it. Dulcinea is a true genius, you understand, and the
happiness of a genius lies solely in using his gift. If she
did n't cook she would be miserable, although she might
not be aware of it, I 'm perfectly sure.
ViOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away
from you. You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do
you like that better? Hurry, please.
Knave. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly.
(He goes out with the tarts. Violetta listens anxiously
for a minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips
of her fingers and practises in pantomime her antici-
pated ride on the palfrey. She bows, smiles, kisses her
hand, until suddenly she remembers the mule standing
outside the gates of the palace. That thought saddens
her, so she curls up in Pompdebile's throne and cries
softly, teiping aivay her tears with a lace handkerchief.
There is a knock. She flies to the door and holds it
shut.)
Violetta {breathlessly). Who is there?
124 THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
Chancellor. It is I, Lady Violetta. The King wishes
to return.
Violetta (alarmed). Return! Does he? But the tarts
are not done. They are not done at all !
Ciianx'ELLOr. You said they would be ready in twenty
minutes. His Majesty is impatient.
Violetta. Did you play a game of checkers with him,
Chancellor?
Chancellor. Yes.
Violetta. And did you beat him?
Chancellor (shortly). I did not.
Violetta (laughing). How sweet of you! Would you
mind doing it again just for me? Or would it be too great
a strain on you to keep from beating him twice in
succession?
Chancellor. I shall tell the King that you refuse
admission.
(Violetta runs to the loindoio to see if the Knave is in
sight. The Chancellor returns and knocks.)
Chancellor. The King wishes to come in.
Violetta. But the checkers!
Chancellor. The Knights of the Checker Board have
taken them away.
Violetta. But the tarts are n't done, really.
Chancellor. You said twenty minutes.
Violetta. No, I did n't — at least, I said twenty min-
utes for them to get good and warm and another twenty
minutes for them to become brown. That makes forty —
don't you remember?
Chancellor. I shall carry your message to His Majesty.
(Violetta again runs to the window and peers anxiously
up the road.)
Chancellor (knocking loudly). The King commands
you to open the door.
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 125
ViOLETTA. Commands! Tell him — Is he there — with
you?
Chancellor. His Majesty is at the door.
ViOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude
indeed. I don't see how you can be so rude — to command
me, your own Violetta who loves you so. (She again looks
in vain for the Knave.) Oh, dear! (Wringing her hands)
Wliere can he be !
PoMPDEBiLE (outside). This is nonsense. Don't you see
how worried we are? It is a compliment to you —
ViOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care — only I'm sure
they are not finished.
{She opens the door for the King, the Chancellor,
and the two Pastry Cooks. The King walks to his
throne. He finds Lady Violetta's lace handkerchief
on it.)
Pompdebile {holding up handkerchief). "What is this?
ViOLETTA. Oh, that 's my handkerchief.
Pompdebile. It is very damp. Can it be that you are
anxious, that you are afraid?
Violetta. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as
one always does after cooking; {to the Pastry Cooks)
does n't one? But there was no towel, so I used my hand-
kerchief instead of my petticoat, which is made of chiffon
and is very perishable.
Chancellor. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce
her work?
Violetta. I don't understand what you mean by work,
Chancellor. Oh, the tarts! {Nervously) They were quite
simple — quite simple to make — no work at all — A
little imagination is all one needs for such things, just
imagination. You agree with me, don't you, Pompy, that
imagination will work wonders — will do almost anything,
in fact? I remember —
126 THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
PoMPDEBiLE. The Pastrj' Cooks will remove the tarts
from the oven.
VioLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy! They are not finished or
cooked, or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last
five minutes is of the greatest importance. Please don't let
them touch them ! Please —
PoMPDEBiLE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm your-
self. If you wish, they will put them back again. There
can be no harm in looking at them. Come, I will hold your
hand.
Violetta. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your
holding my hand.
(She scrambles up on the throne beside the King.)
Chancellor {in horror). On the throne. Your Majesty?
PoMPDEBiLE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that
you are not yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a
little while —
Violetta {coming dovm). Oh, I sec. May I sit here.
Chancellor, in this seemingly humble position at his feet?
Of course, I can't really be humble when he is holding my
hand and enjoying it so much.
PoMPDEBiLE. Violetta! {To the Pastry Cooks) Sam-
ple the tarts. This suspense is unbearable!
{The King's voice is husky icith excitement. The two
Pastry Cooks, after boicing irith great ceremony to
the King, to each other, to the Chancellor — for
this is the most important moment of their lircs by far
— walk to the oven door and open it, impressively.
They fall back in astojiishment so great that they lose
their balance, but they quickly scra7nble to their feet
again).
Yellow Hose. Your Majesty, there arc no tarts there!
Bn e Hose. Your ^lajcsty, the tarts have gone!
\io\jKtt A {clasping her hands). Gone! Oh, where could
they have gone?
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 127
PoMPDEBiLE (coming down from throne). That is im-
possible.
Pastry Cooks {greatly excited). You see, you see, the
oven is empty as a drum.
PoMPDEBiLE (to Violetta). Did you go out of this
room?
Violetta (wailing). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to
powder my nose before the mirror in the pantry. (To
Pastry Cooks) When one cooks one becomes so di-
sheveled, does n't one? But if I had thought for one little
minute —
Pompdebile (interrupting). The tarts have been stolen!
Violetta (with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair).
Stolen! Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that
any one would take my delicious little, my dear little tarts.
My salts. Oh! Oh! '
(Pastry Cooks run to the door and call.)
Yellow Hose. Salts ! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts.
Blue Hose. The Lady Violetta has fainted !
(Ursula enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle.)
Ursula. Here, here — What has happened? Oh, My
Lady, my sweet mistress!
Pompdebile. Some wretch has stolen the tarts.
(Lady Violetta moans.)
Ursula. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress
and bathe her forehead.
Violetta (sitting up). I feel better now. Where am I?
What is the matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts!
(She buries her face in her hands.)
Chancellor (suspiciously). Your Majesty, this is very
strange.
Ursula (excitedly). I know. Your Majesty. It was the
Knave. One of the Queen's women, who was walking in the
garden, saw the Knave jump out of this window with a tray
in his hand. It was the Knave.
128 THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
ViOLETTA. Ob, I don't think it was he. I don't, really.
PoMPDEBiLE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We
shall banish him for this or have him beheaded.
Chancellor. It should have been done long ago, Your
Majesty.
PoMPDEBiLE. You are right.
Chancellor. Your Majesty will never listen to me.
PoMPDEBiLE. We do listen to you. Be quiet.
ViOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear?
PoMPDEBiLE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let
it be known all over the Kingdom that I desire that the
Knave be brought here dead or alive. Send the royal de-
tectives and policemen in every direction.
Chancellor. Excellent ; just what I should have advised
had Your IMajesty listened to me.
Pompdebile {in a rage). Be quiet. {Exit Herald.) I
never have a brilliant thought but j'ou claim it. It is
insufferable !
{The Heralds can be heard in the distance.)
Chancellor. I resign.
Pompdebile. Good. W^e accept your thirty-eighth resig-
nation at once.
Chancellor. You did me the honor to appoint me as
your Chancellor, Your IMajesty, yet never, never do you
give me an opportunity to chancel. That is my only griev-
ance. You must admit. Your Majesty, that as your ad-
visers advise you, as your dressers dress you, as your
hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, your Chancellor .should
be allowed to chancel. However, I will be just — as I have
been with you so long; before I leave you, I will give you
a month's notice.
Pompdebile. That is n't necessary.
Chancellor {referring to the constitution hanging at his
belt). It's in the constitution.
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 129
PoMPDEBiLE. Be quiet.
ViOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so —•
so unfortunately, I shall change my gown. {To Ursula)
Put out my cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always
a relief to change one's gown. May I have my handker-
chief, Pompy? Rather a pretty one, is n't it, Pompy? Of
course you don't object to my calling you Pompy now.
When I 'm in trouble it 's a comfort, like holding your hand.
PoMPDEBiLE {magnanimously) . You may hold our hand
too, Violetta.
ViOLETTA {fervently). Oh, how good you are, how sym-
pathetic ! But you see it 's impossible just now, as I have to
change my gown — unless you will come with me while
I change.
Chancellor {in a voice charged loith inexpressible hor-
ror). Your Majesty!
Pompdebile. Be quiet! You have been discharged!
{He starts to descend, irhen a Herald bursts through the
door in a state of great excitement. He kneels before
Pompdebile.)
Herald. We have found him; we have found him.
Your Majesty. In fact, I found him all by myseK ! He was
sitting under the shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled
over one of his legs and fell. " How easy it is to send man
and all his pride into the dust," he said, and then — I saw
him!
Pompdebile. Eating a tart ! Eating a tart, did you say?
The scoundrel! Bring him here immediately.
{The Herald rushes out and returns with the Bjnave,
followed by the six little Pages. The Knave carries
a tray of tarts in his hand.)
Pompdebile {almost speechless with rage). How dare
you — you — you —
Knave {bovnng). Knave, Your Majesty.
10
130 THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
PoMPDEBiLE. You Knave, you shall be punished for
this.
Chancellor. Behead him, Your Majesty.
PoMPDEBiLE. Yes, behead him at once.
VioLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe
enough.
PoMPDEBiLE. Not scverc enough, to cut off a man's
head ! Really, Violetta —
ViOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been be-
headed, one's consciousness that one has been beheaded
comes off too. It is inevitable. And then, what does it
matter, when one does n't know? Let us think of some-
thing really cruel — really fiendish. I have it — deprive
him of social position for the rest of his life — force him to
remain a mere knave, forever.
PoMPDEBiLE. You are right.
Knave. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I
deserve it, Your INIajesty.
Pompdebile. What prompted you to commit this das-
tardly crime?
Knave. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any
kind. There is something in my nature that demands
tarts — something in my constitution that cries out for
them — and I obey my constitution as rigidly as docs the
Chancellor seek to obey his. I was in the garden reading,
as is my habit, when a delicate odor floated to my nostrils,
a persuasive odor, a seductive, light brown, flaky odor, an
odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts fit for the gods —
that I could stand it no longer. It was stronger than I.
With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances for future
happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the window.
The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating it,
exjjerienced the one perfect moment of my existence.
After having eaten that one tart, my craving for other
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 131
tarts has disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that
first tart before me forever, or die content, having tasted
true perfection.
PoMPDEBiLE. M-m-m, how extraordinary ! Let him be
beaten fifteen strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to
the Royal Household, we await your decision !
(The Cooks bow as before; then each selects a tart from
the tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his
month. An expression of absolute ecstasy and beati-
tude comes over their faces. They clasp hands, then
fall on each other'' s necks, weeping.)
PoMPDEBiLE {impatiently). What on earth is the matter?
Yellow Hose. Excuse our emotion. It is because we
have at last encountered a true genius, a great master, or
rather mistress, of our art.
{They bow to Violetta.)
Pompdebile. They are good, then.^
Blue Hose {his eyes to heaven) . Good ! They are angelic !
Pompdebile. Give one of the tarts to us. We would
sample it.
{The Pastry Cooks hand the tray to the King, who
selects a tart and eats it.)
Pompdebile {to Violetta). My dear, they are marvels!
marvels ! {He comes down from the throne and leadsYioijETTA
up to the dais.) Your throne, my dear.
Violetta {sitting down, with a sigh) . I 'm glad it 's such a
comfortable one.
Pompdebile. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temp-
tation was very great. There are things that mere human
nature cannot be expected to resist. Another tart. Cooks,
and yet another !
Chancellor. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all.
They must go to the museum with the dishes of the pre-
vious Queens of Hearts.
132 THE KNAVE OF IIE.VRTS
Yellow Hose. A museum — those tarts! As well lock
a rose in a m.oney-box !
Chancellor. But the constitution commands it. How
else can v.e commemorate, for future generations, this
event?
Knave. An Your Majesty, please, I will commemorate
it in a rhyme.
PoMPDEBiLE. How can a mere rhyme serve to keep this
affair in the minds of the people?
Knave. It is the onhj way to keep it in the minds of the
people. No event is truly deathless unless its monument be
built in rhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignifi-
cant in itself, became the most famous of all history, be-
cause someone happened to put it into rhyme. The crash of
it sounded through centuries and will vibrate for genera-
tions to come.
Violetta. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman
Empire?
Knave. No, IMadam, I refer to the fall of Humpty
Dumpty.
Pompdebile. Well, make your rhyme. In the mean-
time let us celebrate. You may all have one tart. (The
Pastry Cooks pa.s^s the iar!s. To Violetta) Are you will-
ing, dear, to ride the white palfrey garlanded with flowers
through the streets of the city?
Violetta. Willing! I have been practising for days!
Pompdebile. The people, I suppose, are still clamoring
at the gates.
Violetta. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I iront them to.
Herald, tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to
every woman a shining gold i^icce, but to the babies I shall
throw only kisses, thousands of them, like little winged
birds. Kisses and gold and roses! They will surely love mc
then!
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS 133
Chancellor. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what pos-
sible use to the people — ?
PoMPDEBiLE. Be quiet. The Queen may scatter what
she pleases.
Knave. My rhyme is ready, Your Majesty.
PoMPDEBiLE. Repeat it.
Knave.
The Queen of Hearts
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts
He stole those tarts
And took them quite away.
The King of Hearts
Called for those tarts
And beat the Knave full sore.
The Knave of Hearts
Brought back the tarts
And vowed he'd sin no more.
ViOLETTA (earnestly). My dear Knave, how wonderful
of you ! You shall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has
no social position, has he?
Knave. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not
he chooses to be more lam-eate than poet.
ViOLETTA (rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy). Your Maj-
esty! Those words go to my head — like wine !
Knave. Long live Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen
Violetta ! ( The trumpets sound.)
Heralds. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and
Queen Fi-oletta!
ViOLETTA (excitedly). Fee-oletta, please!
Heralds. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and
Queen Fee-oletta —
(The King and Queen show themselves at the door —
and the people can he heard clamoring outside.)
[Cubtain]
FAME AND THE POET'
LORD DUNSANY
SCENE: The PoeVs rooms in London. Windows in back.
A high screen in a comer.
TIME: February 30th.
CHARACTERS
Harry de Reves. — A Poet.
{This name, though of course of French origin, has become
anglicized and is pronounced de Reeves.)
Dick Prattle. — A Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse
Marines.
Fame.
(The Poet is sitting at a table, writing. Enter Dick
Prattle.)
Prattle. Hullo, Harrj'.
De Reves. Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you
from?
Prattle (casuallij). The ends of the Earth.
De Reves. Well, I 'ni damned !
Prattle. Thought I'd drop in and see how you were
getting on.
DeRe\'ES. Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in
London?
Prattle. Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two
• R<'printo<l from tlic Atlantic Monthly for June, 1919, by si>cciiil jkf-
Diissiun of Ix)rd Dunsuny and the editors of the Atlantic Monthly.
FAME AND THE POET 135
decent ties to wear, — you can get nothing out there, —
then I thought I 'd have a look and see how London was
getting on.
DeReves. Splendid! How's everybody?
Prattle. All going strong.
De Reves. That 's good.
Prattle {seeing paj)er and ink) . But what are you doing?
De Reves. Writing.
Prattle. Writing? I did n't know you wrote.
De Reves. Yes, I've taken to it rather.
Prattle. I say — writing 's no good. What do you
write?
De Reves. Oh, poetry.
Prattle. Poetry? Good Lord!
De Reves. Yes, that sort of thing, you know.
Prattle. Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?
De Reves. No. Hardly any.
Prattle. I say — why don't you chuck it?
De Reves. Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like
my stuff, rather. That's why I go on.
Prattle. I 'd chuck it if there 's no money in it.
De Reves. Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it?
You 'd hardly approve of poetry if there was money in it.
Prattle. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much
by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I would n't try the
poetry touch, only —
De Reves. Only what?
Prattle. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more
sense in betting, somehow.
DeReves. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what
an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus —
Prattle. WTiat's Pegasus?
De Reves. Oh, the winged horse of poets.
Prattle. I say ! You don't believe in a winged horse, do
you?
1^,0 FAIME AND TIIE TOET
De Rev'es. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things.
They all represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem
like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner
would be to you.
Prattle. I say. (Give me a cigarette. Thanks.) What?
Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all
those kind of birds?
De Reves. Yes. Yes. In all of them.
Prattle. Good Lord!
De Reves. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London,
don't you?
Prattle. Yes, of course; but what has —
De Reves. Four million people or so made him Lord
Mayor, did n't they? And he represents to them the wealth
and dignity and tradition of —
Prattle. Yes; but, I say, what has all this —
De Rf:ves. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they
made him Lord ^layor, and so he is one. . . .
Pr.\ttle. Well, of course he is.
De Reves. In the same way Pan has been made what he
is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old
traditions.
Prattle {rising from his chair and stepping backwards,
laughing a7id looking at the Poet in a kind of assumed icon-
der). I say ... I say . . . You old heathen . . . but
Good Lord . . .
(He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a
little.)
De Reves. Look out! Look out!
Prattle. What? What's the matter?
De Reves. The screen!
Prattle. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.
(He is about to go round behind it.)
De Reves. No, don't go round there.
FAME AND THE POET 137
Prattle. What? '\^^ly not?
De Reves. Oh, you would n't understand.
Prattle. Would n't understand? Why, what have you
got?
De Reves. Oh, one of those things . . , You would n't
understand.
Prattle. Of course I 'd understand. Let 's have a look.
{The Poet loalks toward Prattle and the screen. He
protests no further. Prattle looks round the corner
of the screen.) An altar.
De Reves (removing the screen altogether). That is all.
What do you make of it?
(An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is re-
vealed. Papers litter the floor all about it.)
Prattle. I say — you always were an untidy devil.
De Reves. Well, what do you make of it?
Prattle. It reminds me of your room at Eton.
De Reves. My room at Eton?
Prattle. Yes, you always had papers all over your
floor.
De Reves. Oh, yes —
Prattle. And what are these?
De Reves. All these are poems; and this is my altar to
Fame.
Prattle. To Fame?
De Reves. The same that Homer knew.
Prattle. Good Lord!
De Reves. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young.
She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever.
Prattle. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you
think there really is such a person?
De Reves. I offer all my songs to her.
Prattle. But you don't mean you think you could actu-
ally see Fame?
138 FAME AND THE POET
De Reves. We poets personify abstract things, and not
poets only but sculptors and painters too. All the great
things of the world are those abstract things.
Prattle. But what I mean is they're not really there,
like you or me.
De Reves. To us these things are more real than men,
they outlive generations, they watch the passing of King-
doms: we go by them like dust; they are still here, un-
moved, unsmiling.
Prattle. But, but, you can't think that you could see
Fame, you don't expect to see it.
De Reves. Not to me. Never to me. She of the golden
trumpet and Greek dress will never appear to me. . . .
We all have our dreams.
Prattle. I say — what have you been doing all day?
De Reves. I? Oh, only writing a sonnet.
Prattle. Is it a long one?
De Reves. Not very.
Prattle. About how long is it?
De Reves. About fourteen lines.
Prattle (impressively). I tell you what it is.
De Reves. Yes?
Prattle. I tell you what. You've been overworking
yourself. I once got like that on board the Sandluirst,
working for the passing-out exam. I got so bad that I could
have seen anything.
De Reves. Seen anything?
Prattle. Lord, yes : horned pigs, snakes with wings, any-
thing, one of your winged horses even. They gave me some
stuff called bromide for it. You take a rest.
De Reves. But my dear fellow, you don't understand at
all. I merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near
and real and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids.
Prattle. I know. You take a rest.
FAME AND THE POET 139
De Reves. Well, perhaps I will. I 'd come with you to
that musical comedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit
tired after wTiting this ; it 's a tedious job. I '11 come another
night.
Prattle. How do you know I 'm going to see a musical
comedy?
De Reves. Well, where would you go? Hamlet's on at
the Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there.
Prattle. Do I look like it?
De Reves. No.
Prattle. Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see
" The Girl from Bedlam. " So long. I must push off now.
It's getting late. You take a rest. Don't add another line
to that sonnet; fourteen 's quite enough. You take a rest.
Don't have any dinner to-night, just rest. I was like that
once myself. So long.
De Reves. So long.
{Exit Prattle. De Reves returns to his table and sits
dovm.)
Good old Dick. He 's the same as ever. Lord, how time
passes.
{He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alter-
ations.)
Well, that 's finished. I can't do any more to it.
{He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it
and goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet
reverently at the foot of the altar amongst his other
verses.)
No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar.
{He places the sonnet upon the altar itself.)
If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have
done before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do.
{He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the
table. Tvnlight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on
140 FAME AND THE POET
the table, his head on his hand, or however the actor
pleases.)
Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys
his life, so he's no fool. WTiat was that he said? "There 'sno
money in poetry. You 'd better chuck it." Ten years' work
and what have I to show for it? The admiration of men who
care for poetry, and how many of them are there? There 's a
bigger demand for smoked glasses to look at echpses of the
sun. Why should Fame come to me? Have n't I given up
my daj' s for her? That is enough to keep her away. I am a
poet; that is enough reason for her to slight me. Proud and
aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame care for us? Yes,
Dick is right. It's a poor game chasing illusions, hunting
the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? ^^^ly, we are
ourselves dreams. {He leans back in his chair.)
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
(He is silent for a while. Suddcnlif he lifts his head.)
My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess.
{As he lifts his head and says these 2cords, twilight gives
place to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author
of the play may have been mistaken, and the whole
thing may have been no more than a poet's dream.)
So it was, and it's an untidy mess there {looking at screeji)
too. Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole
damned heap. {lie advances impetuously toward the screen.)
Every damned poem that I was ever fool enough to waste
my time on.
{He pushes back the screen. Fame in a Greek dress with a
long golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing mo-
iioulcss on the altar like a marble goddess.)
So . . . vou have come!
FAME AND THE POET 141
(For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he ap-
proaches the altar.)
Divine fair lady, you have come,
(He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from
the altar and into the centre of the stage. At whatever
moment the actor finds it most convenienty he repossesses
himself of the sonnet that he had placed on the altar.
He now offers it to F.^ie.)
This is my sonnet. Is it well done?
(Fame talces it, reads it in silence, while the Poet
watches her rapturously.
Fame. You're a bit of all right.
DEPtEVES. What?
Fajme. Some poet.
De Reves. I — I — scarcely . . . understand.
Faaie. You're it.
De Reves. But ... it is not possible . . . are you
she that knew Homer?
Fame. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e could n't see
a yard.
De Reves. O Heavens !
(Fame walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and
puts her head out.)
Fame (m a voice with which a woman in an upper story
7vould cry for help if the house was well alight). Hi! Hi!
Boys! Hi! Say, folks! Hi!
(The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard. Fame blows
her trumpet.)
Fame. Hi, he's a poet. (Quickly, over her shoulder.)
What's your name?
De Reves. De Reves.
Faaie. His name's de Reves.
De Reves. Harry de Reves.
Fame. His pals call him Harry.
142 FAME AND THE POET
The Crowd. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
Fame. Say, what's your favourite color?
De Reve:s. I ... I ... I don't quite understand.
Fame. Well, which do you like best, green or blue?
De Reves. Oh — er — blue. (She bloirs her trumpet out
of the ivindoiv.) No — er — I think green.
Fame. Green is his favourite colour.
The Crowd. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
Fame. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all
about yer.
De Reves. Would n't you perhaps . . . would they
care to hear my sonnet, if you would — er . . .
Fame (picking up quill). Here, what's this?
De Reves. Oh, that's my pen.
Fame (after another blast on her trumpet). He writes with
a quill. (Cheers from The Crowd.)
Fame (going to a cupboard). Here, what have you got in
here?
De Reves. Oh . . . er . . . those are my breakfast
things.
Fa.me (finding a dirty plate). What have yer had on this
one?
De Reves (mournfully). Oh, eggs and bacon.
Fame (at the window). He has eggs and liacon for l)reak-
fast.
The Crowd. Hip hip hip hooray!
Hip hip hip hooray!
Hip hip hip hooray!
Famp:. Hi, and what's this?
De Reves (miserably). Oh, a golf stick.
Fame. He's a man's man! He's a virile man! He's a
manly man!
{Wild cheers from The Crowd, //tw time only from
women's voices.)
FAME AND THE POET 143
De Reves. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is
terrible.
(Fame gives another peal on her horn. She is about to
speak.)
De Reves (solemnly and mournfully). One moment, one
moment . . .
Fame. Well, out with it.
De Reves. For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped
you, offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not
worthy . . .
Fame. Oh, you're all right.
De Reves. No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It
cannot possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say
it ! I cannot possibly love you. Others are worthy. You will
find others. But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be.
Oh, pardon me, but it must not.
{Meanwhile Fame has been lighting one of his cigarettes.
She sits in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and
puts her feet right up on the table amongst the poet's
papers.)
Oh, I fear I offend you. But — it cannot be.
Fame. Oh, that's all right, old bird; no offence. I ain't
going to leave you.
De Reves. But — but — but — I do not understand.
Fame. I 've come to stay, I have.
{She blows a puff of smoke through her trumpet.)
[Cuhtain]
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE'
BEULAH MARIE DIX
SCENE: In the cheerless hour before the dawn of a net
spring morning fire gentlemen-troopers of the broken
Royalist army, fagged and outworn irilh three long days
of siege, are holding, uith what strength and courage are
left them, the Gatehouse of the Bridge of Cashala, tvhich is
the key to the road that leads into Connaught. The upper
chamber of the Gatehouse, in which they make their
stand, is a narrow, dim-lit apartment, built of stone.
At one side is a swaU fireplace, and be.nde it a narrow,
barred door, which leads to the stairhead. At the end of
the room, gained by a single raised step, are three slit-
like icindoivs, breast-high, designed, as now used, for
defense in time of war. The room is meagrely furnished,
with a table on which are powder-flask, touch-box, etc.,
for charging guns, a stool or two, and an open keg of
powder. The whole look of the place, bare and martial,
but depressed, bespeaks a losing fight. On the hearth the
ashes of afire are irhite, and on the chimneypiece a brace
of candles are guttering out.
The five men who hold the Gatehouse \cear much soHed
and torn military dress. Th<'y are pale, powder-begrimed,
sunken-eyed, tcith eiery mark of weariness of body and
• Includwl by ixrinission of the author and of Messrs. Henry Holt nnd
Compnny. f hi- publishers, from tlic volume AUison's ImJ and Other ilar^
tiaiJiitcrludej. lUlU).
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 145
soul. Their leader, John Talbot, is standing at one
of the shot-windows, with piece presented, looking forth.
He is in his mid-twenties, of Norman-Irish blood, and
distinctly of a finer, more nervous type than his compan-
ions. He has been wounded, and bears his left hand
wrapped in a bloody rag. Dick Fenton, a typical, care-
less young English swashbuckler, sits by the table, charg-
ing a musket, and singing beneath his breath as he does
so. He, too, has been wounded, and bears a bandage
about his knee. Upon the floor (at right) Kit New-
combe lies in the sleep of utter exhaustion. He is an
English lad, in his teens, a mere tired, haggard child,
with his head rudely bandaged. On a stool by the hearth
sits Myles Butler, a man of John Talbot's own
years, but a slower, heavier, almost sullen type. Beside
him kneels Phelimy Driscoll, a nervous, dark Irish
lad, of one and twenty. He is resting his injured arm
across Butler's knee, and Butler is roughly bandaging
the hurt.
For a moment there is a weary, heavy silence, in which
the words of the song which Fenton sings are audible.
It is the doleful old strain of "the hanging-tune."
Fenton (singing).
Fortune, my foe, why dost thou frown on me.
And will thy favors never greater be?
Wilt thou, I say, forever breed me pain.
And wUt thou not restore my joys again?
Butler (shifting Driscoll's arm, none too tenderly).
More to the light!
Driscoll (catching breath with pain) . Ah ! Softly, Myles !
JouN Talbot {leaning forward tensely) . Ah!
Fenton. Jack! Jack Talbot! What is it that you see?
John Talbot (with the anger of a man whose nerves are
11
146 THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE
strained almost beyond endurance). What should I see hut
Cromwell's watch-fires along the boreen? What else should
I see, and the night as black as the mouth of hell? What
else should I see, and a pest choke your throat with your
fool's questions, Dick Fenton!
{Resumes his watch.)
Fenton {as trho should say: "I thank you I"). God 'a*
mercy — Captain Talbot!
{Resumes his singing.)
Driscoll. God's love! I bade ye have a care, Myles
Butler.
Butler {tying the last bandage). It's a stout heart you
have in you, Phclimy Driscoll — you to be crying out for a
scratch. It 's better you would have been, you and the like
of you, to be stopping at home with your mother.
{Rises and takes up his musket from the corner by the
fireplace.)
Driscoll. You — you dare — you call me — coward?
Ye black liar! I'll lesson ye! I'll —
{Tries to rise, but in the ejfort sways weakly forward and
rests with his head upon the stool ichich Butler has
quitted.)
Butler. A' Heaven's name, ha' done with that hanging
tune! Ha* done, Dick Fenton! We're not yet at the
gallows' foot.
{Joins John Talbot at the shot-windows.)
Fenton. Nay, Myles, for us 't is like to be nothing half
so merry as the gallows.
Butler. Hold your fool's tongue!
Newcombe {crying out in his sUrp). Oh I Oh !
John Talbot. What was that?
Fenton. ' T was naught i)ut young Newcombe that cried
out in the clutch of a nightmare.
BiTLKR. 'Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his
watch.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 147
John Talbot (leaving the vrindow) . Nay, ' t is only a boy.
Let him sleep while he can ! Let him sleep !
Butler. Tm'n and turn at the watch, 'tis but fair. Stir
yonder sluggard awake, Dick!
Fenton. Aye. (Starts to rise.)
John Talbot. Who gives commands here? Sit you
down, Fenton! To your place, Myles Butler!
Butler. Captain of the Gate ! D'ye mark the high tone
of him, Dick?
John Talbot (tying a fresh bandage about his hand).
You 're out there, Myles. There is but one Captain of the
Gate of Connaught — he who set me here — my cousin,
Hugh Talbot.
Butler (muttering). Aye, and it's a deal you'll need to
be growing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot's shoes.
John Talbot. And that 's a true word ! But 'twas Hugh
Talbot's will that I should command, here at the Bridge of
Cashala. And as long as breath is in me I —
Driscoll (raising his head heavily). Water! Water!
Myles! Dick! Will ye give me to drink, lads? Jack Talbot!
I 'm choked wi' thirst.
John Talbot. There's never a drop of water left us,
Phelimy, lad.
Fenton. Owen Bourke drained the last of it, God rest
him!
Butler. 'Tis likely our clever new Captain of the Gate
^\-ill hit on some shift to fill om* empty casks.
(Driscoll rises heavily.)
John Talbot. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The
old Captain of the Gate — Hugh Talbot. He '11 be here this
day — this hour, maybe.
Fenton. That tale grows something old. Jack Talbot.
John Talbot. He swore he 'd bring us succor. He —
(Driscoll tries to unbar the exit door.)
148 THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE
Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that
door!
{Thrusts Driscoll from the door.)
Dribcoll (half delirious). Let me forth! The spring —
'tis just below — there on the river-bank! Let me slip
down to it — but a moment — and drink!
John Talbot. Cromwfll's soldiers hold the spring.
Driscoll. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me
forth !
John Talbot. 'T would be to your death.
Butler. And what will he get but his death if he stay
here. Captain Talbot?
Driscoll (struggling tcith John Talbot). I'm choked!
I 'm choked, I tell ye ! Let me go. Jack Talbot ! Let me go !
Newcombe (still half-asleep, rises to his knees, tcith a
terrible cry, and his groping hands iipthrust to guard his head).
God's pity! No! no! no!
Driscoll (shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing
himself). God shield us!
Butler. Silence that whelp!
Fenton. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him!
John Talbot (catching Newcombe by the shoulder).
Newcombe! Kit Newcombe!
Newcombe. Ah, God! Keep them from me ! Keep them
from me!
John Talbot. Ila' done! ILi' done!
Newcombe. Not that! Not the butt of the muskefs!
Not that! Not that!
John Talbot (stifling Newcombe's outcry with a hand
upon his mouth). Wake! You're dreaming!
Driscoll. 'T is ill luck! 'T is ill luck comes of such
dreaming!
Newcombe. Drogheda! I dnaincd I was at Droghcd;i,
where my brother — my brother — they beat out Wis
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 149
brains — Cromwell's men — with their clubbed muskets —
they —
(Clings shuddering to John Talbot.)
Fenton. English officers that serve amongst the Irish —
't is thus that Cromwell uses them !
Butler. English officers — aye, like ourselves !
John Talbot. Be quiet, Kit ! You 're far from Drogheda
— here at the Bridge of Cashala.
Butler. Aye, safe in Cashala Gatehouse, with five hun-
dred of Cromwell's men sitting down before it.
John Talbot. Keep your watch, Butler !
Newcombe. You give orders? You still command. Jack?
Where's Captain Talbot, then?
{Snatches up his sword and rises.)
Butler (quitting the window). Aye, where is Captain
Talbot?
John Talbot. You say —
Fenton (rising). We all say it,
John Talbot. Even thou, Dick?
Driscoll. He does not come! Hugh Talbot does not
come !
Fenton. He bade us hold the bridge one day. We've
held it three days now.
Butler. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he
promised?
John Talbot. He promised. He has never broken faith.
He will bring us aid.
Fenton. Aye, if he be living!
Driscoll. Living? You mean that he — Och, he 's dead !
Hugh Talbot's dead! And we're destroyed! We're de-
stroyed !
Newcombe (cowering). The butt of the muskets!
Fenton. God!
(Deliberately Butler lays down his musket.)
150 THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE
John Talbot. Take up your piece!
Butler. Renounce me if I do!
Fenton. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms
for us, John Talbot, or, on my soul, we Ml make them for our-
selves.
John Talbot. Surrender?
Newcombe. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield our-
selves now? Will he spare us? Will he —
Fenton. 'T is our one chance.
Newcombe. Give me that white rag!
(Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimney piece.)
Fenton (drawing his ramrod). Here's a staff!
(Together Fenton and Newcombe make ready a flag of
truce.)
John Talbot (struggling with Butler and Driscoll).
A black curse on you !
Butler. We'll not be butchered like oxen in the
shambles !
John Talbot. Your oaths!
Butler. We'll not fight longer to \)o knocked on the
head at the last.
Newcombe. No! No! Not that! Out with the flag,
Dick!
Fenton. A light here at the grating!
(Newcombe turns to take a candle, obedient to Fenton's
order. At that moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds.)
John Talbot. Hark!
Dulscoll. The bugle! They're upon us I
Butler (releasing his hold on John Talbot). What was
thnt?
John Talbot. You swore to hold the bridge.
Butler. Swore to hold it one day. We've held it three
days now.
Fenton. Ami the half of us arc slain.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 151
Newcombe. And we've no water — and no food!
John Talbot (pointing to the potvder-keg) . We have pow-
der in plenty.
Driscoll. We can't drink powder. Ah, for God's love,
be swift, Dick Fenton ! Be swift !
John Talbot. You shall not show that white flag!
(Starts toward Fenton, hand on sword.)
Butler (pinioning John Talbot). God's death! We
yhall ! Help me here, Phelimy !
John Talbot. A summons to parley. What see you,
Fenton?
Fenton (at the shot-window). Torches coming from the
boreen, and a white flag beneath them. I can see the faces.
(With a cry)
Look, Jack ! A' God's name ! Look !
(John Talbot springs to the window.)
Driscoll. What is it you're seeing?
Fenton. It is —
John Talbot (turning from the window). 'T is Hugh Tal-
bot comes ! 'T is the Captain of the Gate !
Butler. With them? A prisoner?
John Talbot. No, no! No prisoner! He wears his
sword.
(Butler snatches up his piece and resumes watch.)
Fenton. Then he '11 have made terms with them ! Terms !
Newcombe (embracing Driscoll). Terms for us! Terms
for us!
John Talbot. I told ye truth. He has come. Hugh
Talbot has come.
(Goes to door.)
Hugh Talbot (speaks outside). Open! I come alone,
and in peace. Open unto me!
John Talbot. Who goes there?
Hugh Talbot (outside). The Captain of the Gate!
152 THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE
(John Talbot unhars the door, and bars it again upon
the entrance of Hugh Talbot. The latter cojnes
slowly into the room. lie is a man in his late thirties, a
tall, martial figure, clad in much-worn velvet and
leather, with sword at side. The five salute him as he
enters.)
Hugh Talbot {halts and for a moment surreys his follow-
ers). Well, lads?
{The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break,
unable for the moment to speak.)
Newcombe. "We thought — we thought — that you —
that you —
{Breaks into childish sobbing.)
Fenton. What terms will they grant us, sir?
John Talbot. Sir, we have held the bridge.
Hugh Talbot. You five —
John Talbot. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and
Langdale, and — and James Talbot, my brother.
Driscoll. And we've had no water, sir, these many
hours.
Hugh Talbot. So! You're wounded, Phelimy.
Driscoll. 'T is not worth heeding, sir.
Hugh Talbot. Kit! Kit!
{At the voice Newcombe pulls himself together.)
A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand?
Fenton. 'T is here, sir.
{Offers his tobacco pouch.)
Hugh Talbot {filling his pipe). L<^ave the window,
Myles! They've promised us a half hour's truce — and
Cromwell's a man of his word.
Newcombe {bringing a lighted candle). He'll let us j)ass
free now, sir, will he not?
Hugh Talbot {lighting his pipe at ike candle). You're
not afraid, Kit?
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 153
Newcombe. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now!
Hugh Talbot. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look
dead on your feet. Give me to see that arm !
{As Hugh Talbot starts toward Driscoll, his eye
falls on the open keg of powder. He draws back hast-
ily, covering his lighted pipe.)
Jack Talbot ! "VMio taught ye to leave your powder un-
covered, where lighted match was laid?
Butler. My blame, sir.
(Covers the keg.)
John Talbot. We opened the keg, and then —
Fenton. Truth, we did not cover it again, being some-
what pressed for time.
(The five laugh, half hysterically.)
Hugh Talbot (sitting by fire). And you never thought,
maybe, that in that keg there was powder enough to blow
the bridge of Cashala to hell?
John Talbot. It seemed a matter of small moment,
sir.
Hugh Talbot. Small moment! Powder enough, put
case ye set it there, at the stairhead — d'ye follow me? —
powder enough to make an end of Cashala Bridge for all
time — aye, and of all within the Gatehouse. You never
thought on that, eh?
John Talbot. We had so much to think on, sir.
Hugh Talbot. I did suspect as much. So I came hither
to recall the powder to your minds.
Driscoll. We thought —
(Butler motions him to be silent.)
We thought maybe you would not be coming at all, sir.
Maybe you would be dead.
Hugh Talbot. Well? "VMiat an if I had been dead?
You had yom* orders. You did not dream of giving up the
Bridge of Cashala — eh, Myles Butler?
154 THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE
Butler {offer a moment). No, sir.
Hlgh Talbot. Nor you, Dick Fenton?
Fenton. Sir, I — No !
Hugh T.\LBOT {smoking throughout). Good lads! The
wise heads were saying I was a stark fool to set you here at
Cashala. But I said: I can be trusting the young riders
that are learning their lessons in war from me. I '11 be safe
I)utting my honor into their hands. And I was right, was n't
I, Phelimy DrisooU?
Driscoll. Give us the chance, sir, and we'll be holding
Cashala, even against the devil himself!
Fenton. Aye, well said !
Hugh Talbot. Sure, 'tis a passing good substitute for
the devil sits yonder in Cromwell's tent.
Newcombe {rcith a shudder). Cromwell!
Hugh Talbot. Aye, he was slaying your brother at
Droghcda, Kit, and a fine, gallant lad your brother was.
And I 'm thinking you 're like him, Kit. Else I should n 't be
trusting you hero at Cashala.
Newcombe. I — I — Will they let us keep our swords?
Hugh Talbot. ^Ycll, it 's with yourselves it lies, whether
you'll keep them or not.
Fenton. He means — we mean — on what terms, sir,
do we surrender?
Hugh Talbot. Surrender? Terms?
John Talbot. Wo thought, sir, from your coming umlcr
their white flag — perhaps you had made terms for us.
Hugh Talbot. How could I make terms?
Newcombe. Captain!
{At a look from Hugh Talbot he becomes silent, fighting
for ,<fclf-control.)
Hugh Talbot. How could I make tonus tiiat you would
hear to? Cashala Bridge is the gate of Connaught.
John Talbot. Yes.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 155
Hugh Talbot. Give Cromwell Cashala Bridge, and
he '11 be on the heels of our women and our little ones. At
*what price would ye be selling their safety?
Driscoll. Cromwell — when he takes us — when he
takes us —
Newcombe. He '11 knock us on the head !
Hugh Talbot. Yes. At the last. Your five lives against
our people's safety. You'd not give up the bridge?
John Talbot. Five? Our five? But you — you are the
sixth.
Fenton. You stay with us. Captain. And then we'll
fight — you '11 see how we shall fight.
Hugh Talbot. I shall be seeing you fight, perhaps, but
I cannot stay now at Cashala.
(Rises.)
Driscoll. Ye won't be staying with us?
Butler (laughing harshly). Now, on my soul! Is this
your faith, Hugh Talbot? One liar I've followed, Charles
Stuart, the son of a liar, and now a second liar —
John Talbot (catching Butler's throat) . A plague choke
you!
Hugh Talbot (stepping between John Talbot and
Butler). Ha' done. Jack! Ha' done! What more, Myles
Butler?
Butler. Tell us whither you go, when you turn your
back on us that shall die at Cashala — you that come walk-
ing under the rebel flag — that swore to bring us aid — and
have not brought it ! Tell us whither you go now !
Hugh Talbot. Well, I 'm a shade doubtful, Myles, my
lad, though hopeful of the best.
Butler, 'T is to Cromwell you go — you that have made
your peace with him — that have sold us —
Driscoll. Captain! A' God's name, what is it that
you 're meaning?
156 THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE
HuGn Talbot. I mean that you shall hold the Bridge of
Cashala — whatever happen to yon — whatever happen
to me — ^
Fenton. To you? Captain Talbot! •
Hugh Talbot. I am going unto Cromwell — as you
said, Myles. I gave my promise.
Driscoll. Your promise?
John Talbot. We — have been very blind. So — they
made you prisoner?
Hugh Talbot. Aye, Jack. When I tried to cut my way
tlirou<;h to bring you aid. And they granted me this half
hour on my parole to come unto you.
John Talbot. To come —
Hugh Talbot. To counsel you to surrender. And I
have given you counsel. Hold the bridge! Hold it! What-
ever they do !
Driscoll. Captain! Captain Talbot! God of Heaven!
If you go back — 't is killed you '11 be among them I
Hugh Talbot. A little sooner than you lads? Aye, true!
Fenton. They cannot! Even Cromwell —
Hugh Talbot. Tut, tut, Dick! It's little ye know of
Cromwell.
John Talbot. Then — you mean —
Hugh Talbot. An you surrender Cashala, we may all
six pass free. An you hold Cashala, they will hang me, here
before your eyes.
(Driscoll gives a rattling cry.)
Butler. God forgive me!
Hugh Talbot. You have your orders. Hold the bridge!
{Turns io door.)
John Talbot (barring his toay). No, no! You shan't go
forth!
Fenton. God's mercy, no!
Hugh Talbot. .\re vou stark crazed?
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 157
<Fenton. You shall stay with us.
John Talbot. What 's your pledged word to men that
know not honor?
Hugh Talbot. My word. Unbar the door, Jack. Why,
lad, we 're travelmg the same road.
Fenton. God! But we'll give them a good fight at the
last.
(Goes to the shot-window.)
Take up your musket. Kit.
Newcombe. But I — Captain! When you are gone,
I — 1~
Hugh Talbot. I'll not be far. You'll hold the bridge?
John Talbot. Aye, sir.
Butler. We 've powder enough — you said it, sir, —
laid there at the stairhead, to blow the bridge to hell.
Hugh Talbot. Aye, Myles, you've hit it!
(Holds out his hand.)
Butler. Not yet, sir !
Hugh Talbot. Hereafter, then. God speed you, lads !
John Talbot. Speed you, sir !
(All five stand at salute as Htjgk Talbot goes out. In
the moment's silence upon his exit, John Talbot
bars the door and turns to his comrades.)
You have — Hugh Talbot's orders. Take your pieces !
Driscoll! Newcombe!
{Obediently the two join Fenton at toindows.)
Butler!
Butler. Aye! We have Hugh Talbot's orders.
(Points to powder-keg.)
John Talbot. Are you meaning —
Butler. It's not I will be failing him now!
Fenton (at window). God! They waste no time.
John Talbot. Already — they have dared —
Fenton. Here — this moment — under our very eyes!
158 THE CArrAix OF thp: gate
Driscoll. Christ Jesus!
{Goes back from the tcindow, icith his arm across /n>
eyes, and falls on his knees in headlong prayer.)
John Talbot. Kit! Kit Newcomhcl
(Motions him to window.)
Newcombe. I cannot ! I —
John Talbot. Look forth! Look! And remember —
when you meet them — remember !
(Newcombe stands swaying, clutching at the grating of
the icindow, as he looks forth.)
Lads!
(Motions to Butler and Fenton to carry the powder to
the stairhead.)
The time is short. His orders!
(Driscoll raises his Iiead and gazes fixedly toward the
centre of the room.)
Fenton. Yonder, at the stairhead.
Butler. Aye.
(Fenton and Butler carry the keg to the door.)
Newcombe. Not that! Not that death! No! No!
John Talbot. Be silent! And look yonder! Driscoll!
Fetch the light ! Newcombe! Come! You have vour places,
all.
Driscoll. But, Captain ! The sixth man — where will
the si-xth man be standing?
(There is a blank silence, in ichich the men look (jues-
tioningly at Driscoll's rapt face and at one another.)
John Talbot. Sixth?
Fenton. What sixth?
Driscoll. The blind eyes of ye! Yonder!
(Comes to the salute, crcn a.?, a few moments before, he
has saluted IIrc;H Talbot, liring.
Newco.mbe gives a smothered cry, as one who half sees,
and takes courage. Fenton dazedly starts to salute.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE 159
Oviside a bugle sounds, and a voice, almost at the door,
is heard to speak.)
Voice Outside. For the last time: will you surrender
you?
John Talbot (in a loud and confident voice). No! Not
while our commander stands with us !
Voice Outside. And who might your commander be?
John Talbot. Hugh Talbot, the Captain of the Gate !
The light here, Phelimy.
(John Talbot bends to set the candle to the powder
that shall destroy Cashala Gatehouse, and all within it.
His mates are gathered round him, with steady,
bright faces, for in the little space left vacant in their
midst they know in that minute that Hugh Talbot
stands.)
[Curtain]
i
GETTYSBURG'
PERCY MACKAYE
SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of ajarm-house.
The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the aper-
tures being slightly arched at the top. {In bad iccathcr,
these presumably may be closed by big double doors,
which stand open now — swung back outward beyond
sight.) Thus the nearer opening is the proscenium arch
of the scene, under which the spectator looks through the
shed to the background — a grassy yard, a road with
great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green
hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large
beams.
On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from
the house kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed
into the bam. In the foreground, against the right tcall,
is a work-bench. On this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden
box, and a small oil-store, with steaming kettle upon it.
Against the left wall, what remains of the years wood
supply is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of
stove wood and kindlings mixed with small chips of the
floor, which is piled deep iiyith mounds of crumbling
bark, chips and wood-dust.
Not fur from this mounded pile, at right centre of the
scene, stands a wooden armchair, in which Link Tad-
' Copyright, lUl^, by Percy Mackaye. All rights reserved.
GETTYSBURG 161
BOURNE, in his shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted
by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of
an old man, with white hair cropped close, and gray
moustache of a faded black hue at the outer edges. Be-
tween his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled round by
the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his
lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden
yoke and collar. Near him is a chopping -block.
In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the
hum and floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the
old man murmurs in his sleep, clenching his hand.
Slowly the hand relaxes again.
From the door, right, comes Polly — a sweet-faced
girl of seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is
dressed simply. In one hand she carries a man's wide-
brimmed felt hat, over the other arm a blue coat. These
she brings toward Link. Seeing him asleep, she begins to
tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the chopping -block, goes
to the bench, and trims the wick of the oil-stove, under the
kettle. Then she returns and stands near Link, surveying
the shed.
On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a
certain order in its chaos; some of the splittings have been
piled in irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of
wood-dust and chips has been scooped, and the little
mounds slope and rise like miniature valleys and hills. ^
Taking up a hoe, Polly — with careful steps —
moves among the hollows, placing and arranging sticks of
kindling, scraping and smoothing the little mounds with
the hoe. As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds.
1 A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of these mounds may
be found in the map of the battle-field annexed to the volume by Cap-
tain R. K. Beecham, entitled Gettysburg (A. C. McClurg, 1911).
12
162 GETTYSBURG
Link
{snapping his eyes wide open, sits up)
Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?
Polly
Just
A kitten-nap, I guess.
(Laying the hoe down, she approaches.)
The yoke done?
liINK
(giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong)
Thar!
\Nlien he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug,
I guess this feller '11 sarve t' say "Gee" to —
(Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he
holds the ivhittled thong next to it, comparing the two
with expert eye.)
and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech
or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip
at birch, for ox-yokes. — Polly, are ye thar?
Polly
Yes, Uncle Link.
Link
\N'hat's that I used to sing ye?
" Polly, put the kittle on,
Polly, put tlic kittle on,
Polly, put the kittle on — "
(Chuckling)
We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!
Polly
The kettle's boiUn'.
GETTYSBURG 163
Link
Wall, then, steep him good.
(Polly takes from Link the collar-thong, carries it to
the work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box,
which she then closes tight and connects — by a piece
of hose — to the spout of the kettle. At thefartlier end
of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole.)
POLLT
You 're feelin' smart to-day.
Link
Smart! — Wall, if I
could git a hull man to swap legs with me,
mebbe I'd am my keep. But this here settin'
dead an* alive, without no legs, day in,
day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats.
Polly
{cheerfully)
I guess you'll soon be walkin' round.
Link
Not if
that doctor feller has his say : He says
I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan;
and looks like he's 'bout right. — Nine months
to-morrer,
Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke.
Polly
{pointing to the ox-yoke)
You 're fitter
sittin' than most folks standin'.
104 GETTYSBURG
Link
(briskly)
Oh, they can't
keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's
my second natur' sence I was a boy.
(Again in the distance a bugle sounds. Link starts.)
^Tiat'sthat?
Polly
Why, that 's the army veterans
down to the graveyard. This is Decoration
mornin': you ain't forgot?
Link
So 't is, so 't is.
Roger, your young man — ha! (chuckling) he come and
axed me
was I a-goin' to the cemetery.
"Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"
Polly
He meant — to decorate the graves.
Link
O' course;
])ut I must take my little laugh. I told him
I guessed I wa'n't persent'blc anyhow,
my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'.
I don't jest like t' talk about my legs. —
Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks,
Polly?
Polly
Dear no ! I told my boys and girls
to march xip this way with the band. I said
I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how
to keep school in the woodpile here with you.
GETTYSBURG 165
Link
{looking wp at her 'proudly)
Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!
Polly
{caressing him)
Schoolmaster, you, past seventy; that's smarter!
I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach
my young folks what the study-books leave out.
Link
Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'?
Polly
No, sir! We 're goin' to celebrate right here,
and you're to teach me to keep school some more.
{She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat.)
Link
{looking up)
What's thar?
Polly
Your teachin' rig.
{She helps him on with it.)
Link
The old blue coat ! —
My, but I'd Hke to see the boys — {gazing at the hat) the
Grand
Old Army Boys ! {dreamily) Yes, we was boys : jest
boys!
Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study
the books, that we was nothin' else but boys
166 GETTYSBURG
jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home —
the same as you; and when the shot was singin',
we pulled their picters out, and prayed to them
'most morn'n the Almighty.
(Link looks up suddenly — a strange light in his face.
Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds.)
Thar she blows
Agin!
Polly
They're marchin' to the graves with flowers.
Link
My Godfrey! 't ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers
and the young folks, their faces, and the blue
line of old fellers marchin* — it's the music!
that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though,
legs or no legs, I 'd have to up and foller
to God-knows-whar, and holler — holler back
to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no!
I jest can't stan' the music.
Polly
(goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming)
Uncle Link,
you want that I should steam this longer?
Link
{absently)
Oh.
A kittleful, a kittleful.
Polly
{coming over to him)
Now, then,
I'm ready for school. — I hope I've drawed the map
all right.
GETTYSBURG 167
Link
Map? Oh, the map!
(Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods.)
Yes, thar she be:
old Gettysburg!
Polly
I know the places — most.
LiXK
So, do ye? Good, now: whar's your marker?
Polly
{taking up the hoe)
Here.
Link
Willoughby Run: whar's that?
Polly
(pointing wiih the hoe toward the left of the woodpile)
That 's farthest over
next the bam door.
Link
My, how we fit the Johnnies
thar, the fust mornin' ! Jest behind them willers,
acrost the Run, that *s whar we captur'd Archer.
My, my!
Polly
Over there — that 's Seminary Ridge.
(She points to different heights and depressions, as Link
nods his approval.)
Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheat-
field—
168 GETTYSBURG
Llnk
Lord, Lord, the Whcatficld!
Polly
(continuing)
Cemetery Hill,
Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here
is Cemetery Ridge.
Link
{pointing to the little flag)
And colors flyin' !
We kep *em flyin' thar, too, all three days,
From start to finish.
POLLY
Have I learned 'em right?
Link
A number One, chick! Wait a mite: Gulp's Hill:
I don't jest spy Gulp's Hill.
Polly
There wa'n't enough
kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay
east there, towards the kitchen.
Link
Ix't it go!
That's \vhar us Yanks left our hark door ajar
and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep' it thar,
too, till ho got it squoze off by old Slocuni.
Ix.'t Gulp's Hill lay for now. — Ix^nil mo your marker.
(Polly hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches
with it and digs in the chips.)
\
GETTYSBURG 169
Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So:
smooth off them chips.
(Polly does so with her foot.)
You better guess 't was deep
As hell, that second day, come sundown. — Here,
(He hands back the hoe to her.)
flat down the Wheatfield yonder.
(Polly does so.)
God a'mighty !
That ^Tieatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter
than any pancake what you ever cooked,
Polly; and 't wa'n't no maple syrup neither
was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black,
all over it, that nightfall.
Polly
Here's the road
to Emmetsburg.
Link
No, 't 'ain't: this here's the pike
to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin',
after an all-night march, jest in the nick
to save our second day. The Emmetsburg
road's thar. — Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?
Polly
At sunset, July second, sixty-three.
Link
{nodding, reminiscent)
The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun:
she set a dozen times that afternoon,
170 GETTYSBURG
red-yeller as a piinkin jack-o'-lantern,
rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke
till she clean busted, like the other bombs,
behind the hills.
Polly
My! Wa'n't you never scart
and wished you'd stayed t' home?
Link
Scart? Wall, I wonder!
Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars.
I heerd a feller onct, down to the store, —
a dressy mister, span-new from the city —
lay in' the law down : " All this stars and stripes"
says he, "and red and white and blue is rubbish,
mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!"
"I wan' t' know!" says I. "In sixty-three,
I knowcd a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown
I met him stumblin' — with two dead men's muskets
for crutches — towards a bucket, full of ink —
water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell,
he tuk the rest to wash his bullet-holes. — -
Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, *
with red and lehile and blue, tore 'most t' tatters,
a-danglin' from it. 'Be you color sergeant?'
says I. 'Not me,' says Link; 'the sergeant 's dead;
but when he fell, he handed me this })it
o' rubbifih — red and white and blue.' And Link
he laughed, '^^^^at be you laughin' for?' says I.
'Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!' " says Link.
GETTYSBURG 171
Polly
WTiat did the span-new mister say to that?
Link
I did n't stop to Hsten. Them as never
heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't
guess what they be.
{Sitting up and blinking hard)
But this ain't keepin' school !
Polly
(quietly)
I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.
Link
The second day, 'fore sunset.
{He takes the hoe and points with it.)
Yon'sthe Wheatfield.
Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels.
Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge
behind 'em. Hancock — he 's our general —
he 's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements
from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose
the Ridge, and lose the Ridge — lose God-and-all! —
Lee, the old fox, he 'd nab up Washington,
Abe Lincoln, and the White House in one bite! —
So the Union, Polly — me and you and Roger,
your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam — is all
thar — growin' in that Wheatfield.
Polly
{smiling proudly)
And they're growin'
still!
172 GETTYSBURG
Link
Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls,
thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers:
gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat-tops,
and now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat,
thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round
in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces,
and grappliu' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke,
and stingin' smother, and — up thar through the dark —
that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon
lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder!
(In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial
music of a brass band begins. Again Link's face
iuntches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment
on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slouly
growing louder, permeates tlie scene.)
Polly
Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow
the createil world to act that awful.'
Link
Now,
I wonder! — Cast your eye along this hoe:
(lie stirs the chif)s and wood-dirt round with the hoe-
iron.)
Thar in that poked up mess o* dirt, you see
yon weeny chip of ox-yoko? — That's the boy
I s])oke on: Link, Link Tailhourne: "Chipmunk Link,"
they call him, 'cause his legs is spry's a squirrel's. —
Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes
like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day,
keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.
{Patting her han^l, which rests on his hoe)
GETTYSBURG 173
If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you.
But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein*
them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps
o' squirmin* critters, kind o' reco'nized
Link as his livin' image, and so kep' him
to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs,
and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs,
Ust'nin' to bugles — bugles — bugles, calUn'.
(Link clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music
draws nearer. Polly touches him soothingly.)
Polly
Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind 'em.
Link
(relaxing under her touch)
No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct —
onct we was boys, onct we was boys — with legs.
But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle.
Onct, though, he was : and all God's life a-snortin'
outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin'
outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds
a-blowin' Glory Hallelujahs, like
brass music, from his mouth. — But never mind !
'T ain't nothin' : boys in blue ain't bugles now.
Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin'
gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.
(With smouldering fire)
But jest the same —
(His face convulses and he cries out, terribly — straining
in his chair to rise.)
— for holy God, that band!
Why don't they stop that band!
174 GETTYSBURG
Polly
(going)
I'll run and tell them.
Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.
(Glancing back anxiously, Polly disappears outside.
The approaching band begins to play ''John Brouii's
Body." Link sits motionless, gripping his chair.)
Link
Set quiet!
Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand,
and Link — he kin set quiet. — God a'mighty,
how kin he set, and them a-niarchin' thar
with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot
the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin'
home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown,
a-singin' Glory to ye! Jest look down:
thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge:
don't say ye disremenibcr them! And thar's
the colors. Look, he 's picked 'em up — the sergeant's
blood splotched 'em some — but thar they be, still flyin'!
Link done that: Link — the spry boy, what they call
Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step,
have ye?
(Again he cries out, beseechingly)
My God, why do You keep on marchin'
and leave him settin' here?
(To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing
the irords of ''John Broim's Body." At the sound.
Link's face becomes tran.tformed iciih emotion, his
body .shakes, and his .shoulders lieave and straighten.)
No! — I — ux)nt — set!
(Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and
stands.)
GETTYSBURG 175
Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come
ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line.
Them voices — Lord, I guess you've brought along
Your Sunday choir of young angel folks
to help the boys out.
{Following the music with swaying arms)
Glory ! — Never mind
me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm
goin* t' jine in, or bust!
(Joining ivith the children's voices, he moves unconscious-
ly along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps —
his one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as
to unseen hands, that draw him — he totters toward
the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so,
his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where
the children's are singing it.)
" — a-monld'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave.
But his soul goes — "
{Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries
aloud, astounded)
Lord, Lord, my legs!
Whar did Ye git my legs?
{Shaking vnth delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the
little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously.)
I'm comin', boys!
Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.
{With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the
woodpile.)
Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge !
Jine in, jine in!
{Svnnging the flag)
Hooray ! — Hooray ! — Hooray !
176 GETTYSBURG
(Outside, the music groics louder, and the voices of old
men and children sing martially to the brass music.
With his final cheer. Link stuiribles down from the
mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other
the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching
procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked
voice, jubilant, unth the singers:)
" — ry hallelujah.
Glory, glory hallelujah,
Hia truth is marchin' on! "
[Cubtain]
I
LONESOME-LIKE^
HAROLD BRIGHOUSE
CHARACTERS
Sarah Ormerod, An old woman
Emma Brierley, A young woman
The Rev. Frank Alleyne, A curate
Sam Horrocks, A young man
The Scene represents the interior of a cottage in a Lan-
cashire village. Through the window at the back the
gray row of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside
door is next to the window. Door left. As regards
furniture the room is very bare. The suggestion is not of
an empty room, but a stripped room. For example, there
are several square patches where the distemper of the walls
is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating the places
once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered deal
table and two chairs by it near the fire-place right. At-
tached to the Itft wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above
it containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two
utensils upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the
cooking-range, but the room contains only the barest
necessities. The floor is uncarpeted. There are no win-
dow curtains, but a yard of cheap muslin is fastened
across the window, not coming, however, high enough
^ Included by special permission of the author and of the publishers,
Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow.
13
178 LONESOME-LIKE
to prevent a passer-by from looking in, should he tcish to
do 30. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin
trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door
left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned
beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain
rises the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door
left opens and Sarah Ormerod, an old woman, enters,
carrying clumsily in her arjjis a couple of pink flannelette
nightdresses, folded neatly. Her black stuff dress is well
worn, and her wedding-ring is her only ornament. She
wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short skirt shows
a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl
covers her shoulders. Sarah crosses and puts the night-
dresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There
is a knock at the outside door and she looks up.
Sarah. Who's theer?
Emma (without). It's mc, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma
Brierley.
Sajiah. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass.
{Enter Emma Brierley. She is a young iveaver, and,
havitig just left her work, she icears a dark skirt, a
blouse of S0J71C indeierminate blue-gray shade made of
cotton, and a large shawl over her head and shoulders
in place of a jacket and hat. A colored cotton apron cov-
ers her skirt below the iraist, and the short skirl dis-
plays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She wears
clogs, and the clothes — except the shawl — are cov-
ered with ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even
her hair has not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by
a cord from her waist.)
Sarah. Tha's kiiully welcooin. It's pood o' thcc to
think o' coomin' to .see an onld woman hkc mc.
E.MMA {by door). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod.
LONESOME-LIKE 179
Th' mill 's just loosed and A thowt A 'd step in as A were
passin' and see 'ow tha was feeling like.
Sarah (crossing to box). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee.
It's only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a
weaver 's no manner o' good to nobody without th' use o'
'er 'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That 's worst of it.
Emma. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer
nought as A can do for thee?
Sarah. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma.
Emma {taking her shaivl off, looking round and hanging it
on a peg in the door) . Well, A knaws better. What wert
doin' when A coom in? Packin' yon box?
Sarah. Aye. Tha sees theer 's a two three things as A
canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw
if they '11 let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna
have 'em sold w i' rest of stuff.
Emma (crosses below Sarah to box, going on her knees).
Let me help yo'.
Sarah. Tha 's a good lass, Emma. A 'd tak' it kindly of
thee.
Emma. They 'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as
they 'd carry safe that road.
Sarah. A know. It 's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it diffi-
cult for me.
(Sits on chair.)
Emma. Aye. A '11 soon settle 'em a bit tighter.
(Lifts all Old, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges
its contents.)
Sarah. But what 's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They '11
not weave by 'emselves while thee 's 'ere, tha knows.
Emma (looking round) . Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory 's
stopped. It's Saturday afternoon.
Sarah. So 't is. A 'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th'
week sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do.
180 LONESOME-LIKE
Emma. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry
about me. Tha's got trouble enough of thy own,
{Resuming at the box)
Sahah. Aye, th' art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on
us likes to think o' goin' to workus when we're ould.
Emma. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's
coomin' to see thee.
Sarah. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes
'e'U do summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them
folks can do.
Emma {kneeling tip). Tha keep thy pecker oop, ^Irs.
Ormcrod. That's what my moother says to me when A
tould 'er A were coomin' in to thee. Keep 'er pecker oop,
she says. It's not as if she'd been lazy or a wastrel, she
says; Sal Ormerod 's bin a 'ard worker in 'er day, she says.
It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't 'elp tha 'ands
goin' paralytic.
{She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking.)
Sarah. Naw. It 's not my f.ault. God knaws A'm game
enough for work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd
'ave to work for my living all th' days o' my life. A never
was a savin' sort.
Emma. Theer 'snowt against thee for that. Theer 'ssoom
as can be careful o' theer brass an' soom as can't. It 's not a
virtue, it's a gift. That's what my moother allays says.
{Resumes paclcing.)
Sarah. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o'
savin', my man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took an'
died, the club money as A drew all went on 'is funeral an'
'is gravestone. A warn't goin' to 'ave it said as 'e warn't
buried proper.
Emma. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod.
Sarah. Aye.
Emma. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a
LONESOME-LIKE 181
better, an' A goes to all as A can. {Rises.) A dotes on
buryin's. Are these the next?
{Crosses before table for nightdresses, takes the night-
dresses and resumes packing.)
Sarah. Aye
{Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to
Sarah's next speech.)
Sarah {pause). A've been a 'ouseproud woman all my
life, Emma, an' A've took pride in 'avin' my bits o' sticks as
good as another's. Even th' manager's missus oop to fac-
tory 'ouse theer, she never 'ad a better show o' furniture
nor me, though A says it as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to
keep a decent 'ouse over your yead. An' we allays 'ad our
full week's 'ollydayin' at Blackpool reg'lar at Wakes time.
Us did n't 'ave no childer o' our own to spend it on, an' us
spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty o' good food in
th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'e liked 'is beer
an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier, too, in 'is day, were
my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away wi' a mint o'
money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no brass to put in
th' bank. We was allays spent oop coom wages neeght.
Emma. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young,
but A knaw 'ow 't is. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an'
when us plays, us plays as 'ard too {pause), an' small blame
to us either. It 's our own we 're spendin'.
Sarah. Aye. It 's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can
mind me many an' many 's the time when th' warnin' bell
went on th' factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's
mornin' as A've craved for another ha'f hour in my bed,
but Tom 'e got me oop an' we was never after six passin'
through factory gates all th' years we were wed. There's
not many as can say they were never late. "Work or
clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould bell
were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma. "Work or clem"
182 LONESOME-LIKE
is God's truth. (Emma's head in box.) An' now th' time 's
coom when A can't work no more. But Parson 's a good
man, 'e'llmak' itallreeght. {Em}>ia's head appears.) Eh, it
were good o' thee to coom in, lass. A bit o' coompany do
mak' a world o' difference. A 'm twice as cheerful as A were.
Emma. A'ra glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod.
{Rises from the box.) Is theer owt else?
Sarah. A were thinkin' A'd like to tak' my black silk as
A've worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think
it's reeght thing for workus.
Emma. Oh, thee tak' it, ^Irs. Ormerod.
Sarah. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt,
no])but what chairs an table 'ull i)ay for, and A doan't like
thowt o' leaving owt as A'm greatly fond of.
Emma. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. ^^^lee^
is it? A'llputunin. Theer 's lots o' room on top. A'Usee
un 's noan crushed.
Sarah. It's hanging theer behind door. (Em.ma crosses
back to door, gets clothes.) A got un out to show Parson. A
thowt A'd ask un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go.
My best l)onnet 's with it, an' ail.
(Emma goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds
it on the table, and packs' it.)
Emma. A '11 put un in.
S.\RAn. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass.
Emma. That's nowt; neighbors mun be neighborly.
{Gets bonnet from table and packs it.)
S.\RAH {after a paiise, looking round). Place doan't look
much, an' that's a fact. Th' furniture 's bin goin' bit by
bit, and theer ain't nuirh left to part wi' now.
Emma. Never mind; it *ull be all reeght now Parson 's
takken thee oop.
Sauah. A'm hopin' so. A am hopin' so. A never could
abide th' thowt o' tii' workus — me as 'as bin an 'ard-
LONESOME-LEKE 183
workin' woman. A could n't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed
wi' strange folk round me, an' whenth' Matron said, "Do
that," A 'd 'ave to do it, an' when she said, " Go theer," A 'd
'ave to a' gone wheer she tould me — me as 'as allays 'eld
my yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased masel'. Eh, it's a
terrible thowt, the workus.
Emma (rising). Now tha's sure that's all?
Sarah (after a pause, considers). Eh, if Ahavna forgot
my neeghtcaps. (Rises, moves centre and stops.) A suppose
they '11 let me w^ear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly think
as A 'd get my rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps.
Emma. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght.
Sarah (as she goes). A '11 go an' get un. (Exit rigid, re-
turning presently with the white nightcaps.) That's all now.
(Gives them to Emma, who meets her at centre.)
Emma (putting them in) . Yo' never 'ad no childer, did yo',
Mrs. Ormerod?
Sarah. No, Emma, no — maybe that's as broad as 's
long. (Sits above fire.) Yo' never knaw 'ow they go. Soom
on 'em turn again yo' when they 're growed, or they get
wed themselves an' forget all as yo' 've done for 'em, like a
many A could name, and they're allays a worrit to yo'
when they 're young.
Emma. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod.
Sabah. Areyo',now,Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them
graceless good-for-nowts. Tha '11 never forget thy moother,
A knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin'
coompany with?
Emma. It 's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod.
Sarah. 'Indie, 'Indie? What, not son to Robert 'Indie,
'im as used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to
foreign parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave?
Emma. Aye, that 's 'im.
Sarah. Well, A dunno aught about th' lad. 'Is faither
184 LOXESOME-LIKE
were a fine man. A minds 'im well. But A '11 tell thee this,
Emma, an' A '11 tell it thee to thy faice, 'e 's doin' well for
'isself , is young Joe 'Indie.
Emma. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod.
Sarah. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. \Miy, it seems as
't were only t'other day as tha was runnin' about in short
frocks, an' now tha's growed up and gettin' thasel* wed!
Time do run on. Sithee, Emma, tha's a pood lass, A've
gotten an ould teapot in yonder {indicating her bedroom)
as my moother give me when A was wed. A were n't for
packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A were
going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A
died, but A reckon A '11 'ave no use for it in workus.
Emma. Tha's not gone thcer yet.
Sarah. Never mind that. {Slowly rises.) A'm going to
give it thee, lass, for a weddin'-gift. Tha '11 tak' care of it,
A knaw, and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha '11 spare
me a thowi;.
Emma. Oh, no, Mrs. Ormerod, A could n't think o' tak-
kin* it.
Sarah. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me?
Emma. No. Tha knaws A'm not.
Sarah. Then hold thy hush. A '11 be back in a minute.
Happen A'd best tidy mascl' up too against Parson cooms.
Emma. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod?
Sarah. No, lass, no. Aran doa bitfor masel*. My 'ands
isn't that bad; A canna weave wi' 'cm, but A can do all as
A need do.
Emma. Well, A '11 do box up.
{Crosses to table right and gets cord.)
Sarah. Aye.
Emma. All recght.
{Exit Sauah. .1 jnan'sfacc appears outside at the win-
doiv. He surreys the room, and then the face vanishes
as he knocks at the door.)
LONESOME-LIKE 185
\Mio's theer?
Sam {iciihovi). It's me, Sam Horrocks. {Emma crosses
left and opens door.) May A coom in?
Emma. \Miat dost want?
Sam {on the doorstep). A want a word wi' thee, Emma
Brierley. A followed thee oop from factory and A 've bin
waitin* out theer till A'm tired o' waitin'.
Emma. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'ave n't time to
talk wi' thee at door.
(Emma lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him stand-
ing in the middle of the room, resumes work on her
knees at the box. Sam Horrocks is a hulking young
man of a rather vacant expression. He is dressed in
mechanic's blue dungarees. His face is oily and his
clothes stained. He wears boots, not clogs. He mechan-
ically takes a ball of oily black cotton-waste from his
right pocket when in conversational difficulties and
wipes his hands upon it. He has a red muffler round
his neck without collar, and his shock of fair hair is
surmounted by a greasy black cap, which covers per-
haps one tenth of it.)
S.\m {after watching Emma's back for a moment). Wheer 's
Mrs. Ormerod?
Emma {without looking up). What's that to do wi' thee?
Sam {apologetically) . A were only askin'. Tha needn't be
short wi' a chap.
Emma. She 's in scullery washin' *er, if tha wantstoknaw.
Sam. Oh!
Emma {looking at him over her shoidder after a slight pause) .
Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks?
Sam. Naw.
Eaevla.. Well, tha can tak' it off in this *Guse or get t'
t'other side o' door.
Sam. {Takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after
186 LOXESOME-LIXE
trying his rigid and finding the ball of waste in it.) Yes,
Emma.
(Emma resumes icork uilh her back touards him and
tvaitsfor him to speak. But he is not ready yet.)
Emma. Well, what dost want?
Saai. Nought. — Eh, but tha art a gradely wench.
Emma. WTiat 's that to do wi' thee?
Sam. Nought.
Emma. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't
pass compliments behind folks' backs.
Sam. a did n't mean no 'arm.
Emma. Well?
Sam. It's a fine day, is n't it? For th' time o' th' year?
Emma. Aye.
Sam. a very fine day.
Emma. Aye.
Sam (desperately) . It's a damned fine day.
Emma. Aye.
Sam (after a moment). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma?
Emma. Aye.
Sam. Wert ever in it?
Emma. Not sin' tha moother died.
Sam. Naw. A sujiposc not. Not sin' ma moother died.
She were a fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed-
ridden.
Emma. She were better than 'or son, though that's not
saying much neither.
Sam. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it
were when she were alive?
Emma. Aye.
Sam. a 've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new
quilt on bed from Co-op. Red un, it is, wi' blue stripes down
•er.
Emma. Aye.
LONESOME-LIKE 187
Sam. Well, Emma?
Emma {over her shoulder) . Well, what? What 's thy 'ouse
an' thy quilt to do wi' me?
Sam. Oh, nought. — Tha does n't 'elp a feller much,
neither.
Emma. {Rises and faces him. Sam is behind corner table
and backs a little before her.) What's tha gettin' at, Sam
Horrocks? Tha 's got a tongue in thy f aice, has n't tha?
Sam. a suppose so. A doan't use it much though.
Emma. No. Tha 's not much better than a tongue-tied
idiot, Sam Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine-
house in daytime an' sulkin' at 'ome neeghttime.
Sam. Aye, A 'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave
a way wi' 'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin t'
same to me sin' she went. Daytime, tha knaws, A 'm all
reeght. Tha sees, them engines, them an' me 's pals. They
talks to me an' A understands their ways. A doan't some-
'ow seem to understand th' ways o' folks like as A does th*
ways o' them engines.
Emma. Tha doesn't try. T ' other lads goes rattin' or dog-
feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday
afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's not
likely to understand folks. Tha's not sociable.
Sam. Naw. That 's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed
at when A tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down at
th' pub wi' th' rest o' th' lads. It 's no use ma tryin' to soop
ale; A can't carry th' drink like t' others. A knaws A 've
ways o' ma own.
Emma. Tha has that.
Sam. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o'
mine, it do want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines is
all reeght for days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like tha
would n't believe.
Emma.. Tha 's only thasel' to blame. It 's nought to do
wi' me, choosehow.
188 LONESOME-LIKE
Sam. Naw? A'd — A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave,
Emma.
Emma {approaching threateningly). Sam Horrocks, if tha
doan't tell me proper what tha means A '11 give tha such a
slap in tir mouth.
Sam {backing before her). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma.
Just like ma moother.
Emma. A wish A *ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense
into thy silly yead.
^Sam {suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table).
Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak'good money in th' engine-
house.
Emma. Get cop, tha great fool. If thadidn'tkeepthasel'
so close wi' tha moonin' about in th* engine-'ouse an' never
speakin' a word to nobody, tha'd knaw A were keepin'
coompany wi' Joe II indie.
Sam {scrambling up). Is that a fact, Emma?
Emma. Of course it's a fact. Banns 'ull be oop come
Sunday fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just
like the great blind idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long
enough sin'.
Sam. A wer' n't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha 'd
*ave me, Emma.
Emma (a little more softly). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee,
Sam.
Sam. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe
A'd best be goin'.
Emma {lifts box to left). Aye. Parson *s coomin' to see
Mrs. Ormerod in a minute.
S.\m {with pride). A knaw all about that, anyhow.
Emma. She 'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson
can do much for *er.
Sam. It 's 'ard lines on an ouKl un. Well, yo '11 not want
me 'ere. A 'U be movin* on. {Getting his cap out) No offense,
LONESOME-LIKE 189
Emma , A 'ope. A 'd 'ave asked thee first if A 'd knawn as 'e
were after thee. A've bin tryin' for long enough.
Emma. No. Theer 's no offense, Sam. Tha'sagoodladif
tha art a fool, an' mebbe tha 's not to blame for that. Good-
bye.
Sam. Good-bye, Emma. An' — An' A 'ope 'e '11 mak*
thee *appy . A 'd dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' shake
'is 'and. (Mrs. Ormerod heard off rigid.)
Emma. A '11 see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod
stirrin'. Tha'd best be gettin'.
Sam. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma.
Emma. Good-bye, Sam.
{Exit Sam left centre. Mrs. Ormerod comes from the
inside door. She has a small blue teapot in her hand.)
Sarah. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard
someun talkin', only my yearin' isn't what it used to be,
an' A warn't sure.
Emaia. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod.
Sarah. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year?
'Im as is n't reeght in 'is yead?
Emma. Aye. 'E 's bin askin' me to wed 'im.
Sarah (incensed). In my 'ouse? Theer's imperence for
thee, an' tha promised to another lad, an' all. A 'd 'ave set
about 'im wi' a stick, Emma.
Emma. 'E did n't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel
like to 'ave to tell 'im.
Sarah. 'E'll get ower it. Soom lass '11 tak' 'im.
Emma. A suppose so.
Sahak {coming down, putting the teapot in Emma's hands).
Well, theer's teapot.
Emma {meets Sarah right centre, examining teapot). It's
beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod.
S.iRAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha '11 tak*
care on 't, lass, won't thee?
190 LOXESOME-LIKE
Emma. A will an' all.
Sarah. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mchhe safer
than it would he inworkus. A can't think well on yon plaice.
A goa cold all ower at tho^l of it.
(.•1 knock at the door.)
Emma. That'll be Parson.
Sarah {crosses left, smoothing her hair). Goa an' look
through window first, an' see who 't is.
Emma (puts teapot on tabic; looking through tcindow).
It is not th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate
chaps.
Sarah. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down.
It won't do to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it 's not
th' ould Parson.
(Emma leaves the window and goes to right of table. The
knock is repeated.
Sarah {raising her voice). Coora in so who tha art.
Door 's on latch.
{Enter the Rev. Fr.\nk Alleyne. lie is a young curate,
a Londoner and an Oxford man, by association,
training, and taste totally unfitted for a Lancashire
curacy, in ivhich he is, unfortunately, Jio exception.)
Allei'NE. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ormerod.
Sarah. Good day to thee.
ALLE-i-NE. I'm sorry to say Mt. Blundell has had to go
to a missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and sec
you in his stead.
Sarah. Tha 's welcoom, lad. Sit thee doon.
(Emma comes below table left. Dusts a chair, which
does n'/ need it, with her apron. Alleyne raises a
deprecatory hand. S.kii.kii's familiarity, as it seems
to him, offends him. He looks sourly at Emma and
markedly ignores her.)
Alleyne. Thank you ; no, I won't sit ; I cannot stay long.
LONESOME-LIKE 191
Sarah. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me.
(Emma stays by right of table.)
Alleyne. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod?
Sarah. It might be worse. A 've lost th' use o' my 'ands,
and they 're takkin' me to workus, but A 'm not dead yet,
and that 's summat to be thankul for.
Alleyne. Oh, yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The — er —
message I am to deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blun-
dell led you to hope for. His efforts on yom' behalf have —
er — unfortimately failed. He finds himself obliged to give
up all hope of aiding you to a livelihood. In fact — er — I
understand that the arrangements made for your removal
to the workhouse this afternoon must be carried out. It
seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the bearer
of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a comfortable
home awaiting you, Mrs. — er — Ormerod.
Sarah. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer 's no
tellin' 'ow you'll favor a thing till you 've tried it.
Alleyne. You must resign yourself to the will of Provi-
dence. The consolations of religion are always with us.
Shall I pray with you?
Sarah. A never were much at pray in' when A were
well off, an' A doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me
if A coom cryin' to 'im now A'm 'urt.
Alleyne. He will understand. Can I do nothing for you?
Sarah. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same.
Alleyne. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permis-
sion to bring a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. {Feeling in
his coat-tails and bringing out a Testament.) Allow me to
present you with this Testament, and may it help you to
bear your Cross with resignation. {He hands her the Testa-
ment. Sarah does not raise her hands, and it drops on her lap.
Alleyne takes it again and puts it on the table.) Ah, yes, of
course — your poor hands — I understand.
192 LONESOME-LIKE
Sarah. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me,
an' my eyes are n't what they were, but A '11 mak' most of it.
Alleyne. You will never read that in vain. And now,
dear sister, I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All
will be well. Good day.
Sarau. Good day to thee.
{Exit ALLE'i'XE.)
Emma. Tha does n't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs.
Ormerod.
Sarah. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma.
'E should *a' coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks like 'e were
fcart to do it. A never could abide them curate lads. We
doan't want no grand Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 'E
doan't understand us no more than we understand 'im. 'E
means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, A've bin a
church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop to
church, an' many 's th' bit o' brass they 've 'ad out o' me in
my time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate with a
tuppenny Testament. That 's all th' good yo' get out o* they
folks.
Emma. We 'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to
let me see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony differ-
ent wi' chapels, neither. They get what they can outer yo',
but yo' mustn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch
cooms. {Clock outside strikes three.) Sakes alive, thecr's
clock goin' three. My dinner 'ull be nice an' cold.
Sarah. Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha 's
bin clcmmin' all this time?
E.MMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory.
Sarah. Then tha does n't move till tha 's 'ad suramat to
cat.
Em.ma. My dinner 's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Orm-
erod.
S.\u.\H. Then just look shar]) an' get it, tha silly lass.
Tha 's no reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'.
LONESOME-LIKE 193
Emma (putting her shawl on). All reeght. A'm ofif.
(Picks up teapot.)
Sabah. Tha 's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma.
It '11 be 'arder to bear when tha 's gone, Th' thowt 's too
much for me. Eh, lass, A'm feart o' yon great gaunt build-
ing wi' th' drear windows.
Emma. 'Appen ma moother 'uU coom in. Tha'Udowi'a
bit o' coompany . A '11 ask her to coom an' fetch thee a coop
o' tea bye-an'-bye.
(A knock at the door.)
Sarah. Who 's theer?
Sam (without). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod.
Emma. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again.
Sarah. Sam Horrocks! What can th' lad be after now?
(Calling) Hast tha wiped thy boots on scraper?
Sam. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.
Saeah. Coom in then. (Emma in left corner. Enter Sam.)
Tak' thy cap off.
Sam. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.
Sarah. What dost want?
Sam. a ' ve soom business 'ere. A thowt A 'd find thee by
thysel'. A '11 coom again (bolting nervously for the door).
Sarah. Let that door be. Dost say tha 's got business
'ere?
Sam. Aye, wi' thee. A 'd Hke a word wi' thee private.
(Emma moves to open door.)
Sarah. All reeght. Emma 's just goin' to 'er dinner.
Emma (speaking through door). A '11 ask my moother to
step in later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much
for th' teapot.
Sarah. A '11 be thankful if she '11 coom. (Exit Emma vrith
teapot.) Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee?
Sam (dropping the cotton-waste he is fumbling unth and
picking it up) . It 's a fine day for th' time o' th' year.
14
194 LONESOME-LIKE
Sar.ui. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad?
Sam. Naw, not exactly.
Sarah. ^Yell, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin'
on thee. Art tongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawhn' yon bit
o* waste an' tell me what 't is tha wants?
Sam (desperately). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th'
mornin'.
Sarah. A '11 tell thee what A 'd do to thee if A 'ad the use
o' my 'ands, my lad, A 'd coom aside thee and A 'd box thy
ears. If tha's got business wi' me, tha'd best state it sharp
or A '11 be showin' thee the shape o* my door.
Sam. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A
am. A've not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould
moother died.
Sarah. A've 'eerd folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un
wi' 'er tongue.
Sam (admiringh/). She were that. Rare talker she were.
She'd lie theer in 'er bed all day sis it might be in yon corner,
an' call me all th' names she could put her tongue to, till A
couldn't tell marccght 'and from ma left. {Still rcviiniscent)
Wonncrful sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she were bed-ridden
so long. She were only a little un an' cripple an' all, Inil by
gum, she could sling it at a feller if 'er tea weren't brewed to
'er taste. Talk! She 'd talk a donkey's yead ofT, she would.
Sarah {on her mettle). An' .\ '11 talk thy silly yoail otT an'
all if tha doan't gel sharp to tellin' me what tha wants after
in my 'ouse, tha great mazed idiot.
Sam. Eh, but she were a rare un.
Sarah. The lad 's daft aboot his moother.
S.A.M {detachedly, looking at window; pause). WiuuK-rful
breeght the sky is, to-day.
Sarah. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A 'd lak' a broomstick to
thee if — if A 'd the use o' my 'ands.
Sam. Now, if that is n't just what ma moother used to
say.
LONESOME-LIKE 195
S.-VRAH. Dang thy moother. An' A doan't mean no disre-
pect to 'er neither. She 's bin in 'er grave this year an' more,
poor woman.
Sam. a canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she
were wunnerful.
Sarah. An' A 'd be wunnerful too. A 'd talk to thee. A'd
call thee if A were thy moother an' A 'd to live aside o' thee
neeght an' day.
Sam (eagerly). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would.
Sarah. Would what?
Sam. Would coom an' live along wi' me.
Sar.ah. Tha great fool, what does mean? Art askin' me
to wed thee?
Sam. a did n't mean to oflFend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm
sorry A spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 'ope
as tha might coom. Tha sees A got used to moother. A got
used to 'earin' 'er cuss me. A got used to doin' for 'er an'
A 've nought to do in th' evenings now. It 's terrible lone-
some in th' neeghttime. An' when notion coom to me, A
tho-^i; as A 'd mention un to thee casual.
Sarah. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know
what tha 's sayin', or is tha foolin' me?
Sam. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A 'm not a marryin'
sort. Th' lasses won't look at me. A 'm silly Sam to them,
A knaws it. A 've a slate loose; A shan't never get wed. A
thowt A 'd mebbe a chance wi' yon lass as were 'ere wi' thee,
but hoo towld me A were too late. A allays were slow. A
left askin' too long an' A've missed 'er. A gets good money,
Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a young wench. They
mak's me go 'ot and cowld all over. An' when curate towld
me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A'd a chance wi'
thee. A knaw'd it were n't a big chance, because my plaice
ain't much cop after what tha's bin used to 'ere. A've got
no fine fixin's nor big chairs an' things like as tha used to
'ave. Eh, but A would 'ave loved to do for thee as A used
196 LONESOME-LIKE
to do for ma moother, an' when A yeerd thee talkin' now
an' callin' nie a fool an' th' rest, by gxim, A just yearned to
'ave thee for allays. Tha'd fill 'er plaice wunnerful well.
A'd just a' loved to adopt thee.
S.UL\n. To adopt me?
S.VM. Ay, for a moot her. A 'm sorry tha can't see thy way
to let me. A did n't mean no offence (turning to the door).
Sarah. *Ere, lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might
tak' me for thy mootlicr, what wouldst ha' done?
S-Ajn. \Miy, kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms
whoam to thy bed. It 's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean
sheets an' all, an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you '11
pardon th' liberty o' mentioning it.
Sarah. A new quilt, Sam? ^^^lat 's color?
Sam. Red, wi' blue strij)es down 'er.
S.^JL^J^. A'm not a light weight, tha knows.
Sam. A'd carry thee easy — "Strong in th' arm and
weak in th' yead." It 's an ould sayin',but it's a good un,
an' it fits.
Sarah. Wilt tha tr>', Sam Horrocks? God bless thee,
\\nlt tha trj', lad?
Sam. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha '11
coom? Tha's not coddin' a feller, art tha?
Sarah. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son.
{He kisses her and lifts her in his arms.)
Sam. By gum, but that were good. A '11 coom back fur
thy box.
Sarah. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a
sack o* flour.
Sam. Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Von was real
mootherly, it were.
(Exit through door, carrying her.)
[Curtain at clink of latch ]
RIDERS TO THE SEA^
J. M. SYNGE
CHARACTERS
Mauhya, an old woman
Bartley, her son
Cathleen, her daughter
Nora, a younger daughtei"
Men and Women
SCENE: An island off the West of Ireland. Cottage kitchen,
uiiih nets, oilskins, sjpinning-wheel, some new boards
standing by the wall, etc. Cathleen, a girl of about
twenty, finishes kneading cake, and puis it down in the
pot-oven by the fire; then wipes her hands, and begins to
spin at the wheel. Nora, a young girl, puts her head in
at the door.
Nora (in a low voice). Where is she?
Cathleen. She 's lying down, God help her, and maybe
sleeping, if she 's able.
(Nora comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under
her shawl.)
Cathleen (spinning the wheel rapidly) . What is it you
have?
Nora. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a
^ Included by permission of Messrs. John W. Luce and Company.
198 RIDERS TO THE SEA
shirt and a plain stocking were got off a drowned man in
Donegal.
(Catiileen stops her wheel tcith a sudden movement, and
leans out to listen.)
Nora. "We're to find out if it 's Micliacl's they are; some
time herself will be down looking by the sea.
Cathleen. How would they be Michael's, Xora? How
would he go the length of that way to the far north?
Nora. The young priest says he 's known the like of it.
"If it's Michael's they are," says he, "you can tell herself
he 's got a clean burial by the grace of God, and if they're
not his, let no one say a word about tlicm, for she'll be get-
ting her death," says he, "with crying and lamenting."
{The door which Nora half closed is blown open by a gust
of wind.)
C.VTHLEEN {looking out anxiously). Djd you ask him
would he stop Bartley going this day with the horses to the
Galway fair?
Nora. "I won't stop him." says he, "but let you not bo
afraid. Herself does be saying prayers half through the
night, and the Almighty God won't leave her destitute,"
says he, "with no son living."
Catiileen. Is the sea bad by the while rocks, Nora?
Nora. Middling bad, God help us. There's a great roar-
ing in the west, and it's worse it'll be getting when the
tide 's turned to the wind.
{She goes over to the table with the bundle.)
Shall I open it now?
Catiileen. Maybe she 'd wake up on us, and come in
before we'd done. {Cuming to the table) It's a long time
we '11 be, and the two of us crying.
Nora {goes to the inner door and listens). She's moving
about on the bed. She '11 be coming in a minute.
Catiileen. Give me the huUlor, ami I '11 jiut thom up in
RIDERS TO THE SEA 199
the turf -loft, the way she won't know of them at all, and
maybe when the tide turns she '11 be going down to see would
he be floating from the east.
{They put the ladder against the gable of the chimney;
Cathleen goes up a few steps and hides the bundle in
the turf -loft. IVIaurya comes from the inner room.)
Maurya (looking up at Cathleen and speaking queru-
lously) . Is n't it turf enough you have for this day and
evening?
Cathleen. There's a cake baking at the fire for a short
space (throwing down the turf) and Bartley will want it
when the tide turns if he goes to Connemara.
(Nora picks up the turf and pids it round the pot-oven.)
INIaurya {sitting down on a stool at the fire). He won't go
this day with the wind rising from the south and west. He
won't go this day, for the young priest will stop him surely.
Nora. ,He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon
Simon and Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he
would go.
IVIaurya. WTiere is he itself?
Nora. He went down to see would there be another boat
sailmg in the week, and I'm thinking it won't be long till
he's here now, for the tide 's turning at the green head, and
the hooker 's tacking from the east.
Cathleen. I hear someone passing the big stones.
Nora {looking oid) . He 's coming now, and he in a hurry.
Bartley {comes in and looks round the room; speaking
sadly and quietly). Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen,
was bought in Connemara?
Cathleen {coming down). Give it to him, Nora; it *s on
a nail by the white boards. I hung it up this morning, for
the pig with the black feet was eating it.
Nora {giving him a rope). Is that it, Bartley?
Maurya. You 'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley,
200 RIDERS TO THE SEA
hanging by the boards. (Bartley takes the rope.) It will be
wanting in this place, I 'ni telling you, if Michael is washed
up to-morrow morning, or the next morning, or any morn-
ing in the week, for it 's a deep grave we '11 make him by the
grace of God.
Bartley {begirming to work with the rope). I 've no halter
the way I can ride down on the mare, and I must go now
quickly. This is the one boat going for two weeks or beyond
it, and the fair will be a good fair for horses, I heard them
saying below.
Maurya. It 's a hard thing they '11 l>e saying below if the
body is washed up and there's no man in it to make the
coffin, and I after giving a big price for the finest white
boards you'd find in Connemara.
(She looks round at the boards.)
Bartley. How would it be washed up, and we after
looking each day for nine days, and a strong wind blowing
a while back from the west and south."*
Maurya. If it was n't found itself, that wind is raising
the sea, and there was a star up against the moon, and it
rising in the night. If it was a hundred horses, or a thousand
horses you had itself, what is the price of a thousand horses
against a son where there is one son only?
Bartley (irorkirig at the halter, to Cathleen). lyct you
go down each day, and see the sheep are n't jumping in on
the rye, and if the j()bi>or conies you can sell the pig with
the black feet if there is a good price g(»ing.
Maurya. How would the like of her get a good price for
a pig?
Bartley (to Catiileen). If the west wind holds with
the last bit of the moon let you and Nora get up weed
enough for another cock for the kelp. It 's hard set we'll
be from this day with no one in it but one man to work.
Maurya. It's hard set we'll be surely the day you're
RIDERS TO THE SEA 201
drownd'd with the rest. What way will I live and the girls
wnth me, and I an old woman looking for the grave?
(Babtley lays down the halter, takes off his old coat,
and 'puts on a newer one of the same flannel.)
Bartley {to Nora) . Is she coming to the pier?
Nora {looking out). She's passing the green head and
letting fall her sails.
Bartley {getting his purse and tobacco) . I '11 have half an
hour to go down, and you'll see me coming again in two
days, or in three days, or maybe in four days if the wind is
bad.
Maurya {turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl
over her head) . Is n't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a
word from an old woman, and she holding him from the sea?
Cathleen. It 's the life of a young man to be going on
the sea, and who would listen to an old woman with one
thing and she saying it over?
Bartley {taking the halter) . I must go now quickly. I '11
ride down on the red mare, and the gray pony '11 run behind
me. The blessing of God on you.
{He goes out.)
Maurya {crying out as he is in the door). He's gone now,
God spare us, and we '11 not see him again. He 's gone now,
and when the black night is falling I '11 have no son left me
in the world.
Cathleen. Why would n't you give him your blessing
and he looking round in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough
is on everyone in this house without your sending him
out with an unlucky word behind him, and a hard word in
his ear?
(Maurya takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire
aimlessly without looking round.)
Nora {turning towards her) . You 're taking away the turf
from the cake.
202 RroERS TO THE SEA
Cathleen (crying out). The Son of God forgive us, Nora,
we're after forgetting his bit of bread.
{She comes over to the fire.)
Nora. And it 's destroyed he'll be going till dark night,
and he after eating nothing since the sun went up.
Catiileex {turning the cake out of the oven). It's de-
stroyed he '11 be, surely. There 's no sense left on any person
in a house where an old woman will be talking for ever.
(^L\UKYA sicays herself on her stool.)
Cathleen (cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in a
cloth, to Maurya). Let you go down now to the spring
well and give him this and he passing. You 'U see him then
and the dark word will be broken, and you can say, "God
speed you." the way he'll be easy in his mind.
^L\urya (taking the bread). Will I be in it as soon as
himself?
Cathleen. If you go now quickly.
Maurya (standing up unsteadily). It's hard set I am to
walk.
Cathleen (looking at her anxiously). Give her the
stick, Nora, or maj'be she'll slip on the big stones.
Nora. What stick?
Cathleen. The stick Michael brought from Connemara.
Maurya (taking a stick Nor.\ gives her) . In the big world
the old people do be leaving things after them for their sons
and children, but in this place it is the young men do be
leaving things behind for them that do be old.
(She goes out slowly. Nora goes over to the ladder.)
Cathleen. Wait, Norn, maybe she'd turn back quickly.
She's that sorry, God help her. you wouldn't know the
thing she 'd do.
Nor.\. Is she gone round by the bush?
C.\TiiLEEN (looking out). She's gone now. Throw it down
quickly, for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it again.
RIDERS TO THE SEA { 203
Nora (getting the bundle from the loft). The young priest
said he 'd be passing to-morrow, and we might go down and
speak to him below if it 's Michael's they are surely.
Cathleen (taking the bundle) . Did he say what way they
were found?
Nora (coming down). "There were two men," says he,
"and they rowing round with poteen before the cocks
crowed, and the oar of one of them caught the body, and
they passing the black cliffs of the north."
Cathleen (trying to open the bundle). Give me a knife,
Nora; the string 's perished with the salt water, and there's
a black knot on it you would n't loosen in a week.
NoR.1 {giving her a knife) . I 've heard tell it was a long
way to Donegal.
Cathleen (cutting the string) . It is surely. There was a
man in here a while ago — the man sold us that knife —
and he said if you set off walking from the rocks beyond, it
would be seven days you'd be in Donegal.
Nora. And what time would a man take, and he float-
ing?
(Cathleen opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a
stocking. They look at them eagerly.)
Cathleen (in a low voice). The Lord spare us, Nora!
is n't it a queer hard thing to say if it 's his they are surely?
Nora. I '11 get his shirt off the hook the way we can put
the one flannel on the other. (She looks through some clothes
hanging in the corner) It 's not with them, Cathleen, and
where will it be?
Cathleen. I 'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the
morning, for his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it.
(Pointing to the corner) There's a bit of a sleeve was of the
same stuff. Give me tha.t and it will do.
(Nora brings it to her and they compare the flannel.)
Cathleen. It's the same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself,
are n't there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and
204 RIDERS TO THE SEA
is n't it many another man may have a shirt of it as well as
Michael himself?
NoiL\ (ivho has taken up the stocking and counted the
stitches, crying out) It's Michael, Cathleen, it's ALchael;
God spare his soul and what will herself say when she hears
this story, and Barlley on the sea?
Cathleen {taking the stocking). It's a plain stocking.
Nora. It 's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and
I put up three score stitches, and I dropped four of them.
Cathleen {counts the stitches). It's that number is in it.
(Crying out) Ah, Nora, isn't it a bitter thing to think of
him floating that way to the far nortli. and no one to keen
him but the black hags that do be flying on the sea?
Nora {su-inging herself round, atid throwing out her arms
on the clothes). And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is
nothing left of a man who was a great rower and fisher, but
a bit of an old shirt and a plain stocking?
Cathleen {after on instant). Toll me is herself coming,
Nora? I hear a little sound on the path.
Nora {looking out). She is, Catlilcen. She's coming up
to the door.
Cathleen. Put these things away before she'll come in.
Mayl)e it 's easier she'll bo after giving her blessing to Bart-
ley, and we won't let on we've hoard anything the time
he 's on the sea.
Nora {helping Cathleen to close the bundle). We'll put
them here in the corner.
{They put them into a hole in the chimney corner. Cath-
leen goes back to the spinning wheel.)
Nora. Will she see it wjis crying I wtus?
Cathleen. Keep your back to the door the way the
light Ml not be on you.
(XoRA sits down at the chimney corner, mth her back to
the door. Maurya comes in very slowly, without look-
ing at the girls, atid goes over to her stool at the other
RIDERS TO THE SEA 205
side of the fire. The cloth vnth the bread is still in her
hand. The girls look at each other, and Nora points
to the bundle of bread.)
Cathleen (after spinning for a moment) . You did n't give
him his bit of bread?
(Maurya begins to keen softly, without turning round.)
Cathleen. Did you see him riding down?
(Maurya goes on keening.)
Cathleen (a little impatiently) . God forgive you; isn't it
a better thing to raise your voice and tell what you seen,
than to be making lamentation for a thing that's done?
Did you see Bartley, I 'm saying to you.
Maurya (udth a weak voice). My heart 's broken from
this day.
Cathleen (as before). Did you see Bartley?
IVIaurya. I seen the fearfulest thing.
Cathleen (leaves her wheel and looks out) . God forgive
you; he 's riding the mare now over the green head, and the
gTay pony behind him.
Maurya (starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head
and shows her white tossed hair; with a frightened voice) . The
gray pony behind him.
Cathleen (coming to the fire). What is it ails you, at all?
Maurya (speaking very slowly) . I ' ve seen the fearfulest
thing any person has seen, since the day Bride Dara seen
the dead man with the child in his arms.
Cathleen and Nora. Uah.
(They crouch dovm in front of the old woman at the fire.)
Nora. Tell us what it is you seen.
Maurya. I went down to the spring-well, and I stood
there saying a prayer to myself. Then Bartley came along,
and he riding on the red mare with the gray pony behind
him. (She puts up her hands, as if to hide something from her
eyes.) The Son of God spare us, Nora!
206 RIDERS TO THE SEA
Cathleen. What is it you seen?
Maurya. I seen ^lichael himself.
Cathleen (speaking softly). You did not, mother; it
wasn 't Michael you seen, for his body is after being found
in the far north, and he's got a clean burial by the grace of
God.
Maurya (a little defiantly) . I 'm after seeing him this day,
and he riding and galloping. Bartley came first on the red
marc; and I tried to say "God speed you," but something
choked the words in my throat. He went by quickly; and,
" The blessing of God on you," says he, and I could say noth-
ing. I looked up then, and I crj'ing, at the gray pony, and
there was Michael upon it — with fine clothes on him, and
new shoes on his feet .
Cathleen (begins to keen). It's destroyed we are from
this day. It's destroyed, surely.
NouA. Didn't the young priest say the Almighty God
would n't leave her deslilute with no son living?
Maurya (in a low voice, but clearly). It 's little the like of
him knows of the sea, . . . Bartley will be lost now, and
let you call in Eamon and make me a good coflin out of the
white boards, for I won't live after them. I've had a hus-
band, and a husband's father, and six sons in this hou5e —
six fine men, though it was a hard birth I had with every
one of them and they coming to the world — and some of
them were found and some of thorn wore not found, but
they're gone now, the lot of them. . . . There were
Stephen, and Shawn, were lost in the great wind, and found
after in the Bay of (Gregory of the Golden Month, and car-
ric<l up the two of thorn on the one plank, and in by that
door.
(She pauses for a moment, the girls start as if they heard
something through the door that is half-open behind
them.)
RIDERS TO THE SEA 207
Nora (in a whis'per). Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did
you hear a noise in the northeast?
Cathleen (in a whisper). There's someone after crying
out by the seashore.
ISIaurya {continues vyithout hearing anything). There
was Sheajnus and his father, and his own father again, were
lost in a dark night, and not a stick or sign was seen of
them when the sun went up. There was Patch after was
drowned out of a curagh that turned over. I was sitting
here with Bartley, and he a baby, lying on my two knees,
and I seen two women, and three women, and four women
coming in, and they crossing themselves, and not saying a
word. I looked out then, and there were men coming after
them, and they holding a thing in the half of a red sail, and
water dripping out of it — it was a dry day, Nora — and
leaving a track to the door.
{She pauses again vnth her hand stretched out towards
the door. It opens softly and old women begin to come
in, crossing themselves on the threshold, and kneeling
down in front of the stage with red petticoats over their
heads.)
IS£\uiiYA {half in a dream, to Cathleen). Is it Patch, or
Michael, or what is it at all?
Cathleen. Michael is after being found in the far north,
and when he is found there how could he be here in this
place?
IVIaurya. There does be a power of young men floating
round in the sea, and what way would they know if it was
IVIichael they had, or another man like him, for when a man
is nine days in the sea, and the wind blowing, it 's hard set
his own mother would be to say what man was it.
Cathleen. It's Michael, God spare him, for they're
after sending us a bit of his clothes from the far north.
{She reaches out and hands ML^urya the clothes that be-
208 RIDERS TO THE SEA
longed to Michael. ^L\URyA stands up slowly, and
takes them in her hands. Nora looks out.)
Nora. They're carrj-ing a thing among them and there's
water dripping out of it and leaving a track by the big
stones.
Cathleen (in a whisper to the women who have come in).
Is it Bartley it is?
One of the Women. It is surely, God rest his soul.
{Two younger women come in and pull out the table.
Then men carry in the body of Hartley, laid on a
plank, with a bit of a sail over it, and lay it on the table.)
C.\thleen (to the icomcn, as they are doing so) . What way
was he drowned?
One of the Women. The gray pony knocked him into
the sea, and he was washed out where there is a great surf
on the white rocks.
(^L'V.L'RYA has gone over and knelt down at the head of
the table. The icomen are keening softly and swaying
themselves icith a sloio movement. Cathleen and
Nora kneel at the other end of the table. The men
kneel near the door.)
Maurya {raising her head and speaking as if she did not
see the people around her). They're all gone now, and there
isn't anyt hing more the sea can do to me. . . . I'll have no
call now to be up crying and praying when the wind breaks
from the south, and you can hear the surf is in the east, and
the surf is in the west, making a great stir with the two
noises, and they hitting one on the other. I'll have no call
now to be going down and getting Holy Water in the dark
nights after Samhain, and I won't care what way the sea is
when the other women will be keening. {To Nora) Give
me the Holy Water, Nora; there's a small sup still on the
dresser.
(Nora gives it to her.)
RIDERS TO THE SEA 209
Maurya {drops Michael's clothes across Bartley's feet,
and sprinkles the Holy Water over him). It is n't that I
have n't prayed for you, Bartley, to the Almighty God. It
is n't that I have n't said prayers in the dark night till you
wouldn't know what I 'd be saying; but it's a great rest
I'll have now, and it's time surely. It's a great rest I'll
have now, and great sleeping in the long nights after Sam-
hain, if it 's only a bit of wet flour we do have to eat, and
maybe a fish that would be stinking.
(She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying
prayers under her breath.)
Cathleen (to an old man). Maybe yourself and Eamon
would make a coffin when the sun rises. We have fine white
boards herself bought, God help her, thinking Michael
would be found, and I have a new cake you can eat while
you '11 be working.
The Old Man (looking at the boards). Are there nails
with them?
Cathleen. There are not, Colum; we did n't think of the
nails.
Another Man. It 's a great wonder she would n't think
of the nails, and all the coffins she 's seen made already.
Cathleen. It 's getting old she is, and broken.
(Maurya stands up again very slowly and spreads out
the pieces of Michael's clothes beside the body, sprink-
ling them with the last of the Holy Water.)
Nora (in a whisper to Cathleen) . She 's quiet now and
easy; but the day Michael was drowned you could hear her
crying out from this to the spring- well. It 's fonder she was
of Michael, and would anyone have thought that?
Cathleen (slowly and clearly). An old woman will be
soon tired with anything she will do, and isn't it nine days
herself is after crying and keening, and making great
sorrow in the house?
13
210 RIDERS TO THE SEA
^Iaurya (piUs the empty cup mouth dowmrards on the
table, and lays her hands together on Bartley's feet) . They 're
all together this time, and the end is come. May the Al-
mighty God have mercy on Bartley's soul, and on Michael's
soul, and on the souls of Sheamus and Patch, and Stephen
and Shawn (bending her head) ; and may lie have mercy on
my soul, Nora, and on the soul of everyone is left living in
the world.
{She pauses, and the keen rises a little more loudly from
the women, then sinks away.)
^L\uuvA (continuing). Michael has a clean burial in the
far north, by the grace of the Almighty God. Bartley will
have a fine coffin out of the white boards, and a deep grave
surely. Wliat more can we want than that? No man at all
can be living for ever, and we must be satisfied.
(She kneels down again, and the curtain falls slowly).
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE^
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
CHARACTERS
Maurteen Bruin
Bridget Bruin, his wife
Shawn Bruin, their son
Maire Bruin, wife of Shawn
Father Hart
A Faery Child
SCENE: In the Barony of Kilmacowan, in the county of
Sligo, at a remote time.
Setting : a room with a hearth on the floor in the mid-
dle of a deep alcove on the right. There are benches in the
alcove, and a table; a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is
full of a glow of light from the fire. There is an open
door facing the audience, to the left, and to the left of this
a bench. Through the door one can see the forest. It is
night, but the moon or a late sunset glimmers through the
trees, and carries the eye far off into a vague, mysterious
world. Maurteen Bruin, Shawtst Bruin, and Brid-
get Bruin sit in the alcove at the table, or about the fire.
They are dressed in the costume of some remote time, and
near them sits an old priest. Father Hart, in the garb
of a friar. There is food and drink upon the table.
^ Reprinted by arrangement with Mr. Yeats and the Macmillan Com-
pany, New York, publishers of Mr. Yeats's Collected Works (1912).
212 THE L.VND OF IIE.VRT'S DESIRE
Maire Bruin stands by the door, reading a yellow manu'
script. If she looks up, she can see through the door into
the wood.
Bridget Bruin
Because I bade her go and feed the calves,
She took that old book down out of the thatch
And has been doubled over it all day.
We should be deafened by her groans and moans
Had she to work as some do, Father Hart,
Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour;
Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,
The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.
You are too cross.
Shawn Bruin
Bridget Bruin
The young side with the young.
]Maurteen Bruin
She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,
And is too deep just now in the old book!
But do not blame her greatly; she will grow
As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree
When but the moons of marriage dawn and die
For half a score of times. *
Father H.uit
Tlirir hearts are wild
As be the hearts of birds, till chililron come.
Bridget Bki in
She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow,
Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 213
Father Hart
I never saw her read a book before;
What may it be?
Maurteen Bruin
I do not rightly know;
It has been in the thatch for fifty years.
My father told me my grandfather wrote it,
Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide.
But draw your chair this way — supper is spread;
And little good he got out of the book.
Because it filled his house with roaming bards.
And roaming ballad-makers and the like,
And wasted all his goods. — Here is the wine:
The griddle bread 's beside you, Father Hart.
Colleen, what have you got there in the book
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I,
Or had my father, read or written books
There were no stocking stuffed with golden guineas
To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you.
Father Hart
You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.
What are you reading?
Maire Bruin
How a Princess Edane,
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May Eve like this.
And followed, half awake and half asleep.
Until she came into the Land of Faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
WTiere nobody gets old and crafty and wise.
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue;
And she is still there, busied with a dance.
214 THE LAND OF HE.VRT'S DESIRE
Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,
Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.
Maurteen Bruix
Persuade the colleen to put by the book:
My grandfather would mutter just such things,
And he was no judge of a dog or horse,
And any idle boy could blarney him:
Just speak your mind.
Father Hart
Put it away, my colleen.
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings.
And gives a little round of deeds and days.
And then come the wrecked angels and set snares.
And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,
Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes.
Half shuddering and half joyous, from God's peace:
And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears,
Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words.
My colleen, I have seen some other girls
Restless and ill at case, but years went by
And they grew like their neighbours antl were glad
In minding children, working at the churn.
And gossiping of weddings and of wakes;
For life moves out of a red flare of dreams
Into a common light of common hours,
Until old age bring the red flare again.
^Iaurteen BuriN
That's true — but she's too young to know it's true.
Bridget Briin
She 's oUl enough to know that it is wrong
To mope and idle.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESHIE 215
Shawn Bruin
I've little blame for her;
And mother's tongue were harder still to bear,
But for her fancies: this is May Eve too,
When the good people post about the world.
And surely one may think of them to-night.
Maire, have you the primroses to fling
Before the door to make a golden path
For them to bring good luck into the house?
Remember, they may steal new-married brides
After the fall of twilight on May Eve.
(Maire Bruin goes over to the window and takes flowers
from the bowl and strews them outside the door.)
Father Hart
You do well, daughter, because God permits
Great power to the good people on May Eve.
Shawn Bruin
They can work all their will with primroses;
Change them to golden money, or little flames
To bum up those who do them any wrong.
Maire Bruin {in a dreamy voice)
I had no sooner flung them by the door
Than the wind cried and hurried them away;
And then a child came running in the wind
And caught them in her hands and fondled them:
Her dress was green: her hair was of red gold;
Her face was pale as water before dawn.
Father Hart
Whose child can this be?
216 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESHIE
Maurteex Bruin
No one's child at all.
She often dreams that someone has gone by
When there was nothing but a puff of wind.
MAmE Bruin
They will not bring good luck into the house.
For they have blo^ii the primroses away;
Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them,
For are not they, likewise, children of God?
Father Hart
Colleen, they are the children of the fiend,
And they have power until the end of Time,
When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle
And hack them into pieces.
Maire Bruin
He will smile.
Father, perhaps, and open His great door.
And call the pretty and kind into His house.
Father Hvrt
Did but the lawless angels see that door,
They would fall, slain by everlasting peace;
And when such angels knock upon our doors
Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.
(.1 knock at the door. Maihe Buuin o/)r».f it and then
goes to the dresser and fills a -porringer with milk and
hands it through the door, and takes it back empty and
closes the door.)
M.URE BUUI.N
A little queer old woman cloaked in green,
Who came to beg a porringer of milk.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 217
Bridget Bruin
The good people go asking milk and fire
Upon May Eve — Woe on the house that gives,
For they have power upon it for a year.
I knew you would bring evil on the house.
Maurteen Bruin
Who was she?
Maire Bruin
Both the tongue and face were strange.
Maurteen Bruin
Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill;
She must be one of them.
Bridget Bruin
I am afraid.
Maurteen Bruin
The priest will keep all harm out of the house.
Father Hart
The cross will keep all harm out of the house
While it hangs there.
Maubteen Bruin
Come, sit beside me, colleen.
And put away your dreams of discontent,
For I would have you light up my last days
Like the good glow of the turf, and when I die
I will make you the wealthiest hereabout :
For hid away where nobody can find
I have a stocking full of yellow guineas.
218 TlIE L\ND OF HE^VRT'S DESIRE
Bridget Bruin
You an* the fool of every pretty face,
And I must pinch and pare that my son's wife
May have all kinds of ribbons for her head.
Maurteen Bruin
Do not be cross; she is a right pood girl!
The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart.
My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change
Done well for me and for old Bridget there?
We ha\ e a hundred acres of good land.
And sit beside each other at the fire,
The wise priest of our parish to our right.
And jou and our dear son to left of us.
To sit beside the I)oard and drink good wine
And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire
And feel content and wisdom in your heart.
This is the be.st of life; when we are young
We long to tread a way none trod before,
But find the excellent old way through love
And through the care of children to the hour
For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye.
(A knock at the door. Maire Bhiix opcyis it and then
takes a .tod of turf out of the hearth in the tonga and
goes out through the door. Shawn follows her and
meets her coming in.)
Shawn Bhiin
What is it draws you to the chill o' the wood?
There is a light among the stems of the trees
That makes one shiv«>r.
Maihe Bruin
A little (jiioer old man
Made mc a sign to show he wanted fire
To light his i)ipe.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 219
Bridget Bruin
You 've given milk and fire.
Upon the unluckiest night of the year, and brought,
For all you know, evil upon the house.
Before you married you were idle and fine.
And went about with ribbons on your head;
And now — no, father, I will speak my mind.
She is not a fitting wife for any man —
Be quiet, mother
Shawn Bruin
Maurteen Bruin
You are much too cross!
Maire Bruin
What do I care if I have given this house.
Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue.
Into the power of faeries !
Bridget Bruin
You know well
How calling the good people by that name
Or talking of them over much at all
May bring all kinds of evil on the house.
Maire Bruin
Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house !
Let me have all the freedom I have lost;
Work when I will and idle when I will !
Faeries, come take me out of this dull world.
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide.
And dance upon the mountains like a flame !
220 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESmE
Father Hart
You cannot know the meaning of your words.
Maire Bruin
Father, I am right weary of four tongues:
^. A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,
(f, A tongue that is too godly and too grave,
^ A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,
^ And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,
Of drowsy love and my captivity.
(Shawn Bruin comes over to her and leads her to iiie
settle.)
Shawn Bruin
Do not blame me: I often lie awake
Thinking that all things trouble your bright head —
How beautiful it is — such broad pale brows
I'nder a cloudy blossoming of hair!
Sit down beside me here — these are too old,
And have forgotten they were ever young.
Maire Bruin
Oh, you are the great door-post of this house,
And I, the red nasturtiiiiii, climbing up.
{She takes Shawn's hand, but looks shyly at the priest
and lets it go.)
Father Hart
Good daughter, take his hand — by love alone
God binds us to Himself and to the hearth
And shuts us from the waste bcyoiul His peace,
From maddening freedom ami bewiidcriiig light.
Shawn Bruin
Would that the world were mine to give it you
With every quiet hearth and barren waste,
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 221
The maddening freedom of its woods and tides,
And the bewildering light upon its hills.
Maire Bruin
Then I would take and break it in my hands
To see you smile watching it crumble away.
Shawn Bruin
Then I would mould a world of fire and dew
With no one bitter, grave, or over wise.
And nothing marred or old to do you wrong,
And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky
With candles biu-ning to your lonely face.
Maire Bruin
Your looks are all the candles that I need.
Shawn Bruin
Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,
Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn.
Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew.
But now the indissoluble sacrament
Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold
With my warm heart for ever; and sun and moon
Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll;
But your white spirit still walk by my spirit.
(A Voice sings in the distance.)
Maire Bruin
Did you hear something call? Oh, guard me close,
Because I have said wicked things to-night;
And seen a pale-faced child with red-gold hair.
And longed to dance upon the winds with her.
222 THE LAND OF HE.\RT'S DESIRE
A \'t)icE (close to the door)
The wind blows out of tlie gates of the day,
The wind blows over the lonely of heart
And tlic lonely of heart is withered away,
While the faeries danee in a place apart.
Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;
For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing
Of a land where even the old are fair,
And even the wise are merry of tongue;
l^nt I heard a reed of Coolaney say,
" ^^ hen the wind has laughed and murmured and sung.
The lonely of heart is withered away!"
Madrteen Bruin
I am right happy, and would make all else
Be happy too. I hoar a child outside,
And will go bring her in out of the cold.
{lie opens the door. A Child dressed in pale green and
xcith red-gold hair comes into the house.)
The Child
I tire of winds and waters and pale lights!
IVIaurteen Bruin
Vou are most welcome. It is cold out there;
Who would think to face such cold on a May Eve?
The Chili)
And when I tire of this warm little house
There is one here who must away, away.
To whore the woods, tiie stars, and the white streams
Are holding a continual festival.
Maurteen Bruin
Oh, listen to her dreamy and strange talk.
Come to the fire.
!
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 223
The Child
I will sit upon your knee,
For I have run from where the winds are born,
And long to rest my feet a httle while.
(She sits upon his knee.)
Bridget Bruin
How pretty you are !
Maurteen Bruin
Yom* hair is wet with dew!
Bridget Bruin
I will warm your chilly feet.
{She takes the child's feet in her hands.)
Maurteen Bruin
You must have come
A long, long way, for I have never seen
Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry;
Here is some bread and wine.
The Child
The wine is bitter.
Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?
Bridget Bruin
I have some honey !
(She goes into the next room.)
Maurteen Bruin
You are a dear child;
The mother was quite cross before you came,
(Bridget returns with the honey, and goes to the dresser
and fills a porringer with milk.)
224 THE LAND OF HE.\RT'S DESIRE
Bridget Bruin
She is the child of gentle people; look
At her white hands and at her pretty dress.
I 've brought you some new milk, but wait awhile,
And I will put it by the fire to warm,
For things well fitted for poor folk like us
Would never please a high-born child like you.
The Child
Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn
Brightens above while you blow up the fire;
And evening finds you spreading the white cloth.
The young may lie in bed and dream and hope.
But you work on because your heart is old.
Bridget Bruin
The young are idle.
The Child
Old father, you are wise
And all the years have gathered in your heart
To whisper of the wonders that are gone.
The young must sigh through many a dream and hope,
But you are wise because your heart is old.
I\L\LTiTEEN Bruin
Oh, who would think to find so young a child
Loving old age and wisdom?
(Bridget gives her more bread and honey.)
The Child
No more, mother.
^LiURTEEN Bruin
What a small bite! The milk is ready now;
What a small sip!
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 225
The Child
Put on my shoes, old mother,
For I would like to dance now I have eaten.
The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake.
And I would like to dance until the reeds
And the white waves have danced themselves to sleep.
t-^ Bridget
{Having put on her shoes, she gets off the old man's Icnees
and is about to dance, but suddenly sees the crucifix
and shrieks and covers her eyes.)
What is that ugly thing on the black cross?
Father Hart
You cannot know how naughty your words are !
That is our Blessed Lord!
The Child
Hide it away!
Bridget Bruin
I have begun to be afraid, again !
The Child
Hide it away!
Maurteen Bruin
That would be wickedness!
Bridget Bruin
That would be sacrilege!
The Child
The tortured thing!
Hide it away!
Maurteen Bruin
Her parents are to blame.
16
226 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE
Father Hart
That is the image of the Son of God.
(The Child puts her arm around his neck and kisses
him.)
The Child
Hide it away! Hide it away!
Maurteen Bruin
No! no!
Father Hart
Because you are so young and little a child
I will go take it down.
The Child
Hide it away,
And cover it out of sight and out of mind.
(Father Hart takes it down and carrries it towards the
inner room.)
Father Hart
Since you have come into this barony
I will instruct you in our blessed faith:
Being a clever child you will soon learn.
{To the others)
We must be tender with all budding things.
Our Maker let no thought of Calvary
Trouble the morning stars in their first song.
(Puts the crucifix in the inner room.)
The Child
Here is level ground for dancing. I will dance.
The wind is blowing on the waving reeds,
The wind is blowing on the heart of man.
{She dances, swaijing about like the reeds.)
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESmE 227
Maire (to Shawn Bruin) i^iii
Just now when she came near I thought I heard
Other small steps beating upon the floor.
And a faint music blowing in the wind,
Invisible pipes giving her feet the time.
Shawn Bruin
I heard no step but hers.
Maire Bruin
Look to the bolt!
Because the unholy powers are abroad.
Maurteen Bruin {to The Child)
Come over here, and if you promise me
Not to talk wickedly of holy things
I will give you something.
The Child
Bring it me, old father!
(Maurteen Bruin goes into the next room.)
Father Hart
I will have queen cakes when you come to me !
(Maurteen Bruin returns and lays a piece of money on
the table. The Child makes a gesture of refusal.)
Maurteen Bruin
It will buy lots of toys; see how it glitters !
The Child
Come, tell me, do you love me?
Maurteen Bruin
I love you!
228 THE L.V\D OF HEART'S DESIRE
The Child
Ah ! but you love this fireside !
Father Hart
I love you.
WTien the Almighty puts so great a share
Of His o\N'n ageless youth into a creature,
To look is but to love.
The Child
But you love Him above.
Bridget BRL^N
She is blaspheming.
The Child {to Maire)
And do you love me?
Maire Bruin
I — I do not know.
The Child
You love that great tall fellow over there:
Yet I could make you ride upon the winds,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide.
And dance upon the mountains like a flame I
Maire Bruin
Queen of the Angels and kind Saints, defend us!
Some dreadful fate has Ldlcn: a while ago
The wind cried out and took the primroses,
And she ran by me laughing in the wind.
And I gave milk and fire, and she came in
And made you hide the blessed crucifix.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 229
Father Hart
You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle;
She knows no better.
/ (ro The Child)
Child, how old are you?
The Child
When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin.
My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken
My mother carries me in her golden arms.
I will soon put on my womanhood and marry
The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell
When I was born for the first time? I think
I am much older than the eagle cock
That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill,
And he is the oldest thing under the moon.
Father Hart
She is of the faery people.
The Child
I am Brig's daughter.
I sent my messengers for milk and fire,
And then I heard one call to me and came.
{They all except Shawn and Maire Bruin gather he-
hind the priest for protection.)
Shawn {rising)
Though you have made all these obedient.
You have not charmed my sight, and won from me
A wish or gift to make you powerful;
I '11 turn you from the house.
230 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE
Father Hart
Xo, I will face her.
The Child
Because you took away the crucifix
I am so mighty that there's none can pass
Unless I will it, where ray feet have danced
Or where I 've twirled my finger tops.
(Sha^-n tries to approach her and cannot.)
Maurteex
Look, look !
There something stoj)s liim — look how he moves his hands
As though he rubbetl them on a wall of glass.
Father ILutT
I will confront this mighty spirit alone.
{They cling to him and hold him back.)
The Child {while slie strews primroses)
No one whose heart is heax-y with human tears
Can cross these little cressets of the wood.
Father Hart
Be not afraid, the Father is with us.
And all the nine angelic hierarchies.
The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents,
The adoring Magi in their coats of mail.
And He who died and rose on the third day.
And Mary with her seven times wounded heart.
(Thk Child ceases streiring the primroses, and kneels
upon the settle beside Maiki: and puts her arms about
fier neck.)
Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints.
1
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESHIE 231
The Child
You shall go with me, newly married bride,
And gaze upon a merrier multitude;
White-armed Nuala, ^ngus of the birds,
Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him
Who is the ruler of the Western Host,
Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire,
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood.
But joy is wisdom. Time an endless song.
I kiss you and the world begins to fade.
Father Hart
Daughter, I call you unto home and love !
The Child
Stay, and come vnth me, newly married bride.
For, if you hear him, you grow like the rest :
Bear children, cook, be mindful of the churn.
And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs,
And sit at last there, old and bitter of tongue,
Watching the white stars war upon your hopes.
Shawn
Awake out of that trance, and cover up
Your eyes and ears.
Father Hart
She must both look and listen,
For only the soul's choice can save her now.
Daughter, I point you out the way to heaven.
The Child
But I can lead you, newly married bride,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise.
232 THE LAND OF IIE.^RT'S DESIRE
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
And where kind tongues bring no captivity;
For we are only true to the far lights
We follow singing, over valley and hill.
Father Hart
By the dear name of the one crucified,
I bid you, Maire Bruin, come to me.
The Child
I keep you in the name of your own heart !
{She leaves the settle, and stooping takes vp a mass of
primroses and kisses them.)
We have great power to-night, dear golden folk,
For he took down and hid the crucifix.
And my invisible brethren fill the house;
I hear their footsteps going up and down.
Oh, they shall soon rule all the hearts of men
And own all lands; last night they merrily danced
About his chapel belfry! {To Maire) Come away,
I hear my brethren bidding us away!
Father Hart
I will go fetch the crucifix again.
{Tliey hang about him in terror and prevent him J ram
moving.)
Bridgkt Bruin
The enchanted flowers will kill us if you go.
Maurteen Bruin
They turn the flowers to little twisted flames.
Shawn Bruin
The little twisted flames burn up the heart.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESHIE 233
The Child
I hear them crying, "Newly married bride,
Come to the woods and waters and pale lights."
Maibe Bruin
I will go with you.
Father Hart
She is lost, alas !
The Child {standing by the door)
But clinging mortal hope must fall from you:
For we who ride the winds, run on the waves
And dance upon the mountains, are more light
Than dewdrops on the banners of the dawn.
Maire Bruin
Oh, take me with you.
(Shawn Bruin goes over to her.)
Shawn Bruin
Beloved, do not leave me!
Remember when I met you by the well
And took your hand in mine and spoke of love.
Maire Bruin
Dear face ! Dear voice !
The Child
Come, newly married bride !
Maire Bruin
I always loved her world — and yet — and yet —
(Sinks into his arms.)
The Child (from the door)
White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird.
234 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE
Maire Bruin
She calls to me!
The Child
Come with me, little bird !
Maire Bruin
I can hear songs and dancing!
Shawn Bron
Stay with me!
Maire Bruin
I think that I would stay — and yet — and yet —
The Child
Come, little bird with crest of gold !
Maire Bruin {very softly)
And yet —
The Child
Come, little bird with silver feet !
(Maire dies, and the child goes.)
Shawn Bruin
She is dead!
Bridget Bruin
Come from that image: body and soul arc gone.
You have thrown your arms al)out a drift of leaves
Or bole of an ash tree changed into her image.
Father Hart
Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey
Almost out of the very hand of God;
And day by day their power is more and more.
And men and women leave old paths, for pride
Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 235
A Voice (singing outside)
The wind blows out of the gates of the day.
The wind blows over the lonely of heart.
And the lonely of heart is withered away
While the faeries dance in a place apart.
Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;
For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing
Of a land where even the old are fair.
And even the wise are merry of tongue;
But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,
" When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung.
The lonely of heart is withered away."
{The song is taken up hy many voices, who sing loudly,
as if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from
within the house.)
[ Curtain ]
THE RIDING TO LITHEXD'
GORDON BOTTOMLEY
CHARACTERS
GUNNAR HaMUNDSSON
Hallgerd Longcoat, his wife
Raxnveig, bis mother
Oddny, Astrid, and Steinvor, Hallgerd's housewomen
Ormild, a woman thrall
BiARTEY, JoFRiD, and GuDFiNN, beggar-women
GizuR THE White, Mord Valgardsson, Thorgrlm the
Easterling, Tiiorbrand TiiORLEiKsso>f and As-
BRAND his brother, Aunltnd, Tiiorgeir, and IIroald,
riders
Many other Riders and Voices of Riders
TIME: Iceland, a.d. 990
S('E\E: The hall o/Gunnar's hout>e at Lithcnd in South
Iceland. The portion shewn is set on the stage diagonally,
so that to the right otie end is seen, ichile from the rear
corner ufihis, one side runs down almost to the left front.
The side wall is low and wainscoted with carved panel-
ling on irhich hang vrapons, shields, and coats of mail.
In one place a panel slid aside shews a shut bed.
In front of the panelling are two long benefits with a
carved high-scat betiveen them. Across the etui of the hall
' This play is reprinted by |)ermis<5ion of nnd by nrriuigemcnt with Con-
stable and Company, Limited, London.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 237
are similar 'panellings and the seats, with corresponding
tables, of the women's dais; behind these and in the gable
wall is a high narrow door with a rounded top.
A timber roof slopes down to the side wall and is up-
held by cross-beams and two rows of tall pillars which
make a rather narrow nave of the centre of the hall. One
of these rows runs parallel to the side wall, the pair of
pillars before the high-seat being carved and ended unth
images; of the other row only two pillars are visible at the
extreme right.
Within this nave is the space for the hearths; but the
only hearth visible is the one near the women's dais. In
the roof above it there is a louvre: the fire glows and no
smoke rises. The hall is lit everywhere by the firelight.
The rafters over the women's dais carry a floor at the
level of the side walls, forming an open loft which is
reached by a wide ladder fixed against the wall: a bed is
seen in this loft. Low in the roof at intervals are shuttered
casements, one being above the loft: all the shutters are
closed. Near the fire a large shaggy hound is sleeping;
and Ormild, in the undyed woollen dress of a thrally is
combing wool
Oddny stands spinning at the side; near her Astrid
and Steinvor sit stitching a robe which hangs between
them.
Astrid
Night is a winter long: and evening falls.
Night, night and winter and the heavy snow
Burden our eyes, intrude upon our dreams,
And make of loneliness an earthly place.
Ormild
This bragging land of freedom that enthralls me
Is still the fastness of a secret king
238 THE RIDING TO LITHEXD
WTio treads the dark like snow, of old king Sleep.
He works with night, he has stolen death's tool frost
That makes the breaking wave forget to fall.
ASTRID
Best mind thy comb-pot and forget our king
Before the Longcoat helps at thy awaking. . . .
I like not this forsaken quiet house.
The housemen out at harvest in the Isles
Never return. Perhaps they went but now,
Yet I am sore with fearing and expecting
Becau.se they do not come. They will not come.
I like not this forsaken quiet house,
This late last harvest, and night creeping in.
Oddny
I like not dwelling in an outlaw's house.
Snow shall be heavier upon some eyes
Than you can tell of — ay, and unseen earth
Shall keep that snow from filling those poor eyes.
This void house is more void by brooding things
That do not happen, than by absent men.
Sometimes when I awaken in the night
My throbbing ears are mocking me with rumours
Of crackling beams, beams falling, and loud flames.
AsTRlD (pointing to the iirapons by the high-seat)
The bill that Gunnar won in a far sea-fight
Sings inwardly when battle impends; as a harp
Replies to the wind, thus answers it to fierceness,
So tense its nature is and the spell of its welding;
Then trust ye well that while the bill is silent
No danger thickens, for Gunnar dies not singly.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 239
Steinvor
But women are let forth free when men go burning?
Oddny
Fire is a hurrying thing, and fire by night
Can see its way better than men see theirs.
ASTRID
The land will not be nobler or more holpen
If Gunnar burns and we go forth unsinged.
Why will he break the atonement that was set?
That wise old Njal who has the second sight
Foretold his death if he should slay twice over
In the same kin, or break the atonement set :
Yet has he done these things and will not care.
Kolskegg, who kept his back in famous fights.
Sailed long ago and far away from us
Because that doom is on him for the slayings;
Yet Gunnar bides although that doom is on him
And he is outlawed by defiance of doom.
Steinvor
Gunnar has seen his death : he is spoken for.
He would not sail because, when he rode down
Unto the ship, his horse stumbled and threw him,
His face toward the Lithe and his own fields.
Olaf the Peacock bade him be with him
In his new mighty house so carven and bright.
And leave this house to Rannveig and his sons:
He said that would be well, yet never goes.
Is he not thinking death would ride with him?
Did not Njal offer to send his sons,
Skarphedin ugly and brave and Hauskuld with him.
240 THE RIDING TO LITHEND
To hold this house with Gunnar, who refused them,
Saying he would not lead young men to death?
I tell you Gunnar is done. . . , His fetch is out.
Oddny
Nay, he 's been topmost in so many fights
That he believes he shall fight on untouched.
Steinvor
He rides to motes and Things before his foes.
He has sent his sons harvesting in the Isles.
He takes deliberate heed of death — to meet it,
Like those whom Odin needs. He is fey, I tell you —
And if we are past the foolish ardour of girls
For heroisms and profitless loftiness
We shall get gone when bedtime clears the house.
'T is much to have to be a hero's wife.
And I shall wonder if Hallgerd cares about it :
Yet she may kindle to it ere my heart quickens.
I tell you, women, we have no duty here:
Let us get gone to-night while there is time.
And find new harbouring ere the laggard da\\Ti,
For death is making narrowing passages
About this hushed and terrifying house.
(RANm'EiG, an old v^impled woman , enters as if from a
door al the unseen end of the hall.)
ASTRID
He is so great and manly, our master Gunnar,
There are not many ready to meet his weapons:
And so there may not be much need of weapons.
He is so noble and clear, so swift and tender.
So much of Iceland's fame iu foreigii places.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 241
That too many love him, too many honour him
To let him die, lest the most gleaming glory
Of our grey country should be there put out.
Rannveig
Girl, girl, my son has many enemies
Who will not lose the joy of hurting him.
This little land is no more than a lair
That holds too many fiercenesses too straitly.
And no man will refuse the rapture of killing
When outlawry has made it cheap and righteous.
So long as anyone perceives he knows
A bare place for a weapon on my son
His hand shall twitch to fit a weapon in.
Indeed he shall lose nothing but his life
Because a woman is made so evil fair.
Wasteful and white and proud in harmful acts.
I lose two sons when Gunnar's eyes are still,
For then will Kolskegg never more turn home. . . .
If Gunnar would but sail, three years would pass;
Only three years of banishment said the doom —
So few, so few, for I can last ten years
With this unshrunken body and steady heart.
{To Ormild)
Have I sat down in comfort by the fire
And waited to be told the thing I knew?
Have any men come home to the young women.
Thinking old women do not need to hear.
That you can play at being a bower-maid
In a long gown although no beasts are foddered?
Up, lass, and get thy coats about thy knees.
For we must cleanse the byre and heap the midden
Before the master knows — or he will go.
And there is peril for him in every darkness.
17
242 THE RIDING TO LITHEND
Ormild (tucking up her skirts)
Then are we out of peril in the darkness?
We should do better to nail up the doors
Each night and all night long and sleep through it,
Giving the cattle meat and straw by day.
Oddny
Ay, and the hungry cattle should sing us to sleep.
(The others laugh. Ormild goes out to the left; Rann-
VEIQ is following her, but pauses at the sound of a
voice.)
Hallgerd (beyond the door of the women's dais)
Dead men have told me I was better than fair,
And for my face welcomed the danger of me:
Then am I spent?
(She enters angrily, looking backward through the door-
way.)
Must I shut fust my doors
And hide myself? Must I wear up the rags
Of mortal perished beauty and be old?
Or is there power left upon my mouth
Like colour, and lilting of ruin in my eyes?
Am I still rare enough to be your mate?
Then why must I shame at feasts and bear myself
In shy ungainly ways, made flushed and conscious
By squat numb gestures of my shapeless head —
Ay, and its wagging shadow — clouted up,
Twice tangled with a bundle of hot hair.
Like a thick cot-quean's in the settling time?
There are few women in the Quarter now
Who do not wear a shapely fine- webbed coif
Stitched by dark Irisii girls in Athcliath
With golden flies and i)carls and glinting things:
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 243
Even my daughter lets her big locks show,
Show and half show, from a hood gentle and close
That spans her little head like her husband's hand.
GuNNAK {entering by the same door)
I like you when you bear your head so high;
Lift but your heart as high, you could get crowned
And rule a kingdom of impossible things.
You would have moon and sun to shine together.
Snow-flakes to knit for apples on bare boughs.
Yea, love to thrive upon the terms of hate.
If I had fared abroad I should have found
In many countries many marvels for you —
Though not more comeliness in peopled Romeborg
And not more haughtiness in Mickligarth
Nor craftiness in all the isles of the world,
And only golden coifs in Athchath :
Yet you were ardent that I should not sail,
And when I could not sail you laughed out loud
And kissed me home. . . .
Hallgerd {who has been biting her nails)
And then . . . and doubtless . . .and strangely . . .
And not more thriftiness in BergthorsknoU
Where Njal saves old soft sackcloth for his wife.
Oh, I must sit with peasants and aged women.
And keep my head wrapped modestly and seemly.
{She turns to Rannveig.)
I must be hmnble — as one who lives on others.
{She snatches off her toimple, slipping her gold circlet as
she does so, and loosens her hair.)
Unless I may be hooded delicately
And use the adornment noble women use
I'll mock you with my flown young widowhood.
244 THE RIDING TO LITIIEXD
Letting my hair go loose past either cheek
In two bright clouds and drop beyond my bosom.
Turning the waving ends untlcr my girdle
As young glad widows do, and as I did
Ere ever you saw me — ay, and when you found me
And met me as a king meets a queen
In the undying light of a summer night
With burning robes and glances — stirring the heart with
scarlet.
(She tucks the long ends of her hair under her girdle.)
Rannveig
You have cast the head-ring of the nobly nurtured.
Being eager for a bold uncovered head.
You are conversant with a widow's fancies. . . .
Ay, you are ready with your widowhooil:
Two men have had you, chilled their bosoms with you,
And trusted that they held a precious thing —
Yet your mean passionate wastefulness i)ouro(l out
Their lives for joy of seeing something done w ith.
Cannot you wait this time? 'T will not be long.
Hallgerd
I am a hazardous desirable thing,
A warm unsounded peril, a iiashing mischief,
A divine malice, a disquieting voice:
Thus I was shaj^en, and it is my pride
To nourish all the fires that mingled me.
I am not long moved, I do not mar my face.
Though men have sunk in me as in a quicksand.
Well, death is terrible. Was I not wortii it?
Does not the light change on me as I breathe?
Could I not take the hearts of generations,
Walking among their dreams? Oh, I have might.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 245
Although it drives me too and is not my own deed . . .
And Gunnar is great, or he had died long since.
It is my joy that Gunnar stays with me:
Indeed the offence is theirs who hunted him.
His banishment is not just; his wrongs increase.
His honour and his following shall increase
If he is steadfast for his blamelessness.
Rannveig
Law is not justice, but the sacrifice
Of singular virtues to the dull world's ease of mind;
It measures men by the most vicious men;
It is a bargaining with vanities.
Lest too much right should make men hate each other
And hasten the last battle of all the nations.
Gunnar should have kept the atonement set.
For then those men would turn to other quarrels.
Gunnar
I know not why it is I must be fighting.
For ever fighting, when the slaying of men
Is a more weary and aimless thing to me
Than most men think it . . . and most women too.
There is a woman here who grieves she loves me.
And she too must be fighting me for ever
With her dim ravenous unsated mind. . . .
Ay, Hallgerd, there 's that in her which desires
Men to fight on for ever because she lives:
When she took form she did it like a hunger
To nibble earth's lip away until the sea
Poured down the darkness. Why then should I sail
Upon a voyage that can end but here?
She means that I shall fight until I die:
24G TlIE RIDING TO LITHEXD
'NMiy must she be put off by whittled years,
When none can die until his time has come?
{He turns to the hound by the fire.)
Samm, drowsy friend, dost scent a prey in dreams?
Shake off thy shag of sleep and get to thy watch :
'T is time to be our eyes till the next light.
Out, out to the yard, good Samm.
{He goes to the left, followed by the hound. In the mean-
time Hallgerd has seated herself in the high-seat near
the seuHng women, turning herself away and tugging at
a strand of her hair, the end of which she bites.)
Rannveig {intercepting him)
Nay, let me take him.
It is not safe — there may be men who hide. . . .
Hallgerd, look up; call Gunnar to you there:
(Hallgerd is motionless.)
Lad, she beckons. I say you shall not come.
GcjNN.VR {laughing)
Fierce woman, teach me to be brave in age.
And let us see if it is safe for you.
{Leads R.\N"NVEio out, his hand on her shoulder; the
hound goes irith them.)
Steixvor
Mistress, my heart is big with mutinies
For your proud sake: docs not your heart mount up?
He is an outlaw now and could not hold you
If you should choose to leave him. Is it not law?
Is it not law that you could loose this marriage —
Nay, that he loosed it shamefully years ago
By a hard blow that bruised your innocent cheek.
Dishonouring you to lesser women and chiefs?
See, it burns up again at the stroke of thought.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 247
Come, leave him, mistress; we will go with you.
There is no woman in the country now
Whose name can kindle men as yours can do —
Ay, many would pile for you the silks he grudges;
And if you did withdraw your potent presence
Eire would not spare this house so reverently.
Hallgerd
Am I a wandering flame that sears and passes?
We must bide here, good Steinvor, and be quiet.
Without a man a woman cannot rule,
Nor kiU without a knife; and where 's the man
That I shall put before this goodly Gunnar?
I will not be made less by a less man.
There is no man so great as my man Gunnar:
I have set men at him to show forth his might ;
I have planned thefts and breakings of his word
When my pent heart grew sore with fermentation
Of malice too long undone, yet could not stir him.
Oh, I will make a battle of the Thing,
Where men vow holy peace, to magnify him.
Is it not rare to sit and wait o' nights,
Knowing that murderousness may even now
Be coming down outside like second darkness
Because my man is greater?
Steinvor (shuddering)
Is it not rare.
Hallgerd
That blow upon the face
So long ago is best not spoken of.
I drave a thrall to steal and burn at Otkell's
WTio would not sell to us in famine time
But denied Gunnar as if he were suppliant:
248 TIIE RIDLNG TO LITIIEXD
Then at our feast when men rode from the Thing
I spread the stolen food and Gunnar knew.
lie smote me upon the face — indeed he smote me.
Oh, Gunnar smote me and had shame of me
And said he'd not partake with any thief;
Although I stole to injure his despiser. . . .
But if he had abandoned me as well
'T is I who should have been unmated now;
For many men would soon have judged me thief
And shut me from this land until I died —
And then I should have lost him. Yet he smote me —
ASTRID
He kept you his — yea, and maybe saved you
From a debasement that could madden or kill.
For women thieves ere now have felt a knife
Severing ear or nose. And yet the feud
You sowed with Otkcll's house shall murder Gunnar.
Otkell was slain: then Gunnar's enviers.
Who could not crush him under his own horse
At the big horse-fight, stirred up Otkell's son
To avenge his father; for should he be slain
Two in one stock would prove old Xjal's foretelling.
And Gunnar's place be emptied either way
For those high helpless men who cannot fill it.
O mistress, you have hurt us all in this:
You have cut o(T your strength, you have maimed youi
self.
You are losing power and worsliip and men's trust.
When Gunnar dies no other man dare take you.
Hallgerd
You gather poison in your mouth for me.
A liii,'li-l)orn woman may handle what she fancies
Without being car-pruned like a pilfering beggar.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 249
Look to your ears if you touch ought of mine :
Ay, you shall join the mumping sisterhood
And tramp and learn your difference from me.
{She turns from Astrid.)
Steinvor, I have remembered the great veil,
The woven cloud, the tissue of gold and garlands,
That Gunnar took from some outlandish ship
And thinks was made in Greekland or in Hind:
Fetch it from the ambry in the bower.
(Steinvor goes out by the dais door.)
Astrid
Mistress, indeed you are a cherished woman.
That veil is worth a lifetime's weight of coifs:
I have heard a queen offered her daughter for it,
But Gunnar said it should come home and wait —
And then gave it to you. The half of Iceland
Tells fabulous legends of a fabulous thing.
Yet never saw it: I know they never saw it.
For ere it reached the ambry I came on it
Tumbled in the loft with ragged kirtles.
Hallgerd
What, are you there again? Let Gunnar alone.
(Steinvor enters with the veil folded. Hallgerd takes
it with one hand and shakes it into a heap.)
This is the cloth. He brought it out at night.
In the first hour that we were left together.
And begged of me to wear it at high feasts
And more outshine all women of my time :
He shaped it to my head with my gold circlet,
Saying my hair smouldered like Rhine-fire through,
He let it fall about my neck, and fall
250 TIIE RIDING TO LITIIEXD
About my shoulders, mingle viiih my skirts,
And billow in the draught along the floor.
{She rises and holds the veil behind Jier head.)
I know I dazzled as if I entered in
And walked upon a windy sunset and drank it.
Yet must I stammer with such strange uncouthness
And tear it from me, tangling my arms in it.
Why should I so befool myself and seem
A laughable bundle in each woman's eyes.
Wearing such things as no one ever wore,
Useless ... no head-cloth . . . too unlike my fellows.
Yet he turns miser for a tiny coif.
It would cut into many golden coifs
And dim some women in their Irish clouts —
But no; I'll shape and stitch it into shifts.
Smirch it like linen, patch it with rags, to watch
His silent anger when he sees my answer.
Give me thy shears, girl Oddny.
Oddny
You'll not part it?
IIallgerd
I'll shorten it.
Oddny
I have no shears with me
IIallgerd
No matter; I can start it with my teeth
And tear it down the folds. So. So. So. So.
Here's a fine shift for summer: and another.
I'll find my shears and chop out waists and neck-holes.
Ay, Gunnar, Gunnar!
{She throxrs the tia.'^-ne on the ground, and goes out by
the dais door.)
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 251
Oddny {lifting one of the pieces)
O me! A wonder has vanished.
Steinvor
What is a wonder less? She has done finely,
Setting her worth above dead marvels and shows.
{The deep menacing baying of the hound is heard near
at hand. A woman's cry follows it.)
They come, they come! Let us flee by the bower!
{Starting up, she stumbles in the tissue and sinks upon
it. The others rise.)
You are leaving me — will you not wait for me —
Take, take me with you.
{Mingled cries of women are heard.)
GnNNAB {outside)
Samm, it is well : be still.
Women, be quiet; loose me; get from my feet,
Or I will have the hound to wipe me clear.
Steinvor {recovering herself)
Women are sent to spy.
{The sound of a door being opened is heard. Gunnar
enters from the left, followed by three beggar-women,
BiARTEY, JoFRiD, and GuDFrNN. They hobble and
limp, and are swaihedin shapeless, nameless rags which
trail about their feet: Biartey's left sleeve is torn com-
pletely away, leaving her arm bare and mud-smeared;
the others* skirts are torn, and Jofrid's gown at the
neck; Gudfinn wears a felt hood buttoned under her
chin; the others' faces are almost hid in falling tangles
of grey hair. Their faces are shriveled and weather-
beaten, and Biartey's mouth is distorted by two front
teeth thai project like tusks.)
2o2 THE RIDING TO LITHEXD
GUNNAR
Get in to the light.
Yea, has he mouthed ye? . . . \Miat men send ye here?
\Yho are ye? Wlience come ye? What do ye seek?
I think no mother ever suckled you :
You must have dragged your roots up in waste places
One foot at once, or heaved a shoulder up —
Blvrtey (interrupting him)
Out of the bosoms of cairns and standing stones.
I am Biartey: she is Jofrid: she is Gudfinn:
Wc are lone women known to no man now.
We are not sent: we come.
GuNNAR
Well, you come.
You appear by night, rising under my eyes
Like marshy breath or shadows on the wall;
Yet the hound scented you like any evil
That feels upon the night for a way out.
And do you, then, indeed wend alone?
Came you from the West or the sky-covering North,
Yet saw no thin steel moving in the dark?
BlARTKY
Not West, not North: we slept upon the East,
Arising in the East where no men dwell.
We have abided in the mountain places.
Chanted our w(h\s among tiie black rocks crouching.
(Gudfinn joins her in a sing-song ntlcrance.)
From the East, from the I-^ast we drove and the wiml
waved us.
Over the heaths, over the barren ashes.
We are old, our eyes are old. and the light hurts us.
We have skins on our eyes that part alone to the star-light.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 253
We stumble about the night, the rocks tremble
Beneath our trembling feet ; black sky thickens,
Breaks into clots, and lets the moon upon us.
(JoFRiD joiiis her voice to the voices of the other two.)
Far from the men who fear us, men who stone us.
Hiding, hiding, flying whene'er they slumber.
High on the crags we pause, over the moon-gulfs;
Black clouds fall and leave us up in the moon-depths
Where wind flaps our hair and cloaks like fin-webs,
Ay, and our sleeves that toss with our arms and the cadence
Of quavering crying among the threatening echoes.
Then we spread our cloaks and leap down the rock-stairs,
Sweeping the heaths with our skirts, greying the dew-
bloom.
Until we feel a pool on the wide dew stretches
Stilled by the moon or ruffling like breast-feathers.
And, with grey sleeves cheating the sleepy herons.
Squat among them, pillow us there and sleep.
But in the harder wastes we stand upright.
Like splintered rain-worn boulders set to the wind
In old confederacy, and rest and sleep.
(Hallgerd's women are huddled together and clasping
each other.)
Oddny
What can these women be who sleep like horses,
Standing up in the darkness? What will they do?
GUNNAR
Ye wail like ravens and have no human thoughts.
What do ye seek? What will ye here with us?
BiARTEY (as all three cower suddenly)
Succour upon this terrible journeying.
We have a message for a man in the West,
Sent by an old man sitting in the East.
254 THE RIDING TO LITIIEND
We are spent, our feet are moving wounds, our bodies
Dream of themselves and seem to trail behind us
Because we went unfed do\\-n in the mountains.
Feed us and shelter us beneath your roof,
And put us over the Markfleet, over the channels.
Vt'e are weak old women: we are beseeching you.
GuNTs-AR
You may bide here this night, but on the morrow
You shall go over, for tramping shameless women
Carry too many tales from stead to stoad —
And sometimes heavier gear than breath and lies.
These women will tell the mistress all I grant you;
Get to the fire until she shall return.
BlARTET
Thou art a merciful man and we shall thank thee.
(GuNNAR goes out again to the left. The old wonun ap-
proach the young ones gradually.)
Little ones, do not doubt us. Could we hurt you?
Because we are ugly must we be bewitched?
Steinvor
Nay, but bewitch us.
BlARTEY
Not in a litten house:
Not ere the hour when night turns on itself
And shakes the silence: not while ye wnke together.
Sweet voice, tell us, was that verily Gunnar?
Steinvor
Arrh — do not touch me, unclean flyer-by-night:
Have ye birds' feet to match such bat-webbed fingers?
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 255
BlARTEY
I am only a cowed curst woman who walks with death;
I will crouch here. Tell us, was it Gunnar?
Oddny
Yea, Gunnar surely. Is he not big enough
To fit the songs about him?
BlARTEY ,
He is a man.
Why will his manhood urge him to be dead?
We walk about the whole old land at night,
We enter many dales and many halls :
And everywhere is talk of Gunnar's greatness.
His slayings and his fate outside the law.
The last ship has not gone: why will he tarry?
Oddny
He chose a ship, but men who rode with him
Say that his horse threw him upon the shore.
His face toward the Lithe and his own fields;
As he arose he trembled at what he gazed on
(Although those men saw nothing pass or meet them)
And said . . . What said he, girls?
ASTRID
"Fair is the Lithe:
I never thought it was so far, so fair.
Its corn is white, its meadows green after mowing.
I will ride home again and never leave it."
Oddny
'T is an unlikely tale: he never said it.
No one could mind such things in such an hour.
256 THE RIDING TO LITHEXD
Plainly he saw his fetch come down the sands,
And knew he need not seek another country
And take that with him to walk upon the deck
In night and storm.
GUDFINN
He, he, he! Xo man speaks thus.
JOFRID
No man, no man: he must be doomed somewhere.
BlARTEY
Doomed and fey, my sisters. . , . We arc too old.
Yet I'd not marvel if we outlasted him.
Sisters, that is a fair fierce girl who spins. . . .
My fair fierce girl, you could fight — but can you ride.'
Would you not shout to be riding in a storm?
Ah — h, girls learnt riding well when I was a girl.
And foam rides on the breakers as I was taught. . . .
My fair fierce girl, tell me your noble name.
Oddny
My name is Oddny.
BlAKTEY
Oddny, when you are old
Would you not be proud to be no man's purse-string.
But wild and wantlering and friends with the earth?
Wander with us and learn to be old yet living.
We'd win fine food with you to beg for us.
Steinvciu
Despised, cast out, unclean, and loose men's night-bird.
Oddny
When I am old I shall be some man's friend.
And hold him when the darkness comes. . . .
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 257
BlARTEY
And mumble by the fire and blink. . . .
Good Oddny, let me spin for you awhile,
That Gunnar's house may profit by his guesting:
Come, trust me with your distafif. . . .
Oddny
Wrought on a distaff?
Steinvob
Are there spells
Only by the Norns,
And they'll not sit with human folk to-night.
Oddny
Then you may spin all night for what I care;
But let the yarn run clean from knots and snarls.
Or I shall have the blame when you are gone.
BiABTEY {taking the distaff)
Trust well the aged knowledge of my hands;
Thin and thin do I spin, and the thread draws finer.
{She sings as she spins.)
They go by three.
And the moon shivers;
The tired waves flee.
The hidden rivers
Also flee.
I take three strands;
There is one for her.
One for my hands.
And one to stir
For another's bands.
18
258 TIIE RIDING TO LITIIEXD
I twine them thinner,
The dead wool doubts;
The outer is inner.
The core slips out. . . .
(IIallgerd reenters by the dais door, holding a pair of
shears.)
Hallgerd
\Miat are these women, Oddny? ^^^ao let them in?
BiARTEY {icho spins through all that folloics)
Lady, the man of fame who is your man
Gave us his peace to-night, and that of his house.
We are blown beggars tramping about the land,
Denied a home for our evil and vagrant hearts;
We sought this shelter when the first dew soaked us.
And should have perished by the giant hound
But Gunnar fought it with his eyes and saved us.
That is a strange hound, with a man's mind in it.
Hallgerd (seating herself in the high-seat)
It is an Irish hound, from that strange soil
Where men by day walk with imearthly eyes
And cross the veils of the air. and are not men
Hut fierce abstractions eating their own hearts
Impatiently and seeing too much to be joj-ful.
If Gunnar welcomed ye, ye may remain.
Blvrtey
She is a fair free lady, is she not?
But that was to be looked for in a hi<:h one
Who counts among her fathers the bright Sigurd,
The bane of Fafnir the Worm, the end of the god-kings;
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 259
Among her mothers Brynhild, the lass of Odin,
The maddener of swords, the night-clouds' rider.
She has kept sweet that father's lore of bird-speech,
She wears that mother's power to cheat a god.
Sisters, she does well to be proud.
JOFRID and GUDFINN
Ay, well.
Hallgerd (shaping the tissue with her shears)
I need no witch to tell I am of rare seed,
Nor measure my pride nor praise it. Do I not know?
Old women, ye are welcomed : sit with us,
And while we stitch tell us what gossip runs —
But if strife might be warmed by spreading it.
BlARTEY
Lady, we are hungered; we were lost
All night among the mountains of the East;
Clouds of the cliffs come down my eyes again.
I pray you let some thrall bring us to food.
Hallgerd
Ye get nought here. The supper is long over;
The women shall not let ye know the food-house.
Or ye '11 be thieving in the night. Ye are idle.
Ye suck a man's house bare and seek another.
'T is bed-time; get to sleep — that stills much hunger.
Bl\rtey
Now it is easy to be seeing what spoils you.
You were not grasping or ought but over warm
When Sigmund, Gunnar's kinsman, guested here.
You followed him, you were too kind with him.
260 THE RIDING TO LITIIEND
You lavished Gunnar's treasure and gear on him
To draw him on, and did not call that thieving.
Ay, Sigmund took your feuds on him and died
As Gunnar shall. Men have much harm by you.
IIallgerd
Now have I gashed the golden cloth awry:
'T is ended — a ruin of clouts — the worth of the gift —
Bridal dish-clouts — nay, a bundle of flame
I'll burn it to a breath of its old queen's ashes:
Fire, O fire, drink up.
{She throws the shreds of the veil on the glowing embers:
they waft to ashes icith a brief high flare. She goes to
JOFRID.)
There 's one of you
That holds her head in a bird's sideways fashion:
I know that reach o' the chin. — What 's under thy hair.' —
{She fixes Jofrid with her knee, and lifts her hair.)
Pfui, 't is not hair, but sojjpcd and rotting moss —
A thief, a thief indeed. — And twice a thief.
She has no ears. Keep thy hooked fingers still
While thou art here, for if I miss a mouthful
Thou shalt miss all thy nose. Get up, get up;
I '11 lodge ye with the mares.
Jofrid {starting up)
Three men, three men,
Three men have wived you, and for all you gave them
Paid with three blows upon a cheek once kissed —
To every man a blow — and the last blow
All the land knows was won by thieving food. . . .
Yea, GiHinar is ended by the theft and the thief.
Is it not told that when you first grew tall.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 261
A false rare girl, Hrut your own kinsman said,
"I know not whence thief's eyes entered our blood."
You have more ears, yet are you not my sister?
Our evil vagrant heart is deeper in you.
Hallgerd {snatching the distaff from Biartey)
Out and be gone, be gone. Lie with the mountains.
Smother among the thunder; stale dew mould you.
Outstrip the hound, or he shall so embrace you. . . .
Biartey
Now is all done ... all done . . . and all your deed.
She broke the thread, and it shall not join again.
Spindle, spindle, the coiling weft shall dwindle;
Leap on the fire and burn, for all is done.
{She casts the spindle upon the fire, and stretches her
hands toward it.)
Hallgerd {attacking them with the distaff)
Into the night. . . . Dissolve. . . .
Biartey {as the three rush toward the door)
Sisters, away:
Leave the woman to her smouldering beauty.
Leave the fire that 's kinder than the woman,
Leave the roof-tree ere it falls. It falls.
(GuDFiNN joins her. Each time Hallgerd flags they
turn as they chant, and point at her.)
We shall cry no more in the high rock-places.
We are gone from the night, the winds and the clouds are
empty :
Soon the man in the West shall receive our message.
(Jofrid's voice joins the other voices.)
2G2 THE RIDING TO LITIIEXD
Men reject us, yet their house is unstable.
The slayers' hands are warm — the sound of their riding
Reached us down the ages, ever approaching,
Hallgerd {at the same time, her voice high over theirs)
Pack, ye rag-heaps — or I '11 unravel you.
The Three {continuously)
House that spurns us, woe shall come upon you :
Death shall hollow you. Now we curse the woman —
May all the woes smite her till she can feel thera.
Shall we not roost in her bower yet? Woe! Woe!
{The distaff breaks, and Hallgerd drives them out irith
her hands. Their voices continue for a moment outside,
dying away.)
Call to the owl-friends. . . . Woe! Woe! Woe!
ASTRID
Whence came these mounds of dread to haunt the night?
It doubles this disquiet to have them near us.
OODNY
They must be witches — and it was my distaff —
Will fire eat through me. . . .
Steinvor
Or the Norns themselves.
Hallgerd
Or bad old women used to govern by fear.
To bed, to bed — we arc all up too late.
Steinvor (as she turns iciih Astrio and Oddny to the dais)
If beds arc made for sleep we niij^ht sit lonj;.
{They go out by the dais door.)
THE RIDING TO LITHEND
GuNNAB (as he enters hastily from the left)
Where are those women? There's some secret in them:
I have heard such others crying down to them.
Hallgerd
They turned foul-mouthed, they beckoned evil toward us —
I drove them forth a breath ago.
GUNNAR
Forth? Whence?
Hallgerd
By the great door : they cried about the night.
(RaNNVEIG follows GuNNAR ITl.)
GuNNAR
Nay, but I entered there and passed them not.
Mother, where are the women?
Rannveig
I saw none come.
GuNNAR
They have not come, they have gone.
Rannveig
I crossed the yard.
Hearing a noise, but a big bird dropped past,
Beating my eyes; and then the yard was clear.
(The deep baying of the hound is heard again.)
GuNNAR
They must be spies: yonder is news of them.
The wise hound knew them, and knew them again.
{The haying is succeeded by one vnld howl.)
Nay, nay!
264 THE RIDING TO LITHEXD
Men treat thee sorely, Samm my fosterling:
Even by death thou warnest — but it is meant
That our two deaths will not be far apart.
RAN>rV'EIG
Think you that men are yonder?
GUNNAR
Men are yonder.
Rannveig
My son, my son, get on the rattling war-woof.
The old grey shift of Odin, the hide of steel.
Handle the snake with edges, the fang of the rings.
GuNNAR (going to the weapons by the high-seat)
There are not enough moments to get under
That heavy fleece : an iron hat must serve.
Hallgerd
O brave! O brave! — he'll dare them with no shield.
GuNNAR {lifting clown the great bill)
Let me but roach this haft, I shall get hold
Of steel enough to fence me all about.
{He shakes the bill above his head: a deep resonant hum-
ming follows.
The dais door is thrown open, and Opony, Astrid, and
Steinvor stream through in their night-clothes.)
Steinvou
The bill!
Oddny
The bill is singing!
Astrid
The bill sings!
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 265
GuNNAR (shaking the bill again)
Ay, brain-biter, waken. . . . Awake and whisper
Out of the throat of dread thy one brief burden.
Blind art thou, and thy kiss will do no choosing :
Worn art thou to a hair's grey edge, a nothing
That slips through all it finds, seeking more nothing.
There is a time, brain-biter, a time that comes
When there shall be much quietness for thee;
Men will be still about thee. I shall know.
It is not yet : the wind shall hiss at thee first.
Ahui! Leap up, brain-biter; sing again.
Sing! Sing thy verse of anger and feel my hands.
Rannveig
Stand thou, my Gunnar, in the porch to meet them,
And the great door shall keep thy back for thee.
Gunnar
I had a brother there. Brother, where are you. . . .
Hallgerd
Nay, nay. Get thou, my Gunnar, to the loft,
Stand at the casement, watch them how they come.
Arrows maybe could drop on them from there.
Rannveig
'T is good : the woman's cunning for once is faithful.
Gunnar (turning again to the weapons)
'T is good, for now I hear a foot that stumbles
Along the stable-roof against the hall.
My bow — where is my bow? Here with its arrows. , . .
Go in again, you women on the dais.
And listen at the casement of the bower
For men who cross the yard, and for their words.
266 THE RIDING TO LITIIEND
ASTRID
O Gunnar, we shall serve you.
(AsTRiD, Oddny, and Steenvor go out by the dais door.)
Rannveig
Ilallgcrd, come;
We must shut fast the door, bar the great door,
Or they'll be in on us and murder him.
Hallgerd
Not I: I 'd rather set the door wide open
And watch my Gunnar kindling at the peril,
Keeping them back — shaming men for ever
Who could not enter at a gaping door.
Rannveiq
Bar the great door, I say, or I will bar it —
Door of the house you rule. . . . Son, son, command it.
Gunnar {as he ascends to the loft)
O spendthrift fire, do you waft up again?
Hallgerd, what riot of ruinous chance will sate you? . . .
I^t the door stand, my mother: it is her way.
{lie looks out at the casement.)
Here's a red kirtlc on the lower roof.
{He thrusts with the bill through the casement.)
A Man's Voice {far off)
Is Gunnar within?
TiiORGRiM THE Easterling's Voice {near the casement)
Find that ont for yourselves:
I ;im only sure his bill is yet within.
(.1 noise of falling is heard.)
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 267
GUNNAR
The Easterling from Sandgil might be dying —
He has gone down the roof, yet no feet helped him.
(A shouting of many men is heard: Gunnar starts
back from the casement as several arrows fly in.)
Now there are black flies biting before a storm.
I see men gathering beneath the cart-shed :
Gizm- the WTiite and Geir the priest are there.
And a lean whispering shape that should be Mord.
I have a sting for some one —
(He looses an arrow: a distant cry follows.)
Valgard's voice. . . .
A shaft of theirs is lying on the roof;
I '11 send it back, for if it should take root
A hurt from their own spent and worthless weapon
Would put a scorn upon their tale for ever,
(He leans out for ike arrow.)
Rannveig
Do not, my son: rouse them not up again
When they are slackening in their attack.
Hallgerd
Shoot, shoot it out, and I '11 come up to mock them.
Gunnar {loosing the arrow)
Hoia ! Swerve down upon them, little hawk.
(.4 shout follows.)
Now they run all together round one man ;
Now they murmur . . .
A Voice
Close in, lift bows again:
He has no shafts, for this is one of ours.
{Arrows fly in at the casement.)
208 THE RIDING TO LITIIEND
GUNNAK
Wife, here is something in my arm at last:
The head is twisted — I must cut it clear.
(Steinvor iliroics open the dais door and rushes through
with a high shriek.)
Steinvor
Woman, let us out — help us out —
The burning comes —- thoy are calling out for fire.
{She shrieks again. Oddxy and Astrid, who have
come behind her, muffle her head in a kirtle and lift
her.)
Astrid (turni7ig as they bear her out)
Fire suffuses only her cloudy braiii:
The fiare she walks in is on the other side
Of her shot eyes. We heard a passionate voice,
A slirill unworaanish voice that must he Mord,
With "Lot us burn hira — i)urn him house and all."
And then a grave and trembling voice replied,
"Althouf^h my life hung on it, it shall not be."
Again the cunning fanatic voice went on
"I say the house must burn above his head."
And the unlifted voice, "Why wilt thou si)eak
Of what none wishes: it shall never be."
(Astrid and Oddny disappear with Steinvor.)
GUNNAR
To fight with honest men is worth much friendship:
I '11 strive with them again.
{He lifts his bow atul loosens arrows at intcrcals while
Hallgeuu and Rannvkk; speak.)
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 269
Hallgerd (in an undertone to Rannveig, looking out
meanwhile to the left)
Mother, come here —
Come here and hearken. Is there not a foot,
A stealthy step, a fumbhng on the latch
Of the great door? They come, they come, old mother:
Are you not blithe and thirsty, knowing they come
And cannot be held back? Watch and be secret,
To feel things pass that cannot be undone.
Rannveig
It is the latch. Cry out, cry out for Gunnar,
And bring him from the loft.
Hallgerd
Oh, never:
For then they'd swarm upon him from the roof.
Leave him up there and he can bay both armies.
While the whole dance goes merrily before us
And we can warm our hearts at such a flare.
Rannveig (turning both ways, while Hallgerd watches
her gleefully)
Gunnar, my son, my son! What shall I do?
(Ormild enters from the left, white and urith her hand
to her side, and walking as one sick.)
Hallgerd
Bah — here's a bleached assault. . . .
Rannveig
Oh, lonesome thing.
To be forgot and left in such a night.
What is there now — are terrors surging still?
270 THE RIDING TO LITEIEND
Ormild
I know not what has gone: when the men came
I hid in the far cowhouse. I think I swooned. . . .
And then I followed the shadow. \Yho is dead?
Rannveig
Go to the bower: the women will care for you.
(Ormild totters vp the hall from pillar to pillar.)
T
AsTRiD {entering by the dais door) \
Now they have found the weather-ropes and lashed them
Over the carven ends of the beams outside:
They bear on them, they tighten them with levers,
And soon they'll tear the high roof off the hall.
GUNNAR
Get back and bolt the women into the bower,
(AsTRiD talccs OuMiLD, who has just reached her, and
goes out xcith her by the dais door, ichich closes after
them.)
Hallgerd, go in: I shall be here thereafter.
Hallgerd
I will not stir. Your mother had best go in.
Rannveig
How shall I stir?
Voices (outside and gathering volume)
Ai . . . Ai . . . Roach harder . . . Ai . . .
GUNNAR
Stand clear, stand clear — it moves.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 271
The Voices
It moves . . . Ai, ai . . .
(The wlwle roof slides down rumhlingly, disappearing
vyith a crash behind the wall of the house. All is dark
above. Fine snow sifts down now and then to the end
of the play.)
GuNNAR (handling his bow)
The wind has changed : ' t is coming on to snow.
The harvesters will hmry in to-morrow.
(Thorbrand Thorleiksson appears above the wall-
top a little past Gunnar, and, reaching noiselessly
with a sword, cuts Gunnar's bowstring.)
Gunnar (dropping the bow and seizing his bill)
Ay, Thorbrand, is it thou? That's a rare blade,
Toshearthroughhempandgut. . . . Let your wife have it
For snipping needle-yarn; or try it again.
Thorbrand (raising his sword)
I must be getting back ere the snow thickens:
So here 's my message to the end — or farther.
Gunnar, this night it is time to start your journey
And get you out of Iceland. . . .
Gunnar (thrusting at Thorbrand vrith the bill)
I think it is:
So you shall go before me in the dark.
Wait for me when you find a quiet shelter.
(Thorbrand sinks backward from the wall and is
heard to fall farther. Immediately Asbrand Thor-
leiksson starts up in his place.)
Asbrand (striking repeatedly with a sword)
Oh, down, down, down!
272 THE RIDING TO LITHEND
GuNNAR (parrying the blows with the bill)
Ay, Asbrand, thou as well?
Thy brother Thorbrand was up here but now:
He has gone back the other way, maylje —
Be hasty, or you'll not come up with him.
(He thrusts with the bill: Asbrand lifts a shield before
the bloic.)
Here's the first shield that I have seen to-night.
(The bill pierces the shield: Asbrand disappears and
is heard to fall. Gunnar turns from the casement.)
Hallgerd, my harp that had but one long string,
But one low song, but one brief wingy flight.
Is voiceless, for my bowstring is cut off.
Sever two locks of hair for my sake now.
Spoil those bright coils of power, give me your hair,
And with my mother twist those locks together
Into a bowstring for me. Fierce small head.
Thy stinging tresses shall scourge men forth by me.
Hallgerd
Does ought lie on it?
Gunn.vr
Nought but my life lies on it;
For they will never dare to close on me
If I can keep my bow bended and singing.
Hallgerd (tos.s^ing hack her hair)
Then now I call to your mind that bygone blow
You gave my face; and never a whit do I care
If you hold out a long time or a short.
GuNNAR
Every num who has trod a war-ship's deck.
And borne a weapon of pride, has a i)roud heart
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 273
And asks not twice for any little thing.
Hallgerd, I '11 ask no more from you, no more.
Rannveig (tearing off her mmple)
She will not mar her honour of widowhood.
Oh, widows' manes are priceless. . . . Off, mean wimple —
I am a finished widow, why do you hide me?
Son, son who knew my bosom before hers,
Look down and curse for an unreverend thing
An old bald woman who is no use at last.
These bleachy-threads, these tufts of death's first combing,
And loosening heart-strings twisted up together
Would not make half a bowstring. Son, forgive me. . . .
GUNNAR
A grasping woman's gold upon her head
Is made for hoarding, like all other gold :
A spendthrift woman's gold upon her head
Is made for spending on herself. Let be —
She goes her heart's way, and I go to earth,
(Autstund's head rises above the wall near Gunnar.)
What, are you there?
AUNUND
Yea, Gunnar, we are here.
Gunnar (thrusting with the hill)
Then bide you there.
(Aunund's head sinks; Thorgeir's rises in the same
'place.)
How many heads have you?
Thorgeir
But half as many as the feet we grow on.
19
274 THE RIDING TO LITHEND
GUNNAR
And I've not yet used up {thrusting again) all my hands.
(As he thrusts another man rises a little farther back,
and leaps past him into the loft. Others follow, and
GuNNAR is soon surrounded by viany armed men, so
that only the ri^-ing and falling of his bill is seen.)
The threshjng-floor is full. . . . Up, up, brain-biter!
We work too late to-night — up, open the husks.
Oh, smite and pulse
On their anvil heads:
The smithy is full,
There are shoes to be made
For the hoofs of tiie steeds
Of the Valkyr girls. . . .
First Man
Hack through the shaft. . . .
Second Man
Receive the blade
In the breast of a shield,
And wrench it round. . . .
Gl'NNAR
For the hoofs of the steeds
Of the Valkyr girls
Who race up the night
To be first at our feast.
First in the play
With immortal spears
In deadly holes. . . .
Third Man
Try at his back. . . .
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 275
IVIany Voices {shouting in confusion)
Have him down. . . . Heels on the bill. . . . Ahui,
ahui . . .
{The bill does not rise.)
Hroald {toith the breaking voice of a young man,
{high over all)
Father ... It is my blow. ... It is I who kill him.
{The crowd parts, suddenly silent, showing Gunnar
fallen. Rannveig covers her face with her hands.)
Hallgerd (Jaughing as she leans forward and holds her
breasts in her hands)
O clear sweet laughter of my heart, flow out !
It is so mighty and beautiful and blithe
To watch a man dying — to hover and watch.
Rannveig
Cease: are you not immortal in shame already?
Hallgerd
Heroes, what deeds ye compass, what great deeds —
One man has held ye from an open door:
Heroes, heroes, are ye undefeated?
GizuR {an old white-bearded man, to the other riders)
We have laid low to earth a mighty chief:
We have laboured harder than on greater deeds,
And maybe won remembrance by the deeds
Of Gunnar when no deed of ours should live;
For this defence of his shall outlast kingdoms
And gather him fame till there are no more men.
276 THE RIDING TO LITHEXD
MORD
Come do\NTi and splinter those old birds his gods
That perch upon the carven high-seat piJlars,
Wreck every place his shadow fell upon,
Rive out his gear, drive off his forfeit beasts.
Second ^L^.n
It shall not be.
Many Men
Never.
GiZUB
We'll never do it:
Let.no man lift a blade or finger a clout —
Is not this Gunnar, Gunnar, whom we have slain?
Home, home, before the dawn shows all our deed,
{The riders go down quickly over the wall-top, and dis-
appear.)
Hallgerd
Now I shall close his nostrils and his eyes.
And thereby take his blood-feud into my hands.
R.VNNVKIG
If you do stir I'll choke you with your hair.
I will not let your murderous mind be near him
When he no more can choose and docs not know.
Hallgerd
His wife I was, and yet he never juilgod me:
lie did not set your motherhood between us.
Let me alone — I stand here for my sons.
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 277
Rannveig
The wolf, tlie carrion bird, and the fair woman
Hurry upon a corpse, as if they think
That all is left for them the grey gods need not.
(She twines her hands in Hallgerd's hair and draws
her down to the floor.)
Oh, I will comb your hair with bones and thumbs.
Array these locks in my right widow's way,
And deck you like the bed-mate of the dead.
Lie down upon the earth as Gunnar lies,
Or I can never match him in your looks
And whiten you and make your heart as cold.
Hallgerd
Mother, what will you do? Unloose me now —
Your eyes would not look so at me alone.
Raknveig
Be still, my daughter. . . .
Hallgerd
And then?
Rannveig
Ah, do not fear —
I see a peril nigh and all its blitheness.
Order your limbs — stretch out your length of beauty.
Let down your hands and close those deepening eyes.
Or you can never stiflfen as you should.
A murdered man should have a murdered wife
^Vhen all his fate is treasured in her mouth.
This wifely hairpin will be sharp enough.
278 THE RIDING TO LITIIEXD
Hallgerd {starting up as Ranxveig half loosens her to take
a hairpin from her oim head)
She is mad, mad. . . . Oh, tlie bower is barred —
Hallgerd, come out, let mountains cover you.
{She rushes out to the left.)
Rannveig {folloinng her)
The night take you indeed. . . .
GizuR {as he enters from the left)
Ay, drive her out;
For no man's house was ever better by her.
Rannveig
Is an old woman's life desired as well?
GiZUR
We ask that you will grant us earth hereby
Of Gunnar's earth, for two men dead to-night
To lie beneath a cairn that wo shall raise.
Rannveig
Only for two? Take it: ask more of me.
I wish the measure were for all of you.
GiZUR
Your words must be forgiven you, old mother,
For none has had a greater loss than yours.
Why would he st-t himself against us all. . . .
{He goes oiU.)
Rannveig
Gunnar, my son, we are alone again.
{She goes up the hall, mounts to the loft, and stoops beside
him.)
THE RIDING TO LITHEND 279
Oh, they have hurt you — but that is forgot.
Boy, it is bedtime; though I am too changed,
And cannot Hft you up and lay you in,
You shall go warm to bed — I '11 put you there.
There is no comfort in my breast to-night.
But close your eyes beneath my fingers' touch.
Slip your feet down, and let me smooth your hands:
Then sleep and sleep. Ay, all the world's asleep.
{She rises.)
You had a rare toy when you were awake —
I '11 wipe it with my hair. . . . Nay, keep it so.
The colour on it now has gladdened you.
It shall lie near you.
{She raises the hill: the deep hum follows.)
No; it remembers him.
And other men shall fall by it through Gunnar:
The bill, the bill is singing. . . . The bill sings!
{She kisses the weapon, then shakes it on high.)
[ Curtain ]
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
IN READING THE PLAYS
1. The Forces in the Play.
What is the "passion" — that is, what exactly do these
people desu-e who "want their ain way"? What forces
favor these desires, and what oppose them — for instance,
David Pirnie's determination to tell wee Alexander a bit
story, in The Philosopher of Butierbiggens ? Can you always
put any one character altogether on one side? Or does
his own weakness or carelessness or stupidity, for ex-
ample, sometimes work against his getting what he wants,
so that he is, in part, not on his own side, but against it,
as Brutus is in Julius Coesar ? Are there other forces in
the play besides the people — storm or accident or fate?
With what side or what character are you in sympathy?
Is this constant throughout the play, or do you feel a
change at some point in it? Does the author sympathize
with any special character? Does he have a prejudice
against any one of them? For example, in Cam-pbell of
Kilmhor, where is your sympathy? Where is the author's,
apparently?
2. The Beginning and the End.
What events important to this play occurred before the
curtain rises? Why does the author begin just here, and not
earlier or later? How does he contrive to let you know these
important things without coming before the curtain to an-
nounce them himself, or having two servants dusting the
furniture and telling them to each other?
282 QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
What happens after the curtain falls? Can you go on
picturing these events? Are any of them important to the
story — for instance, in The Beggar and the King ? ^^^ly did
the author stop before telling us these things?
Does the ending satisfy you? Even if you do not find it
happy and enjoyable, dot\s it seem the natural and i)erhaps
the inevitable result of the forces at work — in Riders to the
Sea and Campbell of Kilmhor, for instance? Or has the
author interfered to make characters do what they would
not naturally do, or used chance and coincidence, like the
accidentally discovered will or the long-lost relative in
melodramas, to bring about a result he prefers — a "happy
ending," or a clap-trap surprise, or a supposed proof of some
theory about politics or morals?
Does the interest mount steadily from beginning to end,
or docs it droop and fail somewhere? You may find it in-
teresting to try drawing the diagram of interest for a play,
as suggested in chapter x of Dr. Brandcr Matthews's
Study of the Drama, and accounting for the drop in interest,
if you find any.
3. The Playicright's Purpose.
What was the author trying to do in writing the play?
It may have been : —
Merely to tell a gooil story
To ])aint a ])icture of life in the Arran Islands or in old
France or in a modern imlustrial town
To show us character and its development, as in novels
like Thackeray's and Eliot's (Of course, brief jilays
like these cannot show development of character,
but only critical jioints in such development — the
result of forces perhajis long at work, or the awaken-
ing of new ideas and other determinants of character.)
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION 283
To portray a social situation, such as the relation be-
tween workmen and employers, or between men and
women
To show the inevitable effects of action and motive, as of
the determined loyalty of Dugald Stewart and his
mother, or the battle of fisher-folk or weavers with
grinding poverty
Of course, no play will probably do any one of these
things exclusively, but usually each is concerned most with
some one purpose
What effect has the play on you? Even if its tragedy is
painful or its account of human character makes you
uncomfortable, is it good for you to realize these things, or
merely uselessly unpleasant? Is the play stupidly and
falsely cheering because it presents untrue "happy end-
ings" or other distortions of things as they are? Do you
think the play has merely temporary, or genuine and
permanent, appeal?
NOTES OX THE DRAMAS AND
THE dra:\iatists
PAGE
Harold Ckapin: The Philosopher of Bctterbiggens . 1
Harold Chapin, as we learn from Soldier and Dramatist (Lane,
1917), was an Ainoricun hoth by ancestry and nativity. But lie
lived the greater part of his life in England, and died for Englami
at Loos in Ajjril, 1915. His activity was always associated with
the stage. When he was but seven years old he played tlie little
Mareius to his mother's Volunmia at the Shakespeare Festival, at
Stratford-on-Avon in 1893. In 1911 he produced Mr. Harold
Brighouse's lyonesomc-Likc and several of his own short plays at
the Gliusgow Repertory Theatre. For several years before the war
he was Mr. Granville Barker's stage manager, and hel|K'd him to
|)roduce the beautiful Shakespearean plays at the Savoy Theatre
in London.
Of Chapin's own dramas, The New Morality and Art and Oppor-
tunity have been given recently in New York and in Lomlon,
and several of the one-act plays at a memorial ix-rformance in
London in 19I(i, in matinee at the Punch and Juily Theatre, and
before the Drama I/C>ague in New York in March and April, 19-21.
Of the shorter plays, mentioned in the bibliographies following
tliese notes, It '.-? the Poor thai 'rips the Poor, The Dumb and the
lilind, and The Philosopher of liuttcrhiijtjens have bwn given the
highest praise by such critics as Mr. William Archer, who wrote,
"NoKnglish-siHjaking man of more imciuestionable genius has
been lost to the world in this world-frenzy." These true and
lionest dramas represent the English Repertory tlieatres at
their lest in this brief form, and give promise of the great and
permanently iiilcrc-ting "iiuman comedy" which Chapin might
have completed had his life not been sacrificed. In spite of the
simplicity and lightness of the little play here given, tliere is
more shrewd i)hili)sophy in old David Pirnie, and more real hu-
manity in his family, than is to be found portrayed in many pre-
NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS 285
tentious social dramas and diflScult psychological novels. It is
admirable on the stage, as was shown by the Provincetown Play-
ers last winter. In the memorial performance for Harold Chapin
in London, the author's little son appeared in the part of wee
Alexander,
"Butterbiggens," Mrs. Alice Chapin, the dramatist's mother, replied
to an inquiry as to "what Butterbiggens is or are," "is, are, and always
will be a suburb of Glasgow."
There is little difficulty with the modified Scots dialect in this play if
one remembers that ae generally takes the place of such sounds as e in tea,
in so, a in have, and so on, and that a' means all. A tvean is a small bairn,
yinst is once, ava is at all, and thrang is "thick" or intimate.
Distempered means calcimined, or painted in water-dissolved color on
the plaster.
Lady Gregory: Spreading the News 14
In her notes on the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, which she was
most influential in building up, Lady Augusta Gregory says that
it was the desire of the players and writers who worked there to
establish an Irish drama which should have a "firm base in real-
ity and an apex of beauty." This phrase, which admirably ex-
presses the best in the play-making going on to-day, finds most
adequate illustration in the work of Synge, of Yeats, and of Lady
Gregory herself. The basis in reality of such jolly and robust
comedies as her Seven Irish Plays and New Irish Comedies is
clearly discernible. They are in the tnidition of the best early
English comedy, from the miracle plays onward; of Hans Sachs's
Shrovetide Plays, and of Moliere's dramatizations of mediaeval
fabliaux, as in The Physician in Spite of Himself. Lady Gregory de-
scribes in her notes on Spreading the News how the play grew out of
an idea of picturing tragic consequences from idle rumor and defa-
mation of character. It is certainly not to be regretted that she
allowed "laughter to have its way with the little play," and gave
Bartley Fallon a share of glory from the woeful day to illuminate
dull, older years.
The inhabitants of this same village of Cloon appear as old
friends in other of Lady Gregory's plays, with, as usual, nothing
to do but mind one another's business. In The Jackdaw another
absurd rumor is fanned into full blaze by greed; upon Hyacinth
Halvey works the potent and embarrassing influence of too good
a reputation. Still other plays attain a notable height of beauty
286 NOTES ON DILUL\S AND DKUUTISTS
— notably The Rising of the Moon and The Traveling Man. The
Gaol Gate tells a story similar to that of Campbell of Kilmhor,
with genuinely tragic effect. She has written, besides, two vol-
umes of Irish folk-history, Gods and Fighting Men and Cuchidain
of Muirihcmne, which Mr. Yeats calls masterpieces of prose
which one "can weigh with Malory and feel no discontent at the
tallj'."^ A writer who has pro<luced such range and beauty of
works, from very human, characteristic cometly and farce to fine,
poignant tragedy, besides writing excellent stories and contribu-
ting largely to an imporUmt experimental theatre, is secure of her
share of fame.
The "Removable Magistrate" is apparently one appointed by British
ofBcialdoni; this one, having just come from the Ray of Bengal, is going to
fit upon the natives of Cloon methods which may have worked in a rather
different district.
The song "with a skin on it," which Barlley sings, is given in Lady
Gregory's Seven Short Playg (Putnam, 1909).
Winthrop Parkhurst: The Begg.vr .vnd the King 34
The Beggar and the King looks at first like a pleasant absurdity;
it is in reality valuable ns a sliDrt history of the ostrich method of
dealing with realities. The beggar, of course, continues to cry aloud
after his tongue, and even his heail, have been removed, because
there are so many millions of him. Again and again, in the course
of history, he has gathered <lesj)erate courage to defy authority
that is blind and evil. Always at la^st, as in the French and the
Russian revolutions and in the more nx-entEuroi>ean revolts, he
succeeds in wresting the power from those in autocratic author-
ity. And yet, just as of ol<l, not only kings, but all others who at-
tempt dictatorship and the playing of providence, try the simple
tactics of the ostrich; they close the window, or their eyes and
ears, as a suflieient answer to rebellion. Appreciating the futility
of these nietho<ls, we have no difficulty in continuing tlie drama
ourselves beyond the fall of the curUiin.
Mr. Winthrop rarkluirst, by birth a New Yorker, according to
a family tradition is a descx'ndant on his mother's side of John
Huss, the Bohemian n^former and martyr, and t)n his father's of
tlu' executioner of Charles I of England. His writings include
Maracca, a I3il>lieal one-act play, and several short satircial
sketches.
' .\l)pondix to The Poetical Works of ll'Uliam D. Yeats, volume ii,
(Mucmillun. 1012).
NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS 287
George Middleton : Tides 45
Mr. George Middleton generally pictures in his dramas prob-
lems which are not easy to solve. And he does not try to give
ready-made solutions. He merely shows us how various people
have tried to work these problems; and his dramas are like real
life because tlie attempts at solutions fail as often as they suc-
ceed. Certain of the problems Mr. Middleton presents are such as
high-school students meet and can well consider; several of these
plays appear in the lists following. Tides is about a man who has
supported an unpopular theory. Nothing is said about whether
his ideal is right or wrong, but it is clear that he has held to it in
perfect sincerity of belief and has been quite unmoved by the
bitterest persecution. But when he is offered honor and flattering
respect, though he does not really change his belief and adherence,
he compromises and partially surrenders his ideal. The fable is
similar to that of Ibsen's The League of Youth, but the telling here
is straighter and clearer. William White's self-dece()tion is made
evident to him and to us by his honest and courageous wife, who
tells him frankly of it. "Have n't you sometimes noticed that is
what bitterness to another means: a failure within oneself?" she
comments wisely. An effective contrast is furnished by the son,
who has altogether and honestly abandoned his father's theories
in the face of new realities as he sees them.
Eugene O'Neill: Ile 64
Eugene O'Neill, American seaman, laborer, newspaperman,
and dramatist, has been associated for several years with the
Provincetown Players. This group, including Mrs. Glaspell
and other playwrights of importance, gather in Provincetown,
on Cape Cod, during the summer, and in winter present signifi-
cant foreign and native plays in a converted stable on Mac-
dougall Street in New York, where may be seen the ring to
which Pegasus was once tethered! In 1919 Mr. O'Neill received
the Pulitzer Prize for the most important American play of the
year.
Mr. O'Neill has had experience of the sea, like the great Eng-
lishmen, Mr. Masefield and Mr. Joseph Conrad. He knows the
interminable whaling voyages, as described in Melville's Moby
Dick and the first chapter of Typee — best of all in Bullen's Cruise
oj the Cachalot. Out of this experience of hard life and harder men
288 NOTES ON DRA^LVS .VND DRA^L\TISTS
he has written many poignant and terrible dramas — perhaps the';
greatest this story of the skipper's wife who insisted on making the
voyage with her husl)and and is worn to the edge of insanity by
montlis of ice-bound sohtufle. The motive of Ca{)tuin Keeney is
like that which caused Skipper Ireson to leave his fellow towns-
men to sink in Chaleur Bay. Against his iron determination his
wife's piteous pleading and evident suffering are more potent than
the mutinying hands; whether she can avail to turn him home
" with a measly four hundred barrel of ile" is the problem of the
play.
J. A. Ferguson: Campbell, of Kilmhor .... 84
This tragic story of the war ami hatred in Scotland belongs in
the scries of attt'iiii)ts made by Charles Edward Stuart and his
father to regain the throne lust by James II in 1088. "The Young
Pretender's" vigorous campaign in 1745, carried far into England,
might easily have succeeded but for the quarrels and disaffection
of the Highland chiefs wlio supported him. His failure wjis com-
pleted at the bloody battle of CulKxlen, or Drumossie Moor, in
1746, celebrated in Scottish story and song of lamentiition.
Scott's hero Waverley went into the highland country slu)rtly after
these uprisings, and David Balfour, in Kidnajypcd, \\iid numerous
adventures in crossing it with Allan Breck Stewart, who was in
the service of his kinsmen, the exiled Stuarts. The hatred of Camp-
liells and Stuarts, of Lowlander and Highlander, Loyalist and
Jacobite, is intense throughout the record of those days.
The young Scot and liis stanch and proudly tearless mother are,
of course, the heroic characters in the play. We have a hint that
("liarles Edward Stuart himself is with the band whom the yoimg
man protects so loyally. It may seem strange that the ilrama is
named, not for him, l)iit for the crafty and pitiless executioner of
the king's justice. But he is after all the most interesting charac-
ter in the piece, with his Bililital references in broad Lowland
Scots (we nuiy suppose that the Stewarts speak Gaelic among
themselves), his superstition, his remorseless cruelty. We should
like to sec how he takes the discovery that, perhaps for the first
time, he has been baflled in his career of unscrupulous and bloody
deeds!
This play represents the most successful work of the Chusgow
Ilcpertory Theatre in 11)11. The author has written uo others
NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS 289
which have been published, though he is credited with a good
story or two. It may be hoped that he will write other dramas as
excellent as this one. He has put into very brief and eflFective form
here the spirit and idea of a most intense period of merciless
conflict.
A kebbuck is a cheese; keek means peek; loom, empty; a besom, a broom;
and soop, sweep.
John Galsworthy: The Sun 100
According to Professor Lewisohn and other critics Mr. Gals-
worthy is without question the foremost English dramatist to-day.
Without arguing or attempting to offer solutions, he gives the
most searching presentation of problems which we have to face
and somehow settle. In Strife, after a furious contest and bitter
hardships, the strike is settled by a compromise which the leaders
of both sides count as failure. Things are much as they were at
the start; the difficulty is no nearer solution. In Justice, "society
stamps out a human life not without its fair possibilities — for
eighty-one pounds," because obviously clear and guilty infrac-
tion of law cannot go unavenged. Justice is not condemned by the
facts showTi in this play, nor is its working extolled. In The Mob,
the patrioteering element destroys a man who proclaims the in-
justice of a small and greedy war of conquest. In The Pigeon,
brilliant debate is held, but no conclusion reached, as to what we
should do with derelict and wasted lives, with men who do not fit
into the scheme of success and society.
In his sketches and stories Mr. Galsworthy presents these same
problems, and again without attempted conclusions. The Free-
lands particularly is a most dramatic novel of conditions and
results similar to those in some of the dramas mentioned above.
Many of his sketches and essays also — for example, "My Dis-
tant Relative" in The Inn of Tranquillity and "Comfort" in
A Commentary — are of biting and almost cynical irony in view-
ing proposed and present solutions of problems; but none suggest
panaceas. They merely make us think soberly of the size of our
problems and their immense complexity, move us to go out to look
for more information and to examine carefully our most solid in-
stitutions as well as suggested alterations in them.
A large part of Mr. Galsworthy's time and thought, both during
the war and since, has been given to the problem of some measure
20
290 NOTES OX DRAMAS AND DRA^L\TISTS
of justice to soldiers, and particularly to wounded and broken
soldiers. In A Sheaf and Another Sheaf appear various papers
presenting sharply the conditions of suffering and neglect that
actually cxiat. The Sun is a brief sketch of after-war days, — this
time of a wounded man who has gained an advantage over one
who escaped injury, — ami of joy in deliverance from the hell of
war — a joy so profound and luminous that the released soldier
cannot let a sharp mischance and disappointment mar his happi-
ness. The whole piece is in the key of Captain Sassoon's verses
after the Armistice : —
"Every one suddenly burst out singing."
The other two think the happy soMier mad. We are left wonder-
ing what the reaetion will be from this height of joyful release to
the harsh and sombre conditions of workingmen's life after the
peace.
The ailcer badge represents a discharge for wounds. Crumps are, of
course, shells.
Louise Saunders: The Knave of Hearts .... 107
The Knave of Hearts is one of the happy tradition of puppet-
plays, which come down in unbroken line from the most ancient
history, through the illustrious Dr. Faustus and Mr. Punch, to
new and even greater favor and fame to-«lay. For just as the
ancient puppct-.shows of Italy and England seemed to be losing
ground before the moving-pieture invasion, they have l>een heroic-
ally rescued by Mr. T»)ny Surg, — whose performance of Thack-
eray's The Rose and the Ring is perfectly absurd and captivating,
— and by other excellent arti.sts.
Puppet-.shows are delightful because they are easily maile and
quite convincing. Very good ones have been improviseil even by
liny children, with a pasteboard suit-l)<)X opening to the front, a
slit at the top to let down paper-<loll aetors on a thread, a bit of
scenery, outdoors or in, drawn as background, and a showman to
tiilk for all the characters. Still better pup{K«t3 are «loll heads and
arms of various .sort.s, dressed in (lowing robes and provi.led with
holes for two fingers an<l a thumb of the operator, who moves
them from below. They can l>c made to danee and antic as you
like on a stage above the showman's head, as Punch and Juily
have alwavs done. The more elaborate marionettes arc worked
NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS 291
with strings from above, so that they can open and close their
mouths and otherwise act most reahstically; these are, of course,
more difficult, but quite possible to make. In such simple theatres,
Goethe and Robert Louis Stevenson and many other famous
people played themselves endless stories. If you want to pursue
this idea further, a list of references below (p. 323) gives you
opportunity for all the information you like about marionettes
and puppets.
The Knave of Hearts is charming, either as a puppet-play or, as a
class in junior high school gave it recently, a "legitimate drama."
The remarks of the manager are all the funnier when applied to
real characters. The play explains clearly the reasons for the
strange behavior of a respectable nursery character. It is to be
published soon in a book of its own with illustrations by Mr. Max-
field Parrish (Scribner's). The author has written other plays and
stories, some of which you may have seen in St. Nichohis, and also
a pleasant operetta, with music by Alice Terhune — The Wood-
land Princess, listed in the bibliography following. She is also an
actress with the New York Comedy Club, an excellent amateur
organization.
Pompdebile's coat of arms, with a heart rampant (i.e., standing on its
hind legs, however that may be accomplished), reminds one of the arms
suggested for the old clergyman-scholar, Mr. Casaubon, in George Eliot's
Middlemarch — "three cuttlefish sable and a commentator rampant."
Lord Dunsany: Fame and the Poet 134
Lord Dunsany (Edward Moreton Max Plunkett), the eight-
eenth baron of his name, is the author of a number of stories and
plays unique in their type of clever imaginativeness. Besides the
inimitable Five Plays and other dramas listed in the bibliography,
his best writings are to be found in Fifty-One Tales, which in-
cludes "The Hen," "Death and Odysseus," "The True Story of
the Hare and the Tortoise," and other highly entertaining mat-
ters. Fame and the Poet, originally published in the Atlantic, has
been recently produced with good effect by the Harvard Dra-
matic Club. Fame's startling revelation to her faithful wor-
shiper of her real nature and attributes is naturally most distress-
ing — even more so, perhaps, than the rendezvous which this
same goddess appointed another poet, in the Fifty-One Tales:
" In the cemetery back of the workhouse, after a hundred years."
292 NOTES OX DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS
Lord Dunsany was a captain in the First Royal Iniskilling
Fusilcers — a regiment mentioned in Sheridan's Saint Patriclc's
Day — and saw service in Syria and the Near E;ust as well as on
the western front. He was wounded on April 25, 1916, in Flan-
ders. Since the war he hiis visited the United States and seen a
performance of his Tents of the Arabs at the Neighborhood Play-
house, New York City.
Beulah Marie Dix: The Capt.un of the Gate lli
Miss Dix is author of several plays — in addition to those
from Allison's Lad incliidc<l in the play-Iist, of Across the Border,
and, with the late Evelyn Greenleaf Sutliorland, of the frequently
acted Rose of Plymouth Town. She has also written several favor-
ite historical stories, including Merrylips. The Captain of the
Gate is a tragedy of Cromwell's nithless devastation of Ireland.
The determined and heroic captain surrenders, to face an igno-
minious death, to keep his word and ensure delaying the advance
of tlie enemy upon an unprepare(l countrysi<ie, and his courage
inspires exhausted and failing men to like heroism. This is an
effective piece of dramatic presentation.
Percy Mackaye: Gettysburg 100
Mr. Percy Mackaye h;is heen most active in the movement for
a community theatre in the rnitetl St^ites and for tlie revival of
pageantry. lie contends riulitly that this development mi;;ht Ik-
one of the strongest possible inlluences for true Americanism,
and his dramatic work luus all been dirciled toward such a
theatre. Most notidile are his pageants and masques, particu-
larly Caliban by the Ycllmc Sands, for the Shakesix>arc Tercenten-
ary; his play The Scarecrow, a lively dratnatiz^ition of Haw-
thorne's Feathertop; his ojwra Hip van ll'inkle, for which Reg-
inald De Koven composed music; and The Canterbury Pilgrims,
in which the Wife of Hath is the heroine of further roliustious
adventures. IMr. Mackaye is also translator, \\ilh Professor Tab-
lcx"k, of the Modern Header's Chaucer. Tiio little sketch presented
here is taken from a volume of Yankee Fanta.fies, in wliiih various
observations of past and present New England life are reconled.
Stephen Crani-'s The lied Badge of Courage, a powerfid story of
the Civil War, is a most excellent help to realizing what the boy
Ligc really cmlunxl iu those days of battle.
NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS 293
Mr. Mackaye has adopted here a regularly rhythmic verse
without the conventional capital letters at the beginnings of lines
— perhaps to typify the simple homeliness of the talk.
Harold Brighome: Lonesome-Like 177
Mr. Brighouse has been best represented in this country by an
excellent comedy, Hobsons Choice, which was widely played and
was printed in the Drama League series of plays (1906). His
other best-known work here is the present play, and The Price of
Coal (1909), a picturing of the hard life of miners' wives and their
Spartan firmness in expectation of fatal accidents. He has pro-
duced and published a number of other plays, among them those
listed in the bibliography. Mr. Brighouse represents in this vol-
ume the work of the English Repertory theatres, which parallel
the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, the Glasgow Repertory Theatre,
and various European stage-societies. That at Manchester, witli
which he has been associated, is directed by Miss Isabel Horni-
man, has seen beautiful stage-settings designed by Mr. Robert
Bume-Jones, and counts among its dramatists such well-known
men as Messrs. Allan Monkhouse, author of Mary Broome, a
sombre and powerful tragedy; Stanley Houghton, and Gilbert
Cannan. The Liverpool Theatre has become even more famous
through the dramatic work of Mr. John Drinkwater. The Little
Theatre movement in this country, our Drama League, and the
various dramatic societies in our colleges and cities are our near-
est parallel to these repertory theatres.
Lonesome-Like, Mr. Brighouse's most effective short play, is
written in a modified Lancashire dialect, the speech of the village
weavers and spinners. Many of the words are English of Eliza-
bethan days and earlier, derived mostly from Anglo-Saxon.
Gradely (graithly) means willingly, meekly or decently; clem means
starve; sithee is see you or look you; clogs are shoes with wooden soles
and leather uppers, and dungarees, garments of coarse cotton cloth rather
like overalls. A is used throughout for I.
As in many English stories, an extreme and painful dread of the
workus, or poorhouse, provides a strong motive force.
John Millington Synge: Riders to the Sea . . .197
The work of the Irish Renaissance in the Abbey Theatre in
Dublin reached its most powerful and tragic height in this trag-
294 NOTES OX DRAMAS AND DRA^L\TISTS
edy, wliich Mr. Yeuts compared to the Antigone and (Edipus of
Sophocles. Synge at first wandered about Europe, poetizing; it
Wiis Yeats who l)rought liiin hack to study and embo<iy in genuine
Hterature tlie poetry of hfe among his own people. On the bleak
Arran Islands he lived in a fisherman's cottage, and through tlie
floor of his room heard the dialect which he presents in simple and
poignant beauty in this drama of hopeless struggle. Tlie "sec-
ond sight" — called "the gift" in Campbell of Kilmltur, and
an incident also in The Riding to Lithtnd — was a sort of
prophetic vision altogether credited among Celtic peoples, as
among those of Scott's Lady of the Lake. When the mother sees the
"riders to the sea," — her drowned son and her living son riding
together, — she feels convinced tliat he must soon die. The sharp
cries of her grief and, above all, the peace of her resignation at the
end, after all hope is gone, make this, as a writer in tlie Manches-
ter Guardian is quoted as calling it, " the tragic masterpiece of our
language in our time; wherever it has been in Europe, from Gal-
way to Prague, it h;is made tlic word tragedy mean something
more profoundly stirring and cleansing to the spirit than it did."
The speech of the people is not difficult to understand when you
master a few of its peculiarities. One is the omission of words we
generally include, as in. "Is n't it a hard and cruel man (who) won't
hear. ..." Another is the common form "It was crying I Wius."
A few phrases, like what tcay for how, the way for so that, in it for
here or near, and itself ior even, or with no particular meaning, as
"^Vllere is he itself?" The meanings of other worIs will l)c easily
untangled.
William B idler Yeats: The L.vnd of Heart's Desire ill
Mr. Yeats 's best poetic dramas, and particularly this one, re-
present beyond cjuestion that "apex of l)eauty" to which I^idy
Gregory spoke of the Abln-y Theatre dramatists as aspiring. This
play is not founded on any parlicidar Irish ft)lk-tale. It is filled
with the half-dread, half-envy with which the tellers of Irish
legends seem to regard the fate of mortals Ixnviti-hed by the
Leprechaun or Gotxi People. It is rich, too, with the music of
beautiful words, without which, Mr. Yeats contends no play can
be "of a great kind." He says t<M), "There is no poem so great
that a flue s|)eaker cannot make it greater, or that a bad ear can-
not nuike it nothing."
NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS 295
Mr. Yeats has written broad comedy like Synge's Shadow of the
Glen and Lady Gregory's Iruh Comedies; his Pot of Broth is a most
clever retelling of an old, comical tale. But it is by his mystical and
poetical plays that he would be judged as playwright and poet —
particularly Deirdre, which should be compared with Synge's
Deirdre of the Sorrows; The Unicorn of the Stars, written in collabora-
tion with Lady Gregory; Cathleen Ni Hoolihan, a dramatization of
the spirit of Ireland; The King's Threshold, a high glorification of
the poet's art, with a fable, based on an ancient Celtic rite, of the
hunger strike; and The Land of Heart's Desire, most beautifully
perfect of all.
Gordon Bottomley: The Riding to Lithend . . . 236
J/i.. «« y^g Riding to Lithend is an Icelandic play taken out of the
noblest of the Sagas," wrote Mr. Lascelles Abercrombie in his
review of the published drama in 1909. "[It] is a fight, one of the
greatest fights in legend. . . . The subject is stirring, and Mr.
Bottomley takes it into a very high region of poetry, giving it a
purport beyond that of the original teller of the tale. . . . [The
play] is not a representation of life; it is a symbol of life. In it life
is entirely fermented into rhythm, by which we mean not only
rhythm of words, but rhythm of outline also; the beauty and im-
pressiveness of the play do not depend only on the subject, the
diction, and the metre, but on the fact that it has distinct and
most evident form, in the musician's sense of the word. It is one
of those plays that reach the artist's ideal condition of music, in
, fact."
^/ This is high praise ; but who, af t^r studying the play, will doubt
that it is deserved? The powerfully moving events of the story
indeed lead up to the climax in a forthright and exciting manner.
The terror of the house-women and the thrall, the fearful love of
Gunnar's mother Rannveig, and the caution of Kolskegg his
brother, who "sailed long ago and far away from us " in obedience
to the doom or sentence of the Thing — all these bring out sharply
the quite reckless daring of Gunnar himself, who braves the de-
cree. A mysterious and epic touch is added by the three ancient
hags — evidently of these minor Norns who watch over mdividual
destinies and annoimce the irrevocable doom of the gods. It was
Hallgerd who broke their thread, representing, of course, Gunnar's
span of life.
f, . 296 NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRA^UTISTS
The centre of interest, as well as the spring of the action, is
clearly Hullgcrd, descendaiit of Sigurd Fafiiin»lmne and of
Brj-nhild —
... a hazardous desirable thing,
A warm iinsf)Uiidcd i)cril, a (lashing mischii-f,
A divine malice, a disquieting voice.
She, and not any superstitious belief in "second-sight" and death
decreed, is the cause of Gunnar's reniuiuing outlawed. She wran-
gles about the headdress, not because she particularly wants it,
but to send her husl)and on a perilous mission to secure it.
She says openly that she has "set men at him to show fortli his
might . . . planned thefts and breakings of his word " to stir him
to battle. Mr. Abercrombie believes tliat " She loves her husband
Gunnar, but she refuses to give him any help in his last fight, in
order that she may see him fight better and fiercer." AVe slioidd,
then, have to suppose that her amazing speech at his death —
O clear sweet laughter of my heart, (low out!
It is so mighty and beautiful and blithe
To watch a man dying — to hover and watch —
is not for the blow Gunnar had given her when she "planned thefts
and breakings of his word," but is rather, ns the lines powerfully
indicate, the exultation of a descendant of tlie Valkyrie watching
above the battlefielils.
Really poetical plays — plays which are both poetic and
strongly I Iranialic — are indcx^-d exceedingly rare. Mr. Bottoniley is
one of the few who have produced such drama in English. For
many years he printed his work i)rivately, in IxMutiful editit)ns
for his friends; but of late .several of the plays have been made
available — Kinij lAais Wife in (icnnjian Vodrij, 1 !) I :?- 1 .") . and in
n Volume of the same title, including Midsummer Eve and The
Hiding to Lithcnd, publislied in Ixmdon hist year.
Those who want more stories of tliis sort will find them in
ThoTijils and other Icelandic stories moderni/.cd by Mr. Hewlett;
in the /)i/r?)/.Vj(;/, translated bySirGenrgcDasent.from wliith this
story it.st'lf springs; and in the translations by Eirikr Magnusson
and William Morris, the Siuja Library — particularly the stories
of the Volsungs and Nibclungs, ami of Cirettir the Strong.
NOTES ON DRAMAS AND DRAMATISTS 297
louvre — a smoke-hole in the roof i
thrall — a captive or serf
bill — a battle-ax '
second sight — prophetic vision, as in Riders to the Sea and Campbell of
Kilmhor j
fetch — one's double; seeing it is supposed to be a sign that one is fey or f
fated to die : ,
wimpled — " clouted up," as Hallgerd expresses it, in a headdress rather P
like a nun's. A widow, apparently, might wear her hair uncovered i}
byre — cow-barn
midden — manure
quean — in Middle-English, a jade; in Scotch, a healthy lass; the history '
of this word and of queen, which come from the same root, is strange
and interesting
ambry — press
Romeborg — Rome; Mickligarth — Constantinople (Viking names)
Athcliath — evidently an Irish port
mumpers — beggars
Markfleet — a fleet in an inlet of the sea
mote or gemote — a formal assembly for making laws
thing — assembly for judgment, or parliament; this is an early Icelandic
meaning of the word thing
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS FOR READ-
ING IX HIGH SCHOOLS
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Mercedes: A tragic story of the inextinguishable hatreds and repris-
als of the French invasion of Spain in 1810, and of a woman's terrible
lieroism.
In Collected Works, Houghton MiflBin.
Pauline Pavlo\'na: Cleverly executed, slight plot in dialogue,
wherein the character of the hero is sharply revealed; reminiscent of
Browning's In a Balcony, though with a quite different scheme.
Ibid.
Mary Austin
The Arrow-Maker: The tragedy of a noble medicine-woman of a
lril>e of California Indians, and of a weak and selfish cliief.
DufBeld.
Granville Barker
Rococo: In which we discover a clergyman and his relatives in physi-
cal altercation over a rococo vase, and follow their dispute to a determina-
tive conclusion.
Sidgwick and Jackson, London.
Vote dt Ballot: A drama of English elections and the forces in-
volved.
Sidgwick and Jack.son.
The V'oysey Inhkritanci:: The inheritance is a dishonored name and
(I dislionest bjisincs.s.
In Three Plays, Sidgwick and Jackson.
Granville Barker and Dion Calthorpe
Harlequinape: It.s dovclopnient from llic days of rcr^eplione, Mo-
mus, nnd Charon is displayed and explained by Alice and her uncle.
Sidgwick aud Jackson.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 299
James Barrie
The Admir.\ble Ceichton : In the struggle for existence on a desert
island, the family butler provides the brains and safety for an English fam-
ily ; the party is then rescued, and retiu-ns to the impeccable conventions
of London.
Scribner's, New York; Hodder and Stoughton, London.
Alice Sit-bt-the FraE: A mother with keen insight and a delightful
sense of humor has to deal with a serious attack of romantic imagination in
her very young daughter, who feels responsible for the conduct of the
family.
Scribner's; Hodder and Stoughton.
The Old Lady Shows Her Medals: Mrs. Dowie, a charwoman who
has resorted to desperate remedies in order to have some part in the
war, goes through an agonizing crisis of exposure, into real joy and sharp
sorrow. The rich humor of the characters makes this quite unique among
plaj's of its type.
In Echoes of the War, Scribner's.
The Well-Remembehed Voice.
Ibid.
Peter Pan: A charming fairy drama of the baby from the Never-
Never Land and of his make-believe play with his friends in the nursery.
Scribner's.
The Twelve-Pound Look: On the eve of achieving knighthood the
hero suffers a startling disclosure which leads him to look suspiciously for
the "twelve-pound look" in his lady's eyes.
In Half-Hours, Scribner's.
What Evert Woman Knows: As we behold the creation of John
Shand's career by Maggie his wife, who lacks charm, and particularly as
we observe her campaign against a woman fully possessed of charm, we
want to learn " what every woman knows." The secret is enlightening.
Scribner's.
Lewis Beach
Brothers, A Sardonic Comedt: Two "poor whites" quarrel vio-
lently over a worthless inheritance, and then combine in arson to prevent
their mother from getting it: a disquieting and searching study of depths
of shiftlessness and passionate meanness.
In Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, edited by Frank Shay and Pierre
S. Loving. Frank Shay.
The Clod: A powerful drama of the flare-up of a stolid and apparently
unfeeling nature in the flame of the pity and horror of war.
In Washington Square Plays, Doubleday.
300 BIBLIOGRAPHY
Jacinto Benavente
His Widow's Husband: An absurd comedy of the small gossip and
rigid conventions in a Spanish provincial capital. (Translated by John
Garrett Underhill.)
In Plays, First Series, Scribner's.
Arnold Bennett
A Good Woman: A farcical triangular plot with particularly good
comic characters.
In Polite Farces, Doran.
The Stepmother: Satirical pre<»entment of a lady novelist, her effi-
cient secretary, and her stepson, not to mention the doctor downsUiirs;
amusing studies in character.
Ibid.
The Great .Xdvfintctre: Good dramatization of tlie astounding ad-
ventures of Priam Farll (from Buried Alirc), who attends his own funeral
in Westminster .VblKy, marries a younj? and suitable widow with whom
his late valet has corresponded through a matrimonial bureau, and meets
other amazing situations.
Doran.
The Title: A delightful comedy in which several people who have
denoimcetl the disgraceful awarding of Engiisli titles have a bad time of
it with Mrs. Culver, who does not propose to let slip the opportunity of
being called " My Lady." You can probablj' guess which side wins in the
end.
Doran.
Gordon Bottomley
Kino Lear'.s Wife: .'Vn epi.so<le in King Lear's earlier years, which
throws much imaginative light on Cionerils and Cordelia's later treat-
ment of their father. Lear's wife herself, as we might have guessed, is a
pathetic figure.
Constable, London; also In Georgian Poetry, 191S-15.
Midsummer Evk: Several farm maidservants meet to see their future
lovers' spirits on Midsununer Kve, but see only the "fetch " or double of
one of them, foretelling her death.
In King Ixar's Wife and Other Plays, Constable.
Anna Hempstead Branch
Rose of the Wind: A fairy play of the dancing and allurement of
bewitche<l slippers, and of other wonders.
Houghton Midlin.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 301
Harold Brighouse
The Doorway: A sharp and cruel picture of unsheltered people on a
freezing night in London.
Joseph Wilhams, London.
The Game : A cocksure and triumphant girl meets more than her match
in an old peasant woman, the mother of the man she wants to marry.
In Three Lancashire Plays, Samuel French.
Hobson's Choice: In which the eldest daughter at Hobson's plays a
winning game against her tyrannous father and superior-feeling sisters,
using a quite excellent but disregarded piece.
Constable, London; Doubleday, New York.
Maid of France: An effective play in which Joan of Arc lays aside
her old hate for the English soldiers, whom she discovers on French soil
again.
Gowans and Gray, Glasgow.
The Oak Settle
Gowans and Gray.
The Price of Coal: Picturing the stoical and terrible resignation to
peril of death of old women in the coal regions — and presenting an unex-
pected ending.
Gowans and Gray.
Harold Brock
The Bank Account: A small but poignant tragedy of the savings-
account which a clerk has coimted upon to free him after many years of
drudgery, and which he has entrusted to his stupid and vulgar and
cheaply frivolous wife.
In Harvard Dramatic Club Plays, First Series, Brentano's.
Alice Brown
Joint Owners in Spain: The two most refractory inmates of an Old
Ladies' Home have to face and solve the problem of living in the same
room.
Walter H. Baker.
Witter Bynner
The Little King: A delineation of the cruel suffering and the daunt-
less courage of the small Louis XVII; he refuses to be cowed by the bully-
ing of his keeper or to let a poor boy assume his fate.
Kennerley.
302 BIBLIOGRAPHY
George Calderon
The Little Stone IIocse: A motlier lias denied herself everything
to build a small mausoleum to her dead son, and so idealized him mean-
while that her realization of the altered situation brings an astounding
reaction.
Sidgwick and Jackson.
Margaret Cameron
The Teeth OF the GiPT IIorsk: A pleasant farce built alx)ut two
huge and hideous hand-painted vases and a charming little old lady who
perpetrated them.
P>ench.
Gilbert Cannan
Evehtbody's Husband: Three pcncrations of ladies discuss the indi-
vidual characteristics of their husbands, but find them, after all, indis-
tinpuishable men.
Seeker, London.
James and John: They arc faced with their invalid mother's request
that they crown many years of tedious sacxiCce and atonement for their
father's weak crime by taking him into their lives again.
In Four Plays, Sidgwick and Jackson.
MAFtY's Wedding: Bill's moflicr tries in vain to dissuade Mary from
the certain and inescapable misery of marrying her drunkard son. Bill
himself settles Llie problem.
Ibid.
A Short Wat with Authors: An entertaining farce showing how a
great actor-manager goes about encouraging serious dramatic composition.
Ibid.
Harold Chapin
Augustus in Search of a Fatmiic lie returns from abroad and dis-
cusses with a night-watchman the problem of his search for his father.
Gowans and Gray.
The .•\uTocnAT of the Coffee Stalls: A strange character with an
astonishing history is shown us in the night-light from a refreshment
wagon in Ix)ndon streets.
Gowans and Gray.
The Dumb and the Blind: A study of a bargeman's family in London
tenements. Mr. William Archer calls this "a veritable masterpiece in its
way — a thing Dickons would have <lelighted in. . . . We feel that the
dumb has s|>()ken and the blind has stx'n."
tJowans and Gray; forthcoming, French, New York.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 303
It's the Poor that 'elps the Poor: Of the simple kindliness of
London costermongers and their neighborly help and sympathy.
French.
Muddle Aknie: Of course, it is "Muddle Annie "who helps their friend
the policeman save the more suave and self-satisfied members of her fam-
ily from a precious rogue.
Gowans and Gray.
The Threshold: Tells of a Welsh girl about to elope with a specious
rascal, and of the intervention of her old father, who is killed in a mine
accident.
Gowans and Gray; forthcoming, French.
Comedies.
Chatto and Windus, London.
Colin Clements and John M. Saunders, translators
Love in a French Kitchen: A comical mediaeval French farce. Jac-
quinot endures a miserable compound tyranny of petticoats until matters
are brought to a head by cumulative injustice and the intervention of
accident.
In Poet Lore (1917), 28:722.
Padraic Colum
MoGtJ THE Wanderer: Pageantesque and dramatic story of the rise
of a beggar to be the king's vizier, and of as sudden and entire reversal of
fortunes.
Little, Brown.
Thomas Muskerrt: The tragic story of a poorhouse-keeper who re-
peats Lear's error of letting go his cherished power, and who suffers as
keenly a more humble tragedy.
Maunsell, Dublin.
Rachel Crothers
He and She: A woman's designs win over those of her husband, who
has the greater reputation, a large competitive award for a piece of sculp-
ture; but she declines the commission in face of nearer and higher respon-
sibilities.
In Quinn's Representative American Plays, Century.
Windsor P. Daggett and Winifred Smith
Lelio and Isabella; A Commedia Dell' Arte: The story of Romeo
and Juliet, as the foremost players of the Italian Comedy of Masks may
have given it in seventeenth-century Paris — with an ending of their
choice. An interesting study in th« type.
In manuscript: N. L. Swartout, Summit, N.J.
301 BIBLIOGRAPHY
H, H. Davies
The Mollusc: Clever study of a wonmn wlio is a mollusc — not
merely lazy, since she is capable of huge exertions to avoid being disturbed;
she finds plenty of opposition to show forth her powers upon.
Baker.
Thomas H. Dickinson
In Hospital: A poignant small dialogue of a husband and wife who
meet courageously the threatened shipwreck of their happiness.
In Wisconsin Plays, First Series, B. W. Ilucbsch.
Beulah M. Dix
Allison's Lad: A Cavalier lad, about to be shot as a spy, is seized by
terror, but dies bravely, "as if strong arms were around him."
In Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes, Holt.
The Dark of the Dawn: Colonel Basil ToUocho spares a boy he has
sworn to destroy in revenge of a great wTong, and is made glad of his
clemency.
Ibid.
The Hundredth Trick : Con of the Hundred Tricks takes fearfully
stern measures against possible betrayal of his cause.
Ibid.
Beulah Marie Dix and Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland
Rose o" Plymoutu Town : A pleasant play of Puritans and their
neiphbors.
Dramatic Publishing Company.
Oliphant Down
The Maker of Dreams: Poetical small play in which love appears
with a new make-up but in the old r6le.
Gowans antl Gray.
Ernest Dowson
Thk Pierrot or the Minute: .\ quite charming tale of Pierrot and
the Moon-Mttidcu.
In his Collected Poems, Lane.
John Drinkwater
.VriRAiiAM Lincoln: A dramatic presentation of episodes in Lincoln's
life, from his iioiniiiMtion fo the presidency tohisileath.
Sidgwick and Jackaou; lloiightou Millliu.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 305
CoPHETTiA : In which King Cophetua justifies to his court and council-
lors his marriage to the beggar maid.
Sidgwick and Jackson; Houghton Mifflin.
The Storm : An intense but quiet tragedy of a woman who waits
while men search for her husband, lost in a great storm in the hills.
In Four Poetic Plays, Houghton Mifflin; Pavms, Sidgwick and Jackson.
The God of Quietness: The zest of war draws away all the notable
worshipers of the god of quietness, and an angry war-lord slays the god
himself.
Ibid.
X=0: A Night of the Trojan War: Trojans and Greeks, lovers of
poetry, fellowship, and justice, carry on ruthless slaughter, and by irrep-
arable losses strike a balance of exact advantage to either side.
lUd.
Lord Dunsany
The Gods of the Mountain: Of seven beggars who wear pieces of
green silk beneath their rags, and by brilliant devices of Agmar, their
leader, contrive to be taken for the gods of the moimtain disguised as beg-
gars — until the real gods leave their thrones at Marma.
In Five Plays, Richards, London; Little, Brown.
Kjng Argiaienes and the Unknown Warrior : A slave, born a king,
finds an old bronze sword buried in the ground he is tilling, and hence-
forward has less interest in the bones of the king's dog, who is dying.
Ibid.
The Golden Doom: A child's scrawl on the palace pavements furnishes
the text for the soothsayers' prophecy of disaster.
Ibid.
The Lost Silk Hat: Of the embarrassment of a rejected suitor who, in
his agitation, has left his hat in the lady's drawing-room and dislikes the
idea of returning for it.
Ibid.
The Queen's Enemies: They are invited to a feast of reconciliation
in the great banquet room below the level of the river.
In Plays of Gods and Men. Unwin, London; J. W. Luce, Boston.
A Night at an Inn : A commonplace ancient plot is filled anew with
dramatic terror and a sense of mystery.
Ibid.
Edith M. O. EUis (Mrs. Havelock ElUs)
The Subjection of Kezl^: Joe Pengilly, a Cornish villager, is finally
convinced that strong measures toward her subjection are alone capable
306 BIBLIOGRAPHY
of keeping his wife's love, and buys a stout cane. We leam how he fared
in carrying these raeasiores out.
Ill Loie in Danger, Houghtou MlflBin.
St. John Ervine
Four Irlsh Pl.\T8:
Mi.XF.D Makri.\ue: A tragedy of the violent hatreds of Ulster.
Maunsel.
The Or.\nge\l.a.n: A comic study of the petty madness of the same
hatreds.
Maunsel.
The Critics: Dramatic critics furiously condemn a play at the .\bbey
Theatre in Dublin. Gradually we discover the idea of the play through
their abuse, and at last we recognize it.
Maunsel.
Jane Clegg: A strong and clear-sighted, honest woman has to deal
with a feeble and braggart husband whose foolish crime threatens to
wreck her own and her children's lives.
Sidgwick an<l Jackson.
Rachel Lyman Field
Three Pills in a Bottlk: Fantastic [)!ay of a little sick boy who gives
the medicine that was to have made him strong to feeding the starved and
abused souls of various passers-by.
In Plays of the 47 Workshop. First Series, Brentano's.
jj • Anatole France
The Man who MARRilSkA Dtmh Wirr: .\ mad and comic farce, in
the tradition of Pierre PatcUnand The Physuriun in Spile of Himself. Judge
Ilotal calls in a learned physician and his aides to make his dumb wife
speak. The result is so astoundingly successful that he pleads for relief.
Finally a desperate remedy is found.
Translated by Curtis Hidden Page, Lane. 1915.
J. O. Francis
Change: The tragic conflict of ideals of two generations which have
grown irreparably apart in .social and econonuc views.
Educational Publishing Company, Cardiff; Doubleday, New York.
Zona Gale
The Neighbors: Kindliness called forth among village people to aid
a i><M)r seanistre.Hs who is to undertake the care of her orphan nephew.
In Wisconsin Plays, First Series, B. W. Iluobsch.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 307
Miss Lulu Bett: A starved life blossoms suddenly and unexpectedly.
This play, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for 1920, is stronger and finer work
than the author has done heretofore.
Appleton (in novel form) .
John Galsworthy
The Eldest Son: Sir William Cheshire comes to quite dififerent solu-
tions of similar problems when different individual and class factors enter
into them.
Scribner's.
Justice: Mr. Ludwig Lewisohn writes: "The economic structure of
society on any basis requires the keeping of certain compacts. It cannot
endure such a breaking of these compacts as Falder is guilty of when he
changes the figures on the cheque. Yet by the simple march of events it is
overwhelmingly proven that society here stamps out a human life not
without its fair possibilities — for eighty-one pounds."
Scribner's.
The Little Man: Brilliant caricature of various national types of
tourist, and absurd apotheosis of the Little Man, of no particular nation
and of insignificant appearance, who proves quietly capable of doing what
the rest discuss.
Scribner's.
The Mob: The reply of the hysterical and "patrioteering" members
of his own class, and of the many-headed rage, to a man who stood against
an unjust war.
Scribner's.
The Pigeon: A discussion of social misfits and mavericks, with, of
course, no attempted panacea or solution.
Scribner's.
The Silver Box:
"Jones: Call this justice? What about 'im? 'E got drunk! 'E took the
purse — 'E took the purse, but {in a muffled shout) it's 'is money got 'im
off! Justice!
"The Magistrate: We will now adjourn for limch." (ActIL)
In Plays, First Series, Scribner's, 1916.
Strife: In the strike the leaders of the men and of the employers are
stanch against compromise, but "the strong men with strong convictions
are broken. The second-rate run the world through half-measures and
concessions." (Lewisohn.)
Ibid.
308 BIBLIOGRAPin'
Louise Ayers Garnett
Master Will of Stratford: A pleasiiiit drama of Will Shakespeare's
boyhoo(l. Compare Lander's "Citation and Examination of Will Shake-
speare for Deer-Stealing."
Macmillan.
Alice Gerstenberg
Overtones: While two women are conversing politely, they are at-
tended by their real, unconventional selves, who interrupt to say what
the women actually think and mean. Compare Ninah Wilcox Putnam's
Orthodoxy {I'orum, June, 1914, 51 : 801), in which everyone in church says
what he is thinking instead of what is proper and expected.
In Washington Square Plays, Douhleday.
Giuseppa Giacosa
The Rights of the Socl: Anna is sternly loyal to her husband Paolo,
but refuses to submit to his incessant prying into her individuality and
questioning of her thoughts and her feelings.
Frank Shay.
The Wager: "Sentimental comedy, poetic and graceful, by one of the
greatest contemporary Italian dramatists."
Barrett H. Clark, translator.
French .
W. S. Gilbert
RosENCRANTZ AND GuiLDENSTERN : \ most absurd paro<ly on Hamlet,
wherein a lamentable tragedy wTitten an<l repented by his undo the king
is unoartlio<l and turned to the sad prince's undoing.
In Original Plays, Scribncr's.
Engaged
Princess Ida
William Gillette
Secret Service : A most intense situation in Richmond during the
Civil War, nbly hnnflled bj- a quiet and brilliant Northern secret -service
man; weakened by a manufactiu-ed happy entling.
French.
Susan Glaspell
Trifles: Two women, by noting the significant trifles which the sheriff
and the attorney overlook, disc-over the story of suffering which led to a
crime. Speaking of their ncgle<t of neighborly kindness, one says,
"That's a crime too, and who's going to punish that?"
In Washington Square Playt.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 309
Lady Gregory
Irish Folk-History Plats:
I. The Tragedies: Stories of the beautiful and potent queens who
brought suffering upon thenaselves and upon others; compare Synge's and
Yeats's stories of Deirdre.
Putnam.
II. The Tragi-Comedies: The White Cockade : In which James II de-
feats the gains of his loyal subjects by his abject and ridiculous cowardice.
Putnam.
C.\j^AVANs: A covetous miller, his clever wandering brother, and some
pleasant absurdity about the popular worship of Queen Elizabeth by her
loyal subjects in Ireland.
Putnam.
The Deliveber: Apparently an Irish peasant's idea of the story of
Moses.
Putnam.
Workhouse Ward; Hyacinth Halvey; The Jackdaw:
Comedies full of Irish wit, conscious and unconscious comedy, and end-
less complication of events and hearsay in Cloon.
All in Seven Short Plays, Putnam.
The Bogie Man; The Full Moon; Coats:
More about Cloon people, including the rescue of Hyacinth Halvey
from his troublesome reputation and from the place by the magic and
lunacy of moonlight.
In New Irish Comedies, Putnam.
Damer's Gold: A fortunate rescue from the torments of miserliness
and pestilent heirs; the author's notes on the origin of the play are inter-
esting.
Ibid.
The Gaol Gate: A brief and effective tragic story of two women who
fear that their man has betrayed his mates, but who find that he has been
hanged without informing; the mother improvises a psalm of praise of bis
steadfastness.
In Seven Short Plays.
The Traveling Man : A peasant woman who has been befriended by
a mysterious wanderer expects his return so that she may thank him. She
drives away a tramp from her kitchen, and then discovers who he was.
Ibid.
The Golden Apple: Many scenes, some excellent fun; of a search for
miraculous fruit, of a giant who is high and bloodthirsty only in carefully
fostered reputation, and the like matters.
Putnam.
310 BIBLIOGRAPHY
St. John Hankin
The Perfect Lo\-kr: Delighlfuldramatic version of Suckling's "Con-
stant Lover."
In Dramatic Works, Seeker.
Return of the Prodigal: The same young man, or his close image,
having managed to be received by his family as a returned prodigal,
calmly puts ujion them the question of his future.
Ibid.
Toe Cassilis ExoAOBaiENT
Ibid.
Gerhardt Hauptmann
The Weavers: Painful presentation of the suffering of the German
weavers in the first adjustments of tlie Industrial Revolution.
In Dickinson's Chief Cotitemporanj Dramatists; also in Lewisohn's trans-
lations, Huebsch.
Winifred N. Hawkridge
The Florist Shop: Rather sentimentalist play of good influences
wafted by a young woman as a florist's clerk; excellent business combines
witii tlie influences.
In Harvard Dramatic Club Plays. First Series. Brentano's.
Hazelton and Benrimo
The Yellow Jacket: The coiiviiitioiis of the Chinese theatre, more
or less faithfully presented, make a quite comical presentment of an an-
cient Chinese legend.
IJobbs, .Merrill.
Theresa Helburn
Enter the Hero: .\ madly faneifiil girl fabricates a romance out of
whcile clolli, ciusts a friend as hero, and tells her small world about it.
Even the rough measures the hero has to use to escape do not succeed in
curing lier of the habit.
In Fli/iug Stage Plays. \o. 4, .\hrens; Fifty Contemporary On«-Act Plays,
Stewart and Kidd.
Perez Hirschbein
In the Dark: Grim and awful picture of the depths of misery and
starvation in a Ghetto basement. Translated by Goldberg.
In Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre. First Series: Luce.
Hugo von Hofmannsthal
Madonna Dianor.\: Fearsome tragedy of the Ring-and-Book sort,
beautifully and poignantly presented.
Tran-shited by lliirriett Mons. Hudger.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 311
Stanley Houghton
The Dear Departed: Somewhat precipitate haste for advantage in
dividing grandfather's effects is fittingly rebuked.
In Dramatic Works, vol. i. French, New York; Constable, London.
The Fifth Commandment: A mother finds being an "imaginary in-
vaHd" excellent for checkmating her daughter's plans, but inconveniently
in the way of her own.
Ibid.
Laurence Housman
Rettjrn of Alcestis: A modern poetic view of the spirit of Alcestis
retiu-ning to Admetus after her sacrifice and rescue. Edwin Arlington
Robinson has also handled this theme lately.
French.
BntD IN Hand: A pedantic old scholar is mysteriously plagued by an
illusion of faery, but in time conquers the obsession.
French.
Bethlehem: A nativity play.
Macmillan.
The Chinese Lantern: Pleasantly effective scenes in a Chinese
studio.
Sidgwick and Jackson.
William Dean Howells
The Sleeping Car; The Register; The Mouse Trap; The Albany
Depot; The Garroters:
Amusing but somewhat worn farces, several of them introducing the
voluble Mrs. Roberts and her family.
Henrik Ibsen
An Enemy of the People: A scientist who insists on making known,
and setting to work to remedy, the evils and wrongs of his community has
to reckon with the people; compare The Mob, by John Galsworthy.
Boni and Liveright.
The Doll's House: Nora Hjalmar, who has always been petted and
shielded, at last has to face and solve certain diflBcult problems for herself.
She thus discovers just how much her husband's love and indulgence are
worth. Her solution of the difficulty is presented, not as necessarily the
right thing to have done, but as what such a woman would do under
the circumstances.
Boni and Liveright.
312 BIBLIOGRAPHY *
The Lady from the Sea: EUida Wrangel, wife of the village pastor,
feels the call of the sea; she feels she must go with the rough sailor to
whom she was once betrothed. When Wrangel sinc-erely offers her liberty
to choose, she "seeks the security of a familiar home, and the wild lure of
the great sea spaces can trouble her no more." (Lewisohn.)
Boni and Liveright.
W. W. Jacobs and Others
Admiral Peters; The Gray Parrot; The Changeling; Boatswain's
Mate:
Jolly farces of sailors and watchmen and their families, based on Jacobs's
stories in Captains All, Many Cargoes, and the rest.
French.
The Monkey's Paw: A most fearful and gruesome play, based on
Jacobs's story, in the vein of the Three Wishes, and the Foot of Pharaoh, by
Gautier.
French.
Jerome K. Jerome
Fanny and the Servant Problem: The new Lady Bantock is sur-
prised to discover both her real rank and her strange relationship with her
twenty-three servants. An interesting character study.
French.
William EUery Leonard
Glory ok the Morning: The pathos of two civilizations contending
for the children of the Indian woman. Glory of the Morning; they must go
with their f.ithor to France or stay with their mother. Dr. Leonard has
newly completed another powerful tragedy, Re<l Bird, as yet impublished.
In Wisconsin Plays. First Series. 1914, B. W. Hucbsch.
Justin McCarthy
If I Wf.hr Kinc: A romantic play, in the vein of Pc Banville's Crin-
gnire. in which N'illon InM-omes Marshal of France, for a brief time and
with a fi-arfiil condition stipulated by the spider-king, Louis XI.
Heinemaiin.
Edward Knoblauch and Arnold Bennett
Milk«tonk.s: Three dilTorciit generations, with their ilifferent ideas
anil ideals, confront similar problems wiLli different views, and arrive at
various conclusions.
Doran.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 313
Percy Mackaye
The Canterbxjrt Pilgrims: Mr. Mackaye, translator with Professor
Tatlock of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, has WTitten here a clever play of
the travelers' adventures. The Wife of Bath is of course the ringleader in
mischief.
Macmillan.
Caliban by the Yellow Sands: A masque for the Shakespeare Ter-
centenary Celebration, New York City.
Doubleday.
Jeanne d'Abc: A tragedy made up of incidents in the life of the Maid.
Macmillan.
Sam Average : A Silhouette. A soldier of 1812 is kept true to the cause
by a vision of Sam Average, the spirit of his nation.
In Yankee Fantasies, Duffield.
The Scarecrow: A lively dramatization of Hawthorne's Feathertop,
from Mosses from an Old Manse.
Macmillan.
Mary MacMillan
The Shadowed Stae: Portraying the cruel suffering of two Irish peas-
ant women who wait in a city tenement for Christmas as they remember it.
In Short Plays, Stewart and Kidd.
Maurice Maeterlinck
Ardiane and Bluebeard: A resolute wife finally defies Bluebeard
and rescues his wives; but they refuse to forsake their unfortimate and
beloved husband.
Dodd, Mead.
A Miracle of Saint Anthony
The Intruder; The Death of Tintagiles; Interior (or Home) :
Poignant and mystical tragedies expressing the unseen and inescapable
forces surrounding and closing in upon men's lives.
Boni and Liveright; Dodd, Mead.
The Blue Bird : Two peasant children, accompanied by their friends
Dog, Cat, Bread, Sugar, and others, search everywhere for the blue bird
of happiness. They visit among other places the realms of the dead, where
their grandparents are, and of the unborn. Finally they look in the last
and likeliest place.
Dodd, Mead.
The Betrothal: Further adventures of Tytyl.
Dodd, Mead.
314 BIBLIOGRAPHY
John Masefield
PniLip THE King; Tr.\gkijy ok I'ompet the Great:
Hifjh tragedies. The great Pompey, defeated by the upstart Ca;sar,
is kinglj- to the end.
Sidgwick and Jackson, London; Macmillan, New York.
The Sweeps of Ninety-Eight: A fugitive from an unsiict-essful rebel-
lion achieves a sweeping revenge upon the leaders of the enemy; amusing
comedy.
Macmillan.
The Tragedy of Nan: One of the most poignantly tragic of modem
plays; the mercilessness of weak and selfish people crushes out a beautiful
life.
Richards, London.
Rutherford Mayne (]. Waddell)
The Drone: .An old man by jilnying craftily at being on the eve of a
great invention lives most comfortably on his brother's means; but forces
accumulate against him and he is threatened with eviction from the hive.
Luce.
George Middleton
The nL.\cK Tie: \ i)lay of sharp and quiet sufTering, presenting at a
new angle the Southern cleavage of races. The negro classes are not
allowed to appear in the Sunday-scliool procession, and the small disap-
pointment is tyi)ical of greater dejjrivalions.
In I'osucssion and other One-Act Plays, Holt.
Masks: An author who has spoiled a good play so that it will "go" on
the stage is called upon by the angry characters, whom he created and
then forced to do as they would not really have done.
In Afa.iliS and other One- Act Plays, Ilolt.
MoTHER.s: A mother tries in vain to prevent a young woman whom she
loves from marrying her son and repeating the misery of her own marriage
with a weakling.
In Tradition and other One-Act Plays, Ilolf .
On Hail: A gambler's wife who has shared his illegal gains nuist help
him pay his debt to tlie law; their .son, toD, is invoIve<l.
Ilrid.
The Two Houses; .\n old profe,s.sor and his wife talk quietJy together
of t he plans and the realities they have liveil amon^'.
In Masks, etc.
Waiting: False conventional ideas have long thwarted, and now
tliri-alen to wreck, the happiness of people who care ^crcally for each oilier.
In Tradition, etc.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 315
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Aria da Capo: A fantasy in which Pierrot, Columbine, and the Gre-
cian shepherds of Theocritus display their varied views of life.
In Reedy s Mirror: reprinted in Fijty Contemporary One-Act Plays,
Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati.
Allan Milne
The Boy Comes Home: A war proGteer has a bad half-hoiu* of diffi-
culties in getting his soldier nephew to work and live according to his
views; he then faces the problem in reality.
In First Plays, Knopf.
The Lucky One : The Lucky One fails to win a trick he had counted
on, but his chorus of relatives — surely related to Sir Willoughby Pat-
terne's — do not even notice the misfortune.
Ibid.
Wurzel-Flummery: Of two men offered a good-sized fortune by a
will provided they will adopt Wurzel-Flummery in place of their own
more satisfactory surnames, and of their decision.
IMd.
Allan Monkhouse
Night Watches: A quiet and vivid picturing of the potential cruelty
and f rightfulness of ordinary well-meaning ignorance and terror; the fable
reminds one of Galsworthy's "The Black Godmother," in The Inn of
Tranquillity.
In War Plays, Constable, London.
William Vaughn Moody
The Faith Healer: A serious drama presenting in moving and human
fashion the effects of faith and disillusion.
Macmillan.
Dhan Gopal Mukerji
The Judgment of Indra: A Hindu play, in which a priest of Indra,
after making a supreme sacrifice of himself and others in order to root out
human affection from his heart, thinks that his god speaks in the light-
ning of the storm that ensues.
Iti Fijty Contemporary One- Act Plays, edited by Shay and Loving.
Stewart and Kidd.
Tracy Mygatt
Good Friday: A Passion Play. A powerful tragedy of the conscien-
tious objector.
Published by the author, 23 Bank Street, New York, N. Y.
31G BIBLIOGRAPHY
Alfred Noyes
Sherwood: A poetical play of Robin Hood and his band.
Stokes.
Eugene O'Neill
Beyond the Horizon: The Pulitzer Prize Play, 19£0. A tragic story
of a young man who longed to seek romance "beyond the horizon," and
coulil find neither that nor any happiness, but only defeat and misery, io
his everyday surroundings.
Boni and Liveright.
Bound E.vst for Cardiff: The injury and death of a forecastle hand,
illuminating the varying natures of his shipmates.
In iloon of the Caribbees, Boni and Liveright.
In the Zone: Suspicion of treachery in the submarine zone, directed
against a sailor who is different from the rest in the forecastle.
Ibid.
Where the Cross is M.\de: An old sailor goes mad waiting futilely
for the return of a treasure expedition he has sent out, and the madness of
his iflea spreads like panic.
Ibid.
Hubert Osborne
The Good Men Do: An Indkcorous Epilogue: Shakespeare's fam-
ily carefully burn his surviving plays in the effort to cast oblivion upon his
low occupation.
In Plays of the Ji7 Workshop, First Scries, 1918.
Monica Barrie O'Shea
The RcsHLiaHT: A inollur, whose son may l>e saved if he will betray
his comrades, has only to send him a [)aper containing tlie information the
authorities want. Her altitude should l>e c-omparcd with that of the
women in Campbell of Kilmhor and Lady Gregory's The Gaol Gate.
Drama, November, 1917. liS: GOi.
Louis N. Parker
Disraeli: Play of intrigue centring about the character of Lord
Benctinsfield and his manu-uvrcs to obtain control of the Suez Canal.
Lane.
Minuet: A brief play of i-ouragc and loyalty in face of Madame Guil«
lotine.
In Century Magazine, January, 1915.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 317
Josephine Preston Peabody
Marlowe: A tragedy introducing several of the Elizabethan play-
wrights in tavern scenes, and making a fine and romantic character of Kit
Marlowe.
Houghton Mifflin.
The Piper: A pleasant dramatization of the legend of Hamelin Town.
Houghton Mifflin.
The Wolf of Gtjbbio: A play about Saint Francis and some of his
brothers, both animals and villagers.
Houghton Mifflin.
Louise Saunders (Perkins)
The Woodland Princess: Very attractive children's operetta with
music by Alice Terhune.
Schirmer; French.
Stephen Phillips
Ulysses: A drama or masque of Ulysses' adventures, from his farewell
to Calypso through a vigorous combat with the wooers.
Macmillan.
Eden Phillpotts
The Shadow: A most affecting and tragic play of the influence of a
crime upon two people who love most sincerely, and upon their very loyal
friend.
In Three Plays, Duckworth, London.
The Mother : A moving presentation of the force of a mother's sense
and love; she refuses to shield her son when he has done wrong, but works
in every way to set him straight and to continue her influence after her
death.
Ibid.
The Point of View: A domestic altercation is arbitrated by a friend
of the family, and then the arbiter is given new light on the situation.
Curtain Raisers, Duckworth, London.
Arthur Wing Pinero
The Plu^ygoers: A farce in which a lady attempts to provide cultural
amusement for her servants, and succeeds in breaking up the smooth-
running establishment.
London.
David Pinski
Abigail: A dramatization of a Biblical story from the wars of David.
Translated from the Yiddish by Dr. Goldberg.
In Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre, Luce.
818 BIBLIOGRAPHY
Forgotten Souls: Fanny Segal's self-sacrifice for her sister and lover
is carried to a strange and morbid extreme.
In Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre, Luce.
Graham Pxyce
The Coming of Fair Annie: A simple but effective dramatization of
the old ballad.
Gowans and Gray.
Richard Pryce and Arthur Morrison
The Dumb Cake: A St. Agnes' Eve story in a London slum.
French.
Serafin and Joaquim Qumtero
A SuNNT Morning: Two very old people recall the tremendously
romantic happenings of their early youth.
In Fifty Contemporary One- Act Plays, Stewart and Kidd.
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Van Zorn: A play of New York studio life in which Van Zorn puts hia
own desires out of court and plays providence in the lives of his friends.
Macmillan.
Santiago Rosinol
The Prodigal Doll: A comical marionette sows his wild oats most
violently and repents in deep sorrow.
In Drama, February, 1917, 5 : 15.
Edmond Rostand
Ctrano de Bergerac: A groat play of a swashbuckling hero of the
Paris of Moli^re's time.
Doiibleday; also in Dickinson's Comtemporary Dramalist3,Y, Houghton
Mifflin.
L'.\iglon: The tragic story of Naixjloon's son, the little King of Rome,
captive among enemies determined to tame his spirit.
Harper.
The Princess Far-Awat: The story of the Troubadour Rudel and
the Princess of Tripoli, celebrated in one of Browning's poems, represents
all worship of what is beyond attainment.
Stokes.
The Romanceh.s: The foolish and romantic notions of two lovers are
ably caricatured by their fathers' plots and stratagems.
Baker, 1006.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 319
Arthur Schnitzler
Last Masks: A dying man in the Vienna Hospital contrives an oppor-
tunity for the cruel stroke he has intended at a man who has succeeded
where he himself has failed; at the moment of possible triumph a different
mood controls him. There are three excellent studies of character in the
play.
In Anatol and Other Plays, Boni and Liveright.
George Bernard Shaw
Androcles and the Lion: The old story of a saint whom the lion re-
membered as his friend — with much shrewd light upon certain types
of early Christians.
Constable.
CiESAK AND Cleopatra: New views of the chief characters, intro-
duced by two interesting scenes — of a garrison in Syria by night and of
Cleopatra in the arms of the Sphinx.
In Three Plays for Puritans, Constable.
The Man op Destiny: Napoleon after Lodi, attacking all courses of
his dinner simultaneously, drawing maps with his fork dipped in the gravy,
and discoursing shrewdly on courage and success.
Constable.
O'Flaherty, V.C: On a recruiting mission in his own country,
O'Flaherty must accoimt to his mother for his hitherto concealed crime
of fighting not against, but for England.
In Heartbreak House. Constable.
Augustus Does His Bit: A high-born muddler in Britain's conduct
of the war.
Ibid.
Arthur Shirley
Gringoire the Ballad- Maker: A translation and adaptation of
de Banville's comedy about another poet than Villon in the hands of
Louis XL
Dramatic Publishing Company.
Thomas "Wood Stevens
The Nursery Maid of Heaven : " Vernon Lee's " eighteenth-centiu-y
legend of Sister Benvenuta and the Christ-Child, in a simple and effec-
tively dramatic form.
In Fifty Contemporary One- Act Plays, Stewart and Kidd.
320 BIBLIOGRAPHY
Alfred Sutro
The Man on the Kerb: A workman who has failed in every attempt
to get work or help faces starvation with his wife and baby in a Loadon
tenement basement. No solution of the problem is offere<l.
In Five Little Plays, Duckworth, London.
A \LuiRiAGE HAS BEEN Arr.\nged: Comcdy of a rejected proposal for
a society " marriage of convenience," followed by an adjustment of under-
standing upon another basis.
Ibid.
John Millington Synge
Deirdre of the Sorrows: A beautiful and poetic dramatization of
the tragic Celtic legend of Deirdre and the Sons of Usna. This may wtU
be compared with Yeats's dramatization of the same story.
Luce.
The Playboy of the Western World: Rather fearful comedy of the
popular idolatry ofifered by Irish peasants to a man who boasts he has
killed his father.
Luce.
In the Shadow of the Glen: An awesome husband makes a test of
his wife's love.
Luce.
The Tinker's Wedding: Rather boisterous comedy of a tinker-wo-
man who upsets ancient custom by insisting on a church wedding.
Luce.
The Well of the Saints: A gruesome tragedy of a blind beggar and
his wife. .Ml these dramas are as strangely filled with beauty ami poetry
of expression as is the Riders to the Sea.
Luce.
Rabindranath Tagore
The Post Office: "A poetic and symbolic play."
Macmillan.
Anton Tchekhov
The Boor; The Mauuiage Proposal; The Wedding Feast; The
Tragedian in Spite of Himself:
Comical farces of extravagant conversiition and action, and apparently
real studies of R\issian character.
In Plays, Second Series Seriltner's.
William Makepiece Thackeray
The Rose and the Hist;: One of the most delightful of puppet-plays
is ba.so(i on the favorite story.
Smith, Elder and Company, Lt)ndon; MaeiniUan. New York.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 321
Augustus Thomas
Oliver Goldsmith: A very engaging play, introducing Burke, Gold-
smith, Garrick in several amusing rdles. Dr. Johnson, and others in his
circle, and presenting (in Act II) a dress rehearsal of She Stoops to Conquer.
French.
Frank G. Tompkins
Sham: A Social Satire: Of a most superior burglar, who takes only
genuine objects of art, disdains the imitation stuff that litters Charles and
Clara's home, and reads them a severe lecture on reality and sham in this
and other departments of life.
Stewart and Kidd.
Ridgley Torrence
Granny Maumee: Highly tragic play of the blood-hatred of negroes
for those who have tortured and killed, and of voodoo rites and miracles;
power is given the play by a most human reversal of feeling at the last.
In Plays for a Negro Theatre, Macmillan.
The Rider of Dreams: A masterful mulatto who keeps his people
obedient to a benevolent despotism.
Ibid.
Stuart Walker
The Medicine Show: Some amusing characters, shiftless but fertile
of invention, and their device for getting rich.
In Portmanteau Plays, Stewart and Kidd.
Nevertheless: A play which has interested high-school pupils and
their friends in Better Speech programmes.
Ibid.
Six who Pass while the Lentils Boil: A quaint and pleasant com-
edy of a boy set to watch the lentils cooking, of a queen who is fugitive
from execution for a violation of etiquette, and of other matters.
Ibid.
Percival Wilde
The Traitor: A traitor in the British camp is discovered by a ruse
that is effective and perhaps plausible.
In Dawn and Other One-Act Plays, Holt.
Oscar M. Wolff
Where but in America? Amusing small comedy in which a Swedish
cook and her fiance have potent influence in an American household.
In Mayorga, Representative One-Act Plays, Little, Brown.
22
322 BIBLIOGRAPHY
William Butler Yeats
Deirdre: The last scene in the tragedy of Deirdre of the Sorrows.
Macmillan.
The Green Helmet: Dramatization of a most interesting Gaelic
variant of the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; it contains good
character study.
Macmillan.
The King's Threshold: A poet and singer, deprived of his rightful
honor at the Irish King's cou^t, makes effective use of the ancient tradi-
tional weapon of the hunger strike in order to secure to his art and its
worthy practisers their due recognition.
Macmillan.
The Hour Glass: A mystical play of wisdom and folly and the ap-
proach of death.
Macmillan.
Cathleen Nr IIoouhan: A moving dramatization of the compelling
spirit of Love of Country.
Macmillan.
The Pot OF Broth: An ancient storj', pleasantly dramatized, of a
wittv» wanderer who plays to his |dvantape on the credulity, greed, and
love of flattery of a sharp-tongued peasant woman.
Macmillan.
William Butler Yeats and Lady Gregory
The Unicorn from the Stars: A mystical play of a dreamer's rough
contacts with reality.
Stratford, 190t.
Israel Zangwill
The War God: Those who sacrifice others to the War God arc them-
selves immolated on his altar.
Macmillan.
The Melting Pot: A serious play in which the tragic conaequencea of
race prejudice are realizably and poignantly set forth.
Macmillan.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 323
BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE, MARIONETTES
AND CHILDREN'S PLAYS
William Archer
Plat Making: Small, Maynard and Co.
Richard Burton
How TO See a Play: Macmillan.
Percival Chubb and Others
FESTTVAia AND Plats IN SCHOOLS AND Elsewhere: Harper.
Barrett Clark
How TO Produce Amateur Plats: Little, Brown.
Payne Collier (attributed)
Punch and Judt: London, 1828.
A history of the marionettes in England, illustrated by Cruikshank.
Clayton Hamilton
Studies in Stagecraft: Holt.
The Theort of the Theatre: Holt.
Helen Joseph
A Book of Marionettes: Huebsch.
Beautifully illustrated history of the puppet-plays.
Gertrude Johnson
Choosing a Plat: Century Co.
Ludwig Lewisohn
The Modern Drama: Huebsch.
The best criticism of naturalistic and neo-romantic drama to-day.
Karl Mantzius
HiSTORT of Theatrical Art in Ancient and Modern Times: Five
volumes: Louise von Sossell, translator. Illustrated. Lippincott.
Roy Mitchell
Shakespeare for Communitt Platers: Dutton.
Illustrated with cuts of costume, properties, etc.
Constance D'Arcy MacKaye
Costumes and Scenert for Amateurs; How to Produce Children's
Plats: Holt.
Illustrations and directions.
V
324 BIBLIOGRAPHY
Percy Mackaye
The Little Theatre in- the United States: Holt.
\^^ The Communitt Dr.\ma: Houghton MiflBin.
The Civic Theatre: Mitchell Kennerley.
George Jean Nathan
\/ Another Book ON the TiiKATui:: Hucbsch.
Brander Matthews
The Development op the Draha: Scribner's.
A Study of the Drama: Houghton Mifflin.
A most helpful account.
Charlotte Porter
The Stage of Shakespeare: Badger.
A Midsummer Night's Dream as a Folk-Pageant. Drama, vii, Nos.
26, 27.
Valuable articles for reconstructing the Elizabethan plays.
Maurice Sand
History of the Harlequinadk: Lippiricott.
Clarence Stratton
PuoDUCiNa IN Little The-^tres: Holt, 19il.
The magazines Drama, Pod Ijire, the Theater Arts Magazine, the LittU
Theater Magazine, and articles in the English Journal arc of value.
AS TO PLAYS AxM) DUAM.VriZATION IN SCHOOL
H. Caldwell Cook
The Vu-kx Way: Heineinami.
Valuable account of work at llu- Pciirsc School in Cambridge, England.
Emma Sheridan Fry
Educational Dhamatu-s: Lloyd .\dains Noble.
Alice Minnie Herts
The Cuildrein's Educational Thkatuk: IIar|>cr.
Alice Minnie Herts Heniger
The Kingdom OF the ('iiii.d: Dutton.
Margaret Skinner
Si>CIalI7.ing Dhamatics: English Journal, (\\o\>eT, 1920,9:445.
An cjcccllcnt account of reallv educational dramatics.
1
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